The Last World by CP Bialois

glasses or canes. Even the elderly walked with their backs straight and untwisted to the ravages of time. The clothes were of varying colors, but they all appeared as one-piece suits that covered the nape of their necks.
    As he continued walking, he noticed something off to the side where a small group of people waited patiently. Around them, others sat eating what resembled burritos in an outdoor c afe. It was then he noticed his stomach growling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, only that it felt like a lifetime ago. He took his place in line, trying not to cause a scene, and kept his eyes and ears open for how they were ordering. When he reached the front of the line, he was no closer to figuring out his dilemma then he was to start with.
    After a pause, a young woman behind him inquired what was wrong. Not wanting to appear rude, he answered, “I don’t have any money.”
    “We do not use money.”
    He was about to ask what she meant , but stopped himself until he thought of a better way to ask. “What do you use?”
    She smiled at him as if she was asked the question often. “Put your hand on the scanner. The computer will do the rest.”
    Put my hand on the scanner? What scanner? He searched for it, not wanting to appear ignorant a second time. A light gray palm shape caught his eye on the dark gray counter. After thanking the woman, he rested his right hand on the scanner. In a few seconds, a panel opened with a long plastic-like tray with the burrito and a clear container of juice sitting on it. Taking the food, he made his way over to a table and took a seat.
    His hunger made him want to tear into the food, but after seeing the others eating slow and enjoying themselves , he didn’t want to appear a slob. Up to then he failed every time he wanted to present himself in a positive light and this would be no different. As soon as he bit into the burrito, his eyes opened wide in surprise at the force of the flavor exploding in his mouth. The sounds he made were a combination of a growl and a groan of ecstasy. The food tasted like all his favorite foods at once; each time he took a bite he relished the feeling. Once it was finished, he took a deep gulp of his juice and the same thing happened. As with the food, he tasted his favorite juice, milk, and soda. When he finished, he never felt so satisfied after a meal.
     
    *****
     
    The black sedan came to a stop in the small parking lot of Tarken Memorial Hospital leaving Winfield Bowen to sit and look at the two-story building. As hospitals go it was small, much smaller then he expected, and looked more like a school than a medical building. Despite that thought gaining prominence, his main concern was the visit with his son. After receiving the doctor’s phone call, the first thing he did was to assess the situation and all the possible outcomes. Given that the last time he and Franklin saw each other they nearly came to blows, he didn’t expect this meeting to go any better. The fact his son was in the hospital won out over his pride in military training to limit friendly casualties. An interesting term, considering they closely resembled warring parties, but they were family. The one part that concerned him was his wife, Nancy. She was getting better every day but he worried the news would set her back. In the end, he decided he couldn’t keep the truth from her.
    Nancy Bowen had handled the news well, better than he expected. Through the years, she put up with more than she had a right to. A large part of it was his fault. He just didn’t know how to change. For as long as he could remember, he’d been stubborn and inflexible, he preferred the term strong-willed. It took him years to realize the reason she spent so much time in her garden was because it brought her peace.
    Until that morning, he hadn’t realized the peace she sought wasn’t from life or their son but from him. He never learned to take off his rank at home and after tw enty