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The Echoes of Silence

By Jo DriscollPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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The Echoes of Silence
Photo by Egidijus Bielskis on Unsplash

John hurried over to the small shape that glinted with promise in the sunlight. It was a heart-shaped locket that had fallen from the hand of the corpse beside it. John picked the locket up and prised it open. Inside were the photos of two young boys. John felt tears fall unchecked onto his grubby cheeks. He looked among the strewn corpses but could not tell if any of them were the two young boys. He placed the locket back into the skeletal hand of the corpse.

The streets echoed with John’s footfalls, the noise painfully loud in his ears that had become used to the silence of the world. He stared at his reflection, which mirrored his every move in the windows of the buildings he passed. He paused by the local pizzeria and stood, his mouth salivated as he looked longingly inside and imagined eating hot, fresh food. How long had it been since he’d tasted anything nice? He wondered to himself as he absent-mindedly groomed his shabby appearance, using the window as a mirror.

John caught sight of a sudden movement. He spun around, but could only see the empty street stretched out before him. Had he imagined it? His heart beat faster.

Then he heard a noise.

He pulled a gun from its usual spot in the back pocket of his tattered jeans. His hand trembled as he pulled the safety off. His mouth felt dry.

It had been two years since he had last seen anyone move, living or dead. He wondered if his mind was playing tricks.

Then he heard another noise.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

John moved in the direction of the noise. It was a long slow shuffle to the end of the street, using the doorways for cover. When he reached the last building, John paused and pulled a broken wing mirror from the large backpack he always carried. Edging as far to the end of the building as he dared, John cautiously held the mirror up and moved it forward until he could see the reflection of the intersecting street. He saw the reflection of someone turning a corner and moving out of sight.

Someone else was alive.

John pulled back the mirror and breathed hard. He edged the mirror round again and looked to make sure the street was empty. John repeated this several times until he was sure the person had gone. After deliberating for several more minutes, John moved forward onto the next street. His legs trembling, he moved to the next doorway and stood waiting. The only sounds John could hear were his beating heart and his ragged breath. Mustering his courage, he continued down the street, hugging as close to the buildings and doorways as he could.

When he reached the street where the person had turned, he stopped. Using his trusty mirror again, John looked down the street and froze when he saw someone coming out of a pharmacy. It was a woman. She looked up and down the street before slinging a large bag over her shoulder and hurried in the opposite direction to where John stood, watching her. John fumbled the mirror back into his backpack, dared to turn into the street and hurried after her.

John followed the woman for several minutes, hiding in doorways and shadows. The woman reached an alley, and John watched from the safety of a doorway belonging to a long-since deserted newsagent’s shop. The woman paused and then turned to look behind her.

‘Who’s there?’ she called. Her voice shook with uncertainty.

John held his breath. His mouth clamped shut; he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

‘I know someone’s there.’

John felt sweat drip into his eyes and sting them. He dared not move.

‘Show yourself!’

What to do? What to do? John let out a small breath. The backpack weighed heavily on his back and shoulders. He could see the woman search around, give up, and move to a doorway in the alley. John watched as she disappeared through the door. It was ten long minutes after the door had clicked shut behind her that John dared to move.

He paced in front of the shop, running his fingers through his hair. Two years since he had seen another living soul. And a woman at that! John trembled. Oh, what to do? He smacked his head as though to jolt some answers into it. John caught sight of his reflection and stopped. He was staring at the answer.

Calmness overwhelmed him. Checking the gun was ready, John crept to the door where the woman had entered and quietly tried the handle. It opened. Making his way inside, he heard some muffled sobs coming from a back room. Slowly, he walked towards the noise. The door was open, and John glimpsed inside. The woman hunched over another person who was sobbing. John moved to stand in the doorway; his gun pointed toward them.

The woman startled and whipped round to face John. He could see the other person was a much older woman who continued to sob. John noticed the younger woman was holding some medicines in her hand. She held out her other hand toward him in a placating gesture.

‘Please. Take what you want. But I need the medicines for my grandmother.’ Her voice shook.

John slowly took in the scene. The grandmother was lying on a couch; tears ran down her drawn features. Clothing and various other items lay strewn around the room. The stench of two grubby people living in the building overwhelmed John’s nostrils.

‘Please,’ the woman repeated. ‘We’re just trying to survive. What’s your name?’

John felt words form, but his mouth refused to speak them.

‘What’s your name?’ The woman asked again. She crept toward him, hand outstretched.

John startled at the movement. It was now or never. With two quick squeezes on the trigger, he put a bullet into the head of both women.

The shock of the younger woman’s face as the bullet hit her just above her left eye imprinted on John’s brain. He could see nothing else for several minutes and was oblivious to the blood that had spattered around the room. He was suddenly aware of his hand cramping on the gun, and he slowly loosened his grip.

Dead. They were dead. John stared at the bodies for several minutes to confirm it.

The sweat that had soaked through Johns’ clothes cooled him, and he shivered. He slowly backed out of the room and through the outer door, fumbling his way into the fresh air. He let the door slam shut behind him as he put the safety back on his gun and walked down the street.

He was alone once more.

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Jo Driscoll

Reader. Writer. Thinker.

UK-based freelance writer.

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