Bri Eberhart

The river breathes, never still, encouraging recollection of last night’s dream. Even ancient anxieties don’t disrupt this meditation of muddy water flowing toward the bay, like random thoughts across a screen.

Gulls drift above to provide a backdrop for hours of no place to be. Someone flings stones, which drop into the cool depths where walleye move in the silence of an empty cathedral. The drawbridge yawns open, its two sections raise their arms to greet incoming freighters.

WHEN STARS BURN OUT by Bri Eberhart

Whoever made me got it all wrong. Like they hit the randomize button in a video game. Stitched

pieces of me together that make no sense. The wiring sends mixed signals.

Is this why I’m one of the few left standing?

Mostly everyone else in the world has seemed to disappear.

Still, I write for someone—someone who may or may not be out there.

I vomit up the words. Ripping my heart out through my throat, gagging on euphemisms,

choking on whataboutisms.

Screaming into the void.

Dangling on a cliff.

The sun is too hot, burning out as we speak.

We haven’t seen another person in thirteen days.

Our electric car died, so we stole—no, borrowed—one that still runs on gas. The owner

doesn’t need it. He’s probably dead, just like the others.

Still, I write.

Or try to.

The last time we saw anyone living was at a cafe in Vinita, Oklahoma. Over a thousand miles ago,

and we’ve been camped out in Oatman, Arizona ever since. The only creatures left here are the

burros.

Our food supply is running low, so we’ll have to move on soon, but I kind of like it here. A

western ghost town, once touristy, but now true to its name considering the lack of humans.

It’s just John and me, but we’re heading west in hopes of finding more survivors. Since this

all began, we’ve heard rumors that there are places in California still standing. Those who still

have days-worth of sunlight left. But the further we travel Route 66, the less sure I am.

“We need to move tomorrow… Sam.” John kicks the heel of my beat-up Converse that’s

admittedly too close to the fire. The smell of burning rubber taints the air.

“Huh?” Jerking my head up to meet his eye, I drop the pencil I’m holding, the tip worn

down to a nub.

I’m running out of things to write with. I need to be conscious of the words I choose. There

can’t be any errors. Not anymore. There’s no such thing as a first draft when the world is ending,

and you’re running out of places to write your thoughts, and there’s hardly any ears left to listen.

I’ll have to find more paper and pens at our next stop.

Maybe someday, someone will find my meaningless journals.

They won’t understand any of it because even I don’t. And I’m living it.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” John repeats.

“Okay, that’s fine.” I yawn, closing the notebook and staring off at the landscape. The

silhouette of a mountain is barely noticeable in the dusk sky. Its points jut toward a heaven that

may or may not be real. These days, I think it might be the latter.

Days and nights don’t work like they used to anymore. In a sense, the sun still rises in the

morning and sets in the evening, but it’s all wrong. The days are more like an orange sky on fire,

turning redder by the day; dusk is a deep purplish-blue. And the nights are so black that the stars

might be dying, too. But we still have the moon.

And that’s the only thing that’s keeping me going.

Places like New York are already gone, captured by night. The sun doesn’t rise there

anymore. We’re outrunning the persistent night sky, but I’m afraid we’re losing.

Our last hope is California, where the sun still shines—or so they say.

“Did you write anymore?” John asks.

“No,” I say, almost breathless. I gaze around as the few stars blink out. “No words can

quite capture this.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I smirk, lowering my sight to the burning embers, batting away unwanted tears. A knot

forms in my throat, making it hard to swallow. John has always been so sure of everything. Of his

place in the world, of me, of the fact that we’re not in the depths of despair.F

I honestly don’t know how he keeps up his optimism. It’s exhausting.

But he’s cracking. I can spot it in his emerald eyes—the fear hidden there, the light almost

fading like the day. Eyes that happen to reflect mine and all my worries. The frown lines form

between his dark eyebrows more and more as he battles himself. His pessimism, or maybe just

realism at this point, overpower any good he senses in the world.

The first time I really noticed it was when our electric car died the night we left home.

Everything is supposed to be better when electric, right? This was the future we were

promised. Want for nothing—smartphones, smart cars. Hell, even smart fridges.

For the love of God, why?

But as we left our home in Maine, we barely made it over town lines. It was like the vehicle

knew we were escaping whatever was coming and just shut down. We tried pushing it to the

nearest charging station, no luck. The car really was smarter than us. It got out before we even

knew anything at all.

We hadn’t seen our neighbor for weeks at this point, so we took his truck. We left a note

that we’d return it someday when things are… better. But let’s be honest. Things will never get

better.

Before we made the trek back to our neighbor’s place, though, John lost it. It was the first

time I ever saw him truly lose it. He took a tire iron to the entire vehicle. Smashed all of the

windows, the headlights, the brake lights. He didn’t utter a single word the whole time, just grunts

and exhaled breaths.

When he got it out of his system, he dropped the weapon, his hands red and chapped, and

screamed, “FUCK!” Then he started walking the winding road in the direction of home, and I

followed two steps behind.

We never spoke about it.

John and I aren’t romantic. Like at all. But I honestly wouldn’t want to be living out the end

of our days with anyone else. Since pre-school, we’ve been best friends, moved in together after

high school, and have supported each other through it all.

He’s a musician (drummer).

I’m a writer (poet, but now documenting our days).

We both work—wait, no, worked—at IHOP.

And now, we’re here.

It is what it is, I guess.

The closer we get to the end of the line, the closer I sense he’s about to lose it again. It tugs

at my heart seeing him this afraid, this defeated.

I’m usually doom and gloom. I can’t handle him joining me at the pity party.

So I’ll fake the sunshine for his sake.

“Maybe we’ll find someone tomorrow,” I offer. He usually says this to me, but I never

respond.

He sweeps the hair out of his face. It’s getting long now, shaggy, brown hair curling at the

ends. Neither one of us has had a proper haircut in months. More than months now, actually.

When did this all begin? I start mentally ticking off the months, but John interrupts me

when I hit four.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

I tug at the end of my ponytail, flexing my fingers, unsure what to do to make him feel

better. Shifting, so we’re shoulder to shoulder, we sit in silence for a while, watching the flames

dance into the sky.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” John says, snapping me out of my stupor again. His eyes

scan the darkened horizon.

“Yeah, no shit.”

I catch him rolling his eyes from the side, but he doesn’t look at me. Still focused on the

beyond. “No. Like, I mean right now. Can’t you feel it?”

My spine straightens as I attempt to take it all in and focus on as many senses as possible to

detect any danger. Which says a lot considering the sun is dying. What other dangers are more

pressing than that? Still, I try.

Desert sand coats my exposed arms and face from the wind picking up. My hands are

cracked and calloused, dry blood in the corners of my fingernails.

The only noises are the fire crackling and the burros shuffling in the distance. I can smell

smoke and the faint sweat coming from John, which you might think is gross but is oddly

reassuring. It’s an actual comfort that I can smell him because I don’t know what I’d do if I ever

stopped.

Plus, I’m sure I don’t smell like roses either.

The remnants of beans—and gritty sand—that we ate an hour ago and the dirt that’s still

stuck between my teeth linger in my mouth. It’s impossible to stay clean out in the desert with no

facilities. We salvage our water and brush our teeth when we can, but it’s definitely not a twice-a-

day occurrence anymore.

My surroundings haven’t changed either. There’s John, the fire, the mountain’s outline, and

the moon. And don’t forget the stars that are holding on for dear life.

“I don’t feel anything.”

He grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. “I don’t like it.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a gut feeling. I think we should find some place to sleep indoors

tonight.”

I crane my neck to look at the buildings in the distance. This place used to be a town for

tourists, but all the buildings have been destroyed since then. By what? I’m not sure. Most don’t

even have roofs, or entire walls are blown out. It’s a stretch considering it “indoors.” The buildings

face each other with a slight stretch of desert between them to host the fake dueling show cowboys

would perform every day between 1:30 and 3:30. Or at least that’s what the faded poster stapled to

a pole said.

Back before everything changed.

“I mean… we can try looking inside there? Or just crash in the truck?” I shrug, not

understanding why tonight is different from any other.

“We’re too exposed in the truck.”

I try to free my hand, but he only squeezes harder, my knuckles turning white. “Ow. You’re

starting to freak me out.” A chill creeps up my spine, like bony fingers crawling their way up.

“It feels like someone is watching us.” He chews on his lower lip as he studies the skyline.

“Okay, I’m out.” I stand up, pulling him up with me. “Put out the fire. We’ll find

somewhere to crash and then leave first thing tomorrow.”

He kicks sand over the smoldering remains as I roll up the sleeping bags. My heartbeat

upticks with each passing moment, but I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. I’m not sensing

anything John is. All I know is he’s logical. He doesn’t “trust his gut” or “follow hunches.” So if

he is now, then something is definitely wrong.

For a moment, I question whether my heart is racing in excitement. Maybe there are more

people? We’re not alone! Hurray!

But, if that’s the case, why are they hiding and watching?

There’s an unspoken rule these fearful days: if you find another human, you’re nice.

Helpful. Normally happy for the interaction.

You don’t stalk like a weirdo.

We move the truck closer to the buildings, hiding it in a gap between two structures. It

takes us four tries before finding a place worth attempting to sleep in. The ceiling seems like it’ll

hold for another day, and three out of four walls isn’t bad.

This place might’ve been a bar?

There’s a broken mirror hanging behind an old wooden counter embedded with dust and

grime, and the floor crunches beneath my shoes as we plow through shattered glass. I don’t let

myself look in the mirror, afraid of what I’ll see. Haggard, dirty, all sense of identity lost. I haven’t

seen my reflection in a while—worried I won’t recognize the person staring back.

We assemble as many broken tables and chairs together in the far corner to create a den of

sorts before laying our sleeping bags back down. It almost reminds me of the forts we used to

make as children. But that was more blankets and pillows and less existential crisis. We don’t

bother with a fire this time. Instead, we curl up beside one another, using each other’s bodies for

warmth.

Minutes pass as cicadas chirp in the distance. I focus on John’s breathing, trying not to

panic. I rub a piece of nylon fabric between my thumb and forefinger, letting the motion ground

me and bring me back to the present.

“Johnny?”

“Yeah?” His voice is quiet, almost quivering.

“We’re going to make it through this, right?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, a heavy breath escapes him as he flips onto his back, sticking

an arm underneath his head and staring up at the cracked ceiling.

“Why do you think we’re still here? Like…” I rotate, so I’m copying his position. “What’s

wrong with us? How are we still alive when everyone else is gone? Are we wired weird?”

I’ve always felt off, not one with the crowd. But this is something new. I never imagined I’d

be one of the last few humans standing.

It doesn’t make any sense.

Now we’re both staring at the ceiling that might crush us.

After a few terrible moments have passed and the tears have already bunched up behind my

eyes, John whispers, “I don’t know, Samzy. I really don’t.” Then, after a long pause, he adds, “Just

you and me till the end, all right?”

It’s a silly line we’ve been telling each other since middle school, but it’s my undoing right

now. I bite my lip hard, unleashing the silent tears. I turn my back to him as he throws his arm over

me, pulling me closer. His breath is warm against my cheek, and I beg the weeping to stop because

I don’t want him to know how terrified I am.

If he feels my body shaking, he doesn’t address it.

We’re both scared. There’s no use in beating a dead horse by talking about it.

The closest city is an hour west. There, we’ll stock up on food by rummaging through abandoned

homes and food markets. Fill the tank as much as possible and hope that it gets us the rest of the

way to California. Gas is harder to come by nowadays; the supply might be running out as quickly

as daylight.

Nothing happened last night. The creepy feeling John had was just that: a creepy feeling.

In the dimming light of day, we haven’t seen any new faces or spotted a vehicle. No

footprints left behind in the sand—only ash lingering from our previous fire.

We’re quiet as we make our way toward the city. My fingertips tingle the closer we get,

forcing me to shake out my arms to rid the pins and needles. I’m not sure if it’s anxiety or

excitement getting to me. Scared we’re all alone, cautiously optimistic that we’re not.

Skyscrapers breach the horizon, popping into view. Most buildings are still standing, unlike

the town we just left behind. The closer we get, however, the destruction to them is apparent.

The windows are smashed out, doors hanging off hinges. Vehicles lay abandoned as if a

storm rolled through town and tore everything apart, taking everyone with it.

My stomach sinks the further we enter the middle of the city; there’s not a soul in sight.

And the sharp tang of sewage seeping through the windows doesn’t help.

John pulls over into a tiny gas station on the corner, only one pump left. It’s dry. We empty

the place of any food left behind and journey to the next station. And the next. Until finally, we’re

able to fill the tank up.

Out of everything on the shelves, all the paper is gone. I found one lone pen I stuck in my

back pocket, but there’s nothing viable to write on. Not even napkins. In a desperate maneuver, I

take some of the cardboard boxes that previously housed candy bars and start tearing them into

pieces where I can continue my story once my notebook runs out of space.

If I live that long.

As John pumps, I lean against the warm hood, the engine ticking as it cools down, and eat a

Slim Jim. I’m surprised there’s any left. This was one of the first items to go back east once all the

stores started to get robbed.

There’s no order to anything anymore.

Once people started disappearing, all laws went out the window. You wanted something?

Take it. Who’s going to stop you? There are no cops anymore. There are no courts.

There are no laws to break.

I chew on the beef stick, wiping my mouth on my dirty sleeve as I try to hold the vomit

down.

Some days I hope that I’m in a coma. Or a simulation. Or whatever else that means this

isn’t real life. That none of this is happening. That it’s all a bad dream.

We have to survive this. Whatever this is.

“Should we stay here for a while?” I ask John, distracting my own brain from spiraling and

ignoring the bile burning the back of my throat.

“Do you want to?” His eyebrows crease like he doesn’t know who I am by suggesting this.

“If we give it a few days, someone might come through.”

The noncommittal grunt he gives slides right through my chest, wounding me. He’s closing

the gas cap when I reach over and tap his arm.

“It’ll work out, all right? Look.” I reach through the truck window, pulling out the

notebook. “I even wrote more this morning.”

I didn’t. It’s a lie.

John holds back a small smile before nodding. “Okay, yeah, that’s great, Sam.”

See? Everything is going to be fine. John is going to be fine.

I turn away from him before he can catch everything written on my face: the fear, the lies,

the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring.

We park the truck, locking our goods inside even though there’s no one around to steal

anything, but better safe than sorry. Then we wander the city. Kicking garbage out of our path,

peeking in broken windows, mindful of the glass shards jutting out. We can’t risk an injury these

days. There are no doctors to treat, and some wounds just won’t heal.

“Do you think whoever was back in that town followed us here?” I ask.

John glances over his shoulder as if expecting people to be right behind us. “I don’t think

so.” He shrugs. “I haven’t seen any cars.”

“It’s weird, though, right? Why wouldn’t they say something?”

“Maybe I was wrong, and it wasn’t people. Maybe it was coyotes. Waiting for us to die so

they could eat us.”

I elbow him in the side and laugh. “Stop. That isn’t funny.”

“You’re laughing.”

“Yeah, because you’re a jerk. Coyotes aren’t going to eat us!”

“Not now. We’re in the city!” He spreads his arms wide, spinning in a circle. “Look at all

this protection around us.”

I chuckle, even though his sarcasm is sobering.

Sobering…

I stop dead in my tracks, glancing at the boarded-up stores around us, searching for any

business signs. “We should get drunk tonight.”

John drops his arms, peering down his nose at me. “You want to get drunk?”

“Why not? There’s nothing else to do.”

“I don’t know…” John’s hesitancy is probably for the best. Who knows what might

happen? We should keep our wits about us.

beg.” Instead, I tug on his arm, fake pouting. “Please? We might be dead soon. Don’t make me

He offers me a dramatic eye roll before starting down the block again. “All right, all right,

fine. We’ll find alcohol.”

It takes us another fifteen minutes before we find a liquor store, and the squat, crumbling

building appears as if it was ripped from somewhere else and dropped between the towering

skyscrapers.

I climb through the pane-less window and immediately step into a problem. The cock of a

gun next to my ear freezes me. My hands shoot straight into the air as if I’m in a movie, but I don’t

know what else to do.

John hisses in a breath behind me, and my legs turn to jelly. I choke back a sob, is there a

gun pointing at him too?

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” I try to rush out, but the words are slurred and raspy.

The silence lingers, and that’s the scariest part. The stillness is so thick that it seems almost

impossible that other people are here. I can’t even pick out hushed breathing or shifting feet. Just

the cool feel of metal against my temple keeps me in place.

“We’re humans,” I continue. What? Why did I just say that? What else would we be?

Clearly, we’re not freaking cats. “I mean, w-we’re just passing through. On our way to California

to find others. Other survivors.”

John tells me to shut up. I do.

“We don’t need anything in here,” John addresses whoever is around us. “Just let us go,

and we’ll leave right now.”

The gun clicks once more, but the pressure from my head is gone, and my knees almost

buckle in relief. Keeping my hands up, I slowly turn my head toward the assailant, and he’s smiling

at me. He’s probably at least in his forties, dressed head to toe in camouflage, and is chewing on a

toothpick.

He bobs his head in greeting. “Nice to know you’re human, at least.”

My cheeks flame and an arm shoots out, snaking around my waist and pulling me toward

the wall. My heart skips a beat until my body recognizes the familiarity of his hands. John. At least

no one can stand behind us, but there are five people in front staring at us now.

This is great.

Five other survivors. Ages ranging from 20-50, if I had to guess.

All armed.

“We don’t want any trouble,” John says, his voice much calmer sounding than mine.

“We don’t want trouble either,” the man counters. “We thought you were the other ones.”

“There’s more?” I croak out.

“Don’t get too excited,” the lone woman standing the furthest away adds in. Her eyes are

distant like she’s seen one too many things. “They’re out for blood.”

I shake my head, not understanding. “But why? Aren’t we all kind of fucked here? What’s

the point of harming each other?”

She shrugs, tossing her black braids over her shoulder, but doesn’t say any more. Instead,

she turns to face the window, gun at the ready.

The man introduces them all, but my brain is on overdrive, and it’s impossible to keep up.

He’s Greg, the woman is Shawna, but I can’t tell who’s David, Anthony, or Mitch.

The three men stand in a line like cell phone signal bars, shortest to tallest. The shorter one

is my height, so around 5’8” maybe, the tallest has to be well above six feet. The shortest one has a

stocky build and a purple bandana tied around his head. The middle one has pockmarks all over his

face and stands rod straight, unflinching when others move around him. He just stares at us, and I

can’t tell if it’s strange or not. The tallest one is all limbs, but he has a soft smile and kind eyes. He

reminds me of John.

“There’s nothing in California,” Greg admonishes. Greg, presumably the leader of

whatever this is, is a heavier man, but it somehow fits him. I can’t picture him small. I’ve known

him for thirty seconds now, but his presence seems to fill the room. He has a long beard filled with

gray, and he continues to suck on the toothpick, making my stomach a little queasy again.

My heart does a freefall with his words, right down into my shoes. “... What?”

“The sun is still shining, sure, but there’s no one else. It’s like here. Pockets of survivors,

but more scavengers.”

“That’s not possible. We were told—”

Greg frowns. “Told by who exactly? It’s a lie people make up to give them something to

hope for. Of course, there’s always something better at the end of the road. But that’s all it is—a

lie.”

“There has to be more people,” I plead through gritted teeth.

“Just us, sweetheart,” David, Anthony, or Mitch says. The one with the pockmarks.

I cut him a glance before looking at John helplessly. In his eyes, the same question is

mirrored back at me: Now what?

Shawna startles as something attached to her belt beeps. She rips the device out of its

holder, murmuring, “No, no, no. This isn’t possible.”

Greg is already making his way back toward her, everyone else seemingly getting into

position as John and I stand there, clueless.

“What is it? Talk to me,” Greg overpowers Shawna’s voice, who’s quietly repeating, “No,

no, no.”

“It’s time?” Greg asks.

Shawna squares her shoulders, lifting her chin to meet his eye. A flicker of doubt spasms

across her face before her nostrils flare. “Five days sooner than expected.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about, but I find myself stepping closer, wood creaking

beneath my feet as John holds my arm back. “It’s time for what exactly?”

Five faces turn toward us, each one grimmer than the last.

“The storm,” Shawna whispers.

The soldiers, or whatever they are, fall into line. The tallest one is behind us, urging us on. They all

have their gadgets and guns and speak in code as they run back into the street. My eyes flash to

John’s, and he grabs my hand but willingly follows.

“Shouldn’t we run?” I try to ask him—as in: run in the other direction—but a deafening

roar sounds from below the ground, shaking us and drowning out my voice.

What remaining glass of the surrounding buildings shatters, falling from the sky.

Greg yanks my arm, pulling me under cover of an overhang, and I pull John with me, our

hands still wound together.

“What the hell was that?” I scream at Greg, but he doesn’t answer.

The Earth stops moving for a moment, but the buildings create a wind tunnel of sorts, and a

massive—unnatural—gust of air comes barreling through, slamming the tall one with kind eyes

against a deserted vehicle. He collapses onto the ground, and the others try to form a human chain

and crawl out toward him.

Garbage, road signs, anything that isn’t fully rooted whips down the lane at an impossible

speed. Our backs are against the wall, but there’s nowhere for us to move. Nowhere to take cover.

The wind is so strong my eyes water, my hair whips me in the face, stinging.

I don’t know what’s happening. The weather has been questionable at best with the sun

fading, but this is something new. Something terrible.

And apparently five days early.

A whimper crawls out of my mouth, but it dies in the current. Once again, I find myself

shoulder to shoulder with John, but there’s no cheering him up this time. Instead, I’m almost

positive we’re going to die. And in the meantime, I think I’m crushing his hand. I try to loosen my

fingers, but they won’t budge. All I can do is twist my neck and rest my forehead against his

shoulder.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and wait for it to end—either us or the storm.

Whichever happens to come first.

After what feels like an eternity, the howling dies down. I crack my eyes open, noticing

they were able to drag the guy out of harm’s way, but he’s still lying on the ground. Either

unconscious or dead. I’m not sure which.

Greg is with his people now, and there’s still just John and me against the wall. Frozen.

Both chests heave as we wait for the all-clear.

Seconds pass. And then minutes.

Finally, I have the courage to say something. “What the fuck was that?” I ask John, my

voice cracking on the way out. My eyes sting from the dirt kicked up by the storm. They’re too dry

to even form tears.

He doesn’t say anything. His wide eyes dart around in either fear or wonder. Maybe both.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

I take a step away from the wall, and it feels like my body has welded itself together. All of

my joints hurt; everything is stiff. It takes more effort than it should to turn around and face John.

“Are you all right?”

His wandering gaze meets mine before he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Uhm, yeah, physically? I’m fine. Are you?”

Nodding, I give myself a once over. “I think so? I think I tensed up too much there. It feels

like I was hit by a truck.”

“That’s your adrenaline,” a voice says behind me. The guy who called me sweetheart. Ugh.

“Is your friend all right?” I ask, ignoring his statement.

“I don’t think so.” His voice is so sure it’s off-putting.

“Oh. Uh… I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, indifferent. “We’ve lost three people since I joined a few months ago. You don’t

get attached anymore.”

“Still.” Suddenly, I’m defensive of this stranger lying on the ground. “It sucks. I don’t even

know the guy, and I think it’s terrible.”

“I guess.”

“You guess?” My hands shake at the thought of a human life meaning so little, but before I

can say any more, John stops me.

“Leave it.”

I whip toward John, my mouth hanging open, ready to argue with him too, but his face says

it all. He’s still staring at the guy, jaw twitching from how hard he clenches his teeth, and a mix of

anger and fear swirls in his eyes. John feels the same as I do, but it’s becoming clear that it might

be us versus them. Or at least this guy.

“Let’s go!” Greg bellows from the street corner, about thirty feet away. He and Shawna are

propping the purple bandana—now turning a sickening brownish red—guy up between them. He

has one leg bent, his foot lifted into the air, and his face is covered in dirt and mud. A stream of

blood trickles down his temple. “We need to find shelter,” Greg calls out.

We make our way toward him, the wind a soft breeze toying with my hair. I give one last

glance at the person on the ground, unmoving. His soft smile disappeared. It’s not the first time

I’ve seen a dead body, especially lately, but it’s the first time they were alive five minutes ago and

now gone, right before my eyes.

My mouth fills with the taste of ash, and my nails bite into my palms. Clearing my throat, I

turn away from him and follow the others.

Greg finds us an establishment to hide in for the night, but I don’t want to be here anymore. John’s

been too quiet. I can’t unsee the dead man’s face, staring lifelessly up at the dying sun. Or stop

thinking about how little Mitch seemed to care.

Anthony is the one who died, and David is injured, and it’s bad. Like he might need to see a

doctor, but none exist anymore kind of bad.

At least I know all their names now. Too late for Anthony, but I promise myself that I

won’t forget him. That I’ll write his name down.

What if that’s us tomorrow? Are they going to just leave me in the street? Move on until the

last one of us takes our dying breath?

John and I are sitting in the corner of the room as the others take turns looking out the

windows. We boarded up as many as possible with what limited supplies lay abandoned here.

We’re in an old office. A glaring red logo, “Cybergen,” lingers behind on a wall, but the rest of the

stuff is gone. A computer monitor here and there, a dead plant, a desk calendar—the date reading

March when all this began nearly six months ago.

I uncurl my fingers, rubbing my sweaty palms on my dirt-covered jeans before my hands

clench together again. John’s face replaces Anthony’s in my mind, and I’m light-headed. We never

talked about what would happen when one of us dies. I just assumed we’d die together somehow.

Both dying in our sleep like in The Notebook or maybe drive over a cliff Thelma and Louise-style.

Not a broken neck from being slammed against a car so furiously by a wind that shouldn’t

exist.

The vomit is back, burning my throat.

I leap up, just in time to get to an old trash can that lays untouched in the corner. I puke bile

as tears stream down my face. I don’t even care that five others are in the room, watching me. It’s

hard to care when facing such mortality.

When the gagging ebbs away, I make my way back toward John, and no one says a word.

Thankfully.

The seconds turn to minutes, then to hours. The rest of the group is asleep by now, but John and I

remain upright, our backs against the wall, my cheek resting once more on his shoulder.

He has his legs bent, and there’s a soft pitter-patter from him drumming on his knees.

I watch his slender fingers move in a blur, the knowledge settling deep in my bones. He

only fidgets when he’s nervous.

I’m so tired, and my body aches, but I stay awake with him. For him. Because at this rate,

he won’t sleep at all.

My chin now sits on his shoulder instead, and I whisper softly against his neck so I don’t

disturb anyone. “Do you remember that time you broke your wrist?”

I can feel his smile rather than see it, but he coughs out a slight laugh. “When we were

rollerblading in your basement on New Year’s Eve?”

I chuckle too. “Yeah, we watched the ball drop in the emergency waiting room.”

He hums in agreement.

“How old were we? Like twelve?”

“Something like that.”

I chew on the inside of my lip, breathing in his familiar scent—dirt mixed with sweat but

now with a dash of orange dish soap we found at one of the gas stations.

“Do you remember what I said to you that night in the basement? Before my parents found

us?”

“I’m pretty sure you told me to shut up?”

I snort, covering my face to muffle the laughter. “I didn’t know you were seriously hurt! I

thought you were kidding.”

“I was crying!”

“Well!” I lean my head against the wall, tilting it to gaze at the company logo.

John drops his hands and stretches out his legs. “You told me not to be scared. You said

you wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.”

A sad smile tugs at my lips before it falls away. “I meant it then, and I mean it now.”

His eyes lock onto mine. “I don’t have a broken wrist this time, Samzy.”

I don’t dare look away, afraid that he’s slipping through my fingers. The John I’ve known

is crumbling to dust, being hardened by something out of his control. The use of my old nickname

paired with the weight of his statement gives me a chill.

God, please let me wake up. Please say this is all a dream.

“No, I guess not. But the statement holds. We’re going to get through this.”

But this time, I blink. My eyelids flutter, forcing me to glance away. I’ve never been able to

lie to his face, and some things will never change.

John doesn’t respond, but he jostles next to me, laying down on the slightly damp carpet

that reeks of must. “You should rest,” he says to me as I stare out the sliver of window that appears

between the hanging cardboard.

“I will soon.”

Instead, I sit there, watching over him as he falls asleep, studying the lines of his face. The

scar on his lip from when he tried to play hockey but was terrible at it. The notch in his eyebrow

from when he had it pierced our senior year. Even when he’s asleep, the frown lines are

permanently etched in his forehead.

My lips twist as I hold out a hand, ready to smooth them out, but it stills. My breath catches

in my throat as his breathing evens.

He’s fully asleep now, and the tension leaves my shoulders like a weight falling off. I

stretch high above me before laying down on the hard floor next to him.

Twisting my neck to peek out the scrap of window one more time, I catch a glimpse of the

moon before the exhaustion pulls me under.

The next morning, Greg motions for us to gather around. We all sit on the floor in a circle, like

we’re about to play duck, duck, goose.

“Let’s start with what we know. The storm was…” Words seem to fail him, his mouth

opening and closing as he tries to explain. “Okay, so maybe that’s a bad place to start,” he smiles,

but the joke falls flat. We all stare at him in silence.

Greg tsks, starting again. “The storm, or what we know of it, was a solar flare, mixed in

with… mother nature? And mother nature has been a real bitch these days.”

“Solar flares wouldn’t normally produce actual weather. But they did wipe out everything

we have. The gadgets are no longer operable, and I don’t know when they’ll be back or if they ever

will.”

“The wind? The earthquake? That’s new. Unexpected. I don’t know what it means. We’ve

been monitoring the solar flare for a while now,” and as Shawna said, “it was supposed to happen

five days from now.”

“Why it moved up? Beats me. But my best guess is the game’s now changed. We’re no

longer facing other humans who want to harm us. We’re no longer just facing the dying sun,

which, admittedly, is a huge fucking problem.”

“But now we have to be conscious of the ground falling beneath our feet or a wind

sweeping us away.”

“Great,” David mumbles next to me. The bleeding has stopped, but he’s a ghoulish pale and

covered in sweat.

The rest of us don’t offer anything. There’s nothing to say. I want my notebook for a

moment, but what would I write down?

Our timeline for dying has just moved up?

Greg turns his attention toward John and me. We’re both sitting with our legs crossed,

knees bumping. My elbows rest on my legs as my hands support my chin. Between the storm, the

death, and vomiting, I’m positive I could sleep for days. My eyelids struggle to remain open.

“You two can split up Anthony’s weapons.’” He dumps practically an arsenal in front of us.

There’s two pistols… or something—some sort of handgun. And eight different daggers and

knives, all varying in length.

I sit straight up, inching away from them. “What? What the hell are we supposed to do with

all this?”

Mitch’s eyebrows crease like he doesn’t understand how I don’t know. “Uhm, protect

yourself?”

“From who? I’m not going to just shoot on sight like you people seem inclined to. If there’s

another human out there, I’m not going to be the one responsible for killing them.”

“It’s you versus them at this point,” Greg says, his voice low.

“You don’t even know what you’re fighting! You didn’t kill John or me. And we haven’t

tried to kill you! I’m sure there are more people like us than whatever monster you keep dreaming

of.”

“Do you want to bet your life on it?”

I push the heel of my hands into my eyes, rubbing until I see spots. “John? Please help me

here.”

His arms are crossed across his chest, but he hasn’t said a word. Just listening.

I slap my hands against my thighs, frustrated that he’s no help, so I continue arguing

instead. “Plus, I’m not even qualified. I can’t shoot a gun!”

Mitch smirks. “You have a heartbeat, sweetheart; that’s the only qualification you need

these days. We can teach you how to shoot.”

I gawk at them, unable to comprehend how we’ve gotten here. Yesterday we were sleeping

on the desert ground, alone. Now we’re here, with weapons in our midst.

We need to get out of here. We need to go back to when things were less complicated—

when it was just us.

I thought I wanted us to find other humans, but now, it seems like a bad idea. Things are

better off when we’re alone.

“John, let’s go.”

I stand up, but he doesn’t follow. His head hangs as he pulls at a piece of string coming off

the hem of his jeans.

“Johnny,” I say again, my voice breaking.

“He’s right, Sam.”

The sharp inhale of breath punctures my chest. This isn’t John. He would never agree to

this sort of thinking. I knew I was losing him, losing his optimism, but not like this. Not this soon.

I kneel next to him, tuning the rest of them out. “This isn’t you,” I whisper. “You create

things. You don’t destroy them.”

The look he gives me is so helpless my heart breaks.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “We’ll figure this all out, okay? Don’t become like them.” What I don’t

say is, don’t become like me.

The scared, the defensive, the shoot first and ask questions later-type. Always seeing the

glass half empty and expecting the worst.

John’s always, always seen the good in people… he can’t stop now.

I won’t let him.

My voice is quiet and shaky, “Just you and me till the end, right?” He can’t let go of that

now, especially when the end is so imminent.

John toys with his lip as he focuses on the ground. After a few moments pass, he

straightens up, lifting his chin to meet my gaze. His eyes are moist, but he bobs his head, relenting.

“Till the end.”

I help him up off the ground, my heart swelling with gratitude that not everything has to

change. The population has dwindled to almost extinction; the sun is disappearing; electronics are

now wiped out.

But there’s us.

We’re still standing.

And I think I know what to write about now.

My fingers tingle with anticipation, eager to get back to the truck and the waiting notebook.

The thoughts are already clogging my brain, spinning so quickly it’s hard to choke them back

down. I repeat the lines over and over, fearful of forgetting.

“Does anyone have paper?” I ask the remaining group, confusion written all over their

faces. Eyebrows scrunched, frown lines protruding, lips turned down.

I don’t think they understand what they’ve just witnessed, but if I had to explain it to them,

I’d tell them this: the words are back.

John returning to his former self gives me hope amid all of this. It might sound odd, but I

think we can beat anything as long as there’s still hope.

A small smile forms as Greg talks to John, trying to convince him it’s a bad idea if we

leave, but I don’t think it is. We’ll still head to California, see for ourselves what lies ahead.

Hugging Shawna first, I then say goodbye to Greg, David, and even Mitch, who has already

lost his heart and the compass that will direct him back to seeing the glass half full.

Miraculously, the pen is still sticking out of my back pocket, having survived it all.

Underneath the gaudy logo, I write, “RIP Anthony. ?-08/23/22.”

Before we have any second thoughts, we’re running through the empty streets, the red sky

turning into a deep maroon, eager to get back to the truck. To escape this city. To get the words

out.

I’m whispering lines to myself, too good not to lose. I’ve only found one pen and the

cardboard in this city, so the pencil nub will have to hold on just a bit longer.

But that’s okay because I think I’ve found my ending.

Maybe it’s not all bad.

Maybe instead of falling, we’re soaring.

Perhaps at the bottom of the cliff, there’s a giant net waiting to save us. Placed directly over

a town waiting to begin. Start over. Humanity can still be saved.

Possibly.

Don’t tell me if I’m wrong.

Maybe I should’ve been a painter so I could introduce more colors into the picture I’m

painting. I’d add the golden hue of the previous sun reflecting off the waves. The depth of blue a

butterfly’s wing can have. The lush green moss that’ll outlast us all. The beautiful range of skin

colors from people all over the world.

We may be the only people here right now, but I believe more of us are out there.

We’ll keep looking and continue driving toward the dying sun.

And when that light fades, we’ll look to the moon.