David Dalglish: A Land of Ash

“Because,” Thelma said, “the angels are in the clouds. They’ll get us when it hits, just like they got Randy and Susan.”

“There ain’t no angels in that fucking cloud!” Hank was shouting but didn’t appear to know it. “If Randy and Susan are in heaven, they got there the old fashioned way; by coughing until their lungs bled and their eyeballs…”

“Enough!” Oren shouted. His abrupt stand knocked his little plastic chair sprawling. He glared at Hank, who stared back with tears in his eyes.

“You got ten minutes,” Oren said. “Maybe you should go back to your store. You can take my chair.”

“I reckon I’d rather stay,” Hank said. He glanced over to Thelma. “I’m sorry, really I am. Just scared is all. I hope you’re right. Never considered myself a good Christian man, but I think today I’m terrified enough to try. Think the angels will grab me?”

Thelma was too busy wiping at her tears, but Wilma piped in with her usual perfect timing.

“Bible says god refuses no man who asks humbly enough,” she said. “Humble ain’t your nature, Hank. Try it for today, and we might all make it through just fine. Right, Oren?”

“Right,” he said.

Everyone pushed away their food. Wilma brought out the peach cobbler and spooned out massive servings for everyone. Oren could only pick at it. Cobbler might have been Randy’s favorite, but it sure wasn’t his. When he looked around, he noticed no one else was eating, either. It was his fault, he realized.

Ten minutes, I shouted. What is wrong with me? Why’d I have to remind everyone?

But now it was only eight minutes. Oren felt almost angry at the clock. It had crawled by all day, but once he was with friends, it burst into a frantic sprint. All around were sad smiles and faces wet with tears. What a way to end the world: together at one last dinner party, sobbing like children and snarling at each other like dogs.

“Let’s get the chairs over to the front lawn,” Oren said. “We’re all thinking it, so let’s stop pretending. We’ll get a good look at the western sky from there.”

“Are you sure?” Wilma asked. “We’ve still got some time before…”

“I’m sure,” Oren said, and that ended the discussion.

Wilma and Oren sat next to each other on their lawn chairs. Hank sat opposite them and the Williams. Oren thanked god for small favors. Once positioned, they took their beers (even Thelma had one) and toasted the sky. The clouds were soft and gray, but looming behind them seemed to be a storm thick with a substance more solid than rain and more frightening than thunder. Oren checked his watch. Five minutes at the most, assuming the weathermen knew what they were doing.

“Breathe in deep,” Hank said to no one in particular. “I heard that makes it quickest. Coughing only drags it out.”

The left side of Thelma’s face twitched, but she held her tongue.

A breeze picked up from the west, so sudden in its strength that Thelma had no time to grab her hat before it sailed across the lawn. For a moment, she looked ready to chase after, and then decided otherwise. The clouds rolled across the sky, pushed on by an unseen wave. Another gust of wind hit them, and it was surprisingly warm. Oren felt Wilma grab his hand and squeeze it tight. He squeezed back.

The clouds broke, and the sun shone down on them from a beautiful blue sky. The wind seemed to pause for a moment, as if respectful of the momentary calm. Oren heard a little ‘oh’ from his wife, and even Hank grunted in surprise. When the wind returned, and clouds shadowed their faces, Oren felt like the last remnant of peace in the world had died.

“Will it hurt?” Thelma asked.

“Just a cough,” Hank replied. “Just like a bad cough.”

Rolling toward them, an eager minute early, was the ash cloud from the Yellowstone Caldera’s eruption. It grumbled dark and thick, and within it they saw lightning. A soft white, like the foam of a wave, rushed ahead. With a blast of hot air, they felt it hit. Like a desert wind, it burned the back of their throats and nostrils. Roy shouted something, but Oren could not hear him. Then the air slowed, although the heat remained. The light of the sun faded. The roar left their ears.

“Look,” Oren said, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Falling in thick, twirling pieces was what looked like snow. It fell upon their hands, their hair, their faces. It was warm to the touch. When they brushed it across their skin, it left a gray smear.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Wilma.

The rest of the ash cloud covered the sky, ramming away the white. It was so thick, so monstrous, that night fell. Oren felt his wife’s hand tremble in his, and he clutched it tight. High above, thunder roared.

In the darkness, Thelma was the first to cough.

He lived off the grid. He hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to anyone in years, but if he had, that’s what he would have told them; that he lived off the grid. His house was a shallow cave in the side of the mountain. The lip of the cave, along with the slight overhang, kept the rain out, and during the winter his door - nothing more than a few branches woven together and covered in brush to make it like foliage - kept the heat in. He’d chosen the place because of the natural chimney at the back. He could light a fire to keep the cave warm while the smoke traveled through the crack in the ceiling and went only God knew where.

Additionally, the cave’s position in the mountainside afforded him an incredible view of the valley below. If a bear or a deer walked by, he’d know about it long before the animal knew he was close.

It worked on people, too.

Granted, few humans came this way. But every once in a while some hiker would get lost or some would-be survivalist tromped through the valley. Even a handful of hunters had come through here over the years, with their bright orange vests and the smell of soap that even he could smell from a hundred feet away. No wonder they never caught anything. They didn’t know how to truly blend in. Most of the time they kept on moving, never even looking up.

They miss so much that way , he thought. Eyes on the ground or on the trees around them, watching for predators. If only they’d look up.

Still, it suited him. The less time they spent in his world, the less likely they were to find him. Even after fifteen years, he still lived in fear that someday others would find him and bring him back. Not that he had much to go back to. But they’d try. Oh, Hell yes, they would try. He could picture it now.

Don’t you miss running water?

A creek ran at the base of the valley. Plenty of running water.

What about your family?

Fuck ‘em. They’re probably all dead by now, anyway.

But the world has changed so much. There have been so many advances.

Keep ‘em. I’m fine right here.

He didn’t actually know if there had been any advances; it was just a guess. The fact was there were always advances out there. Everything needed to be better, smarter, faster, or stronger. The world got itself in a big ass hurry and didn’t want to slow down to see what it was running from. So fuck ‘em. Fuck all of ‘em.

Out here the only thing that ever changed was the weather, and he liked it that way. This time of year, the squirrels darted around the valley floor, gathering food for the coming winter. The deer would be storing some extra body fat and growing thicker fur. Soon they’d be surviving on moss and tree bark. Every Fall, it was the same thing.

He looked down into the valley below, prepared to count the squirrels. He’d named a few of them, and spoke their names when they came into view. But he was never really sure if they were the same. All the squirrels looked alike after a few years. Besides, it made it harder to eat them if you named ‘em.