Manne-can’t
SHE found him buried beneath the rubble.
Sifting through debris for salvageables, Lorna saw a hand sticking up. A signal. A gesture. A hailing from another being.
It had been months since she had made contact with another human. The last one she traveled with had vanished, just like all the others. She left him propped up against a brick wall on what had once been Fifth Avenue. Lorna only had her back turned for a few moments as she listened for any tell-tale signs of life. When she returned her gaze, her companion was gone.
Lorna heart sank.
I’m alone. I’ve got nobody. Nothing. It’s just me.
So, she wandered. Survival was all she knew. She didn’t know why she hadn’t been taken. Was she the last person left alive on earth? Lorna wasn’t sure. Sometimes, she felt certain she was; other times, something deep within Lorna sang to her of camaraderie, of life and living. Surely, she couldn’t be the last one.
That’s why the hand sparked something. Was it… hope?
Lorna knew better than to get her hopes up. But she dug through the remnants — gem-studded jewelry (worthless now), leather jackets (not fur lined equaled not practical for the cooler months ahead), stiletto heals (you can’t run from the unknown in those) — and found him.
Carefully, she freed him from the rubble, trying not to damage his already-broken body even more. Thankfully, he was still intact. With her skills and the right tools, she could have him on the mend within a week.
But she could not give him a voice.
It didn’t matter.
“Manne-can’t speak,” she hummed to herself, “but I don’t care.”
Lorna trudged on, mannequin in tow, through the ruined streets of New York City, happy that she was no longer alone.
