Tantalum

Nothing could stop the roses from blooming. It had not rained in years, yet still they thrived. The petals shone in the harsh light, their vibrant colors a testament to their will to survive. Their roots clung bravely to the dry, cracked earth, forcing nutrients from the soil with grim determination. A stream of water poured onto the struggling plants, and their leaves seemed to tremble in joy. The roots sucked up even the smallest droplet before it could sink into the ground, and still the slightly-drooping leaves seemed to demand more. A gloved hand lifted one of them, holding it as a small child holds a glass figurine. To the man on the other end of the hand, the leaf was more valuable than all the porcelain in a china shop, and he was the door holding back the bull that would mean death for it all. The leaf itself showed no signs of the devastation all around it; simply a lack of nourishment. It was released, and a twisted metal visage turned to the sky. The light was orange as a New York sunset, though it was only mid-day. No clouds remained to blot out the unrelenting light, and trees to provide shade were out of the question. They had died out along with the gunfire and heresy. The gas mask turned away from the sun; the man’s eyes were beginning to ache from the constant light, despite the mask’s tinted lenses. A muffled sigh crept into the air, and the whole world seemed to resound with the noise. There was hope, it seemed to say; life remained even after the earth collapsed in on itself, and this life could change it all for the better. The man stood, and turned his back on the sun. After a while, the earth seemed to notice that he would render no aid, and all was still again. A door was opened, and he stepped into the woodshed-sized bomb shelter that paranoia had fashioned for him.

The door slammed behind him, but he remained stationary for what seemed like hours after the sound had faded into the wind. He stood in a rabbit-hole fashioned from metal and psychosis, artificial face staring expressionlessly forward. The ground was littered with dull silverware and newspaper with faded ink. These had been pushed to the sides of the room, and they formed piles in the corners. A few more moments of silence ensued, and the man walked to the center of the room. He sat down on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, facing the door. A full hour of staring ensued; it was if he expected it to jump up and attack him. When it remained where it was, he lay down on the wooden floor, and gave a final cautious glance toward the door before closing his eyes and drifting off to an uneasy slumber.

He woke to the incessant sound of scratching at the door. At first, one might associate the noise with a cat that wants inside, but he did not move to let it in. A scratchy whine sounded from behind the door, and the man shuddered. The whining continued, pitch wavering as the scratching started up again. It broke off with a distressed yelp, and wet crunching noises took its place. The man had yet to move from his place on the floor; he kept telling himself that he had grown used to the cacophony that sounded every night, and his eyes closed drearily when silence filled the room again. The crunching noises had ceased, and the scratching had yet to start up again. His mind grew fuzzy as time went by, but he was jolted from his near-sleep by a sudden thud. The man sat bolt upright, but remained in the center of the room as he stared at the door. A single, trembling hand was raised only slightly before the thumping echoed against the shelter’s door again. The very structure of the building rattled, and he jumped at the unexpected noise. A low-pitched howl rang out from behind the door, filled with longing. It continued for what seemed an eternity before tapering off into silence, followed by more of the incessant thuds. A mix of enraged whines and growls found their way through the cracks in the door in between the noises of the barrage against it. After a while the man lay down again, still trembling. Every sound made him jump, and every howl broke against his sanity like waves against a riverbank. He had curled into the fetal position almost unconsciously, as if his mind was trying to make him as small as possible to escape the disorder. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, drawing anything possible to his heart in an attempt at comfort. A single spoon was gripped in his hand; it was all that was in reach, and he refused to move further. With every thud, both his body and mind were jolted, and bit by bit his mental defenses were worn away. He cried out only once; a shrill, terrified scream added itself to the cacophony. Each attack on the door after that brought forth a whimper, and behind the mask his face was soaked with frightened tears. It was all so very like a child’s bad dream, but he had no mother left to hold him and tell him that all was right with the world. Even if he did, he knew better; all was not right with the world, and nothing could make it so.

The promise of morning was all that kept him alive. The moment that the first reaches of dawn began to warm the landscape, he was up and about. After a night of terrified sleeplessness, the sun held a certain draw for him. He stood yards away from the roses, gas mask turned to the sky. The air was hot as usual, and it encased him in a cocoon of intense warmth. The wind played softly all around him, though it did nothing to combat the sun’s efforts to set the earth aflame. Rays of light collided with his battered visage, reflecting off the lenses that hid his closed eyes. Warmth found its way to his neck, the only part of him that wasn’t covered. It caressed the surface, delivering false kisses that sent apprehensive shivers down his spine. He turned to his roses, weary eyes regarding the magenta petals. He nodded to them once before walking away from it all, eggshell white lab-coat flowing behind him in the light breeze. Gray silhouettes on the horizon drew him forward, and the foreboding sunshine pushed him away. The thoughts of roses were the only things that kept him going.

The wind seemed closer now. It whistled through windows left ajar, rattling doorways weakened by age and a state of disrepair. A few scraps of wood still remained from an age where the general population still thought that they could protect themselves. They remained where they had fallen on the street, memoirs of lives long gone. There was no general population left to protect themselves. All that remained was the man, walking down the desolate sidewalk with his face tilted downwards. He refused to acknowledge the buildings all around him, though the breeze implored him to look. The ghosts of ages past begged him to remember, but his eyes remained closed to their merciless pleading. A sigh escaped him, accentuated by a hiss. He came to a bench by the side of the road and stared quietly at the bent boards, the rusted metal frame. After a moment of consideration he sat down, and the wood creaked in protest. He rested his head in his hands as the wind blew about him. Even if the wind was so close to him now, it couldn’t possibly see or ridicule the fact that tears were beginning to dot the lenses of his mask.

A sudden growl drew him from his reverie, and he looked up only to stare into the eyes of his nightmare. The horrific visage of what might once have been a dog stared him in the eye, lips curled over rotting teeth in a silent snarl. For a moment the two remained completely still, both bewildered by the other. Then, jaws the size of the man’s forearm snapped mere inches away from his face, and he bolted. The dog-thing was upon him within two strides, monstrous jaws biting at his ankles. Its fangs dug into the soft, vulnerable flesh there. The cracking of bone forced a choked scream from the man’s throat, and he fell face-first to the ground as the beast overtook him. By the time he managed to roll onto his stomach fully in an attempt to get up and run, its claws were digging into his shoulders and pinning him down. The weak sunlight glimmered on a blade that had appeared in the man’s hand, and brackish blood stained the concrete. He leapt up as the creature fell onto its side, writhing in agony and bleeding profusely from the throat. He had no time to think of why the creature had appeared in daylight; he ran into the nearest house and locked the door behind him. He slumped against the wood after a moment of silence, holding the scalpel to his chest. The blade had saved many other lives, but never once had he thought that it would save his in such a manner. Despite the momentary quiet, there seemed to be no end to his misery. A loud crash announced that the dog had entered through a nearby window, and the steady clicking of claws screamed its arrival. It glared at the man why bloodshot eyes, its lifeblood spilling from its maw even as it snarled at him. Its perceived revenge was to be short lived, though, for a second dog had entered behind it. The man bit his tongue to keep from screaming as the second beast tackled the first to the ground and took a firm hold on one of its ears. Screeching and wet crunches filled the air around him, but when the carnage was over both of the dogs lay dead. The first held a mouthful of the other’s throat in its fangs, while the latter dog gripped its victim’s spine in an everlasting vicegrip. Their limbs still lay entangled, caught in a deadly embrace. The man couldn’t stop staring at them even after the sunlight faded from the sky; it was not until the moon began to rise that he screamed.

The sun was overbearing, now. The man trudged through the deserted waste-lands, but for once his eyes were fixed before him. He still held the scalpel in one hand, though his fingers had begun to loosen. The second that light touched the ground, he had bolted out of the deserted town without the one thing that he had come to the place for: water. Though the sun had once begged him to save the dying world around him, it now seemed to want the opposite effect; it drove him downwards, punishing for all the times that he had rejected its pleas. A single cough escaped his dry, raw throat as he stared up at it. He fell to his knees, blade clutched to his chest as if the metal would save him from all that he had done wrong. His vision began to blur, and his spine felt an unexpected inclination to bow. A bark drew his shadowed eyes upward one last time. A huge, black dog stood before him. An extra eye bulged from its cheek, dry and unblinking, and mange dotted its hide. Despite these, it was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. It held a single, wilting rose in its teeth, which it dropped before the man in silence.
Even after everything went black, he could still see the petals before his eyes.