The Gardener

By Jeff Nichols

The nauseating ammonia smell of squid flora is always the first thing I notice upon waking. Some days it’s faint, but today the wind brings the acrid smell right into my riverside hidey-hole. I peek out at the wreckage of the squid ship—dark, twisted metal covering a half mile of riverfront.

We killed the squids aboard it shortly after they crashed, but a decade later the wreck still exudes evil. Malevolence. Back then, America’s military was more than a match for the squid ships, but we didn’t understand that killing them and their living ships wasn’t enough. The first wave wasn’t about colonization; it was about seeding. The squids wanted to remake Earth to their liking.

As far as the eye can see, squid vegetation has taken over. Fleshy, misshapen bushes of black and purple cover the hills. Those same hills were once lush with spring flowers. Tulips, daffodils, daisies, lilies, roses, redbud, and dogwood—all lost to years of squid terraforming.

I remember my childhood garden, my mother and I coaxing it to vibrant life, and despair hits hard. “April showers bring May flowers,” we used to say. Now the rain is poison and there will never be another daffodil. May flowers are one of the things I miss most about Before.

I was sixteen when the first squid ships screamed across the sky. It was an ordinary day, right up until it wasn’t. Squid ships dropped pods on every continent and ocean. They attacked human populations and industries everywhere. Manufacturing, transportation, airports, chemical plants—all were targeted with inhuman precision. Within a week, humanity’s technological foundation was gone. We thought it was simply to reduce our ability to fight back, but we were wrong. The squids—the ultimate EPA—wanted a pure, watery world without the taint of human pollution. They’re going to get it.

I slip out of my hiding place and make my way south, away from the river, into the city. The ruins of Louisville provide easy cover now that the squids don’t care about the few humans left. Without technology, we present no threat. To them, we’re just intelligent herd animals trying to survive.

It’s Monday, the day I visit Marlon. He has a safe spot in what used to be the Louisville Zoo. He’s half-blind and more than a little crazy, but he’s one of the few people left who won’t simply shoot you on sight. I bring him part of whatever I’ve found in my daily foraging runs. Today it’s a chunk of cheese.

The zoo sits atop a small hill. Its massive parking lot is now just rubble and rusting cars, but it’s still hard to move across and stay hidden. I stay low and hope no squid drones are in the area. Marlon’s place used to be a tiger cage—a concrete cave dug into the hillside with bars on the opening. He gained access when someone liberated the tigers during the chaos after the squids landed.

As always, I give Marlon plenty of warning that I’m inbound. He has a machete to defend himself and I have no desire to face the end of the world missing an arm.

“Marlon. It’s me, Jessie. I’ve got cheese.” Cheese is one of the few foods that has survived without refrigeration. A little mold aside, it’ll probably be edible long after no one is left to eat it.

I tap on the metal cage, hard. I hear him inside, a low moaning sound. “Marlon, I’m coming in.”

He’s curled up in the cave’s farthest corner, panting. I see the machete hanging a few feet away, so I walk in for a closer look. He’s burning with fever. We’ve all got compromised lungs now that the air is going toxic, so almost any infection is a death sentence. I cover my mouth and nose and try to rouse him.

“Marlon. Marlon!”

He opens blood-red eyes and struggles to speak. “Jessie? Is it Monday?” Even this far gone, he knows when I visit.

“Yes, it’s Monday. I’m here, like I promised. How long have you been like this?”

“Not sure. I’m… so cold.”

I retrieve a blanket from my pack and wrap him in it. His whole body is shaking. “I’ve got cheese, Marlon. The good stuff. There’s a cellar downtown with lots of it. Here, look.”

He glances at my offering, then at me. “Jessie. Water them. Do it for me. Hurry.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The greenhouse. Behind the rhinos. They need water.”

A greenhouse? I explored the zoo many times, sometimes with Marlon and sometimes watching for him and his machete. But I never found a greenhouse. I leave him shivering and make my way downhill to the rhino pens.

A small opening in a rock wall at the back of the pens leads to a door. I open it and my breath catches at the sight. Flowers. A blanket of color. Purples and reds, yellow, orange, and green. Every inch of the greenhouse is covered in a flower quilt.

All these years, that crazy old man hid this from me? The scent alone brings tears—a rich perfume and even richer memories. I open the valve of Marlon’s makeshift irrigation system.

I run back uphill to Marlon. He is no longer shivering. Or breathing. I gather him up—he weighs next to nothing—and carry him to the rhino pen. There’s a rusted shovel in the pen. I haven’t buried anyone in years, and memories of burying my family rise to haunt me. I uncover some rhino bones digging the grave and stack them for a makeshift grave marker.

Marlon will be in good company here. Over the fresh mound of earth, I say the words, “Here lies Marlon, a good and faithful servant, one of the last men. May he finally find peace.”

Shovel in hand, I enter the greenhouse. Marlon’s flowers need a gardener, and I know just the person.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jeff Nichols is a semi-retired electrical engineer who lives part time in southern California (for weather) and part time in Kentucky (for grandkids and forests). He has always loved writing and dreamed of being a full-time writer, all while grinding away as a corporate drone. These days he spends time reading, writing, traveling, and rooting for Kentucky basketball. He and his wife live on a rural California property where they grow Italian olive trees and produce tasty olive oil each year.