Brick, Light, and Hercules

The end of our world could have easily been avoided. At any point in time those in power could have done a few breathing exercises, touched some grass, and done some inner work with a mental health professional. A well-paid mental health professional that would have committed them to a padded room before letting them push any buttons. Maybe that outcome happened in a different timeline. In this one, they pushed the button. They all did. Every. Single. One.

It’s a wonder earth didn’t dissolve into fire and ash. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of it did. Most of it, I think. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen another person. Well, alive that is. I’ve seen plenty of dead ones. Not in the “I see dead people way”, but in the, “That pile of burnt ash may have been my fiancé,” way or the, “Is that a charred jawbone or maybe a clavicle,” way. Who could have predicted how that Anatomy and Physiology class I never showed up to would have come in handy.

The worst of the dead are the unrecognizable piles of oozing flesh. Many people simply melted in the hours and days after the bombs dropped, the radiation liquefying their bodies. Not even the dirt wants to soak them up.

In the beginning, I hid in my basement clinging to my useless cell phone and pitiful supplies. The bottles of water and canned goods lasted less than a week. The few updates I did receive before the battery on my cell phone fizzled into a state of brick offered little solace. So many bombs. The end had come. Society dissolved, the social contract right along with it, not that it had ever truly been signed and codified.

The farce of human civilization had been reduced to nothing more than cinder.

Fear held me in place several hours after I devoured the last of the green beans. Thirst drove me out into the unknown. The new world was grey and ashen and silent. I didn’t travel far on that first trip, fearful of radiation. My neighbor’s house was locked and empty of life. They’d been at work when the bombs dropped. I collected what cans and water I could carry and scurried back to the safety of my bricks.

The next day, I planned more accordingly. I grabbed a backpack and a small cart from the garage and transported the remaining supplies, food, water, medicine and sweet precious toilet paper, from my neighbor’s house to my basement. Their supplies lasted longer than a week, but not by much. To my dismay, I quickly discovered that none of my neighbors had been paranoid preppers. I managed to make the supplies last almost three months.

I also managed to read every book I’d purchased from my TBR list, many of which had been collecting dust long before any threat of bomb. It’s amazing what one can accomplish with no distractions.

At some point, though, the outside world beckoned. Don’t get me wrong, I’d grown quite fond of the bricks in my basement, particularly the crumbling one, three up and one left from the bottom right corner of the wall behind the stairs. The way it worked so hard to provide support, all the while not realizing it was useless in the grand scheme of the structure. It crumbled, not from the weight it bore, but rather the lack of. The thought of dying with my fingers pressed against that brick brought an odd comfort, one kindred object to another. I still carry a small piece of it in my pocket.

The day I left my beloved deteriorating brick the sky was overcast, much like it was every day since the bombs fell. During my several scavenger trips, I’d determined sunglasses were a must, along with several layers, a mask, and something to cover my head. Nuclear winter. The concept rang frequently throughout my rambling brain. My fiancé enjoyed documentaries covering a variety of apocalypse scenarios, one of which was nuclear fallout. I mostly doom-scrolled through that episode, not caring about a seemingly unlikely nigh impossible event. How I hate that version of myself and the blatant stupidity I’d willingly immersed myself in.

My fiancé was in the city when the first of the bombs hit. I liked to imagine he’d just stepped out of his vehicle after parking at the hotel he frequently met her at. He didn’t know I knew. Another pool of stupidity I chose to drown in. The far end of our neighborhood offered breathtaking views of the distant city. I managed to force myself down to the end of the lane one time. Nothing but charred remains were left of a once bustling society; His and Hers’ ashes likely vaporized and scattered to the wind. I left my engagement ring sitting on his nightstand in case his ghost visited.

I lost count of the days after I left home. Not because I didn’t have a means to keep track of them. I just didn’t care anymore. A one-woman society can do that. Call it an executive decision. The increasing frequency of headaches also didn’t help.

I’m sure some form of human civilization still exists. Living people have been far and few in between on my journey, but they were out there. I managed to avoid direct contact with all of them. Partly because I don’t feel like getting murdered or worse, but mostly because no one I know will be among them. My parents died long ago and any friends and family I had lived on the east coast. We moved to the west coast 33 days before the end. We hadn’t even finished unpacking our boxes.

We did, however, purchase a ton of hiking equipment the week before, along with maps and guidebooks of the Sequoia National Forest, all of which I carry with me now. We’d been planning to take a trip up the 101 highway, then cut over through the lost hills and the valley, and head up to the mountains. I’d never seen redwood trees before, and it was one of the bargaining chips used to get me to the west coast. At some point in the three months of surviving with brick, I’d decided that would be my next move, seeing the trees. Who knows, maybe they’d survived the blasts. In one of the guidebooks it talked about a redwood tree so big a man carved it out so he and his family could live in it. That was where I was headed now.

What would have been a scenic seven-hour drive, had taken me weeks if not months of travel via foot, bicycle, skateboard, anything with wheels that made it feel a little faster and easier to accomplish. Once I’d hit Springville, a small town nestled in the foothills at the base of the Sequoia National Forest mountain range, I was forced to abandon all modes of transportation outside my boot covered ten toes and hardened soles. Partly because it was literally all uphill from there, but mostly because the area looked as though most of it had been washed away by floods and was barely passable by foot. The bombs may not have reached here, but mother nature and a blanket of ash certainly did.

This was where I managed to acquire a gun, not that I had any experience in using one, but I’d felt for the remainder of my journey it would be beneficial to have one. The mountain range, though smoky with signs of fire, was relatively intact and covered with snow. I figured there were bound to be all sorts of teethy, hungry wildlife critters. Humans had proven simple to avoid. Animals would likely be more difficult.

I spent two days bunking in the half buried local hardware slash grocery store reading about guns and trying to figure out how to properly load and discharge one. I’d accidentally fired a round indoors during the process. I still have a slight ringing in my ears. I’ve added it to the ever-increasing rambles of my muddling mind. The headaches are almost unbearable now. I keep a healthy supply of pills to help manage them, but they never fully go away.

After some target practice and a solid restocking of my supplies, I’d headed out of town on a semi-intact roadway called Bear Creek Road. It transitioned between long uphill stretches and tight winding turns that snaked back and forth. If I’d been feeling stronger, I might have gone off the paved path and hiked a more direct route, but the long journey had taken its toll on my worn body. My frame was severely reduced compared to what it once was, enough so that I could swear my organs were slipping and sliding around freely inside my abdominal cavity.

Despite my waning appearance, a heaviness had draped over me like a wet weighted blanket. Between the headaches and the nausea, it was becoming increasingly more difficult to consume food. Thankfully, a few empty cabins existed on the road up the mountain. I’d often rest for days at a time before continuing upward and onward. Sometimes, as I walked slowly up the winding, branch and pine needle ridden roads, I could feel eyes lurking in the darkness of the forest, or roadside cave entrances, or cabins that didn’t seem empty. In those moments, I’d tucked my rifle tightly against me and didn’t linger. That brings us to now.

The smell of snow crept into the air. A few sharp turns later, large patches of it dotted the ground. I dropped my gear and pulled the remaining clothes I had with me out, quickly sliding them on. I hadn’t realized it, but the temperature had been dropping significantly. Somehow, I’d missed the foggy breath slipping out from between my cracked, parted lips. Closing the top of my bag, I watched as a small droplet of blood landed silently on the dirty green canvas material. Out of instinct I immediately touched my nose. It was dry. Wiping against my cheek, I realized the blood had rolled down from the inner corner of my eye. I took two acetaminophen and a healthy gulp of water, put my gloves back on and continued up the mountain.

The snow was thick now, and grey. Wooden signs were becoming more frequent as well. The names of campgrounds were etched neatly across them. Hedricks Pond. Balch Park. Frasier Mill. That last one was where I was headed. The tree I sought, named Hercules, was just over half a mile beyond that campground.

Night was quickly encroaching as I stepped into the mostly empty grounds of Fraiser Mill. In the fading light, I could barely make out the tops of several tents smothered by the snow. A few partially buried RVs dotted the area. I opted for the nearby bathroom house. The door, thankfully, wasn’t locked. I set my pack on the concrete ground inside, doing my best to ignore the stench. It beat freezing outside in the open air. I’d passed a tree with some low, barren limbs on the way in. Taking my gun with me, I stepped back out into the dim light to collect what wood I could to hopefully burn for warmth.

A flash of light stopped me dead in my tracks. Dropping into a crouch, I pressed myself against the outer wall of the outhouse and watched as a light swept back and forth in the distance. I’d long ago ran out of batteries and abandoned all but one of my lights. A handheld device that required significant cranks to get even a few moments of precious lumens. I only used it when searching for supplies and never used it at night. The quickest way to draw attention to oneself is to be a beacon of light in the darkness.

I remained frozen, waiting for the light to fade back the way it came. Instead, it turned towards me, blinding me. I shrank back into the open doorframe of the bathroom.

“Wait! I won’t hurt you!” the unknown voice rang out from the darkness.

“I’ll hurt you! Leave me be!” I hollered back, doing my best to deepen my voice.

The light stops coming towards me, “Can we talk? It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone. Wasn’t sure anyone survived the bombs.”

“Got nothing to say,” my breath hitched as pain seared through my being. It had been so long since I’d spoken out loud, let alone yelled. This changing body wasn’t used to it.

“What’s your name?” the voice behind the light sure was persistent.

“Don’t got one, don’t want one,” my voice cracked.

“You’re a woman,” the voice shifted, a touch of menace seeping through. The light moved forward.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I trained the gun on the light. It stopped.

“You’re on my mountain you know,” the voice was deeper now, less friendly.

“Does the mountain know it belongs to you?”

“You’re funny,” excitement edged the voice of the light, “I’ve got a cabin a few miles back, over in Balch Park Campground. You’re welcome to stay with me.”

“No thanks,” the gun began to weigh my arms down, “I prefer the toilet. Got a touch of the flu.”

“I’ve got toilet paper. You won’t find any in there,” the light stepped a bit closer, but was still several yards away.

“I picked up three seashells in San Luis, been dandy ever since,” I laughed internally at myself. The light was right about one thing, I was funny.

“It’s warm and I’ve got food. Aren’t you a bit lonely?” the menace slipped through, briefly, but definitely there. I didn’t respond and instead contemplated light’s words. Was I lonely? My voice ached from so much speaking. I hadn’t thought about people in so long. I touched my thigh, pressing the piece of brick against my hip. I felt warm liquid trickle down my face. I wasn’t sure if it was blood or tears.

I opened my mouth to speak, and the voice of light erupted. All around me screams and growls and howls echoed. Light shook violently then disappeared into the snow. In the darkness, the agonizing screams faded to pained moans and then finally, ripping flesh. Whatever creature destroyed the voice of light proceeded to chew obnoxiously for many heartbeats. Slipping quietly into the bathroom, I slowly closed the door, twisting the lock delicately. Removing my sleeping bag from my pack, I slid inside and fell asleep, my body stretched out in front of the locked door.

The next morning after using the last of my toilet paper, I swallowed two more acetaminophen and packed my things away. Strapping my pack tightly against me, I unlocked the door of the bathroom. My rifle at the ready, I stepped out, sweeping back and forth like I’d seen people do in the movies. Nothing stirred in the dingy, grey snow. I headed in the direction of where light had been.

Blood drenched the grey, cold earth. Bits and pieces of the voice of light were strewn all about. A black, thick cylinder caught my attention. Light. I picked it up. The lumens were still strong. Switching it off, I shoved it in my jacket pocket and turned to continue up the road, towards my destination, towards Hercules.

In the overcast light of day, the walk was picturesque. Smaller redwood trees lined either side of the road, their size, still immense and breathtaking. I said hello to everyone I could, as if we were old friends meeting after a long separation.

The forest creaked and groaned in the gentle wind that flowed through it. Life still existed here, deep in the mountains, swathed in snow and radiation. Would these dense, magical forests survive the nuclear winter?

The snow and ash were so thick on the ground it nearly obscured the road forking into three paths. A wooden, partially hidden sign indicated Hercules was to the left.

A few steps from the main path I could already see a large signboard and Hercules just beyond it. Lightening had damaged the top of the tree at some point, leaving it fractured and topless. The tall rectangular doorway resembled an ominous void sewn into the very fabric of the bright reddish orange of the massive tree. Arriving at its base, I struggled to climb the three steep stairs but managed to enter the carved out dwelling after several tries.

Pulling light from my pocket, I switched it on. The walls of the hollowed-out space were riddled with hundreds of names carved into the flesh of the tree, likely now, names of the dead. A strange last testament to their existence. High in the ceiling an odd crevice stretched up into the redwood, the opening catching just enough light to confirm it vented out the top. How many people had stood where I stood now? How many more would after me? A deep sadness settled over me. I’d made it. Through radiation and cinders and snow and the voice of light.

Turning towards the doorway, the stark red drenching the floor caught my gaze. I sat on the stairs, my tired eyes following the trail of blood, my blood, all the way back to the main path and beyond. My aching body writhed as my worn flesh had finally given in.

Pulling off my gloves, my blood-soaked hands barely trembled. I’d long ago learned to suppress the pain. Stripping clothes from me, I finally made my way to my pocket and reached deep inside for brick. Cradling the small piece tightly, I switched light off and leaned against the doorway of the treehouse, my weary heavy bones cementing me in place.

The view before me was of an overcast, grey, snow-covered redwood forest, with just a dash of blood. Fitting for the end of the world. The end of me. For the end. My end.