The last wait

Tick…tick…tick.

“I should have done something about that

clock, it’s always so noisy” Chester said to himself as he coughed into a handkerchief. “first sign of madness that is, talking to yourself, then again, the world's gone mad. What good will screaming do us now?”

Tick…Tick…Tick

Chester Slowly lifts himself from his oak brown leather chair with the help of his cane the sounds of his joints cracking and popping under the strain of movement reverberate off the wall of the empty bungalow. Chester

Sluggishly moves his charcoal black cane to help him move as he hunches over it to keep his balance like an old rusted machine of war as he shuffles on.

Tick…tick…tick.

Bah! Exclaims the old man. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be a Maggie are they “the old man, fumbles with his glasses

around his neck. He turns his head to the left of the room as his neck makes a

sicking snaping noise. “You know I would say I miss you, but you are always here in fairness you are in a jar so you can’t really go anywhere “ the old man stares at the urn on the fireplace. He smiles as a small icy tear forms in his eye. He turns back to the wall with the black and white photographs on it with none

in colour.

Tick…tick…tick.

Waiting is the worst part, either that or

the food a cold smile appears across his lips as he turned to the urn for

approval “you would have laughed at that and said, “how you can try to make me some rations if I want to feel nostalgic.” As I was

saying the waiting is the worst part. Because waiting is the calm in the eye of the storm you do not know when the bullets and shells and going to start flying but you know it is going to happen.

Tick…tick…tick.

Chester shuffles out of the living room and into the kitchen. “Where did I hide that bloody Scotch!” as he hunts the liquor like a predator in the wild. “If it is in any of the bottom cabinets, I will likely break my back trying to get to it, well-played younger me well-played as

he sighs.”

Tick…tick…tick

He opens cupboard after cupboard in his endless search for alcohol

getting progressively more annoyed after each failed attempted.

“Gotcha!”

“Not well played enough younger me!”

He pulls out a full bottle of single malt scotch aged 12 years.

“What’s that?”

A dusty bottle sits at the far back of the cupboard.

Tick…Tick…tick.

“Huh, forgot about this.” A huge smile cuts its way across his face “Hey Maggie! I found what your mother gave me and you for our wedding.” Chester’s face scowled.

“Knowing the crazy old bat, it is probable poised, she hated me from day one.”

 Chester pulls out 27 glasses and a wine glass he rummages through the draw looking for a corkscrew. “What’s that it feels like a coin.” The man exclaims.

Tick…tick…tick.

“Oh, I forgot about you” He lifts the cold bronze chip to his face.

“A decade sober”

he pauses and considers his next actions as he slumps down.

“it’s my last drink I’m sure it’s fine”

he looks back at the chip in his hand and tightens his grip around it.

“I did make a promise…fine, fine” he puts the chip in his shirt

pocket. “It is looks like I’m have a water, not exactly heroic but it will

do.”

Tick…Tick…tick.

He takes a knife of the counter and, sticks it in and twists to remove the wine cork it comes out with a satisfying pop.

He shuffles back into the living room with the wine glass and wine

and puts on the fireplace.

“For my lovely Maggie “he says as he pours the wine into the wine glass with a cold smile, he then moves that glass next to urn.

Tick…tick…tick.

Now from my men, he shuffles

back and fought carrying all the glasses till he

gets to the twenty-seventh he fills it with cold water from the tap with his

glass and scotch he walks back into the

room he stands in front of table with the photo of him and his platoon. He twists off the cap to the scotch and starts to pour.

“men, I present to you the

highest honour I can give you…a drink I from my

person stash” he smiles at his own joke.

Tick…the clock goes silent

“You are the bravest men, I have every had the

pleasure of meeting, and I am truly sorry that not all of you made it back I

hope you may forgive me.”

Chester pours the last drink “As the last surviving member of the platoon I former Lieutenant Chester want to personally thank you for your service to her majesty and her subjects however, I will say that it will be an honour see you all again!”

Chester quickly moves from hunched over his cane, to a perfect

straight salute as he grits his teeth in pain from the forceful action, holding it like the old memories, all is not well as he

collapses back into his armchair exhausted and almost broken from the effort.

“Men, the years have not been kind to me, and the future is soon to be as dead I, But I say again I was proud to have served.” He says while raising his glass of

water to his comrades.

Chester turns his head to the urn on the fireplace.

“My wife, my beautiful…beautiful wife, I shall go quietly into the night with grace and dignity fitting of a soldier. He said before downing his water.

“The clock has stopped…must have been the blast, radiation will get

me soon enough, it’s a shame people can’t get along I might have lived for another few months.”

Chester stands up with the help of his cane.

“My dear Maggie I think it would wrong for me to die on my behind and it would be impolite me to deny the reaper my soul for longer, let’s go for a walk like we used to when you weren’t ash”

Chester walks over to the urn and picks it

up gently under his arm. He gradually opens the door and leaves and

by instinct he locks the door behind him.

The bungalow: void of all that could be considered a home is now just

like any other vacant building, on a dead world.