ENIFLA (1/4)

“A time to gather stones, and a time to scatter them.”
Raifenberg heard his father’s voice in a dream and woke up.

He had already “scattered” enough — so much, in fact, that he had spent the entire previous day  “gathering.”
He still hadn’t managed to reach anyone in the government — either they had given up completely, or they had fled. But it was probably the former — where could you even run to now?
As for foreign partners, there was nothing to be said — he had no idea what was happening in other labs, or even in their countries. International communication had completely broken down the previous night.

Late last night, he had managed to reach the lab in Heidelberg — the nearest one where they’d managed to deliver a sufficient amount of “Heimlich.”

Sufficient?  he questioned himself. Depends for whom, and for how long. Everything’s relative.

Let them plant it, still — even if it’s completely meaningless by now. Better that than "them" - Raifenberg looked out the window.

“Them,” as Raifenberg called them, were the gangs of thugs that had swept across the city since yesterday, when lawlessness had finally taken over.
There hadn’t been a single sign of the police since the day before — it seemed everyone had run for shelter.
Yesterday afternoon, when he had last gone out for groceries, the sidewalks were littered with shattered storefront glass. People were looting anything not bolted down — and while food, water, and oxygen were at least somewhat understandable, clothing and electronics? What were they even hoping for?

He had entered the store straight through the broken window — the door had been locked — and miraculously found a box of oxygen canisters tucked in a corner, seemingly unnoticed by the looters.
Grabbing the box, he left a 20-euro note on the empty counter — money meant nothing anymore, just a token gesture of decency — stepped over the high windowsill, and walked back along the sidewalk.
A man with a knife jumped out from around the corner.

“Drop the box, man, and no one gets hurt!”

“Alright, alright!” Raifenberg dropped the box and raised his hands.

“Push it over!” the man demanded, brandishing the knife threateningly.

Still with his hands up, Raifenberg nudged the box toward him.

“Nice — let’s see —” the man opened the box and peeked inside. “Sweet,” he grinned, looking up, grabbing the box, and casting a predatory glance at Raifenberg — get out of here!

Raifenberg took a slow step back, pretending to run. Then, almost turning around, he quietly pulled a pepper spray canister from his pocket, rushed forward, sprayed the man’s face, and slammed the canister’s end into his temple.

“You forgot this,” Raifenberg muttered and tossed the now-empty canister beside the robber, who had collapsed, screaming in pain and rubbing his eyes.

Picking up the box again, Raifenberg briskly headed home, not looking back at the bastard writhing and cursing behind him.

Back at his floor, box in hand, he bumped into Herr Bellstrich — the hunched, wiry old man from the apartment across the hall.
He was locking his door with trembling hands, breathing heavily. Next to him on the floor was a tightly packed gym bag.

“You heading to the shelter?” Raifenberg asked.

“Eh?” The old man finished locking up and looked over. At first, he didn’t seem to recognize Raifenberg — but once he did, a flicker of recognition lit up in his eyes.

“Yes… and you’re not?”

“I’m staying,” Raifenberg shook his head. “Want to take a couple with you?” He held out the box.

“Nah,” Bellstrich coughed and waved him off. “They’ve got plenty of stuff there already.”

“Want some help at least? That bag looks heavy.”

“Oh, please!” Bellstrich suddenly flared up. “You hoping to snatch something off me too?”

“What? No!” Raifenberg set the box down by the door. “What are you saying?”

“Bah—” the old man waved his hand. “My son’s picking me up soon, don’t worry.”
He grabbed the bag and slowly made his way down the stairs, leaning on the railing. Halfway down, he suddenly turned around.

“It’s you! You and your government screwed it all up! Bah!”
He spat, coughed angrily, turned back, and continued down.

Raifenberg had no reply. He picked up the box, opened his door, and went inside.
Maybe the old man was right.

Two hours later, Raifenberg was sitting on the couch, catching his breath.
He had sealed every crack he could find in the windows, doors, and vents, hooked up a fifty-liter oxygen tank to the hyper-ventilation system, and set it to economy mode.
Besides the one currently in use, he had two 100-liter tanks left and enough food and water for two weeks.

Probably more than enough, he thought.

The television had gone dark the night before. The only working radio station was broadcasting emergency shelter coordinates on repeat... The internet still seemed to be up, so he sent one last message to Heidelberg.
They needed to know.

He rubbed his dry eyes and glanced at the meter. 4%.
Such hopeless sorrow... He didn’t want to eat, drink, sleep— or even breathe, except out of habit.

He took a hit from the small canister beside him, waiting until the hyper-ventilation kicked in fully.
Sunlight refracted through the window glass, scattering dancing reflections across the walls.

***

As Linda had planned, she arrived at the site at dawn. The Hermannsdenkmal — a majestic monument to a hero of ancient times, Arminius, leader of the Germanic tribes who once defeated the Romans in the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest — still stood in its place. Invincible, unshakable, with his head held high and a sword raised in his right hand, he alone, it seemed, had no intention of fleeing anywhere.

Linda left the car at the parking lot far below, packed everything essential into her backpack, and slowly made her way uphill. Step by step, she ascended the massive stone staircase, which could easily accommodate fifty people walking side by side — but today it was completely deserted. Empty, too, were the sides — once, the ascent had been flanked by dense bushes and trees of the Teutoburg Forest, of which now remained only twisted black husks, the branches of withered shrubs, and sparse clumps of yellow grass.

She stopped halfway up to catch her breath and take a drag. Linda looked up — the rising sun illuminated Arminius's helmet and sword. She had only been here once before — she must have been eight or nine years old — no, not her — it was Leo —Leo, the boy she used to be, the boy who was long gone — Linda gave a quiet, wry smile.

She climbed to the top. The path ended in a round plaza, at the center of which stood a huge sandstone pedestal topped with a dome, crowned by the statue of the hero. Alone, here in the midst of a dead forest, he clearly intended to stand to the end.

Linda slowly walked in a circle around the pedestal, gently brushing her hand against the ancient stones. On one of her rounds, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a bench — where there must once have been a living hedge in the shade of a tree. Turning from the pedestal, she walked over to the bench, put down her backpack, sat down, took out a bottle of wine, and took a sip. Only birdsong and rustling leaves were missing.

But then she heard something else — voices from the direction of the stairs. She squinted and saw two figures slowly climbing toward the monument. A boy and a girl —very young, no more than eighteen — were walking arm in arm with a single oxygen mask between them. They made it to the neighboring bench and collapsed, exhausted.

Linda glanced at them with suspicion but decided to approach. They were both breathing heavily — the mask seemed to be running out. Hearing footsteps, the boy barely lifted his head and looked at Linda.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, pulling two small canisters from her backpack — she still had some for herself — and returned to them.

“Thanks… we’re… from the shelter. Walked all night…”

“Is it that bad there?” Linda asked.

“We wanted to see the sunrise,” the guy replied.

“We decided we didn’t want to die like cattle in a pen without seeing the sun,” the girl told the truth.

Saying nothing, Linda went back to her bench, pulled another bottle of wine from her backpack, and returned.

“Take it — I won’t be able to drink it all anyway.”

They nodded gratefully. The boy leaned back against the bench; the girl laid her head in his lap, completely drained. Linda returned to her spot, gazing at the sky, sipping wine from her own bottle, and occasionally taking a drag.

For a second, she imagined Arminius, with a metallic crunch, tearing his leg from the granite mass, stepping down from the pedestal, striding thunderously down the stone staircase, shaking the earth around him, swinging his sword — and everywhere, as if by magic, trees turned green, flowers bloomed, and birds began to chirp in the depths of the green crowns.

"Well, that wouldn’t be so bad," Linda thought, taking another sip.

The beep of her pocket sensor shattered her dreams. 3%.