Damnation

Sean Camillo’s uncle was dying. Sean was overjoyed.

He strode up the long gravel path to his uncle’s mansion with a practiced sombre look on his face. Of the once fecund garden, there remained only brown grass and withered pear trees. The swimming pool he’d played in as a boy now housed a sheet of algae as long as a Cadillac. Entropy, disgusting.

Sean picked a pear. It turned to goo at his touch and he threw it down. His uncle’s latest carer, an immigrant from some country Sean didn’t care for, emerged from the house. The old woman babbled with joy at his arrival. Probably because now someone else would suffer his uncle’s acerbic temper.

“Get someone to deal with the pool at least,” he said. “This isn’t some fucking slum.”

The woman blinked at him. Probably didn’t understand English. Sighing, Sean pushed past her, marching into the house. It stank of decay. He flicked on the lights as he went.

“Everything has to be so morbid in here?”

The carer scuttled after him, mewling about his uncle’s condition. He listened to every third word or so. He’d figured a long time ago, most people filled their speech with useless clutter. He didn’t have time to waste. Not with what was going on in the city.

“Bring up some whiskey,” he snapped, as he ascended the staircase.

As the carer scurried away, he examined the photos lining the wall. Most showed his uncle in his prime, alongside former presidents and other notorious tycoons. Sean leant closer to one at the top of the staircase: his uncle handing an oversized cheque to some charity.

“Fucking poser,” he muttered

Like the cheque would be enough to save him. The things he’d done to get his millions wouldn’t be wiped away by handing crumbs back to the starving.

Not that Sean condemned his cruelty. The man had taught him everything he’d needed to succeed. In many ways, Sean had gone further than his uncle. But the hypocrisy of the old man in his dying days disgusted him.

He climbed the stairs, ripping the final photo from the wall and hurling it through an open door. Rattling breath drew him to his uncle’s hospice. He knocked once and pushed through.

Before he even looked at his uncle, Sean sampled a chocolate from the box his mother had sent. After all, it was unlikely he’d get as much as a Christmas gift from her.

“Go ahead,” muttered the man in the bed.

“You told me to take whatever’s offered before it’s offered,” said Sean. He glanced at the living corpse impersonating his uncle. “Good advice. I bought another ten percent of your company last week, by the way.”

“Good for you. You’ll get nothing from me when I die.”

“Which is why I bought it.” Sean took another chocolate, caramel according to the box. “I trust you haven’t been too upset by developments in the East.”

“Think I’ve got time for the news now. Fucking idiot.”

“You should’ve had kids,” said Sean. “At least then you’d have something to do with everything. Though, looking at the state of this place, maybe you want to let nature reclaim it.”

His uncle sighed, bright eyes blazing from within a sallow and grotesque parody of his face. Sean tried not to look at it too long. He’d avoided visiting for months, waiting until his uncle was too weak to force him away. Maybe that’d been a miscalculation.

“Lucky really,” he said. “I reckon, the way things are going, there’ll be some wanting to bring the guillotine back for certain friends of yours.”

“Again with the news!”

Sean took a seat, dragging it slowly to his uncle’s side. He took the man’s limp hand, squeezing it until he saw a flicker of pain cross his face.

There was a rapping on the door. The carer bustled in, carrying a tray of mush for her patient. Sean took it and set it out of his reach. He’d requested whiskey after all. The carer retreated in a hurry.

“I don’t know why you’re here to gloat,” said his uncle. “See this… It’s hereditary. Maybe this is your inheritance, eh?”

“Don’t joke about that,” snapped Sean.

His uncle sighed. “Why did you come here?”

Sean tried to conceal his brief fear. He loosened his grip on his uncle’s hand, patting it tenderly though it felt like dry paper rather than skin.

“I need the key for the bunker.”

His uncle cracked a merciless smile. Sean withdrew as if slapped.

“It’s that bad out there, eh?”

“Worse.”

“There’s worse things than losing some money.”

Sean snarled, standing over his dying uncle. He clamped his hands around the bed frame, but the old man matched his glare. What could he do to intimidate the man really?

“Maybe it’s nothing,” he said, sinking back into his chair. “We’re all right, at the moment, but… other countries are going down fast. Certain people we know have already gone to their islands.”

His uncle grinned, a ghastly thing to happen to his gaunt face. Sean restrained himself from walking away. He could still find a flight to New Zealand. He’d heard there were millionaires heading out there to wait out the current… problems.

Unfortunately, Sean’s natural tendency to seek an easy answer was starting to crumble. The more he was forced to look at his uncle, the more he was forced to admit he might not be able to escape.

“All you ever wanted was to be rich,” said his uncle. “I remember you saying that.”

There’d been protests erupting in the streets of the city. Sean had decided he could wait no longer to visit his uncle. After all, there’d been more violence over the last few weeks, and the city wasn’t far. And they knew his uncle was rich.

In a way, his uncle was to blame. But why should Sean be caught up in it? He’d made his own money. And he was still young.

He went to the window, and his chest tightened. People had appeared on the road, coming towards the mansion. The single guard who remained seemed to have taken an early retirement. The gates stood open.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“You look worried,” said his uncle.

Sean shook his head and plunged back into his chair. He sat there, ignoring his uncle’s cold scrutiny for a while, then swiped the tray of mush from the dresser. Even as it trickled down the wall, his uncle didn’t say a word.

“They’ll be here soon,” said Sean.

“The bunker wouldn’t have saved you,” said his uncle. “However bad it gets, you’ll never survive in the bunker. All alone, how long could you last? No one else to torment.”

Sean snarled at the old man. He hated the twinkling triumph in his eyes, as if the mob wouldn’t tear him apart too.

“Would you like some morphine?”

“Fuck you,” snapped Sean, and he stormed out.

Let the old man die alone. He pushed past the carer on his way to the stairs, barely hearing her drop the next tray as she fell. In his head, he could still escape the wrath of the people he’d been so eager to condemn.

What made them think they deserved anything now? They should’ve snatched as much money as they could from the world while they’d had the chance. But then, there’d have been less for him.

As he stepped out into the garden again, he saw the first invaders milling outside the gates. A few slipped onto the grounds. Above him, the sun baked the sky. He caught a whiff of smoke on the breeze.

Somewhere, there was a bunker in his uncle’s name, stocked with enough food to see a family through at least forty years of isolation. There were stacks of books and a built-in generator. Hidden from the world, it would’ve been the perfect place to shelter from the end.

But, now, Sean Camillo was forced to confront the truth. He wasn’t immune to the end. All his planning wouldn’t save him. All his money meant nothing.

The group at the end of the garden swelled. More people from the looted city massed, hungry, thirsty, vengeful. Sean didn’t bother calling his security – he’d left them in the city with assurances he’d soon be back.

After a few minutes of uncertainty, the mob advanced. Some now brandished makeshift weapons. More clotted the road leading to his uncle’s house. There was no escape for Sean.

Still, some part of him rebelled against the realisation of mortality. Sean turned and fled into the house. Shouts from behind told him they were pursuing.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast!” he hissed.

As he ran, he heard the carer dashing down the stairs. Sean changed his course and hurried up, bursting into his uncle’s room. The old man was dead.

There was a chance then.

Fighting revulsion, Sean rolled the skeletal corpse over, patting at pockets. Frustrated, he moved to the dresser, ripping open every drawer. A thick key sat perched on a stack of crisp notes. Enough to get him to the bunker.

As he took the key, windows shattered downstairs. Sean turned the key around. A set of coordinates were engraved. He grinned at his fortune, saving a final sneer for his uncle’s corpse.

Tucking the key away, he fled the room. At the top of the stairs, he halted, as the glow of flames rose from the first floor. Outside, people were cheering.

He heard others stampeding through the kitchens. Then more windows smashed. He hurried down, catching hold of one of the looters. The heat of the flames made his skin prickle as the fire spread from the other room.

The man whirled to face him. Sean thrust a handful of notes from his uncle’s stash.

“Take the money!” he yelled. “Just let me-”

The man shoved him hard. Sean’s spine bent on an overturned table, and he flipped over, his skull slamming into the floor.

“What good’s your money?” shouted his assailant.

The door slammed. Sean scrambled up, but his legs gave out and he fell again. Flames trickled across the carpet towards him. Smoke stung inside his lungs.

Still, Sean refused to accept this. Grabbing at the brick of money, he staggered on. He fell against the door, beating his fists. He couldn’t hear the people outside, only the roar of flames behind him.

The heat soon weakened him. He gagged on a lungful of smoke, sliding down against the door. With the flames seconds from engulfing him, Sean still refused to accept what had happened. Even with his last delirious breaths, he cursed his uncle’s selfishness.