At The End

"You can find me here," the disembodied voice came across the radio, even though the static the old commercial played, "so come on down to Joe's Diner," again, the static overtook the voice in the little hand-held radio. "Mmm, the triple chocolate cake, it's to die for."

Even as the commercial faded into silence again, the same question lingered in young Guillermo Torres's mind, what was chocolate cake. Why would someone die for it? Who was Joe? Inquisitive nature had led him to this moment, out from the safety of the Collective.

It'd taken him a full day's journey from the shelter deep underground to reach the opening of the cave, welcomed by a cloudy evening sky. His father had been a scavenger. Stories from his trips to the surface had been their nightly ritual, up until it stopped. Until the moment that there was only one story left to hear—the one where his father did not return home. On that first day, the stories had served as his guideposts.

"When you first see the sky, the vastness can be overwhelming," the voice of his father playing in his ears, "just stop, take it in and remember, breathe."

To stand beneath the sky and not be daunted by its size. An arduous task, to not feel small and insignificant. The scope of which a young boy had only read about in books or heard through secondhand accounts of those that experienced it for themselves. Here he was walking the path alone, on his terms, in search of something that might not even exist anymore. Hope outweighed the what-ifs that lay before him.

Civilization had fallen long before his birth: two countries, a plan to be more potent than their opposition. A race to a finish line that would never come, no winner to be declared, no trophy to set on the mantle of a proud father's den. Just scorched earth and deserted cities that, after a time, the overgrowth had started to reclaim for the planet. From technological supremacy to being regulated to small, overcrowded underground cities behind walls to protect from the conclusion of what was to happen.

Who struck first? Did it matter? That which remains, there was no room for old squabbles or prejudices in the new world. In the tiny world of the bunker, privacy was a luxury the formerly rich and poor would no longer know. Thus, a gap was closed. Enemies became friends and neighbors, religious zealots and rivals, became in-laws, and saw a new understanding. People need people. That is not to say there weren't fights, killings, and turmoil. Just that, after a time, common ground and peace took root and flourished.

Again that little hand-held radio roared to life. It repeated the same message as he walked. Static breaking it up into smaller segments than before. Guillermo had received this trinket after one of his father's scavenger runs. Only occasionally could they get anything to play over it. It took a few years to piece together the string of words, even to understand that it was an advertisement. Batteries were already in short supply. The frivolous use of supplies was against the rules, so every time his father went scavenging, he always made it a point to try and find some batteries, just for it.

"You'll see things you've never imagined," the words left his mouth, but the voice of his father played in his head. "The decaying bones of those that did not find shelter," passing through the automobile graveyard of the highway toward the city, "pray for them, that they found peace at the end of their road."

He was eleven when it happened. The day that others returned from scavenging, but his father was not among them. Seven had gone out, and only two had returned. It was hard to understand what they spoke of, resembling a mix of man and monster, how they told of the screams emitting from those creatures. For weeks, the two survivors woke an entire colony with their cries, remembering the terrifying sound of the monsters that took their friends and chased them.

The fallout had changed flora and fauna, beast and pet. It was often a conversation among scavengers to note new and exciting things that they came across out on their runs. Years of scavenger experiences gave the young a playbook to go by, but no one had ever mentioned a sighting or interaction with these shrieking creatures. Not until they took away his father and four others.

In seven years, we learned that they were nocturnal. They hunted by smell and sound, had an aversion to fire or bright lights. Feasted upon flesh and never crossed the bridge to the highway. They stopped just before what remained of the river and its flowing water. And above all else. If you come face to face with one of these creatures, run, don't look back, just run.

Guillermo remarked on the beauty and simplicity of this structure. Even though large sections of its road had broken and fallen into the murky dark water below, it stood. The haze of the morning hid the city beyond the river. Only the shadows of the colossal structures gave him pause at the halfway marker of the bridge, to see their size, again gave him pause and anxiety. Breathing quickened, and he found himself seated on a metal beam, head between legs, looking at his feet.

"What are you worried about?" A memory about the first time that his father explained the bridge in great detail, with the cities size in the distance. His father had a way of making the smallest of pebbles seem exquisite in size and design. "These are testaments of what we can achieve, my son," as he recalled how it felt to be hugged by his old man, a small tear escaped his eye, "appreciate the things that came before, be mindful of their age, respect them and always watch your footing."

It is often funny the things we recall while traveling. Anecdotes that were instilled in us by those that had them instilled in them by someone before. Old comic books talked about space and time travel, but as Guillmero calmed down, he knew that words, teachings, these were our only means to traverse time and leave something behind for others. At some point, he'd started walking across the bridge again, finding his path amongst the rubble that remained.

"In their shadows, it feels cold and as if the night is upon you," he repeated the words aloud, "keep your eyes on the sun," looking about the stone ruins—buildings that had collapsed and taken others with them, skeletal frames of the unfinished. "If you can't make it back to the bridge, hide. If you can't hide, run. If you can't run, pray." These teachings had come about after that day after those creatures made themselves known.

It was best to learn a trade. A skill passed down from those who knew how to build, grow, fix or heal. Then there were the scavengers, those fearless enough to step beyond the doors, to scout or find something in short supply. Talks of one day moving everything back to the surface had ceased since the appearance of the shrieking monsters. The mention of it sent the colony into a panic, but the scavengers continued to push as they had to travel further and further each time. To find even a fraction of the stuff they'd found in abundance before.

Markers left by other scavengers told of places already searched, areas to avoid, places where a person could hide for the night. He'd already broken the most sacred of rule, never go alone. Even after he crossed the rubble beyond the sign, with the red 'X' that told him he should turn back, that danger only awaited him beyond this point. Had he been more thorough in his climb, he may have caught sight of the billboard that lay in an alleyway just to his left. The one that read Joe's Diner, with a picture of the chocolate cake, read "It's to die for" with the large red 'X' on it.

"Guillermo, do you understand why I tell you these stories?" Another memory came to him as he slid down the other side of the rubble, back to the street. He'd traveled all morning, drank some water, ate some dried meat. "It's so you don't forget me," remembering that last conversation that he had with his father very vividly, "I live on through these moments, as long as you remember me," that smile on his father's face the day he left.

Street after street led him deeper into the city. Each hour that he searched and looked for the destination, the lower the sun fell from the sky. It was here, the radio had said so, for years it came across, it was supposed to be on a corner of two intersections just beyond a street he'd passed in and out four times now.

When it seemed hope had dwindled and was near extinguished, he caught sight of something just beyond an underpass of a section of road that remained as the sunlight bounced off the metal of the little diner on the corner. Long a moth to the flame, he walked in its direction, years of the same ad playing on the radio, years deciphering the broken message sent out occasionally over the airwaves, piece by piece.

"There you are," he said as he got closer, and in that moment of triumph and bliss, he blindly walked forward toward that light. Nothing could stop the pursuit of his hope. Nothing but the sight of the sun falling low, Guillermo turned to leave, feet stuttered beneath him. With the sound of his heart beating loudly in his ears, he ran, but not to safety. The desire was too close to turn around leave. Darkness to part of the city, where silence had been, the sounds of distant shrieks echoed the streets. Still, he ran, even as he burst through the unlocked door.

The outside noise faded into muffled sounds. Above the door, a bell had rung. The chime echoed more than even the boy could have known at the time. Catching his breath was difficult in those first few moments of finally being in the diner. Pulsating beat of his heart, the sweat cascading and dropping from his brow, eyes acclimating to the dim light, the last remnants of the sun. Booths, stools, the counter was all how an old-timer had described this place. A smile now, as he saw an old jukebox, broken and not working, Guillermo moved to the counter. An arrow drawn pointed to a large machine on the wall, with the words Food-O-Matic pressed into the metal.

He inspected it and found a way to open the shutters. There, sitting alone, at the end of the world, is a single piece of a triple-layered chocolate cake. The company that Joe bought their cakes from had placed it in a plastic wrapper to ensure its freshness until someone opened it. As he shakily reached forward, gripping the plate, it chattered against the metal, making an awful sound. Realizing where he was, his eyes darted around, then back to the plate in his hand. Underneath the wrapped cake was a white slip of paper. At that moment, Guillermo expected to wake from this dream.

As he moved the cake, a printed slip of paper said, "Saved you a slice." A nervous laugh escaped his lips even as his heart sunk and the lights faded. Shaking hands slowly unwrapped the cake as he took his first bite of chocolate.

"… it's to die for.” Broke the silence in the diner for only a moment, as the sounds of screams came from outside, Guillermo closed his eyes and savored the taste.