Entry #8
From The Archive: A Fictional Account of Memory and Myth
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is an entry from my on-going serial fiction experiment “The Archive.”
Click here to go to the Navigation + About Page to learn more
If you would like to follow this story as it unfolds, subscribe for free!
Day 54 – Evening
We found a pharmacy today.
Well, “found” might be generous. We more or less stumbled into it after dodging two blocks of caved-in buildings and cars rusted into tetanus sculptures. Let me tell you, nothing says dream come true like stepping into a place that smells like death and broken promises.
The shelves were wrecked, pill bottles cracked open like tiny coffins. Atlas and Freya padded in behind me, their noses twitching like crazy. Even Bastet looked uneasy, curling tighter into my chest.
I was searching through what was left—expired antibiotics, bottles of vitamins, even a box of pregnancy tests (because that’s what the end of the world needs… more babies)—when something caught my eye in the corner of the pharmacy: a little black box, dusty and half-hidden under a pile of broken shelves.
A vibrator. A pocket vibrator, to be precise.
I stared at it for a full ten seconds, trying to decide if I was more horrified or amused. And then I put it in my bag. Because, if there’s ever a time to prioritize self-care, it’s now.
“I’m surprised you didn’t pack the one from home.”
I snorted when I heard your voice. I was still laughing about it when a rustling noise caught our attention.
Atlas let out a low growl that rattled my spine. I spun around, knife ready, and there she was—standing in the herbal supplement aisle like some goddamn post-apocalyptic witch. Wild hair, sharp eyes, hands full of dried leaves.
“Easy,” I said, because clearly, I’m a pro at defusing tension when I’m holding a knife and my dogs are ready to rip out throats.
Her name’s Demi. And somehow, I didn’t die today.
We didn’t talk at first. Just stared at each other like two feral cats trying to decide if this was going to end in blood or not. Then I lowered my knife, real slow, and told her about the three guys I ran into yesterday—the ones who thought I’d make a decent target until Atlas took a chunk out of one of their legs. I don’t know why I told her. I showed her the gash on my shoulder where one of them had gotten me.
That seemed to shift something in her. She dropped her handful of leaves and crouched beside me, pulling a little tin out of her jacket like it was Excalibur. The stuff inside smelled like crushed mint and dirt, and she didn’t ask permission—just dabbed it on the wound while muttering something under her breath. A prayer? A recipe? A spell? I didn’t care. It burned like hell and then went numb.
That’s how it started. Not with a handshake or introductions. Just pain, plants, and a little bit of mercy.
Atlas sat down beside me, his ears still alert but not pulled back anymore. Freya gave Demi a low grunt—almost a warning, but not quite—and then stretched out on the floor.
Bastet blinked from the crook of my arm like she was saying, try something and I’ll claw your face off.
Demi’s… interesting. She’s got this energy—half feral, half guru—that makes you want to trust her while also triple-checking your knife’s still within reach.
She’s big into plants, which, honestly, I’m not mad about. Anyone who can turn leaves into medicine is basically a wizard now. And wizards? Wizards are useful.
As we picked through the pharmacy, she rattled off plant names and magical properties like it was her personal TED Talk. Yarrow for wounds. Willow bark for pain. Valerian for sleep.
I tried to play it cool—Sure, I know what yarrow is—but in my head, I was already cataloging everything. Who knows when I’ll need to chew on a root just to stay alive?
What threw me was how often she kept staring at my tarot deck. I saw the questions in her eyes before she even asked.
“Do you still do readings?”
Goddammit. Why does everyone want to know their future? It’s not like the cards are going to say, Congratulations, the world isn’t garbage anymore!
But she looked… fragile, I guess. That specific kind of fragile we all carry now—the kind that shows up when you just need something to hold onto.
So, against my better judgment, I pulled out the deck from the side pocket of my backpack and sighed.
“What do you want to know?”
She thought about it for a few seconds and then said, “Is there any point to all of this? Is there any hope left for us?”
Isn’t that the question we’re all asking?
I fanned out the cards for her and she drew The Star.
I was genuinely shocked. The cards have been all but savage lately. And this bitch gets The Star?
You know that card’s a liar, right? It makes promises it has no right to make. But… it also doesn’t show up for no reason. That’s the thing. It’s the flicker that comes after everything else is ash. It’s the last star in a sky full of smoke. The one that refuses to go out. And maybe Demi needed it more than I did.
I told her what it meant, and for a second, I thought she might cry. She didn’t. She just nodded—like she’d been waiting to hear that exact thing. Like it confirmed something she already knew.
She thanked me. And I could tell she meant it.
She sat a little closer after that. Not enough to touch, but enough that I noticed.
But something passed between us—recognition, maybe. That we weren’t alone in this bullshit world.
If I didn’t know that the world had ended, it might’ve seemed normal. Nice, even.
Turns out Demi lives on a farm. She moved back a few years before the collapse to help her parents. “They were getting old,” she said, “and I figured I’d regret not being there.”
There was something quiet in the way she said it—like maybe she already did regret it, just not the part she expected.
“Are they…” I started and then thought about my words. “Still around?”
Demi shook her head. “No. Ma died before things went to hell. Pops… well...” She hesitated and sucked in a breath. “He couldn’t live in this new world without Ma. Took the shotgun to the old oak tree where we buried her. Now he’s there, too. It’s just me, now.”
I put my hand over hers, not really thinking about it. It’s what I would have done before. She flinched, but didn’t pull away.
She didn’t date much before the collapse. Too busy running the farm—and, apparently, a weed business on the side. “It was my idea,” she said, grinning. “We grew veggies, mostly corn, but also all the boring stuff. But the weed? That paid the bills.”
It might be the most relatable thing I’ve heard since the world ended. When I asked if she still had some left, her grin slid into a smirk.
That’s how we ended up sitting on a broken pharmacy counter in the middle of an apocalypse, passing a joint back and forth while Demi told me about her parents and I told her about you.
“I used to think we’d grow old together,” I said. The words tasted bitter in my mouth, but the weed softened the edges. “We’d argue over who spoiled the dogs more, bitch about the neighbors, and just… be.”
Demi didn’t respond right away. She just watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling.
“Normal’s overrated,” she said finally. “But it sounds like he made you happy.”
“He did,” I said. “He really did.”
Demi nodded toward the dogs, her voice low and a little scratchy from the smoke. “Have they been with you the whole time?”
I followed her gaze to where Atlas was curled up near the door and Freya was gnawing on what used to be a chair leg.
“Yup,” I said. “Saved my life twice already, too. They’re all I have left of Finn.”
Her eyes drifted to Bastet, who was perched on a shelf above us, staring down at the joint like she was judging it.
“And her?” Demi asked.
“Bastet is definitely a bitch,” I said, then smirked. “But she’s mine. Had her since she was a feral kitten.”
Demi laughed. Like, real laughed. Not the kind people do when they’re nervous or trying to fill silence.
“She looks like she runs the place.”
“Oh, she does. We just live in it.”
A silence lulled between us and Demi jumped off of the counter. “We better get going if we’re going to get back to the farm before dark.”
“We?” I asked.
She invited us to stay for a few days—said she’d teach me about plants and herbs, maybe trade some of her homegrown remedies for readings or whatever else I could spare.
At first, I wasn’t sure. I mean, farm could mean anything from “safe haven” to “this is where I murder travelers.”
But then she said the magic word: greenhouse.
A fucking greenhouse. Still standing. Still full of plants.
Do you know what that’s worth now? Food. Medicine. Hell, even clean air. That’s gold in this world.
So I said yes and handed over the can of Spam (good riddance).
Because even if it was a trap, it’s one I was willing to walk into.
The farm is quiet in a way that makes my bones ache. Like I’ve forgotten what peace sounds like. It’s the kind of place I used to imagine we’d end up if things had gone right.
If we’d made it.
Freya ran through the open grass like she’d forgotten how much space there could be. Atlas checked every corner of the fence line, nose to the ground, tail high. Even Bastet seemed content, curling up on a windowsill like she already owned the place.
I’m not sure what the future will bring but right now, the farm feels like a safety net. I’m not going to take it for granted, either.
I updated the ration log before bed. Not because it matters, but because habits help. Because writing things down makes me feel like I still exist.
Updated Ration Log:
1 pocket vibrator (don’t judge me—it’s called “self-care”).
1 water bottle (gloriously refilled with well water)
1 granola bar (gave the other to Demi)
1 can of spam(finally gone)
