John Doe at the End of the World
Samuel Urbanetto
I’d like to dedicate this story to Alex, Breno, Felipe, Guilherme, Juan and Lucia, all of whom are great people who have motivated me and inspired me in life. Thank you for all you have done for me.
The tiny bar was warm and almost full, which surprised me. By 2am I was usually already closing if Davey wasn’t around. I think that maybe the regulars had started warming up to me, wanted to stick around until it was late. I was happy and young, drinking with Richard as the others entertained themselves and slowly passed out on the couch, armchairs and stools. He had been going on about someone from the warehouse for the past hour, and not for a single moment did I stop to try and actually get what he was saying.
From what I understood, someone was being an ass to him, or they were being bossy, or they said something bad; I didn’t really care, but he needed to talk and no one else would not tell him to shut up. It was dark and cold outside, the alien reminded us of that as he opened the door and stood outside for a moment, staring into the place, at us. Other than me and Richard, all of the people still there were long time regulars, all of the people there lived in Whiterock most of their lives, all of the people there knew everyone at Whiterock, and all of the people there knew that one of us wouldn’t walk into the bar that late, just like we all knew we had never seen that man before in our lives.
Tall, uncomfortably so in that small hole in the wall. Pale, worryingly so; he looked like he’d lost a quart or two of blood. Blonde, disconcertingly so; his hair was so blonde it was almost white. - I’ve got a flier. May I pin it to your notice board? - the man asked calmly in a foreign accent, and after a brief moment, I nodded. With a confident step he walked to the board, swiftly took a pin from it and stuck the note in place. He thanked me as he bowed and then walked outside, taking that same pause after opening the door.
He went as he came, but it thankfully threw Rick out of his loop. - Fuck’s his problem? - he laughed loudly, and then the others in the bar joined him. - You guys want to make a bet? - Matthew asked, suddenly bright in the head - How did he get here? Sailor or rail worker? - and with that, the bar was alive again. Everyone pitched into the discussion, even the two guys who were snoring before trying to order another beer.
An hour later, everyone but Rick had gone home. He always stuck around like old gum on weekends, usually didn’t help with closing, though it’s not like he worked there with me and Dave, I shouldn’t complain. Somehow he managed to walk up to the board, but even more impressive was that he managed to read the flier out loud. - “Heaven is coming. Be ready.” What a load of shit. - He said, I laughed and shook my head as I replied - I should’ve made a bet that he was some kind of angel instead of a rail guy. - Rick flipped me off before laughing and saying goodbye. Soon after I was home, dead tired like always, but that night I just had trouble sleeping. Someway, that “angel” shook me up. I thought that it was because he’d been the first outsider to show up after me and Richard.
Late October was always a slow time in town, but when the anniversary rolled around, everyone came out to the snow and partied for a day or two. The quiet rail yard and slow moving docks were always colorfully decorated just like the narrow streets and alleys of the town, and people would dance on the streets all day. Those of us who knew how to play an instrument would as everybody sang along to the couple of old folk songs of Whiterock until the light ran out.
The festivals are always labeled as B.Y.O.B., but since the single market in town barely has any alcohol, it always fell on the two bars to try and supply for all the drinkers, and every year there would be a secret competition. Old Dave and Millard had a long standing bet: the person who sells less has to drink at the other’s bar for a month. If you asked Dave and MIllard, they’d tell you they hated each other, but everyone knew they were two of the tightest friends in town; probably because of how often they’d start bets with each other.
Everyone was dancing and chatting and partying while me, Davey and Millard were working from tents while freezing our asses off. Of course, Rick loved laughing at me, right until Millard realized what was going on and I pushed Rick onto him. He fought it and complained until money was mentioned. I never saw Rick working that hard ever again, he probably wanted to hold the win over me.
When night came, those who could still stay up commemorated at home with parties and dinners, while those who didn’t think they were drunk enough went to one of the two bars. It was magical, the close knit people of Whiterock came together once a year like no other day. There was no gossip, no fighting, no arguing, only celebration. Me and Richard hadn’t been there long, only about 3 months, but that day was the last day in a while where things felt like the normal we had gotten used to.
Just as Dave invited me for dinner after work, so did Martha invite Rick, but we declined their invites. We figured the two zombies should stick together once in a while, get each other caught up on their lives.
He roasted some meat for us, can’t remember the cut for the life of me, and I made the vegetables and salad. I did take on more work, but he was still really buzzed from the whole day of doing “quality assurance” on Millard’s supply. When we showed up in town, shambling out of our ship which we had nearly crashed onto the docks, Martha was the first one to find us before quickly calling help from all the other people around. I don’t remember much of that first week, all I remember is a vague blur of fishing, selling at different ports, and then doing more fishing. Neither of us knows how long that lasted.
Martha got us jobs at the warehouses, and Rick took to it nicely, but I couldn’t handle it. After complaining to Dave a few too many times, the old sod figured he was getting old enough to admit he could use help and hired me. In his words: “You look like the kind of guy who’s too afraid of falling onto the shelves to drink on the job.” Overall, we were doing good, even if Rick complained about his job often, it was more in the way that an old married couple loves to bicker.
Wasn’t long before the whole town had been talking about the flyers pinned and glued all around. Despite that, it seemed like no one else had seen the stranger, or rather, no one paid any attention to him. “Heaven is coming.”, what could that mean? To some it was an early warning that Jesus would return soon. Some said it was just a lunatic from one of the boats spreading rumors for fun. Some said aliens. But everyone who believed it thought it had something to do with the end of times. Believing it or not though, everyone would not talk about anything but the flyers.
That night shift was hell at first, but as people became drunker and drunker it got better. A lot of the old folk always get real quiet and slow after a couple of drinks, and the others get loud and stammery but usually incoherent enough to be entertaining. Things were off that night, the town had been thrown into a weird mood with all the rumors, and not having Dave or Rick around didn’t help, but worse was that everyone went home early. I was alone in the bar with the radio and a magazine of crosswords.
I didn’t have a reason to actually stay open until the hours Davey had asked me to, normally people stopped showing up by midnight and Dave himself closed if the bar was empty past 1am, but at the same time I felt a sort of obligation brought by a code of honor or… whatever. Had it not been for that, I wouldn’t have met Mack. The misplaced cowboy was meek in his entrance, taking care not to make much noise and excused himself as he walked in and tapped his boots on the doorframe outside.
Despite the way he entered the Fountain, he ported himself in a confident way, with a drop of worry. After saying our pleasantries, he asked for some gin with a squeeze of lime, but settled for lemon, and then kept quiet. For ten minutes none of us had the gall to say something, and it wasn’t until he made a move to get up that I stopped him and asked where he was from. He replied with a guilty laugh, and avoided a straight answer.
- Not from around here. Just got on a ride and next thing I knew I was freezing. Say, are there any hotels or inns or anything ‘round here? - I shook my head in response.
- Planning to stay the night?
- I have to, but I couldn’t find any places open other than this.
He looked at me, almost lost in thought, but still judging me, then shook his head and asked for a beer. Despite his looks and the way he’d talk from time to time, he was well mannered, polite. Was curious about the place, which was weird. How could he have ended up here without knowing anything about it? With the way he spoke, all he knew was the name, how cold it was and the amount of ships that stop there on a daily basis. Mack asked a lot, yet somehow had tight-lips. The only way I could get him to tell me why he’d come here was by letting him crash on my couch.
He was looking for a friend who’d come to town recently. I offered to help him, to see if I’d seen that guy, but he didn’t have any description as to who he was or what he looked like. When I asked why, he shook his head.
- We only write to each other. Truth be told he don’t even know I’m looking for him. Hopefully. - I raised an eyebrow - It’s a… surprise. Just that. - he added after a long pause. That cowboy was a liar through and through, but I took pity on him. That night, he slept on my couch, and went away in the morning after trying hard to pay me. He was after the foreigner that showed up a couple of weeks before, that much was obvious.
When I told Richard about it, he asked why I didn’t tell Mack about the stranger. “It wasn’t my business,” is what I told him, and he shook his head before pointing at one of the leaflets, still stuck on the walls. - “Heaven is coming.” doesn’t sound like everyone’s business? - I nodded in response. He was right, but so was I. - If we die because of you, I’ll find a way to punch you, somehow. - he said in a half serious tone, and we laughed. I wasn’t sure yet if I had fucked up or not.
Over the weeks, we hadn’t gotten many sailors or trains coming from any of the cities nearby. Everyone who was asked about the leaflets just looked confused and shook their heads. Some took them on their trips, but it’d be a while before we’d see those people again. With nothing but mountains around us for miles and miles, we didn’t have phones to call family or any of the shipping companies that worked with us, and none of the radio towers in town could reach far enough to reliably talk to anyone that wasn’t in a boat or ship. We were pretty much stranded. Normally it made folks peaceful, we didn’t have to worry much about the rest of the world, but now it just made the unease slowly grow.
People saw both the cowboy and that outsider, some talked to them too, and so naturally they became the talk of the town for a while. No one knew how they came, or where from. No one saw them hopping from a train or ship to confirm any suspicions. Still, I believe that Mack came by train in the middle of the night, or close to it, it seemed like something that man would do. The courier though, hell, he might as well have jumped down at us from the mountains all around.
Of course though, with not much happening, the talks slowed down even if they never died. Time passed, a lot of the leaflets got torn or taken down, people stopped asking around about the cowboy or the courier. I got better at taking care of the bar, Rick became a mountain and got close with the rest of the warehouse crew. Davey got older, as did Millard. For a short moment, life was peaceful again, until a blood-curdling scream came down from the mountains in one late afternoon.
Terrance, who lived on the edge of town, was one of the first to hear it, and while he got other people to call for help, he ran up the steps carved into the rockface, searching for the screamer with gun in hand. Once people started screaming for help around the streets and alleys, everyone who could stop ran outside and towards the edge of town, and soon enough other people followed after Terrance.
I didn’t go, but Rickie did. It took a while for any of them to come back, two hours maybe, and when they did, anyone that hadn’t gone home yet was shooed away. Later that night, Richard told me all about what had happened. Maryanne was in shock even as they came down the stairs leading up to the plateau and mountains. They’d found her on the ground, barely able to make out a word, shaking violently. She was as pale as the ice up north, and about as cold as it too, but her pulse was faster than a scared horse.
Despite that, the men couldn’t find anything on the scene. No trail, no marks, no smells or sounds that were unnatural to the forest, there was just her empty body there. It wasn’t a seizure, Maryanne never had any of those, and a scream like the one that echoed down to the town was something only pure horror could bring out of someone. It took days for her to recover, but from time to time she’d babble or scream about certain things.
“Fly”, “severed”, “blue”, “horse” and “star”. Among the words that Rick and the other men told me about, those were the ones that stuck to me. “Heaven is coming.” is what I told Richard when he asked me what I thought of it all, and he laughed. We were both unsure if that was the answer or not.
About a week after Maryanne’s incident, someone new arrived in town. A man who was a little on the short side, but very stocky. Had short hair, light in color, and a rough beard. Seemed very much to be just the kind of guy who’d fit in with the other railroad workers, and of course, he was looking for work. Asking for it was the very first thing he did when he hopped off the train. Not even the people of Whiterock were so trusting as to give a job on the spot to someone like that.
I happened to be at the railyard that hour, dealing with some stuff related to the bar’s stocks, when I saw him leaning by the corner of one of the buildings, lighting a cigarette. He was new in town and was obviously not just a visitor, of course I got curious. Introduced myself with an open hand. “Hi, I’m Kerry. You alright?” and that made him perk up. He had a firm handshake and put of a lot of emphasis on making sure the base of our thumbs were against each other. It was obvious that that man was desperate to make a good impression.
He introduced himself as either Don or Dom. I’m unsure because he’d often change the way he pronounced it. We talked for a little while, curious to know about each other, but he was all closed up, tighter than Daniele’s pickle jars. Of course, I was cautious in return. According to him, he’d found trouble in almost everywhere else he went trying to look for work, so he came to our little town in hopes of turning his life around. That sounded like a half truth, I wanted to know more, give him some of our hospitality in return for some talk.
He liked the decor of the bar, liked the faint smell of spilled alcohol and cigarette ash, liked the warm warm lighting and soft seats, he praised it without end even before I’d handed him anything. He called himself Dominique, had come from a couple cities over, would be thirty-one in two months. The more we drank, the more it seemed as if there was someone earnest deep in there. At the very least he was able to keep his story straight. When I asked if he’d only take a job working the railyard, he thought for a while.
“I’d like it more if I could be there, but at this point if nothing in the railyard or docks comes up, I could take something else.” It was obvious he was asking me for help without asking, but I nodded. After that hour or two, I’d come to like him enough to give him a shake regardless of what lies he was telling us. Soon enough people started filling up the bar and he stopped getting free drinks. Richard came in, I introduced Dominique to him and some of the others and let them figure it out while I stepped out to talk with Dave.
- Who the fuck is that guy? I don’t like him. - Dave was rarely so quick to judge someone. Most people could tell something about him reeked, or maybe we were all just paranoid, some more than others, though I don’t think that was the case. Both me and Richard received much better treatment than anyone had given Dominique so far, but he didn’t help himself either. - I don’t know. - I replied - He’s not good but… he’s not all bad either. - Dave scoffed in response. His old lips contorted in disapproval.
- So, what’s he like? I saw him walking around earlier, he looks like fly-paper. - grumbled the old man, and I laughed while nodding. - There’s something not bad, maybe even good in there. If you don’t trust me, go in yourself and serve him a few drinks. What’s bad is him being here. - Dave made a noise, like he often did. - You want him here? - he asked, and I thought for a while, before nodding. - I did say I’d try to help. Guys at the docks and yard are better judges than me, if they don’t like him after a week or two, then they can get rid of him. - Dave nodded and waved me away, towards the street.
Told me it was my responsibility and to take care of it, before going into the bar and assumedly beginning to serve people. It got loud soon after he walked in. I didn’t think anyone at the docks would care for me, honestly. Thought my word would be as good as a kid’s, but I’d told those two I’d do something, and now it was my problem.
Christmas was right around the corner, but Rick and I decided it’d be nice to get together for dinner anyways. An excuse to catch up and scream at each other. He gave the idea of cooking and eating in the boat, and of course I called him dumb, but he insisted. According to him, “the clean up is just more time spent together.” We’d kept the ship after arriving in Whiterock, we didn’t know who it belonged to anyways.
It was old, small, but had a kitchen and four beds. We remember living in it for a while. Rick says that we had two other guys working with us for some time, but I could never remember that. Either way, we’d pretty much forgotten all about the little we could remember of that time. It was all just a blur now. We ended up spending the whole afternoon getting it in decent enough shape to eat in.
Rick brought most of the ingredients. Some pickles he made himself, stuff to make biscuits and a venison stew using fresh meat one of the hunters in town had gifted him. I brought the rest and the beer. While he started on the biscuits, I worked on the stew. Before we’d ended up in Whiterock, I remember thinking of him as a pretty scary guy, but maybe that’s because of where I was. People liked him there, probably much more than they liked me. Not that anybody really disliked anybody in that town, but it’s easier to be loved by everyone when you’re an unstoppable mountain.
We always said we were getting together to talk, but I think most often I didn’t talk a lot unless he was cutting work to complain to me in the bar. The boys at the warehouse were well, healthy. Martha was as gossipy as ever, Joanne still didn’t pay him any real attention, and, more importantly, Maryanne had begun to recover. The two doctors in town waved off what she had been saying as a fever dream, but they didn’t have a real explanation for what had left her that way. Poor Maryanne could barely describe it either.
- I went back there a couple days after. I smelled smoke not far from the place we found her. - he remarked - It was a campfire. Extinguished and half burnt. - According to him, it couldn’t have been from one of the hunters. He was pretty sure no one had been out hunting that day, not that he asked, but none of them hunted that close to town. - Are you saying someone scared Maryanne, and that person is still up there? - I asked, and he shrugged. - Maybe. - I questioned why he didn’t ask or tell others about the campfire, and he got silent.
- I don’t want trouble with the wrong people. - I wanted to judge him, complain, but I couldn’t. We just got to more talking and some gossip, mostly about and around the bar by that point of the night. We both remember meeting each other for the first time, he looked strong and angry, and according to him I looked to be out of my depth. I think we had been hired by someone or some company at some shipyard a thousand miles away from Whiterock and fished our way north-west towards it. I never found out why Rich was there at that office, I just remember at that time he looked dangerous, and after that I figured it was best not to ask about it, but he has told me some things about his life before it.
I know he had a few brothers and sisters and I know he finished at least middle school. He was always smart, but the way he spoke about it, makes it seem like he dropped out of high school. He was a strong kid, got in trouble because of it a lot, but he told me he was always happy when he was young, always getting into fights, but did the best he could to straighten himself when his youngest brothers and sisters were born. He missed his home, after all, it was the reason he’d eventually leave Whiterock.
After New Year’s, like usual, the town started firing on all cylinders. Trains came in and out all day, as did boats. Some bringing fish, others moving cargo. The jumpsuits were busy, being busy made them hungry and tired, hungry jumpsuits made restaurants happy, and tired jumpsuits made me, Dave, Millard and I happy. According to nearly all of the old timers, that was being an especially good early season.
Early into the season was when Dominique proved himself, people in the yard began to like him. Dom was good at his job, it seemed like he just instinctively knew where each crate should go, sure, he got it wrong sometimes, everyone did, but he was one of the quickest on the uptake. For a self-described “drifter”, he was really good at that job. But, barely two weeks later, he stopped by my apartment, handed me a wad of cash. I asked why. “Paying off my debt to you, it’s time for me to leave.” is more or less what he said before giving me a smile and quickly walking away. I didn’t have time to react.
Not long after, for the first time that the flyers came up again. One of the boys from the Hetsun Cargo Company was friends with the rail director and had been asked about the flyers when they showed up. He handed an exact replica of the flier to the director. “This showed up about three towns south, a little after when it did here.” And just like that, the chaos came back.
A hoax? A cult? No one knew, but it riled the town up. Some were worried, some laughed it off, most didn’t really know what to make of it, but whenever the two opposites met, it’d lead to long discussions and loud arguments. Maryanne, poor girl, she didn’t handle it well. We became friends, in part because I was one of the only people he believed her story. I remember how much she shook the first time she tried to tell me about it.
She’d gone up the mountains to try and clear her head. After an hour of walking around, she heard a noise coming from a clearing, she couldn’t describe it. Every time she tried, it changed, what mattered was that it froze her, and soon after she saw a headless corpse walking by her. When what was left of its neck turned towards her, that’s when the whole town heard her. But the details changed almost every time she tried telling the story. Sometimes the corpse had a head, but not skin, sometimes it held its face on one of its hands as it walked, sometimes it was its head. Sometimes it was alone, sometimes there was someone else there, alive.
She was afraid but had nowhere to go, sometimes she couldn’t even leave the apartment to go to work at Jeremiah’s Diner. Of course, most of the town chipped in to help, but being alone in her own apartment most of the time didn’t do her much good. Richard tried to talk too, but he wasn’t one for words, never was. Still, she always told me she was determined to go back to that place, look at it for herself, I offered to go with, and she thanked me, but denied it.
Life was hectic at that time, and I’d thought that it couldn’t get any worse, until mid-February, when I found the cowboy in town once again. Out by the rails, not too far from any building, he was playing a sad song on his guitar, late at night. The only light near him was his cigarette. I just sat and listened, though I’m sure he had noticed someone was nearby. Whatever that song was, he played well and for a while. I lost track of time, but when he finished, he called out to whoever had been sitting there by him for so long. -Speak. - he said in his usual rough and vulgar tone, and so I walked to his front, facing him. He interrupted me as soon as I opened my mouth.
- It’s your fault. Though I guess there ain’t much point in gettin’ angry at you. - His cigarette had been gone for a while now, so I handed him a new one and lit it for him, before lighting my own. - The tall guy, blonde at the time, I think, you knew it was him I was lookin’ for didn’cha? - I nodded - “Heaven is coming” an’ I was supposed to stop it. Ah, hell, you tellin’ me wouldn’t ‘ave done much. - He sighed, and I gave him a laugh. At first he was irritated, but then laughed back a little. I told him I got a couch and some old whiskey with his name on it, and after we finished our smokes, he followed me back into town.
In March, the news finally arrived to the town. We were at war. The news came to us via the engineers in charge of the trains, but against who exactly the war was, naturally, split the town again, just like the flyers had. And just like the division they caused, the division caused by the news of war brought everyone together, motivated to discuss and argue and drink over it. It was weird, I felt weird about it.
Mac had been living with me then. He laughed about the war, half-heartedly, I think he was afraid like the rest of us. The town got even busier once it really broke out. Apparently, we were a vital point of the supply line and had been for a while. It was great for business, but everyone hated it. Non-stop work, day and night. The railyard and the docks had to temporarily hire new people, and of course no one wanted to welcome them into their apartments, so most of them crammed themselves into the few free apartments and houses there were.
All that though, was good news for Mack. At night, he came and went as he pleased. No one noticed him, and on the few times he met the rest of the townsfolk, he didn’t seem as bad as the rest, it was easy for people to tolerate him. Dave told me that the young looking cowboy reminded him of himself in his youth. Of course, I laughed, and got smacked a couple times in response, maybe deservedly so.
That was the worst time the town had ever seen, even worse than when it was just a fishing settlement making do on cod and anchovies. There was no silence, there was no peace, the spirits of our forefathers had spoken, we were to murder our enemies with righteous retribution, whatever that meant. Mack had been going through a pack a day during that time, and whenever he wasn’t smoking, sitting on the building’s rooftop, he played his guitar, anxiously. I was happy to be ignorant, he knew more than any of us, clearly, though I was sure it had something to do with the Courier, the Courier who I was sure Mac had killed before coming back.
Everyone was afraid of the future, even Richard. The few moments we had of peace, we’d often spend together. He’d always ask me about the Courier and the Cowboy, and I’d always tell him all I knew about them, which was always nothing, and he’d always nod. - Won’t you be going back home? - he asked me once, maybe halfway through April, and I shook my head. - It’s peaceful here. It’s easy. - and then, he called me an idiot. When I asked about him, he shrugged, said - They rely on me, I can hang around a little more. - It was his way of saying I was wasting away there. I laughed him off, but thought he maybe had a point in what he had been saying lately about writing letters.
In my final months in Whiterock, life had been turned upside down. The buzz of war eventually died down, our bustling little town returned to its normal pace and all the part-timers were sent off. That calmed the old-timers, it mortified me. We’d never heard of the war ending, we’d only stopped seeing people in army uniforms passing by.
Richard and I simply sat by, idly. He’d been having a lot of free time due to putting in so much overtime during the rush, so he’d just sit at the bar and chat with me while I served people. Mack however, couldn’t take much more time sitting still in Whiterock. When times began getting thin, he saw the writing on the wall. His plan was to leave quietly in the night, but I caught him on my way back home. He didn’t say much beyond a goodbye, didn’t have much else to say. Simply told me he’d gotten all he could out of being there, and warned me to prepare myself. I didn’t have much more to ask either.
He was to go on foot to the next town, didn’t want to wait for a train, so I asked to accompany him for a while, he laughed. - Can’t stop ya, can I? - and so, I followed. We were late into April, but the cold was still crushing, Mac didn’t seem to mind it though, maybe not even feel it. I thought that maybe he used his cigarettes to distract himself from the cold, but I couldn’t be sure.
I lost track of time, or of where we were, I just remember sitting down by a long-cold campfire, probably a camp that he had made some time before. It didn’t take long for him to make a new fire and put some food by it before pulling out his guitar. He gave it all to me, insisted I ate, and so we shared our last song and cigarette. In the morning, he was gone. Leaving me with only a blanket and some embers.
In July, a deep mist had overtaken the area. It was hard to see even a few feet ahead of you when outside, and no business had really happened for weeks. Trains didn’t come by anymore, the few that did were mostly paid by us and the towns nearby to bring food and supplies. Spending that money didn’t really bother the folk of Whiterock, they didn’t have much use for it either way, but the hard times scared everyone. A lot of us took to fishing again, without much luck either.
By August, fear really took over the town, people began remembering the war, and then the flyers. “Heaven is coming!” everyone cried, and panic took over. The saddest part of it all was that we hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet.
In September, we saw it all around us: our end had come. The warm temperatures we were waiting for in March came before giving way to blizzards every single week, and then the mist thinned, right before turning orange. Almost everyone began locking themselves inside their homes, the few who didn’t were either in someone else’s house forming prayer groups or drinking themselves to death by the water.
Richard left a note under my door one night, directions to a camp he’d found abandoned in the mountains, told me to meet him there. That was all that was in the note, but I knew it was about time we sat down and actually talked, eye to eye. It’d been too long since we’d last done so.
Up there, it was quieter than Silent. I couldn’t hear anything but my own footsteps, there was no wind, no birds, no moose or wolves, just my boots and the pearly-white snow. It was enough to calm me down, which I found weird, I wanted to be scared. But, when I got near the camp, I heard the crackle of wet wood. By the hill, there was a small dugout built with logs, there seemed to be a fire of some kind going inside. In front of it, a roaring campfire, and by it, Richard, making a snow angel on the ground.
With a peaceful smile he told me to come over and get the gas mask out of my face. I tried to contest it, but he told me to just hear his breathing if I had any doubts, and it was as clear as it had always been. I took one of the rocks and sat by him after putting my bag down. He was serene, I’d never seen him that way, but it made me happy. - Does this mean it’s time for you to stop playing pretend? - he asked. - I’ve tried to, already. - I replied and he sighed before sitting up.
- Tomorrow I’m going home. If I die, I want it to be as close as I can to my family.
- You want help with the boat, isn’t it?
- I can walk, but I don’t think you can, and it’s not in you to try and get back home by train. - He told me, rightfully, while getting up and walking into the cabin.
I followed him in with my bag in hand, there were two beds by a fire stove, it looked old. - You built this? - he shook his head, said - No, found it a little after we got here though. - I nodded. It was cozy and warm inside. I was tired, laid down. He was looking at me, expecting me to say something, I caved.
- I’ve sent her a letter.
- Asking for forgiveness?
- No right to even think about that. Just… told her I’m sorry for running, where I am, and that I want to go back if she’ll let me.
- You’re not getting an answer, even if she wants you to.
I nodded again. Needing to breathe, I walked outside, and saw a great streak of fire ravaging far above the sky. Soon after calling Richard outside, more streaks of fire appeared, and one by one, they began exploding. Leviathan had come, striking the heavens and bringing them down, just as Mack had told me. Feeling the danger, we ran for cover in our little shack, and began talking again.
Soon we decided, and the next morning we walked back into town, put all we could into our boat and sailed off. Times were uncertain, but we managed to keep each other lucid, and after a month or two of hopping from dock to dock, we managed to make it to our last destination together. It was bittersweet, but ultimately I was happy for him. As the mist cleared and the weather normalized, Richard went back home to take care of his brothers and sisters, and I crawled back to what I had run from. The next year came like any other, even if we had been resigned to a world without our heaven, a world with clear skies.
I'd like to thank all those who helped make this book possible. Among them being: Alex, Erika, Felipe, Kane and Stefan.