N. White: The End - Visions of Apocalypse

After a final check over the area, Tim fastened the lead ropes around his waist and started west. The load soon had him sweating beneath his many layers, but he cleared his mind of the discomfort and focused on controlling his breathing.

Tim felt the flint in his jacket pocket as he trekked on; the stone was wearing down from constant use. Lighters and matches where a thing of the past. After the first month of the Great Freeze, it was common to see people killed for the simple tools needed to create fire. There was one rule that any survivor had to adopt. Never let the flames die down.

Everything had changed so quickly. The veil of humanity had been ripped away, revealing an animal’s greatest inherent characteristic: the will to live. Survivors became scavengers and then murderers. Tim was forced to become a part of this new constitution or fall victim to it, alongside his loved ones.

He remembered a time when life’s decisions were trivial things. What should he have for dinner? What gifts to buy his children for Christmas? Should he go to the range for afternoon shooting practice? Now, the wrong choice would send his family to the heavens. But, he had hope. As quickly as the world had turned to shit, they had survived, when most were dead.

Tim made his way across a patch of ice. The steady scrape of the trailing sled played with his weary mind. As he trudged on, his mind took him to a distant memory. Tim smiled as he remembered his daughter’s voice.

“Daddy, show me how to do it,” Lilly called. “Jake wont show me.” Her small arms protruded from a pile of blankets where she sat on the kitchen bench in front of a large fire.

Jake was beside his younger sister, eating fruit from a small tin. He wore a proud smile for having learnt how to use the flint already. Jasper, their four-year-old Alaskan malamute was wedged between the children. A long day of helping tow the sled had exhausted the dog and under the children’s constant patting and scratching, he’d fallen asleep.

Tim was several feet away, tending to Christine’s badly sprained ankle. She had fallen as they had raced for shelter ahead of the storm. They were hiding in the kitchen of an abandoned high school, three hundred miles south of Denver, as far as Tim could tell. He avoided civilisation as much as possible, but need had brought them here. Today, the risk had paid off. For once, they all had full stomachs.

“Go on, I’ll be fine,” Christine said with weak smile.

Tim looked up from bandaging her ankle. The injury worried him. “I’ll get Mom something to help her pain, then I’ll show you how, OK?”

“OK,” Lilly replied, her voice rich with excitement.

Christine will have to ride with the children now , Tim thought as he rummaged through their packs. Jasper and me will just have to work a bit harder .

Their first aid supplies consisted of a sewing kit, some bandages, creams and the few painkillers they had been saving. Tim gave Christine two aspirin and a water canteen, before going to his daughter. He stood behind Lilly and took her small hands in his own. Her blonde hair brushed against his cheek as he looked over her shoulder. Tim turned her wrist, tilting the steel striker across the flint.

“Now push down and forwards,” Tim said, guiding Lilly through the action. “Move your feet or the sparks will land on them,” he smiled.

Lilly’s brow furrowed with concentration and she pushed down with enough strength to make her arms shake. Steel scraped over stone and white-hot sparks shot from the flint, like tiny signal flares, disappearing as they fell towards the floor.

“I did it,” Lilly squealed. She struck the flint again, giggling as the sparks appeared momentarily.

Jasper stirred and looked towards the kitchen door. A moment later, a man burst into the room. Tim caught a glimpse of the pistol in his hand before Jasper attacked, snarling and growling as he leapt at the intruder. The man screamed in pain, trying to shake the dog’s hold.

Tim dropped into a roll, pulling a knife from his sock as he went. A gunshot deafened the room. Tim came to his feet with the sound of Christine’s screams filling his ears, and drove his blade and weight into the man’s chest. The gun fired again as the intruder stumbled backwards. Tim and Jasper went with him, stabbing and biting until the man went limp.

Tim heard movement behind him and turned to find Christine, cradling Lilly in her arms. Like an opening rose, a bloodstain spread across their daughter’s shirt. Tim scrambled to the bandages stashed on the sled, glancing out the kitchen door to make sure their attacker had been alone. He ran back to Lilly, stepping over Jasper who hadn’t moved from beside the body. Tim’s mind struggled to absorb what was happening.

“It’s OK, baby,” Christine soothed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she kissed the top of Lilly’s head.

Tim removed her shirt and thermals as memories of wounded soldiers on the battlefield flickered through his mind. His daughter gasped for breath, staring down at the blood pouring from a hole above her naval. Tim pushed a handful of gauze over the wound and looked up to meet Christine’s pleading stare…

The memory left Tim as quickly as it had come and he knew it would meet him again in his dreams, as it did every night.

As the hours went by, icicles began forming on Tim’s beard. His lungs burned with each gulp of frozen air. He laboured on, checking his compass to make sure of his bearing. Navigating in a world of deep winter was like searching a dark room for the light switch; only here everything was white rather than black.

Tim stopped and looked up. The sky was untouched blue, when smoke should have tarnished it. The easterly breeze had turned to the west and he sniffed the air as it passed. Nothing. Realisation slammed into him. Please no , he recited in his head as he began untying the sled with a fear-filled drive. Once free, he leapt forwards and ran.

Over the next rise, he saw the house’s chimney, jutting from a mound of snow; no smoke came from it. This can’t be happening , he thought desperately.

Before leaving, Tim had spent an afternoon sawing up the house’s furniture to be sure Jake and Christine had ample firewood. He’d left enough for three days by his calculations.

“Christine! Jake!” he yelled, reaching the snow sunken door.

No response came.

He dropped to his knees and began to dig with a fury that he’d never known before. Gone were the weak arms of a man who hadn’t seen food for days. Within minutes he could see the brass handle glinting in the afternoon sun.

“Christine! Jake!” he screamed again, shovelling a path to the door.

Tim lay on his stomach, stretching to the handle. It released and the door swung inwards. Tim slid feet first into the room. He stood in the shaft of light that spilled through the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness that surrounded him.

They must be asleep , Tim hoped.

The bed was in the living room, next to the hearth; a necessity that had helped them through the freezing nights. No movement came from the thick blankets, despite the sound of Tim’s snowshoes clapping against the wooden floor as he moved frantically across the room.

I’ve lost a child once, please, please not again .

He slowed his final few paces, almost too scared to find out what lay beneath the duvets. He had faced bullets in war, but that was nothing compared to the terror that burned inside his veins.

“Jake…Christine….” Tim said, bending over the bed.

He found his son hidden amongst the blankets, but his eyes were closed. “Jake…” he whispered, so quietly the words barely reached his own ears. Tim shook his son gently, as if moving him too harshly could break him. Lightning bolts of hope shot through Tim as his son’s eyes opened.