After the Fall

After the Fall

They called it "The Fall," a tragically ironic name for what happened to all of us. Was it the whole world? A sliver of hope, a foolish fantasy, whispers that somewhere beyond the horizon life continues as normal. But logic, that cold, harsh mistress, drowns it out. The news, a flickering ghost before it died entirely, painted a picture of global chaos. Rising temperatures, a relentless fever scorching the Earth. The jet stream, once a predictable highway, became a drunken vagrant, bringing extremes of weather - parched deserts under a relentless sun, while coastal cities drowned in relentless storms.

Hunger followed, like a ghost stalking the land. Farms withered under the heat, crops failing. The delicate web of trade frayed, snapped by conflict. Wars, small at first, flared like brush fires across the globe. Alliances, once meant for cooperation, became instruments of destruction as nations scrambled for resources. The final, horrifying blow came wrapped in a microscopic shroud - an pandemic unlike any seen before. It began innocently, dismissed as a common cold. But this disease was a shapeshifter, morphing from a sniffle to a gut-wrenching inferno, stealing the very breath from its victims. Millions perished, their cries a silent echo on the wind.

And as if mirroring the turmoil within humanity, the Earth itself convulsed. Mountains shuddered, spewing molten fury. The ground, once a steady platform, twisted violently in earthquakes. A perfect storm of devastation, a symphony of destruction composed by a very sick planet.

Here, in the embrace of the Smoky Mountains, we were granted a temporary reprieve. The land provided, the streams offered clean water, the deer and rabbits, and my garden that I just planted. But the quiet gnaws at my soul. Electricity, once a constant hum, flickered erratically before vanishing completely. Now we are back in an age of flickering lamplight, candles, and chilling silence.

The Fall wasn't a single, cataclysmic event, but a slow, relentless unravelling. A tapestry of hope, woven with the threads of civilization, ripped to shreds. And I, Silas Vance, stand here, a solitary thread clinging to the remnants, wondering what horrors tomorrow may bring.

There is something though. Up here there were small towns scattered all along the edges of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. They are gone, not entirely. Those small towns are now small villages in the town's place. The largest of them may be a thousand people. I go into the closest "town" Goshen from time to time to barter for the things I can't grow or make myself. All in all, after the horrible things that happened, it is getting better. There is a little more trade between the towns, and a few more products that make life a bit easier.

We have a long way to go.