Welcome to the Fallout

This one isn't belonging, which is always good (although, if I twisted it....) It's actually quite similar to the belonging scenario I've been working with for exams, but came from the idea of nuclear apocalypse (yeah, real original Tansy), the idea of being alone and finally, of owing someone an unspeakable debt. The title comes  from a Switchfoot song.

Welcome to the Fallout

So this is what it feels like to be truly alone.

I should probably savour the few minutes I have left, feeling some sort of pride, or satisfaction that I had outlasted the rest.

Instead, it’s only grief.

I hadn’t known Jordan well, but in the last few days we’d spend together, almost certain that we were the last people left, I felt like I knew every thought he had – probably because I shared each one. It was sad to see him go. I’d almost felt a tear welling up in throat, but I’d cried all I had when Phoebe died. Seeing the last bit of life seep out of her eleven year old body had been too much. I swore that nothing could be worse than that.

Except maybe this.

No one knows why we survived to the last – technically, I suppose, we didn’t know, and as the only people left alive, no one else could offer their opinion. Jordan said that we’d gotten some sort of vaccine before the panic set in, when they’d tried to immunise students against the Fallout. Too many batches of the vaccine had already been tainted though, and it ended up doing more harm than good, bringing about the events which led to panic.

Irony. That’s what it was called.

The Placebo didn’t work for very long either. When news of the Fallout was just starting to break, the 

government had assured us that they’d saved the water, that it was safe to drink. They told us that taking the pills would keep us healthy until we could be taken somewhere else. We’d all believed them so blindly that we’d tricked our bodies into believing it too, holding back the illness until it manifested, horribly, in thick swellings and ugly growths. Placebo can hold back a headache; it was no match for the cancers.

I’d been able to talk to Jordan. He’d been around my age and had somehow escaped the Fallout not just with his life, but a sense of humour. He was a breath of fresh air in this stagnant, toxic environment. We could be philosophical, funny or just plain stupid – it was just a relief that the only other person alive wasn’t a raving lunatic. I supposed he could have been, and I was just too mad to notice. I don’t think self analysis counts for much in psychology, but I think I’m sane.

We’d camped out in the old bunker, surviving on the contents of tins long past their expiration date, wrapped in multiple old sleeping bags, just talking. After so long of solitude, and fear of making any connections lest they be severed too soon, it felt… normal. Like we weren’t both dying. Like we were just two people, getting to know each other, without the risk of radiation sickness or rouge cannibals (although they’d mostly died out) or impending doom.

Like one of us wasn’t going to have to bury the other.

Buried. That’s what he’d said. He wanted to be buried.

“If I’m this sick I want the earth to get sick too.”

He’d said it as a joke but I knew it was really a command – if he died before me, he would be buried.

So, with these last minutes of my life, each breath becoming heavier as the thick cancerous lump presses at my oesophagus, that’s what I’ll do.

There’s a shovel in the bunker and Jordan was still wrapped in a sleeping bag when he’d taken his last breath, so I can drag him. I don’t have the strength to carry him. Decency is long gone.

I can’t bury him in the yard though. Feeling my minutes tick by slowly, I drag the bag to the gate and open in onto a street in broken shady suburbia. The trees are sick too – they feel the Fallout, just like us.

There’s a little park across the road. I don’t bother looking for traffic – the lump seems to be expanding every second, making it harder and harder to inhale. I’ve got less time than I thought.

There’s a lake in the park. Years ago, I would have called it kitch and tiki-taki, but right now, with the sun setting through thick smog in a deep red, it’s breath-taking. The only place.

I summon the last of my strength to dig a shallow grave. It’s definitely not six feet, but no one cares any more. I feel like I’m burying Phoebe to give her a mermaid tail at the beach on a summer afternoon – my body gets hotter and hotter and my breaths get shorter and shorter. The shallow ditch hardly fits the body, but I do him the dignity of taking him out of the sleeping bag. If he’s going to poison the earth, I’m not waiting for the polyester to decompose.

I collapse next to the lump of earth, feeling an even bigger lump in my throat. Is it the thyroid cancer? Or is it emotion? Are the tears in my eyes for Jordan, Phoebe, the whole of humanity… or just myself, alone in the world, the end of humanity.

I wonder if, in the future, another civilisation will rise from our poisonous ashes. Will they find us, beneath their feet? Will we become an archaeological dig, catalogued and classed from our mass grave of millions? Will they know that I was the last person alive, or will I just be tossed into a pile of bones in a greedy dig for oil?

In my final moments, with my last, choking breathes, I sob. Just twice. Then my throat seems to close over and my body stops mid breath – all I manage is a barely audible cry before the dancing black worms of my vision eat away my soul.

……so this is how the world ends……..

………not with a bang………..

………..but a whimper………

Free to a Good Home

Yes, I know, it's been ages. I've been doing my HSC, supposedly. That means nearly every story I write over the next seven months will be about belonging. What can I do? This one's inspired by "Free to a Good Home", the song "Maybe This Time" and the contrasts of old and new.

Free to a good home – one female. Aged, mature, some memory issues. Previously used. Would make good addition to any home.

Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky,

Maybe this time he’ll stay.

The café was a jumble of old and new. French polished tables with fluorescent orange placemats, covered in the crumbs of yesterday’s sandwiches. Smooth jazz leaked softly from speakers the size of tea chests. A waiter wore a top hat over his mohawk.

For the first time, she didn’t stand out. Just another relic of a bygone age, struggling to fit into a world she no longer understood. Clashing with the décor, so to speak.

Her dress was a little old, but no one would notice unless they came close enough to see the fraying edges. She could remember a time when every woman in the office had looked at her in envy when she wore this dress. Now it wasn’t even old enough to be retro.

She looked awkwardly around, just in case she’d missed his entrance. He’d said in the email that he’d arrive at one. It was already twenty past. What was it he’d put? A black suit jacket. A little formal for most lunch dates, but that was probably why he’d picked the café – nothing could ever look out of place here.

And, the small voice of doubt whispered to her, no one can see him here. No embarrassment, no explanations, no one to answer to if he doesn’t come.

She ignored the niggling of doubt and stirred her tea. It was black, no sugar and already strained, but she still stirred it none the less. Habit was habit, and this was hers.

Maybe she should have asked for a photo. It was always embarrassing when she didn’t recognise them. There was always that moment of confusion, as what seemed to be a total stranger stared at her, scrutinising her every detail like a prospective buyer. She’d even once asked one for another cup of tea please, no sugars, add it to the bill.

Needless to say, that meeting had remained awkward.

Maybe there would be a present again. They often bought her things – little trinket from far away lands (yet somehow always made in China), boxes of chocolates from shops she didn’t know, scarves that would only go into the growing pile of things she never wore anymore.

She was getting old.

Another glance at the clock, which was actually a bicycle wheel with ticking hands attached, revealed that it was almost half past. No more than 45 minutes late, that was her rule. By most accounts, it was desperation, but she’d always assumed the best in people. It was her fatal flaw.

She should  recognise him. After all, they’d spent more than 18 years together. While all other relationship had fallen apart, she’d still had him. Or so she’d though. Work, life, midlife – all had only moved them further apart. It had been more than a year since she’d last seen him. Subconsciously, she felt for the gold band around her left ring finger, only to find a light circle of unmarked skin.

All things must come to an end.

She waited.

Suit jacket. No sign. The waiter attempted to juggle some wine glasses for the amusement of his pretty co-worker, only to fail in a spectacular shower of sharp confetti. She allowed herself a smile, catching that of the young waitress. They shared a brief, bizarre moment, before the waitress wandered over.

“Any more drinks?”

“No thank you.” Her voice was weaker than she’d expected – it took two attempts to even get the first word out.

“Well I’d better warn you, we close at two for some cleaning. Is there anyone you’re waiting for?”

She checked the bicycle wheel. It was 1:50.

“No. Well, yes. My name’s Grace. If someone comes for me… well, I can only wait so long.”

The waitress nodded sympathetically. “I know the type. Do you need any help?”

Grace shook her head, reaching for the supportive walker herself.

“Who would be asking about you, just in case?”

The waitress had sparkling green eyes. Grace could remember when her eyes had been that alive, shining on fresh, smooth skin. Now crows feet, wrinkles and bi-focals had masked and disfigured the beauty.

“Oh, just a man named Robert. In a suit.”

“Your husband?”

“Oh no,” she said, shuffling along with the walker’s assistance. Frank was long dead.

“Just my son.”