A-Void by Babak Govan (phonics readers txt) 📕

a trite response they’ve heard somewhere that shuts down any more thought: ‘Everything happens for a reason,’ ‘Don’t discuss politics or religion with friends or family,’ or ‘Everyone has their own opinion.’ They can’t spend any time alone because they can’t be with their own mind. They’ll answer just about anyone’s call. All their stimulation comes externally. They let supply dictate their demand. I call them ‘consumers.’”

“What’s your point?”

Barking breaks my memory and, looking down, I find Cleveland running in circles, jumping intermittently. I realize my entire face is soaked and my palms are bloody from climbing.

A body length to go, I jump off, landing hard on my feet. My fingers burn now as Cleveland forces them through his coat. “Yeah, boy! Yeah, we’ll be alright.”

Cleveland sits on the passenger seat. I look back at the mynah bird, Steamboat Willie, and Zebra in the backseat. With shaky hands, I reach in between Willie and Zebra for Isabella’s unicorn, place it, bloodied, on the dash, and take a deep breath.

I realize I have not eaten in a while and am glad to have something to do that will distract me for a moment. From the trunk, I retrieve a bag of stale chips and a couple slices of white sandwich bread, and I chase them down with a few chugs of vodka.

A mist is coming. I return to the driver’s seat, turn on the heater full blast, and suddenly I feel I must drive away. I do not make it very far before the hard rain brings me to sleep.

The mynah bird awakens me with his command: “Feed me more. Feed me more.” I pour chip bits into his cage, and the rest fall onto the floor, where Cleveland licks at them.

The rain has stopped. I pull down the window, and rest my head against the headrest. I know that it will mean nothing to me to live on if my family is dead, but I need to see if other humans will survive after I’m gone. I decide that New York City is the best option, the closest I can get to Europe, or to find ships sailing between continents.

I hold on to the new breath inside my chest before it escapes.

What happened? How is it possible that I can’t find a human? Still, I cannot help scan the fort for human activity as we circumnavigate it to Missouri.

Ahead, I see lots of movement around a red barn atop a stumpy hill. I sit up in my seat, notice a stench, and realize it’s a herd of midnight-black cows standing among thousands of dead cows. As I approach, white chicken feathers from an abandoned truck slide against my windshield, and then join the clumps of them in the muddy road. Limp, bloodless talons and beaks hang from the tiny cages each packed with a dozen or so chickens.

A gravel road partitions up to the barn. In front is a wooden arched sign welcoming us to Rosie’s Roadhouse, and across the street are rows of cabins.

Chewing batches of green tubes made to resemble grass, the cows, with their tails swinging low, watch us from behind the trough labeled “Accelerated Growth Feeding Station.”

Inside, it’s remarkably warm. Orange and yellow neon lights in parallel wrap around the barn walls. In the center are picnic tables with red-and-white tablecloths, surrounded by peanut shells.

I slide my palm over the length of the beer counter until I arrive at the cash register, where I stand for a while staring at the “Employee Line” sign hanging behind it.

I take the bat out of the car and break into one of the cabins. The room is cold. I turn on the radiator, and in the next room I find extra blankets to wrap myself in. The radiator emits a scent like that of burnt hair, which at least dampens the stench from outside.

I wash up in the bathroom sink. Sediment from around the faucet drips down along the sink walls and mixes with the dried blood clots shedding from my palms, helping me to feel alive.

The skin under my eyes is red and swollen, but still no signs of infection. I wash my neck and notice my weight loss. My beard makes me feel protected.

I am certain that the creatures outside can hear me, it’s so utterly silent, but then the dripping noise of the radiator returns. After gulping down another peanut butter sandwich, Cleveland curls himself perfectly on the yellowing rug, dried leaves protruding from underneath the door. I place a thin sheet over the mynah’s cage, wrap my palms in rounds of toilet paper, and enter the fibrous bed. I feel comforted by the outdated room—the same nostalgia that simplifies the aging musician’s song.

I awaken from what I feel has been my longest sleep since the disappearance. Only an edge of the sun is visible, but the tree over the car is abuzz with birds. I wonder if they are mating.

Somehow, I feel suddenly that someone is watching me. I search around the room for car keys, and discover them inside a crooked nightstand. I grab the cage and my bag, and Cleveland and I dash out the door. I press the PANIC button on the keychain and a beeping noise comes from behind the barn, where I find an old silver Nissan Sentra among a row of cars. I transfer our possessions and slam on the accelerator.

Gray clouds envelop the grassy plains. I roll down my window. My palms still hurt, but the clean and cool air against them is soothing. A tired wind feathers the hair over my ears like a spirit’s caress. Cleveland’s fur flows with it, revealing the shape of his ribs, and he tries to blink, reminding me of the many lonely patients who came to me, stuck in The Centrifuge.

In St. Louis, we slow down along the Mississippi riverbank to watch deserted ferries under the illuminated Gateway Arch. Inside an apartment, we