So there's that. But I'm not here to rest on the laurels of stuff I wrote a long time ago. That short piece I promised in my last post is here. It's post-apocalyptic, and it came from a writing prompt that I enjoyed. So here's this, too. I tried to write a Flannery O'Connor-esque ending to the piece, but it seems forced. I'm going to have to start polishing pieces before I post them.She came in from the cold, her jacket seemingly alive with the scent of new fallen snow. All at once he was reminded of a time when he used to sit in front of his old television. Just as he turned on the tube there would be a characteristic clicking noise and a subtle crackling as the dust on the tube became polarized by the static electricity. He would run the back of his hand across the screen, less than an inch away from the glass. When he pulled back his hand it was saturated with the oddest scent; so fresh and yet musty. The smell invaded his nostrils, rejuvenating his senses. There was little in the world that compared to this scent, but there was snow.
So her jacket gave off tufts of this static smell, gently wafting off her with every minute turn of the shoulders or shivering sigh. He watched her and smiled at how truly beautiful she seemed, cheeks flushed with color against the chilly air outside. Her glasses fogged up slightly and she crinkled her nose in that cute way she usually feigned frustration, her eyes beading together as her eyebrows furrowed, the hint of a smile evident on her face. He chuckled slightly, getting up from the couch to take her coat.
"Work was hell today. Absolutely unbelievable. God, I wan--"
She stopped her sentence short. They both knew what she was going to say and, though she knew it was better for her, she still cast accusatory glances his way whenever she came home from a particularly stressful day, knowing how he would react to the faint scent of nicotine sloughing off her short black hair. She loved him, really. From time to time she just missed the woman she used to be.
"So work was tough, then?" he asked after a brief silence during which resentment and forbidding emotions hung in the air.
"Yeah." For a moment she stood in the doorway, not wanting to make eye contact with him. It was a childish tactic, but it got the job done. Starting back to life, she held her arms and rubbed them, shivering. With measured detachment, sure to strike just the right nerve of guilt, she said "I'm going to take a bath." She then disappeared into the bedroom, flakes of melting snow falling imperceptibly from her clothes, patterning the carpet like tears.
They hadn't seen light in days. They traveled the flooded catacombs in darkness, eyes straining for the slightest sign of movement. Rats swam past like greasy fish, claws occasionally scratching against the boat. The scratches were amplified by the otherwise impenetrable silence, bounding and increasing in intensity until becoming a dull roar hidden far beyond them, a great beast lurking just out of sight, waiting.
Eric had been quiet since The Flare-Up. He had been at choir practice. Claire was watching him, smiling at the angelic voice she could discern from the wave of singers in a way only siblings can. The slow, melodic piece was building to its crescendo, and in the top corner of the bleachers Eric was preparing to be led into his solo. Claire remembered feeling pride as Eric smiled, squaring his shoulders and raising his songbook. Then the church burst into flames.
There was no lingering smoke, no candle left conspicuously close to any of the ancient yellowing drapes. The flames just appeared, as if a switch had been flipped. The immense Gothic pipe organ behind the choir burned, air whistling through the pipes in unholy wails which intermingled with those of the panicked choir. Robes spontaneously combusted, engulfing the singers in flames as they blindly stumbled for an exit. Eric stood mortified as his world was quickly turning to ash. Claire moved to grab him.
"Come ON, Eric! We need to get out!"
The flames licked the tears from Eric's unblinking face, leaving salty trails down his cheeks as Claire half-dragged him through the rapidly deteriorating church, the wails of their fellow churchgoers echoing behind them.
Claire and Eric staggered to the exit, coughing ash from their lungs. They checked that the other was okay, then looked out on the city. Eric gasped.
The entire city was ablaze. Every building was engulfed in hellish fire, every car a rolling fireball. People were running through the streets with their burning clothes falling away from them like insect skins, only to find their very flesh on fire. From Eric and Claire's perspectives, they almost seemed like ants. Their collective wails of torment, with the subsequent collapse of the church behind them, sent Eric into a catatonic state from which he had yet to recover.
Claire knew Eric had taken a break when the rowing got substantially more difficult. She didn't want him to know just how scared she was that they were stuck down here, no real way of finding their way back to the surface (and no real reason to, either). Every trace of civilization was charred away. Not a house, not a building, not a single mailbox was now anything more than a handful of ash waiting to be tossed upon the wind.
Nature had not been harmed, though. Despite the raging inferno all around it, there wasn't a singed blade of grass or browned leaf in the city. Perhaps this had been judgement, Claire thought to herself. Perhaps we're not alone. Maybe only the pure were saved, and God kept the world as a new Eden. After all, He only promised never again to purge the world with a flood.
A small rectangle of light directly ahead snapped Claire from this reverie. They had made their way back to land. Claire smiled. "See Eric," she said, "I told you we'd be fine."
She turned to smile at him, but as soon as she did she gasped, stifling a scream in her throat. Suddenly it was clear why Eric stopped rowing with such noise, dropping the oar against the canoe with what Claire mistook as frustration. She understood why she hadn't heard him move in hours.
A fat wet rat glared at Claire through one of Eric's pale white eye sockets, its pink tail curling out of his lipless mouth. Eric's face had been completely eaten away.
Claire screamed, a peal of terror that echoed back into the catacombs, doubling and tripling on itself, snowballing away into the distance, then striking a wall and returning, not one scream now but dozens, barreling back up the watery corridors like cerberi, their barks endless and maniacal laughter.
