My friends and I would ask what we’d do if the bombs started to drop.
Nic was a prepper. He had a bunker out in the countryside stocked with goods and ammo that would last him through the worst of everything. He said he could live decades down there.
Jamie said he’d welcome the bombs. He’d drive right to the center of the city and embrace the blast. He didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of any fallout.
Myself? I’d pour myself a whiskey, kick back and wait for everything to unfold. Figure I’d watch it happen and get one last show. That’s what I said at the moment anyway. I didn’t really believe it. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure I saw someone comment that exact plan somewhere online. I wish I could just relax and wait for impending death. But the least relaxing thing I can think of is nuclear annihilation.
I didn’t really expect any nuclear warfare to happen. It was all a “what if” type of discussion you have with friends when you’re drinking and shooting the shit. But that “what if it happens” started to turn into a “when it does happen”. The news became more and more grim as the weeks and months passed by. Ceasefires started to break, armies began mobilizing, democracy was failing and escalation became more of a reality. You could tell that people were itching to say that World War 3 was going to happen. It was a fear couched in denial.
I lost myself in drink and just tried living the best I could. Tried to avoid anxiety taking me over. Worked and went home. I refreshed the news on my phone while I live streamed CNN or BBC for every little detail occurring in the world. With every new development overseas, there would be reports of riots or looting or emptying shelves in cities and towns across the nation. There was a cloud hovering over everything. The office started looking more and more bare as the days moved on. I think people were starting to get spooked and was taking Nic’s “go to the countryside” route. It was starting to sound like a good idea.
Sleep used to be the only solace I’d receive from the horrors of reality. However, as the days passed, my sleep became more and more restless. My dreams became more haunting and horrifying. I would have constant nightmares, and it felt as if there was a physical weight on me. Holding me down while I watched the inevitable happen. I wanted to get up, run and hide. But all I could do is lie down, forced into my bed as I face the horrific, raging fires engulfing the land in front of me, creeping closer and closer, as the hot air rushed against my skin until it boiled and bubbled me alive.
I’d wake up in a sweat, feeling even worse. The fact that my anxieties were affecting my dreams meant that I could face no reprieve from the horrors that were occurring around me.
I took the day off. I couldn’t function. I could hardly get out of my bed. I know that we were a skeleton crew with everyone else gone, but I didn’t care. I doubt my bosses cared. I scrolled through my phone. Constantly looking for updates to see if anything got better. It never did. I could find no solace. It was starting to feel more hopeless by the day and the fears were gnawing at me.
A half empty bottle and an empty stomach and I was asleep again.
The dream came back. Again and again. The dream became so reoccurring, it began to feel like it was manifesting itself in the real world. When I would wake, my wrists would feel raw, as if I were rubbing them against something while I slept. I don’t know what I was doing when I was dreaming. But I knew my anxieties were getting worse. My chest was tight. My teeth were chattering. My ears were ringing. I felt numb. My sheets were covered in sweat whenever I woke. It began to feel like the rooms in my home were growing a film from neglecting to clean.
I shambled through my house, dirty clothes too large for me and my hair unkempt and oily. Attempting to ail my aching stomach I would eat dry cereal or plain bread. I could hardly feel the motivation to craft any meal. I laid on the couch, drink in hand, and watched more dread unfold onto my television. People left the city in droves. Taking everything they’ve owned on the top of their vehicles. Military men patrolled the streets. Curfews were enforced.
I gazed up and noticed small holes cratered into my wall. Noticeable damage, probably from bugs or rats. The air in my home was stuffy and acrid, as if something died in my vent. Problems that would cause such inconvenient in my life that I’d definitely need to contact a professional to death with it. But I couldn’t even force myself to worry about those matters when so many terrifying things were happening in the world. The horrors on the screen began to drown out as I fell asleep yet again.
This time my dream was different. I expected fires and destruction. A sky filled with a terrifying mushroom cloud. But they never came. This time, I wasn’t just being held down. I was being pushed down. Forced upon. A presence thrusting itself against me. Against my chest. My legs. My groin. It was wrapping itself around my body like a perverse hug. Its greasy body clasping onto me and squeezing me so hard that I could hardly choke out a breath. I opened my eyes and stared forward and all I could recognize were sharp, crooked things grinning at me. They would open and gnash and I could feel the hot, oily steam come from its mouth and waft against my face.
I snapped awake. More sweat stained the sheets in my bed. Strange. I thought I fell asleep on the couch. I rubbed my wrists and my shoulders. I felt sore. I felt damp and gross. I moved from the mattress and drunkenly stumbled into the dark shower and let the warm water envelop me.
This shower was for pleasure, not business, of course. I haven’t felt the need to properly clean myself in weeks. I know I reeked. Everything around me stunk and felt slimy. But putting soap on a luffa felt like a herculean task. It was much easier to just sit and let the water pour on me with the lights out. The warm water felt good against my aching body.
I began to dry myself and turned the lights on. As I did, I noticed brown and red and blue marks splotching my body. What the hell? I traced the spots with my fingers and winced. These were fresh bruises. I knew my dreams were getting worse. But I didn’t know I was harming myself in my sleep. As I left the bathroom, I slipped on liquid I carelessly left on the floor. I was becoming a mess.
I attempted to perform some self-care. In a world that feels like it’s on the brink of destruction, it felt impossible. But I avoided the things I knew would trigger any anxieties. I tried avoiding the news for the day. I knew things were getting worse, but I didn’t need to constantly remind myself. I put the shutters down, draped black-out curtains on every window, and avoided any outside activities. The military trucks moving through the streets were a crushing reminder on their own.
I unplugged from everything. The house was dark and comforting. I noticed my home was in disrepair from the months of negligence. But I needed to focus on comfort. I laid beneath my soft blankets on the couch and let old movies play in the background. I pretended that nothing was happening in the world. And it was nice. I wondered if I’d actually be willing to sit outside with a nice drink and watch the bombs fall. Sitting here in isolation feels like it may actually be more comforting. If I could go back, I’d tell my friends that that’s what I’d do. Die in the darkness and ignorant of the world. Alone. I stirred awake. My first thought was that I didn’t dream. I suppose I was successful in keeping the horrible thoughts at bay. That slight comfort disappeared, however. I was back in my bed. And I know I didn’t come here on my own. The lights were off. My room was pitch black.
Everything stunk of hot grease. Like fried food that’s been rotting in the sun. The suffocating feeling from my dreams came back. I knew that I wasn’t dreaming, though. I threw my sheets off. I ached. I stumbled out of bed and flicked the lights on. My bed was soaking wet. It looked like oily piss staining the mattress. I scanned around and noticed the walls were pockmarked with more holes everywhere. I moved cautiously towards a hole and studied it. Coming from each hole was a smelly liquid that oozed out, like they were spigots funneling the stuff inside. I spun around to exit my bedroom, opening the door to a darkness that looked as if it were a physical force. I could faintly recognize more hole marks dotting the hallway. Something was in my house vandalizing my stuff. I remember seeing swarms of people invading homes and breaking things, stealing whatever they could. They must have gotten to me, doing some weird torture bullshit.
I slowly moved through the darkness, keeping my head down. I crept one foot in front of the other, avoiding the groan of my wooden floor. I noticed that my feet would land on top of a slick puddle of something. I assumed it was the same grease coming from my walls.
A sizzling noise was coming from the kitchen. It sounded like grilling meat on a wheezing stove. What the hell were they doing in my kitchen? The curiosity outweighed the fear in the moment. I crept forward and peaked around my corner, attempting to balance on the slick floors. I expected to see some moronic looter frying bacon in the pitch darkness, pissing haphazardly in every direction. Maybe I could take him on. Tackle him and call for help. I stumbled forward and saw no one.
My kitchen was empty. Drawers were open and silverware spilled onto the floor. I could make out a glossy glean on everything, reflecting what little light it could into the darkness. I knelt down and fingered the floor, feeling more of that liquid coating it. I lifted my hand to my nose to smell it. It shared the same odor as the stuff in my bed.
This stuff was everywhere. I needed to get out of here. This place was no longer safe. I could hear the sizzling again. This time it held a weak cough underneath of it.
I was on all fours now. The oily liquid was coating all of the floor now, like it was rising within my house. I don’t think I’d be able to run without slipping on it and busting my ass. I frantically began to crawl towards my way out of my home, squeaking and sloshing as I did. My hands slipped against the floor and my face nearly smacked into the slime. The smell clung to my nostrils and I struggled to not retch.
The temperature felt as if it was rising. It was getting harder to breathe. The grease was making it hard to move. I made myself towards the couch and hugged against it, trying to catch my breath. I noticed it was bent and broken. The wood splintered out of the sides like something huge sat on it, where it buckled under the weight.
My vision was catching up with the darkness and I could vaguely make out my door. Nothing between the door and me. A straight shot. I was going to go for it. Try not to slip. I readied myself and pushed myself up towards the door in a sprint. I was almost free. Safe from whatever was in my home. My anxieties were nearly gone.
My hand grabbed the door. I prepared to leave. Then, distant sirens began to blare. It was a sound I only heard in movies. I didn’t recognize it as real. They were a droning noise, alerting all of us that we were soon to be bombed.
I stumbled backward from the door. I turned around absent mindedly, liquid squeaking under my feet. The oily substance sticking between my toes, making it difficult to stand still. In front of me was my dark living room. My nose was filled with a stinking hot rot. All I could hear was a droning horn in the distance. This is how everything was going to end. In a miserable void, trapped in grease and noise. Alone.
In a desperate act of control, I reached over and fumbled with the light switch, illuminating the room.
I truly didn’t want my final moments to be in the dark. I wanted to know what was happening in my home, even if it was an unpleasant knowledge.
My living room was ruined. More of those holes pocked within the ceiling and walls with yellow water draining out. My floors had a slick lining of that oil. Liquor bottles rested haphazardly in the gunk. My furniture was ripped and stained. I expected to see some manic insane person sleeping on my couch, helping himself to my stash of booze in a disgusting slime of his own creation. At least we could spend the rest of our lives together. Two sad, drunk, pathetic strangers waiting for nuclear obliteration in a greasy abode.
Instead, in front of me stood a grotesque figure. A shining, obsidian humanoid balancing on two thin and crooked legs. Its fragile, bony body was hunched to cater to the massive, pulsing crest that adorned its head. Protruding bone-like tumors covered where its eyes would have been. The jaw was filled with crooked, razor teeth that hardly fit its human-sized mouth. It faced my direction with an expression that I could only guess was a smile. Seeping from the pores on its crest was that glossy, smelly soup that smacked into the ground like a leaky faucet.
All I could do is stare in befuddlement. I surprisingly wasn’t terrified. An alien figure that was reminiscent of a demonic skeleton somehow was less scary to me than the impending nukes. I know some cultures and religions have ideas of beings shepherding them to the afterlife. Maybe that’s what this thing is. Might as well be.
“So”, I asked, “Are you the Grim Reaper? Death?”
The figure gazed in my direction. I don’t know why I expected anything from it. I suppose I was trying to find comfort in anything at this moment.
The beast gurgled in what could best be described as a laugh. It opened its maw and allowed syrupy chunks to fall to the ground. It angled its head up towards me as high as it could, as its crest hit the ceiling, preventing it from looking up any further. I think it was responding to me. No actual words left its crooked mouth. I rested my back against the door, sliding down to my ass. Unsure what to do. I looked at its glossy black body and readied another question.
Before anything could escape my lips, it rushed towards me in an instant. I attempted to get back up, but slept against the slime on the floor and immediately crashed down onto my back, smacking my head into the yellow puddles.
I stared forward and saw the thing on top of me. Its wide, bony hands pressed against my wrists. It slowly began to put its weight on my body. I recognized this feeling. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this thing. It’s been around me for weeks. Months. Every single night I was experiencing this suffocating creature. It was torturing me. And now it was going to kill me.
The monstrosity was pushing itself against me. I could feel the rotting slime rising up around, slurping me up as it covered my body. My breathing became labored, and my vision darkened. I could feel the force of its sharp ribs digging into mine, making my chest ache with an intense pain. Its jagged mouth retched and coughed that hot steam that I’ve experienced only in my sleep. The sirens drowned out my hearing. A haunting reminder that I was soon going to be the next target of falling missiles. I was ready for this nightmare to finally be over. Everything began to cloud and numb. But that wasn’t how I wanted to go.
I don’t know why, but in that moment I really wanted a whiskey. Suppose it’s the will to live and the human spirit.
I absent mindedly reached out against the floor, worming my hand through the slick goop until I felt something cool and glassy. I grabbed it as firmly as I could and slammed it into the side of the obsidian creature. The attack didn’t damage it, but it was just enough to confuse it and gave me time to slip out from under its body.
I braced myself and pushed myself up, trying to maintain my balance on the slick floor. I readied myself to attack the monster again. It stood impressively tall and imposing. Despite that, however, it seemed just spindly and unbalanced enough that I think I could take it on.
I studied the half empty bottle that I grabbed. Fortunately it was sturdy enough to daze it. Perhaps a couple more blows and I might be able to put it down. The sirens blaring in the background were a sobering reminder that my life won’t be around much longer. I studied the creature in front of me, hearing the sizzling gasps escape its throat. I found purchase in the slick ooze. I held my makeshift weapon firm in my hands, readying myself to plant it deep into the intruder. I needed to make my move before it lunged at me again.
I pushed myself towards the skeletal monstrosity, being sure to angle the bottle towards the creature’s delicate chest. If I were to slip, I wanted to be positive that it connected against its ribs. The slime underneath my run propelled me with enough force to knock into the monster. I lunged the bottle between its ribs, hearing a sizzling pop as they cracked. The ebony skin tore open to reveal even more of that stinking hot sludge that coated everything around me. I dug my heel into the floor, angling myself and pulling to make the creature lose its balance.
Its weak legs bent inwards and collapsed, tumbling downwards and splattering lukewarm gunk into the air. It didn’t seem to fight back, opting to instead choke and wheeze in my face in a bastardized chuckle. I pulled the bottle out from its ribs and lifted it up, pushing it into its neck and twisting it upwards against its jaw, shattering its teeth from its mouth. I was on top straddling it, forcing myself onto the creature. The tumors on its face inflated and quivered, like fleshy balloons. I viciously bashed the sacs, ripping them open and releasing the humid gas inside. I punched its brittle arms and felt the bones snap and wither with every blow. Its bony crest jutting out of its head knocked into the walls and furniture as it thrashed its head back and forth. I was in a fury. The only control I had in this moment was making sure this thing was dead.
My body ached. Not from the multiple bruises that this monster has given me over the months. Not from the suffocating fear and anxiety that had me in a vice. It ached because I was tired. I was exhausted. Beneath me lay its crumpled, inky corpse. Its bones and tumors were torn and broken. Its massive head was jutting to the side, jaw crooked and lifeless. The cracks in its form poured more of that thick, sour soup. I clung to the bottle in my hand, as if I never wanted to let it go. A makeshift mace mere moments ago was now a security. A safety. A comfort.
Dismounting from the obsidian corpse, I struggled to stand, as I slipped on the goo. I looked around at my surroundings one last time, taking everything in. The light of the sun shined through a crack from my blinds, reflecting against the yellow pools that stained and clung to every surface in my home. It was a shimmering, glossy sight. The craters in my walls provided strange textures, appearing like perverse, black stars in a white sky.
I shuffled through the gunk. The only noise was that constant blaring in the distance and the soft, sloshing liquid underneath my feet. I sat on the remains of my filthy, destroyed couch and ripped off the remaining black out curtain, getting a good view of the outside world.
I thought of attempting to turn the television on to get an update on what was happening. It probably didn’t even work with all the piss-colored sludge that covered it. I didn’t need any updates, anyway. It wouldn’t help anything.
The sirens that filled my ears, for what felt like an eternity, finally stopped.
I peeked outside and saw what caused them to cease.
I felt the weight of the bottle in my hands that I’ve been clutching all this time. I unscrewed the top and wiped off any slime that covered the spout. I turned it in my hand. Scotch. I laughed. Not quite the same, but it’ll do.
I put the bottle to my lips, and I was able to finally relax and feel a sense of calm. I watched the beautiful red and orange explosion in the distance release vibrant flames in my direction.
I closed my eyes and smiled.