I awoke to a blaze of white light. I'd been dreaming; I thought I still was. The clock beside me sat stuck at 11:11 am. The room was quaint, simple. Two beds and a small TV. Our luggage bags lay open at the front of my bed, clothes tossed around in all manner of disorganization. A large beach towel crumpled in a ball atop a two-person breakfast table.
The light was so bright, even filtered through the dirty curtains that separated the room from the balcony and the sea beyond. It was late, I could feel it; Sarah and James should have been back by now, should have finished swimming long ago. It was late and they weren't here. It was so bright.
I rose slowly, my head swimming. For a moment, I feared I would lose my balance. I shut my eyes until the nausea passed. The curtain lay still. The air conditioning had died. I reached for the balcony door and grasped its handle. It was warm to the touch, as though the sun had been shining on it for many hours. But it was late.
The door slid open and I stepped outside. The light was blinding. It struck with a flash that shook my senses. The sound of waves upon a shore met my ears. I held my hand to my eyes and waited for my sight to return. Something was floating in the air. Snow, was it snow?
A speck landed on my forearm and I rubbed it away, leaving a gray smudge in its wake. It was ash. The balcony floor was covered in ash. My bare feet were swallowed, stained the color of dead embers. I raised my head and glanced across the earth.
The ocean was on fire.
***
The world is a cold and desolate place. A dead place.
When I glanced across the burning sea I saw everything, all the beauty and terrors of death. I wish I hadn't. Maybe then I'd still find sleep at night, not be afraid to shut my eyes and let the nightmares in. That was two years ago.
I sit alone under a plastic tarp. Beads of gray water cling to the surface, sliding in crisscross trails to the ground below. The thump of rain patters the plastic. I glance at my watch, its battery still dead, hands stuck at 11:11. It never changed.
The sun doesn't shine anymore, at least not enough to escape the wall of clouds. Rain is always falling. My skin is pale, ghostly, my body frail. I run my hand over my chest and count my ribs. My arms shake as I pile wet twigs together, cracking them into splinters. I dig a silver lighter out of my pocket and start a fire, desperately fanning the flames. The lighter's almost out. Where can I find another?
It's funny that the same thing that killed us now keeps us warm and safe, keeps us alive as it has for so many centuries.
The fire grows, warming my body. I inch closer to the burning pyre, my hands nearly touching the flames, and stare into the blaze, bound by the dancing embers that twist and flail, unburdened and unbeaten by the harsh land, some formless being chanting to a nameless god. The flames roar up and singe my hands. I draw back, cursing into the night. Tears run down my cheeks.
I cry for my family. For myself. For everyone, dead or alive.
My hands ache. I bury them against my ragged clothes. The rain continues to pour. I continue to weep. The world continues to die.
***
I wake to the call of thunder. The fire is almost out. I dig through the beaten shoulder bag beside me. A few dozen cans of food, a flashlight long dead, a gun with no bullets, a couple of old books. I draw one from the bag and hold it up to the light. Fahrenheit 451. I chuckle the dry, half hearted laugh and drop the novel into the pit.
The second book is different. J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye, title obscured upon its crumpled, mildewed pages. I pause as I hold the book over the flames, the light reflecting dully off its pure white cover. A crude drawing of an armored knight, belonging not to the story but of my son’s creation, duels below the author’s name.
"What are you reading, dad?"
"A book."
"What kind of book?"
"A grown up book."
"Any pictures?"
"No."
"That's no fun."
I shake myself from the trance and return the book to the bag. My hand jitters, won’t stop. My wallet comes next. I remove the pictures of my family and toss the wallet in. The leather bubbles. Money, now tattered paper, browns under the flames.
***
"Mom, you ready?"
"Yes James."
If only...
"You coming, sweetie?"
"I'm too tired. I think I might just take a little cat nap."
If only they'd stayed.
"You sure, Dad?"
"I’m sure. Besides, we'll have plenty of time to swim this week."
If they'd only stayed with me.
"Okay. See ya!"
"I love you, Mark."
Maybe I could have saved them.
"I love you too."
Maybe they'd still be here.
***
Someone's here, kneeling beside me.
I open my eyes. A figure digs through my bag. I wait, my breath coming in slow shudders. The figure continues its search. I leap to my feet and knock the stranger aside, drawing my pistol from the bag, then turn towards the thief.
It's a woman.
She lies on her back, arms raised up in feeble defense. Dried mud mats her hair, hiding the blonde beneath. Her clothes are like mine, burned and torn. A rustle comes from behind. Her child hides behind a dead tree.
"Don't," the woman begs, eyes shut tight and frozen in place, "Don't hurt him. Please."
I lower the weapon and offer my hand.
"I won't hurt you," I tell her.
"I've been told that before."
Dark purple bruises rise against her cheek, swollen and fresh. Lashes mark her neck.
"I promise."
Her eyes are the color of the sea, tranquil and sublime. She takes my hand and I pull her to her feet. The child rushes to his mother's side. His wide eyes shine, hair like his mother's. He stands on shaking legs as he clutches his mother's hand.
"Mister, do you have any food?" he asks.
I nod. "A little, but it's enough."
***
"I haven't seen him sleep this well in a long time."
The woman sets down her empty tin and hands the spoon back to me. I pop a bottle open and wash the silverware, then toss them both back inside the bag. Overhead, the rain continues to fall.
"You shouldn't waste water, we don't have much around here," the woman says.
I laugh. She joins me. It feels good, something long forgotten. It feels good.
"Where are you heading?" I ask.
"To the sea."
"The sea?"
"Yes."
"There's nothing there."
"Not here. But there have been rumors."
"Rumors?"
"Yes, rumors about London.”
I raise my brow.
"Rumors that people in London managed to control the spread of the fires."
"Do you really believe that?"
"I have to, for my son.”
A smile dances across my face. "My name is Mark.”
"I'm Ann."
"You're insane for believing, Ann."
She smiles back. "You're crazy for not."
***
"What is your son's name?" I ask.
"Adam."
"A good name."
The fire flickers before me. The child sleeps. Ann sits beside her boy and watches me, hand resting under her chin as though studying an unknown creature.
"What happened to you, Mark?" Ann asks as she smoothes her child’s hair.
"I lost faith.”
"Faith can be regained. Come with us."
"No.”
Ann touches my shoulder. I pull away.
"There is no hope, Ann."
"There's always hope."
"Everyone is dead. Everyone we ever knew. Everyone we ever loved. What's left to hope for? Why do we want to live?" I ask, chunking a twig into the cracking flames.
"It's in our nature to survive."
"I guess God had different plans."
The fire is fading. I dig through my bag and retrieve the copy of The Catcher in the Rye.
"I read that in high school," Ann says.
"So did I."
I thumb through the pages, tracing words with the tip of my finger. "Do you realize this might be the last copy left?"
Ann nods. Dirty hair flutters across her face. Her eyes twinkle in the light.
"I can't burn it…I can't."
"But you say all is lost."
I reach down and pull the shoes from my feet, removing both socks and tossing them into the fire. Ann stares at me as I lace my shoes back up. I meet her gaze. "I'll just have to tie them tighter."
Ann laughs. There comes that sudden silence. She leans forward and kisses my lips. I move back.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"Don't be."
I lie down and close my eyes, my back turned to Ann and her son.
***
"Take the bag," I whisper.
"It's too much."
"Take it."
The tote dangles from my outstretched arm.
"How will you survive?” Ann asks. I can hear the pain in her voice. “You won't have enough food."
"I'll find a way. If not, then I won't."
Ann shakes as she pulls the bag to her chest. "Come with us."
"There's rumors that London's safe, Ann. You still have faith."
"But—"
I place my hand upon her shoulder. “Go.”
She slings the bag over her shoulder and turns, making her way down the once thriving street, a misshapen puddle of tar. Not even the roads are left, yet she has hope.
Adam stands before me. He stares up at the stranger and speaks. "Bye, Mister. Thanks for the food." Then he hurries to his mother’s side.
I watch until they're gone.
***
"What would you do if I died?"
"You're not going to die, Sarah."
"I know, but what would you do?"
"What could I do? I'd be shattered, broken into pieces."
"But could you go on? For James' sake?"
"Could I go on?"
"Yes."
"I'd find a way."
"Good."
***
The rain has stopped. The fire is dead. The empty land lies before me. I leap to my feet, heart beating like a tribal drum, and stuff the few cans of food I kept into my pockets. I shake my head and exhale. Then I'm off, sprinting across the burnt land.
***
Up ahead I can hear Adam and his mother. They're screaming. I double my pace.
Adam lies in the middle of the road, balled up and weeping. Two men stand over the family. One holds Ann down as she struggles against his grip, the other rummages through my bag, spilling the contents out across the ground. They laugh and holler and shoot each other excited smiles that reveal the rotten teeth behind. Dried blood splashes their clothes.
"Wasn't smart of you to pull an unloaded pistol on us, honey," the man holding Ann says, voice childish and taunting, “Where'd you get the food?"
Ann continues to fight. She flails wildly back, her nails digging into his exposed skin. He yelps in pain and strikes Ann across the face. She crumbles to the ground. A fresh bruise rises against her eye.
They haven't noticed me. I crawl on all fours as I advance. A metal rod lies in a ditch beside me. I snatch it up, wiping away the mud from the end, and hold it firmly in hand.
"You gonna tell us where you got the food?" the scavenger whispers, moving his hands across Ann's breasts, "or do we need to persuade you?"
He pushes Ann down and buries his fist into her back, calling out to his partner. "She needs to be convinced, Rick. Cut the runt's throat.”
"No!" Ann shrieks.
The second scavenger turns from the bag and approaches the crying child, drawing a rusty switchblade from his pocket. Adam can’t move. He’s too scared, can’t even scream.
I leap from the ditch, iron rod raised. The scavenger barely has time to react before the rod connects with the side of his face, a resounding crack. His teeth shatter in a spray of blood and he stumbles back away from Adam. The knife drops from his hand. I strike him again across the chest. Blood blossoms as ribs shatter beneath the blow. I hurl him to the ground and hit him two more times until I'm sure he won’t get back up. I turn to the other.
The thief’s eyes open wide, his mouth agape. He releases Ann who scrambles away to her son, gathering him in her arms and kissing his face. I watch his hands as I advance, my makeshift weapon raised. He draws a blade from his shirt pocket. His legs shake. A wet spot spreads down his tattered jeans.
"You can leave now," I warn him, "we don't have to do this.”
He sprints forward. I swing for his head. The scavenger drops to the ground, dodging the rod, and drives his knife into my stomach. I grunt as the switchblade exits and reenters. Blood trickles down my waist. My knees buckle and I fall, palms scraping against the hardened tar.
The scavenger stands over me. "You know I might not kill you. No, I might let you watch. Would that be okay?"
I spit in his face.
"That's not a nice gesture. You need to learn some manners. I can teach you to—"
The man stops. A gurgle escapes from his lips. He opens his mouth and spits a line of blood. Ann stands behind him, the second blade buried to the hilt in his throat. The man drops to the earth, life jetting from his neck. He’s already gone.
I fall to the side. So much pain, so very sudden. Ann lifts me up and clutches me in her arms. She's babbling, crying, holding her hands over my wounds. Blood pools between her fingers. So much. Who knew I had so much?
“Mark. Oh God, Mark! Don't do this! Don't leave us here!"
I raise my finger to her lips. She falls silent.
I see my family.
"Gather all the food up and put it back into the bag. Everything. The pistol, the flashlight, all of it. Take their knives. Give one to Adam; he needs to learn to defend himself."
They're standing in the middle of the road. "Take the book. Keep it safe. Don't burn it, no matter what."
Blood spills over my sides. Ann nods while her tears continue to fall. Adam stands beside me.
My family is behind them. They're coming into view. The road isn't black. It's gold. Bright and beautiful.
"When he’s old enough, read him the book."
"Okay."
"Read it."
The trees are in bloom. The sun shines.
Adam mutters a word beside me. "Mister.”
I turn my head to face the child.
"Thank you for saving our lives, Mister."
I smile. I can't breathe. Ann is crying. She holds me close.
"You're getting blood all over yourself, Ann," I whisper.
James and Sarah stand behind her. They're smiling. My son and wife are smiling.
I raise myself up to Ann and whisper in her ear. "Thank you."
I breathe.
The add with James and Sarah... not giving him up, but I feel like they're moving on there in the end and that Mark's finally free from the chains that the loss of them fetched him with... I donno, that's how I read it.