Reverie

Milton’s routine changed the day the world started raining ash.

The alarm clock on his nightstand went off at six, precisely the same time he woke every morning. On Sunday, his routine stayed the same, only pushed back an extra hour. He made breakfast, one egg sunny-side up, two strips of bacon, and two scoops of grits which he slow-cooked in a rice pot his mother had given him too many years ago as a birthday present. God rest her soul. He would set his plate on the table before pouring a glass of orange juice, with pulp.

If it were a workday, he would get dressed as he listened to the radio. If it were Sunday, he would sit on his porch and reread yesterday’s paper. He had his body trained like clockwork. Every morning was exactly the same as the day before.

The radio was the first to go.

It crackled like popcorn, sputtering nonsense as it cut in and out of channels.

The ash never stopped.

Sometimes it fell from the sky in clumps of mangled grays and blacks. Other times it floated to the ground, gentle as snow but smelling of death. Milton watched cars backtrack the base of the mountain. The trees, which always bloomed glorious hues of burgundy and gold, instead molted like sickly birds, their leafy feathers littering the gray earth. Piles of ash gathered in mounds. Soon the cars stopped backtracking, the road was barricaded by evergreen skeletons, and he didn’t see them anymore.

His alarm clock was blank. The power had gone out long ago with the radio.

He read the old newspapers until they felt soft to the touch.

The longer the ash fell, the harder the wood became to burn. It was under piles of ruined brush he discovered the wood that, while having been exposed to the ash, would split like butter under a knife. As the sun started to set, he would carve.

Carving gave his hands something to do again. He carved many figurines, but mostly people. There was a little boy wearing a cap with a wide brim. He imagined him to be the son of a shepherd, spending his days in the sun with the animals. Next to the boy was a woman sitting on a bench, folded hands resting in her lap. She was probably waiting for someone, but he didn't know whom. He lined them along the mantle and, when that became full, he placed them along the kitchen counter. He liked to carve at night the most, by firelight. He only had a few candles left.

He was carving when there was a scratch from the back door. He stood slowly, knife raised.

The dog was thin, ribs like the wires of a cage. He shooed it away with the back of his hand. It just stared with wide, dull eyes. He raised his knife higher and shook his arm as violently as he could. It glanced between him and the knife before sighing loudly, folding its legs and dropping with a huff. Milton knew he should try to chase it away, but it would probably move on, he told himself. He went back to his carving, staying up until the fire burned out.

The next morning it was still there. Ashy snow fell onto a crimson horizon, as if it hurt the sun to rise another day. He took a bowl from the kitchen and filled it with water. When he opened the door it raised its head, watching him wearily as he set the bowl down at his feet. It rose shakily, stumbling on spindly legs. When the water was gone it looked up expectantly, hobbling over. Milton shut the door before it could get too close. The dog stared for a moment before turning around and collapsing into the same position, muzzle resting on its legs.

When Milton looked out the window the next day, it still hadn’t moved. This time, he opened a can of baked beans and tipped half into the bowl. It ate quickly, lapping up every last drop until the bowl had been licked clean. It came up to him and nudged the back of his hand with its nose. Milton shut the door and the dog sat, waiting.

He fed it half a can of baked beans every night as the sun slept and the ash fell. After, he would carve. It started to watch him through the window, ears cocked. He would ignore it, knife trimming away. After a few more days, he decided to name the thing Virgil. Virgil reminded him of a dog his aunt used to have, back all those years ago when Milton hadn’t even thought twice about the future. At night, Virgil would bask in the heat of the fire at his feet while Milton carved.

He rationed his meals to a third of a can a day, but that only worked for so long. Outside, the stale air made his lungs burn. He fashioned a filter around his mouth and nose with an old shirt. He shouldered his rifle and stepped out into the woods. Virgil padded along beside him.

When they finally came upon another cabin, the sun was high in the sky. Naked window frames stared with blank faces. Milton pushed the front door open with the tip of his gun. Virgil darted through his legs and trotted to the kitchen, nudging an empty set of dog bowls.

The house had been scavenged long ago, probably at the beginning. The walls were stained with ash that had drifted in from the open windows. Musty plates were still in the sink. Open cabinets held nothing but bare bones. The furniture, or what was left of it at least, had been gutted.

Hidden away, he found a few jars of spiced apples and a dusty can of peas. Left forgotten in a crack between the fridge and the wall was a small paring knife, perfect for details in his woodwork. Discarded in a dusty corner was a rusted heart-shaped locket on a broken chain. Water had seeped in, discoloring the photos inside beyond repair. He found a leather jacket. It wasn't real leather; the elbows crinkled and the zipper was frayed. It hung a little loose around the shoulders.

He whistled softly and Virgil was at his heels, a stained tennis ball in his mouth. Virgil gave a muffled bark. The sun was already gone. The days were growing shorter.

That evening, he took up the paring knife, sculpting with steady strokes. When he took his hands away, the figurine of Virgil stared back at him with wooden eyes. The body was a bit rounder, the face fuller and fur smooth and flowing. He offered the figurine up to Virgil, who gave it a sniff and licked the back of his hand. Milton chuckled, setting the statue next to the figure of the shepherd's son. Now that he had a companion, the sheep stood no chance.

He woke up to the sound of a low growl. Milton sat up straight and reached for his gun. He heard voices, young voices. Someone laughed – a young girl. He set his rifle aside, propping it against the wall. The voices stopped as Virgil’s nails clacked against the wood floor and Milton stepped out into the living room.

Get down! There was a flash of black as a gun was drawn. On your knees!

Milton reached out with his hands, fingers trembling.

I said, on your knees!

Milton knelt slowly, arms raised. Virgil snarled, hackles rising.

There were three of them, the oldest barely over the age of twenty. His face was smeared with soot. One of his shirtsleeves was ripped, revealing a tattoo in the shape of a star. He held his gun in level with his eyes. The girl beside him had blonde hair that was chopped unevenly at her jaw and a gun strapped to her back. The third, a young boy hardly over ten, carried a long knife.

Are you alone? When Milton didn’t answer, the young man shoved the gun in his face. He nodded to the girl. Check the house.

The girl took a step forward and Virgil growled, barking once. She lashed out with her gun, pulling it up over her shoulder and swinging it like a club. Virgil yelped and was silent. She disappeared down the hallway.

Give us your food, old man. Milton started to rise but the young man waved his gun. Milton pointed to the metal chest in the corner. He broke open the rusted latch with the heel of his boot.

Why, what is this dream you live in, old man? he said. He pulled out a jar of the canned apples, eyes gleaming as he twisted it open.

The house is clear, the girl said. She had Milton's rifle slung over the other shoulder. All I found was this gun and more of these . . . things. She held up one of the carvings he kept beside his bed, a small rabbit, before tossing it over her shoulder.

Let me try some, please, the young boy pleaded at the young man's elbow. I haven’t had an apple in months.

The young man cracked open the jar, messily fishing out an apple slice and biting into it. He wiped his mouth with the back of a dirty hand. He passed the jar to the young boy and Milton watched as the boy scooped them into his mouth.

How have you survived out here this long? The young man said. How can you live with yourself, knowing that the rest of us are dying out there? The young man opened a water jug and drank straight from the nozzle. He tossed the water to the girl, who drank greedily.

The young man picked up a figurine on the mantle, a bird in flight, magnificent tail feathers fluttering in an invisible wind. See if there’s anything else of use here. We can burn these.

The young man ushered Milton forward with his gun. Virgil growled and Milton signed for Virgil to stay. Outside, the ash shifted under his boots, raining down on him like snow. He could see the three tracks of footprints leading up to the house from the side of the mountain. There was a loud crash and a bark. The young man shoved his gun into Milton's side, pushing him forward.

On your knees. Milton knelt for the last time. He lifted his hands, signing words of mercy, but they were slapped away.

Put your hands down, old man. The barrel of the gun clouded Milton's gaze, an eclipse of the sun. The world is on fire. You either get consumed by the flames or you take your place in hell. What’s it going to be?

Milton closed his eyes as the young man's finger curled over the trigger.