The Inevitable
The story of our last night together at the end of the world.
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My head rests on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing, the sound of his heartbeat in my ear. His hand holds mine tightly, reassuringly, his palms warm and somehow still so soft despite the stress and toil of his many months as a refugee. The rain drumming on the metal roof above our heads blankets us in white noise, drowning out the world outside. For the moment, there is no endless path to be walked, no monsters tracking our scents, no fear of starvation or disease or taking a knife in the back from the gangs that stalk the roads. There is only us.
Jonte – he says it like yawn-tea – is a strange companion, to be certain. I don’t know anything about his life before the cataclysm, and he doesn’t seem to think it important enough to tell me. He’s one of those people that seem ageless; he’s massive, easily over two meters tall and as broad as a bear, but his soft-edged build and round face make him look boyish still.
“Don’t you love the rain?” he murmurs, gazing out at the gray horizon, blurred by the storm. “It’s beautiful.” Even his voice is odd, almost singsong in its intonation, syllables rising and falling, words clipped in odd places. I’ve never heard an accent quite like it, either before or after the cataclysm.
When I don’t respond, he puts an arm around my shoulders, holding me to him, and I press myself deeper into his warmth.
“Tjej, look at me,” he says softly.
My name isn’t Tjej – or Chay, as he pronounces it – but it’s what I’ve been called for over a year now. When I first met Jonte, he used it as an odd sort of term of endearment, a friendly nickname, like calling me sweetheart, I think. A few days later, when we finally introduced ourselves properly, he asked me if there was a name I’d prefer him to call me. After a moment of thought, I told him that Tjej was fine.
I tilt my head to look at Jonte’s face. His expression is gentle, softening even further the already delicate curve of his full lips, the tilt of his dark eyebrows, the youthful face that doesn’t seem to match his body, hardened by months of surviving the elements. His eyes, such a dark blue that the dim light makes them appear almost black, regard me sadly, shadowed beneath his thick eyelashes.
“You still look lovely,” he says, and he means it. The genuine affection in his voice makes my heart wrench. I tuck my head back down, unable to meet his gaze.
“You don’t have to tell me I’m going to be okay, you know,” I whisper. “I already know I’m not. It’s okay.”
He doesn’t speak as his hand finds the back of my head, running his fingers through my filthy, matted hair, gentle and slow, taking the utmost care not to pull on any of the tangles.
I am sick, and I don’t have many days left. I know this. Jonte knows this.
That’s why moments like these are so precious to me. Why Jonte holds onto me like he’s afraid I’m going to slip away.
The wound on my leg itches, and I fight the impulse to claw at it. The place where the pale fingers grabbed me, where those hateful teeth sunk beneath my skin. The festering death sentence written in my flesh.
Monsters and demons are real. I have seen them, I have fought them. There is no killing a demon, no hope of defeating them. This vile game was never about beating the enemy. It was about surviving, about thwarting danger for as long as possible. Eventually, time will run out for all of us. Some of us a little sooner than others.
I know I’m going to die. I don’t need anyone to tell me, to comfort me. Really, we all died six years ago, when the cataclysm ravaged our planet, destroyed our civilization and our life as we knew it. I came to terms with the futility of pretending otherwise a long time ago.
Jonte still holds on to hope. To rumors of healers who can stop the poison that ravages me, of a cure for the hateful disease.
I hope he’ll be alright after I’m gone.
For a long time, the only sounds are his quiet breathing and the relentless hum of the rain outside. Neither of us move, afraid of breaking the spell and ending the moment, one of the precious few we have left.
“We can stop looking, you know,” he says at long last, his voice almost inaudible over the sound of the downpour. “If it’s really what you want.”
Day in and day out, for almost two weeks, we have walked in search of the city where the Purifiers live. They are rumored to be healers, men who hold the cure to death. They are my only hope of survival. If they even exist.
At first, our search was desperate and determined. We covered at least a dozen miles every day but still found nothing. I think Jonte noticed when my energy began to fade. As the days wore on, we had to stop for breaks more and more frequently; I had to rest my leg almost every hour as the bloody wound screamed in protest at being worked so relentlessly. The last couple of days, even as we have continued our dogged walk, Jonte has been subdued, as if he begins the search each day knowing he isn’t going to find anything. He’s trying to keep it together for my sake, I know, but I can see his hope fading. He has pushed himself to the limit for me, and yet he still refuses to give up. My heart breaks at the thought
I hold tightly to his hand, my fingers pressed into his soft skin, my bony knuckles going white.
“We have to keep going,” I say as firmly as I can manage. “We’ve come so far.”
Even as I say the words, I can hardly believe them myself. It’s early in the evening; we’d be foolish to stop now, with time still left in the day. But I am drained, more so than I’ve ever been, and it’s easy to see. Jonte regards me with concern, his eyes searching mine, the despair in them almost too much for me to bear.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
I exhale a long breath, feeling the hot air rush from my lips. “No,” I admit.
If I stay here, lying with him, I might never leave. The last of my energy could leave me, and I could lie here forever, falling asleep in his arms and never waking. It’s almost a tempting idea, letting go.
But I am a fighter. Jonte is a fighter. It’s why we have survived this long.
Without another word, he picks me up, lifting me gently from the ground. I was never large, but I’ve lost so much weight since falling ill, I feel like a rag doll in his arms.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says. It’s a statement, a promise, as much to himself as to me.
I can’t bring myself to respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
I bury my face in his chest as we step out into the rain. It’s warm and heavy, beating down relentlessly, soaking the both of us in no time. The rhythm of his footsteps is hypnotic, and I fight to keep my eyes open, knowing that, if I close them, they may never open again.
He walks and walks, one foot in front of the other, marching as doggedly as a soldier. When the buildings appear on the horizon – new buildings, with stone walls and thatched roofs, not ruins from before the cataclysm – I wonder if it’s my imagination.
“Almost there, tjej.” His voice is desperate, a plea to me. “Almost there. Just a little longer.”
But I may not have a little longer. I can feel myself drifting away.
When I look up at the sky, I can see the stars, despite the clouds that I know are concealing them from me. When I look down at the ground, I see a thousand flowers, blooming and withering before my eyes, opening and closing their tiny petals. I wonder vaguely if they like the rain.
I know it must be a hallucination when I see the people in the village, their robes a yellow as bright as the sun, glistening with beads of wood and steel. I know it must be a figment of my imagination as Jonte breaks into a run.
My eyes close, and I force them open again, clinging to consciousness. It’s not Jonte carrying me anymore, but one of the yellow-robed men; he’s different, and the thick fabric of his sleeves scratches me. I’m lying on the ground, and Jonte is crying out; something must be wrong, maybe it’s me?
My eyelids are getting too heavy, and I can’t do this anymore.
The world is quiet as I fade into oblivion.
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