(a short story entered in a competition in 2019)
The base of the door scraped a deep gash in the linoleum floor as the craggy old man pushed against it with his shoulder. A broken latch hung limply off the door; a sticky substance dripping off one end onto the floor. The pungent odour of the acid he had used still wafted in the air.
Trailing behind him were a couple of disinterested teenagers, one of whom was carrying a backpack. The second, a tow haired girl wrinkled her nose at the acidic smell which assaulted her nose.
“What was this place, grandpa?” she inquired. Polite yet disgusted at the grubby untouched room. The antithesis of the clean, antiseptic environs of their bunker that had been her only home.
“It was a bookstore!” her grandfather grumbled. “Don’t you kids know anything” he added.
“This was my grandfathers shop” he explained.
In the late 2050’s, a rising tide of nationalism had drastically and suddenly culminated in an order to destroy all written knowledge - books, brochures, cards. One which was carried out with ruthless efficiency by the armies of the dictators. Going door to door, library to library, bookstore to bookstore - they had systematically removed all books from the face of the planet.
The loss of books, and any knowledge in computer programs had taken time to bite, but after a couple of generations, the world was back in the stone age.
Civil society had broken down and the doomsday preppers had got their wish - the family or tribal unit was now the largest gathering of humans on the planet - inner cities abandoned, with suburban blocks being turned into fortified self sufficient bunkers.
Since that time, knowledge had been passed on verbally, in song and in poetry. Just as it had in neolithic times.
Recently, walking adventures into the city were being used to show teenagers the locations spoken of in oral history. To reduce risk, it fell to grandparents to teach teenagers, whilst parents remained in safety in the bunkers with younger children.
Suddenly the grandfather stopped and cocked his head to one side.
“What is it grandpa?” asked the now intensely interested boy.
“sssh, quiet” the old man hissed.
“listen” he said, “can you hear that?”
“I can hear music” the young girl said. “a tinkling”
“exactly, and I know that sound”.
He walked to the back of the room, listened again, then pushed through into a small room at the back.
He stopped, listened.
Moved slowly towards a shelf.
Listened again.
Reach out his hand and pressed a small hidden button.
A mechanical buzz sounded.
And a small door slid open.
Revealing a clear plastic box; inside of which was a book; wrapped in oilskin.
The grandfather gasped and held his hands to his face.
He unwrapped the book, and ran his fingers over the letters on the cover.
The children followed him in to the room and gathered by his side.
A tear ran silently down his cheek.
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