Declan McCreary - Pandemic - We've Run Out of Toilet Paper!

I come up to them and say “Looks like the coast is clear, I’m Beeblebrox (because why the fuck not), what are your names?”

The boy shifts a bit uneasily and the girl answers “I’m Hope, and this is my brother Jesus.” That’d be funny though right, no, she didn’t say that. “I’m Mary and this is my brother Jesse,” she half smiles.

“How long have you two been here?” I ask.

“We haven’t been here to too long, we were with our parents but they’re gone now,” says Jesse, he’s the younger child.

“I’m tired,” says Mary.

They both retire to the bedroom and fall asleep on a mattress without sheets or pillows; it’s turned brown from bodies other than their own I assume. I check the taps and the shower with a slight religious conviction that for some reason it’ll be running, it’s not. I drink a bit and have some snacks and lay on the coach thinking about what a great day it’s been. I start to cry silently at first, then those tears turn into a real man’s weeping, my chest shakes and the tears stream and flow and come freely. The two kids come back out and look worried, but that might have been my skewed perception.

“It’s all right,” I hiccup through snot and tears “go back to bed.”

They listen and eventually I stop crying, a rebirth always takes place after an emotional outburst like that, at least that’s how it was, now I’m just right back to the world as it is—not much hope but at least I can sleep rape free tonight. Regret weighs heavy on my mind, a jab in my soul. I feel like I should have just stayed home but remembering my family and friends made it only a matter of time; I also had to leave for supplies eventually anyways. But for all I know, all my loved ones are gone, like tears in the rain. These two kids were thrown into this thresher maw alone, maybe this is my destiny.

I wish I had a bag of tobacco and rolling papers, I don’t even smoke but I just crave it, maybe something something Freud or whatever, or just something to take the edge off. Speaking of which, I go and check the fridge, I see three warm unopened Heinekens in the fridge, and a low powerful laugh reverberates through me. I lay back down drinking my spoils, bless those children for leaving me some beer- soon enough I pass out.

A T.V. blares another story on CNN, Dr. Thomas Frieden says cuts would “pull the rug out from programs that are helping ensure that we have a safer world.” Miranda, only by possible osmosis could she take the information in, scrolling through her Facebook feed of friends posting pictures of children. Her husband Daquan was reading a Washington Post article.

“You won’t believe this, according to WashPo the CDC is forced to cut back their efforts to prevent global disease outbreaks by 80%,” with some genuine concern.

Miranda briefly glances from her phone to meet his eyes “I can’t deal with the news anymore, if it’s not a pandemic, it’s going to be climate change, or bees, or micro-plastics in the water, I really just can’t do it.”

Daquan raises an eyebrow unsure of what words to choose, a man in his mid-40s, often worries about the world his children will inherit. He wants to console his wife but he often wonders if he himself will ever be soothed. He believes himself and his wife to be good people, with good children, and wishes that his nation’s government would get their act together—fund science, build a coalition of federal and business leaders to combat the increasing threat of a changing climate, reverse and slow the damage being done to the ecosystem. He wonders how he will even teach his children about any of this, or even when to bring it up. Mary and Jesse run down the stairs giggling as they pretend to be Thor and Hulk.

“Hulk smash,” giggles Jesse as he swings his arms like a ninja on acid.

“Daddy watch this,” says Mary as she spins in place falling down to the ground. “Did you see that?”

Miranda and Daquan both smile, but the constant hum of chaos, the impossible to reconcile reality that their only option is to play along, while knowing that it only exacerbates our decline.

“Yea I did, are you Thor?” asks Daquan.

“Mmhmmm, and Jesse is The Hulk. Remember when they fought but Hulk cheated and Thor was supposed to win?”

Daquan nods as he swoops down on his kids pretending to the Thanos, they all laugh and play, Miranda too soon joins in on their Marvel adventures. For a moment leaving the dull mental safety of Facebook, their smart TV now playing Anthony Bourdain’s: Parts Unknown. He’s visiting China, a country in which the CDC was forced to scale back their disease prevention efforts. He was enjoying a rather delicious looking soup however, smiling and dining.

“Daddy I love you,” says Jesse.

“Me too, and I love mom too,” says Mary.

Daquan and Miranda both look at each other tenderly, all was well with the world, but each had in the depths of theirs minds an irking pull, forever there-without end that let them know that things weren’t well after all.

The dimness of the night conceals the terror in the children’s eyes as they stand over the corpses of their still warm parents. Things weren’t always like this of course, dad’s head until only moments ago was still attached and mom definitely used to have a mouth full of teeth. They watched from afar as a band of psychos led by Lord Humongous mercilessly, and with rock music blasting, desecrated the only thing these two loved. They were lucky really, their parents were sharp and heard the approach giving them enough time to hide the children. Now Jesse and Mary emerged from that spot to encounter-in close proximity-the death of one’s parents. Now their only question was, what do they do next? The psychos were gone-the souls of their parents with them-they had each other. Jesse started to cry first, Mary being a bit more sensible in post-apocalyptic dead parent situations tried to shush him, she put her hand on his mouth as he wailed. His tears rolling down his cheeks unto her hands, she felt their warmness—reminded of when her own mother had comforted her. Jesse looked at Mary and another agonizing cry bubbled up but this time muffled, he took a last look at his guardians and with teary eyes nodded knowingly; death was no longer mythical. Even in his moment of mental perturbation, he had the wits to take his father’s revolver.

The two children scurried like mice before a storm to what had been their home, a grey drab apartment complex that had quite endeared itself to them. It no longer held the spark of life and ceased be a place of joie de vivre. Mary looked around at where they had collected various memorabilia, she had collected a few Barbie dolls, one which she had outfitted to resemble the vogue of their epoch. Had Mattel sold this particular model it might have been the Mad Max Barbie line—the right side of her head shaved from the temple, with one eye, a gun(likely from a Terminator action figure), a knife for a hand, and rags instead of the latest fashion accessories. Jesse was fond of the doll, he remembered what it used to look like and what his dad would say if he played with it, “that’s your sister’s toy,” well now it seemed the new Barbie was more fit for this hell-hole lifestyle than dad, maybe he was wrong about the doll.

“What are we going to do now?” asks Jesse, still fazed from his parents passing.

“I’m not sure, but we’ll think of something,” she says, not without a hint of doubt.

“Who’s gonna tell us bedtime stories and protect us, how are we going to eat, what if those people come back?”

“I can tell you stories and protect you Jesse,” she says, feeling in that moment her duty as eldest.