by S L Dearing
My large mountaineer backpack, which was once heavy with food and supplies, feels uncomfortably empty now. Before Wimbley and I set out I had pillaged the local sporting goods store for supplies. I loaded up on military style MRE’s and dehydrated foods. I grabbed clothes and comfortable hiking shoes. I even found a pair of booties to protect Wimbley’s feet.
Surveying the map I was smart enough to grab, I know that we are near Castle Rock; still at least four days away from our final destination. However, when I performed an inventory check I found that we have three days of food left. If I carefully ration everything and skip a few meals, we should have just enough to make it. Our water situation is looking slightly bleak. We have four bottles left. Not being an outdoorsy- woodsy kind of girl, I’m very scared to get water from rivers or streams in fear of making myself or Wimbley sick. However, it appears that if it doesn’t rain soon I will have to take that chance.
It is early morning as we leave Castle Rock behind us. Each time we leave a city I send a quiet plea to the universe that it won’t be the last time I see it. All these cities I have taken for granted since childhood seem so very precious to me now. Wimbley and I walk mostly in silence. When his little legs get tired I let him take naps in the backpack as I trudge along. This last leg of the journey will be dangerous. It will be four days out in the open as we follow the path of I-25. I will have to make camp roadside at least three times before we reach Cheyenne Mountain. There will be no fires those nights, which maybe just as well as we are beginning to run short on matches.
It’s midafternoon when I begin to see a strange shape off to the side of the road. I duck behind the pile of vehicles on the highway. Wimbley, who has been dozing away, pokes his little nose out of the pack.
“There’s something on the road up ahead. Stay down little buddy,” I utter barely above a whisper. He acknowledges me by nudging my arm with his snout and disappears back into the pack. I creep forward, using the cars as cover. I remind myself to step lightly as I go. As I inch closer the shape comes into focus and I realize it’s a young man. He appears to be crying. I am taken aback by this discovery as I haven’t seen another person in weeks. His back is to me, which works out in my favor. I am so shocked to see another person that I stand straight up from behind my hiding spot.
I am transfixed, frozen in place staring at him. I feel a little nip on my arm and a tug on my sleeve as if Wimbley is trying to remind me that I should be hiding. Rationally I know how unsafe a situation I have just found myself in, but my loneliness has taken over. “Hello?” I say softly.
Startled, the young man jumps to his feet and turns to face me. We stare at each other for what seems an eternity before he finally speaks. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Are you one of them?” he questions as he takes a defensive stance.
I put up my hands as a signal that I mean no harm. Having trouble finding my voice I simply shake my head. “Where did you come from?!” he spits at me. Still unable to speak, I point north like a ridiculous mime. “Can you speak?” he asks.
I nod my head. “Yes,” I respond, while choking back a sob. The weight of remaining strong for the past few weeks had taken its toll. I was blissfully unaware of how afraid I had been that I was the only one left, until my fear suddenly surfaced in the gravity of the moment. The young man relaxes, but only slightly.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen another person in so long I was beginning to think…” I trail off, shaking my head as the tears form in my eyes. “…you were the only one left?” the young man finishes my sentence. “Yeah,” I nod. I take a step towards him but he quickly backs away.
“How am I to be sure you aren’t one of them?” he asks, still in a defensive stance, his eyes darting around looking for an escape plan.
“Guess I could be asking the same thing,” I reply, unsure of the situation myself.
The young man eyes me as he assesses the situation and is likely sizing me up. He blows out a long breath and I see some of the tension relax from his posture. “Well, we’re both moving about during the day. I guess that’s something, since they tend to prefer the night.” He pauses before continuing. “Although…I have seen them occasionally during the day,” suspicion in his eyes as he speaks.
“If either of us were one of them, the other would have been dead by now,” I say calmly, with certainty. He slowly nods in agreement, acknowledging the truth in my previous statement. We stand in silence for a few moments before he speaks again. “Where are you walking to?” he asks, as he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. “Cheyenne Mountain,” I reply. He nods. I make the assumption from his gesture that we are on the same path. A small smile creeps onto his lips. “Care for a walking buddy?”
Stunned by the offer I tilt my head, brows furrowed, and stare at him in confusion. He lets out a small strained laugh. “I’m sorry. I know I was just accusing you of being one of them and now I want to walk with you. I realize what a quick turnaround that was. You made a good point; if you were one of them I would have been dead before I even knew you were here.” He continued to ramble on, “It’s just that I haven’t seen anyone else either and I just…” He looked away from me as he finished. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”
I considered him for a moment, this young man who stood before me. He was about 5’11, medium build and average looking. He had black hair and dark eyes. There were no red flags or warning bells going off to indicate he meant me anymore harm then I meant him. Besides, I have a weapon; a knife I found at the sporting goods shop. It was made to be concealed, fitting snuggly into a sheath that fit nicely into the back pocket of my jeans. My shirt then covers the handle. I can protect myself if it comes down to it. “Yeah, okay. We can walk together,” I answer him slowly.
He lifts up his backpack from the ground as I walk down the slight embankment of the road to meet him on the shoulder. “My name is Ian,” he says, as he extends his hand for a shake. I acknowledge the courtesy by shaking his hand in return. Wimbley pops his little head out of my pack. “And who is this?” Ian asks, as he lets the dog sniff his hand. “This is my little dog, Wimbley.”
We resume the journey south again, only this time we walk together. We amble along in silence for a while, not really knowing what to say. The time in this world for idle small talk has long since passed. Yet, how does one interact with a stranger when there’s no small chitchat to break the ice? When all there is to talk about is a reminder of painful memories and horrors witnessed? As awkward as the silence feels, there is a tremendous comfort in there being another person walking next to me.
As dusk approaches we reach Larkspur. There’s a small convenience store in town that I’m familiar with, as it was a stop for the annual trip to the Renaissance Festival held nearby. I have a small hope that we can replenish some of our supplies there. I only have one bottle of water left and Wimbley and I are getting dehydrated. Ian has been nursing his last bottle all day. Even though I offered to share mine, he politely refused.
When we reach the store we are greeted by the stench of rotting food and spoiled milk as the electricity that powered the coolers has long been off. Inside we find a few small bags of chips, a box of cookies, and a couple of power bars that luckily no critters had gotten to. We are fortunate to find a few bottles of water, juice, and soda. Ian lets me have most of the water since obviously dogs can’t drink soda. We scavenge the remains of the store for other useful supplies, including bandages and toiletries. We fill our remaining empty bottles with water from the toilet tanks. In a more civilized time I never would have considered such a thing, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It is clean water after all.
After filling our packs with the few useful items we could find, we head a little further south before setting up camp for the night. We eat some of my MRE’s and a sleeve of cookies. Since there isn’t a whole lot of cover on the road we decide to sleep in shifts. It’s horribly unsettling being in complete darkness, especially when you know there
are things that go bump in the night. There are no lights from nearby towns, and it’s too risky to light a fire, so we have to make do in the total black.
The next couple days pass much the same as the ones before it. We walk, we stop to try to find supplies when we can, and we eat a little, rest a little, rinse and repeat. Ian and I don’t discuss family, friends, or our jobs before everything went to hell. None of it matters. If we still had any friends or family left we wouldn’t have stumbled upon each other alone in the middle of nowhere. What we did for a living is inconsequential. Money no longer has any bearing on us.
We find camaraderie in discussing books. Books seem to be a constant. TV shows and movies have already faded away with no directors to direct them, no actors to star in them, and no electricity to show them for the people who are all dead. You don’t need electricity to read or write a book. We have in-depth discussions about our favorite authors. I even find myself laughing a bit as we discuss George Carlin and his many humorous books. It’s nice to laugh again, although it feels slightly foreign to me now.
When we reach Colorado Springs I begin to feel hope filling my heart. Only ten more miles to go, just one more day, and we’ll reach Cheyenne Mountain. We find a small park to set up camp for one final night before what we hope will be salvation. We can’t have a fire again tonight, not this close to a big city. The Anathema lurk in the larger cities, waiting to pick off the stragglers who come there searching for help. This is the most danger I have been in since I left Denver, yet knowing that I’m not here alone has given me a little peace.
When I wake around five a.m., I realize I slept better than I had in weeks. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. Wimbley is doing the same next to me. I reach down and scratch his head. I don’t see Ian and become instantly worried. I look around in a panic. I quickly turn behind me to see him standing five feet away, his arms hung tight at his sides with a strange look on his face. I can’t read it. “Ian? Are you okay?”
“Yep, I’m fine. I was just getting ready to wake you. Are you ready to go? Cheyenne Mountain awaits,” he replies with a sly smile. I arch an eyebrow at him, confused by his odd demeanor this morning. Since I don’t know him well, I brush it off as a personality quirk. “Yeah, let’s get going”
We are silent for much of the day. Each lost in their own thoughts. I can’t help but wonder if we find refuge at the mountain, then what? Will I spend the rest of my life in an underground military bunker, hiding from the Anathema? Are there plans already in the works to try to fight back? How many people are left? Are there other survivors around the world, in other countries, just as paranoid as our own, with underground bunkers for such catastrophes? I glance at Ian from time to time only to see a slight smile on his face. The smile reflects more in his eyes than his lips. He must be more of an optimist than I am, I think to myself.
We reach the final leg of our journey, Norad Road, only a few miles left to go. Our pace picks up as we turn down the road. Even Wimbley is walking faster and wagging his tail. When we reach the first security gate there is no one there to question or stop us. We walk right through. We encounter much of the same at each check point. My hope is beginning to dwindle. If anyone was here, wouldn’t someone come to meet us? I think to myself.
It’s nearing dusk when we reach the North Portal, a large concrete tunnel that runs directly into the side of the mountain. I begin to feel the panic rising in my chest. “How did we make it this far and no one tried to stop us?” I ask while searching the hills nearby for any signs of life. “Where is everyone?”
I take my pack off and begin pacing, unsure of what to do next. Ian is standing still. He continues to watch me. “Well, what are your thoughts?” I ask him, with my hands on my hips. He remains silent but the smile that has been dancing around in his eyes all day has finally reached his lips. I stop pacing and feel my heart start to race. “Ian?”
He begins to laugh, a low, sinister laugh. He starts clicking his tongue, a gesture one would use to scold a small child or pet. “You are one gullible bitch,” he says, while shaking his head. A low growl starts to emulate from Wimbley’s throat as he moves up beside me, his hackles raised. “Did you honestly believe there was salvation here? Something or someone to protect you?”
My brain must have shut down because suddenly I start babbling. “No, you said you were coming here too. We came here together.” I keep shaking my head as if somehow that would make this scenario stop.
“Nope, you’re wrong, little one. I never said I was walking here. I simply asked if you wanted a walking buddy. No wonder it’s been so easy to extinguish your kind. You’re far too trusting,” he laughed. I tried to replay the conversation in my head. Oh god, he had never said where he was going! “Did you not find it odd that we never ran into any Anathema? Why they chose to leave you alone for four days? You know the reason why now, don’t you?”
Tears begin to sting my eyes. “Because… there was already one with me,” I whisper, in a daze. I stand silently, staring at the ground for what feels like an eternity. Wimbley’s growl brings me back into the moment and Ian’s betrayal. “Why didn’t you just kill me right away?” I ask, as I slowly slip my hand down my hip and to the back pocket of my jeans for my weapon. My heart stops as I realize my pocket is empty.
“Looking for something?” He smiles while holding up my knife. “Slipped that little beauty out of your pocket while you slept last night and you didn’t even notice. Not that it would have done you any good. You can’t kill me. As to why I didn’t kill you right away? Well, there’s no sport in that is there?” He slowly unsheathes the knife and twists it back and forth in his hand while admiring it.
As if sensing the immediate threat, Wimbley lunges at Ian’s leg. “Wimbley!” I scream, as time seems to slow to a crawl. All in one brief moment Wimbley has ahold of Ian’s leg, sinking his teeth in. He shakes the little dog off with barely a thought and lunges at me. Before I know it I’m staring into his eyes, just mere inches from my own. There’s a searing pain in my neck. Ian holds a bloody knife before my face. He has stabbed me in the neck with my own weapon.
My knees give out and I collapse on the ground, bleeding out. I know this is the end. I am moments from my death. Ian bends down so his lips are next to my ear and whispers, “You know the best part of all this? I don’t even know your name, not that it matters.” The last thing I see as my vision begins to dim is a wicked grin on that son of a bitch’s face as he advances towards my brave little dog.
THE END
Table of Contents
Copyright
FOREWORD
Dedication
Fade to Black by Jase Brantson
Artificial Life: The End of Humanity by Kate Charles
Shelf Life by S. L. Dearing
Welcome to the End of the World (Population: Unknown) by R.M. Gilmore
Lotion by Grayce Jantson (Jason Brant)
Until the End by Brittany Hiester
I Know My First Name is Clossiana by K.T. Hennessy
Save Me by Heather Kirchhoff
Canyon Bound by Jon Messenger
What If by Jocelyn Sanchez
Cheyenne Mountain by Nicki Scalise