Fog

The first thing Terrell always noticed about waking up these days was just how dark it was. The thick, toxic smog that passed for air had an irritating habit of blocking most of the sun. He sat up and smacked his hand down on his alarm, or where his alarm would be. Old habits die hard. There wasn’t really anything to get up for at the end of civilization. He pulled himself forward onto his knees and began folding the ragged, filthy bedding into his backpack, pausing briefly to adjust his gasmask. Sleeping in it wasn’t getting any easier. He gathered the rest of his belongings together, a battered journal, worn down boots and the heart-shaped locket that was never far from him. He opened it and took a moment to remember why he was still going. He took a deep breath, snapped it shut around his neck and started walking.

It was quiet in the fog. Before everything went horribly wrong, all the films and shows thought the apocalypse would be a noisy place to live. There were no screaming zombies out here though; there was also a distinct lack of cool motorbike gangs, vampire killers or hyper-intelligent robot overlords. Terrell felt he’d been sold short on this end of days business. He trudged through the dusty desert, feeling the sand batter against his thick, leather coat. The muffled howl of the wind through his mask was better than silence, but not by much. He missed being woken up by birds. At the time, he’d always felt like murdering the chirping bastards on those summer days, waking him up at some daft hour. Sam always said there should never be more than one 5 o’clock in a day. “Well there shouldn’t be! I was always cranky if I had to get up that early.” The young woman in front of him smiled, her hair completely still in the wind.

“Go away Sam. You’re not real.”

“Bullshit. I’m realer than anything else left around here,” she said, gesturing at the wasteland around her.

“I’ve told you about this. It isn’t healthy.” He could hear the despondence in his own voice as he carried on trudging through the sand.

“Who cares about healthy!? It’s not like your mother is still around to chastise your eating habits!” She matched his pace. She always matched his pace.

“Low blow. I’d kill for a donut right about now.”

“Mmm, like this?” She waved a donut around in front of her face, wafting it around like an airplane before taking a bite. Yellow liquid oozed around her mouth.

“Ugh, not custard. I can’t stand cold custard.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have stranded yourself in a world with nothing left.” She took another bite before provocatively licking the cold yellowness off her lips.

“I can light a fire, I’m not completely hopeless. I’m not sure I remember how to actually make custard, that’s the issue…” Silence. He turned around.

“Sam?” Only the wind answered his question. She was gone.

A day passed. Maybe a few, it all blended together. Another thing about living past everyone else was the lack of structure. Days of the week didn’t matter. Time wasn’t real beyond light or dark. He had no appointments to keep or dinner dates to keep track of. He simply walked from place to place with only Sam’s visits keeping him sane. Even moving about wasn’t particularly exciting. Everything was in the mist or covered in dust. He barely knew where he was most days. Today was a good day though. There had been a few hours of decent light after a break in the smog, just enough to get some charge into his music player from the solar charger. Now at least he could listen to something other than the howling static of the wind. Maybe some Johnny Cash. Hadn’t his dad been a fan?

Another few hours went by. Or was it days? He found it hard to tell, but the music had made him smile and helped him find his way back to somewhere familiar. He wandered into town; the fog had receded a little in this sheltered spot. He instinctively headed for the old cinema, where he met Sam all that time ago. The doors were chained up but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He shuffled his backpack off his shoulder and undid the knot holding the crowbar in place. The doors struggled for a moment but gave way to his surprising strength. Sam had always said he was stronger than he looked.

“Breaking and entering, aren’t you getting bold in your old age.”

“I’m not old Sam. I don’t feel old.” He gingerly scraped broken glass out of his path as he made his way inside the cinema.

“I lost track of how many times you talked about this old place. Wasn’t there a film you watched four times here?” She followed him through the doors.

“It was five. One of the comic book films I think. They were an excuse to get you in a dark room.” He felt a pang of longing for those days.

“You sly old dog. Did we see all these too?” She pointed at the posters on the walls around them. He hadn’t noticed them at first.

“All the old favourites. I used to collect the posters. My room at mum’s house had the walls plastered with them.” Images flicked through his mind’s eye, familiar but jumbled. A tear formed at the corner of his eye but he didn’t know why. He blinked furiously.

“How can you be here Sam? Everyone is gone.” Silence again.

More time passed. How long? The first thing Terrell noticed about waking up these days was just how dark it was. The thick cataracts in his eyes had an irritating habit of blocking most of the light. He sat up and wondered where the alarm had gone. It had always been there to wake him up.

“Is he in his room?” The young woman gestured towards the wooden door.

“Yes, go right on in, he’s awake.”

She knocked loudly on the door before going in. He was sat there, staring at a poster on the wall. The radio was playing static to itself next to a bowl with half a donut in.

“Dad?”

“Sam? You can’t be here. You’re in my locket. I’m on my own.”

“I’m not Mum. It’s me.” Tears welled up in her blue eyes.

“I’m not old Sam. I don’t feel old.” He looked at her briefly before he returned to staring at the posters on the wall, fingers absent-mindedly playing with a heart-shaped locket. He’d always liked films. The end of the world seemed so far away and exciting on the big screen. Nothing like the end of his own world and the fractured, foggy dystopia of his mind.