The
Stages of an Apocalypse
"One Day"
The words were softly
etched into the dust covering the bar. The smooth epoxy protected a deep
mahogany wood finish that still had a shine to it. Even in the fading light
creeping through the broken windows, the bar had a stimulating allure. It woke
Nick up, not enough to want to do anything of value, but enough to keep his
eyes open. Sometimes in life, that is the most you could ask for.
Nick slowly ran
his finger over the letters, careful not to disturb the sharp dusty contours.
He picked up his beer, took a long swig, then slowly placed the bottle next to its
empty friends. He grumbled to himself about the beverage's lukewarm temperature,
his baritone voice rumbling into the silence.
While Nick had spent
half an hour longer at the bar than his normal routine, it didn't matter all
that much. Even though he came to this bar nearly every day, he didn't consider
alcohol the problem, merely a space filler. In a world ravaged by the
apocalypse, What else was there to do?
He picked up the
beer and, by the weight of it, knew it was his last swig. He put the last draught back, swirled the
bottle around to make sure he had finished, and stood up from the stool. He
looked at the bartender, his deteriorating body draped limply over the bar, his
sunken eyes holding nothing but a bottomless void. Even though Nick didn’t see
the purpose, he reflexively dropped some money down on the counter and headed out.
Weaving around the
chairs filled with lifeless bodies, he noticed their mouths agape, as if giving
an opera of last breaths. Nick could almost hear their unified B-flat note as
he walked past them and out the front door.
He turned right at
the street corner and walked the two blocks straight to his apartment. The day
was overcast, a grey light bleeding into every corner of the quiet street. He
maneuvered around kicked-over trash cans and more cold bodies littering the
sidewalk. He walked over a scattered newspaper that had tumbled its way down
the street, the pages crunching like dead leaves under his boots. The deafening
hum of the dead city once again struck a bass tone that Nick had long filtered
out. He put his head down and walked back in silence.
Nick remembered
how this block looked before the virus hit. The streets of this Brooklyn suburb
used to have a quiet buzz with an eclectic mix of new and old. New chic coffee
shops squeezed between grandfathered bagel shops that time would never let die.
Geriatric neighbors leaned out of windows to watch new transplants hurriedly pace
to work, shop or eat. He remembered a developing tension building between the
new and old guard that occupied many a sidewalk conversation. In retrospect, those
concerns were laughable.
He remembered the
terrifying turn this neighborhood, his lifelong home, had taken when the virus
hit. It was a destructive disease unlike anything anyone had experienced. No
scientist, doctor or specialist was ever able to properly understand the
disease, explain its progression or find a cure. It came too fast, took too
many good people, and left nothing in its wake. Those first weeks were some of
the most frightening days of Nick’s life. He could still remember the grief-stricken
faces of his closest friends and family. He remembered them crying, pleading
for his help as the virus ate them up from inside, caving out their organs and
draining the soul from their eyes, leaving them howling from a pain he knew
little how to treat.
Though he saw
their need, Nick had to focus on himself and his children. He remembered the anxiety-stricken
nights spent staring at the ceiling, alone in his bed, wondering how he would
avoid this disastrous plague while also providing for his family. He would fall
asleep to the burnt orange glow of the fires blazing outside and could
practically taste the acrid smoke of the smoldering world through the vents in
his apartment.
There were even days
when Nick felt, if not hoped, the virus had infected him and would consume him
faster than this ever-crippling fear had been. But unfortunately, he prevailed
as everyone else around him decomposed. Eventually, the fires died, the screams
faded and everyone else succumbed to the infection, becoming the lifeless piles
of carbon they are today.
When he reached
the door to his apartment, he fumbled through his pocket for the keys. Though
he hadn't spoken to a living soul in months, he still locked his door each time
he left, and when he returned, was careful to click the padlock after he had
closed it behind him.
His electricity
died last week, so going back to his apartment was equivalent to walking inside
a musty cardboard box. The place reeked of a stale emptiness, which even for
him was unsettling. The furniture hadn’t moved since the apocalypse hit, silently
standing like an army blockade the morning before a battle. Maneuvering around the
couches, he went to the fridge and opened the door, more to assess the smell
than to find any food. He didn't notice any overpowering odor, so he closed the
door tight, and moved through the kitchen to the bedroom. Sans electricity, his
next few meals would need to be creative unless he found a way to get things
moving again.
The only contents
of his apartment, besides the slowly dusting furniture, were memories. These
memories were his only friends in this post-apocalyptic world. They floated
around objects like ghosts, and even though he didn't believe in anything of
the sort, sometimes in the silent darkness he swore he could see these
dementors coming to finally claim him. His wife's clothes still hung in her
closet opposite the bed, untouched and commemorating a woman taken too soon. Moving
down the dusk-dim hallway, he could watch the memories of his children play out
in the room next door. Sometimes Nick would sit at the edge of the door,
watching their memories whisp around the room like an 8 mm reel playing on the
faded white wall opposite the door. Whether he watched them playing with Legos
or exclaiming that they’d been accepted to college, it would likely be the only
time he smiled that day.
The grey light
outside was fading fast and the hallway had little natural lighting, so his
walk to the bedroom was almost pitch black. The piercing silence coalesced with
the depravity of incoming light to form an all-natural sensory deprivation
chamber. It was discomforting, but not debilitating. Maybe someday he would try
to find a way to get electricity to the apartment. For right now though, he’d
cope.
"One Day"
The words were softly
etched into the dust covering the bar. The smooth epoxy protected a deep
mahogany wood finish that still had a shine to it. Even in the fading light
creeping through the broken windows, the bar had a stimulating allure. It woke
Nick up, not enough to want to do anything of value, but enough to keep his
eyes open. Sometimes in life, that is the most you could ask for.
Nick slowly ran
his finger over the letters, careful not to disturb the sharp dusty contours.
He picked up his beer, took a long swig, then slowly placed the bottle next to its
empty friends. He grumbled to himself about the beverage's lukewarm temperature,
his baritone voice rumbling into the silence.
While Nick had spent
half an hour longer at the bar than his normal routine, it didn't matter all
that much. Even though he came to this bar nearly every day, he didn't consider
alcohol the problem, merely a space filler. In a world ravaged by the
apocalypse, What else was there to do?
He picked up the
beer and, by the weight of it, knew it was his last swig. He put the last draught back, swirled the
bottle around to make sure he had finished, and stood up from the stool. He
looked at the bartender, his deteriorating body draped limply over the bar, his
sunken eyes holding nothing but a bottomless void. Even though Nick didn’t see
the purpose, he reflexively dropped some money down on the counter and headed out.
Weaving around the
chairs filled with lifeless bodies, he noticed their mouths agape, as if giving
an opera of last breaths. Nick could almost hear their unified B-flat note as
he walked past them and out the front door.
He turned right at
the street corner and walked the two blocks straight to his apartment. The day
was overcast, a grey light bleeding into every corner of the quiet street. He
maneuvered around kicked-over trash cans and more cold bodies littering the
sidewalk. He walked over a scattered newspaper that had tumbled its way down
the street, the pages crunching like dead leaves under his boots. The deafening
hum of the dead city once again struck a bass tone that Nick had long filtered
out. He put his head down and walked back in silence.
Nick remembered
how this block looked before the virus hit. The streets of this Brooklyn suburb
used to have a quiet buzz with an eclectic mix of new and old. New chic coffee
shops squeezed between grandfathered bagel shops that time would never let die.
Geriatric neighbors leaned out of windows to watch new transplants hurriedly pace
to work, shop or eat. He remembered a developing tension building between the
new and old guard that occupied many a sidewalk conversation. In retrospect, those
concerns were laughable.
He remembered the
terrifying turn this neighborhood, his lifelong home, had taken when the virus
hit. It was a destructive disease unlike anything anyone had experienced. No
scientist, doctor or specialist was ever able to properly understand the
disease, explain its progression or find a cure. It came too fast, took too
many good people, and left nothing in its wake. Those first weeks were some of
the most frightening days of Nick’s life. He could still remember the grief-stricken
faces of his closest friends and family. He remembered them crying, pleading
for his help as the virus ate them up from inside, caving out their organs and
draining the soul from their eyes, leaving them howling from a pain he knew
little how to treat.
Though he saw
their need, Nick had to focus on himself and his children. He remembered the anxiety-stricken
nights spent staring at the ceiling, alone in his bed, wondering how he would
avoid this disastrous plague while also providing for his family. He would fall
asleep to the burnt orange glow of the fires blazing outside and could
practically taste the acrid smoke of the smoldering world through the vents in
his apartment.
There were even days
when Nick felt, if not hoped, the virus had infected him and would consume him
faster than this ever-crippling fear had been. But unfortunately, he prevailed
as everyone else around him decomposed. Eventually, the fires died, the screams
faded and everyone else succumbed to the infection, becoming the lifeless piles
of carbon they are today.
When he reached
the door to his apartment, he fumbled through his pocket for the keys. Though
he hadn't spoken to a living soul in months, he still locked his door each time
he left, and when he returned, was careful to click the padlock after he had
closed it behind him.
His electricity
died last week, so going back to his apartment was equivalent to walking inside
a musty cardboard box. The place reeked of a stale emptiness, which even for
him was unsettling. The furniture hadn’t moved since the apocalypse hit, silently
standing like an army blockade the morning before a battle. Maneuvering around the
couches, he went to the fridge and opened the door, more to assess the smell
than to find any food. He didn't notice any overpowering odor, so he closed the
door tight, and moved through the kitchen to the bedroom. Sans electricity, his
next few meals would need to be creative unless he found a way to get things
moving again.
The only contents
of his apartment, besides the slowly dusting furniture, were memories. These
memories were his only friends in this post-apocalyptic world. They floated
around objects like ghosts, and even though he didn't believe in anything of
the sort, sometimes in the silent darkness he swore he could see these
dementors coming to finally claim him. His wife's clothes still hung in her
closet opposite the bed, untouched and commemorating a woman taken too soon. Moving
down the dusk-dim hallway, he could watch the memories of his children play out
in the room next door. Sometimes Nick would sit at the edge of the door,
watching their memories whisp around the room like an 8 mm reel playing on the
faded white wall opposite the door. Whether he watched them playing with Legos
or exclaiming that they’d been accepted to college, it would likely be the only
time he smiled that day.
aBOU TTH aUTHOR
The grey light
outside was fading fast and the hallway had little natural lighting, so his
walk to the bedroom was almost pitch black. The piercing silence coalesced with
the depravity of incoming light to form an all-natural sensory deprivation
chamber. It was discomforting, but not debilitating. Maybe someday he would try
to find a way to get electricity to the apartment. For right now though, he’d
Stephen works in the medical field but has always desired to explore a more creative endeavor. In his free time outside of the hospital, he enjoys developing his talents as a fiction writer.
cope.
