Page 11 of Echos and Empires
She stared up at the ceiling, tracing the familiar cracks in the plaster as she turned the conversation with Bash over in her mind. She’d surprised herself, blurting out that desire. It wasn’t something she’d ever articulated before, not even to herself, but it made sense.
In the years since the bombs, survival had been her only goal. Find food, keep the animals safe, protect her shelter, stay alive. Dreams were a luxury she hadn’t been able afford. And yet,somewhere deep inside, buried under the layers of grime and grief and grit, that old spark had remained. The spark that had led a younger Emma to stand up in front of her kindergarten class, proudly declaring that when she grew up, she wanted to be “a librarian so she could help people learn.” It made sense that teaching was the next step in that journey, even if she’d never thought about it.
A small, wistful smile tugged at Emma’s lips at the memory. God, she’d been so naïve then. So full of innocent enthusiasm. Every day from the day she was born for twenty-one years she’d lived in her little bubble. She’d devoured books, excelled in school, thrilled at the idea of one day inspiring that same love of learning in others. Her unfinished degree was epically useless now, but she could help others learn still and didn’t technically need a degree for that. Not anymore.
But then the world had ended, and with it, all those childish dreams. What good was a teacher in a world where each day was a fight for survival? Where the only lessons that mattered were how to scavenge, how to defend yourself, how to endure?
And yet, here in such a stable community, where the day to day resembled life and not just living, the old spark reignited without her realization. They weren’t just surviving anymore. They were living. And that meant more than just food and shelter. It meant art, culture, and knowledge. It meant giving the next generation a foundation to build upon.
Could she be a part of that?
Emma chewed on her lower lip, uncertainty warring with a tentative sense of excitement in her chest. It would be a challenge, no doubt. She had no formal training, no experience beyond her own school days. And there were so many other pressing needs—food production, construction, defense. Was it selfish to want to pursue this passion, when there was still so much practical work to be done?
Emma thought about the children on the island, the ones who had never known a world before the bombs. The ones who grew up in this harsh reality, but who still found ways to laugh, to play, to dream. Didn’t they deserve a chance to learn, to grow, to become more than just survivors?
The more she considered it, the more right it felt. She might not have a degree, but she had a quick mind, a patient demeanor, and a deep well of compassion. She could learn, adapt, figure it out as she went. Isn’t that what they were all doing, every single day in this brave new world?
A sudden wave of nausea interrupted Emma’s inner turmoil, forcing her to close her eyes and breathe deeply through her nose. The smell of Ranger’s wet fur tried to choke her even though he hadn’t been in the room in hours.
She cursed inwardly. This illness, whatever it was, was terribly annoying.
She’d survived the apocalypse, fought off assholes, built a life from the ashes of the old world, and found love when it should have been impossible. A little stomach bug wasn’t going to stop her.
As the nausea began to subside, Emma let her mind drift back to her newfound dream. Teaching. Guiding young minds, helping to shape the future. It was a daunting prospect, but also an exciting one. A challenge she could rise to. A way to make a real difference.
Bash’s face when she told him she was serious about this made her question if the others would accept it, or be as hard to read as he was. The surprise, maybe a little skepticism. But also, she hoped, pride. Pride in her, in her determination to build something good in this broken world.
Now she just had to get through this damned illness so she could get started talking to the council about how she could start.
Sighing, Emma rolled over and pulled the covers up around her shoulders. This puking thing had to resolve itself, first.
One step at a time. That’s how they’d made it this far. And that’s how they’d keep going, no matter what challenges lay ahead.
Just as Emma thought she could go help in the kitchen, the nausea roared back to life, jolting her upright. With one hand pressed to her stomach, she flung the other over her mouth as she fought back the urge to retch.
Do not run to the bathroom. Running implies you are going to puke. This isn’t that. Not again.
For a few tense moments, she sat perfectly still, breathing deeply through her nose, willing her rebellious gut to settle. Gradually, the wave of sickness began to subside, fading back to a manageable queasiness.
Emma slumped back against the pillows, exhausted by the brief battle with her own body. This was getting ridiculous. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this consistently ill.
A part of her wanted to brush it off, to blame it on a bad bit of fish or a 24-hour stomach bug. Things like that happened, even in the best of times. A touch of food poisoning wasn’t exactly uncommon, but she’d never had that to know how it would differ from the flu, which this felt a surprising amount like.
But another part of her, a part she was trying very hard to ignore, whispered that this felt different. This felt...wrong, somehow. The persistent fatigue, the way the nausea seemed to come and go with no rhyme or reason. It wasn’t like any stomach bug she’d had before. She was going on day three, even though she’d pulled off hiding the vomiting the last two days with the guys all busy at work.
In the old world, she would have just called a doctor, gotten some tests done, maybe a prescription. But that world was gone. Now, every cough, every fever, every bout of unexplained illnesscarried with it a very real threat. They had limited medical supplies, and even more limited medical knowledge because there were no specialists here.
If this is something serious...
Emma cut off her line of thought before it could fully form, shaking her head as if to physically dislodge the creeping fear. No. She couldn’t think like that. Couldn’t let herself spiral into worst-case scenarios. That way lay madness, and they’d all had more than enough of that to last a lifetime.
But still, the worry gnawed at her. Should she tell the others? Bash already knew something was wrong, she could see it in the way he watched her, the crease of concern between his brows. And he was right to be worried. In this world, hiding an illness could be dangerous, not just for her but for everyone. If she was contagious, if this was the start of something that could spread, didn’t she owe it to everyone?
Emma pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to think through the pounding in her head. She didn’t want to cause undue alarm. Didn’t want to add to the constant stress they all lived under. If this turned out to be nothing, just a bad few days, she’d never forgive herself for putting them all through that unnecessary worry.
But if it wasn’t nothing? If it was something worse, something that could threaten not just her health, but the fragile stability of their little community? Could she live with that guilt, that knowledge that she’d put them all at risk for the sake of her own pride?
Rest, she decided. Give her body a chance to fight this off, whatever it was. And if, come morning, she wasn’t feeling better, well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, all she could do was trust in her own strength, in the resilience that had gotten her this far.
