David Dalglish - A Land of Ash

“Ms. Henderson,” she said, her head lolling side to side as if her neck were rubber. Her body was propped against the side of the car. She missed the protection of her scarf. The storm had awakened the ash, filling the air with its sting. “Impolite brat like you should learn manners.”

“Manners?” Samuel laughed. “Billions of people are dying, and you want me to use manners? You see what I mean? Everyone’s blind. No one sees the big picture, but I do. Remember when I said I had a question to ask you? Well, I’m asking now. You just couldn’t keep your little vanity, your ‘Sweet Jesus’ and your feeble prayers to yourself. So now I’m asking, Ms. Henderson.”

He knelt down, the gun rocking in his hand. He looked her in the eye, and she glared back, unafraid.

“Do you believe in God, Gertrude?” he asked.

“Believe in him more than I believe in you,” she said.

He tilted his head to one side.

“Is that so? Might I ask how? Or more importantly, why?”

“Because he’s been so good to me,” she said. Samuel laughed before she could continue.

“Good to you? Good! Have you lost your eyes, old hag? Look around you. How many corpses have you passed on your walk east? How many cars filled with families huddled together, sobbing as they fucking died in each other’s arms? Hell, even God’s precious trees and flowers are nothing but death beneath the ash.”

“We walk in the end of days,” Gertrude said. “But I wouldn’t expect a Sunday school-skipping truant like you to know a thing about that.”

Samuel shoved the barrel against her neck. He didn’t appear mad. He seemed calm, and that scared her far more than anything else he’d done.

“If God exists, he’s a murderer,” he said. “My wife, my son, he filled their lungs with ash and tossed me their bodies to bury. So I deny him. He doesn’t exist. Those that can look upon this wasteland and say he does are diseased. They’re sick. Now I’ll ask you again, Gertrude: do you believe in God? You still think he exists?”

She swallowed. The knot on her head from where he’d struck her pounded with rhythmic throbs of pain.

“I do,” she said. “And he does.”

Samuel reached around her back and untied one of her hands. He crushed her arthritic fingers in his grip, then slammed it against the car. Holding her wrist, he aimed and pulled the trigger. The gun fired, the noise loud and painful. Gertrude screamed as blood erupted from her palm. She tensed and pulled, sobbing as she tried to hold her wounded hand against her chest, but Samuel would not relent.

“Please,” she cried. “Just take care of Alice. She’s just a dumb cat, ain’t done nothing wrong. When I’m, When I…”

Samuel let go of her hand and knelt down. He suddenly spoke with compassion, his voice soft and his smile warm.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked her. “God is like your damn cat. Alice doesn’t exist, Gertrude. You’ve spent your days talking to no one.”

Samuel paced before the fire while Gertrude bled atop her jacket. Her sobs quickened, and she felt like she might faint. Her hurried breaths gagged as ash pooled on her tongue.

“We can be a stronger nation,” Samuel said, talking to the hidden stars. “A better nation, smaller perhaps, but a fit man can defeat a sickly giant. For years the world looked to the U.S. for guidance, but now they look to us with pity. They mock what they have long abandoned.”

Gertrude closed her eyes, and slowly her lips mouthed words. When Samuel saw this, he snapped. His fist struck her cheek, rattling her teeth.

“Don’t you dare pray for yourself,” he snarled at her.

“Not myself,” she said, looking at him with her tired, weepy eyes.

Samuel turned cold at that. He aimed the gun at her forehead.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said.

“I know you will,” she replied.

“No one will hear your answer. You won’t be a saint. There’s no one to impress, no one to convince.”

“I’m here.”

“Last chance. Don’t be a fool, Gertrude. Open your eyes. Like your cat. Like your goddamn cat.”

“Ask already.”

“Do you believe in God, Gertrude?”

“I do.”

He pulled the trigger.

As Harold waited for his son, he looked out his window and stared at the ash covering the ground. Florida might’ve been better off than other parts of the country, but the ash was still there. A constant, grim reminder of what had just transpired only a few weeks ago. The sky appeared forever gray and showed no signs of changing whatsoever. It looked like winter in the Midwest.

A damn shame, he thought. Still, he was alive. That was what really mattered. Many had died and lost loved ones. There were parts of the country that wouldn’t recover for years to come. A tragic situation, yes, but he was still alive.

He just wished that his son Gary felt the same way.

It wasn’t because Gary was acting coldhearted. Quite the opposite. His son was devastated, but the truth was people said horrible things after a nasty breakup. You never meant the things you said in the heat of an argument. He tried to tell him that many times, but Gary seemed to think it was the end of everything as he knew it.

At least he agreed to come over and talk. He was thankful for that much.

He heard a knock at the door. It startled him, but he collected himself and he went to the door with a smile on his face.

“Glad you could make it,” he said.

His son only gave him a simple nod. He looked terrible. He hadn’t shaved in days. His face was smeared gray with ash. Even though he was wearing a long jacket, Harold noticed that his clothes were terribly wrinkled. He also smelled the scent of booze.

Not the best state to see your own son in, but it could’ve been worse. Far worse.

He let him inside and told him to make himself comfortable.

“Got any scotch?” Gary asked.

Harold held in his frown. “Um, afraid I don’t,” he lied. “Please, just have a seat.”

Gary rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He sat on the couch while Harold chose the recliner next to it.

“I can’t stay long.”

“Fine. Plans?”

“No. Just can’t stay long.”

Harold was at a loss for words. He didn’t even know where or how to begin. The fact that his son didn’t want any part of it didn’t make things easy, either, but he had to be strong. Focus , he thought. He feared for his son’s life. Dammit, he had to try something. Anything .

“Gary, you know I love you. Right?”

Again, his son rolled his eyes. “Dad, I’m not twelve.”

“That don’t mean anything. I’m just trying to tell you that I love you… and I’m worried about you, to be honest.”

“Worried about what, exactly?” Gary asked, without looking at his father.

How could he possibly explain to his son everything he was feeling without coming off as one of those dreadful TV dads that everybody made fun of? That was his biggest fear. To come off as insincere or rehearsed. If he did, he’d lose him. Gary wouldn’t listen to a damn word he had to say. He had to be very careful, while at the same time, make it so he understood the seriousness of the situation.

“I know you haven’t been sleeping much,” he started. “Since after… you know.”

Gary grunted.

“I mean, I know how awful it is,” Harold said while leaning forward a little. “And I’m truly sorry that it happened, but you know… you had no control or say over it. You know what I mean?”

Gary rubbed his nose and gave a few snorts. “Yeah, well I doubt I’m the only one not sleeping lately, dad. It ain’t just me. A lot of people died.”