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.
