Day 1099 of the apocalypse started just like any other. Lonely city streets, crumbling infrastructure, and the latent radioactive haze that hung low like the exhaust of a thousand cars in rush hour. Of course, John hadn’t seen a working automobile since day 60, and rush hour nowadays entailed running for shelter to avoid the acid rain. Though if he was honest, it still beat sitting in traffic for hours just to get to an office job where he was slowly strangled by his necktie.
That same necktie had become a bit of a multitool in the years since, serving as rope, a makeshift belt, and even an emergency tourniquet on day 145. That was the day he had been shot by a man who mistook him for a zombie. Ever since the world ended, people assumed every dehydrated survivor that came staggering down the road was an undead cannibal—but don’t get it twisted, there were definitely cannibals in the hellscape of any collapsed society, though typically the dead stay dead.
John hadn’t even seen another survivor, undead or otherwise, since around day 612. That count could be off by a few days, but he tried to keep time as best he could with his tally mark system. Every morning, he would etch another tally into the wooden frame of his shelter, though some days he’d forget and others he would double up. It probably evened out. Either way, the grey that had begun to cultivate in his beard confirmed it had been years, and who needs a calendar anyway when there is no one to share it with.
His wife Jane had been a meticulous planner, with itineraries and schedules for everything and more, but she hadn’t survived the radiation poisoning that had taken so many before and after her. By his count, it had been approximately 1095 days since his other half had died, three years to the tally. And now that she was gone, John felt no need to plan his life, or what was left of it. There was nowhere he needed to be, and nothing he needed to do. Some days he wondered why he kept going at all, tally after miserable tally, but he knew it was what she would have wanted. For now, her memory would have to be enough.
So here John was, counting the days in his apocalyptic purgatory, waiting for the moment that his wife would call him home to heaven. The only date he had in mind was the day he would be reunited with the woman he loved, though he hoped it would be in a place where the world could never end.
In the meantime, he would crack into his rations of beef jerky and instant coffee and try to imagine shapes in the smog. His wife had always been better at this game, though back then they had looked at clouds instead of chemtrails, but he tried his best. That one looked like a little lamb, and before long he found himself counting sheep in that strange undulating pasture up above, and just like that he fell asleep.
He dreamed of Jane. They danced on that hill by their old house, laughing as the clouds swirled around them in the wide savannah sky. John hadn’t seen anything so blue since day 0, and figured he never would again. But in his dreams they danced under indigo every night, and for just a moment it was as if they were together once more.
Jane twirled and twirled, just as she had on their wedding night. Then lightning struck the side of the hill just as she turned to face him, distorting the dream, and the resulting thunder was so loud that it shook him from his sleep.
When he opened his eyes, John realized the crash hadn’t been thunder at all, but something much closer to reality. Someone is here, he thought as he roused himself from the instant coffee-infused dreams. He looked for something to protect himself, and settled for a rock and his trusty old necktie. It was a haphazard sling at best, but it was all his sleep-addled mind could come up with as he approached the sound behind his shanty. Maybe the zombies have come for me at last.
It was no zombie. There behind the crudely built shelter was a small black cat, wrestling with a can of pre-apocalyptic tuna that John had frankly been too afraid to eat. The cat was the first living thing he had seen since day 751, so long ago that he had begun to wonder if he was the last man on earth. But if he was trapped in some circle of hell, at least he was no longer alone.
Then John snapped a twig under a misguided step and the cat froze. The two feral beings locked eyes for only a moment before the cat let out an ungracious hiss and bolted for the nearest tree line. So much for not being alone, he thought as he watched the little black shadow disappear into the brush. There’s only enough food for one of us, anyway.
The rest of the morning was uneventful, though John kept finding his eyes drawn to the woods. He had been alone for years, aside from his dreams of Jane, and yet he had never considered himself lonely. It was just a damned cat, but seeing another living thing had sparked something inside him that had been smothered long ago.
Hope. For a future that wasn’t soaked in acid rain, and a present where he didn’t need to do it alone. The thought brought a tear to his eye, but John looked up at a sky the color of an old bruise and let it reabsorb rather than wiping it away. He needed to conserve water, and found that tears burned more than acid anyway. Yet when the next one came, he let it slide down his cheek like the first drop of the growing storm inside him.
So John started a fire, just like he had for the last 1094 days, but this time he did something different. He opened the can of expired tuna and left it on a log next to the fire, letting the stench of old fish waft into the wind. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do, and so he waited.
The shadows had grown longer and the sun was high in the sky when a pop of the smoldering wood woke John from that strange place between waking and sleep. It took him only a moment to realize there was a pair of eyes staring back at him from across the campfire, bright and yellow like the chemtrails above. “Hey, Buddy,” he said, unsure why he was trying to talk to a cat.
All he got in response was something between a growl and a scream, and with that the cat resumed its meal, though its eyes never left the man sitting across from it. John didn’t move a muscle, too afraid to scare it off again, and listened to it purr with tuna-fueled pleasure over the crackling coals of the fire. It was a symphony of sounds, the song of nature, and it reminded him of the time Jane dragged him to the opera before the world fell apart. Just like that time, John slept through the whole thing.
When he awoke to the yellow glow of an irradiated evening sky, John found that the cat, who he had decided for some strange reason to name Buddy, had curled up next to the empty tuna can and fallen asleep. His money had been on the thing running away again, if he had money anymore that is, but he breathed a sigh of relief. He had no idea what he would do next, but at least he wouldn’t do it alone.
“Hey, Buddy,” John said, his voice taking on a tone he hadn’t heard in years. And what a stupid name! He wasn’t even sure if it was a boy or a girl, and either way the one thing it sure wasn’t was his buddy. But then the cat opened its yellow eyes and fixed them on his, not a trace of fear in sight, and John realized it didn’t matter. If they were the last two living things on earth, they had no choice but to be buddies.
John couldn’t believe it. The end of the world had taken everything from him, and yet still life surprised him. He only wished Jane was here to see it; she had always loved her feline friends, though John was more of a dog person himself. But as he looked at this little black furball, its eyes blazing with a Darwinian determination to survive, he felt a burgeoning respect bloom in his chest.
He took some chicken-flavoured hardtack from his jacket pocket and tossed it to the cat, who watched him and the questionable choice of breakfast with suspicious eyes. Buddy may have mistaken it for a rock, and to be fair it was about as close to one as flour and water can get, but the smell of chicken broth and salt lured the cat closer. The man watched for what could have been hours as the pocket-sized panther struggled with the hardtack, gnawing and nibbling at the hardened cracker until the tiny teeth marks left it unrecognizable.
Then a rumble in the distance startled both man and beast, and the muffled pitter-patter of coming rain made them both panic. Buddy looked around for the quickest escape, the hardtack suddenly abandoned like yesterday’s meal, but John was not about to let the cat out of his sight again. He grabbed it by the scruff, as gently as he could manage, but his little buddy was not making it easy. It growled and thrashed like its life depended on it, and its claws found their mark more than a few times. John held strong.
The thunder was growing closer, and though acid rain did not always fall from the swirling yellow storm clouds that hung in perpetuity above their heads, it was still best to take shelter. But as he shoved the cat inside his shanty and secured the tarp flaps that acted as a door, John found himself wondering if he may have been better off outside. The cat looked at him with unmasked hatred as it hissed from the corner under the cot, and just when he was sure it would fight its way out tooth and claw, the rain began to pelt the canvas sheet over their heads.
Buddy flinched at the sound of the rain, and John couldn’t help but feel sorry for the cat. It was scared and alone, trying to survive in a world that didn’t seem to want them anymore, not unlike himself. “It’s alright, Buddy,” he said, reaching out a hand to stroke its fur in an act of truce. “You’re safe with me, Bud.” The cat trembled at his touch, letting out a perfunctory growl that was half-hearted at best, but John hoped that a tentative peace had been reached between the two sides.
He wondered what the cat had been through, and only needed to think back to some of the things he had seen himself to get a pretty good idea. John had seen what that rain could do to people, what it had done to his wife, and could only imagine what it would do to a kitten. The poor thing had been born into hell, never knowing the scent of fresh rain or the colors of the rainbow, and that had made it mean. John had known it all and more, and lost it anyway, and that made him meaner. But now they could weather the storms together, and neither of them needed to be alone ever again.
They shared some jerky, his supply of which was growing low, and waited for the storm to pass. Once it had, the duo exited the shanty, each unsure of what the other would do next. Predictably, the cat wasted no time in seeking the safety of the trees, and once again the man could do nothing as the only companion he had seen in what felt like a lifetime left him behind. Damned cat! Who needs you anyway? John thought as he buried the first emotions he had felt in years deep down inside. Not me.
Yet try as he might, he found his thoughts drawn to Buddy in an endless game of cat and mouse. The more he tried to ignore them, the more they seemed to claw at his mind. He had to do something. So John did what any man would do when confronted by feelings he didn’t approve of, and began chopping firewood. Nothing distracts like the destructive power of a man with an axe.
One tree, two tree, three. And before long John had enough firewood to sustain his nightly campfires through the long nuclear winter ahead. Then he saw something that made him drop his axe in his tracks: a little black shadow slinking towards him from the woods. There was a loosening in his chest, as if he had been holding his breath all afternoon, and John wondered how much of himself might unravel if he let it. He put the thought from his mind, and let the relief wash over him like a summer breeze instead.
He was relieved that the cat had survived, relieved that it had come back, but most of all John was relieved that he was no longer alone. And Buddy came bearing gifts—well, one gift—in the form of a small squirrel now lying at his feet. John was dumbfounded, but could only assume his buddy was attempting to repay him for the meals they had shared. It would be rude of him to refuse, and frankly he hadn’t had fresh meat since day 715, so he took the gift and gave the cat a light pat on the head in thanks. It hissed in disapproval, but followed at his heels nonetheless.
John rebuilt the campfire near his shelter with what little daylight he had left, flattening the discarded tuna can to use as a makeshift pan and preparing the bountiful meal his new companion had provided. He felt the sudden urge to thank the cat, but thought better of it with one look at those disapproving yellow eyes. Thanks are for the weak, the man thought with budding respect. And nothing weak could have survived this long.
By the time the meat was cleaned and prepped, the fire had burned down to a flicker and the sun had begun to set. He placed the flattened aluminum over the bed of coals and began roasting the meat, when suddenly he found himself at a backyard barbeque under a bright blue sky. His wife was laughing about something he said, and for a moment he was the happiest man at the end of the world, but then she meowed.
The fog of his daydream faded, and he realized the cat had been waiting by the fire, eyes transfixed on the sizzling meat that was now well past done. “Sorry, Buddy,” John said as he tossed a few bits and ends his way. Buddy pounced on them, and before John could even take a bite the cat was looking up at him as if it hadn’t eaten in days. “Okay, fine,” the man said as he tore into his portion and shared half with the only friend he had in the world. No thanks necessary.
The squirrel was overcooked and gamey, and the aluminum provided a middling pan sear at best, but it was still the best thing John had eaten in something like 384 days. A man could eat all the jerky and questionable tuna on earth, but nothing could replace fresh, old-fashioned protein. After they had finished, the duo sat in the radiant heat of the campfire and watched dusk fall on a dead world. Eventually, John got up and went to bed. He left the cat curled up by the low-burning embers, but kept the flap of his shanty open just in case.
* * *
John awoke from dreams of Jane with the taste of honey on his lips, but it soon turned to ashes as he realized it was just another day in hell. “Hey, Buddy,” the man said to the cat that was sprawled out at the foot of his cot. It did not take the acknowledgement lightly, hissing before slinking out of the shelter and into the morning haze as if it had no idea how it got there. “Well, good morning to you too.”
After boiling some water for instant coffee and tossing what little jerky he had left to the cat, John went about his day as if he didn’t have a second shadow following his every step. Every time he looked back, Buddy would disappear into the nearest tree, though it never strayed too far. They etched a new tally in the makeshift calendar, and John took a moment to appreciate day 1100. For better or worse he had made it this far, and while there was nothing to be thankful for he was beginning to wonder if his luck was changing.
Since the day his wife died, John had done little more than survive. In the beginning he had done it for her, as if keeping her memory alive would somehow bring her back, but along the way he forgot what it truly meant to live. He would eat and drink and sleep, and yet he was hardly alive, becoming something more than dead but less than living.
You’re a true dead man walking, Johnny. The realization startled him. Maybe that man was right to shoot you all those tally marks ago. But there was something about this cat that made his day a little brighter, beyond the typical glow of an irradiated sky.
It was time he lived a little, and reminded himself what it was he was living for. “Hey, Buddy!” John called out into the brush. “What do you say we take a little trip? Just the two of us, we’ll be back by supper.” The man waited a moment as a rustle over to his right slowly grew louder, and then Buddy emerged to meow in approval. He assumed it was approval anyway, as the cat vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, uninterested in anything else the man might have to say.
John gathered some supplies, food, and his trusty old necktie into a bag and prepared to set out. He briefly considered using the tie as a leash, but decided Buddy might not take too kindly to that, and he was not about to start upsetting their fragile relationship now. Instead he whistled a simple two notes and set out down memory lane, small paws padding softly behind.
The destination was not far, just a few hours by foot, but any road in the apocalypse was a long one. John had not made the journey in years, though it crossed his mind many times, and now he would return to the last place he had been happy with a new lease on life. If he closed his eyes he could almost see it, just over the horizon. The little house by the hill that he had shared with his wife.
But Jane would not be there; he knew that. He wished she could meet Buddy, there was no doubt in his mind that she would be obsessed with him, but that’s a wish for another world. John could never introduce the cat who saved him in this life to the woman who saved him in the last, but he could take Buddy to the home they had shared. They could breathe the air she had breathed, or at least a slightly radioactive version, and imagine life as it had once been. John could go home. Maybe we’ll even stay, he thought as he pictured a life with his cat and the ghost of his wife. It sounded a lot better than the life he was living now, but first they had to get there.
The best part about the apocalypse was the breakdown of bureaucracy, John reflected as he surveyed what used to be an interstate, but right now I would give anything to have one single construction crew to help clear these roads. Between the wreckage of old cars, overgrown vegetation, and wild animals, the duo decided it might be best to take the scenic route. Though as they began their trek through the woods, the man made a mental note of the hardly legible mile markers.
Ten miles to go, he thought as they passed a sign welcoming them to town. Its name had long since washed away in the acid rain, and John wasn’t sure he even remembered anymore, but he knew this place was home. Even though he hadn’t gone back since day 5, the very beginning of the end, he could still hear Jane in the whispers of the wind. She was finally calling him home.
Then something else called from the heavens.
There was a great rending as the clouds bared flashing teeth, a distant rumble of thunder chasing lightning through the valley, and John knew they had made a mistake. The skies had been clear, or as clear as they get in a nuclear winter, and he thought they would have time. He had known the risks, weighed the weather patterns, and taken a gamble. In the end, they would be trapped in acid rain and he had no one to blame but himself.
It was a tragedy of Greek proportions. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, John had looked back on his wife too many times, and now the gods were denying him his true love. But Buddy did not blame him. Instead of saving itself and making a quick escape, the cat jumped into his arms and perched on his shoulder. It trusted him, and he was not going to let it down.
Their only option was to go back, too far from the house by the hill and unable to outrun the storm that followed them. They could make it back to his shanty in the woods, but the only path was through the rain. Not ideal. John tried his best to organize his racing thoughts, but was having little success. No matter what, we’ll be soaked with enough radiation to grow wings before we find shelter. He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.
Then he had an idea. No matter what, somebody will be soaked with enough radiation to grow wings before they find shelter, but it didn’t have to be both of them. John looked down at his furry companion and thought of his life before Buddy, the smiles shared and love lost, and realized the cat had never had any of that. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
His back against the storm wall, John ripped off the leather jacket he had worn every day for the last three years, listening to the rhythm of the coming rain as he realized what he had to do. He took Buddy from his shoulder, whose claws had begun to leave red rivulets running down his unprotected arm, and wrapped the cat in the jacket. It hissed and growled, but it did not fight him as John enclosed it in leather and used his trusty necktie to tie it shut. It was hardly airtight, but it would have to do. They were out of time.
The rain began to fall around them, deceptively soft and sweet. Lightning lit up the sky, and for a moment it felt like a summer shower from before the world had ended, but then his skin began to tingle. It wasn’t much at first, but soon it began to burn, and John began to run.
He ran as quickly as he could, stumbling blindly through the overgrowth towards the direction of his camp, all the while cradling the bundle in his arms. The occasional meow would escape the confines of the bag, but the lack of distress in its voice gave John hope. His own body, on the other hand, was screaming in distress as his lungs burned. His skin was on fire, and a strange metallic taste had settled on his tongue.
No thanks necessary, the man reminded himself, though as his vision began to tunnel he wondered if that was ever true. He was on the verge of collapse, his body shutting down, when the path began to look familiar. “We’re almost home.” John didn’t care if the cat could understand him or not; they both needed to hear it.
Not my home, but his. He realized as the shanty came into view through the fog of heavy rainfall. John stumbled to the shelter, crashing through the canvas that was now the only barrier between him and the nuclear slurry outside. His body screamed in pain, and he was rather certain that was blood he was tasting, but his first concern was Buddy. He untied the necktie from around the leather jacket and unfurled an irritated cat onto the cot, but John would take irritated over irradiated any day.
He would not be so lucky himself. His exposed skin had already begun to blister in what he could only assume were chemical burns, and unless he was mistaken his eyes were swelling shut. John had only been caught out in a storm once before, on day 330, but unlike today he had been wearing his jacket. The leather seemed to protect him from the worst of the rain, and even then he still ended up with a few burns and couldn’t eat for days. Only time would tell, but he didn’t think he’d be so lucky this time around.
John lay down on the cot, though fell might be a better word for it, and quickly drifted off into a fitful sleep. Once again he dreamed of Jane, but this time she seemed closer somehow, almost as if he could reach out and touch her. She called to him, and he tried to follow her voice, but when he looked back there was a small black cat curled up by his feet. Buddy looked up at him, and for once the look in the cat’s eyes was undeniable. It was approval.
Then the burning on his back became unbearable, and great black wings burst forth in an eruption of feathers. I guess I was soaked with enough radiation to grow wings after all, John chuckled to himself, but there is something I need to do before I go.
The man opened his swollen eyes just enough to see bright yellow ones staring down at him. “Hey, Buddy,” John said, choking on his own blood and tears. “Jane has come for me; she’s going to take me home.”
Just then his wife walked through the flap of the shanty, her white wings filling the space, and the cat seemed to look right at her.
“We’ll be waiting for you, Bud,” John said, reaching up to pat the cat’s head one last time. For once, it did not protest. “I just wanted to say thank you, for teaching me to live again.”
The cat curled up on his chest and began to purr, and with that John got up and left his body behind. He stepped out into the calm after a storm, hand in hand with his wife, and let his wings spread in great black arches. “I have so much to tell you,” he said to Jane as the two took flight, bound for the house by the hill under a sky that would be forever blue.
* * *
They told each other everything. Jane spoke of how lonely the afterlife had been without him, and John spoke mostly of Buddy. It could have been mere minutes or many centuries—John no longer kept tally of such things—but he spent it all recounting his time with the cat. Jane would have been a little jealous if she hadn’t seen how happy Buddy made him, but instead she found herself falling in love with the little menace herself.
Then one day they heard a sound coming from the hills, and John froze in his tracks as a small black shadow raced towards them from the distant haze. Its fur was matted and patched with gray, but he would recognize his old buddy anywhere. He hoped that those yellow eyes had a chance to see the world, and was glad to see no evidence of chemical burns.
“Hey, Buddy!” John called, unable to believe his eyes. The cat jumped right into his arms and perched on his shoulder, as if he had never left. “We missed you so much. You can finally meet Jane!”
“Oh, I’ve heard all about you!” Jane said, patting the cat on the head.
Buddy let out a small growl, but it was half-hearted at best.
