Arrogance Among Ruins


This world, which has the potential to be Eden, is instead the hell before Hell. In our arrogance, we have made it so.
~Forever Odd, Dean Koontz

Chapter 1: Thoughts



Thinking was painful. Nothing but constant circles and loops and variables thrown into an abyss that never stopped winding around itself... Wondering about what could happen was funny in a way. It made one curious if the idea that thinking became reality was rooted in truth, which led to more loops and cyclones of thought. Sometimes thinking could make a man wearier than a month’s worth of travel on foot. It sucked the very essence out of a soul, drained it of any vivacity…

In our arrogance, we have made it so.
How many times had I looked over that statement? How many times had I begged someone to read it aloud to me? I couldn’t read. But I understood. Understood how and what the author had meant as I brushed my fingers against the blurred and damaged words on the scrap of parchment that not one soul took any notice of. It was almost illegible, almost lost.

Lost, like I was. Perhaps this was why I clung to it so dearly. It reminded me of myself.


“What is Ed-den”, I asked. I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t a common word that I heard every day.



“ ‘Ee-den’ It’s Paradise.” came the answerer.

I furrowed my brow, flipping through my internal lexicon to find a match. There wasn’t any.



“Nirvana, Rapture, Bliss; you know this word, it has many names. Think harder. It was a place that was absolute in its perfection. Flawless. No death, disease.” my answerer sounded tired.

Thinking must be making him weary too. Frustrated, I said, “If such a place or thing ever existed, then it’d still be around today. Perfection is everlasting, isn‘t it?”


“Again, you didn’t think about what I read earlier. Humanity is not perfect. You know this. Arrogance is not a part of perfection. ‘In our arrogance, we have made it so.’”


“What exactly is arrogance? Superiority?” I asked.


“Yes. Arrogance is Pride. Egotistic overconfidence… its haughtiness.” he sounded reluctant to say that last part.

Thinking again, I whispered “We? Does arrogance ruin all things?”



“So many questions” the weary voice snapped, “The answer depends on your point of view!”

Such a simple answer. So simple, yet it made me furious. How could such a complicated question have such a simple answer? The Amal sect always had such simple answers for everything!

What did my point of view matter anyway? Didn’t everyone see this ruined world as I did? Did they not see what was in front of them? I buried my face in the crook of my arms. I tried to picture Eden. All that came to mind, was metallic and blurry. My Amal mentor brushed my shoulder. “You should go, don’t come back until night falls and Orion aims his arrow.” I peeked out and rolled my eyes. Always some cryptic crap with these weirdoes, whether it was their strange cloaks and hidden faces. I supposed that I should feel grateful. These guys were housing me with free rent and meals…and my overwhelming ignorance.

Confused, and more exhausted than ever, I stood. My legs ached from crouching among the scattered pages, the broken binding lying around me. Old waterlogged shelves cradled scorched and curling books. Stretching, I saw the world for what it was now. Looking through the smudged warehouse window, the world was hard to describe. Weak, near death, yet still hanging on. Humanity was stubborn like that, hard to keep down for long. Even among Pitt ruins, they survived. Survived was the only real word to describe their existence. They certainly weren’t living. How could such beings live and thrive in pit of ash, moss, trees and leftovers? A dark, overgrown pit of shells and skeletons of unrecognizable item . These were useless things now. The books and letters and diaries that were haphazardly thrown around my feet were useless too. Hardly anyone could read, let alone write. I wanted to, so desperately. All the secrets and warnings, all the aches and joys I could partake in if only I could decipher those symbols… I could escape. I could learn. The world, though, couldn’t be changed.

I walked out of the overthrown library that was conquered by mighty oak trees, and jogged down the cracked, flourishing street. I took in the view of the oceanic horizon with its thick swirls of white, the ruined metallic frames bursting with trees. The vines that struggled up the sides of stone towers and steel giants, making them look soft and docile. I scourged where I could. I found a decent spot. Through what could have been a department store, there were aisles of. A few boxes, some dusty or ruined clothing either folded or heaped on the floor. Machines that showed bottles of brown, orange or lime green liquid flickered off key

“Ephah! Wait up, will you?!” a decidedly masculine voice bellowed from a short distance.

I swallowed hard. “Shut up!” I hissed, snapping my head around to look for any bystanders that would have heard him address me. Doing things like that were bound to exile us for sure. “You are to never say that aloud again, do you understand? I haven’t a name, and nor do you. You want something from me, you come and tap my shoulder, not shout some godforsaken sound like it’s a gift from the Chairmen and Autocrat himself!” The tall scavenger looked startled for a moment, and then something like hurt registered on his face. He raked a hand through untidy, dusty hair, the color of a sparrow’s wing. It was closely shaved on the sides. A long scar tore a path down the right side of his face: through his lip, past his chin and down to his collarbone. I made a mental note to call him ‘Scratch’. “What is it?” I sighed, a sound that seemed to be too old for me.
“We need gear” he shrugged. “I’m too tall and awesomely powerful to fit through the bypass system. We need a shrimpy girl preferably. You fit the bill, toots. Welcome to the crew.” He grinned like a wolf; calculated, yet giddy.
“I’m not your lackey, and I’m not squandering through the bypass. What, you only need me to get contraband for you? Everyone knows you and your ‘crew’ use.” I snorted as I tried to step past him. He moved in sync with me.

“Well, you see, it’s not like you have a choice in the matter…” Scratch attempted to frown. It distorted his face more than his cruel smile did. He seemed unusually happy. Jittery, like it was the Autocrat’s birthday or the Feast of Animam Inanem.
I stopped. “Are you going to hunt me down? Chase me to the ends of the earth? God knows you won’t make it far with the way those hands of yours are shaking. How long’s it been since you last Jax’ed?”

Another beast-like grin, and there wasn’t any rationality in it. “”Bout an hour ago…” he chuckled and shrugged as if I had asked him what he’d eaten for dinner the night before. Though, he probably hadn’t. His eyes were a bit yellow and blood-shot. How hadn’t I noticed how bad this had gotten? ‘Bad spot to be in’, my conscience wearily shook its head, ‘very, very bad… Don’t test his patience, or you’ll suffer. He won’t kill you kindly; he’ll draw it out slowly because he can’t rationalize. Can’t talk your way out either and you’re not willing to pay the other price.’

“Could I stop back at my place to get a kit? You’re more than welcome to join; you hungry?” I smiled, hoping to look trustworthy.

He beamed at me and mock-bowed deeply like an old-time gentleman. “If the lady so chooses.” He winked. I forced myself to keep an even pace with him. The urge to flee was ripping at me.



Past all of the plant-ridden buildings, through what once had been a Laundromat and up the rickety moss encrusted stairs was the path to my modest quarters. I unbolted the door. A mattress, a sink, a tub, a stove, a few tattered chairs, and a few lopsided tables were in no particular order. A jumble of shelves and knick-knacks I had gathered over the years made the room look more crowded than it actually was.

“Nice layout, mousey.” Scratch looked about appreciatively. I didn’t acknowledge the compliment. “Wipe your shoes off on the rug there before you go parading through my house.” “Sure thing, Boss” He snickered, exaggeratedly wiped his boots off and plopped himself on a chair, picking at the exposed stuffing. A moment later, he leaped up and picked up a faded orange and blue box. White powder leaked from the bottom. “Don’t eat that. It’s not food.” I cautioned, reaching for a few clean glasses from the grimy sink. “Well, no s***, Sherlock” he chortled, “We use this stuff for our supply. You got a lot of it here, already.” “What’s in your ‘supply’, exactly?” He sat back down and looked around conspiratorially, “That, m’ dear, is classified.” He tossed the box into a corner. “So…Ephah,” he said it slowly, apparently feeling rebellious, “Where’d ya get such a shiny title?” I paused, weighing my options. Sarcasm, or humor? Humor seemed the safest. “That, m’ dear, is also classified.” I winked at him, so as not to detonate his rage, which was probably very close to the surface. I handed him the glass, a splash of brandy glowed amber at the bottom. There was a lot in this world to be angry for. He seemed flattered, and another bestial grin crawled across his face. I took mine, and manufactured a grin in response. He tilted the glass in my general direction and smiled; “Tschüss”

Then, my knees gave out. I heard screaming then, a high pitched keen, like the screech of a light bulb before it bursts. Smoldering darkness bled across my vision.



Names weren’t usually common where most wandered, especially in Pitt territory. Having a name was a promise of exile, death or something worse. People sometimes gave themselves names, but that was viewed with hostility from other members of the area. There was a man who gave himself a name once, though none can recall what it was. The locals cornered him and beat him - or attempted to. He was a giant of a man, with thick steel cords of muscle and a staggering amount of scars. The mob came back, much worse for wear, while the Named Man ran to another territory. Most heard that he kept his name. He became a myth to admire and tell the little ones on cold nights around the lit gas lines, or electrical line sparks. There were even stories about how, in the past century, every person had a name from their parents. Beautiful names, with meaning, in thousands of different languages, even ones that hadn’t been spoken for millennia. They had special ways of saying them, ways of writing them. Places had certain titles, as did streets. Animals retained their names, as did plants; natural things. Humanity, now, wasn’t viewed as natural and didn’t get to keep their names. That’s why humanity lived the way it did now. But of course, no one believed these myths. They were too ridiculously fabricated to be true. The Autocrat himself had said so! ‘Names are the cause of the condition of the world in this age. Selfishness, egotism, greed, racism, chaos… We must all learn from our past, and take the second chance given to our people from Animam Inanem. Forget yourself, contribute to this age of survival, work not for yourself, but for your brethren. Having a name inflates oneself, separates him from his children, his family, his people and ultimately destroys the wellbeing of our already weak world. Those who are Named, given a Name or Name others shall suffer the consequences of exile, death and imprisonment…’ Doctrine XVII Page 232 Section One of Autocrat 7, Chairmen 100. And because he said so, the people readily believed.


When I came around, I was full of stones and lead. And sitting in a chair, it seemed. My wrists were strapped to the arms and my ankles at the legs. A single flitting blub hung over my head, casting a weak circle of light that only extended so far. My head was bound to the back. My heart jolted as something swept across my line of vision. Think, my brain commanded. Where are you? Why? Who? It clicked, I was in an electric chair, I was in Narcot territory. The banishment point for narcotic dealers and addicts who had gone feral. The scent gave it away. Why was I here? Scratch, and contraband rummaging. I was going to though! Why?! Suddenly, shadows moved. Lurked up to my feet. I looked up to see a haggard man, and a twitchy, scrawny girl riddled with puncture marks and EctX tracks along her forearms. Scratch was close behind, mimicking footsteps like an admiring child does after loving parents. It wasn’t sacred like that though; like familial love. He warped it, made it a thing of disgust. His focus suddenly snapped up from his feet to me. He grinned like he had won some great prize. “Hey, lovie” he drawled, “Happy to see us? You been out for 6 hours”