Ash & Coffee

"No, no, no! Stop, stop it!" A fiery red-haired boy lies scrambling in his bunk bed, trying to come out of a nightmare. His name was Callin, a freckle-invaded seventeen-year-old who was no stranger to nightmarish visions. A sight of war was manifesting within his brain; heavy metal balls scorched with fire, shot from several angles, down every street in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Citizens of the city screamed and fled every which way, some barely escaping and others getting caught beneath the devilish waves of heat. Callin was in the middle of a street, struck with fear, unaware of how to react in the situation. He was a soldier and was trained on what to do, but actually being there in the center of it all, was disturbingly different. The destruction went through the whole city without hesitation, leaving every piece of cement deranged in some way. Finally, he broke through the vision and sat up, his eyes pooling with fear-filled tears.
                            ~   
    It's been three days since the bombing. Callin trudged up and down every avenue looking for survivors. He hadn't found one. Everything was covered in about three inches of ash. From abandoned taxi cabs, to water fountains clogged with debris, to light poles blown over an entire street, to park benches somehow ending up in trees. It was all shrouded with lung-defying dust.
The stench of freshly decaying bodies hung in the air; every breath you took, you could almost taste it. Be careful where you lay your boot, for you may hear the crunch of brittle bones underneath the blanket of ash. Callin covered his face with his Borderlands-reminiscent mask as to hide from the pesky odors sneaking out from under the cindor. His Colt Model 921 was slung over his shoulder, tapping his hip obnoxiously, no matter how soft he trotted. As he came upon what was once Lakeshore State Park, Callin's head is filled with flashes of innocent people being charred by the balls of flames. He remembers specifically a small girl about seven years old, calling out for someone to help her. She was all alone, uncertain of what was going on or what to do. A bomb had landed one hundred feet short of her as Callin ran madly towards her in an attempt to save her. But he was too late. The girl's bright blonde hair quickly transformed to chalky black as she lay beneath the rubble, dead.
And just then, his head started to sear with pain causing him to groan ferociously. He tore at his hallucinating eyes, giving him illusions of glowing streams of color and swirling spirals. Past nightmares beamed through his mind, transforming into a clear picture of a mysterious scene. A scene in which he stood before an old television set, one from an unrecognizable era. The screen was cracked angrily, assuming with the force of a baseball bat lying beside it. It was playing a GIF of a mustached barista pouring a hot waterfall of coffee into a small white cup. The steam billowed out like a giant's breath on a cold, misty morning. It played on a loop, a never-ending message that Callin did not understand. The video was warm and inviting, making the gloomy surroundings fade away. It was quiet around him, snowflakes began to fall, whispering sweet breaths of frost. The difference between snow and ash, you would not know.
And just like that, his vision was gone. He was back to reality, wincing at the strange phantom. Confusion took over his mind. Attempting to escape it–he ran. Turning a corner, the frigid wind was fighting against him. He shut his eyes while he ran, desperate to get away from this place, to not see it any longer. The eerie tension in the air was beginning to mess with him. But he didn't get very far until he toppled onto a... television set. And when he did, the metallic ring of a baseball bat sliced through the silence emanating from a snowy ground. Blood dripped quickly from his hand onto the snow, reminding him of past memories of snow cones being drizzled with raspberry syrup on a mild summer evening.
Just then a sound of tough plastic scraped the ground, someone had picked up his gun. Callin glanced up to a young woman with neat cornrows holding out a fingerless-gloved hand. He took it apprehensively as she helped him up.
"Dasha, you?" Her voice was like she had eaten a handful of the ash to sustain her hunger. Raspy, rough, but soft and gloomy. Callin couldn't speak, he was too immersed in the confusion of the situation.
"Come on, who are you?" She grabbed his arm and stared sternly into his clouded eyes.
"I, um, m-my name is Callin." Dasha was taken aback by his surprisingly mature voice.
"Come, I have shelter. Warmth, food, and drinks. I can fix that hand." She began to walk away with his gun, assuming he was behind her. Callin stayed lying in the dirt.
"But, how do I know I can trust you?" He called out to her, like a wounded puppy, upset that his owner was abandoning him. She didn't stop, just kept walking, like she knew from experience that eventually he would follow. He ran, limping for a moment, going after her.
Once he caught up to her, she led him into a bright, lively coffee shop without saying a word. There were more people in there, sipping on cups of joe. The presence of warm lights and friendly people helped Callin forget what the world was like outside. As she entered with him across the threshold, they all glanced in their direction. Dasha immediately left him to sit at a barstool, waiting for a barista to pour her a familiar cup of coffee. Callin stood there, once again an abandoned puppy. He rushed over to a round table for two, stumbling into a chair, hoping he would blend in with the rest of them. The barista made his way over to Callin.
"If you were to eat your very last meal, what would it be?" The man wore a crisp, white apron, his mustache trembling callously as he spoke. Callin looked up at him with confusion, scrunching his face, freckles fading into one another. The barista looked back at him, acting as nothing was wrong. Then Callin realized the cynicism within the statement. He glanced around the cafe, finding that each customer had a matching baseball bat planted beside them. He looked at Dasha. She smiled at him rather sweetly with a tinge of hatred and trickery between her lips.