Necessities

The Cicadas shrieked like never before, carving into Wade's skull. Wade's lips were dry. His eyes bulged against their sockets. And his head felt ready to burst the next moment. The Cicadas were like tiny needles stabbing his ears. They were stuck there, and they made his ears ring.

The heat was different today, too; it didn't even burn only on his skin or nostrils. It burned down his thoughts to ashes. Made them fragile, useless, and absurd.

Where do Goats go to die? Do they welcome their death?

Every breath was painful; every thought was like a cut.

"Home. Tomorrow. Just this last one left." Wade grabbed his tools. His hands hurt from the work. "I need to..."

More needles in his ears. More pain.
Drill, Cicadas, Drill.

Stench.
Again.

He almost didn't recognize it. It filled his lungs. It got inside him; he couldn't fight back. Like an assassin, it took him by surprise.

His throat locked. No air. Alone.

Nothing to touch. Nothing to fight. Strangled by no one.

The rot was different from the one in the cities. Different from the dumpsters or the trash steaming on the streets.

This was the stench of the old ancients: death.
This was the truth of man.
The stench of all humans.
This was what we are.

He gagged, stomach twisted. The stench reached from his throat into his bowels and stirred them up. Like a worm tunneling, wriggling deeper, deeper. A sinister hand, cold and black, reached deep inside him. It locked its iron grip. The fingers decide what comes next.

Would it squeeze all fluids out of him? Wring him dry? Soak the hungry earth around him?

The stench was gone for a long time.

Wade thought he killed it, but he didn't. It came back. No warning.

Wade believed he fought, but the stench didn't even notice he was there.

It returned, riding the back of the wind, as it had since the first men died in this land. Time didn't matter; the stench didn't care about hours or days.

Like a tide, filling his lungs, pulling him deeper. And deeper.

He didn't matter. The wind did not know him. It never had. It did not care who he was.

Wade shut his eyes. He was a foreigner. He thought he was the cure, but he was just another sickness in this land. The wind brought the medicine. It ruled, but the wind knew no rules. It was no master because it didn't need any servants. He needed to flee before he'd drown here, too. "Go home," sang the Cicadas, "before it's too late."

If the stench gave him a chance and let him breathe again, he'd take it. He promised he'd take it and go back as soon as he could.

Then the stench moved on; let him live another day or hour.

"That's my chance."

He pushed himself and fell back down. He tried again and got back up on his feet. His knees hardly carried him. His lungs opened up, and air finally flooded his body. The heat of the evening sun burned him again. He welcomed it. It made him feel alive.

The pain made him feel alive again.

He had worked the whole day. His colleagues were out for a different job but would return the next day. So he was all alone. He got his coffee before sunrise and then worked until lunch. He had a short break when the heat was no longer manageable. Work again. Finish, get out. No matter what. The sun showed some mercy, but the Cicadas were cruel. They started their drilling again. They, too, did not care about him.

When the stench left him behind, he sat in the shadow of his Jeep and sipped from the little water that remained. It's gone. They left him. And they took all the water.

They left him here to die. From thirst. Or stench. Whichever comes first.

Or would they even come back to him? Did he matter?

He didn't want to die in this ever-eating land. Not here. He tried to help. Nothing changed. This land is so old that it started to feed on humans. It swallowed them all, their souls, their bodies. Sooner or later, they would all become the land. And when they did, the stench would carry the message to all those who lived. To whisper to them. Remind them what is next. Tell them the truth about this land.

His life, his sacrifices... he would not stay here forever; he didn't want to become one with this land. Be one of them. Join those already swallowed by the earth.

The wind rose, soft and quiet. Again? So soon? His lips burned from the sand it brought, his stomach rebelled already, ready for the fingers.
But no stench. False alarm.

He wanted to cry, but he had no tears left. It was pointless anyway. If he cried, the stench would drink his tears like the rare rain. Maybe the stench loves tears. It's better not to cry in these lands.

Never. Ever. Cry before the stench.

The stench will come to you. It will feed on your weakness.

Don't show you are weak. Always pretend you're strong.

"You know," he called out into the evening, "there is no other choice. This needs to be done; this job needs to be finished." He almost screamed, trying not to sound too desperate. To not sound weak.

The silence didn't respond. In the distance, some goats looked at him, but Wade didn't get their attention. He looked around—no other listeners. Even the Cicadas didn't bother to interrupt their singing.

He didn't matter; not even animals cared for him. He almost wished the stench would have killed him. Called him by his name. Before the earth consumed him.

Mark him. Him, a low-life. Not even worth killing. Unremarkable.

He got angry.

He thought about her. How she was like the stench. How she dared to ignore him. How could she stay silent?

The stench almost got him.
The fingers reached into him.
The earth wants to eat him.

Why did she shut up? She should have spoken!
Why did she not help him? She should have.
Where was she? She should have been there. But she wasn't. She was gone.

Traitor.

Traitor!

She left him, like the others did. No water. No friends in this land.

"I came to give you my best years. I gave you money. And medicine. I made the years good years. You had good years because of me."

He waited for the stench. No wind. No smell. Nothing.

"You have no right to be pissed. I did my job. You are a traitor. That's different. I can be pissed, not you. I am the victim!"

The Cicadas sang their songs of the needles. The goats ate. They didn't even look.

Nothing else happened.

Wade felt alone again. He wanted to leave. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could go. He continued to work.

"Get it together, Wade."

But it kept nagging on him. He thought about the past years. Nobody ever thanked him. Ungrateful. He gave her ten good years. Gave that to everybody. He cared. He did things that helped them. But nobody ever thanked him.

They say a smile is gratitude enough.

What bullshit. It's not. Smiling means, "You are a fool for doing this shit job. But I take the meds, idiot."

He got it now. Everybody knew the truth but him. He was the only fool who believed. And nobody ever said "thanks." Did the stench make gratitude go away? Can you be grateful in the land of the stench?

She had the baby. But nobody could know. When it came, he was concerned. He was white; she was black. Everybody would know. But the baby came, and it looked like her. Not at all like him. He knew it wasn't his.

She wanted the money. She probably never loved him. But he wanted it to be true. That was the deal. He gave her a good life, but she left him.

You can trust no one. His boss told him that on the first day.
He was a fool. He deserved the smiles. All of them.

"Money!" he burst out.

The Cicadas paused their song. The Goats looked at him.

Then, the verdict. He was not worth it.

Unremarkable.

They went back to their work. Drilling skulls. Chewing dry grass.

Again, "You and your fucking Money!"

This time, nobody looked. He was no longer part of this world. A guest.

"My country gave you enough! I paid! I paid so much I go back broken. You hear me? Broken! Because of you. I did enough! You did this to me! You broke me!"

The stench heard him. Punished him for the noise. Punished him for interrupting what is part of this world. It came on the back of its horse.

Reaching.

Grabbing.

Cold fingers inside him.

Wade fell. The world turned black. He retched, but nothing came. No water. No fluids left. He didn't want to lose any more of it.

Wade was sure he'd die now, but the stench didn't take him now. Wade was not ripe. Not ready to be swallowed. Not finished. He came back to his senses and slowly got up. Shaking. Back on his feet. His throat felt dry like the desert, as if it was full of sand. The devil's sand?

Then, at last, she spoke.

"You fool. I loved you."

He wanted to cry. Was he wrong? He didn't dare to cry, even if he could.

"You want the money. I am out. Your people only take. And take. I am broke. And you take. I have problems at home!"

The Cicadas played a different song. No more drilling. It was a funeral song. Or a love song. In the end, both are the same.

" I didn't want this. It is a necessity. This is the best for all of us. For your people, for mine."

She didn't respond.

"Can't you fucking hear me? Say something!"

After a long time, she spoke.

"Ok."

That's it. They broke up. It felt wrong. Final. Horrible.
Better than fighting. She understood.
No anger. The pain will go.

The Cicadas kept playing their funeral song, or love song, or whatever this was.

"I am going then."

She didn't say a word.

"I go."

The wind was undecided if it should rise, but it didn't. No stench. No fingers.

No goodbyes. No last words. Just the wind.
He decided to go back to his car, leave this place. Somebody else can finish this job.

"You even didn't kiss me goodbye, asshole."

The Cicadas could not believe what they just heard.

"What? He didn't kiss her goodbye?"

They were upset. The goats agreed. Their noises were weird. Weirder than usual.

How could he not kiss her goodbye?
Everything stared at him now.

For a second, he was part of this world. He mattered.

"I can fix this. Let me fix this!"

The goats wanted to see. They came from the distance. Closer. And closer. They were faster, than expected. First, they were so far away, Wade couldn't see their eyes. The next second they were so close he could almost smell them. Or did he? Or was it the stench?

He didn't care anymore if the stench was coming.

The shovel slipped from his sore hands. He climbed down in the hole he had to fill up.

They were all there. And she was among them, waiting.

He could feel the stench around the villagers. It was where the stench lived. The fountain.

But he forgot about the stench and found her. The baby was close by her. They looked so peaceful. Then he kissed her goodbye.

"Maybe you are part of us now. Stay." she whispered.

Wade didn't know how long he was with her.

But the sun rose, and he could hear the cars coming. They brought water. They got him home. He thought about getting up. Greeting his colleagues. Drinking water. Water.

There was movement up there. People against the early sun.

"Fuck," one yelled. "He is down there."

More people came.

"Shit, how did that happen?"

Wade wanted to move. His muscles wouldn't move. Was he even trying?

"Get me out of here."

His thoughts were sunburned, almost ashes. His tongue was swollen. His eyes were too big for their sockets. Maybe he was not made for the world up there. From up there, it looked different. From here, everything made sense. It was pointless to fight.

Among the others—this artwork of legs and arms—he felt welcome. He became a part of it. He gave his arms and legs.

Appreciated. Like everyone else. Nobody down here was ugly or beautiful. Rich or poor. All the same. One purpose.

The Cicadas were gone. The goats had moved on.

"Close it. Nobody find him, better for us all. He was pretty unremarkable anyway. Nobody waits for that poor bastard."

Wade moved a finger. He wanted to yell something. He was part of this now! No longer unremarkable! Then he saw the young guy with the shovel. He looked straight into Wade's eyes. He knew it. He knew Wade was down here.

Both understood.

Wade lay back and stared into the sky. He was part of this, an artwork of rotting flesh. And when the bugs and worms had eaten them, he would be part of an artwork of skulls and bones. How beautiful.

The young guy stared a little longer. Then he started to shovel. He was not sure about all this. Threw a shovel of dirt on Wade's legs. But he didn't move; he just stared into the sky.

Then everybody started to shovel.