Red Power Ranger
...
The nuclear flash was from God taking a blinding screenshot of the global suicide. Wanting to commemorate one of his creation’s milestones, and frame it on his wall, titling it the ‘Language of Violence’ or maybe the ‘Colors of Guilt, Shame, Despair’, but both of them would suffice. The former highlighted this genocidal impulse He had wired in all homonids, this universal language that wasn’t confounded the same way speech was at the Tower of Babel, and left it untampered because of His curiosity on how far man would take it, how many syllables they would utter in this language before the very last punctuation. The latter title was the answer to His curiosity, an image that depicted the ultimate repercussion of man’s biological coding. Three shades of grays and blacks painting all men in the same colors, and unifying them, even for a millisecond, under one banner before being washed away by atomic fire.
What was left in the rubble and the undying blaze was a world encased in an irradiated snowglobe, where ash fell instead of snow, and soot lined the glass instead of bright crystal flakes. On patinas of restaurant tables, on the walls of kindergarten classrooms, on the frostbitten steel chairs found in dreams of hospitals, a thin film of guilt and shame would be filtered all over them, reminding the walking ghosts of what had been, and what they had murdered.
..........
“Drop that.” Judeau tugged at his daughter’s arm for her to follow “C’mon now, we’re running out of light, have to get back to camp.”
“I can make space.” Ida said as she dropped to her knees, scrounging about her pack, the tattered red power ranger by her side. “I can fit it.”
There was bitterness when he saw her taking out cans of food, this unsatiable longing for times he took for granted. For times when Ida’s future boyfriends were the only worries he had for his kid; when his boss trying to chew him out was the only thing biting his ass; when Audrey’s nagging was the only sound that would send his heart rate skyrocketing. Not rabid Toronto dogs or their dwindling supply of gasmask filters, not the radiation or frostbite or starvation, not the howls of the Hanged Men.
A lug of stone sank in his gut as his paternal instinct kicked in; this primal wiring to protect and care shoved a bone down his throat after realizing it couldn’t even promise fulfilling basic duties and obligations. She would’ve been better off dead, he clenched his jaws, not here in this winter hell without any chance of a childhood, where she’d likely end up being taken and-
His breath started to fog up the outsides of the gas mask, masking the salty drop that traced down his cheeks, and rolled off into the scraggly jungle beard on his chin. It was a crappy dad joke - real easy to hide sorrow behind the lens, but you’re gonna have to dance with death to wipe the tears away. He blinked the briny tears and what remained was a deep muffled voice. “Drop. It.”
Ida looked up at her father, still clutching the red power ranger in her hand, Audrey’s turquoise eyes appearing behind those circular lenses. “No.”
“Food-”
“Water. Gasmask filters. Meds. Bullets. Tape. I know dad.” Ida cut him off. “I can make space... I have space.” She pleaded.
Slivers of light managed to slip their way in between the small cracks of rubble from the supermarket’s ceiling, webs of twisted metal barely holding everything together. They basked her in angelic light, giving life to the ashy motes that fluttered all around her, the exposed and frayed ends of her tied up scarlet hair glinting like piano wire. The sight reminded Judeau of the Holy Mary’s statue, covered in ash, surrounded by the corpse of the chapel, snowy and charred remains of pews and confession booths scattered about, some sublime mystery still lingering in the air that surrounded the surviving Old-World symbol.
It was poetic, he thought, picturesque, a miracle. Judeau was never really a man of religion, he’d only go to church for Audrey and her parents, and even when the world did freeze over and he lost everything that he had ever known, he never asked questions from God nor did he ever resent the situation. At times, he did, of course, but he’d shake those feelings and questions away the moment he’d see his daughter, eyes shaped like Audrey’s, carrying his greenish hue; Judeau would then be reminded of his obligation as her father, as her rock.
But, in truth, Ida was more of a rock to Judeau than he was to her. When she’d tell him all about her nightmare as she huddled in his arms by the campfire, the ticks of their geiger counters replacing cricket chirps, Judeau would be reminded of his humanity. When she convinced him that snowmen would make better targets than tincans, mainly because she didn’t want to waste scraps of metal, Judeau would be reminded of his humanity. When she’d poke around corpses or dead dogs with the butt of her rifle, head tilting with innocence and curiosity, Judeau would be reminded of his humanity.
So as the image of the ashen statue dissipated the way a mirage would, and what remained was Ida, eyes shaped like Audrey’s, carrying his greenish hue, clutching the red power rangers in her hand; Judeau would, again, be reminded of his humanity.
“I’ll leave it behind if we need-”
He shook his head, with a smile hiding behind the lens.