End Of Days

33: Approach

George stood over the body in the field and he allowed the tear to roll all the way down to his chin before he finally wiped it away.

She was wrapped in the softest blankets that they could find, covering her bloodied clothes and the gruesome wound in her throat. Her head rested on the most comfortable pillow Sapnap could find, having ransacked every house in the nearby streets. Between the blankets lay wildflowers, picked fresh from the surrounding areas.

George slowly crouched down, taking one last look at Sally's face. She looked anything but peaceful, in his opinion. Her hair was still frizzled, no matter how many times he had tried to straighten it out. There seemed to be a knack to it, and Sally was no longer here to show him how to do it correctly.

Bruises trailed up her throat, developing even now, hours after the attack. Her eyes were closed, but her lips were slightly ajar, as though she had one last thing to say before George turned and walked away forever.

Crouching down by her side, George took the final blanket from where it lay pooled around her collarbone. Sapnap and Techno had already headed back to the camp they had made, and George couldn't keep them waiting. His fingers tangled in the blankets and he gritted his teeth, swallowing hard and pretending like he wasn't really saying goodbye forever.

"You told me once that you believed we were all just energy. That when we died we'd become something new." His words came out softer than he had been expecting.

George reached out a gentle hand and smoothed a few loose strands of hair against her scalp one last time. "I hope you become something great, Sal. Something spectacular."

He took a shuddering breath as he draped the final blanket over her face. It took an eternity to make it back to his feet, but eventually he was standing again. Fresh tears lined his face, and when he smiled it was full of sorrow and pain and loss.

"Thank you for everything. Rest easy, Sally Solomon. Until the next life."

George turned from the body in the field, and it was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

---

"We're going to be rich, Wilbur."

The words echoed through his head as his motorcycle raced across the beaten path, wind whipping his hair from his face, panic still coursing through his veins, even hours after the truth had been revealed. He had spent so long looking for scraps of information that he hadn't considered what he might do when he finally found the truth.

He passed Haven without so much as slowing down to look through the barricaded fences or offer those on duty a tired smile. There was no time for tea and biscuits and soccer games and writing to Sally beneath the old oak tree. There was only the fear and the adrenaline in his veins, pumping his heart and sending his brain spiraling.

Because Fundy was dead, and now Wilbur knew who was to blame.

The bike skidded to a halt and Wilbur threw himself from the seat, barely remembering to grab the keys from the ignition. He tore up the steps and onto the porch, the worn planks of wood thudding heavily beneath his feet.

The door wasn't locked and he threw it open, sucking in a gasp as he rushed inside. Phil's head snapped up from where he was by the coffee table, cleaning out old metal cans to be reused in the future. "Wil?"

His father was there in an instant, his hands on Wilbur's arms, eyes boring into his soul. Wilbur heard footsteps from down the hall, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from his dad as he gasped again, the oxygen filling his lungs but never really being enough.