After the End

The world seemed dimmer than one would expect. The numbness and mental shock was understandable. Morgan had stopped counting bodies he'd left behind at around six thousand. That was early on the first day. Thirty days had now passed. Thirty days of people dropping dead or resisting, screaming and exploding at the mere sight of him. He smelled awful. The charnel smell of a fat-rendering plant would be more pleasant. His hands were so coated in blood and gore that it was cracking and flaking off in large chunks. He knelt by a stream and plunged his hands and face into the tannic waters. The wound on his hand ached and oozed. He could smell it putrifying.

Michael could not, would not, dare to think. The hollow, pale faces, carved sallower by fear and slow death haunted him, gnawed at him, crawled under his skin. The pain of the bodies racked by starvation ate his brain, gnawed on his consciousness, wormed through his innards. The horizon ceased to exist and a black ichor ran from his eyes, mingled with tears of horror. Where his hands touched the ground, the grass shriveled black and crackled into dust. The concept of millions dying slowly wrenched through him and drained away his sense of unanimity, of worldliness, of life.

Georg choked on his bile. The writhing sense of disgust within him was like acid etching away any thought of self. Pox and buboes had sprung up when he merely looked in the direction of living flesh. Sores and rashes and cracking, weeping black lesions from his breath. Where he moved, the plants went yellow and white or rusted brown. Birds spiralled out of the sky and horrible disfigurements of flesh and sinew and stalk gnawed into his eyeballs. The putrid smell of sickness and rivers of vomitus and mucus and effluvia clogged his nose and pores. Those who died quickly were lucky; many lingered on, crying to the heavens in pain and disjunction. Too many too sick and not a one could stand from infirmity.

Valerie hugged herself tightly. She was crying but had long run out of tears. The amount of bloodshed could have filled oceans. Men, women, children, animals – all fighting, all dying, without cease. She would walk near a town and suddenly fires and shouts and gunshots would ring out. Murder, mayhem, brawling, mauling. En masse and singly. With and without reason. She sat, untouched physically, but no one could walk away from the sea of carnage and be sane.

The other three had found each other by the time Morgan stumbled upon them. He could feel the trauma from quite a distance away. He had washed away as much of the signs of his damage as he could and walked up fairly clean. The three sat together but otherwise showed no recognition of anything outside their own painful realities. Morgan reached for his brother. Michael tried to speak, but only frantic gibberish came pouring out. Morgan understood. “I am sorry,” he whispered as he rendered him unconscious.

Morgan quickly did the same for the other two and transported everyone back to the “pre-apocolyptus.” If they continued being incapable of functioning, he would erase their memories of this. He silently ran a golden needle between his fingers and wondered at his own sanity.

Road Hazard

The mob must have mistaken him for someone else. What interest would they have in capturing him? They taped his mouth and manacled his wrists and ankles and threw him in a trunk after they'd sapped him. He awoke and felt the rough trunk liner against his cheek. Groggily, he considered calling his brother, but decided it wasn't necessary. As the car rode over a bumpy stretch of road, he painfully repositioned himself. It took several tries to get the tape off with his tongue. It wasn't completely clear, but off enough for him to start incanting. The first incant toughened his skin. The second shattered the steel handcuffs. The third rendered the car undriveable...