In Darkness

by Eoin Nordman

When the Fusion Core failed, Isla taught us to make candles from animal tallow. By then she was old, and we watched her hands gently shake as she dipped the plant fiber wicks one after another into the boiling fat. “We need light here,” she said. “I just hope that these will be enough.”

At the time, we didn’t know what she meant. All we knew was that we weren’t allowed outside after sunset. And that there had always been light in our Sleep Box, glowing from the panel grid embedded in the ceiling, even as we slept.
Isla explained that all of that was over now. Without power, at dusk, the inside would get dark too. We needed a new light source, the candles, to keep us lit once the sun set. Life would be harder now, she said. A constant struggle to make enough light to keep the night at bay.

“Why aren’t we ever allowed in darkness?” asked Sister.

Isla frowned.

“I’ve told you. There is something in the darkness, Girl. Something we can never let in.”

*

Isla died soon after, and we buried her in the dirt patch behind our Sleep Box, where the hull curved up out of the ground like a rib. She left us two envelopes. One instructed us to open it after she passed. The other said to read it when there was only one of us left. We tucked the other away in a drawer and opened the first.

Children,

You will last only as long as you create enough candles to burn. At night, never let them go out. If they do, whatever this life is will end for you like it has ended for me. I’d like it if you two would try to make it last a while. Long enough to find something that makes you want to stay.

*

We followed Isla’s instructions and made candles from the fat of the small, furred things we caught in the daylight. At night, we’d light a wick to stave off darkness. One of us would sleep while the other ensured the candle stayed lit. For months, we made do. Then the cold came, and the traps stayed empty. The animals were gone. Our tallow supplies dwindled—until that night, when we both sat up awake, watching our final candle burn out. Only blackness remained, and the smell of charred fat.

For a time, we sat in silence.

“Sister?” I finally whispered.

“Yes?”

I didn’t know what to say. We listened to the wind whip against our Sleep Box and waited.

*

The next day the sun lit our faces through the window. I watched as Sister awoke and slowly blinked twice.

The whites of her eyes were bloody.

“Did anything happen?” I asked.

“I—” She seized, then vomited blood into my lap.

*

Sister died that afternoon, blood seeping from her pores like sweat.

I dragged her to the dirt patch and dug a hole next to Isla, in front of the line of gray stones behind her.

When I finished covering Sister in dirt, I fell to my knees, out of breath.

I listened to the wind rattle the pines, and felt tears fall warm against my cheeks.

*

Before sunset, in our Sleep Box, I pulled Isla’s other envelope from our drawer and opened it.

Boy,

If you are reading this, then the Girl has died of the pathogen that hides in darkness. We made you so that you could survive in this place, far from the world we once inhabited. Unfortunately, not all of the synthetic DNA used to create your kind has been effective at combating the pathogen. Thus, the Girl is dead.

Now, you are the last one living here. I’m sorry that the two of you were unable to continue for longer. I hope you did manage to sustain a meaningful amount of time. And I wonder if you found in that period a reason to want to keep going. Please consider this for a while. Once you have considered, flip this letter over.

*

The letter trembled in my hands as I mulled over the time Sister and I spent following Isla’s death.

When we weren’t candlemaking, we told stories, real or made-up, just to hear each other’s voice. Some days we’d wade into the cold river near our Sleep Box, chasing silverfins beneath the jagged metal beams jutting from the bank, pretending we were somewhere else. At night, I’d watch her, breathing softly beneath the candle’s glow. I would feel happy and sad at once. Then, I would think about other things, like the coming day, or a new story to tell.

*

I flipped the letter over.

If my intuition is correct, you found time spent with the Girl to be your reason. If so, I hope you choose to finish what we came here to do. Even if it will be hard. Maybe because it will be.

So, here it is, Boy. Your only choices.

1) You can join us. There is medicine in the cabinet that will put you to sleep forever. Take it if you are done. If you didn’t find a reason.

2) Grow up. Become a man. Read the books we have left you. Explore. After years, when you are strong, follow the instructions below. Bring your reason back.

I read the instructions, folded the letter, and placed it back in the drawer.

*

You know what I chose.

I don’t regret it. Not even when the candle went out again. Not even after we lost the Girl and Boy created from me. Your Sister and your Brother.

Now, I am old and soon you will have to bury me, just as I buried Isla. Like me, you are immune and so will have to make a choice. The same choice I made, all those years ago.

So please, Girl, consider this life. The reason for it.

And if you find one, follow the instructions. 

Eoin Nordman lives in Berkeley, California, where he writes stories that explore surreal futures. His work has appeared in Radon Journal and Maudlin House. You can find him online at @eoin-nordman.bsky.social.