Voices From the Apocalypse

When the sun goes down in the desert, the heat goes with it. I remember reading that a desert can go from 100 degrees Fahrenheit to 40 as that fiery ball set. I moved to the northern Nevada desert several years before the world ended. It often takes a moment to remember what life was like before: Before the riots, before the chaos, before the end. The memory of time and events seem like another life, and I guess it is. I miss my house and its temperature control. I miss my husband. I miss the way he made me laugh. There is not much to laugh about anymore. It’s been just over two years since I last saw him alive. I don’t even have a picture, but that is common. Most people have their pictures on their phones or the cloud - phones ran out of power months ago and the cloud no longer exists. I can still see him when I close my eyes; his blue eyes smiling at me. His dark hair was kept just long enough to start curling on the ends. The picture in my memory fades every day. I can see it blurring. The edges of my recollections of him swirling at the edges like smokey tendrils that are silently eating at my favored memories. I’m terrified of the day that I close my eyes to see him and he’s no longer there.

Tears begin to well up and I cannot afford to feel sorry for myself. I open my green eyes just in time to see the sun dip behind the Sierra Mountains. I stare at the last vestiges of light, like fingers that reach and stretch across the blackening sky clawing for more time only to lose their grip on the day. My eyes flick to my hand clenched around the heart-shaped locket that hangs around my neck. I open my fingers and stare at the silver heart that lay in my palm; the last thing my husband gave me before the sickness took him. I forced my fingernail into the side of the heart and flicked it open. The empty insides of the locket stare back at me. With a snap, I click the locket back together and force my eyes to look instead at the fireplace and watch the flames; I try to feed those flames the ache that has formed in my chest. I look from the fire and watch Finnian. He sits quietly finishing his meal of rabbit stew scraping at the side of the bowl with his spoon trying to get the last traces of food. A small smile forms on my lips. Strands of his blonde hair fall into his blue eyes as he hunches forward eating. His body is long and lean, a tall boy for his age, and used to physical labor, one had to be if they chose to survive. He was intelligent, funny, quiet, thoughtful; it was safe to say I loved him like he was my own son. It was also a safe assumption that where my husband was my setting sun, Finnian was the sun that dawned on the tomorrows to come.

Finnian was only 11 when we found each other. A better word would be “saved.” It was while scavenging a building that I heard a shuffle. I knew someone had been watching me, so I called out, “Well, come on if you’re coming.” I heard a crunch of leaves and turned to see Finnian standing there. He was too thin, his skin too pale, his clothes ragged. We stood and studied one another for a moment. I finally smiled at him,

“You want something to eat?”

We celebrated his 12th birthday a week later just the two of us, huddled around a fire, eating our found food of baked beans, in what was left of a farmhouse. Since then we have stuck together, relied on each other; he’ll be 13 soon.

Several times in the beginning I heard him cry himself to sleep. Those heart-wrenching guttural sobs of a young boy who had lost everything. And he had. Both parents, three siblings, his pets, his house, his friends. On the nights when he cried, I would move over to him and pull him against me. I would hold him as he cried. Feel his small body shake and spasm against me with every wave of grief. There were nights that I thought he wouldn’t be able to stop, and his ache and hurt would fill every valley of this broken world. But, those nights slowed and then stopped altogether. I know he still aches. I see him when he allows himself to think of his past life, see the pain that seeps into his features.

I clear my throat, “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow, kid?”

Soon after we had saved each other, I gave Finnian a job. He needed to get his mind on something other than the pain he felt. His first job was creating a “to do” list. At first, we would sit down and discuss what needed to go on that list. We talked about the necessities: food, water, shelter, clothing, weapons. In the end, Finnian would be the one to decide the order. He became a pro at watching our provisions and making sure what needed to be replenished soon made it on that list. So, it continued, every night he adjusted his list, and every day we worked on completing those tasks.

Finnian looked up from his empty bowl and answered my question in his cool, calm demeanor, “Our food is getting low, as well as our first aid kit.” He reached into the right bellows pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a small black notebook with the spiral on top. The kind every cop in every cop movie flips out to take notes on. He thumbed through several pages before clearing his throat, “Umm. We need to find some more water, our bleach is getting low, and…” Finnian glanced up at me and frowned, “I need new shoes. These are making my toes bunch up.”

I nodded, “We’ll find you something. We need to move, we’ve been in this location much too long.”

Finnian had been sick the past two weeks. When he first came down with this, I was terrified. I thought maybe it was the Plague. But those that were going to die from that… well, they were dead. Those that were living were immune.

The Plague was a big reason for the lack of population. It suddenly appeared in Asia and spread like wildfire across the globe. The United States watched in horror as it ate through Asia, Europe, and the rest of the world. The CDC went into high gear trying to get ahead of the wave of sickness that first started in populated cities: New York, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Dallas… international points of entry. Schools were shut down, businesses closed, hell... governments shut down. People flooded grocery stores and Walmarts. Bought up all the food and water… and funny as it is to think about now… hoarded all the toilet paper. People were required to wear masks, social distance… “stay home, stay inside, stay safe”…

It didn’t matter. We followed every precaution and ... it didn’t matter. The Plague didn’t even slow down. It swept through this country like a tidal wave killing people by tens of thousands at a time. Hospitals were so overwhelmed that people just stopped going. If you got the plague, there was a 100% mortality rate, hospital or not. Last I heard at least 70% of the world population was gone. I’m positive it is more, that was just the last statistic before the news stations went black.

A sudden loud metallic rattle rings out to the east of our “home.” Someone, or something, has tripped our “alarm” system. Finnian and I both sat up, looked at each other for a split second, and then were up and readying for action.

I listened intently as the rattle continued like someone fought to get the string of old food cans off their leg. The metallic ringing stopped, and the house suddenly went deathly quiet. We didn’t speak as we quietly grabbed our AR-15s and scrambled into the bedrooms. I stood behind a one-way mirror that gave a perfect view of the living room, lifted the rifle, and set the muzzle brake of the AR within a hole in the wall that was about shoulder height. The gun was now pointed toward the front door, and I thumbed the safety to “semi.” I knew that Finnian did the same thing, though his gun was pointed toward the large plate glass window. This window was the only one I had not boarded up. The backdoor was reinforced by a steel bar, one of the many things I learned from my father. No one was coming in that way. So, two ways in… the window, or the front door.

I stood quietly listening; my eyes were trained on the living area for any sign of movement. The backdoor rattled but did not budge. My eyes never left sight of the room in front of me. A loud thump rattled the frame of the backdoor, followed by hushed cussing, a deep voice, I assumed male. I smirked at the curses, my eyes still fixated at the real points of entry. I concentrated on keeping my breathing calm and regular. There was no point in panic, panic never helped any situation.

The front door was next; I saw the doorknob wiggle. There was a moment's pause before the front door burst open, splinters from the door frame flew inward and through the destruction stepped a large man. He stood over 6’. His body was solid muscle which was common because who could overeat at this point? The man glanced around slowly, his head pivoting on a thick neck. His deep, dark brown eyes scanned the area. Smiling at the lit fire, which reflected off his bald head, and looking back towards the hallway, he was about to take a step, so I called out, “Leave now! Leave alive!” A simple, direct warning.

He stopped his movement; a slow menacing smile appeared on his face. A pink tongue flicked out moistening his thin lips, “Come on, baby. When was the last time you’ve been touched? I can show you a good time.” His voice was deep, husky… but he was no Morgan Freeman. His large hand slid down to his crotch, he grabbed himself and thrust his hips forward.

My eyes never moved from him, my finger dropped down onto the trigger of my AR. “Last chance.”.

The man’s head cocked to one side, the same smirk on his lips. His eyes settled on the one-way mirror that I peered through. I wondered briefly if he could see me… but it didn’t really matter. I tucked the stock against my shoulder, 2 pounds of pressure tempted the 4-pound trigger, and I waited for his next move. Time ticked by so slowly. His fingers twitched before he reached for his handgun; I didn’t wait any longer. A loud pop exploded from my gun and I saw the bullet hit his chest. He staggered backward, I pulled again, and again. Three holes opened up in the man’s chest. His eyes went wide for a moment before looking at his wounds. His hands fluttered to the holes as he fell first to his knees and then to his stomach. I waited for just a moment, he didn’t move.

“Fin! Pack!” I ordered.

We were once again on the move, another house, another town, one day, another state. I hope that one day we find safety. Perhaps a camp, some sort of civilization. I hope one day Fin has a friend again, perhaps can fall in love. I touch the locket at my neck, maybe one day...