Apocalypse Ned
[An attempt at Flash Fiction, a short story under 1000 words, which for me is the literary equivalent of a sneeze. I use the term ‘literary’ very loosely. And so, just for fun and exercise...]
“Tell me a story.” she said, the firelight dancing across her dirt streaked face, making her lovely. It was funny how being put on the spot always made Ned lose his cool; the needle slips the groove, the brain short circuits. Yeah, funny like death, this being the perfect time and place for some good getting-to-know-you conversation.
“All of my stories are ghost stories.” he replied. Jenna smiled at that, a sad and wistful smile but it was something.
“Pass over one of those bottles, cowboy.”
He rummaged through his backpack and slid out a 26 of Jack Daniels Single Barrel, the good stuff. He passed it to her across the fire held by the neck. She reached out and he slapped it into her hand, the proficient surgical assistant, then dug back into his pack for the other. Two were all that they could carry. They cracked the caps, two gunshots in millisecond overlap, a slight sharp echo playing faintly off of the concrete walls.
“To the great apocalypse fantasy.” he toasted.
“To the what now?” she asked, but he was already slugging it back.
As she tipped her bottle, holding his eyes, he said “You know, Fight Club, Zombieland, The Stand, Left 4 Dead, The Walking Dead.” She sputtered, swallowing with a grimace. Then she gave him that look that he remembered oh so well; that boys-can-be-such-dumb-asses look
.
“Okay, you got this guy, Norbert Q. Fishstick, esquire. He's got his cubicle, his ID badge, his short sleeve collar shirt and sad tie. His boss has a fucking man-bun. His apartment is full of comic books and is still haunted by the ghost of his ex. And one day the world ends. No more job, no more credit card debt, no more advertising. No more loud talking, elbow throwing, man spreading, door blocking, subway idiots. No more slow, diagonal walkers-” She had to stop him there with a look.
“Okay, scratch that last one. No more fucking phones.” Again, the sad and forlorn smile. “If everything hasn't been turned to dust by nuclear option, if everything is just laying around...”
“The ultimate nerd fantasy.” Jenna said, “A video game.” her tone only slightly patronizing, he thought.
“Sure, why not? You get to dress rock and roll bad ass, carry a gun, a katana, a crowbar. Fight to survive, adrenaline up, blood pumping, visceral life. You get to be a man...or a woman... without all the bullshit. You get to think, get fit. You have a goal; the dream of building the world again, better, simpler. Find a sweet spot, wall it up and dig a moat, plant a garden. And the quiet, the little things, the beauty of the world, the great wide open. Every day, every minute means something.”
She had to give him that. She tipped her bottle. He followed suit.
“It's too quiet.” Jenna said. “When I was a kid my dad would take us camping every damn summer. I never could sleep for all the silence. And what about security? Comfort? And the isolation, the brutal inhumanity of greed and violence, the chaos? Every day fear of torture and death. Plus, no showers. Fun stuff, video game boy.”
“Yeah. Well, the grass is always greener...” They were both caught short, staring across the guttering fire into each other's blank faces. Then they burst out laughing.
As the haunting echo of their mad laughter was still fading she held out her bottle. “Cheers, bad ass.” They clinked necks and tipped back, bottom's up.
Jenna was sitting crossed legged, and after taking her drink she leaned forward at the waist until her face was directly above the dying fire. The shadows in the empty warehouse were melting back into the great darkness, fade to black.
“What about tomorrow?” she asked.
“Tomorrow will tell its' own story.”
“Fire's dying.” she said, teasing, in pale serpentine smile, her green eyes shining cat-in-the-dark. She had placed her bottle down on its side, and now she absently spun it; the glass scraping on concrete a pleasant warble in diminishing spiral cadence, merry-go-round run down.
Here goes 'The Last Man On Earth' theory.
He leaned forward to kiss her, one hand out to steady himself. As their lips brushed, as the fire burned low, the alarm went off. The cacophonous crash and rattle of paint cans and pop cans and hubcaps blasted down long corridor of the entryway and into the vast chamber of the warehouse proper, an insane laughing echo in high harmony with itself. They shot to their feet, ready and steady, good soldiers. Jenna held her small drain spade shovel two handed – its' rounded edge sharpened executioner keen – Ned his trusty custom crowbar with the grip-taped handle.
They had guns, but no ammo
.
The clatter's echo died. The smothering silence returned, alive with all possibility. They stood waiting, dead still and stone quiet, heart's thumping, children in the dark.
“Coyote.” said Jenna.
“Deer.” said Ned, the words overlapping.
Or maybe man. Or monster.
They held steady.
The fire winked out.
Yeah, they were living the dream.
---
©2018 Dave Mercel
“Tell me a story.” she said, the firelight dancing across her dirt streaked face, making her lovely. It was funny how being put on the spot always made Ned lose his cool; the needle slips the groove, the brain short circuits. Yeah, funny like death, this being the perfect time and place for some good getting-to-know-you conversation.
“All of my stories are ghost stories.” he replied. Jenna smiled at that, a sad and wistful smile but it was something.
“Pass over one of those bottles, cowboy.”
He rummaged through his backpack and slid out a 26 of Jack Daniels Single Barrel, the good stuff. He passed it to her across the fire held by the neck. She reached out and he slapped it into her hand, the proficient surgical assistant, then dug back into his pack for the other. Two were all that they could carry. They cracked the caps, two gunshots in millisecond overlap, a slight sharp echo playing faintly off of the concrete walls.
“To the great apocalypse fantasy.” he toasted.
“To the what now?” she asked, but he was already slugging it back.
As she tipped her bottle, holding his eyes, he said “You know, Fight Club, Zombieland, The Stand, Left 4 Dead, The Walking Dead.” She sputtered, swallowing with a grimace. Then she gave him that look that he remembered oh so well; that boys-can-be-such-dumb-asses look
.
“Okay, you got this guy, Norbert Q. Fishstick, esquire. He's got his cubicle, his ID badge, his short sleeve collar shirt and sad tie. His boss has a fucking man-bun. His apartment is full of comic books and is still haunted by the ghost of his ex. And one day the world ends. No more job, no more credit card debt, no more advertising. No more loud talking, elbow throwing, man spreading, door blocking, subway idiots. No more slow, diagonal walkers-” She had to stop him there with a look.
“Okay, scratch that last one. No more fucking phones.” Again, the sad and forlorn smile. “If everything hasn't been turned to dust by nuclear option, if everything is just laying around...”
“The ultimate nerd fantasy.” Jenna said, “A video game.” her tone only slightly patronizing, he thought.
“Sure, why not? You get to dress rock and roll bad ass, carry a gun, a katana, a crowbar. Fight to survive, adrenaline up, blood pumping, visceral life. You get to be a man...or a woman... without all the bullshit. You get to think, get fit. You have a goal; the dream of building the world again, better, simpler. Find a sweet spot, wall it up and dig a moat, plant a garden. And the quiet, the little things, the beauty of the world, the great wide open. Every day, every minute means something.”
She had to give him that. She tipped her bottle. He followed suit.
“It's too quiet.” Jenna said. “When I was a kid my dad would take us camping every damn summer. I never could sleep for all the silence. And what about security? Comfort? And the isolation, the brutal inhumanity of greed and violence, the chaos? Every day fear of torture and death. Plus, no showers. Fun stuff, video game boy.”
“Yeah. Well, the grass is always greener...” They were both caught short, staring across the guttering fire into each other's blank faces. Then they burst out laughing.
As the haunting echo of their mad laughter was still fading she held out her bottle. “Cheers, bad ass.” They clinked necks and tipped back, bottom's up.
Jenna was sitting crossed legged, and after taking her drink she leaned forward at the waist until her face was directly above the dying fire. The shadows in the empty warehouse were melting back into the great darkness, fade to black.
“What about tomorrow?” she asked.
“Tomorrow will tell its' own story.”
“Fire's dying.” she said, teasing, in pale serpentine smile, her green eyes shining cat-in-the-dark. She had placed her bottle down on its side, and now she absently spun it; the glass scraping on concrete a pleasant warble in diminishing spiral cadence, merry-go-round run down.
Here goes 'The Last Man On Earth' theory.
He leaned forward to kiss her, one hand out to steady himself. As their lips brushed, as the fire burned low, the alarm went off. The cacophonous crash and rattle of paint cans and pop cans and hubcaps blasted down long corridor of the entryway and into the vast chamber of the warehouse proper, an insane laughing echo in high harmony with itself. They shot to their feet, ready and steady, good soldiers. Jenna held her small drain spade shovel two handed – its' rounded edge sharpened executioner keen – Ned his trusty custom crowbar with the grip-taped handle.
They had guns, but no ammo
.
The clatter's echo died. The smothering silence returned, alive with all possibility. They stood waiting, dead still and stone quiet, heart's thumping, children in the dark.
“Coyote.” said Jenna.
“Deer.” said Ned, the words overlapping.
Or maybe man. Or monster.
They held steady.
The fire winked out.
Yeah, they were living the dream.
---
©2018 Dave Mercel
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