Beginning of the End

Well. Here you are. All the way at the beginning of the end. You’re staring at the snow, aren’t you? Like it holds the answers to your questions? You don’t have any questions. But it seems that you think there are answers. Answers to why it is only the beginning of the end, when so much has already gone wrong. That’s not a question; it’s a statement. There is a lot of thinking to be done. Thinking about how you could stay here, and remain quiet in your ways, to halt the end in its tracks. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? If you do nothing, then you can cause nothing, and the world would not be furthered in its death. For death is a slow thing, like walking a long way in this blanketed wasteland and then seeing all your footprints piled up over hundreds of miles. You never notice it until it is real and relevant, then there is nothing to be done about it.

But here, right now, I believe there is something for you to do. Make your decision.

To continue on in this world, to stumble blindly through the snow, and allow the end to take its course. Or, perhaps, to remain motionless so that you won’t upset the delicate balance it has all come to. You’ll freeze to death eventually, but then it won’t be your problem anymore. What an interesting way to resolve things. At least it’s a solution, which is as close as you have to an idea anymore.

Ah, I see you’ve decided to keep wandering through the snow. Survival instinct, then? That’s what’s kept you going? Not the looming cliffs about you, those that once housed electricity and lives, not the abandoned streets of the city you used to call your home. Just survival. How interesting you humans are.

You’ve gotten your foot stuck, I see. A few seconds of struggling won’t do anything about it. What a pretty metaphor for your situation. A few minutes, hours, years of struggling won’t come to anything in this freezing hellscape, and you’ll end up rooted to the spot with only your skeleton to show for it. Even that will turn to dust soon enough.

But now you’re examining it, and twisting it just the right way, and… You’re out. That’s become part of the metaphor too, then? Death? Metaphors don’t seem to mean anything to you, though, seeing as there are wilder things to think about. Like getting up, and trying to stand on your leg. Careful now. You’ll be able to walk, slower due to your new limp, but I stress that you’ll be able to walk. That is very important, if you’re going to follow through with your decision to keep running. I don’t know what you’re running from. That’s a first for me, isn’t it? Not knowing something about you.

Then again, so one really knows anything about you. No one knows anything about themselves. All they know is this silly thing called a personality, a facade against life and death which you cling to with such fervor it astounds me. So many things about you are surprising. Like the fact that you’ve gotten up off the snow and your eyes are brighter than before. Or those are tears. They just make your eyes brighter, don’t they? How typical of life to take pain and twist it about to form a gleam in the sunshine.

You’re walking again. You’ve been walking for a long time. It is as if your heart no longer resides in your hollow chest, but in the thuds of your feet against the snow-packed dust. The dust of buildings, fallen under the weight of the world. The dust of dreams, slipped into hapless fantasies. The dust of other bodies, granted their rest. You’re not allowed to rest, not yet, but soon. You don’t know where you’re going, but it can’t be much longer, can it? It can’t.

You’ve slipped again, the snow giving out beneath you like cotton wool, and fallen into what seems to be the rusty interior of what used to be a car. No, a truck. A big one, that was once used for taking the staples of life from one country to the next, that now whispers the remnants of a world gone sorrow through the wind whistling through the hole you’ve just put in the roof. You look around, eyes seeking adjustment to the dark. It’s warmer there, out of the wind and secured by snow. You rub your eyes with hands that are so numb you’re not sure if they're still yours.

Then you hear a growl.

It might be you, seeing as there hasn’t been any trace of edible materials in a few days. Or it might be that dog in the corner. Yes, it’s growled again, most certainly the dog. You scramble backwards, looking for some reminder of safety in the metal hold. Your hand snatches on something sharp just as the dog leaps at you. That sharp thing is a shard of glass, looped over with old ink that’s half flaked off. You lose count of what your hands are going, and your eyes cease to accept what’s going on. They’re blinded by those tears I mentioned earlier, tracing frozen lilts down your numb skin, bright red with exertion. A few minutes go by, and you blink. There’s a bit of pressure on top of you, still and furry. Your breath snatches on an invisible hook of adrenaline, and you toss it off. The dog, dead, with a shard of glass in its side. You shake your head. It’s out of its misery, at least, though the same can’t be said for you. The blood is drying on your hands and jacket, mixing with a cut you didn’t remember getting. There could be diseases in it. Nothing to be done.

You get up and look down at yourself. The blood is red, too red for your comfort, as it’ll pick you out among the wastes. There’s no one to see you, my friend, no one but the dogs and cats who’ve managed to keep alive in all this. Thank goodness for that. There doesn’t seem to be anyone you want to see. To see those you knew in the life before the winter? You’d have to go dig them up. Hallucinations aren’t a friend to you.

You brush yourself off and press snow over your new cut. The dog’s blood could have been infected. If you die, there are better ways to do so. Ways other than curling up and allowing sickness to cover away your mind. The dog is over on the floor, and it looks as if it could just be sleeping. If only. You have to stop yourself from going to pet it, to reassure it that not all is lost. But you don’t even remember what ‘all’ is anymore, and it looks like you’ve lost it a while ago. You leave the dog’s corpse where it is, stretched out on the floor, and quietly walk over to the doors. They’re rusted, almost as much as the roof, so you should be able to-

There, you have it. The doors fold in on themselves, like spiky origami paper. You stumble back, spitting snow and metal flakes out of your mouth. The truck is flooded with light, and you hesitate. For a moment, you think of looking over your shoulder, to see whether or not the dog really is dead. It’s dead, trust me. You might not know what happened, but I do. You step out into the snow.

There, over behind that building. You could swear you saw something sparkling. So you wade through the drift that had hidden the truck, and make a beeline for it. That’s the thing with you humans. You didn’t even hesitate, did you? And yet, you still chase the sparkly thing. Fascinating. Then, I would have done it too.

The wind whips through your hair as you emerge from the windbreak a deteriorated pub had made. There, you can see it now. This used to be the English Channel, bright and busy in the warm sunshine. Not anymore. The London Bridge, you can just make it out, is fogged and bits have fallen off. Even as you watch, a cable snaps and cracks like a gunshot as it hits the ice. You’re not used to the silence being anything but still and perfect. It reaffirms itself soon enough, though, and all you can hear is your breathing.

Look around you.

Good job. You’ve made it to where you needed to go. Or, almost. Soon. A bit more walking, but soon. You chose this. You can make it out. Alive? Maybe not. But out? Yes. You’ll be out of this wind, warm, safe from your own thoughts. Even from me, I suppose, if I am a danger to you. That is not my reality to determine. This, however, is up to you. Are you going to cross it? Are you going to cross the channel, and keep walking? Like you’ve done all this time? Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you to think about it.

You smile. It is a real smile, this time, not the Glasgow Grin you’ve been sporting ever since your last run in with the gangs. I’ve missed it. The light in your eyes is no longer from tears, welled up and unthinkable. I know what you’re about to do. And I applaud you for it, all the same. I’m going to have to leave you now, for my domain in not that of unsteady waters. There will be another someone, eventually, but I find it brave of you to leave this place. You’ve wandered here for a long time. And don’t panic, it’s longer now.

I wish you well, friend.

Your footsteps sound pretty on the ice.