Selected Scenes from the End of the World, page 3
Then the darkness engulfed them as a family, and they were not afraid.
5
LAST DROP OF SORROW IN A BLUE BOTTLE
York, Pennsylvania
Bob Ford drank warm bourbon from a dirty blue bottle and thought back on the past few weeks.
All over the world, it started raining at the same time. If that wasn’t weird enough, the rain didn’t stop. With it came intense super-storms that wiped out most of the world’s coastal areas and killed millions of people. In the United States, coastal cities like San Francisco, Seattle, Los Angeles, Baltimore, Atlantic City, Norfolk, and Miami were all submerged within a week. Tornadoes and two hundred miles per hour winds ripped through the nation’s heartland, leveling everything in their path.
The rain didn’t stop. The waters kept rising and the global destruction continued. Easter Island, the Philippines, Diego Garcia, Cuba, Jamaica, and parts of Asia were obliterated. Hawaii was nothing more than a few volcano peaks.
Bob watched it all happen on the cable news networks, until the power went out for good. He’d seen Denver buried under an impenetrable fog. He’d watched caravans of survivors heading for the Rocky, Smokey, and Appalachian Mountains. He’d witnessed the Nation-al Guard patrolling the streets of Manhattan by boat. A guy in Indiana had built an Ark in his backyard, just before the rains started. Bob thought that was a good idea. Wished he’d done the same. Apparently, some of the world’s government’s had followed the Ark-builder’s lead, shifting their elite citizens and politicians onto battleships and cruise liners.
In Pennsylvania, the National Guard mobilized against this new enemy-the weather. Unable to shoot it or blow it up or fight back, they evacuated everyone in York.
But Bob and Free Ride Angie stayed behind.
Alone.
By the time the mandatory evacuation took effect, hundreds of people in York were dead or missing. That included Bob’s wife, Jen, and their kids, Chloe and Carson. When the floods started, Bob was in downtown York City, working in the office even though everything else was closed and an official state of emergency had been declared. Jen and the kids were still at the house. The last thing he’d heard from her, before the cell phone network went down, was that the Susquehanna Trail had washed out, making it impossible for him to return home. The National Guard was there, urging her to evacuate. Bob had told her to go.
“You should be here with us,” Jen said. “Instead of at work. You could die in there. They can’t get into the city. The water is too high.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bob promised. “Stay safe. Get in touch with me when you can.”
But she hadn’t. There was no way she could.
The worst part was not knowing what had happened to them.
Bob took another sip of bourbon from his blue bottle. The warm liquid burned his throat, but he barely felt it, still lost in the recent past.
He decided that the worst part wasn’t not knowing his family’s fate. The worst part was knowing that even if he had been able to get home, he wouldn’t have gone.
He’d have stayed here with Angie.
Between the constant rain and the rising Codorus Creek, York City’s streets were soon submerged. Bob took shelter atop the Strand Capitol Performing Arts Center, across from the county judicial building-the two highest points in the city. He’d seen a few people on the judicial building’s upper floors, but had no way to communicate with them, other than waving. The storm’s fury drowned out their voices when they tried to shout, and they were too far away to read handwritten messages.
He was alone in the Strand-except for Free Ride Angie.
And she was dead.
He’d known her. Not well, perhaps, but more than her other johns. To them, Free Ride Angie was just a whore and they were just customers. What they did together was nothing more than a business transaction. A fleeting moment of gratuitous, guilty entertainment. But not Bob. His relationship with Angie was special. She was his muse.
The men who came to Angie didn’t know her story, but Bob did. He knew it as well as his own. It was an open book. She’d fled home at fourteen to avoid the attentions of her mother’s boyfriend-not that her mother cared either way. The first trick. Facing the fact that the wet spot between her legs was what she used to live, at least until she learned how to give blow jobs. How she’d gotten her name-getting free rides from cabbies in exchange for sex. Bob knew it all. He’d created her.
And now she was dead.
He hadn’t told Jen. She hadn’t commented on it. But he’d heard it in her voice, before they hung up-the silent accusation hanging in the silence between them.
Instead of being home with his family, he’d been here, at work, with Angie.
Just like always.
And now Angie was dead.
Maybe Jen, too.
Bob had another writer friend who, after a night of too much bourbon, had proposed that the universe was nothing more than God’s best-selling novel, and if the novel ever went out of print, everything would vanish with it.
Bob had laughed at the time.
He wasn’t laughing now.
He hadn’t written shit since the rain began. He doubted he ever would. What was the point? New York-the heart of the publishing business-was a disaster area. The editors and agents who would consider his submissions were at the bottom of the fucking ocean. Who would publish his work? Who would read it? Why spend time scrawling stories in a notebook if there was nobody left to enjoy them? If a storyteller had no one left to tell his stories to, did he then cease to exist? Did his characters cease to exist as well?
Bob looked down at Angie’s moldering corpse and decided that yes, they must.
She wasn’t rotting. Something else was happening. Her ebony skin was covered with white fuzz. Some kind of fungus, Bob assumed. It was slowly liquefying her body. He wondered if he was breathing in the spores, and then decided that he didn’t care. Death would be preferable to this.
He tipped the blue bottle back and drained the last drop of alcohol.
Now he was empty.
For years, he’d sacrificed everything-everything- on the altar of his muse. He’d concentrated on writing, positive that eventually it would pay off, that all the hardships and dedication would be worth it, in the end. Fueled by booze and music and desire and drive, he’d written every day. Nothing else mattered. He’d put his family and friends and loved ones second, focusing on his work, conscious that he might lose them as a result, but hopeful that he wouldn’t.
And now he’d lost both worlds.
The rage that had simmered inside of him all day suddenly exploded. Bob sat up in the chair and threw the empty bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall, showering the floor with shards of blue glass. He swept his arm across the desk, knocking the lifeless laptop computer to the floor. The casing cracked. Unsatisfied with the results, Bob lurched out of the chair and stomped on the laptop until it was in a hundred pieces. Then he kicked the plastic fragments and the broken glass all over the room.
His head felt fuzzy, his mouth dry. The room spun. He heard a terrible, high-pitched moan, and wondered where it was coming from. He searched the room.
Then he realized it was him making the sound.
Bob stumbled to the door and out onto the Strand’s rooftop. The rain was much louder outside. It beat against him, streaming down his face like tears. He turned around once, staring through the open doorway at the fragments-blue glass and black plastic.
Broken, just like him.
“Nothing left.”
Bob walked to the edge of the roof and stared down at the street. The water rushed by like a river, covering the building up to the third floor. It would only get higher. Soon, the flood would wash everything away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Then he leaned forward until he felt the world give way.
Bob plummeted into the racing waters and drowned his sorrows one last time.
6 -SWEPT AWAY
Cashmere, Washington
“So, this is how the world ends…”
Chris Hansen closed his eyes. The view wasn’t what it used to be. Before the rains began, the window had looked out on a pond and waterfall about twenty-five feet away from their ranch-style house. Situated on top of a four-foot hill, the waterfall splashed over a pile of big rocks that his father had put there. It was one of Chris’s favorite sights. When life brought troubles, watching the water was always soothing. Peaceful. It washed away his worries.
Now-not so much. Everything else had been washed away but his worries remained.
The hill was gone. The waterfall was gone. Every-thing was gone. Everything except the pond. With the seemingly endless rain, the pond had become a lake, sub-merging their square acre lawn and driveway and eroding the soil around the tamarack, pine, fir, and blue spruce trees in their yard. The water carried the uprooted trees away. Now, small waves lapped at the house, with no barriers left to impede them.
It wasn’t just the pond, however. Cashmere was nearly eight hundred feet in elevation, but it sat nestled in a valley between the Wenatchee River and the Cascade mountains. Most of the valley had flooded already, filling like a bowl. Soon, their house would be submerged, too.
Chris’s girlfriend, Francesca, had managed to keep most of the water out by stuffing towels into the cracks around the doors several times a day. But the rectangular house was built very low to the ground and within the last week, water had begun to flow into the crawlspace beneath it. Now the water was seeping through the floors and walls. The sodden carpet splashed when he rolled across it in his wheelchair. Mold crept up the drywall and the patterned wallpaper in the kitchen was covered with mildew. In another day-maybe less-the house would be uninhabitable. Then, just like the rest of the town, it would sink beneath the surface.
Eyes still shut, Chris tried to quell his emotions. This wasn’t just a house. It was a home. It had become a part of him, just like the wheelchair. Chris was forty years old and had been a quadriplegic for the last twenty. He had good use of his left arm (except for the fingers), but very limited use of his right. He could not feel his skin or use any muscles below his collarbone. But he managed. He’d never let it slow him down. Never let it stop him from living. There were times of fear, of course. It was a terrifying thing sometimes, being paralyzed. But he’d never let the fear rule him. It didn’t dictate his actions.
So why was he afraid now?
It wasn’t the flooding that scared him. It wasn’t his disability. It wasn’t the fact that they needed to abandon the house immediately or the uncertainty of what would come next. These obstacles could be overcome, as long as Chris had Fran by his side. If the world was ending, then that was fine. He’d go out like Mad Max, in a battery-powered wheelchair instead of a car.
None of these things frightened him.
But Chris was terrified of what he needed to do before they left this place.
Of what he needed to ask Fran.
It scared him in ways the apocalypse couldn’t.
Chris opened his eyes. Fran glided up behind him and sat on the arm of his wheelchair.
“Taking a last look?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“We can’t stay, Chris. You know that, right? The water isn’t stopping.”
“I know. It’s not that.”
“Then what is it? Why the delay? Are you waiting for Poe to come back?”
Poe was their black and silver cat. Chris called him Poo, much to Fran’s chagrin. He’d gotten outside two weeks ago and disappeared.
“No. I know now that Poo isn’t coming back.”
“Okay, then. We really need to get moving, Chris. Today.”
“I know that, too.”
“I’ve got everything packed. Food, matches, extra clothes, blankets. I put what I could into freezer bags. When the backpack gets wet, they should still stay dry.
He noticed that she didn’t say, “if the backpack gets wet.” Instead, it was “when the backpack gets wet.”
Getting wet was a certainty these days.
“How about water?” he asked. “Did you remember that?”
“Yes. It’s weird, having to pack water when there’s so much outside.”
“That water’s full of dead people and gasoline and stuff. I don’t think we want to drink it.”
Fran’s nose wrinkled in disgust.
And that was when the three large skylights in the living room caved in with a loud crash, startling them both. The rubber seals around them had baked in more than a decade of direct sunlight, turning to dust. Chris had kept meaning to have them replaced. Now it was too late. The force of the rain had finally done them in. Rain poured through the holes, splattering across the floor.
“Okay,” Fran shouted over the noise. “That settles it. We have to go. You ready?”
“Not yet. There’s something I have to ask you first.”
“Chris, the house is flooding! Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t. This is important.”
She frowned, concerned. “What is it? Are you worried about the batteries in your chair? Because like I said before-”
“No,” he said. “Not that.”
In truth, he was concerned about the wheelchair. The batteries were almost dead and its movements had become sluggish. There was no way to recharge it without electricity. The combined weight of Chris and his chair was around three hundred and fifty pounds. Unless they were on concrete or asphalt, Fran wouldn’t be able to push him very far. And where they were heading-there wouldn’t be many hard surfaces. Water and mud, but no pavement.
But that wasn’t what Chris was afraid of, either.
“What’s wrong?” Fran’s tone was demanding now. She’d obviously had enough of his stalling.
Ask her, he thought. Jesus Christ, you’ve been together for over two years, ever since you met online. You love each other. What are you afraid of?
Fran gazed at him expectantly.
“Will you…” Chris paused. His face felt flushed. “Will you marry me?”
Fran didn’t respond at first. She stared at him in stunned silence. Then she smiled.
“What took you so long?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was scared. I thought maybe you’d leave some day.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Fran said. “I’m staying till the end of the world.”
“I think that already happened.”
“Yes, I’ll marry you. But if we don’t get out of here now, we’ll never get the chance.”
“You’re right,” Chris agreed. “No more stalling. Let’s go.”
Even though they were dressed for the weather, they were both soaked within minutes. Fran’s long, dark hair was plastered to her head. She adjusted the wet backpack and pushed her bangs out of her face. Cold raindrops ran down into Chris’s eyes. For once, he was glad his sensations were limited. Otherwise, he’d be freezing his ass off right now.
They headed for the mountains, seeking higher ground.
Within minutes, they realized they’d never reach it.
The wheelchair sank into the mud and refused to budge.
And the water began to rise.
Fran got behind the wheelchair and pushed, grunting with the effort. Chris stared over her shoulder.
“Chris, you’ve got to-”
Fran paused. “What’s wrong?”
Chris couldn’t answer. He wanted to, but he was speechless. Fran turned, following his gaze. Her eyes widened when she saw it.
“The water,” she panted, pushing again on the wheel-chair, “is it my imagination, or is it getting higher quicker?”
“It’s not your imagination.”
“Why is it rising so fast?”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “Maybe something’s pushing it higher? That’s how it looks, anyway.”
“We’ve got to do something.”
She shoved harder. The wheelchair sank a few more inches. Mud squelched around the tires and sucked at Fran’s boots. The water lapped at the bottom of the hill, creeping towards them. Another tree fell over, uprooted.
“Come on, you stupid thing.”
“Fran.”
“Come on!”
“Fran!”
“God damn it!”
“FRAN!”
She stopped her efforts and stared at him. Her bottom lip trembled. Chris saw the fear in her eyes. It matched what was in his heart.
“Fran,” he said softly, “I’ll never make it. Not in this thing.”
“Then I’ll carry you.”
“You can’t. I’m too heavy. You’ve got to keep going.”
“I’m not leaving you, Chris.”
“You’ve got no choice, Fran. If you stay here, you’re going to die.”
“Then I’ll die.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Don’t call me stupid. I’m not going anywhere. In case you forgot, I said that I’d stay until the end of the world. And besides, we’re married now.”
Grinning, Chris blinked away more raindrops. “I don’t remember a ceremony.”
“There aren’t any preachers left alive in Cashmere, anyway. But we’re married as far as I’m concerned, and I’m not leaving you.”
They glanced back at the house. The water was definitely rising higher-much faster than anticipated. Already, it covered the windows. The waves lapped towards them, gaining ground with every minute.
“Well, Chris sighed, “this is one hell of a honey-moon.”
He laughed. So did Fran. Then, without a word, she shrugged out of the backpack and let it splash into the mud. Her raincoat and shirt went next, followed by her jeans. Then she stood before him, naked, her body slick and wet, her nipples stiff in the chilly air. Sighing, Chris drank her in. His own body responded to the visual and emotional stimuli. Despite being paralyzed from the neck down, he was still capable of getting reflex erections. Judging by the look in Fran’s eyes as she slipped his clothes off, he had one now.
“What are you thinking?” Fran asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“That I wish I could sweep you off your feet.”
“You do, Chris. You do.”
