Yours at the End of the World

A fresh glimpse into surviving in a post-apocalyptic world

Yours At the End of the World

Cody felt as if the loose sand was fighting against him on purpose as he tore across the deserted beach. Near the water's edge, the sand was firmer, but shelter was in the opposite direction. Through the ruined beach town he had more places to hide and a small cache of weapons. First, he had to make it over the sand dunes dotted with hillocks of wilted seagrass. His thighs burned. Blisters on his heels stung like mad. Between gasping breaths he could hear the b*****d behind him wheezing hard. He stole a glance behind him. His pursuer looked like a pile of dirty laundry flapping after him. Cody imagined he looked very similar. October was warm for the season on the Oregon coast. Yet soggy and chilly enough for layers of clothing stuffed with plastic grocery bags.

To his left Haystack Rock faded into view from the thick mist rolling in off the ocean. The path Cody needed was coming up somewhere on the right across acres of soft beach. The piff piff, shush shush of sand and plastic underscored the surging roar of the Pacific Ocean. Both Cody and the angry man chasing him slowed a step as a metal groaning echoed across the water. Ages ago, a Coast Guard helicopter crashed into the famous Haystack Rock. There was nothing glorious about the incident. Bang. Splash. Back then the world was being turned inside out, so nobody stopped to care. The tail of the rescue helicopter stayed wedged at the base of the high-rise sized boulder for years. The white paint rusted to match the orange. It withstood years of high tide, low tide, and storms. For some reason it dislodged today, making a loud protest against the grabby surf.

Cody dug deep and found a reserve of adrenaline. He juked left, then right toward the former town of Cannon Beach. His chaser grunted in frustration. The helicopter distracted him enough to give Cody a few precious paces. A warped set of stairs, half hidden by the sand, pointed out the most direct route to safety. Beach houses sagged under years of burning and flooding. They stared down at him now as he rolled his ankle on some piece of buried trash. Their breached, gaping walls seemed to shout for him to get up. Cody hollered hoarse and deep, tasting copper at the back of his throat. The angry man fell on him in a heap and pawed at Cody's layers of jackets and flannel. They were both too exhausted to even throw a punch. The attacker's breath came high and strained through his gnarled, gray beard. “Huuueeeee! Huuueeeee!” His brown teeth gnashed at him. Cody twisted around underneath the man. “No! No! No!” Was all he could wheeze. Somehow he was able to kick and claw his way out from underneath the man. They staggered to their feet and Cody turned as the man made a wild charge. Cody lurched backward and tripped on a weed-covered step, kicking up a spray of sand. The man lunged and stumbled like a drunk on the same piece of trash that rolled Cody's ankle. He misjudged his trajectory and struck his chin hard on the rotting wood railing. Unable to recover, his fall brought his chin down on a rock wedged next to the stairs. In a violent impulse, Cody interlaced his fingers and brought both hands down onto the back of man's neck. Something gave under this hands and then silence.

Cody slumped to the sand, releasing the metallic tasting breath he'd been holding. He must have laid there for an hour. He daydreamed of flying a helicopter. He gave a sad sigh. Nothing man-made had graced the skies for twenty years. The urge to relieve himself brought Cody out of his stupor. He stood and tested his ankle. He let out a laugh when it took his weight, and a long groan as his bladder informed him he needed to go for a while. Cody put some force into urinating on the back of the dead man's tattered coat and muttered curses on his mother.

He was about to climb the rickety steps when a shiny dark spot in the sand caught his eye. It laid right at the spot he went down. Brushing the sand away he found a dark green wine bottle. Cody cursed at himself this time and made to chuck it end over end into the surf when something shifted inside. He gave it a shake and heard a muffled plinking. It looked like gray, dirty wax packed deep into the neck of the bottle. Holding it up to the sky he could see something inside. Cody snorted a laugh in spite of himself. A message in a bottle? Are you serious? He looked out to the waves crashing against Haystack Rock. The tide was coming in. The absence of the helicopter tail was conspicuous. He thanked whoever tossed their little note into the ocean. What were the odds that a bottle from who-knows-when would pretty much save his life today? Cody shook his head and picked his way up the rotting stairs into the ghost tourist town.

Cody watched the golden rays of sunset through the jagged holes of the dilapidated beach houses. He shuffled his way into a boarded up two car garage. Its once attached house floated away long ago during some massive flood. So did the neighbor's house. The one across the street folded on top of itself like a house of cards. He added some bits of dry grass and twigs to the embers he preserved in an old coffee can. He used that to light a merry little campfire of driftwood and pieces of an Adirondack lounge chair. For the past few weeks, this garage served as his shelter. He stumbled across the old cannibal hermit while scavenging on the other side of the town. He startled him as he was hunting a bony, mongrel dog. The dog took off and Cody looked like the next best edible thing. He shivered and pushed the thought of the old man's rotten teeth and surprising speed out of his head.

After warming himself, Cody softened the wax in the bottle over the fire and dug it out with a rusty screwdriver. Into his hands slid a rolled up sandwich bag. The cracked rubber bands disintegrated in his fingers. Within the wrinkled plastic was a damp sheet of notebook paper. With great care, he tried to dry the relic by the fire. His curiosity got the best of him and he worked the single page out of its bag. In the flickering light, he tried his best to remember how to read cursive writing.

Cody read the letter a dozen times until his eyes couldn't handle the tight, tiny script any longer. At dawn, he awoke still clutching the letter to his chest. The last time he had felt this sentimental was years ago, long before he ever reached the coast. Trying to survive a frigid rainstorm, he spent the night in a half-collapsed dentist's exam room. The cracked vinyl chair still reclined on its rusted base. That morning he opened his eyes to a mildewed poster of The Power Rangers staring down at him. He wept then, too. Once the letter was dry he rolled it back up and slipped it into the watertight pocket of his backpack.

The Blight had not been a problem for years up in the pacific northwest. The winter months did not kill it, but it did push it back south where warmer seasons lasted longer. The view from any high place would show you the forests were finally recovering. Much of the country was still streaked by miles of charred land, results of the U.S. Military fighting the Blight. Cody spent his remaining years in what remained of Cannon Beach. His two-car garage turned more into a cabin each year. Cody taught himself farming. Preserving meat. Fishing. Logging. He tried his hand at wine. It was gross, but it did the job. The time he didn't spend busy surviving, he spent tossing messages in bottles into the ocean. After several minor injuries and a few near-death experiences, he managed to build a small platform on the peak of Haystack rock.

He often wondered if he was immune to the fungus that choked out mankind or was it pure luck like the letter suggested? Sometimes his letters were funny, some were sad. Some were suicidal, but the original letter's words always pulled him back from the brink. Cody lost track of how long it was since he imagined a boat on the horizon or heard someone calling. About once a month he would climb up the rock to toss a bottle into the drink. He would watch the sunset and wonder if he was the last one to appreciate it. Every morning when he awoke his first thought was, is it enough to keep on living for the sake of being the last? On occasion, he fantasized that he was immortal, but everything around him was a constant reminder of how fragile life was. Ever night, before closing his eyes to rest, Cody would think of that day he stopped surviving. Then he would sigh, and just be.

 You're alive. I don't know how you did it, but here you are. As I write this, the fires have devoured the majority of the Midwest United States. Montana to Texas. The Mississippi River to Death Valley. Did you see the firestorms? Have you seen the mass graves? If you've made it this far I cannot imagine what you've seen or what you have lost. Are you the last man on earth? Or woman? Look at me, champion of equality to the bitter end!

My name is Sandi and I'm writing this on an oil rig off the coast of Texas. Fifty of us left Galveston with some National Guard boys a few days before they fried the entire Gulf coastline. I stole this bottle of wine from probably the last Red Lobster. Do you remember those f*****g cheddar biscuits? The Blight killed my husband three months ago. I had to watch our apartment burn. I think Mrs. Garbinsky's stupid dachshund tracked it into the building.

In case you've survived by pure luck, here's a bit more for you: the only thing that kills the Blight is fire. Once it's in your lungs, your mouth, your nose, your eyes, you're dead. When a person is infected, the only way to prevent them from eventually sprouting spores is burning them. I don't think you can cheat by going north. The cold just makes it dormant. Look at what happened to Canada. We found out too late that it destroys crops and infects people, and that cheap dust masks do not work.

I held the prestigious title of District Manager of a chain of lingerie stores. It's safe to say my knowledge and survival advice is s**t. I'm also getting drunk off this bottle of wine. The label is dirty, but I guess it was a good year. I haven't had a good minute in a long time, never mind a whole year. It's safe to say I don't know s**t about wine either.

Well, Survivor, I wish I had some timeless advice that would turn your world upside down. I wish that I held the secret to saving the planet. Now would be the perfect time for Aerosmith to start blaring and some superstar sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Cue the montage of heroic acts. But this is really the end of the world, isn't it? Two years ago I was worried about sales goals on the newest push-up bras. Now I'm going to die on an oil rig from a straight-up plague that's killed hundreds of millions of people in mere months. I bet this bottle ends up in Japan. You probably can't even read English. Is writing even a thing anymore?

For posterity's sake: Burn in hell Mrs. Garbinsky. I'm sad that I never traveled outside the states. Ashley, you were my best friend for my whole life and I never told you I had a crush on you in ninth grade. I hope you found your sister and you're both at peace. Mom, you were the only one I wanted to see when the s**t hit the fan. Dad, I guess you got your wish, I'll never be moving across the country. I took my job way too f*****g seriously and I was the one who stole the $700 during Black Friday! I blew it all that New Year's Eve. HAHAHA! Texas is overrated, but now that it's the world's largest ashtray, give us a visit, Survivor. They've always said,“it's like a whole other country.” Bryce, love of my life, thank you for the best years. I love you. And God. . . a plague? Really?

Survivor, What's left that's worth living for? Is the sun still worth it? The moon? Does the air still smell that way after it storms on a hot day? Is racism still a thing? Is the sky more clear now with less smog? Do people still make babies? Are you important? Are you a shithead? Do you love someone? Is there still wine? I just drank the last of this bottle. Is it enough to be the last one to appreciate something? I would love to be the last one to appreciate some f*****g cheddar biscuits right now. I may not be able to imagine the horror you've lived, but I envy you, dear Survivor. If you're the last person on earth, you are probably the only person in history who can truly just be.

 Yours At The End of the World,

Sandi

Author's Note

What did you think of the imagery? Was the action enough to keep you reading?