Decimation Pt. 2
Our first visit was a short one. Not that we realized or knew what was going on, but we knew without a doubt that the safest place any of us could be was in that broom closet. “More like a boom closet,” one of us had tried to joke. No one laughed. Humor had died with everything else.
“We need to find food and water. I think for now we have a workable shelter.”
“How are we gonna sleep in there? It’s packed full of shit.”
“We’ll pull the racks out and recycle them into something else.”
“Oh yeah, you’re just Robinson fuckin’ Crusoe, aren’t ya?”
“Chill the fuck out man, I know we’re in a bad spot. But if we don’t want to die, then we need to work together, OK?”
That was the extent of our conversation that day. No names asked, no life stories shared. I think we were all in denial. It’s difficult to ask those hard questions when you’re surrounded by destruction, and deep down we all knew the answer. Deep down we wanted it all to go back the way it was.
None of us were happy, but one of us clearly had a plan. I distinctly remember him saying something about zombies as we worked to make our closet a shelter. It was comforting to know that someone was thinking a ways out. Let's call this guy, our survivalist, “Zed”.
Zed was a bit on the tall side, and decently built, but you could tell he wasn’t a gym rat. It was pretty obvious he had enough paranoia that he had made actual catastrophe plans when the war had ended. We all had some kind of plan, but most of that was the standard government-issue “Guidelines for Disaster”:
It was tough work dragging those metal racks out. They had been secured to the floor and most of those bolts had rusted over with time. Zed had a little pocket knife on him, and he tried to scrape away enough rust so we could break the bolts free, but that was effectively useless. One of the other guys, we’ll call him Fred, had an actual multi-tool with a set of pliers built in. Those would have only made things infinitely more frustrating had we not found an old spool of wire in the closet. Zed wrapped it around the tool’s grip as best he could to hold it in place, then proceeded to kick the makeshift vice until the racks were finally movable.
We dragged them out and it opened up a bit more space for us. The racks were mostly scrap metal by this point, made from cheap steel but fashioned like a frame with plywood for the actual shelves. The plywood worked well enough for firewood, thankfully the last guy, Ted, was an avid smoker. We didn’t eat that night, there was nothing TO eat, but at least we were warm.
To call our shelter modest was perhaps the grandest understatement yet to be uttered in this new world. Our boom closet held barely enough room for 4 people to stand in comfortably, now with the racks removed, we had sectioned off 4 “sleeping” spaces. These were basically imaginary lines drawn on the concrete that butted against one another. We weren’t comfortable. Nothing was comfortable. Being comfortable was a luxury, and let me tell you: Luxury was dead.
I think it was Ted who woke us up. All I heard was a distant, “I don’t feel good,” followed by an all too familiar retching noise and plop of undigested food on concrete. Zed cried out, “Dude, gross!”
“We need to find food and water. I think for now we have a workable shelter.”
“How are we gonna sleep in there? It’s packed full of shit.”
“We’ll pull the racks out and recycle them into something else.”
“Oh yeah, you’re just Robinson fuckin’ Crusoe, aren’t ya?”
“Chill the fuck out man, I know we’re in a bad spot. But if we don’t want to die, then we need to work together, OK?”
That was the extent of our conversation that day. No names asked, no life stories shared. I think we were all in denial. It’s difficult to ask those hard questions when you’re surrounded by destruction, and deep down we all knew the answer. Deep down we wanted it all to go back the way it was.
None of us were happy, but one of us clearly had a plan. I distinctly remember him saying something about zombies as we worked to make our closet a shelter. It was comforting to know that someone was thinking a ways out. Let's call this guy, our survivalist, “Zed”.
Zed was a bit on the tall side, and decently built, but you could tell he wasn’t a gym rat. It was pretty obvious he had enough paranoia that he had made actual catastrophe plans when the war had ended. We all had some kind of plan, but most of that was the standard government-issue “Guidelines for Disaster”:
- Have a way for all family members to communicate
- Have a standard meeting place that is safe
- Have enough food and water for 10 days without aid
- Have a backup generator (optional)
- Have medical supplies on hand and ready
It was tough work dragging those metal racks out. They had been secured to the floor and most of those bolts had rusted over with time. Zed had a little pocket knife on him, and he tried to scrape away enough rust so we could break the bolts free, but that was effectively useless. One of the other guys, we’ll call him Fred, had an actual multi-tool with a set of pliers built in. Those would have only made things infinitely more frustrating had we not found an old spool of wire in the closet. Zed wrapped it around the tool’s grip as best he could to hold it in place, then proceeded to kick the makeshift vice until the racks were finally movable.
We dragged them out and it opened up a bit more space for us. The racks were mostly scrap metal by this point, made from cheap steel but fashioned like a frame with plywood for the actual shelves. The plywood worked well enough for firewood, thankfully the last guy, Ted, was an avid smoker. We didn’t eat that night, there was nothing TO eat, but at least we were warm.
To call our shelter modest was perhaps the grandest understatement yet to be uttered in this new world. Our boom closet held barely enough room for 4 people to stand in comfortably, now with the racks removed, we had sectioned off 4 “sleeping” spaces. These were basically imaginary lines drawn on the concrete that butted against one another. We weren’t comfortable. Nothing was comfortable. Being comfortable was a luxury, and let me tell you: Luxury was dead.
---------------------------------------------------
I think it was Ted who woke us up. All I heard was a distant, “I don’t feel good,” followed by an all too familiar retching noise and plop of undigested food on concrete. Zed cried out, “Dude, gross!”
My eyes were open now, and I saw Zed and Ted standing near each other, Zed was trying to wipe his pants off. Fred was just waking up, blinking to adjust to the light.
I stood, “You alright, man?”
“No I’m not fuckin’ alright, this dude just barfed all over me!”
“Wasn’t talking to you,” I turned back to Ted.
“I-I’m fine.. Thanks. Sorry,” Ted turned sheepishly to a corner and spit a few times. The stench of bile was beginning to fill up our tiny space. I admit, I was surprised I could smell at all. The destruction outside our closet had all but destroyed every last nose hair I had, mostly from being out and working in it.
“Who turned the fuckin’ lights on?” I heard Fred slur from the floor. Everyone simultaneously paused and stared at nothing in particular. Then we all looked up to the light bulb in the ceiling. The light bulb that had been out yesterday. The light bulb that would never turn on again because there was no electricity anymore.
The light bulb that was now glowing warmly at us.
I blinked a few times, distantly aware that staring at this incandescent marvel would leave bright spots in my vision for longer than I wanted. I heard Ted spit again. Zed turned toward the door and pulled it open slowly.
I shouldn’t have been worried about bright spots. One day gone from Earth as we knew it and I had already forgotten about fluorescents and how eagerly they tried to scrape every last rod and cone from your eyeball. Greedy bastards. But while I was blind, the rest of my body picked up the slack. I felt cool air rush into our stale bunker, mingling fresh vomit with sterile floor cleaner. My eyes adjusted eventually, but before they did, I heard Zed,
I stood, “You alright, man?”
“No I’m not fuckin’ alright, this dude just barfed all over me!”
“Wasn’t talking to you,” I turned back to Ted.
“I-I’m fine.. Thanks. Sorry,” Ted turned sheepishly to a corner and spit a few times. The stench of bile was beginning to fill up our tiny space. I admit, I was surprised I could smell at all. The destruction outside our closet had all but destroyed every last nose hair I had, mostly from being out and working in it.
“Who turned the fuckin’ lights on?” I heard Fred slur from the floor. Everyone simultaneously paused and stared at nothing in particular. Then we all looked up to the light bulb in the ceiling. The light bulb that had been out yesterday. The light bulb that would never turn on again because there was no electricity anymore.
The light bulb that was now glowing warmly at us.
I blinked a few times, distantly aware that staring at this incandescent marvel would leave bright spots in my vision for longer than I wanted. I heard Ted spit again. Zed turned toward the door and pulled it open slowly.
I shouldn’t have been worried about bright spots. One day gone from Earth as we knew it and I had already forgotten about fluorescents and how eagerly they tried to scrape every last rod and cone from your eyeball. Greedy bastards. But while I was blind, the rest of my body picked up the slack. I felt cool air rush into our stale bunker, mingling fresh vomit with sterile floor cleaner. My eyes adjusted eventually, but before they did, I heard Zed,
“No fuckin’ way…”
Yes fuckin’ way. We were back.
“How is this even…” Fred started behind me, he never finished. Zed rushed out and away, lost in the din of the mall and the crowds. Ted emerged next, he looked pale, but from amazement or having recently ejected his stomach, I’m not sure. Fred got to his feet finally, staring slack jawed outside. “But.. how? We.. everything blew up…” “I don’t know, come on.”
Fred and I left the closet slowly. We weren’t in any rush, nor were we the kind to just believe we had gone back in time. Ted had wandered off towards the food court, we were close enough to see him give us a quick glance before he hopped into one of the ever growing lines. He was hungry, I understood that.
I think Fred and I stood there for a solid 20 minutes, watching the world tick by and wondering just what the hell had happened. Did the bombs really drop? Did we all just have a collective hallucination? Stuck inside the closet with all the chemical fumes I thought that might be a decent explanation, but then why did we all take shelter in the first place?
We were just taking a seat on a bench, trying to absorb what had happened to us, when Zed ran back to us. “We have to go, now.” He had a duffel bag stuffed under his arm.
“Hey man, if you stole some stuff that’s on you. Don’t rope us into your shitty life.”
“Shut the fuck up, where’s the other guy?”
“Getting food, what’s the deal?”
Zed proceeded to tell us the deal.
Prior to all the explosions, Zed had been buying some stuff for his pick-up baseball games. A couple of bats, some “crotch cups” as he so elegantly put it, and a couple of duffel bags to haul everything with. Upon entering the store, he told us, there was a pair of old men discussing the weather, the world, life, and everything else, as old men are wont to do. This particular discussion involved the recently ended war, and the current state of elected officials. Zed said he had zoned out when he was in there yesterday (today? tomorrow?) but he remembered some key bits: “The whole world’s going to shit,” and “Turban wearin’ sumbitches.” Zed told us that last time he heard the conversation, he was on his way out the door by the time they got to the latter statement.
“So what?” I said, “Dementia is a bitch and it’s nice they can even have a conversation.” I had started to feel some measure of comfortable again. A contoured wooden bench offers so much more in the way of seating than a flat concrete slab does. But something felt wrong. I didn’t want to admit it, which is not surprising given the alternative. An edge emerged in Zed’s voice.
“You don’t get it, 5 minutes after I left, shit hit the fan.”
Ted was returning to us, a slice of pizza and fries on a paper raft in hand.
“But... 5 minutes, the sports store is on the other end of the mall, that’d mean-”
As though scripted by a B-Movie director, the lights shut off with a hollow CLUNK, the few emergency lights that hadn’t been uninstalled yet began flashing red, and the dreaded siren we’d only heard in mandatory training videos started wailing at us. I was blind and deaf for the second time in 24 hours, but I felt hands pulling at my arm, beyond the din of screams and steady klaxon I heard “COME ON,” and I was pulled back towards the closet. Back into our little den of safety. The screams and shouts of those around us were worse the second time around. I think that’s mainly from context: I knew none of them were going to make it.
The heavy door slammed shut, occasionally a hand would thump against it, but the coming roar of extinction drowned it out soon enough. I stepped in Ted’s earlier pile of vomit as we rushed back in. Ted’s pizza had disappeared in the chaos, and all we had now was the smell of vomit, a duffel bag, and each other.
I pondered if bleach was edible in small amounts. Worst case scenario: I wouldn’t have to listen to everyone die again.
Yes fuckin’ way. We were back.
“How is this even…” Fred started behind me, he never finished. Zed rushed out and away, lost in the din of the mall and the crowds. Ted emerged next, he looked pale, but from amazement or having recently ejected his stomach, I’m not sure. Fred got to his feet finally, staring slack jawed outside. “But.. how? We.. everything blew up…” “I don’t know, come on.”
Fred and I left the closet slowly. We weren’t in any rush, nor were we the kind to just believe we had gone back in time. Ted had wandered off towards the food court, we were close enough to see him give us a quick glance before he hopped into one of the ever growing lines. He was hungry, I understood that.
I think Fred and I stood there for a solid 20 minutes, watching the world tick by and wondering just what the hell had happened. Did the bombs really drop? Did we all just have a collective hallucination? Stuck inside the closet with all the chemical fumes I thought that might be a decent explanation, but then why did we all take shelter in the first place?
We were just taking a seat on a bench, trying to absorb what had happened to us, when Zed ran back to us. “We have to go, now.” He had a duffel bag stuffed under his arm.
“Hey man, if you stole some stuff that’s on you. Don’t rope us into your shitty life.”
“Shut the fuck up, where’s the other guy?”
“Getting food, what’s the deal?”
Zed proceeded to tell us the deal.
Prior to all the explosions, Zed had been buying some stuff for his pick-up baseball games. A couple of bats, some “crotch cups” as he so elegantly put it, and a couple of duffel bags to haul everything with. Upon entering the store, he told us, there was a pair of old men discussing the weather, the world, life, and everything else, as old men are wont to do. This particular discussion involved the recently ended war, and the current state of elected officials. Zed said he had zoned out when he was in there yesterday (today? tomorrow?) but he remembered some key bits: “The whole world’s going to shit,” and “Turban wearin’ sumbitches.” Zed told us that last time he heard the conversation, he was on his way out the door by the time they got to the latter statement.
“So what?” I said, “Dementia is a bitch and it’s nice they can even have a conversation.” I had started to feel some measure of comfortable again. A contoured wooden bench offers so much more in the way of seating than a flat concrete slab does. But something felt wrong. I didn’t want to admit it, which is not surprising given the alternative. An edge emerged in Zed’s voice.
“You don’t get it, 5 minutes after I left, shit hit the fan.”
Ted was returning to us, a slice of pizza and fries on a paper raft in hand.
“But... 5 minutes, the sports store is on the other end of the mall, that’d mean-”
As though scripted by a B-Movie director, the lights shut off with a hollow CLUNK, the few emergency lights that hadn’t been uninstalled yet began flashing red, and the dreaded siren we’d only heard in mandatory training videos started wailing at us. I was blind and deaf for the second time in 24 hours, but I felt hands pulling at my arm, beyond the din of screams and steady klaxon I heard “COME ON,” and I was pulled back towards the closet. Back into our little den of safety. The screams and shouts of those around us were worse the second time around. I think that’s mainly from context: I knew none of them were going to make it.
The heavy door slammed shut, occasionally a hand would thump against it, but the coming roar of extinction drowned it out soon enough. I stepped in Ted’s earlier pile of vomit as we rushed back in. Ted’s pizza had disappeared in the chaos, and all we had now was the smell of vomit, a duffel bag, and each other.
I pondered if bleach was edible in small amounts. Worst case scenario: I wouldn’t have to listen to everyone die again.
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