The End of the World Running Club by Adrian J. Walker Read Free Book Online

quite like this.

    I woke with a shudder for the hundredth time that night. The twin howls of the air raid siren and the banished dog silenced like the throats of ghosts slit as the dream snapped shut.  
    The candle on the shelf had burned down to its last quarter and in its dim glow I saw Beth and the kids huddled in some restless breed of sleep. Beth’s head rested on a pillow that she had folded in two and pressed against a wall. Her eyes were closed but her eyebrows flickered occasionally. Her breaths were deep and quick. Alice was squashed into her mother’s left armpit and was still working her thumb in her mouth with one white rabbit ear pushed tightly against her nostrils. After five or six furious sucks her puffed lips would relax and her thumb would begin to fall out. Then she would flinch, like a toe from icy water, her mouth tightening and drawing her thumb back in.
    Arthur lay against Beth’s right breast, peaceful and oblivious. I felt some comfort knowing that he would not remember this, but it fell away when I wondered what his first memory would be, then again when I wondered if he would even have one.
    I thought about pinching out the candle but decided to let it burn in case Alice woke up. Instead I took a blanket from the stockpile Beth had hastily assembled and placed it over the three of them, tucking it carefully under Alice’s back and Beth’s right shoulder. Beth shifted her legs and turned her head as if I had brought her tea in bed. The movement filled me with grief. Only hours before I could have been doing just that: bringing her tea in bed. Now I wanted more than anything to see her asleep in our room, another night with Arthur over, warm morning sun streaming over the crumpled white duvet. I wanted to lay down a cup full of tea she would not drink, stroke her hair, close the door and let her sleep in peace.
    Not that I remember ever having actually done this.
    Those first days became punctuated with feelings like this, recurring realisations that every component of life had suddenly been removed. The house, the car, the furniture - all the physical objects that decorated our life. Then the roads, the streets, the buildings - the space we once inhabited. Then the television, the internet, work, streets, parks, pubs - the things we did. Each one produced a small flood of grief and required its own funeral as you realised it was gone forever.
    Then the people. Your friends, your family. Endless, spectral grief.
    I took another blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders, sat back next to the steps. I remembered my phone and took it out of my pocket. My battery was half dead, uncharged because of my state the night before. The time flashed 9:23pm as I turned it off.
    It’s difficult to piece together what happened after I slammed the hatch shut. Despite the lack of windows, the cellar was lit up in bright, searing light for what seemed like minutes. During this time we could hear nothing, but not because it felt like there was no sound. It felt like the opposite: as if the air had been overpowered, like a loudspeaker bursting. One huge burst of almighty bass and infinite white noise had surrounded us and was pressing down upon us.
    Then the noise faded and the light left the cellar. I switched on the Maglite. Then came the blast and the heat and the sounds of the earth tearing apart above us.
    At first I thought I had consigned us to cook in an underground oven. The temperature in the cellar suddenly rocketed and the sound above us was like an oak-sized blowtorch bearing down on the hatch. I grabbed Beth and the kids and we all fell to our knees in a huddle. I pressed my head against Beth’s and let out some last strangled goodbye. The hot air caught in my throat. I looked down at Alice, who stared back at me in disbelief under the glow of the torch. She was still reeling from the fall down the stairs.  
    Was this you too, Daddy? Did you do this?
    I prepared for the furnace to ignite us. What