Coda

The world ends with a beautiful song

Photo by the blowup on Unsplash

This was written in response to

Bradley Ramsey

’s October writing challenge. The prompt for 10/01 was “You wake up 24 hours after the world has ended. You can’t find anyone, but something tells you you’re not alone . . .”

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My house was built in the 1960’s. Sure, it had its quirks. The air conditioning, installed decades later, left out a few rooms so they were boiling in the summer. There wasn’t room for a large fridge so we just had to make do with a small one. And when the oven finally crapped out after 6 decades it was literally impossible to find a replacement that could connect.

And then there was the bomb shelter. Low ceilinged and narrow with thick cement walls.

I was retrieving our Halloween decorations from its depths when the music started.

I snapped to my feet, mouth agape as it filled the space. I felt it pierce through my ears like a foot long q-tip as my body shuddered. Then half-felt my body rising off the floor. It was like I was nearly there, two inches out of my body and observing as my head touched the ceiling, ancient cement rough on my scalp.

My body curved up as well until I lay on the ceiling, eyes unfocused and drool dripping to the floor. The music shifted, pleading, and the cement obediently shifted to the sides, bulging the ceiling into a triangle shape as I continued to rise.

Then I hit something. Hard.

Above the cement, below the main floor, there was metal. Metal that refused to budge despite the song changing again, this time discordant and shrill.

I slammed into it twice more, then all at once the music stopped, and I could only watch as the floor raced to meet me.

I woke up on that floor, and it took several seconds for my brain to catch up to reality. My ears were ringing and my exposed skin was scraped nearly bloody, but somehow I was able to stand up. Nothing broken at least. I blinked and looked around, and then collapsed again. The bomb shelter had . . . Melted.

A mountain of cement lay in one corner, exposing the metal cube that served as the ancient room’s bones. Even the faux wood of the door had fallen away to expose more of the brassy substance, and as I ran a finger along it, I shivered. It was like no metal I’d seen before, and a single touch sent a vibration through my muscles that made me want to throw up.

I opened the door, and cautiously climbed the stairs to the main floor.

Most of the house was intact. Just a few sections of ceiling were wrong, pushed to one side. Two over the couch in the living room. One in the office. Exactly where I’d left my family that day with the promise of holiday decorating to come.

They were gone.

I stumbled out the front door, screen door left flapping behind me. Most of the houses on this street were as old as ours, single floor above ground, and as I swept my eyes up and down the street I saw more holes in roofs.

No cars drove past. No people. No dogs barking. The horses in the field across the street had vanished as well. Not a single bird sat on the power lines or sang in the distance.

I collapsed onto the porch bench that was twice my age. My vision narrowed, my mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton as I struggled to breathe, and my skin swam with goosebumps.

Then I felt a presence. Watching me. Considering. And I heard the first notes of a new song . . .