Solitary

CW: suicide

The alarm bell rang. A sound so shrill and shocking, it caused the occupant of the bed it sat next to to fall uncomfortably on to the floor. The room was in shambles. Clothes and trash littered the floor of the shabby cage of a house. The man rose from his slumber and slammed his hand down on the blaring alarm. The piercing sound radiated in his head, blurring the nightmares that had not left since it had all happened. He stretched and looked around the heap. It was disgusting, yes, but it had kept him safe. At least so far. He stumbled to the window, the shutters creaked as he slammed into them. He peaked out. A stream of light shot in, meeting his eye, sending him back in blindness. He regained his feet and peered out, searching for the counter.

The counter had started, as it read, 635 days ago. The counter consisted of the number of days and the number of deaths. Counting each one meticulously as they were reported. At least for the first year. In that first year, the deaths had remained relatively subdued. While countries faltered to maintain the spread of the virus, they thought the worst was over once the vaccine had come out. It had been a big day. Humanity had celebrated as one. 

Yet there were those who were skeptical. Years of systematic lies, abuse, and treachery by the government had left a bitter taste in the mouths of many. People saw the vaccine as a way to control them or a way to track them. Maybe it was just a way of collecting data, mining from the flesh. These people had been wrong. Tragically wrong. Humanity may not be in this mess if they had just thought of others first. Alas, the mind of man is too often prone to selfishness. With only part of the world taking the vaccine, the virus stayed around, getting stronger. Eventually, when it was already too late, scientists discovered a new variant of the virus. This one was resistant to the vaccine. It spread faster and was more deadly (95% of those who got it died). There had even been cases (although some still claim it to be a myth) of the virus “taking control” of people, as it was put. It had been described in a similar manner to being hypnotized or cordycep mushrooms controlling beatles. Walking stiffly about, with one goal: to spread the virus. 

At first people blamed each other. Some blamed the vaccine. Some blamed the many sins we had committed in our time on earth. The black ages had been restored and humanity had not learned much. The virus spread like wildfire, taking down droves of people. An invisible assassin slitting the lungs from the inside. Bodies piled up. At first the governments tried to deal with the bodies, take them out to the landfills and burn them, but the numbers kept going up and up and up, until there was no one left to clean. Only the few who had watched the devil seize earth, grasping his cool fingers greedily around it, were left. The few had lost their will to fight back. At least at first. 

The man stepped back from the window. It was Wednesday, which meant he had to go help down at the farms. He pulled on his jeans, his white shirt (which had been stained so badly it was a muddy brown), and then went to put on the hazmat suit. Everyone had to wear a suit when they went to the farms for fear of transferring the virus to the food. He attached his fanny pack, which carried his essentials: his gun, a flask of whiskey, a pack of marlboro reds, and his brass zippo lighter his father had given to him when he had left for the army. He wearily dragged himself out the front door and walked to his truck. One of the few things he had retained through everything. It broke his heart looking at his truck. Looking from his truck back to his house. Brought back the memories of what once was. 

Everyone left felt as though they had lived two lives. As if they were already in the afterlife. The rapture had come and went and they were left to face their reckoning. In his life before, the man had been a math teacher at the public high school in his small town. He had had three kids, two twelve year old boys (identical twins) and a seven year old daughter. His wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. He had loved her til the day she died. He had watched everyone around him get the virus and go through the horrible week long dying process. First came the fever, then the hallucinations, and then the puking. Puking til all that was left was bile. Then finally, the lungs gave out, cutting off the air to the host. He had been asymptomatic. About 3% of the world’s population had been. He wished everyday that he was part of the other 95%. He had watched his wife and children lose their breath, dying gasping for air, clutching at their throats until they fell limp and lifeless in his arms. 

At first he kept telling himself he was lucky. I am so lucky to be one of the few alive. How lucky am I that I didn’t go through that horrible death. That I have some chance at life.

He had tried living in his family's honor. Working hard to help and piece back the broken fragments of society, but a hole filled his soul. A hole he could no longer ignore. 

People wanted to try and get back to some sense of normalcy. Yet the spectre of death loomed over the world. Casting a shadow of gloom.  People found themselves lacking purpose and meaning. Why try and rebuild? Rebuild for who? The dead? 

The man started his truck, the roar of the old diesel engine gave the man chills. Reminded him of the old days. He pulled out of the thin driveway in front of the small all black mobile home he now resided in. He whipped a right and turned down what was once Main Street, but what was now known as Death Row. Mounds of bodies were piled on either side of the street, rotting and decaying, molding into a mountain of death. The smell would have been unbearable if it were not for the hazmat suit filtering the air. He cruised past the piles, numbly acknowledging them. He eventually took a sharp left and drove into what had become the wetlands.They had diverted the water stream from the river into the lower grasses and they had become wetlands, vibrant with life. The climate had been kind for agriculture and offered a promising start for humanity. This was the garden of eden. 

The man parked his truck. Stepped out. Walked with purpose past the friendly hellos of his new neighbors. He walked through the rows and rows of corn, squash, and beans. Passing the fields to the very edge of the town. The very edge of civilization.

He walked until he reached a nook on the edge of the forest that separated the down from the dark unknown. He sat on a fallen log, took off his helmet, and reached into his bag. He removed his flask and his cigarettes. Took a long hard swig. Felt the smooth fire burn away the nightmares from the night before. He slowly removed his gun and his lighter, and pulled a cigarette from the red case. He brought the lighter to the tip of the sweet tobacco and flicked the flame on. He took a long deep drag in, feeling the smoke rest in his lungs, before blowing out a cloud of hazy smoke. He looked at the burning cigarette, watching the ember dance and play as it slowly exuded smoke. 

He thought of his family, the foggy smoke, bringing back milky memories. Thought of the joy he had finally achieved, only to have it be torn away. He looked back across the fields towards the town. Towards a place he would never call home.

He grabbed his gun, put it to his temple, and went towards the angel of death.