I often wondered, why me?
Why do we exist when we do?
Our time on this one Earth, chosen at random.
Why me?
Why now?
At the end.
Footsteps crashed through leaves and a desperate hand grasped nearby bark so roughly she was sure she’d stripped skin free. A sound crackled like a whip, not behind her, but above her, so loud that she sucked one single breath into her lungs before continuing her sprint.
Michelle Parker rounded a corner, head glancing back for only a second, as if she was being chased, before crashing right into something.
She didn’t even scream before the thing she barreled into was grabbing her.
“Where have you been?” James Parker glanced behind her, wild fear in his eyes.
“Is it happening?”
“Come on, we have to hurry.” James pulled her through the remnants of the forest before the trees gave way to a clearing with a cabin ahead.
Something cracked in the sky again, sending James and Michelle to the ground, an invisible wave of energy knocking them off their feet. Michelle recovered, the cabin’s front door mere feet away, but she needed to see it. Needed to look at the sky one more time.
High above the horizon spread a gaseous ripple, no larger than a full moon in harvest season. Its deep red color gave it the appearance of an angry eye, with amber and emerald haze swirling behind it.
James pulled her into the house, and for a moment she was grateful, because if he hadn’t she might have never peeled her eyes away from that awful sight.
They moved across the living room, passing a small electronic device left on the kitchen table—a Geiger counter, its radiation detection meter sitting in the green. But if one looked closely, they could see the needle ticking, slowly at first, but gaining a pulse that beat toward the red.
At the end of the hallway sat a lone metal door, a massive painting of an English Airedale Terrier leaning against the wall off to the side.
Michelle raced down the steps into a basement, watching her footing, passing by Phil Parker, twice her age in his early sixties, who sealed the metal door shut. Her instincts pulled her gaze to the walls lined with food and water, before moving back toward James’ father, who sat down at a computer system and a radio microphone.
A news broadcaster’s voice came over the stereo. “Everyone is being told to seek shelter. Concrete or metal structures.”
Michelle looked at James. “Are we safe in here?”
But Phil was the one to answer her, turning in his chair. “This room was built to survive beyond a blast range of a hundred kilometers.”
James, usually so strong, so carefree and sure of himself, choked on his rushed words. “From a bomb, or a nuke, but—”
“That’s not what this is.” Michelle tried to keep her voice level. If she could find steadiness in her words, perhaps the rest of her body would follow suit.
Phil nodded, attempting comfort. “I know darling. But we’re safe down here. We just have to…hang tight.”
James exhaled. “But for how long?”
Michelle’s eyes drifted back to the food and water.
***
We made it three hundred and eighty-eight days.
The door to the cellar creaked open, the metal hinges tight from disuse. Michelle walked through the dusty, empty house, her eyes going to the Geiger counter on the table. She replaced the batteries, the meter showing what she already knew. Green. Safe.
The next several days flowed like a strange dream, a detached sort of waking up after a long, disorienting nap. She tried not to dwell on the fact that most of the world, God only knew the numbers, was gone.
Phil tried to salvage his garden, the vegetables and herbs there long dead. James made repairs around the house, and Michelle helped where she could, all the while avoiding looking at the Ripple, which appeared even brighter and deeper in color than it had before.
Then, the sun would grow white and hot and angry. They would have to run inside the basement, again and again. When the radiation levels cooled, they would emerge, and attempt to rebuild.
Again and again.
The reasons that had led Phil to prepare for an off-chance inevitability that had become a reality were never dissected. Michelle was, in the end, just grateful that the man had whatever godly foresight or fear or paranoia that made him prepare. The cabin had a well they could pump for water, and James could hunt in the forest for meat. The white solar flares that penetrated the earth seemed to be slowing, giving them more time in between to rebuild.
Michelle thought the tension in her chest may finally release. She didn’t have any family of her own. There was no one to mourn except for her friends and those at work that she cared about and she tried her best not to think of them. They were gone, and perhaps, no, for sure, they were the lucky ones. Uncertainty brought its own kind of terror. And she thought she at least was starting to understand the nightmare she was in.
Then, one day, she woke up shooting from her bed, racing for a toilet, heaving the night’s meager rations from her stomach into the bowl. A cup of water, three minutes to relieve herself onto a plastic stick, and two pink lines were all it took.
The thought of starving didn’t scare me.
Or radiation poisoning.
Or the sun’s white fury melting the skin from my bones.
Nothing, compared to this.
***
SEVEN YEARS INTO THE END OF THE WORLD
What do you tell a child about the world ending?
Tell me, I’d love to know.
“Just a little further!” The boy didn’t petulantly beg.
There was sincerity and maturity in his request. Perhaps that’s what made it so hard to refuse. The week before, he wanted to see the lightning struck pine tree, a mile away from the cabin. Before that, he asked to see the wooden woodpecker house, half a mile away. Since he had turned six, each week he wanted to venture further and further. He was asking more questions. Questions Michelle didn’t have the answers to.
“No, Joseph. We need to get back. It’s going to get dark soon.” Michelle took the boy by the hand. They made their way through the forest, back toward the cabin. “Grandpa will be up soon; he’ll want to read with you.”
In the last few years, Phil had grown accustomed to sleeping during the day so that he could keep watch at night. They had only one incident with a Roamer in the past few months, but those types were desperate, dangerous, and Phil claimed to feel more content keeping watch while the parents kept a normal schedule with their son.
Michelle looked down at Joseph. Her son was so full of curiosity, so seemingly knowing, but of what reality she couldn’t guess. All she wanted in the entire painful universe was to show her son a beautiful world before he learned about the one they were truly in.
“Wanna race back to the cabin?” Michelle found the smile she had learned to wear, a convincing excited façade that displayed anything other than what she truly felt inside.
With a nod, Joseph ran towards the cabin, Michelle on his ever-quickening heels. The moment he reached the door, she grabbed him. “I got you!”
A fit of giggles took him before he slipped from her grip and moved inside.
The cabin’s interior no longer appeared as it once had. Colorful sheets were torn to stream from ceiling to banister, hand-crafted paintings and beautiful pieces of artwork torn from books and magazines now lined the walls. Her goal was a kindergartener’s classroom on steroids, and Michelle thought she’d hit the mark well.
“Where’s Dad?” Joseph asked, looking around.
“He must still be at work.”
At work. James’ day job consisted of foraging for supplies, avoiding exiles, bandits, and Roamers. Working with other survivors on the mountain to trade goods for their water supply. While others had various items to offer, their cabin had one of the few wells that was dug deep enough to avoid radiation when solar flares struck.
When those unfortunate days came, Michelle made a game out of it, getting Joseph downstairs with the rest of the family in a manner that not only didn’t frighten him, but made him happy and excited. It was all she could do.
Joseph moved up to Michelle. “There’s a picture in your room of Dad and Grandpa, when Dad was little. Where were they?”
Michelle’s heart froze. She knew the photo. Were they in Chicago? She was pretty sure.
“I want to go there,” Joseph said, and Michelle realized she hadn’t responded.
She took a deep breath and kissed her son’s head. “One day, we will.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. Maybe they would, somehow. For seven years, she hadn’t so much as gone down the mountain. James barely went past Auberry, the small town at the foot of the pass, unless scavenging was incredibly desperate. It was just too much of a risk to go much further.
That evening, James returned home, washing himself outside before moving into the house, a dark expression on his face, which he tried to cover up. He wasn’t as good at pretending as Michelle was. That was okay. He had his job; she had hers.
Earlier that day, James had mentioned he thought it was time Joseph learned to use a rifle. The boy was getting bigger. Michelle had found James in the bedroom before he went out for the day.
“Look, I thought about what you asked the other day, and I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” Michelle saw the frustration in his eyes but remained strong. “No guns. It’s too early.”
James took a breath. He’d never yelled at Michelle, never lost his temper, though if he had, she probably wouldn’t have blamed him. The things he had to do, the things he did on a regular basis for the family, were enough for anyone to need twenty-four-hour therapy. But James had no one. Except for her. Yet he was soft with her, even when he was in a tough place, and if his mood was especially dark, he would take time to himself until he was better.
His eyes found hers, steady. “He needs to learn some simple skills. Self-defense.”
Michelle fought the urge to snort. The idea was almost comical. “At his size, who is he going to be defending himself against? That’s our job.”
“He’s big enough to pull a trigger.” James went quiet, guessing the words would rock Michelle. And they did. He continued. “And when was the last time you practiced your shooting?”
It had been a while, she had to admit, but she stayed focused on the part that mattered most to her. “He’s just a boy.”
“He’s getting older, baby. Asking more questions. We’re going to have to tell him something about the world.”
In her heart, she knew he was right. Speaking to a child about the normal world would have been difficult. What does someone tell a six-year-old about disease, suicide, and murder? But now, with the world the way it was, it seemed an impossible task. One wrong word, or rather, one truthful one, could rip the veil of childhood from his eyes and replace it with a lens she never wanted him to see through. But perhaps it was inevitable.
That night, she looked over at Joseph, who sat at the dinner table next to a quiet James while she stirred soup on a portable gas heater. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards, and Phil entered the room.
“Was that you I heard running around earlier?” Phil directed a mock-stern look at Joseph, who only stifled a grin.
“Sorry, Dad.” James wiped at his face, clearly exhausted, but knew sleep was far from near.
“Don’t be.” Phil settled into the table. “I like the noise. Funny. Your Mom and I bought this place, well, to get away from the city. Get some peace. Three months in, we looked at each other like we were crazy.”
Michelle turned to look at James, both sharing the same thought: Thank god you did.
Later, Phil read to Joseph from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. Michelle listened while she cleaned, one section resonating deep within her.
“‘Fern says the animals talk to each other. Dr. Dorian, do you believe animals talk?’
‘I never heard one say anything,’ he replied. ‘But that proves nothing. It is quite possible that an animal has spoken civilly to me and that I didn’t catch the remark because I wasn’t paying attention. Children pay better attention than grown-ups.’”
Michelle looked at Joseph, and his brown eyes stared back at her.
After reading, she tucked him into bed, kissing his forehead.
“Are you going to sleep?” Joseph asked, that curious tone in his voice searching for more.
“No, we are going to be up a while.” Michelle stood, moving towards the door.
“Doing what?”
“Grown-up things. Get some sleep.” Taking one last look at the boy, who’d settled into his blankets, she closed the door.
Michelle moved downstairs, and out of the house, then into the exterior garage where she knew James and Phil would be waiting.
The garage functioned nothing like it once had. It was now the base of operations for everything they had to do to survive. Weapons lined the walls, cleaning supplies for the guns neatly stored, as well as ammunition that Phil had stockpiled.
Michelle entered the room to find James at the center table, cleaning a pistol, while Phil moved in the background, a long-range radio held to his ear. “Three gallons for how many carrots? No fucking way, Rich. Yeah, yeah, okay, now you’re talking. And some sweet potatoes.”
James stepped towards Michelle, the anticipation in his eyes making her nervous. “What’s going on?”
“There’s something you need to hear.” James motioned her over to the radio controls. Michelle watched as he dialed into a nearby keypad.
A voice sounded over the speaker. “Thank you for calling the Co-Op information channel. Please enter your designated pass-key to receive the latest local information.” James typed in their family’s designated code.
Michelle’s gaze went to a sticky note above the keypad that read, 6, 7, 8 months since last big one.
Once the passkey was accepted, the neutral voice spoke again. “Thank you Independent house, Parker family, St. Paul’s Mountain. Here is the local forecast. Radiation activity in your area is clear. There have been increased reports of criminal activity and Roamers gathering in the southern towns of Prather and Auberry.”
James scribbled on the notepad: Roamers gathering?
The voice continued its log, “Eighty percent chance of solar flare expected October thirtieth.
James’ hand found paper once more: Storm in three days?
Michelle felt her throat go tight. Three days. They were prepared to go down at any minute, but the thought of going into that cellar was difficult to accept. Solar Flare radiation was different from other forms of disastrous radiation. The cosmic rays and radiation emitted from the sun during a Solar Flare storm would be devastating while it was active, but the moment the sun settled and the ejection was over, the radiation would clear up quickly, unlike the effects of a bomb or nuclear power plant meltdown. But while the storm was hot and white, they would need to be locked downstairs for as long as it lasted.
Michelle sat in the chair, her thoughts racing, her eyes moving along the notes and taped information around the equipment.
Her eyes found a map of St. Paul’s Mountain. On the west side stood the Parker cabin. Four names were written in various other spots around the mountain, noting the other independent families, each of whom had some sort of shelter to protect against Solar Flares. Whether they were as updated as the one in Phil’s cellar, none of them knew, as this was not information freely given on the rare chance the independent survivors got to chatting.
On the far side of the mountain was a drawing of a collection of buildings with the words CO-OP, 58 members, written below. Underneath that the mountain were names of other cities and their population changes San Jose: 971,233, 459. Fresno: 545,277, 240. And so on. Michelle found it difficult, still, to comprehend such devastation.
Michelle turned to James. “Roamers are gathering? They never come up the mountain.” There was little for the Co-Op exiles to forage, and Co-Op rangers would shoot any of them on sight if they were seen. At the start of the Co-Op’s formation, they had set out rules. Many similar to the laws society previously held. Punishment for the simplest infraction was banishment from their shelters, their food supply, and, most importantly, their equipment that detected solar flares.
“Only one reason to gather in mass. They must have caught wind of the storm coming. I think they’re finally going to try.” James didn’t hold a trace of worry in his voice.
