A Land of Ash
an Anthology by David Dalglish
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2010 David Dalglish
Table of Contents:
One Last Dinner Party
Alone on the Mountain
Shelter
Beach Puppies
Toward the Storm
Last Words
Refugees
A Harmless American
Secret Mission
The One That Matters
Let It Continue
One Last Dinner Party
“Try and hurry back,” Wilma told Oren as he climbed into his rusted blue Ford. “If you’re out too long I’ll get worried, and it’s a devil to put blush on when my face gets red like it does.”
“Don’t you worry,” said her husband. “Ring the Pankratz while I’m gone. Maybe they’ll change their minds.”
“I don’t think they will,” she said. “They have family down in Texas, though god knows what the roads look like since the…”
“Just try.”
He drove into town, dirt billowing behind his truck. The Dollar Store would have been cheaper, but he turned down Main instead for Hank’s Groceries. Hank waited outside, his ankles crossed, his arms calmly folded over his belly, and a loaded shotgun tilted upward by his feet. Oren pulled up, shoved it into park, and shut off the ignition.
“Morning,” Hank shouted as the roaring engine died. “I was wondering if you’d show.”
“Yeah,” Oren said. While climbing out, he made a grunting noise and gestured to the shotgun. “Hope you haven’t had to use that.”
“I’ve let people take what they want,” Hank said. His voice sounded tired, and the puffy darkness below his eyes signified tears, drink, or both. “The first couple families cleared me out. The rest wander around like stunned mules. I let ‘em see everything’s gone, and then they go, usually holding something weird. You know those filters for the big window air conditioners? Had a guy walk out holding ten, all I had. What in Jesus’s name he think he’s going to do with them?”
“I’m sorry,” Oren said, as if the whole mess were his fault. He certainly sounded like he thought it was his fault.
“Think nothing of it,” Hank said. “Though I’m glad to be talking to someone who’s not waving a gun in my face. You hear about the Dollar Store?”
Oren turned to the side, spat, and then shook his head.
“Glenda lock it up tight, I take it?” he asked.
“Not like it did any good. There’s a reason my door is wide open, Oren, because if it weren’t, I doubt you and Wilma would ever see my ugly face again. Besides, not like money means anything, not anymore.”
Oren glanced inside. Every wall and shelf was stripped bare. He caught a puddle of what looked like milk spilled across the floor of one aisle, apple sauce in another. He felt a bit of pity for old Hank, and he clapped the guy once on the shoulder.
“Looks like me and Wilma will make do with what we have at the house,” he said. “You’re welcome to come with.”
“Nah,” Hank said. He glanced back at his store, and he looked uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I planned on climbing up to the roof, drag up one of my lawn chairs, and sit up there. And wait, you know? When did they say the whole shitstorm would start?”
“About four-thirty,” Oren said. “Though you never know. Weathermen are hardly better than the farmer’s almanac. Hell, a coin flip does better than them, I heard once.”
“Yeah?” said Hank. “I think they’re right about this one, though. They wouldn’t dare fuck this up. I take it your radio’s out, too?”
“Every station. I checked on the drive here.”
A bit of awkward silence followed, and at last Oren turned to his truck. When he waved, a bit of the hardness in Hank’s face broke.
“You know,” Hank said. “I stashed a few things when I heard. Not much, not like the hoarders with their water and flour and god knows what else. But enough for a good meal. I’ll come by in a bit, once I say goodbye to the old place. Thirty years. Thirty goddamn years, mopping the floor with my sweat and paying bills with my blood. And for what, Oren? For what?”
He looked ready to cry. Oren frowned, not accustomed to such easy emotions from another man. Unsure of what to do, he hopped into his truck and slammed the door.
“Come say hello to Wilma,” he said. “She’d like that.”
“She’s a sweet gal,” said Hank. “Anyone else going to be there?”
Oren started the truck. As the engine banged, he continued talking, the satisfying rumble easing the nerves he had felt building during his conversation.
“Wilma’s trying the Pankratz,” he half-shouted. “Don’t think they’ll be coming. The Williams will be there. Kids were living in California, so Thelma’s pretty shook up, and Roy isn’t taking it much better. They needed the company, so…”
His voice trailed off. Hank resumed leaning against the front of his store and braced the shotgun across his lap.
“Go straight home,” he shouted. “Stay away from the highway; the roads are hell right now.”
Oren had a thought to tell him that the whole world would soon be hell, not just the highway, but kept his mouth shut. He drove home to his wife.
Wilma had done well applying her blush, along with the rest of her makeup. She had on a modest white dress and her finest jewelry. Oren felt a tug of memory at the forty Easter services he had attended with his wife. They’d had two kids, and through fevers, snot, tantrums, and teenage rebellion, they’d dragged them into their small community church year after year. Their eldest, Julie, had married a German man at college and moved to New York. They’d managed to talk with her about two minutes before the cell phones went dead. Julie had sounded scared but holding together well.
“I wish I was home, daddy,” she said only moments before the static. “That’s all I want right now, I want to be…”
Oren wiped a tear from his cheek. A part of him was glad that his son Jerry was not alive to see everyone so afraid. He’d been born slow in the head. He could wipe his ass, but that was the most complex set of actions he could manage by himself. A seizure had claimed him in his thirties. He might have lived, Oren had told the lawyers that, but the home had been too full of difficult patients and poorly-trained attendees. His son had died thrashing and shitting himself, unable to call for help, and by the time someone noticed, he’d nearly chewed off his own tongue.
Poor Jerry, he thought. Never could watch nothing but Disney shows. Hospitals are crowded so bad they’re worthless; that’s what the television said before it went blank, anyway. God, what would it be like at a rest home? Would the nurses even stay?
He doubted it. He felt pity for all the elderly and retarded, but he clamped that emotion down. Pity was a dangerous thing, for there were too many, just too many, and a man could become overwhelmed. There were the elderly, the sick, the pregnant, the nursing, the little babes, the orphans, the poor…they’d die. All of them. Just like the rest of North America.
Hell, if he was going to pity anyone, he’d pity Wilma and himself.
“Did they have any?” Wilma asked as Oren got out of his truck.
He shook his head.
“Cleaned out. He didn’t have a lick of spit left to sell.”
The wrinkles on his wife’s face pulled back tight across her jaw.
“Not even the zucchini? Cripes, no one liked it before, but I can’t make my lasagna without it, Oren. I thought, surely, it’s just zucchini, they’ll take the water and the flour and the meat, but not the zucchini…”
She wasn’t crying; she more appeared to be leaking out the corners of her eyes. Her voice never wavered. Oren wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He felt her quivering against his chest, and he had a strange image of himself as a child holding a scared rabbit.
“You’ll make do,” he said. “We raised two kids on water and hope. You can manage your lasagna without zucchini.”
Wilma sniffed. When she pulled back, she reminded him less of a rabbit and more like an old tree, its bark peeling and its leaves fallen, but the roots still firm in the ground. He kissed her cheek, and she smiled at him.
“You’re right,” she said. “Not often, but when you are, you are.”
Oren was not much for baking, and even with the end of the world approaching, he felt awkward in the kitchen. After a few clumsy attempts at separating pasta and chopping tomatoes, his little bat of a wife ushered him out the door.
“Go get a fire going,” she said. “Thelma will be fine with my lasagna, but you know Roy. If it wasn’t mooing, he don’t want it.”
Three squirts of lighter fluid were enough to get the charcoal going. He’d known others that’d drown the coals with fluid for an easy light, but that felt wasteful to Oren. It seemed a silly thing to worry about, but some habits are hard to break after sixty-five years, and that was one.
They’d kept a giant freezer full of meat on their porch ever since they bought their first pig thirty years ago. A few of their neighbors had swung by since morning, right after the news first hit the air. They all had a desperate, embarrassed look on their faces, as if they were ashamed to steal but knowing they would anyway. Sighing, Oren gently nudged the coals about with a poker, trying to forget that he was building his last fire.
What the hell, he thought. He grabbed the lighter fluid and gave it a healthy squeeze. With a satisfying roar, it flared high above the grill. Oren jumped backward, letting out a ‘whoa’ before laughing. It felt good to laugh.
The first of the steaks was on the grill when Thelma and Roy pulled up in a brown Chevy that was ten years passed its date with a junkyard. Oren continued plopping down and flipping steaks, preferring to let his wife handle the initial greeting. From the corner of his eye, he saw them climb out of the car. Thelma wore a black dress and an old hat that reminded him of Jackie Kennedy. Roy, meanwhile, wore a tux that had served him reliably for the past ten years.
Absurd, thought Oren as his wife wrapped them both in a hug. My wife’s going to Easter, Roy a wedding, and Thelma a funeral. What’s so wrong with jeans? If I’m going to die, I’ll die comfortable, not like a stuffed Barbie doll.
His wife led Thelma into the den while Roy wandered over to check on the fire. It was a habit of his; quite possibly a habit of every man. All roaring fires needed communal assessment.
“Looking good,” Roy said, sounding as if Oren should be pleased by his seal of approval. “Hotter than normal for you, though. In a hurry?”
“We’ve got an hour,” Oren said. “And I’ll be damned if I don’t get to eat my steak first.”
He stole a glance at Roy. The man had a haggard look to his face, and his bloodshot eyes made him look damned, steak or not.
“Thelma baked up a pie,” Roy said. “Well, cobbler really. Peach. It was Randy’s favorite, you know? His…” His words drifted off, and Oren kept his eyes fixed on the fire so he didn’t have to see the tears.
“We had no word from there,” Roy said after composing himself. “News said the satellites and radios were knocked out immediately. But the winds coming from the ocean, they might push it away, right? Randy and Susan are south of Yellowstone, maybe it’s far enough, and the winds will just push it our way. You think there’s a chance of that, Oren? Do you?”
Oren flipped a steak.
“No,” he said. He could imagine the tiny thread of hope that his friend clung to, and while a part of him thought to let him hang on, another couldn’t bear to lie. “I don’t think so, Roy. Not from what I was hearing. Not from what the TV was showing.”
Roy nodded. More tears ran down his cheeks, but he wasn’t sobbing, and his voice was firm when he talked.
“I can keep hoping though, right? Who knows, I may walk up to Jesus and ask for my little boy and girl, and he’ll look at me like I’m a simple-minded fool and say, ‘You beat them here, Roy, but don’t you worry, time flies up here, it’ll fly, and before you know you’ll be seeing them again.’ You don’t know everything, Oren, and that damn TV knows even less.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Oren said, though he didn’t think he was.
Hank arrived when they were pulling the steaks off the grill. The two women had joined them outside, iced drinks in hand. When Hank stepped out of his Ford, he held a giant 24-pack of Bud like it was a basket of gold.
“Nothing I had could match your cooking,” Hank said to Wilma. “But this here’s something.”
Wilma accepted a can, but Thelma refused. Her makeup had run from a recent crying fit. Her wig was askew, revealing a bit of the gray underneath. She looked much like a deer staring at a pair of oncoming headlights, baffled and unable to move. They were all like that, Oren realized. Soon they’d see headlights in the western sky, and they’d stare in wonder. Like the deer, they’d stayed put, unmoving, unblinking, waiting for its approach.
Oren hoped it’d be quick, like a speeding car, and hurt for even less.
The steaks finished before the lasagna. Oren slapped a few hot dogs on the fire, doubting anyone would eat them but seeing no point in keeping them. As they cooked, he listened as Thelma told stories about their children to Wilma while Roy quietly sipped a beer nearby. The tales of diaper changes and midnight scares and faulty pregnancy tests brought Oren’s mind back to Julie in New York, and he wished that Thelma would talk about something else. Their life was soon to end; did they have to sulk about it?
Shame they cancelled the baseball games, he thought. Could use a good distraction.
The two women went inside, and after a moment, Roy followed.
“He looks like hell,” Hank said, crunching up an empty can in his fist.
“We all do,” Oren said.
Hank chuckled, still holding the can. A queer smile crossed his face, and looking like a naughty schoolchild, he tossed it to the ground.
“Might make an Indian cry,” he said, “but I think they got bigger things to shed tears for lately.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Oren said. “God, I just want to watch one more ball game. Cardinals had a shot this year, you know? Seems silly, but I always knew I’d go one day, and Wilma probably soon after, but the Cardinals…they’re supposed to go on forever. No more seasons, now. No more records. No more playoffs. It’s a goddamn shame.”
Oren piled the hot dogs onto a large plate, directly atop the steaks. When he glanced up, he saw Wilma at the door wearing a look he knew well.
“Supper’s ready,” he told Hank. “Let’s get to it.”
They ate outside. The weather had already grown chillier, but none of them could bear the idea of being cooped up indoors. They piled their plates atop a circular white patio table, devouring lasagna and steaks and beer with ravenous appetites. Even Wilma, a notorious light eater, devoured two helpings of lasagna plus a third of a dog.
Conversation remained light until Thelma said what had obviously been on her mind the whole day.
“Today’s the Rapture,” she announced. “It has to be. God wouldn’t let our good Christian nation be wiped out unless he’s preparing for the end.”
“I don’t know,” Hank said. “The local stations lasted a bit longer than the cable, and they had on a little spitfire in a suit shouting about how this was our punishment. We’ve gotten too sinful, you know? We’re like a modern day Sodom, and hallelujah, we’re all about to become pillars of salt.”
He chuckled, but Oren saw no humor in it. He didn’t think either of them was right, but he sure wasn’t going to say so. Thelma flushed a deep red, as if insulted that someone might disagree.
“If the Rapture’s come,” Hank continued, “then why are you still here?”
Shut your mouth, Oren thought. Just shut your damn mouth.
“Because,” Thelma said, “the angels are in the clouds. They’ll get us when it hits, just like they got Randy and Susan.”
“There ain’t no angels in that fucking cloud!” Hank was shouting but didn’t appear to know it. “If Randy and Susan are in heaven, they got there the old fashioned way; by coughing until their lungs bled and their eyeballs…”
“Enough!” Oren shouted. His abrupt stand knocked his little plastic chair sprawling. He glared at Hank, who stared back with tears in his eyes.
“You got ten minutes,” Oren said. “Maybe you should go back to your store. You can take my chair.”
“I reckon I’d rather stay,” Hank said. He glanced over to Thelma. “I’m sorry, really I am. Just scared is all. I hope you’re right. Never considered myself a good Christian man, but I think today I’m terrified enough to try. Think the angels will grab me?”
Thelma was too busy wiping at her tears, but Wilma piped in with her usual perfect timing.
“Bible says god refuses no man who asks humbly enough,” she said. “Humble ain’t your nature, Hank. Try it for today, and we might all make it through just fine. Right, Oren?”
“Right,” he said.
Everyone pushed away their food. Wilma brought out the peach cobbler and spooned out massive servings for everyone. Oren could only pick at it. Cobbler might have been Randy’s favorite, but it sure wasn’t his. When he looked around, he noticed no one else was eating, either. It was his fault, he realized.
Ten minutes, I shouted. What is wrong with me? Why’d I have to remind everyone?
But now it was only eight minutes. Oren felt almost angry at the clock. It had crawled by all day, but once he was with friends, it burst into a frantic sprint. All around were sad smiles and faces wet with tears. What a way to end the world: together at one last dinner party, sobbing like children and snarling at each other like dogs.
“Let’s get the chairs over to the front lawn,” Oren said. “We’re all thinking it, so let’s stop pretending. We’ll get a good look at the western sky from there.”
“Are you sure?” Wilma asked. “We’ve still got some time before…”
“I’m sure,” Oren said, and that ended the discussion.
Wilma and Oren sat next to each other on their lawn chairs. Hank sat opposite them and the Williams. Oren thanked god for small favors. Once positioned, they took their beers (even Thelma had one) and toasted the sky. The clouds were soft and gray, but looming behind them seemed to be a storm thick with a substance more solid than rain and more frightening than thunder. Oren checked his watch. Five minutes at the most, assuming the weathermen knew what they were doing.
“Breathe in deep,” Hank said to no one in particular. “I heard that makes it quickest. Coughing only drags it out.”
The left side of Thelma’s face twitched, but she held her tongue.
A breeze picked up from the west, so sudden in its strength that Thelma had no time to grab her hat before it sailed across the lawn. For a moment, she looked ready to chase after, and then decided otherwise. The clouds rolled across the sky, pushed on by an unseen wave. Another gust of wind hit them, and it was surprisingly warm. Oren felt Wilma grab his hand and squeeze it tight. He squeezed back.
The clouds broke, and the sun shone down on them from a beautiful blue sky. The wind seemed to pause for a moment, as if respectful of the momentary calm. Oren heard a little ‘oh’ from his wife, and even Hank grunted in surprise. When the wind returned, and clouds shadowed their faces, Oren felt like the last remnant of peace in the world had died.
“Will it hurt?” Thelma asked.
“Just a cough,” Hank replied. “Just like a bad cough.”
Rolling toward them, an eager minute early, was the ash cloud from the Yellowstone Caldera’s eruption. It grumbled dark and thick, and within it they saw lightning. A soft white, like the foam of a wave, rushed ahead. With a blast of hot air, they felt it hit. Like a desert wind, it burned the back of their throats and nostrils. Roy shouted something, but Oren could not hear him. Then the air slowed, although the heat remained. The light of the sun faded. The roar left their ears.
“Look,” Oren said, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Falling in thick, twirling pieces was what looked like snow. It fell upon their hands, their hair, their faces. It was warm to the touch. When they brushed it across their skin, it left a gray smear.
“Sweet Jesus,” said Wilma.
The rest of the ash cloud covered the sky, ramming away the white. It was so thick, so monstrous, that night fell. Oren felt his wife’s hand tremble in his, and he clutched it tight. High above, thunder roared.
In the darkness, Thelma was the first to cough.
Alone on the Mountain
By David McAfee
3 Days Left
He lived off the grid. He hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to anyone in years, but if he had, that’s what he would have told them; that he lived off the grid. His house was a shallow cave in the side of the mountain. The lip of the cave, along with the slight overhang, kept the rain out, and during the winter his door - nothing more than a few branches woven together and covered in brush to make it like foliage - kept the heat in. He’d chosen the place because of the natural chimney at the back. He could light a fire to keep the cave warm while the smoke traveled through the crack in the ceiling and went only God knew where.
Additionally, the cave’s position in the mountainside afforded him an incredible view of the valley below. If a bear or a deer walked by, he’d know about it long before the animal knew he was close.
It worked on people, too.
Granted, few humans came this way. But every once in a while some hiker would get lost or some would-be survivalist tromped through the valley. Even a handful of hunters had come through here over the years, with their bright orange vests and the smell of soap that even he could smell from a hundred feet away. No wonder they never caught anything. They didn’t know how to truly blend in. Most of the time they kept on moving, never even looking up.
They miss so much that way, he thought. Eyes on the ground or on the trees around them, watching for predators. If only they’d look up.
Still, it suited him. The less time they spent in his world, the less likely they were to find him. Even after fifteen years, he still lived in fear that someday others would find him and bring him back. Not that he had much to go back to. But they’d try. Oh, Hell yes, they would try. He could picture it now.
Don’t you miss running water?
A creek ran at the base of the valley. Plenty of running water.
What about your family?
Fuck ‘em. They’re probably all dead by now, anyway.
But the world has changed so much. There have been so many advances.
Keep ‘em. I’m fine right here.
He didn’t actually know if there had been any advances; it was just a guess. The fact was there were always advances out there. Everything needed to be better, smarter, faster, or stronger. The world got itself in a big ass hurry and didn’t want to slow down to see what it was running from. So fuck ‘em. Fuck all of ‘em.
Out here the only thing that ever changed was the weather, and he liked it that way. This time of year, the squirrels darted around the valley floor, gathering food for the coming winter. The deer would be storing some extra body fat and growing thicker fur. Soon they’d be surviving on moss and tree bark. Every Fall, it was the same thing.
He looked down into the valley below, prepared to count the squirrels. He’d named a few of them, and spoke their names when they came into view. But he was never really sure if they were the same. All the squirrels looked alike after a few years. Besides, it made it harder to eat them if you named ‘em.
For a minute, he couldn’t tell what was wrong with the picture, but then it hit him. There were no squirrels. No deer, either. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen any all day. Strange. The woods were usually teaming with the little chatterboxes this time of year. Could there be people in his valley? Maybe they scared off all the game. He’d have to check it out. Squirrels weren’t the only ones who needed to store food for the winter.
He got to his feet, but stumbled as a feeling of vertigo took him and his knee gave way, making him fall on his ass. The years were catching up to him, it seemed. Soon the pain in his knuckles would be so severe he doubted he’d be able to numb them with herbs anymore. But the alternative was unthinkable. He couldn’t go back. Not after so many years out here. He’d just have to deal with—
Strange, the vertigo should have passed when he sat down, but instead it grew even more intense. He stared at the trees in the valley, noting how they, too, seemed to be swaying on unsteady legs. Then he realized the truth.
His legs weren’t unsteady, the ground was.
Earthquake, he thought, and a hum-dinger, too. There hadn’t been a quake in his remote section of eastern Kentucky in years. Not since right after he came here. And none this severe. He looked up and saw that several large rocks had come loose and were bounding down the mountain toward him. He scrambled to his feet and ducked into his cave just as a rock about two feet across slammed the spot where he’d been standing only a moment ago.
Staying in the cave wasn’t smart. If the quake got any worse the whole thing could collapse. But stepping out into a rainstorm of rocks and rubble seemed an equally bad idea. He was just trying to figure out on which death he should take his chances when the quake stopped. It didn’t ease off or slow down to a steady rumble, it just quit, as suddenly as it began.
He stood at the entrance of the cave, listening to the sound of birds as they returned to the valley. Soon the squirrels were back, too. Bouncing along and picking up nuts and acorns. Chattering and running through the valley in their search for food.
Weird. It almost seemed like the animals had been expecting the quake.
He shook the thought from his mind and grabbed his sling. He had a shotgun, but he’d long ago run out of shells. Over the last decade, he’d gotten damn handy with a strip of cloth and a baseball sized rock, though, and he could take out a deer from thirty steps away. He stepped out of the cave and into the valley, reminding himself that food would be scarce in the coming months.
By the time he returned to his cave with half a dozen dead squirrels and a wild turkey slung over his shoulder, he’d forgotten all about the quake.
2 Days Left
He sat outside on the ledge, drying the meat over hot coals. He’d need a lot of it to get through the winter. Not that he wouldn’t be able to hunt at all; the game would still be around, there would just be less of it. Far better to have too much dried meat and not need it all than to run out halfway through the winter because he thought a deer might happen by. He was never a boy scout, but he still liked being prepared. After fifteen years on his mountain, he knew how to make it through the cold winter.
Once the meat was suitably dried out, he stuffed it into a pouch. The pouch was made of deerskin and lined with a wax he made by melting animal fats and combining it with tree sap. Completely watertight. He hung it on the back wall, next to half a dozen others. Seven bags of food in all. Still not quite enough. But if he could bag a deer this afternoon, that should make up the difference. He grabbed his sling and a handful of stones, and after a moment took his old BEAR compound bow from the wall and grabbed his three remaining arrows. He tested the string. The wax-coated nylon had held up well. He thought it would last another season or two before he had to replace it. He might be able to make a suitable string out of deer hide, but he didn’t know for sure and hadn’t been willing to risk finding out yet.
Satisfied that he was ready, he stepped out into the sunlight.
The valley stretched out below him, a breathtaking sea of reds, yellows, and oranges. Here and there a few still-green leaves held on to their chlorophyll, and of course the pines and firs still bore green needles, but for the most part the valley looked like God had splashed a bucket of paint on it and walked away. The Appalachian Mountain chain was so beautiful this time of year. He stood at the mouth of his cave, taking in the view.
This is why I left Nashville, he thought. Right here. right now. This could be Heaven.
Except in Heaven, he probably wouldn’t be hungry.
After a few minutes spent admiring the view, he trundled down the side of the mountain, watching for any sign of deer or bear. There were also mountain lions, coyotes, and even a few wolves scattered around the area, so he stayed on full watch. Coyotes would leave him alone unless he looked weak or sick, and wolves would lose him if he took to the trees. But if he met up with a mountain lion...well, he just hoped he didn’t run into one. That was the reason for the bow. He wouldn’t use the arrows on game, it was too easy to lose or break one. But his sling wouldn’t do any good against a hungry cat that outweighed him by eighty pounds.
Once he reached the valley floor, he headed left. About two miles south of his cave was a secluded spring where deer often congregated. It should be easy enough to kill one once he arrived. He didn’t usually go that far while hunting, especially when his hands hurt, but a single deer could finish off his stores and make sure he had enough to eat all winter long. For that kind of peace of mind, he’d make the trip.
About halfway to the spring he noticed the woods around him went quiet again. His feet made a slight crinkle as he walked through the dead pine needles and dried out leaves, not even fifteen years could erase all the sounds of his passage, but his steps sounded a little louder without the background noise of the woods to diffuse it.
He stopped to listen. Nothing. Not a single bird, squirrel, or even field mouse made its presence known. Weird. It felt almost like the animals were afraid.
Then he heard it. Animals. Big ones. Somewhere behind him, and not far. Not the high pitched yip of a coyote, but the deeper, stronger bark of wolves. He turned around just in time to see a big one leap through the trees twenty yards away and run right at him. An instant later, two more bounded from the brush.
Shit.
He turned and ran, hoping to get to a sturdy pine about fifty feet away. The low branch would be perfect to haul himself up, if only he could get there. The sounds of the wolves at his back grew louder, their barks and yips coming closer to his heels. By the sound of it, several more wolves had joined the first three. The entire pack must be right behind him, but he didn’t want to turn his head and risk tripping over a root or rock.
Twenty five feet to go. The first wolf was only a few feet behind him. He would never make it.
So this is how it ends, he thought.
The first wolf was right on top of him. He could hear the big canine’s labored breath. He could almost feel it on the back of his neck. A few more steps and those teeth would be in his calf, or his hamstring, or maybe even the back of his neck. In his last seconds, he whispered a prayer, asking for a quick death. Just a few steps more...
The wolf ran by him without stopping. The other wolves in the pack did likewise.
It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t dead yet, but as the fourth wolf passed him by without so much as a glance he reached the pine. Not willing to take a chance on any of the other wolves, he grabbed the branch and hauled himself up. He reached for the next branch and pulled himself up on that one, too. Then just to be safe, he went up one more level. That should be high enough, he thought.
He looked down and saw the last few wolves run by the base of the tree. None of them even glanced in his direction. They sped by, their breathing hard and labored, as though they’d been running for a long time. But what could they be running from? Hunters? Maybe, but he doubted it. It would take a lot to scare a pack of wolves that size into running away.
Maybe it was something environmental. He sniffed the air, trying to detect any evidence of fire. But there was nothing. No smoke, no ash, just a calm serenity that felt eerily out of place in the valley at this time of year.
After waiting for about thirty minutes to make sure the wolves didn’t return, he started to climb down the tree. He was about halfway down when the tree started to shake. A quick glance around told him other trees were shaking, too.
Another earthquake? That made two of them in as many days. What the hell was going on? He decided to wait this one out in the tree. After about five minutes, the earth stilled, and he climbed the rest of the way down.
He turned back toward his cave, forgetting about the spring and any deer that might be there. Odds were good the wolves would have scared them off, anyway. The walk back was filled with dark, worried thoughts about the coming winter.
One Day Left
The quake woke him up. He’d been dreaming about sailing on rough seas, which he’d never done, and when he woke up he found the rocking motion of the sea had been replaced by the violent rumbling and shaking of the ground underneath him. The whole cave pitched back and forth as though it were on a huge vibrating bed. Outside, rocks tumbled past the entrance, some small, others the size of full-grown black bears.
He got to his feet, determined not to be in the cave if the ceiling fell in, and lurched his way to the opening. Once there, he steeled his resolve and ran through the cascade of falling rocks, hoping to skate through without getting crushed.
A jagged rock the size of a softball grazed his shoulder, drawing a deep gash about four inches long, but he made it outside otherwise unharmed. Once he was clear of the entrance, he didn’t stop, knowing that rocks and debris would cascade down the mountain as long as the ground continued to shake. He sprinted down the slope, hoping to find a safe point in the valley to wait out the quake.
He stumbled and fell more than once as the ground lurched and bucked underneath his feet. Rocks and tree limbs fell all around him like hail, but he managed to stay clear of the larger pieces. At one point a boulder the size of a small car rolled by, but he dove to the side just in time to avoid being turned into pulp. The boulder rumbled past, taking its own mini quake with it. Just as he thought he was safe a smaller stone clipped the side of his head and sent him to the ground in a spasm of vertigo and pain.
He lay there, about twenty feet off the valley floor, panting for breath. His lungs burned, and he knew he needed to get up, but he couldn’t move. The pain in his hands faded as the new pain in his head took center stage. He sat up, and immediately vomited. He hadn’t eaten much the night before, but that didn’t stop his stomach from clenching and spewing a puddle of bile across the rocky ground. After the pain in his belly subsided and he could once again draw breath, he sat, dizzy and disoriented, waiting for the next big boulder to end his life.
And then, as if turned off by a light switch, the quake ended.
In the valley below, animals ran madly to the east. Bear, coyotes, rabbits, squirrels, and deer sped by, their eyes wide with fear. He even spotted a cougar speeding along the valley floor, heedless of the many morsels nearby it as it ran to safety. In the sky, clouds of birds blocked out the sun as they flew east, as well.
Where were they going?
More importantly, why were they going?
As he watched the endless parade of wildlife make tracks eastward, he came to a decision. The animals must know something he didn’t. If they were running east, then by God, he would go, too.
He scanned the mountain’s face. His home for the last fifteen years. He could just make out the entrance to his cave among the rubble. He’d need supplies, and all his supplies were in the cave. At bare minimum he’d need his knife and something to carry water. He could hunt with the knife, if he had to. He’d rather have his sling, of course, but at this point he’d take what he could get.
He climbed slowly back up to his cave. The climb took longer than normal because of the many cracks and rocks that had been displaced. In many places, his old route was completely covered up and he had to find other ways around. He stayed alert, not wanting to be caught off guard if another quake came, even though he knew there wasn’t much point. He didn’t have any place to go. If the earth started to shake again, he’d be pitched off the side of the mountain like a dislodged rock.
But the quakes didn’t return, and aside from a few scrapes on his hands and elbows, he made it to the cave more or less unscathed. He looked up at the sun. Mid afternoon. Probably around 2 or 3 o’clock. The climb had taken him half a day. No wonder he was exhausted. Down in the valley, the animals continued their mad dash eastward. A pack of wolves padded by, leaving a group of quail in relative peace as the flightless birds made their own haste. He would be joining them soon, but he needed tools. And a weapon. Wherever those animals were going, they’d get hungry sooner or later. He had no intention of surviving an earthquake just to become dinner for a panicked bear or a starving band of coyotes.
The entrance to the cave was partially covered by rocks and pieces of broken trees, and he wasted another hour clearing an opening big enough for him to get through and take a few supplies with him. Once inside, he was surprised at how relatively unscathed the inside of the cave was. A few packs of dried meat had fallen off the wall, and a few small rocks had settled onto his pallet, but other than that it looked much like it was supposed to look.
I could have stayed in here and been just fine, he thought, rubbing the side of his head where the rock hit. The lump had grown to the size of a duck egg, and hurt to touch. He forced himself to remain still while he poured cold water into the wound, as well as the one on his shoulder. Then he wrapped both in strips of cloth he tore from his threadbare blanket. It wasn’t much, but it would do the job.
His wounds tended, he grabbed two packs of dried meat and a canteen of water. The canteen held two quarts, which would be enough to get from one body of water to the next, at least until he reached the eastern foothills. Once there, he would be out of familiar territory and would have to search for water. He’d done it before, though, and he could do it again. His old leather sack hung on a wooden pike set into the floor, and he grabbed it, filling it with all the spare clothing he had left. If he were stuck outside in the coming winter, he’d need every scrap, and probably more. Finally, he grabbed his bow and three remaining arrows. They would be clumsy to carry, but he’d feel better having them along.
He squeezed his supplies through the opening, then pushed his way through the hole and out into the sunlight. The sun’s position told him it was close to six o’clock. He only had a couple hours of daylight left. Better make the most of them.
Below him, the number of animals running east had thinned considerably. He didn’t want to think about what that might mean. Using a strong, sturdy stick for balance, he set off down the slope. It had been a long time since he’d carried this much on his back, and his aching muscles and joints let him know they didn’t appreciate the extra weight. He ignored the protests of his aging body.
Halfway down, and still a good eighty feet above the valley floor, he slipped in some loose rocks. Overbalanced by his heavy load, he was unable to correct himself, and tumbled over the edge. He saw the rock ledge below him, and braced for the impact.
There was a sudden, blinding flash of pain, then nothing at all.
Ash
He drifted slowly back to consciousness, more a gradual increase of awareness than actual clear thought. He didn’t open his eyes, preferring the dark of his eyelids. His head throbbed, a constant pounding that threatened to make him nauseous again. He rolled onto his side and dry heaved. There was nothing in his stomach to expel.
Pain assaulted him from every angle. His head felt like it had split open. His arm screamed a fiery curse at the rest of his body, and his left leg felt broken. But if he didn’t open his eyes, he could go back to sleep, and then the pain would go away.
Through the fog of dizziness and pain, he caught a strange smell in the air. It almost smelled like smoke, but not quite. It smelled more like ashes. As if the world had burned to death while he was unconscious. He didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be good.
He tried to lose himself into the darkness again. But the more he tried, the more the pain kept him awake. Finally. He couldn’t ignore it anymore, and he tried to open his eyes. The lids were stuck together by some gummy, sticky mess - probably blood - and he had to open them with the fingers on his good arm.
It took a moment for his eyes to focus. He lay on a rocky outcrop about twenty feet off the valley floor. He must have bounced along a little further down the slope after hitting the ledge. That would certainly account for the pain in his arm and leg, which shouted at him even louder now that he was conscious again. He had some herbs in his pack that might help, although if his leg were truly broken they wouldn’t do much good. He’d need a splint, and he damn sure wasn’t going anywhere for a while.
The world around him had a soft, gray quality, as though he’d awakened at dusk or early dawn. He could not see the sun through the haze. The sky was thick with gray clouds. And it was snowing.
Already? he thought. It’s not time yet. And it’s nowhere near cold enough.
He took another look, noting the dingy gray color of the flakes falling from the sky. Not snow, he realized, but something else.
One of the flakes landed on his forearm, and he noticed for the first time that there were hundreds of them covering his body.
Ash.
He brushed the ashes off his arm, immediately regretting it as another flare of pain shot through him. He almost screamed, but held it in, lest some hungry predators hear him and think about a nice, helpless meal.
He coughed. A thick wad of gray matter shot from his mouth to smack into the dingy tree to his right. Not good.
Down in the valley, no animals remained. As the ash piled up, it covered any tracks left behind by the stragglers.
It was getting harder and harder to breathe.
A shadow fell over the valley, and he looked up into the sky. The soft gray clouds had been replaced by an angry black wall.
More ash. Lots more.
He coughed again, his lungs trying desperately to clear themselves. I should have just left with the animals, he thought. Too late, now.
Then the black wall poured into the valley.
Shelter
by David Dalglish
Jason pushed aside the curtains to watch as the rumbling clouds neared. Melissa squirmed in his arms.
“Daddy, I’m scared,” she said.
“We all are,” he told her. “Sit still. This’ll be pretty, I promise.”
“I want to watch Spongebob,” Melissa insisted.
“Not now,” Jason said, his eyes wide as the sky suddenly cleared. Calm red sky shone above, clean, ominous. Then it was gone, a rolling black wall of cloud and ash sweeping over it.
“Daddy, Spongebob!”
Jason kissed the top of her head, wondering if she felt his tears dripping down. He’d give anything to send her to that underwater paradise forever. Instead, he had only his arms, his walls, and his love to offer. The house shook as wind slammed against it. The darkness deepened, broken only by thick bursts of lightning.
“Is it going to rain?” Melissa asked.
“No, sweetie,” he said. “Not now.”
Not ever.
*
It’d taken six rolls of duct tape, but Jason was confident he’d sealed the building. Every side of every window he’d layered. After locking and barring his front door, he’d stuffed old shirts into the crack below, then started taping. He lived in a modular home on his property not too far out of town. He thanked god it was fairly new. Last summer he’d looked at a two-story fixer-upper in the middle of town. The extra room would have been nice, but there’d been so many windows needing fixed, walls painted, and floors retiled that he’d passed. Sitting against the front door, a half-used roll of duct tape in hand, Jason couldn’t imagine trying to seal that old place up.
Melissa sat on the couch, huddled under a mountain of pink princess blankets.
“Can we have candles?” she asked. “The dark is scary.”
“We can’t, babe,” Jason said. “Air is precious now.”
“When will the lights come back on?”
Jason sighed. He debated whether to lie or tell the truth. Biting down on his lower lip, he told the lie. In the darkness, unable to see her wide eyes, it came easy.
“In a week or two. We’ll rough it until then. We’re like pioneers. You read about pioneers in school, right?”
“They lived in dirt houses,” Melissa said. “How’d they keep the bugs out?”
“They didn’t,” Jason said. “The bugs were their friends. They named them and built them little houses to live in beside their cabinets.”
“Daddy!”
“What? They didn’t teach you that in school?”
Jason smiled when he heard her laugh. Thank God for small miracles.
“Tell you what,” he said. “You be a good girl and stay on the couch, and I’ll get us a flashlight.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice muffled by the blankets.
Jason stretched out his arms and took baby steps toward the kitchen, feeling like a blind Frankenstein. Vague blobs grew in the darkness, outlines of the sink or the fridge. He stubbed his toe on a toy, something plastic with wheels. It rolled into kitchen, the sound grating. Without the television, air conditioners, his computer, cars outside, planes above, and water heater below, the resulting quiet was shocking. Sometimes the wind picked up, whipping against the side of his house. Other times the clouds grumbled in angry thunder. But mostly there was silence.
“You okay, dad?” Melissa asked him, sounding so far away.
“I’m fine,” he said. “When the lights come on, you’re cleaning up your toys.”
She didn’t respond, and inwardly he cursed himself. Why’d he have to remind her of what they didn’t have?
His hand brushed the counter. He used it to guide himself along until reaching a drawer he’d purposefully left open. Inside was a handful of flashlights. He grabbed one of the smaller ones and clicked it on. The white microwave shone into view for half a second before he shut it back off. Tempting as it was, he kept it off on his way back to the couch.
“Where you at?” he asked when he felt his toes bump the couch’s edge. “Come on, let’s see, where you hiding?”
He waved his arms around him blindly, and when his fingers brushed blanket, he dove them forward, his fingers tickling. Giggles rewarded his efforts.
“St-stop!” Melissa shouted.
Jason plopped down next to her. He felt her slide closer, her head pressed against his chest.
“You got the flashlight?” she asked.
In answer he aimed it at her face and flicked it twice.
“Dad!” she grumbled, elbowing him. Jason chuckled, then flipped it around in his hand.
“So you still scared?” he asked her.
“A little,” she said.
“Of what? Are there monsters?”
Melissa snorted, as if she were insulted. She was six: way too old to be believing in monsters. It was ghosts she was afraid of.
“I think there’s something in the corner,” she said.
“Which corner?”
“That corner.”
Jason waited a moment.
“Dear, are you pointing?”
Melissa giggled.
“Maybe.”
Jason aimed the flashlight and flicked it on for a half-second, revealing their coat rack.
“No monsters there,” he said.
“Not there!”
He switched places, flicking the light off and on as he continued his elusive search.
“Any monsters there? How about there? Oops, none there, either. What are we looking for again?”
Melissa’s tiny fingers jabbed into his sides and under his arms. Jason laughed, swinging the flashlight down so he could see her face. She smiled up at him, wincing at the bright light. Her hair was a dark mess, wet strands clinging to her cheeks. She was smiling, but it was fragile and trembling. A dammed ocean of tears swirled within her. Come bedtime, he knew she’d let them loose.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, letting the light linger so he could burn the image into his mind. “I’ll be beating the boys away with a stick when you hit high school.”
He flicked off the light. Melissa sniffled, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
“Is mom alright?” she asked after their silence stretched for several minutes.
Jason thought of his ex-wife’s phone call. Karen had been at the office when the news hit.
“It’s only an hour drive,” she’d insisted. “I’ll be back in time, alright? Just please, don’t go anywhere. Promise me, Jason.”
“I won’t,” he’d said.
“Promise.”
“Alright, I promise.”
The drive from her office to his house normally took an hour, but Jason imagined the frantic drivers, the wrecks, the police squads and rioters. When the clouds hit, she’d most likely been in her car, her windows flimsy protection against the tiny granules of ash that poured into her lungs, solidified, and killed her.
Jason kissed Melissa’s fingers.
“She’s fine,” he said. “She’s just late in joining us.”
Thunder rolled.
“She’s with God in heaven, isn’t she?” Melissa asked.
Jason’s eyes ran with tears. He felt his lower lip tremble. He clutched his daughter to his chest and fought the trembling of his voice.
“I hope so,” he told her. “I really do.”
Melissa broke, same as he. In the darkness they cried.
*
Once Melissa was asleep, Jason shifted her to the side and stood. He flicked on the flashlight, wincing at its brightness. Knowing there was nothing so important as this, he calmly and patiently checked the tape. In the thin stream of light, any ash sneaking through would be readily visible. He saw none at the door, nor his bathroom window.
The kitchen had a tiny bit puffing in on one side. An extra layer of duct tape put an end to that. The back door had a bit more coming in, and he smelled the distinct odor of sulfur. Jason used two layers on that one, then sat and watched. Bits of everyday household dust floated before him, but no more ash pushed through the cracks. He wiped a bit of cold sweat from his forehead and continued.
When finished, Jason was satisfied. A little bit of ash might still be filtering in, but nowhere near enough to cause them any immediate danger. It might give him cancer twenty years down the road, but hell, he’d accept the compromise.
In his living room, just beside his computer desk, was a giant window facing west. Jason pulled back the curtain. Outside he saw only darkness. He pressed his fingers to the glass, shocked by the cold. Summer was in mid-swing, but sweltering heat waves were years from returning. He wished he’d bought a gas generator like he’d always wanted to. Too late now. Everything was too late.
He shone his light through the window and stared. Even though he was wasting batteries, he couldn’t make himself shut it off.
“Is it snowing?” he heard Melissa ask from the couch. Jason startled at the sound of her voice.
“It is,” he said. “But it’s warm snow. You wouldn’t like it.”
“Doesn’t feel warm,” Melissa said. “It’s cold in here.”
“Stay under the blankets,” he told her. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
Thick flakes of ash fell through his beam of light, drifting lazily downward. Everything he saw was covered in a thin layer of gray and white. The sight was oddly beautiful. He felt a bit uneasy watching it fall. It was too gray, he decided. It lacked the purity of snow. More worrisome was the way it covered the ground. Every blade of grass, every flower, lay crumpled flat by the weight. A heavy snow. A killing snow.
He shut off the flashlight.
*
Jason’s watch claimed it was half past nine, but still the outside remained dark. Slowly he rubbed his eyes and tried to convince his body daytime had arrived. Melissa had awoken every couple of hours throughout the night, crying hysterically and asking for her mother. The first few times Jason had whispered to her, telling stories and zapping monsters with his flashlight. The final time he’d simply held her and silently cried.
“You hungry?” he asked as he pushed the blankets off and stood.
“I guess,” Melissa said.
He didn’t turn on the flashlight until he reached the kitchen. Opening and closing cabinet doors, he looked for what might go bad first. The most obvious was the cereal, sickly sweet and coated with sugar. He poured two great bowls and opened the refrigerator. He yanked out the milk, hoping to keep in the cold for as long as possible. Food coloring from the marshmallows swirled the milk red and pink as Jason poured. Popping on the lid, he flung it back into the fridge, closed it with his hip, and then plopped two spoons into the bowls.
“Soup’s up,” he said, his voice muffled by the flashlight in his teeth. He carried a bowl in each hand. By the time he set them down upon the table, his jaw ached. Flicking the flashlight about, he shone it near Melissa’s bowl until she sat down before it. With a click, he shut it off.
“I can’t see,” she whined.
“You can eat cereal in the dark,” he said. “Not rocket science.”
“You would say that,” Melissa muttered.
The cereal was far from his favorite, but Jason ate every bit. His search through the cabinets hadn’t been very hopeful. Much of what he had, things like macaroni, spaghetti, and noodles, needed boiled. Thankfully he had cans of soup, which would help a ton. There was plenty of juice and soda in his fridge, which would last far longer than the milk. He’d tried the faucet only once, and the gray smudge that spurted out was certainly nothing he planned on drinking.
Milk dribbling down his chin, Jason wiped it with his arm and then let out a weak burp. A few moments later, Melissa responded in kind. Her giggles were far brighter in their gray world than any flashlight.
Above them, the roof creaked.
*
Jason told stories to pass the time.
“One day, papa bunny left the rabbit hole in search of a carrot,” he said. Melissa sat curled beside him, shivering under the blankets. Every hint of summer had bled out through the walls. Frost lined the inside of the windows, ash the outside.