by Lex Sinclair
Pictures, books, board games, medicine, food, water and winter clothing. The list was brief, lacked detail. However, at the time it served its purpose. The details he’d sussed out when he’d gone on shopping (or rather looting) sprees.
Perkins flipped the page over and wiped a film of dust off the lined paper and read his scrawl by candlelight.
27 December 2006
“The Impact”:
Shock waves from the time of impact shook the foundations splintering fissures in the earth and rock. The thunderous effect of the impact reverberated and raced around causing massive earthquakes I can’t even begin to get my head around. My nerves, I believe, have been frayed indefinitely. Ash from the megaton explosion fell from the sky. The last I heard from the news station on the portable radio was the hierarchy and upper classes had taken refuge in nuclear shelters positioned around the country. I assume similar measures have been taken in the other non-poverty countries. But I can’t say for sure. The news also reported that tsunamis would emanate from the impact points and they would stop at roughly 25 – 150 miles inland.
I can’t even fathom that never mind picture the scene in my mind’s eye. I guess when the realisation of the situation is finally upon you it’s only then that it hits you. The incredulity is beyond that of a scientist’s imagination.
Natalie cradled baby Sapphire. I embraced my furry, four-legged feline pal to my chest. Sue sat between us and trembled. We used each other’s body heat to keep warm. Then we closed our eyes and did our best to restrain our cries when the foundations started rocking crazily.
Reading the text put Perkins back into that specific time and place. And unlike a novel, as the memories were as tangible as the here and now, he could feel the emotions as if he had sent himself back through time.
He continued reading in spite of the trepidation creeping up on him. The sticky little tentacles of fear fastened themselves around his heart.
10 hours after impact:
From what we all learned from the news report apparently huge amounts of “ejecta” (a.k.a., rock blown out of the craters by the thumping impact) would descend back to Earth. According to the report the majority of debris of rock would most likely burn up in the atmosphere. The friction heats the atmosphere to an average of 100 degrees Celsius (hence one of the main reasons why folks are advised to take shelter). Then to add to the insurmountable misery plants and animals would now perish. The ejecta that didn’t burn up in the atmosphere will inevitably crash back down to Earth, bombarding buildings and starting fires in forests and urban areas, such as the one we reside in.
Upon impact we all believed the world was ending. The world was being burned to cinders and exploding and catching fire like meat in the oven. Turned out this was an apt analogy.
Perkins let go of the leather bound diary and shook his hands to rid them of the uncontrollable trembling. After several attempts of performing this they still refused to relent to his wishes.
Hope was a glimmer of light at the far end of the tunnel growing smaller as dusk beat daylight into submission.
For no other reason other than boredom, Perkins, unwisely or not, read on.
A week after impact:
The sun has been blocked out due to the high levels of ash and debris in the atmosphere. We stayed in the bunker, which (like outside) is pitch black, save a candle or two. If I were still religious I’d have lost my faith with the absence of light. I keep thinking this is what death must be like. Pitch darkness. No heavenly white light. No pearly white gates. And certainly no loved ones human or pets awaiting our arrival into the next life. No sir.
The bunker is spacious, but with the absence of light we might as well be lying in our coffins waiting for death to sneak up on us.
Reading this section gave Perkins no reason to believe otherwise. It wasn’t as if he could look back and shake his head. The same emotions and beliefs were still embedded in his scarred soul today. Perhaps their situation had improved, but not a great deal. And, he had to face it, they’d never return to the luxuries they once had. The endless days in the bunker forcing himself to eat and drink something were agony even now.
29 January 2007, I think:
We decided to stay low, only going outside occasionally. Global temperatures have begun to cool due to the sun still being blocked out. This fact still troubles me immensely. It’s safe to go outside, but only for short periods of time at infrequent intervals. Sometimes we just take it in turns. Or all of us go together. We have become rather dependent on each other during the last few weeks of darkness and solitude. Of course precautions have to be taken. All of us remind one another to breathe through a kerchief or a damp cloth. We make sure to keep the bunker door closed nearly all of the time, so as not to breathe in ash and other dust. We use torches as it is pitch black outside (as predicted on the radio, which is now just noisy static) as in the bunker. And we’ve begun trying to find firewood.
As familiar as his scrawl was, the words themselves felt as though they belonged solely in a post-apocalyptic novel, not in a diary.
20 February 2007:
It is now freezing. Those who lived and survived near the coast would most likely find it warmer because the oceans retain the heat. That didn’t concern us, not for the time being at least. We only ventured outside to gather firewood to stay warm.
I’m not sure how long we can sustain this way of life. I’m doing my best not to be pessimistic, but I can’t help thinking we’re just staving our demise. The ones who died upon impact I’m starting to think are the ones better off. And yet I chastise myself for thinking that it’s not a passive thought.
Perkins shrugged indifferently at his thoughts. How else was he supposed to feel? Grateful for surviving? He supposed he ought to. Yet, without being too selfish, he couldn’t help but think that was preposterous. There they were in the bunker, barely able to come out to breathe, and he ought to be grateful.
He hadn’t thought of it at the time, but he assumed it must be similar to how a chronic asthmatic sufferer feels.
6 months/June 28 2007:
It is freezing cold inland. Nevertheless, the ash is clearing from the sky. I thought I was imagining at first. Like one does when one really wants to believe despite the facts resisting one. But that’s not the case. Soon the sun will light up the surface again. Perhaps there are such things as miracles after all. I don’t want to think that though in case I have my diminishing hope eradicated to the point of no return. But because the impact threw up sulphur compounds that reflect the sun’s heat, the icy cold continues. Now there is light again we are able to search for more firewood for longer periods and possibly any others that are still alive.
Upon reading the last paragraph, Perkins felt the first glimmer of hope re-emerge. It lit up his heart and brought the corners of his lips into an upward curl.
July/August 2007:
After much discussion one of our options we’ve decided is if we can’t cope with the cold and begin running out of food and water (perish the thought),is to travel to the Atlantic ocean, as it is warmer. But if we do decide to go through with this, we have to be vigilant and overly cautious because there might be lots of hooligans in the vicinity. People gone mad during the aftermath. God knows I can’t put hand on heart any longer and say that I’m totally sane. John and I used to joke about how we weren’t all there to start with. That’s no longer a joke. It’s fact.
That’s not to say I would resort to violence. I mean I think world over we’ve suffered enough.
Perkins had added other day-by-day information in the leather bound book. However, as he only managed to get two diaries down into the bunker he reminded himself not to waste paper on ramblings. The diary was only to be used for useful information they’d discovered.
Scalding tears threatened to incinerate his eyes as he jotted down the date at the top of the page.
25 December 2009:
At long last the Earth is beginning to warm up again. New plant
life has started to grow and some animals have emerged from their hiding places (not at all any different than us, are they?). Those who might have survived in the nuclear shelters, who lived as members of the higher class and were accustomed to affluent luxuries and modern technology, will have to learn to live the simple, humble life from now on. There was no difference between anyone now. We were all living primordial existences. Money wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on.
20.
THE CHAMBER had been a sufficient home for the last few years. Sacasa and the three followers of the Reaper had surfaced only for firewood and provisions. Time had dragged. The events prior to the impact seemed a blur now. The Reaper was by no means a figment of their imagination. However, due to its lack of presence their days were filled with aimless errands.
In a local parking depot the men had found a row of five motorbikes all still intact. The other floors above ground level had been destroyed by the hellish blast. Chrome and metal had melted and buckled, resembling an Indian tent on the hoods. Windows had disintegrated and speckled the filthy floor. What the three found most arduous was not so much the discovering of the vehicles but getting them over the endless rubble onto the road.
Buildings had collapsed like those of a Lego set having been destroyed. The two Suzuki’s and Yamaha motorcycles needed oil and petrol. Sacasa had provided these essentials. And apart from being covered in dust, the bikes weren’t damaged in the slightest. Which was quite miraculous considering the wreckage as far as they could see.
Furthermore, old man Sacasa was proving to be the chain that held them together. Even Number 1, who was still and always would be wary of him, acknowledged that. Sacasa knew the exact location of a local gun merchant’s residence. Today, after servicing their motorbikes, checking the brakes worked and the tyres had enough tread and there was nothing faulty that could induce an accident, all four men straddled the bikes. Sacasa rode with Number 3 and advised him to take it slow.
Naturally, Number 3 would take the lead as it was Sacasa who would be giving directions. Number 1 and Number 2 kept a safe distance and trailed the leading bike. All four men wore hooded sweaters and covered their mouths with folded bandanas. The din of engines remained a constant growl as they manoeuvred through the barren city. No life in any form was seen on their travels. And although the men’s attention was strictly intent on the road in front of them they noticed this. The journey was long and gruelling, zigzagging between building segments and abandoned cars. Sporadic trees that were now without leaves or colour lay sideways. On occasions they would have to dismount and carry a lamppost or tree trunk so they could continue.
Dim sunlight aided them through the clouds of ash and dust that never seemed to relent. The men had already been on the road for three hours and they hadn’t travelled a mile yet. And although the sun made its presence known on Earth after going AWOL for the last few years, it was by no means anywhere near as radiant as it was before the aftermath.
Then as they reached a straight road where lampposts were propped up by dilapidated buildings and fragments of glass crunched beneath their wheels a silhouette in the shape of a tall, broad figure materialised through the swirling ash and dust.
Number 3 released his hand from the throttle and applied the brake gently. Sacasa squinted over his shoulder. He knew not by description but through intuition.
‘Stop!’ the old man barked over the powerful engine.
Number 3 did as instructed and rolled the bike to a halt. He applied the foot stand and dismounted, glad for the rest. The other two followed obediently. Then they watched Sacasa moving around an overturned DHL lorry. Bits of plaster and brick cascaded from the remaining facades. Posters and flyers from the shops fluttered in the clogged air, twirling and seesawing. Billboards that hung over the shops had fallen into the road. No longer did they flash electric neon hues. The breeze coughed layers of thick dust up off the terrain. The men had to cover their eyes. Serpentine crevices split the road. For all they knew the chasm beneath would swallow them into the black hole.
Nevertheless, in spite of the peril they found themselves, the men felt an obligation, a duty, to back Sacasa up to whoever he’d seen. After all, had it not been for Sacasa they’d have perished along with the vast majority of humankind.
As they neared the motionless silhouette the whirling dust cleared and eddied at knee height. The figure before them was revealed. Yet the men didn’t know whether they ought to be relieved or alarmed by its presence. None of them had anticipated that the return of the Reaper would have taken so long.
A week or so prior to Christmas 2008 when they’d all been huddled together in the chamber keeping warm, arguing and becoming increasingly sick of the sight of each other, a pertinent discussion arose. One that reminded them that as many gifts they’d been given by the one called the Reaper, how useless they were stuck underground, all day every day, quietly going insane.
‘The Grim Reaper is the symbol of Death or Death itself, right?’ Number 1 snapped at Sacasa.
All men had been drinking throughout the day and although it was hard to tell, it felt like night.
After some time sipping his bottle of whisky, Sacasa nodded confirmation that what Number 1 had said was in fact true.
‘The Reaper’s goal was to bring death on a global scale, here on Earth, right?’
Sacasa said that was the case.
‘Then what if it’s achieved its goal and forsaken us?’ Number 1 said, glancing around at the other two scarlet-eyed men. ‘It wouldn’t need us then, would it? How do we know that the two infants have survived the impact?’
Sacasa didn’t – or couldn’t – answer that question.
Number 2 who rarely got involved with the debates spoke up then. ‘Before we all came down here and the end of the world as we used to know it ended, I kept my ear to the ground. Listened intently to all the special news programmes and watched all the in-depth documentaries. Just out of curiosity. Also, there were also some excellent tips on how to survive the comet strikes. I learned quite a lot about holocausts. And according to some experts, they said one of the worst things folks could do was take refuge in a nuclear shelter built by the governments.’
Number 3 appeared perplexed by this statement and voiced his opinion. ‘I thought that’d be the best thing to do. I mean, had we not known about this place then that’s what I would’ve been doing, had I been selected.’
‘And you wouldn’t have been alone in assuming that, Number 3,’ Number 2 said. ‘But the more I listened to this programme the more I found out some startling facts. I can’t remember what channel it was on. Even the channels that didn’t broadcast news or documentaries aired identical shows. It was a Science based channel anyway. You know the ones that always aired programmes about classified UFO accounts?’
All the men nodded in unison.
‘Anyway, it said that after the initial motherfucker explosions and impact had subsided, the masses of people kept in close proximity would start to become restless. Sure they’d still be afraid, but humans and even pets have incredible recuperating abilities. They need to be able to cope with their troubles. Once the initial fear and anxiety wore off like all primal creatures they’d think of their survival. That means food, water, and so on…
‘Imagine lots of people. Thousands all eating and drinking the limited supplies brought into the shelter. What do you think will happen? Soon – a lot sooner than most would’ve anticipated – the food and water would diminish until they’d have to select folks to venture outside and go hunting.’
‘Yeah… And?’ Number 1 said, impatient.
‘Remember when we went outside with our gas masks on after two weeks,’ Number 2 went on. ‘Even with the gas masks and heavy duty clothing and protection it felt like someone had rammed a vacuum hose down my throat and all the oxygen was being sucked out of my lungs. We all said the same thing, and gladly returned indoors. Remember?’
The men concurred that what Number 2 w
as saying was fact.
‘How long were we out there?’
The men regarded each other, not certain of how long exactly.
‘About an hour?’ Number 2 prompted.
Sacasa coughed into his fist. ‘Less than that.’
Number 2 shrugged. ‘Half hour?’
‘Somethin’ like that,’ Number 3 said.
‘Okay. Let’s say it was between half an hour and sixty minutes, for argument sake,’ Number 2 continued. ‘How far did we travel? Or rather how far could we travel?’
‘We didn’t go further than the alley,’ Number 3 said. ‘And that was only ’cause we had the wall as our guide.’
‘So about twenty to thirty yards, if that. And what about visibility?’
‘There wasn’t any. Black and white mist was all I could see anyway,’ Number 1 said.
‘The nuclear shelter in this unknown location would be crammed with people, and other animal life. Famous people, professionally qualified people and Royals. But they’re still people, gentlemen. And under great strain even the most civilised of people snap. Especially when food and water is passed out in rations. I don’t think the government would have supplied nearly enough food and water and other essentials like medicine. And that’s another thing, when you see your loved ones dying in front of you, once the grieving is done then the anger takes over. A couple of weeks wouldn’t have nourished them. No way. Then they’d have no choice but to take the plunge. Take a leap of faith into the impenetrable, oxygen-deprived air.
‘How, gentlemen, I ask you, could anyone see or know where to go through this black and white dense mist, searching for essentials that may or may not be there?’
You could hear a pin drop it was so still.
