A Visitor from Heaven

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I am Fishbone, and I try to forget the past.
I am battered and broken, but at least I am still alive.
I carry a battered gun, with only a few bullets left.
I wear a stifling overcoat, only to protect myself from insect bites.
I move forward step by careful step, but I dare not go too slowly. If I move too quickly, I might overlook danger; if I go too slowly, danger will find me.
I am no scholar, but I’ve heard people say that over a hundred years ago, a catastrophe befell the world, turning it into what it is now. People like me were almost wiped out, the environment became unbearably harsh, and demons now infest every corner.
Orchid told me, this is the Age of Sorrow. The Age of Sorrow is unbearably long, but a human life is short. The Age of Sorrow lacks many things, but malice is not one of them.
I walk through the ruins of the city, watching lush plants climb everywhere. The walls have turned gray, filth-stained; cars are entwined in vines and thorns, reduced to refuse and junk. Plants relentlessly force their way through the soil, crushing walls and floors, tearing down roofs and bridges, reclaiming every inch of land they once lost—like slaves long oppressed, revelling in victory, a celebration that never ends.
Here, I haven’t seen a single person—just as in most of the places I’ve wandered these past years. If anyone can survive here, it’s best I avoid them. So I hide in alleys, at corners of walls, my gun and eyes as one, wary of blind spots. When I move, I do so swiftly, footsteps light as the rats beneath the earth.
At the borderline of light and shadow stand some people—two standing, holding double-barrel shotguns. They must be the bandits who rule this area. Two others are captives, kneeling and begging loudly. I can’t make out what they say, but it’s surely pleading for their lives. They block my way forward, and I am exhausted—I don’t want to detour again.
Shots ring out from the bandits’ guns; the captives collapse to the side. I never even saw what they looked like—whether they were male or female.
I thought the bandits would leave after killing the captives, but they had other plans. Perhaps, having tired themselves out with murder, they decided to loiter here a while. It was cooler here, under the shadow of the tall buildings.
I decided to clear the way.
I am skilled at moving unseen, my steps nearly silent, my approach ghostlike. There are only two of them. Take one out, then the other—there shouldn’t be any trouble. They wouldn’t even realize they’re dead.
They are already corpses; their fate is sealed.
That is how deadly an assassin I am.
I crept up to the first bandit. He was urinating against the wall, eyes locked on the ground, never looking back.
Yet he turned his head. We locked eyes for a second. I threw my knife; he coughed hoarsely from his ruined throat, and died.
What kind of idiot looks around while relieving himself? Was he hyperactive? Didn’t he worry about wetting his shoes?
The second bandit was squatting, straining with a constipated look. This time, there would be no mistake—he wouldn’t move in this position.
I wondered what he’d eaten; the stench was like chemical warfare, suffocating. I considered sparing him, lest I soil my knife.
Then I saw the captives they’d executed—a pregnant woman, and a boy, her son not yet grown. Their eyes were like dead fish, staring at me, or perhaps at the underworld.
I held my breath, but the stench still seeped in. Luckily, the work was finished quickly.
...
I continued my journey. As I looked around, I glimpsed two figures in the grass—a tall one and a small one. I crouched low. The figures ran swiftly, yet kept their footsteps quiet. An older man pulled along a little girl, both with weapons at their waists.
When they’d gone, new figures approached—more bandits, just like the ones before, in the same gear I’d seen a hundred kilometers away: leather jackets, leather pants, shoulder pads, motorcycle helmets, thick iron chains, brandishing flashy large-bore shotguns, running and shouting threats, as if angry that their prey wasn’t running fast enough.
I am not without morals, but the old man and the child were not unarmed. This was a fair duel, the law of natural selection. Other than cursing the villains in my heart, there was little I could do for them.
This time, there were too many foes, and I still have dreams unfulfilled.
...

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I think the skyscrapers still stand as grand as mountains.
Those people once built towers that blotted out the sun and cast the smaller buildings beneath them into endless shadow, never seeing daylight.
They built relentlessly, blocking the sun, casting shadows, erecting monstrous towers, tumors of concrete and steel, new, strange, astonishing, blasphemous, unnatural structures, linked together into a skyline so grand it defied belief.
Each tower was like its own kingdom, its spire a cruel sword, a blasphemous declaration, swollen ambition, greedy desire—piercing the clouds, pointing at the sky.
It was these skyscrapers that brought about the disaster; they must have angered some supernatural will. It has to be so.
Yet I’ve heard that people still live in the skyscrapers—hundreds, thousands, nearly ten thousand. There, no one lacks light, food, water, warmth, rooms, or entertainment. Each lives as a king from a storybook. They live as people did before the Age of Sorrow—a life like paradise. The skyscrapers are safe; demons avoid them. Entering to kill and devour? No—demons are of hell, skyscrapers are of heaven.
I must find a skyscraper. If I can get inside, I’ll be safe, far from hell—there, I’ll find happiness.
Orchid told me the skyscrapers allow people entrance, if only you know how, if only you’re useful to the kings within.
I will be useful. If they think I’m not, I’ll kill someone who is. I’ll always be more useful than the dead, won’t I?
Death isn’t terrifying; to die is a blessing.
...
There’s an abandoned building—I don’t think anyone lives there, at least not bandits. Many scrapped vehicles are parked there, overrun by plants; the environment is decent, so I decide to spend the night.
I’ve heard of people sleeping outside, having their throats ripped by beasts; I’ve heard of others having their windpipes slit by bandits. I can’t die yet; I must live to enter the skyscraper. From my pocket, I take a small bottle of hardening potion and apply it to my throat. I’m wearing a military helmet and goggles, wrapped tight in my thick coat—my throat is my only weakness.
Halfway through the night, a hand clamps over my mouth, a knife slices across my neck. Thinking I’m dead, she shoves me forward and I topple over.
It’s a woman, helmeted, armored in leather, her face hidden—she thinks I’m a bandit.
The potion saves me, toughening my skin for a short while. She assumed a throat was soft, and, skilled in the kill, didn’t use much force. She didn’t notice her blade came away clean.
I tried to play dead, but she walked five meters, glanced at her knife, and I realized she’d figured it out. I rushed at her, drawing my dagger; she spun and kicked me, sending me sprawling backwards. She had already turned to face me, eyes wide with surprise.
We kept silent—in spite of her suspicious garb, I was certain she wasn’t a bandit; like me, she wanted to avoid being heard by them.
She spun her knife into a fighting stance, then suddenly charged. Her blade was fast—she was used to killing. I dodged behind a car; her stab missed. With a leap, she vaulted over the car roof—I hadn’t expected such strength or agility—she spun acrobatically, aiming her knife at my forehead.
I thought: “That won’t work—I have a helmet.”
Her knife spun lightly, cutting the helmet’s strap. With a kick, she sent the helmet rolling away. In a fluid movement, she lunged again, blade striking my throat, this time with force.
She left a scar on my neck, but not deep. She stared at me in disbelief; I punched her in the nose. She staggered, drew her gun—at the same instant, I aimed mine at her.
I hissed, “I’m not a bandit, just spending the night here.”
She considered, then holstered her gun, but in a flash she was gone. When I saw her again, she’d taken my rifle. I thought she meant to kill me, but she just tossed the gun to the ground and said, “Don’t point that at me if you want to live.”
I snatched up the gun, heart seized by fear. I felt the “fish” coming for me, so I dropped to my knees in prayer, forcing myself to calm down. After a few seconds, I realized it was over.
She said, “You dress like a bandit—your taste is atrocious.”
I replied, “Yours is no better.”
Perhaps it’s not the bandits’ fault, but the times. Every era has its own fashion, its own aesthetic. In the Age of Sorrow, the trend is leather pants, leather armor, shoulder pads, and helmets.
She asked, “What’s wrong with your skin?”

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I said, “I’ve mutated a bit.” It was a lie; it was the potion’s effect. I’d heard that some who used my potion developed cysts on their throats and died.
Because I made the potion, their friends blamed me, but I would never shoulder that blame.
This is my elixir alone.
She said, “Lamia, Ranger of the Black Coffin.”
I replied, “Fishbone, scavenger of Waterless Village. Where is the Black Coffin?”
She said, “It’s a skyscraper, a place where many people live. You probably haven’t heard of it.”
I said, “How could I not have heard of it?” I could not suppress my trembling—so the legend was true. The woman before me came from paradise! The world was destroyed by these isolated paradises, and yet, they are the world’s last Ark.
She asked, “Why are you called Fishbone?”
I said, “Because ‘Fish Spine’ sounds awful.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve heard all sorts of names—yours isn’t the strangest.”
I said, “Friend, although you tried to assassinate me, I don’t blame you. Is there anything you need my help with?” I’d heard a saying, and it made sense: “If you don’t want to kill each other, you can be friends.” She was my key to paradise; one ‘friend’ was not too much to ask.
She pressed her lips tight, eyes studying me through her goggles. I grew anxious and said, “I’ve travelled a long way—look at the mud on my shoes, the wear on my pack—any veteran can see I’m no criminal!”
Well... at least not recently.
She asked, “Did you see an old man and a child pass by here?”
I felt my luck turning and answered, “Funny you ask—I saw them this morning.”
Her expression changed, growing more urgent than mine. “Where are they? What did you do to them?”
I waved my hands, denying any guilt. “As I said, I’m not a bad person. I just passed by them—I saw bandits chasing them.”
Lamia shouted, “What? What? Did you stop them?”
I said, “Not then, but there’s still time. You may not know me, but I have a heart of gold.”
She said, “Where are they? Take me! Quickly!”
I stared into her eyes. “On one condition.” To hell with a heart of gold—I wanted my dream.
She replied coldly, “I have a suggestion: if you don’t lead me there, I’ll kill you.”
I said, “No need for that—my condition is simple. I help you find them, and you take me into the Black Coffin. Whether as a ranger or a scavenger, I’ll do it; I’m willing.”
Lamia said decisively, “Those two must live. If they die, forget about the skyscraper—I’ll send you straight to heaven.”
She spoke truly—heaven and the skyscraper are, at heart, one and the same.