You know it’s bad when even your post-apocalypse feels ruined.

Moments like these still get me.

It’s been six years. Six years since the collapse of the financial system of the world snowballed into the complete cessation of worldwide food production and distribution. “Too many eggs in one basket,” they said, as if admitting it was their fault with a shrug and a “Whaddya gonna do?” attitude made it excusable. The riots lasted years. It was beautiful, in a bizarre way. People were finally united. Sure, the brotherhood was angry, violent, and directed at ephemeral corporate entities so hard to pin down you might as well have declared a war on the stars in the sky; It still felt good that people woke up to see the truth, even if it was too late to do anything about it and they were just wasting what little time was left.

They say the bacteria was the result of a terrorist attack, but no one believed it. It was just too coincidental that the second people start railing against giant, faceless corporations – specifically big chemical, big pharma, and big food – that a virulent super bug showed up in the cities most affected by protest. Of course some company or another conveniently had a vaccine, but only enough for “essential” personnel. Wanna guess how many CEOs were on the essential list?

With starvation on one side and a horrific biological weapon on the other, the movement died out rapidly. The problem was, the movement’s assailants did not. Even with civil obedience restored, there was still not enough food and no way to combat the bacterial infection. People threw up their hands, admitted defeat, and waited for the oligarchy to take the reins again; but it never did. The damage was too widespread. With civil infrastructure decimated and disease rampant, it was incredible how quickly everything collapsed. Sprawling cities were reduced to hollow tombs. Civilized, educated people fought for trash, food scraps, and ragged clothing.

It sounds horrific, and I know it really is, but there’s a sense of scale that defies human comprehension. After a certain number of deaths the victims stop being people and start being numbers, statistics. I’ve heard it explained as a coping mechanism; that you couldn’t really handle the gravity of processing that much death. The theory makes sense to me.

Because I feel a sadness for what was, and I certainly regret what happened, but I don’t weep for civilization any more. Having your daily concerns reduced to “What will I eat?”, “Where will I sleep?”, and “Will today be the day I die?” will alter your perspective like that. But then I come across a scene like this and it breaks my heart.

This was a person. The bones look developed enough to be an adult, which means he or she probably knew of a life before the collapse. They had a job. Maybe they had kids, a spouse, a family. Then this happened and they fought and scrambled and survived until finally, one day, it all ended. Maybe it was an attack. Maybe it was a long-running infection. Maybe they withered away from starvation. That bothers me the most; the story will never be known. They’re just a pile of bones being picked at by some crows. There won’t be a eulogy. There won’t be a remembrance; anyone who would remember them is likely dead, too. This is all that’s left, and that feels wrong.

All we can do is hope we don’t end up a pile of bones, too.

Wear this shirt: To a murder. Of crows. Get it?

Don’t wear this shirt: For your debut as a kids’ daytime TV show host.

This shirt tells the world: “I know this all seems terribly important right now, but we’re all gonna die and eventually the sun is going to expand and swallow the planet, obliterating any trace of anything you, your loved ones, or this whole damn species ever did.”

We call this color: Bones on the Asphalt

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