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Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
I Thessalonians 5:18
There isn’t much daylight when Ranboo gets back. The days are getting shorter, and the warmth of summer is quickly fading. It’s not too bad yet, but Ranboo will need to find a coat soon. Maybe he’ll go to the mall in the morning. He’s not too great with directions, but he thinks he can remember where it is? It’s a bit of a walk from where he lives, but Ranboo doesn’t mind. It’s good exercise, and it gives him something to do.
He should really know his way around better than he does, but there’s no one here to tease him for it, and it’s not like he can’t just set up in any old house until he finds his way back. (He definitely does not have a series of random buildings stocked with both overnight supplies and painstakingly drawn maps because of the number of times this has happened.)
Ranboo’s heard of people who just store maps in their heads and use them to get around. It sounds cool, but he can’t do that. He just forgets what the paths look like, just like he forgets everything else. Now that he thinks about it, that sounds . . . horribly debilitating? Ranboo gets along just fine. He just does things a little differently.
It’s definitely been easier to find his way home since he set up the wind chime in the garden. Breaks up the silence, too, and drowns out the groaning, which admittedly is rarer than it used to be, but still is kind of a downer, an awkward sort of reminder that this is, in fact, the apocalypse. The clattering of the wind chime, by contrast, serves as a welcome distraction.
Ranboo lets himself in at the gate and props his axe against the fence. He’s got a nice little base going, a reasonably sized house that he mostly knows how to take care of, complete with a sizable yard with space for both a garden and a territorial cat.
“Hello to you, too,” he says to Enderchest, who continues to yowl at him. One day, he’ll convince her to come into the house and curl up in his lap, and the two of them will live the cozy roommates’ life, but for now, he’s content to let her pace furiously around the yard and tell him off for entering her territory.
“Have a good day?” he asks her, striding towards the house.
Enderchest bats at his legs in a vicious fashion, but she hasn’t actually used her claws on him in days. It’s really just for show at this point.
Ranboo decides to let her keep her pride. “Mhm, mhm.” He sets about fumbling for his house key. Not that it’s really necessary; there’s no one around to break in, and the zombies can’t get past the fence, but the routine is nice.
“I’ve been clearing out those zombies down the road,” he babbles, putting his key in backwards like an idiot. “They shouldn’t stress you out anymore.” Enderchest always knows when the creatures are nearby, will always wake him up with her yowling. It’s a nice warning, but it’s not really necessary. They’re perfectly safe in here behind the fence, but Enderchest hasn’t quite figured that out yet.
The handle finally turns, and Ranboo swings the door wide.
“Want in?” he offers.
Enderchest hisses and skootches back, dangerously close to the edge of the garden. Ranboo would be more concerned about that if he hadn’t finished harvesting its fruits yesterday.
Instead, he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He’ll go back out and feed her later, but it’s been a long day, and he’s earned his own dinner. He grabs a can and a spoon from the kitchen before fumbling with the window latch on the second floor, tosses his supplies where they land precariously on uneven terrain, and hoists himself up onto the roof.
The sun is setting, and the can has one of those pop tops, which is good because Ranboo totally forgot to check while he was downstairs, and it would be lame to have to go back for a can opener.
He props one foot up against the chimney and takes a bite of mushroom stew from the can. It’s . . . not the greatest flavor if he’s honest, but it’s what he’s got. It would probably taste better warm, but that sounds like a lot of work, and Ranboo’s tired. Maybe next time. (He won’t do it next time.)
Anyway, it’s not going to ruin his day, not when there’s this lovely cool breeze ruffling his hair and the sinking sun is setting the clouds on fire with its vibrant colors. Maybe it’s because he keeps forgetting what they look like after he’s seen them, but Ranboo never tires of the wonders of sunsets, and now that fall is here with its gorgeous fire reds and burnt oranges and flaming golds, the whole of nature looks like a priceless artifact or a dwindling flame.
Ranboo smiles wryly at another mediocre bite of soup. If his count is right, Thanksgiving is coming soon. It has always fascinated him, a holiday about giving thanks in the midst of the season where everything is dying. Then again, aren’t the trees most beautiful as their leaves begin to rot?
A low groan sounds below him, and Ranboo idly watches a zombie stumble down the street, barely able to keep itself upright on its swiftly rotting legs. Whoops, looks like he’s missed one. On cue, Enderchest loudly lets him know, and he laughs, both at the cat and at this pitiful mindless thing that doesn’t know what it is or where it’s headed, lost to its own blind desires that will one day lead to its destruction, probably at the end of Ranboo’s axe.
They used to be a lot scarier in the beginning, before time and the elements took their toll. Ranboo has picked off most of the zombies in this area, and it’s not like they can replenish their numbers much, not anymore. Now they’re just kind of pitiful creatures that Ranboo can easily outwalk. He still takes his axe everywhere and stays alert, but he’s only really in danger if something catches him by surprise, which doesn’t happen much anymore.
It’s not a bad life.
Not that Ranboo’s happy about the apocalypse or anything! Or the death of civilization, or the way he no longer has any idea what his family and friends used to look like . . .
Ranboo hadn’t enjoyed the end of the world. It was, quite frankly, the worst experience of his life. He’d watched people die. He’d seen friends turn on each other. He’d starved, run for his life, fought like a cornered animal against mobs of undead, even lost a finger, which still disoriented him sometimes.
But all that is past now. The zombies are slower and stupider as they rot away, many having already keeled over, finally fully dead. Others have been picked off by survivors or simply the weather, so the mobs of the undead—the only thing that had really made them threatening—are a thing of the past. Ranboo could outwalk them easily, so he mostly just has to stay aware of his surroundings so he doesn’t get jumped.
Bad things happened, but in all honesty, he can’t remember them so well anymore. He knows that they happened, but in a distant sort of way, like he knows that the sun is the center of the solar system. It has long-range effects on him, he’s sure, but only from a far off place he feels he’s never truly known. Sure, they haunt his dreams occasionally, but that’s life. Nothing to get too worked up about.
It’s quiet out here, none of the pressures of society’s unrealistic expectations, no insane rushing about because there’s never enough time, none of the constant noise that seemed to arise from everywhere and nowhere at all, TV and podcasts and social media, all spouting so much meaningless sound that he could never escape while simultaneously saying nothing at all. He had found it odd at first, the realization that even with all the friends, all the fun and games, he had never actually been happy. Not really.
Now, it’s just Ranboo and the work of his hands: the house he’s found and zombie-proofed, the supplies he’s gathered, the garden he’s just finished harvesting with his first yield—fresh vegetables to break up the monotony of canned food—because fall isn’t just the season of dying things. It’s also the time to watch the fruits of his labor ripen, to harvest them and measure his own growths and successes and realize that he doesn’t need anyone else’s approval or validation.
Because life isn’t about proving his worth, not really. It’s not about trying to convince people he’s perfect.Ranboo no longer worries about the fact that he doesn’t know how to sew and what that says about his competence and whether he’s dragging everyone else down and how anyone could ever love him in all his imperfections. He doesn’t waste away under the weight of that endless, unquenchable desire to pursue, to demand, to have. He just gets his axe and walks down to the abandoned library and finds a book that will teach him to sew, and he learns. It’s a lot of work, but every now and then, he gets to measure the fruits of his labor, and Ranboo finds that nothing is more satisfying.
That’s why people give thanks during dark times, he thinks. Because hard times help them grow, even when they don’t realize it in the moment. Because in this twilight, he has discovered his own resilience. There’s a certain beauty in that knowledge, that this trial will pass and spring will come again, and Ranboo will be better off for it.
The last of the light fades from the horizon, and Ranboo finds that he’s beginning to get a chill. He’s also out of soup, so he sighs and begins working his way back down to the window. His house is safe and well stocked with food and blankets and other comforts he’s gathered or made. Ranboo will build a fire in the grate and sew up the tear in his jeans. Maybe he’ll even put on one of those old music discs he’d found into the jukebox he’s somehow rigged to run without electricity.
Feet once again planted on solid ground, Ranboo casts one last look out the window, into the darkness. There are other people out there, he knows, and one day, he’ll go out there and find them. But for now, he’s content to watch fall fade to winter in this world, safe in the knowledge that spring will come again eventually. For now, he’ll just enjoy the views and be thankful that this time around, he is more than prepared for the winter months.