A Short Story

By: Ty Nagvajara

An Apocalyptic Short Story

Inspired by the recent times, I thought an apocalyptic short story would only be fitting. 

This wasn’t how he remembered it. 

Traversing through the forest of corroded trees and rotting carcasses, he felt a sense of suffocation, surrounded by disease and death. Wandering around the same primeval oaks and elms that painted childhood memories, he watched them fall to their knees. As he stopped to stare, he noticed a huddle of beetle grubs and termites lying atop of one, unconscious. It was a brutal fate, but one he would have to come to terms with. 

It had been almost three days since he entered the forest, and he was losing hope. His feet and legs were beginning to spasm, hands turning pale, and head throbbing unrelentlessly. His insulin medication had run out two days ago, and fatigue was setting. He was having trouble determining if the symptoms were due to his high blood sugar levels, or if he had fallen prey to the virus. 

*  *  *

The rest of his family was already gone. His mother went first and quickly. Then it was his father who didn’t last much longer. His two younger brothers, who had planned on moving into their aunt’s house, didn’t live to make it. 

At the time, he was studying abroad. A phone call late one night from his father would startle him awake. The connection had already been flighty before the outbreak, and this time his father’s words were even more muddled. What he could make out was, “Your mother is infected.” 

When the call failed, he erratically purchased a plane ticket home. The earliest available was two days later; it wouldn’t be soon enough. 

After hours of travel, he was greeted at the airport with a pile of missed calls from the hospital, different doctors and nurses informing him that each member of his family had died. 

Collapsing to the airport sidewalk, he struggled for air as the flow of tears clenched his throat. He hadn’t cried since. 

*  *  *

The days began merging into one. He had lost track of time a few nightfalls ago, and under a canopy of smog and leaves, it was becoming progressively harder to determine whether it was night or day. 

His blood sugar levels were soaring, and he knew he at least needed to find water to cure his dehydration. It felt like his throat was closing in on itself, as his voice became more hoarse and his head more woozy.

If he didn’t get water, the virus would be the least of his worries.

 From years of wandering these desolate forests with his family, he knew the river was nearby, and in twenty minutes, he reached the flowing stream. Even positioned under the somber backdrop of gloom, the river remained diaphanous, highlighting the array of algal blooms and pacific salmon within. Life was a relief; the virus hadn’t reached the water yet. 

He cleaned the debris enveloped in the caverns of his palms before forming them into a cup. The water performed well, alleviating some of the lightheadedness and muscle cramps. 

Energy was slowly coming back to him, but he didn’t know how long he could hold out. The water was a quick solution, but the lack of insulin in his body was an issue that he couldn’t ignore. If he didn’t find the cabin soon, he wouldn’t be able to continue. He could feel himself pushing his limits, knowing that at any minute he could drop unconscious–a death that no one would know or care about. He only had a few hours. 

Sitting on a jagged fold of stone, he stared beyond the riverbend, as the stream lapsed itself into an abyss. 

*  *  *

The virus hit in the early fall, impacting Eastern Spain first before quickly engulfing all of Europe. Even as deaths rocketed overseas, American newscasters continued to downplay the disease, telling viewers to avoid large interactions and to wash their hands but not much more. 

When the virus arrived in the U.S. a week later, the country was in shambles. Under the failing health care system, hospitals were being overfilled, and eventually, doctors were forced to sacrifice many patients’ lives. In just a week, America reached almost half a million cases. 

Living in Peru, he was given a few days before the disease began sprouting. As the crisis expanded, he stayed in his dorm for a week, only venturing outside when he was flying home. 

He still couldn’t shake the deathly aura that surrounded him as he stepped into his house. Each room felt more empty than the first as if twenty years of memories had immediately dissipated. 

He noticed rummaged cabinets and broken glass; someone had been here. Most of the food had been ransacked, and worst of all, his insulin medicine had been completely stolen. Luckily, he had a two-week supply that was still in his suitcase; after that, he’d have to go to their cabin home. 

Each day in the household became more overwhelming. By then, the news reports had become horrifying, as astronomical death rates polluted every ounce of television. It wouldn’t stop growing–five million one day, ten the next. Once he hit the road–almost a month and a half since the first case–the total was forty million. 

With a stash of necessities on his back, he made his way through empty streets, where ravaged pharmacies became a familiar sight. The outside world was lulled into a panicked depression, and crime had suddenly become tolerated. 

He trekked empty highways, where battered cars flooded the breakdown lanes, and the occasional dead body peeked out from the backseat. Clenching the map in his hands, he was reminded of his father, who would meticulously route the roads to their family destinations, including the path to the forest entrance. 

After following the directions for days, he had eventually arrived at the large arches of the forest.

*  *  *

The gloom was beginning to darken. He didn’t want to stop traveling, though; he needed to find the insulin soon, and he could feel himself getting closer. The water’s effects were already beginning to wear off as dehydration and cramps began to creep back. His body had turned limp, and he could feel his mind slipping with each step.  

The huddle of trees and sparse patches of greenery looked familiar, though, like he was making his way home. 

Then, as if out of the blue, he spotted a large wooden structure in the distance; it was the cabin. He couldn’t tell if he was hallucinating or if he had finally made it. The last hour of walking had turned his legs into jelly, and his brain was achingly confused. 

The cabin, which had a habit of blending into its boreal background, appeared clearer than ever. Inside, a soft amber glow radiated through the windows, wrapping the forest in a warmth. Someone was there.

Coming closer, he noticed two shadows huddled around the subdued flames of the fireplace. Although the silhouettes appeared elongated against the walls of the cabin, he could tell they belonged to children. 

He began to hear noises, sounds of distant birds and ringing bells, almost angelic. It wasn’t coming from the house, though, but from somewhere else. Searching the perimeter for any other signs of life, he noticed nothing but rustled leaves and dried footsteps. 

Turning back around to look at the cabin, he was met with his mother’s eyes glaring right back.