Between Light and Darkness

Klingon Hamlet

First bomb went off was like thunder. I stopped mid-sip of my cup of coffee. Looked out from my high-rise apartment onto the city. Saw a white flower grow the size of ten blocks. Thought it was nuclear, screamed, til I realised I was still alive, still holding my cup, though I'd long since spilled the liquid onto my toes. Ignored the hot sizzle as I stood up and watched the bright mushroom expand and widened and faded til it was gone.

What was it? Question marks filled my head. Static from the radio nipped at my ears. It was dusk, and some lights were on, but now they were flickering and fading. Not nuclear, I thought. I was still moving, not burnt nor shivering, but the lights were dying, and I knew something horrible was happening. Then the lights died, and that was the last time I saw artificial light ever again.

The sky was silver. Grey clouds festered, and they began to swirl. Tornado? They swam and circled but nothing sprung out of them. A baby cried off in the distance. Heads poked out from windowsills. A face popped out from a nearby flat, turned and stared, mouth open. I shrugged, feigning disinterest. Inside I quaked.

A rumble, deep in my bones. Like hunger, only not mine. My teeth chattered, like I was cold but didn't feel it. My skin tingled, like I was burnt but didn't notice it. Hairs stood up to attention. Something passed through me, making me freeze, stretching my eyelids. Another mushroom, only this time I sensed it without seeing it; felt it rise nearby, grow and swell, tumorous and invisible. I remembered Crazy Tom and his sign: "The End Is Nigh!" his billboard declared and for once I agreed. And then, the skies darkened. And that. Was. It.

I looked at my pasta. It was cold and limp. An hour had passed since I'd first stood and stared. What happened in the intervening moments between the light and the darkness? I dared not guess. The silvery sky had withered. Sounds muted to nothingness. I felt alone. I reached for my mobile. Its screen was dead--I'd charged it minuted before. The TV refused to switch on. Punched the on-switch; the TV lay dead. I padded my laptop, it had been in Sleep Mode: should have reactivated in a heartbeat, but it stayed quiet, its screen black; its battery should have at least blinked in need of another charge. But it was silent, its hard drive long since stopped whirring, and I stood all alone in a room full of dead machinery, scratching my head, alone.

Shaun would know. He was a geek. Take any tech-ailment and he was the cure. Hit my phone-on button and it stayed comatose. Grabbed my keys and my coat and hit the lift--the buttons clicked but no power. The stairs--the lobby--no faces--the street. No sounds, no life. I was a ghost.

Shaun lived three blocks away. I ran. I hadn't ran in three years. Five blocks and I was panting. Ten, and I retched. The sky flickered, like a TV screen struggling to revive. Thunder rolled, but at a distance, like through waterlogged ears, or behind a thick wall. I shook my head to dispel childish worries. To shake off those two mushroom clouds: one of fire, one of silence.

Shaun's place was much like mine, less classy, bad insulation. Up stairs far too steep to a hallway where a body lay. Its eyes peered into mine. Mouth open, teeth white, red tongue lay to one side, a string of bile to the other. It was still, and so was I, ram-rod straight, staring, trying not to puke. I failed. Processed pizza tumbled in chunks from my quivering lips. Waves of ice spilled over me. Dread and terror consumed me. Ate me up. Left me crawling by the motionless human corpse.

304, Shaun's apartment. Rapped once on the half-hollow door. No response. In my mind, saw another dead body, not the one staring at me, but the other, Shaun, sitting in his couch, waiting for me. Gritted my teeth and threw a shoulder into the door, felt it give way. Tumbled forth and lo and behold, Shaun nestled in his leather suite, mouth full of blood, teeth red and shining, eyes glazed over, gazing my way. Arms held out, as if embracing an invisible friend, or Death Himself.

I cried out long and hard, til my chest quivered and my voice turned to a squeak. Shaun was my best friend, best you could have. There he was, smothered in his own red ooze, his eyes glazed over, choked up and dead. That awful silence, it seemed to choke me. I keeled over and spewed my last vomit. I wept like crazy, inches away from my dead friend. Outside came the horns of some attack. Like some world war was about to strike---but there was no other sounds, no tanks or planes or missiles or bombs. Just the silence and the machine-screams, andmy coughs, and the ticking of a clock. No. Not ticking---trickling: blood-drops dripping from my friend's blue lips.

A surge took me over, energy from nowhere; up to my feet and out the door. Empty dark hallway, I swept through it and down into the silent streets. The horns had died. I went to the only place I could imagine: home. Real home. Where my parents slept. A day from here, it seemed ten days. The journey took me through the bowels of hell.

Flames licked the pavements. Dogs ran the roads. Children lay trembling by their unmoving parents on the corners of blocks, looking up to black skies. I leaned by one kid, who looked semi-capable; she said, "Go away mister, it's all over, everything." I dared not ask, for she knew what I feared. The end is nigh. The end is nigh. I ran to my parent's home, and the windows were broken. Eyes glowed from the shadows. A rifle poked out from the door.

"Stay away mister, if you know what's good for ya."

I grabbed the gun and pulled the wielder outside. All bones and rags he yelped and fought back; I shoved an elbow against his throat and roared, "Who are you?"

Just a traveler, he said, just a surivor. His eyes were deep behind rings of fear. His skin was grey and his jaw was slack. Drool bridged the gap between his teeth and his toes. He held his hands to deflect my punch.

I didn't punch though; he was just so fearful. "What happened?"

"I don't know. Just saw two booms, one light, one dark. The lights switched off, and then people keeled over. All dead, electricity and people. Everything dead."

"Gas bomb?" I whispered.

He nodded, "Probably."

I leaned in, "Who did this?"

"Fukk knows." And he ran.

Went inside, and the house stunk of decay. How come so fast it had become so dead? I found children whimpering in the kitchen chomping on dry cereal. Their parents stood up slowly, approaching me in fear. I realised I still held the rifle butt-first. Lay it down, asked, "Where's my folks?"

Four eyes shook slowly, and so did my two. "Tom and Philomena?"

Those eyes widened, looked out, and I followed to where two makeshift mounds and a shovel stood tall in my parents' back garden.

The eyes followed me as I stepped out and looked down at those two fresh mounds and that one shovel. They lay there, I knew, dead as my own soul. A hand lay upon my shoulder and I whirled and lashed out; my wrist spasmed in pain; something braced it tight; I groaned loudly.

"Hush."

It was the guy who had watched me, now taller than me, eyes bright. He held me as I cried, and he said, "I'm sorry," over and over. "We found them laid down, hugging one another, in the garden. they were gone, long gone," he said, as I wept against his chest.

The winds picked up for a moment and stirred my pain into something else, a dead pain, a sombre sorrow, and I composed myself and stepped back and appraised my consoler, this digger for the dead. He was forty and looked fifty, and he shook his head and apologised once more.

I thanked him and shook his hand.

"We'll go now," he offered and it was meant, for he went to usher his family away--two kids in the kitchen went to move to leave--but I shook my head forcefully, brushed my tears as I told him,

"No, this is your home now."

"Stay with us, then," he offered, long after he'd thanked me over and over.

I smiled and I felt the gratitude even as I felt a purpose overtake me. "No. Thank you but no." I reclaimed my new rifle, gave a nod to the kids and their mom from their place in the kitchen. Patted the man on the shoulder. "I'll go on. Find others. Make sense of this."

"Not safe," he whispered, stepping close.

"Where is?" My smile widened. Shook his hand once more. Out I went into those barren streets full of houses full of dead. Thought about the insulation in my apartment, and its saving me from the gas and the fire and the darkness. All those revellers in the street parties and the shindigs. New Years Eve, it had been. New Years Day, it was now. And me, and a select few, entombed and saved, whilst the rest choked and died. I would go, and help anyone in my path til I lost it all. I would go, and make sense of what had long since confounded me.

The end is nigh, they had screamed, before fear became fact. Now I walked in the terrible truth of their dread, and I knew I had not long before more terror was bestowed.

Make the best of any bad thing, my parents had once said. I would make them proud.

Oryx

I like the story, and I want to know what happens next. There are some parts which work well and really draw me in. Others leave me scratching my head though. Small things really.

In the opening the MC is screaming in fear, and then it sounds like he says 'oh, its ok then' when he realises its not nuclear. Something about it doesnt ring fully true to me.

Hes eating pasta, but pukes pizza. Which is it?

Dont use lo and behold when finding Shaun. Its far too nice.


I hope you take this beyond a short story, its very strong.