The End - Visions of Apocalypse

Before leaving, Tim had spent an afternoon sawing up the house’s furniture to be sure Jake and Christine had ample firewood. He’d left enough for three days by his calculations.

“Christine! Jake!” he yelled, reaching the snow sunken door.

No response came.

He dropped to his knees and began to dig with a fury that he’d never known before. Gone were the weak arms of a man who hadn’t seen food for days. Within minutes he could see the brass handle glinting in the afternoon sun.

“Christine! Jake!” he screamed again, shovelling a path to the door.

Tim lay on his stomach, stretching to the handle. It released and the door swung inwards. Tim slid feet first into the room. He stood in the shaft of light that spilled through the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness that surrounded him.

They must be asleep, Tim hoped.

The bed was in the living room, next to the hearth; a necessity that had helped them through the freezing nights. No movement came from the thick blankets, despite the sound of Tim’s snowshoes clapping against the wooden floor as he moved frantically across the room.

I’ve lost a child once, please, please not again.

He slowed his final few paces, almost too scared to find out what lay beneath the duvets. He had faced bullets in war, but that was nothing compared to the terror that burned inside his veins.

“Jake…Christine….” Tim said, bending over the bed.

He found his son hidden amongst the blankets, but his eyes were closed. “Jake…” he whispered, so quietly the words barely reached his own ears. Tim shook his son gently, as if moving him too harshly could break him. Lightning bolts of hope shot through Tim as his son’s eyes opened.

“Daddy…I” Jake croaked through chattering teeth. “I’m cold.”

“I’m here, Jake,” Tim said, whipping off his backpack and jacket.

He pulled back the thick duvets to find Jake wrapped in one of Christine’s jacket. Where is she? he thought, tucking his son’s bony body under another layer as he scanned the room.

Tim’s gaze almost slid past the form of Christine, leant over the fireplace, arms outstretched but unmoving. No, he pleaded, scrambling around the bed as fear and denial pierced his chest like a hot knife.

Tim slumped down beside his wife and reached out to touch her ice-blue face. His sobbing soon replaced the silence. In her frozen hands, she held a lighter, long since out of gas. She had tried to start the fire again, but he had the only flint.

Minutes went by before Tim could scrounge together his courage and think about the situation. Christine had sacrificed her life for Jake. He forced himself to remember that… but it would be so easy to let his son drift off to join his mother. Maybe that was better, not just for Jake but for him as well. Maybe this world wasn’t worth living in anymore.

He shook the thoughts from his mind. Self-pity had long been ripped away from him.

Wiping his tears away, Tim got to his feet, retrieved his backpack and checked on Jake. He removed a small piece of steel wool and newspaper, then made his way back to the fireplace and knelt beside his wife.

He took the flint from his pocket and placed the tinder amongst the kindling that Christine had already prepared. As he had shown Lilly six months earlier, Tim pushed the steel down and forwards, sending tiny pieces of molten metal into the steel wool. It caught a spark and began to glow orange. Tim bent over and blew gently, trying to breath life into something that would save his son.

R. F. DICKSON Empty Nest

R. F. Dickson was born, a condition which persists to this day. One of the thirty-seven remaining native Floridians in the wild, he spends his non-cubicle time writing, gaming, watching movies, and standing by helplessly as yet another Tampa Bay Buccaneers season goes down in flames. He is also the author of The Daily Rich, a blog about stuff.

Empty Nestsprang from the idea that if the world was going to be destroyed, it should at least get a say in the matter. It’s only polite. Besides, just because it’s the end of everything we’ve ever known doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have a little fun along the way.

11. EMPTY NEST

R. F. Dickson