A Land of Ash

by David McAfee

  “I could do with some rain,” Gertrude said, removing her scarf and letting Alice out of her pack. The cat hopped into the driver’s seat and lay down, cleaning her paws. The old lady put her hands underneath her armpits and frowned at the west.

  “I don’t like this storm that’s coming,” she said. “I feel ill. This ain’t fun, Samuel. My heart’s saying we might go the way of Dorothy and Toto when it hits.”

  The top layer of ash blew with the wind, but underneath remained still, hardened together as it had cooled over the past week. It made the world look sick, as if the storm had picked a scab off the land, revealing the ugliness underneath. Gertrude wondered how many bodies might have suddenly lost their burial shroud.

  With a sudden gust of air, the storm arrived. Lightning struck in constant waves, illuminating the land in a dizzying flash, a hellish strobe light. The thunder hit like a physical force, booming and crashing as if the foundations of heaven were being torn asunder.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Gertrude cried, her palms across her eyes.

  Samuel watched, fascinated. His eyes ached in the brightness, but he could not look away. White veins pulsed in the clouds. The ash blew not eastward but upward, as if lifted to the heavens by God’s command. The car groaned. Its windows cracked. Deep in the distance, he watched a line of trees crack and fall.

  Through it all, the world remained dry.

  “Please, Jesus, save us!” Gertrude wailed.

  As if a monster had suddenly awakened within him, Samuel pulled a pistol from his pocket and struck her atop the head with the butt. Before she even knew she was hurt, Gertrude slumped in her seat, the storm mercifully absent in her dreams.

  *

  When Gertrude awoke, her ankles were tied together, her hands bound separately behind her. The storm was a rumbling thing in the far distance. Their fire burned anew in its pit, and standing in the red light, gun in hand, was Samuel.

  She let out a low moan, every bone in her body aching. The image of Samuel was so terrible she told herself it was a dream. Her eyes closed, but not for long. A rough hand grabbed her face and pulled it upward. She looked and saw Samuel, monster Samuel, his bloodshot eyes wide and wild.

  “Do you know why I was travelling east?” he asked her.

  “Where’s Alice?” she asked, ignoring him.

  He struck her. Blood dripped down her lip.

  “I asked you a question. You know why I was travelling east? Because I have something now. I have hope. Too long our nation rotted under old ideas, worn archaic foundations to an otherwise great society. But we’ll have to build anew, don’t you understand that, Gertrude?”

  “Ms. Henderson,” she said, her head lolling side to side as if her neck were rubber. Her body was propped against the side of the car. She missed the protection of her scarf. The storm had awakened the ash, filling the air with its sting. “Impolite brat like you should learn manners.”

  “Manners?” Samuel laughed. “Billions of people are dying, and you want me to use manners? You see what I mean? Everyone’s blind. No one sees the big picture, but I do. Remember when I said I had a question to ask you? Well, I’m asking now. You just couldn’t keep your little vanity, your ‘Sweet Jesus’ and your feeble prayers to yourself. So now I’m asking, Ms. Henderson.”

  He knelt down, the gun rocking in his hand. He looked her in the eye, and she glared back, unafraid.

  “Do you believe in God, Gertrude?” he asked.

  “Believe in him more than I believe in you,” she said.

  He tilted his head to one side.

  “Is that so? Might I ask how? Or more importantly, why?”

  “Because he’s been so good to me,” she said. Samuel laughed before she could continue.

  “Good to you? Good! Have you lost your eyes, old hag? Look around you. How many corpses have you passed on your walk east? How many cars filled with families huddled together, sobbing as they fucking died in each other’s arms? Hell, even God’s precious trees and flowers are nothing but death beneath the ash.”

  “We walk in the end of days,” Gertrude said. “But I wouldn’t expect a Sunday school-skipping truant like you to know a thing about that.”

  Samuel shoved the barrel against her neck. He didn’t appear mad. He seemed calm, and that scared her far more than anything else he’d done.

  “If God exists, he’s a murderer,” he said. “My wife, my son, he filled their lungs with ash and tossed me their bodies to bury. So I deny him. He doesn’t exist. Those that can look upon this wasteland and say he does are diseased. They’re sick. Now I’ll ask you again, Gertrude: do you believe in God? You still think he exists?”

  She swallowed. The knot on her head from where he’d struck her pounded with rhythmic throbs of pain.

  “I do,” she said. “And he does.”

  Samuel reached around her back and untied one of her hands. He crushed her arthritic fingers in his grip, then slammed it against the car. Holding her wrist, he aimed and pulled the trigger. The gun fired, the noise loud and painful. Gertrude screamed as blood erupted from her palm. She tensed and pulled, sobbing as she tried to hold her wounded hand against her chest, but Samuel would not relent.

  “Please,” she cried. “Just take care of Alice. She’s just a dumb cat, ain’t done nothing wrong. When I’m, When I…”

  Samuel let go of her hand and knelt down. He suddenly spoke with compassion, his voice soft and his smile warm.

  “Don’t you get it?” he asked her. “God is like your damn cat. Alice doesn’t exist, Gertrude. You’ve spent your days talking to no one.”

  Samuel paced before the fire while Gertrude bled atop her jacket. Her sobs quickened, and she felt like she might faint. Her hurried breaths gagged as ash pooled on her tongue.

  “We can be a stronger nation,” Samuel said, talking to the hidden stars. “A better nation, smaller perhaps, but a fit man can defeat a sickly giant. For years the world looked to the U.S. for guidance, but now they look to us with pity. They mock what they have long abandoned.”

  Gertrude closed her eyes, and slowly her lips mouthed words. When Samuel saw this, he snapped. His fist struck her cheek, rattling her teeth.

  “Don’t you dare pray for yourself,” he snarled at her.

  “Not myself,” she said, looking at him with her tired, weepy eyes.

  Samuel turned cold at that. He aimed the gun at her forehead.

  “I’ll ask you again,” he said.

  “I know you will,” she replied.

  “No one will hear your answer. You won’t be a saint. There’s no one to impress, no one to convince.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Last chance. Don’t be a fool, Gertrude. Open your eyes. Like your cat. Like your goddamn cat.”

  “Ask already.”

  “Do you believe in God, Gertrude?”

  “I do.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  Last Words

  by Michael Crane

  As Harold waited for his son, he looked out his window and stared at the ash covering the ground. Florida might’ve been better off than other parts of the country, but the ash was still there. A constant, grim reminder of what had just transpired only a few weeks ago. The sky appeared forever gray and showed no signs of changing whatsoever. It looked like winter in the Midwest.

  A damn shame, he thought. Still, he was alive. That was what really mattered. Many had died and lost loved ones. There were parts of the country that wouldn’t recover for years to come. A tragic situation, yes, but he was still alive.

  He just wished that his son Gary felt the same way.

  It wasn’t because Gary was acting coldhearted. Quite the opposite. His son was devastated, but the truth was people said horrible things after a nasty breakup. You never meant the things you said in the heat of an argument. He tried to tell him that many times, but Gary seemed to think it was the end of everything as he knew it.

  At least he agreed to come over and talk. He was thankful fo
r that much.

  He heard a knock at the door. It startled him, but he collected himself and he went to the door with a smile on his face.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said.

  His son only gave him a simple nod. He looked terrible. He hadn’t shaved in days. His face was smeared gray with ash. Even though he was wearing a long jacket, Harold noticed that his clothes were terribly wrinkled. He also smelled the scent of booze.

  Not the best state to see your own son in, but it could’ve been worse. Far worse.

  He let him inside and told him to make himself comfortable.

  “Got any scotch?” Gary asked.

  Harold held in his frown. “Um, afraid I don’t,” he lied. “Please, just have a seat.”

  Gary rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He sat on the couch while Harold chose the recliner next to it.

  “I can’t stay long.”

  “Fine. Plans?”

  “No. Just can’t stay long.”

  Harold was at a loss for words. He didn’t even know where or how to begin. The fact that his son didn’t want any part of it didn’t make things easy, either, but he had to be strong. Focus, he thought. He feared for his son’s life. Dammit, he had to try something. Anything.

  “Gary, you know I love you. Right?”

  Again, his son rolled his eyes. “Dad, I’m not twelve.”

  “That don’t mean anything. I’m just trying to tell you that I love you… and I’m worried about you, to be honest.”

  “Worried about what, exactly?” Gary asked, without looking at his father.

  How could he possibly explain to his son everything he was feeling without coming off as one of those dreadful TV dads that everybody made fun of? That was his biggest fear. To come off as insincere or rehearsed. If he did, he’d lose him. Gary wouldn’t listen to a damn word he had to say. He had to be very careful, while at the same time, make it so he understood the seriousness of the situation.

  “I know you haven’t been sleeping much,” he started. “Since after… you know.”

  Gary grunted.

  “I mean, I know how awful it is,” Harold said while leaning forward a little. “And I’m truly sorry that it happened, but you know… you had no control or say over it. You know what I mean?”

  Gary rubbed his nose and gave a few snorts. “Yeah, well I doubt I’m the only one not sleeping lately, dad. It ain’t just me. A lot of people died.”

  “Yes, and I understand that. But you and me… we’re alive. That has to count for something, right?”

  Gary chuckled and shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what this is all about. If this is some sort of I-hope-you-don’t-off-yourself speech, you can save it. All right? I’m fine. Just having a hard time accepting what happened to Janet.”

  “Yes. I understand. Completely. But you had no part in her death.”

  Gary leaned forward and put his face in his hands. He gave out an exhausted sigh.

  “I don’t know,” he said into his hands. “I told her moving to California wasn’t a good idea.” He took his face away from his hands and patted down his legs. “I did. I told her, ‘Don’t go there. Nothing good will come of it.’ I didn’t know…”

  “Nobody did. That’s the point. Nobody knew that things were going to turn out like this. That’s the way life is, Gary. You can’t expect or prepare for everything. You can only act accordingly to whatever is thrown your way.”

  Gary leaned into the sofa, his eyes watching the ceiling. He blew some air out and scratched his chin. “I was bitter, Dad. I was really fucking bitter when she left me.”

  Harold didn’t normally like it when his son cursed, even if he was thirty. However, he let it go. Just the fact that he was even talking about it was a victory of sorts.

  “Son, I think just about everybody gets bitter after a breakup.”

  “Yeah, but that don’t excuse it, you know? I said some awful, awful things. And now? I can’t take ’em back.” He looked at his father. “You have any idea what a terrible feeling that is? Not being able to say you’re sorry to somebody? Not being able to call that person up and say, ‘Hey, I was an asshole. I was a goddamned sonofabitch, and I’m sorry.’” He paused. “I was real thick-headed. I immediately put blame on her when she called it off between us.”

  The fact that his son was holding onto so much guilt broke his poor, old heart. What could he possibly say to comfort him? What could anybody say? Here was a man distraught over irrevocable last words. How did you take that weight off someone’s shoulders, regardless of whether it belonged there in the first place?

  “You’re not to blame. Not for that.”

  Gary got up and began pacing the room.

  “See, that’s what everybody says to me. Why blame yourself, Gary? You didn’t cause it. How do you know? Huh? We never really know the true power of our words until it’s too late. If a wife tells her husband that she hopes he dies of a heart-attack and it actually comes to pass, did she cause that? Who’s to say?”

  “When was this?” Harold asked.

  Gary groaned and rubbed his temples. “It didn’t happen, Dad. I’m trying to make a point here. That’s all. I said something awful to Janet. Those were my last words to her. And now, I’ve got to live with it somehow.” He rubbed harder and let out another groan.

  “You will get past this, Son. I promise, you will.”

  A sigh came out of Gary. He looked at his father while he remained standing. “You remember when I was in Third Grade and I nearly choked on some hard candy?”

  He nodded. “I believe so.”

  “I thought I was going to die. Scariest thing in the world when you’re that little. Eventually, I coughed it up and was all right, but my whole class freaked out.” He paused and licked the corner of his mouth. “I never told you the whole story. What happened was that I did terrible on a test. The teacher passed out candy to those who did well, and one of my friends got one. This kid, Jake. Don’t know if you remember him. Not sure I had him over all that much… but that’s beside the point. Anyway, when I saw Jake got one, I bugged the hell out of him to let me have it. When he told me no, I threw a goddamned hissy-fit. Finally, he just threw it my way and said, ‘Fine.’”

  “Okay.”

  “But you know what he said as I put it in my mouth? And I swear to God, I’ll never forget this. Under his breath, he said, ‘I hope you choke on it.’ I swear, Jake said those exact words. I shit you not.” He looked towards one of the windows and curled his lips. “He didn’t mean it, of course. I know that much… but damn if it didn’t happen…”

  “People don’t have that kind of power. Things don’t happen just because you wish it. Good, or bad. That’s not the way life works.”

  Gary looked at his father. “Perhaps, but I don’t know. All I know is I was freaked out by it. And Jake? He took it hard. Wouldn’t speak to anybody for a week. He was convinced he was to blame. He asked me if it was his fault one day, and you know what? I didn’t have an honest answer for him. I didn’t know.” He looked out the window again.

  “It’s getting colder, you know. It’s freezing out there.” He folded his arms and shivered. “So unreal.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Whatever. I have to get going.” He started walking towards the door.

  Harold quickly got up and followed after his son. There was something that didn’t fit. Something that Gary was holding onto and hadn’t yet revealed.

  “Wait.”

  Gary stopped and faced him.

  “You’re not telling me the whole story.”

  “What? The candy episode?” He chuckled. “Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t more truthful about that when I was a kid. I was afraid you’d get sore at me for failing a test…”

  “No. I’m talking about Janet.”

  Gary’s face grew tight and he gave a nervous cough.

  “You told me you were angry at her for leaving you, and that you told her you hated her the last time you two spoke. After she moved to Cali
fornia.”

  Gary looked down at the floor and was quiet for a moment. A great deal of pain spread across his face, just like a little boy not wanting to admit that he got sent to the principal’s office. Harold knew this look very well. It was obvious he had one last thing to say.

  “Why would saying that you hated her end her life?” Harold asked. “How would that cause any of this?”

  He finally looked at his father in the eyes.

  “I didn’t tell her I hated her.” He rubbed the back of his neck while letting out another sigh. “The last time I spoke to her was a couple of months ago. Just shortly after she moved. I begged her to take me back. Was practically on my goddamn knees. I told her I would do right by her if she gave me another chance.”

  He chuckled, and the pain in his eyes frightened Harold.

  “She wanted no part of it. I exploded and lost my temper. I started shouting.”

  “What did you say?”

  Another pause. “You really want to know?”

  “It’s important, son.”

  He was still silent for another moment. He threw his hands into his pockets and kicked at his feet. Without looking at him, he said, “I told her I hoped she died.” He looked at his father and nodded. “That’s exactly what I said to her. And now, I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

  Harold couldn’t speak. In that very moment, he wanted to break down in tears. He wanted to say something to his son—hell, maybe even hug him and never let go—but before he could, Gary was out the door.

  Refugees

  by John Fitch V

  Carly Simmons rushed from the Government Center subway station across the red bricked plaza to Boston City Hall. Her black heels clicked as she power-walked, nearly knocking over a tourist staring at a map in his hands.

  “Hey, look where you’re going!” the tourist barked.

  “Sorry,” Carly replied. She dug out her BlackBerry and dialed the special number. It rang twice. “Carly here. I’m a few minutes away from meeting with the mayor. What’s the status on the ash?”