"Could You Pass the Salt?"

“Could you pass the salt?” 

Amid the quiet, slow munching of ten exhausted survivors, there was a faint, but unforgettable, beeping. The woman designated as the Counter tapped slowly and steadily and whispered, “five.” We all nodded silently and continued eating. The wait was unbearable. The match was lit, salvation was at hand, and here we sat together for one, final meal. 

It was then that the man’s comment rose like a steamy hiss from a rice cooker, a device I hadn’t used in years but appeared in my mind as vivid as the ash, filth and blood on our skin. I looked wearily from face to face. Most of our companions ignored his words with their eyes down, mouths full, and bellies empty. I eyed our meager feast with growing disgust. The dining set consisted of broken cutlery, splintered plates, and a long, reclaimed tree as its surface. The wooden grooves in the table were shaped by human hands and leisure time when art was part of our lives. Our ‘meal’ was nothing more than what we had scavenged that day: cans of dried beans, candy and energy bars, bottles of liquid filled with parasites and metals never meant for human consumption. Pathetic. We were pathetic. But the man’s voice seemed to stir something within me, and for the first time in what seemed forever, I did something unusual. 

Without knowing why, I raised my hand and pressed my fingers together to create an invisible, tube-like shape. It was how I remembered a salt shaker should look. I shook the bottle twice over my beans, and I held it out towards him. “Here you go, friend.” It was the term we all used for one another. Names brought back too many memories of the time before. 

A wide, diseased smile cracked back at me in response. The newcomer to our family was an older man, probably in his late sixties with long, curled hair, golden-sepia skin and currant-colored eyes. I forgot where he came from, or if he even told me, but I felt at this moment, it did not matter. He reached across the table while making polite apologies to anyone near him. Some gave a brief huff and returned to their meal, trying to ignore the unique display. Others glared at him tiredly. The older man then nodded his head in my direction. “Thank you, friend.” His bandaged hand accepted the bottle graciously.

A short cough turned my head to the right. There, a brown-haired, doe-eyed boy stretched his trembling arms out in front of him as if he were handling a heavy object. “If...if anyone wants to refill their glasses…?” At first, the question faded into the quiet gloom of our table, but then someone gave a noise that sounded distinctly like the beginning of a laugh. A few of our family chuckled as well, and I could not help but give a small smile myself. Why not? With a small bit of effort, I imagined the air transforming into a glazed, clay pitcher, just like the one my mother used to keep on our dining room table. 

A sharp eyed woman cradling a pouch blinked in the boy’s direction. She paused, gently adjusted the bundle and lifted her arms, gingerly taking the pitcher from the boy’s tiny hands. As she bent forward, my eyes drifted to the pouch on her lap, and I envisioned a baby no more than six weeks old. It disappeared as she leaned back into position. 

Slowly, cautiously, the gestures began to multiply. Filthy, wrinkled rags were passed as napkins, tiny beetles with glossy shells were presented as delicacies, and roasted rats became juicy and tender. My skin shivered with pleasure as the air, once cold and empty, was lifted into existence by laughter and senseless giggling. People eagerly held out their glasses and gasped with wonder as they tasted expensive wine and sweet drinks. My own glass was filled with lemonade from my childhood; it was tangy and sugary, and I swirled the mixture around to see the liquid move like a whirlpool of sunset clouds. Savory, meat pies were laid at everyones’ places, and broiled fish wafted a salty, hot longing into our souls long dead. Stories from the old life passed around as quickly as the wine and water, and for one brief moment, I felt the happiness wrap itself around me like the arms of a loved one, safe and content at the end of the world. 

And the sounds! We had music again! One of our family members began to sing a song that was popular before the End. It might have been part of our imagination, but we started to sing along. The music floated around the table like birds drifting through tree branches. We lifted our hands to the hollow, deformed roof and immediately the sky split into stars and a full, pink moon rose above us.

Another sound tried to pervade our chorus but was utterly unsuccessful! The man who requested salt began to tap the wood with a rhythmic motion as if on tune with the faint beeping sound. I slapped my hands down on the surface and ignored the pain. Together, we pushed our hearts forward with song. Our voices bounced around the decrepit room and echoed through the halls. There was no thought of danger, violence or hunger. All and any fears that would have entered our minds disappeared into the warm, calming pace we all kept together. 

In the last moment of our verse, I caught a glance of the man at the far end of the table. And among the vibrant echoes of our voices, the sound seemed to grow louder and more insistent. Though his smile was peaceful and his voice rich with love, his expression was strained with pain and terror. Reflected in his eyes were large explosions of red and yellow like fireworks full of smoky haze, filling the air and plowing its way toward us. 

I grabbed the hands of my neighbors, closed my eyes and filled my voice with song.