The End of the World

He had tried looking at the horizon and not at his feet. In the distance, the beach was just sand, and the debris could be rocks. The sea meeting the shore with gentle, lapping waves, sparkling in the sun could almost be described as idyllic. That had ended when he tripped on something. Something soft and squishy. No matter how much he had told himself it was seaweed, or even a fish, a quick, uncontrollable look down had shown him a red streak on his bare foot that could only be blood.

That and there was the smell. The odour of rotting fish was bad but at least it was familiar and, in that familiarity, came a comfort of sorts. It was the other smell: it was not familiar. The closest similar sensation came from something long in his past that he would rather forget. He had been moving house and his furniture had ended up in storage for a week in summer. Somehow, in the chaos of packing (Why did it always take longer than you planned?) and with the many various distractions of the time (Had there been a girl? He seemed to recall long red hair and the soft touch of fingers against his arm…), he had forgotten to empty the fridge. On opening it, at the end of that week, he had gagged. Even after the swinging it closed, the soft pfft or rubber sealing away the horror, he had spent several minutes retching and spitting up saliva. The smell had seemed to permeate his nose and mouth in a way he feared permanent.

The smell that came now in waves to match the lapping water to his left, was similar. He tried breathing through his mouth, but it provided little improvement.

So, now, he watched where he walked. He carefully stepped to avoid the debris on the sand: a dancer whose moves were dictated by avoidance, negation, rather than positive purpose. Two steps forward; a side shuffle; a precarious leap.

Rather than focus on the rotting flesh, his mind fixated on the solid inanimate objects. Familiar in theory if not in their current formation. A black, dented briefcase; a pair of blue sneakers (don’t think about what’s inside them); the shiny face of a watch, second-hand still ticking; a beer can, water on its side resembling condensation and making his parched mouth ache; the heart-shaped locket, its chain tight around a swollen neck, the blue tinged veins beneath a near match for the sky.

Seeing the locket made his hand reach unconsciously for the photo in his pocket. His fingers played with the plastic bag that contained it (the sort of bag you got at a supermarket for gathering fruit or vegetables). He did not take it out, though; did not want to expose even the captured image of his daughter’s eyes to this scene.

The picture showed her at Disney World with a man in a Goofy outfit with his furry arm around her shoulder. A gap-toothed grin on her face.

He hoped she had made it out of the city before the bridges closed. Hoped his ex-wife had had the sense to bundle them both in her car as soon as the trouble started. He hoped that if he walked, danced, long enough north he would find them at one of the relief centres set up by the government.

His mind, distracted by these thoughts, took a moment to register the sound. It was coming in waves to match the lapping water and the wafts of putridity. Music. At first just a few bars registered, then the soft drawl of Joni Mitchell hit his ear. It was so completely out of place with his thoughts and the rest of the world, that he wondered if his mind had finally cracked.

That feeling remained as he continued up the beach towards the music, and saw a woman standing on the deck of a beach house, denim cut off shorts, white crop top that fell down on one side to reveal a collar bone and soft swell of flesh and plastic flowers strung around her neck. Her figure was lean and suited the outfit. It was a sight out of a fantasy. Would have been, even before. She watched him approach, her lips pulled up on one side with a half smirk. As he got closer, she raised her hand to him. He saw she held a beer can in it, condensation glistening on the side in the sun. He was suddenly, really aware of his own bedraggled appearance: the grubby shorts and t-shirt, unwashed for days; the stubble at his chin; the red smear of blood that still remained on his bare foot. Which one was the dream? The world he had been inhabiting the last week or so, in which the world had ended; or the world she seemed to belong to where everything seemed as it had been before?

“Care to join us for a drink?” she asked, her vowels revealing an accent. British?

“Who...” he started to speak but his mouth had been dry for so long, it turned into a choke. He coughed up what little saliva he could, swallowed, grimacing at the scratch and the taste and tried again. This time his voice worked, if a little raspingly.

“Who’s us?”

“There’s a few of us up here having a party,” she replied. Then as the silence stretched with his inability to answer, she added, “We have ice.”

Was it a trap? If so, what kind? Was it possible she just didn’t know the world had ended?

His hand was back on the crinkly plastic in his pocket. He debated just keeping walking. But his throat was so dry, and the shade of the deck beyond looked so inviting.

Cautiously, he climbed up the sandy bank and vaulted the last section onto the platform. The soft scent of incense and marijuana did its best to cover up the smell from the beach and almost succeeded. Soft, colourful bean bags littered the deck. The music was clearer here though also now muffled by the low drone of people talking. About ten people lounged about either on the deck or a sofa just inside open glass doors. They glanced up at him but only briefly and their conversation barely halted. The woman leaned down to an Esky on the floor. Lifting its lid, she pulled out a can and offered it to him. A pale ale. He accepted. It made a satisfying noise as he flicked the lid. Soft bubbles appearing momentarily at the dark entrance and then receding again. The first sip was heaven against his throat, and he gulped half the can before he realised it. He let out a soft belch, feeling himself redden. Almost instantly, the beer buzz hit as the alcohol met his dehydrated stomach. The world seemed cushioned; the beach far away.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

The voice that replied was not hers, but a man sat in one of the bean bags against the wall to his right. The man was fat. He knew this was probably not a politically correct term to use these days, but there really was no other way to describe it. Layers rolled out at his neck and under the t-shirt at his middle. Even at his knees.

“We came here at the start of the trouble. There’s a generator. It was well stocked.” He indicated the call box and nodded his head towards the joint he held in his hand. “Seemed like as good a place as any to wait for help to come, or for the government to sort it all out.”

“What if help doesn’t come?”

“Well, seemed like as good as place as any to watch the world end,” the man replied and shrugged. As he did, a drop of sweat that had been rolling down his cheek was dislodged and fell onto his chest. Another drop, following the same line started an identical journey. If he stayed sat there for long enough, sweating like that, would stalactites eventually form? The man took a long drag on the joint in his hand and let out a low guttural sigh.

“Have a seat,” the woman joined in, gesturing to an empty bean bag.

He was about to refuse. These people were insane. He had to get going.

“Or perhaps you’d like a shower first? We have running water from a rain tank.”

The invitation was too much. He was aware of the blood on his foot, the dank smell of sweat and worse rising from him in waves. He could stay for a shower. Get clean. Leave in the morning.

The water was cold. But it felt good. It pooled at his feet in the shower. First a murky brown then gradually clearing. At some point, he thought he heard the door opening. He froze in place (not flight, fight but possum) and cursed his non-existent survival skills.

But no one pulled the shower curtain back; no blade came towards him.

He finished rinsing dirt and soap from his skin.

When he emerged, his dirty clothes had been replaced by clean ones. For a second panic gripped him. He picked up the clothes, meaning to run out after his dirty ones, but as he did, the plastic bag and photo were revealed placed neatly beneath. He calmed. Dressed slowly in the faded shirt and flowery shorts left. He placed the photo carefully in his new pocket.

Outside the sun was heading to the horizon. No point leaving now. In the dark.

The woman was sat on a cushion and the one beside her was inviting. When he sat, she placed two fingers briefly on his arm. It had been a long time since he had felt human touch. There was more warmth in it than the simple gesture would suggest. As she rose, he realised the touch was an indication that he should stay. She returned quickly with a bowl of pasta and another beer. While he ate, she asked him questions about his life. He was normally reticent to talk about himself and so was surprised to find himself answering. Briefly at first while the food remained then giving longer answers as he consumed more than one beer. There was something very pleasant about sitting in the darkening evening, with the woman (leaning close enough to smell the flowery scent of her perfume) drawing gentle patterns on his arm.

A while later, as he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if it was safe to do this. But he found it hard to care.

He was unsure how many days later the stranger arrived. Surely it couldn’t be more than one day? Or two? He wasn’t going to stay long, just needed some time to recuperate.

The stranger was a woman. She talked frantically about a camp up north. Waved a photo around. Her sister. Had they seen her? He was glad someone else dealt with her. The sight of the picture made him reach for the reassuring crinkling in his pocket. But his pocket was empty. He felt around on the floor, standing up slowly and moving the cushion, careful not to knock over his beer. Nothing. He sunk back down. His eyes scanned the beach over the side of the deck. There were a few things there catching the light, that could be a plastic bag. He did not stand though. His hand moved to the beer. The woman, somewhere to his side, kept talking.