Paul Jones - Extinction Point - The End

The giant chunk of tarmacadam and bituminous solids had broken into three pieces, and now formed a set of giant steps that Jim was sure he could use to climb up to the road. Reaching one mud splattered hand towards the first handhold he could see, he began to pull himself skywards.

A billowing gust of wind almost knocked Jim back down over the precipice as he tried to pull himself up onto the safety of the road, but with a final effort, he threw one leg up onto the road and pulled the rest of his body after it.

He was exhausted, and for a couple of minutes he just lay at the side of the precipice, feeling the cold concrete beneath his back. The wind was beginning to pick up and smoke from the fire swirled and eddied through the disturbed air.

A sickening sense of urgency spurred Jim on. The wind would drive the fire with even greater ferocity. If the house was still standing then he had to get to it quickly. He was sure he had very little time left.

Gathering what was left of his strength; Jim pulled himself to his feet and began jogging the remaining distance to the house.

The crash had spared his home — barely.

The plane had come down a hundred yards south of their cul-de-sac and, as he turned onto the road, he could see the house was still standing. It had not escaped scot-free however; the big oak that had for years stood in the front garden had toppled over, smashing into the front part of the house where the upstairs den had been, removing a portion of the roof in the process and exposing the interior of the room to the elements. The trunk of the tree lay diagonally across the house blocking both the garage and front door.

Glowing ash floated on the currents of warmed air like deadly orange fireflies. Jim could see smoke rising from many places on the shingle roof of his home but there didn’t seem to be any fires burning from within. He offered a silent thank you to whatever God was watching over him.

His neighbors’ homes had not been so lucky and they now burned fiercely, adding to the smoke that hung heavy as London morning fog in the air. The heat was incredible, the air virtually unbreathable.

He soaked the now soot caked bandanna in his remaining water, tossing the empty bottle aside. Pushing the wet cloth to his mouth, he dashed down the street towards the house.

A heat induced current of hot air wailed down the cul-de-sac. It turned the narrow street into a wind tunnel, dragging twirling eddies of smoke twirling over the road. A bright-yellow inflatable emergency life-raft had caught on the lamppost outside his house. It danced and jittered like a hanged man as the wind whipped against it.

A first-class passenger seat from the downed aircraft had come to rest in the middle of the street. Upright and incongruous, the seat’s decapitated business-suited occupant was still strapped securely to it, but Jim barely registered the body as he jogged towards the house, swiping ineffectively at the burning ash that smoldered in his hair.

Standing on the concrete driveway leading up to the three-car garage Jim yelled, “Simone. Are you in there?” His voice hoarse, brittle, and barely audible over the crackle of the flames from the blazing homes of his neighbors.

No reply.

The trunk of the fallen oak tree completely obscured the front door to the house. He would have to either climb over it or go around the back and get into the house that way. If the back door was locked then he would lose time that he did not have. Deciding that a direct approach was the best he pushed his arms through the thicket of branches, forcing them aside as best he could. Grabbing a thick protruding branch, Jim used it to pull himself up and onto the trunk of the tree. Trying not to poke an eye out on one of the innumerable tiny spiked twigs and branches that protruded at every conceivable angle, he tucked his chin against his chest and pushed through the remaining web of tangled branches until he could finally squeeze himself onto the porch.

The door was ajar, knocked open by an eight-foot long tree limb that jutted into the brown marbled entranceway of the house. Easing between the doorframe and branch, he stepped over the threshold and into the house.

The thing he had always loved about California style homes was their openness. It created a spacious, airy atmosphere that he had found enlightening. If it hadn’t been for the tragedy then he imagined he, Simone… and Lark would still have been living here well into their old age.

Don’t delude yourself , his inner voice said, but he ignored it, choosing instead the familiar deception that everything had been fine between him and Simone.

The foyer, lined by a teak banister, led into a living room that swept back towards the swing-door that in turn led into the expansive kitchen. From the kitchen you could step through into the family room. A generous stairwell curved up to the second floor and the master bedroom, den, office… and Lark’s room.

Spacious and light in his memory, today the house seemed coffin-like and dark. The smoke filtering in through the open front door gave the house a gray, unreal feel.

“ Hello ?” Jim yelled, as he walked into the living room. “Is there anybody in here?”

Silence was his only answer.

“Simone! Are you here?” and then after a pause he added, “It’s Jim.”

Nothing.

Moving quickly from room to room, he checked each for signs that Simone had been in the house when the event had happened. The lower floor was empty except for a few magazines scattered carelessly on the glass coffee table of the living room, so he made his way up the stairs to the top landing.

Jim checked the office first, then the master bedroom. Both were empty with no obvious signs that anyone had recently occupied them.

The den was a wreck. The felled tree had smashed away the majority of the right side of the room, opening up a gaping hole in the floor and exposing the garage below. The L-shaped sofa they had used to watch movies on the giant plasma screen on the opposite wall had tipped into the hole, one end pointing up towards the exposed sky through the hole in the roof and the other resting on the concrete garage floor below.

Jim warily edged towards the lip of the hole in an attempt to peer down into the garage but the fractured floorboards squeaked in protest, sagging as he applied weight to them. Wary of his earlier experience on the street he hastily backed away.

That left just one final room.

He did not want to have to look in that last room. The thought of viewing his child’s bedroom was the first thing he could honestly say frightened him on this strangest of days. But he had to check, had to make sure that Simone was not in there. Mentally bracing himself as best he could, Jim opened the door to his dead child’s bedroom.

They were arguing again. Simone had started as soon as he told her that he had to go to the lab.

“But, it’s Saturday for God’s sake. Can’t it wait until Monday?” Her voice sounded whiny to him but he knew that it was really pleading.

“We hardly see you as it is. Please… Just for today; can’t we be a family?” she continued, as tears began to run down her cheeks.

Jim had almost agreed.

Almost.

How different his life would have turned out if he had just shrugged, taken off his jacket, and said “Sure, love. You’re right” and parked his ass on the sofa for the rest of the weekend.

But of course, he hadn’t. Day late and a dollar short.

Instead, he mumbled an excuse about the lab needing him and headed towards the door. Towards his mistress — his profession.