Nuclear Winter

The hissing was growing louder, muffled by my own ragged breath, my feet shuffling through three feet of fresh acidic powder.

The wind bit deep into my jacket, the red sandstone towers loomed in the distance. Safety.

"They are coming."

Those were his last words. Before his screams, his sacrifice. For that I would always be thankful, always hate him. He hadn't done it for me, but for the child growing in my womb. Humanity’s last hope.

A sickly roar came from close behind, more beast than man. I quickened my pace, the cumulus layer overhead warned of more snow, I had to get inside before the storm, to the towers of stone.

Another growling cry, I shuddered, slipped on a patch of ice, slammed face first into the drifts of deadly white.

Need to get up, need to move.

So tired.

For days we’d been running, hunted by the others. The result of mankind’s deadly dance.

I dragged myself to my feet. I could see my salvation, the flickering beacon of hope high on the tallest rusty peak.

Slogging again through the powder, I dared a look back.

Gaining. Baying like Satan’s wolves, hounds on my heels.

I plowed through the drifts, so close. The beacon blinked green. Safety called.

“You’ve almost made it!”

“Keep going!”

"They are coming!”

His last words. I slipped again, my heart pierced by grief. The snuffling and snarling loud in my ears.

They'd caught me.

I was too late.