After the Plague

I. The Last One

10 Years Later...

The bottom of the kettle glowed red. There wasn’t any water inside, and hadn’t been for almost an hour. And so, the small gas fire continued to flicker underneath, perpetuating the glow.

A light breeze rolled in from a crack in one of the apartment's broken window panes, moving from bits of loose paper to the stove, extinguishing the flame. The silence was broken by the hissing of the gas nozzle as it continued to spew, and then the clicking of the ignitor. Click. Click. Click. The gas continued to build up as the ignitor slaved on. Click. Click. Finally, the spark succeeded, lighting up the cumulated gas and exploding out from the kettle in a small ball and lighting the loose paper. The fire spread to other bits in the kitchen, singeing the wooden utensils and blackening the counter. Within seconds the fire had begun sustaining itself on the kitchen unit.

Kira Blackwell’s eyes were closed as she pushed through the dingy curtain that separated her one room apartment from the desolate landscape outside. She leaned up against the door frame and sighed a deep, painful, heartfelt sigh and ran her blood stained hands through the knots in her brown tangle of hair. Stress weighed lines down on her face, her shoulders were hunched over with the mass of a long day. Breathing in, she opened her eyes and found herself facing the now substantial flaming catastrophe.

“No!” she yelled as she ran to the kitchen unit and clicked off the gas switch on the stove. She grabbed a rusty bucket from a pile on the floor, filled it in the sink and threw it over the fire. The water sizzled and steamed out, but left only a minor footprint.

Kira filled another bucket, and another, and another. By the fifth one, the fire had transformed to just a mass of soaking, blackened wood and singed bits of paper. Kira sighed again and rubbed her forehead as she looked over the burnt remains of her kitchen unit. She grabbed a half of a spoon, a cracked bowl, the bottom half of her drawer and threw them in a small waste paper bin next to the unit. Using the sleeve of her already tarnished flannel, she brushed some of the ash aside, attempting to clean up the wooden counter without much luck.

She continued to clean, throwing the still large chunks of utensils and wood into the waste bin, and brushing the smaller bits of ash into the sink. Within a few minutes the kitchen unit looked acceptable, and Kira stepped back to admire her work. The unit was now lopsided, and a hole had been burnt completely through the counter, but large bits were now still intact. She sighed, then picked up the fallen kettle, filled it with water, set it on the stove, and clicked it on. 

Finally but fleetingly done with responsibility, Kira collapsed into a large, overstuffed armchair and let the freedom of the moment take her over. Another day, another day, she thought.

The apartment wasn’t a lot, but it was home. The one large room was lit mostly by two windows which allowed sunlight to flood in, illuminating all of the objects facing the window and casting hard shadows behind. The wood was chipped and faded, and almost all of the glass panes were cracked if not broken. On top of the door frame, a dingy, holy, purple blanket was stapled on and hung down loosely, performing a dull dance in the breeze. Opposite the door frame was the now charred kitchen unit, consisting of a counter, sink, refrigerator, and shelving unit. The unscathed part of the shelves were filled with all kinds of odds and ends of food; bread, sausages, potatoes, salted meats. The other side of the room was filled with a small cot and rats’ nest of blankets. A square desk and lamp sat next to the cot. All along the wall were stacked crates and supply boxes, some closed and others opened, revealing all different kinds first aid tools. All and all, the apartment was simple and minimal, not a space that had been overly lived in.

Her eyes still closed, Kira fiddled into the pocket of her vest and pulled out thin chain with a small triangle attached to the end of it. She rubbed it between her fingers, feeling out the etched words on the plate. She raised it up to her face, opened her eyes and read: MIKAL BROOK, GENESIS CITY. The light from the sun reflected off the metal, shining back into Kira’s eyes. She turned it over, sending the reflection of the sun across her face.