The Last Light

Dressed in cotton shorts and a white sleeveless shirt, Sara stood before her easel, painting the apocalyptic scene outside her apartment window. As she turned to peer out the glass window, the sun cut through, causing Sara to shield her eyes as she witnessed the sight before her. The sun shone like a giant orb covering the sky, overshadowing the tall, gaunt buildings and vacant streets. The trees lining the roads were only skeletal remains of once lush trees. There were no more seasons, only summer; there wasn't any more night, only day. The glaciers had all melted, causing the coast of the United States to disappear, and the lakes and rivers were drying up to become only deserts. The world had become one of despair and anguish.

Scientists had warned of global warming, but between climate change deniers and the government's off-and-on commitment to green energy, climate change had continued its endless march to its evitable end. When the government finally realized the earth was facing mass extinction, it initiated a lottery. The lottery was to be a fair and impartial way of choosing who would be selected to go into the pre-existing bunkers throughout the country, but everyone knew there would be those who would be pre-selected. Of millions of people in the United States, only a tiny fraction would be chosen to be saved from the brutality of the sun and obsessive heat.

Sara had become one of the unlucky ones who had not been chosen to be rushed to the safety of a bunker. There were thousands, millions, like herself, and many, in desperation, left the city to drive further north, hoping against hope that the endless sun would not follow them.

Sweat poured down Sara's face, dripping onto her shirt; her tongue felt like cotton; the humidity felt as if a wet blanket had been thrown over her sucking the very life out of her body. Sara struggled to reach the facet, thinking she might be able to get some water into a glass. As Sara gradually turns the facet, it makes a low, groaning, rumbling sound, and brownish water trickles into the glass—the air conditioner and fan ground to a halt as the lukewarm water slides down her parched throat.

“This made the third time today,” Sara thought. The rolling blackouts had become more frequent every day. Sara knew it would be a matter of time before the water and electricity would not come back on.

Suddenly, Sara heard a knock at the door. Peering out the peephole, she realized it was the landlord, Mrs. Branson, from across the hall. As Sara opened the door, she saw Mrs. Branson holding a damp handkerchief, wiping it across the curly hair plastered to her forehead.

Continuing to wipe the perspiration from her forehead, Mrs. Branson asked, “Do you have any electricity?”

“No, it just went off. It’s these rolling blackouts that the electric company has started. There seem to be more of them every day.”

Sara noticed Mrs. Branson’s anxious look as she said, “I have a battery-operated radio that we might be able to use to get some news.”

After Mrs. Branson retrieved her radio and placed it on the kitchen table, Sara turned the knob until they heard a robotic voice announcing, “This is not a test. This is the Emergency Broadcast Network. Please stay inside and keep your doors locked. There have been reports of break-ins in the area. Take all necessary precautions.”

Just as the radio announcement stopped broadcasting, Sara heard a thump from the stairs to the roof. “Mrs. Branson, did you hear that?”

With fear emanating from her eyes, Mrs Branson whispered, “No, No… I didn’t hear anything.”

Putting her finger up to her lips, Sara mouthed, “Listen.”

Thump, Thump.

With growing concern, Sara asked, “Did you lock the roof door, Mrs. Branson?”

She wrung the handkerchief and answered, “Yes, I think I did. I don’t know! It’s this heat. I can’t think straight!”

The sound from the stairs seems to be getting closer. Sara quickly checked to see if the door was bolted shut. As she listened at the door, she could hear a desperate voice coming from outside, “Can you help me? I need some water. I can pay you money.”

Holding their mouths with their hands, they crouched by the door, their backs pressing solidly against it. Afraid to breathe hard, Sara and Mrs. Branson remained quiet, hoping the man would leave if he thought no one was home. After hearing the doorknob rattle, they knew the man was attempting to force open the door. The sound of the man's body slamming against the door echoed through the apartment, but the door held. After a long silence, they finally heard footsteps gradually moving away.

Once they were assured the man had left, Mrs. Branson's eyes stared at the picture Sara had been working on this morning. Almost screaming, she asked, “Why are you painting the sun?” The sun’s yellow and oranges always occupy all the space in the sky. That’s all we see daily; paint something cool, a waterfall, mountains covered in snow, a night sky full of stars.”

“Why didn’t we leave like some of the others, Sara? Maybe it’s not too late.”

Sara didn’t look at her. “Because leaving would only postpone the evitable.”

Mrs. Branson exhaled deeply. “We could try.”

Sara turned to Mrs. Branson in exasperation. “Try what? The freeways are clogged with stalled and deserted cars. The gas stations ran out of gas weeks ago. The trains have stopped running. Even if we walked out, we couldn’t survive this heat.” She gestured to the blinding light outside.

Mrs. Branson strode out the apartment door without a word. Sara couldn’t help but think, “Maybe she shouldn’t have been so brutally honest, but how would lying about the situation help?”

The following day, Sara heard a timid knock on the door. She profusely opened the door to Mrs. Branson, apologizing, “I’m sorry, Sara, for just walking out without saying goodbye.”

Sara grabbed Mrs. Branson’s hand and led her over to her easel. On the easel was a painting of blue water running over a waterfall, splashing onto the gray rocks beneath.

“I did it for you, Mrs. Branson.”

“Oh, it is beautiful. I visited a waterfall like this once when I was a child. I used to stand under the waterfall, letting its cool spray surround me. I can feel it now, the water splashing on my face.” Mrs. Branson started twirling around as if she was reenacting this moment from her childhood.

Suddenly, as she was dizzy, Mrs. Branson fell to the floor. When she didn’t move, Sara bent over Mrs. Branson’s prostrate body to feel for a pulse. Sara felt an inner acceptance as she realized Mrs. Branson was gone.

 It was as if, with Mrs. Branson’s death, the air in the room became heavy. Sara listened intently as the air conditioner and the fan uttered their final sound. She felt the sun blazing through the window with a harsh, intense light. Sara stared at the thermostat as it crept higher and higher. She noticed the paint of her waterfall dripping down her painting in rivulets, the blues and grays swirling together, causing the waterfall to feel as if it was in motion.

Sara heard a deep, slow creaking as she watched the paint begin to bubble and seep down the walls. The room was getting hotter and hotter, and the thermometer quit registering the temperature. Outside, the sky burned white, and the world began to melt.