Grey

Grey

By Jasyn Turley

Gray climbs out from under the mattress, pushing up against the wall to stand. Ash and dust fill the room; the people underneath beg him not to go, saying, “It’s too early.” But he has to know. He has to see it for himself.

He feels along the wall until the corridor brightens. A brighter contrast of grey against the dark around him, but it is still filled with dust. Still filled with ash. He goes to the light, coughing and holding the inside of his shirt over his mouth.

A turn comes in the corridor, and it is only a few steps until he is standing at the edge of a multi-story fall. He could see the lower floors disappearing down into a void of dust and ash. Through the shock, he recalls there used to be a lounge here, and now he is staring where the bombs had sheared this side of the building.

He stares in disbelief, unable to accept that just minutes ago this had been a living space for him and the others. How many made it out? How many didn’t? He looks around for anyone who might’ve made it, to the other side of the once-lounge that was now a cliff face of twisted metal and broken cement—the other side where the corridors fed to an emergency exit. But he sees nothing; the dust is still too thick. The ash falls like snow.

Gray falls to his knees and tries to hold it back—the coming despair, the outburst of tears. He had cried since it all started, and he didn’t want to cry now. Not when hearing the gathering footsteps behind him. He clears his throat, calms his breathing, and changes his posture to appear as one inspecting how far a drop it was over the ledge.

“How bad is it?” a woman asks.

He looks over his shoulder. He couldn’t make out more than her silhouette through the veil of dust, but he knew her voice—Sandra, whom he met days ago. She’d been chased by a pack of the wild people, trapped inside a gas station, and stuck to his side since he saved her. There were no other silhouettes in the veil.

“It’s gone,” Gray replies. “It’s all gone.”

He stands, but the emotions hadn’t fully receded, and his knees shake. He can feel the spasms of heaves from repressed sobs.

The clouds of dust settle, and in a few minutes he can see what was left of the city below—clouds of ash and dust and embers. All turned to ash. All grey under the gun-steel sky. The bombings had stopped and the shooting ceased, and with the passing of the terrible sounds of war, so were the lives left behind. The people not crazed. But soon, he can hear screams bubble below—sharp echoes of laughter mixed with horrible weeping, crazed screeches of surviving hostiles.

“No,” Sandra cries out, and she marches over next to Gray and screams, “leave us alone!”

Gray is beside her, cupping her mouth and whispering, “Shhh,” as softly as he can manage. But the force with which he moved snaps something inside her, and she begins flailing and slapping and crying. He holds her until she calms and bitter grief takes over. She cries, and he pulls her close, resting his head on her head so she can’t see him cry as well.

“I just want it to be over,” she whimpers.

He doesn’t respond, not with words. But the stroking of his thumb over her shoulder—I do too.

They remain like this for some time, warm and secure in each other’s embrace. But Gray sees only the ashen crumbles of the city. The bombs and shootings were silenced; the people were gone, taking with them all the colors of life, leaving behind the simple, neutral grey of ash and debris. A ruined world with ruined lives.

Above, he can make out the sun descending into night, the brightness of grey against the darker clouds failing to the horizon, the black of night to be upon them. I just want it to be over, he thinks again.

The smell of rain is in the air, but he can already taste its ash. They can’t linger here much longer.

Let it be over. Let it end.

He thinks about it, only for a second. Over the ledge, it would be thirty seconds of suffering until the bottom, and he would take what little color he brought into this world with him—fade into the blackness of death.

Night’s coming fast.

But this warmth with Sandra—warmth—it reminds him of comfort. Fire, weak and small, but surviving all the same, if one would only keep it burning.

He holds her tight, this one last grip onto life, onto suffering.

“The others might worry,” Sandra says as she pulls away. “You should get back to them.”

The others, and he looks out at the embers of burning flames across the city—not campfires, but fires made by the bombs. But it makes him consider there might be more survivors out there. More people building fires, more people pushing against the cold and dark. Yes.

“Gather anything that’ll burn,” he tells her, and makes his way to the others. Only half a dozen people were left of his group, but it was enough. He orders for a campfire to be made right under an air vent. A metal desk is tipped over, where the two drawers and kick plate make a three-way heat wall.

Sandra arrives with a couple of chairs and a curtain draped over her shoulders. Others arrive with more fuel, and soon they have a fire—the red warmth of it pushing back the darkness of night, their collected body heat warming the small office room in place of the lounge.

Sandra grabs the curtain and is about to toss it inside, but Gray stops her and takes the curtain. It is wide enough for two, and he wraps it around her shoulder and an elderly woman next to her. Barbara, is her name; she reminds him of his grandma from his youth.

The others find more tapestries to wrap themselves with. They feed the fire with wooden chairs and other office furniture. The fire holds back the cold and black of night. Rain falls hard; it pounds echoes through the high-rise—ever-present, cold, and wet. If there are cracks in the roof and the water finds its way to them, they’ll get wet, their fire will be at risk, and if that happens, Gray knows they’ll die.

Sandra’s hand finds his knee, and he looks her way; Barbara’s head is resting on Sandra’s shoulder, sound asleep. “We’ll make it, Gray,” she says, and he grabs her hand in turn. But he sniffs and wipes his nose before drying his tears.