When the young ones ask me how I came to be a member of The Group, I am always unsure of where to begin. None of them comprehend electricity; nor have any of them seen a street light operate; even the asphault roads that were once so ubiquitous have long been ground up under the weight of the tanks and artillary transports. But they recognize the word "collision," understand how violent motion translates onto a human body.
"There was an automobile collision," I always begin, trying to keep the details as modern and simple as possible. Immediately, I notice the faces of the older teenagers tightening up; some of them are old enough to remember the first bombing raids twelve years ago.
****
At the end of another season, one of our patrols comes upon a small band of nomads. Their leader wears government issue leather boots; he carries a rifle with an ivory stock. They take us on several hunting expeditions and offer themselves as guides through the foothills. Better yet, when the wet season ends, and the raids once again begin anew, they lead us into their caverns for sanctuary and shade.
One time, I witnessed the leader of these nomads beat off an attacker with the butt of his rifle. Afterwards, he cleaned the blood off the ivory with a gritty tongue.
****
Two months into the rainy season, keeping watch through the night. In the puddles gathering in the ruts of the road, several reflections of the moon. Pieces of moon, crushed behind the treads of one of our tanks. I begin to feel ill, try my best not to remember the people I loved who are now dead.
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