Echoes of the Forgotten

Echoes of the Forgotten

By Vijay Sharma Erry

The world had ended not with a bang, but with a whisper—a virus that slipped through the cracks of our crumbling society, silent and merciless. They called it the Veil, because it shrouded the infected in fevered dreams before stealing their breath. Ninety-five percent gone. Cities like Mumbai, where I'd grown up, were now skeletal husks, vines clawing at skyscrapers, streets choked with rusting autorickshaws and the bones of the fallen. I survived by choice: alone, in a fortified flat on the 17th floor of a derelict high-rise in Andheri. No contact, no risks. Food from abandoned stores, water from rain collectors. Solitude was my armor.

That day, the sky was a bruised purple, monsoon remnants drizzling acid rain. I scavenged the market below—canned dal, maybe some paracetamol if the rats hadn't gotten there first. That's when I heard it: a muffled cry from the rubble of a collapsed godown. "Help... please... anyone..."

I froze. No one spoke anymore. No one lived anymore. But there she was—a woman, mid-thirties, pinned under a slab of concrete, her leg twisted at an ugly angle. Dark hair matted with dust, eyes wide with terror but sharp, alive. She wasn't delirious; she was calling me.

"Wait," I muttered, my voice rusty from disuse. I scanned for traps—looters, infected stragglers—but nothing. Just her. Against every instinct screaming to run, I wedged my crowbar under the slab. Muscles burned; sweat stung my eyes. With a grunt, it shifted. She crawled free, gasping.

"Thank you," she whispered, clutching her leg. "I'm Priya. You... you're real."

I didn't answer. Names were dangerous. Trust was suicide. But she wasn't moving fast, and the rain was picking up. "Can you walk?" I asked finally.

"Barely." She tried, winced. I offered my shoulder—idiot—and half-carried her back to my building. Up the stairs (elevator dead years ago), into my sanctuary. She collapsed on the floor mat, scanning the room: my hydroponic garden, stacked cans, a single photo of my family—gone.

"You're alone?" she asked, voice soft.

"Was," I said, boiling water for her wound. "Name's Arjun."

We talked that night, rain hammering the windows. Priya was a doctor from Breach Candy Hospital, survived by sheer luck—quarantined in a basement when the Veil hit. She'd been scavenging for antibiotics when the godown caved. "I thought I was the last," she said. "But there must be more. Groups, maybe. Signals on shortwave."

I laughed bitterly. "Groups mean death. Sharing means infection."

"Not if we're careful." Her eyes sparkled—hope, that fool's fire. She cleaned her wound, stitched it with thread from my kit. Stronger than she looked.

Days blurred. Priya healed, helped tend the garden, fixed my rainwater filter. She hummed old Bollywood tunes while cooking; I found myself humming back. Laughter crept in—first time in years. But doubt gnawed: Was she carrier? Was this the trap?

One evening, she tuned my dusty radio. Static... then voices. Faint, crackling: "Survivors in Lonavala. Safe zone. Coordinates 18.75 N..."

Priya's face lit up. "Arjun, we could go. Rebuild."

I stared at the window, the empty city. Alone had kept me alive. But alive wasn't living— it was rotting in silence.

"Pack light," I said. "We leave at dawn."

The journey was hell: dodging feral dogs, foraging through flooded slums, her limp slowing us. Twice, we hid from shadows—other survivors, feral-eyed, whispering of cannibals in the hills. But Priya's hand in mine grounded me. Stories flowed: her lost husband, my sister's last call. We weren't just surviving; we were remembering.

Lonavala's hills rose like a promise. Smoke signals guided us to a valley camp—tents, solar panels, faces. Fifty souls, maybe more. A woman ran to Priya, hugging her: "Doctor! We need you!"

They welcomed me too. No questions, just a shared meal—real roti, hot chai. That night, under stars unpolluted by city lights, Priya squeezed my hand. "You saved me, Arjun. Now we save them."

I nodded, chest tight. The Veil had taken everything, but in the rubble, I'd found her—and in her, a world worth fighting for. Ninety-five percent gone, but five percent? That's enough to start again.

Humanity's echo, faint but unbroken.