Mark Harper stood numbly, his mind empty as he watched the wind stir up eddies of ash and soot. Stiff and unmoving, he tried to process what he had just witnessed. Tried to make some sense of it.

It had been sudden, as such things tend to be. Mark had been doing a stock take for the butchery he worked for, shivering in the basement freezer as he counted carcasses and checked delivery dates. Then a massive, shuddering rumble in the floor beneath him had tossed him into the ceiling, flicking him upwards like a giant finger and slamming him into the cold concrete with juddering force. Dropping back to the ground, stunned and bruised, he hadn’t even had time to get back to his feet before the solid steel freezer room doors had been blasted in by a massive shock wave of hot, compressed air that quickly turned the room into a steamy, slushy mess of dripping meat and melted ice. Terrified and insensate, Mark had screamed and clutched himself into a ball while waiting for the maelstrom to pass, not even realising that one of the carcasses had fallen right on top of him. Finally, the noise and heat and chaos subsided. There was silence.

Mark pulled himself out from under his rapidly cooked bovine saviour, noting absently that it had been scorched black on one side - along with most of the rest of the contents of the freezer room. Hauling himself to his feet, swaying somewhat, he looked around and his heart sunk - the butchery would never recover from this lost stock. Stumbling, he made his way out of the freezer room, shouting for his manager.

“Ben!” he shouted, “Ben!”. The eerie silence continued, not so much as the hoot of a car horn or sound of a siren. The short passageway from the stairwell was severely cracked along the walls and ceiling, most of the paint stripped and the walls blackened. Even in his stupor, Mark had an inkling of what he was about to see, and his steps slowed. He tried calling Ben again, his voice forlorn, but there was no response.

Finally, Mark reached the stairwell, mounting it with trepidation. It was short, barely thirty steps, but he stopped on each step and needed to gather the will to take the next. His mind was slowly coming back into focus and it didn’t want to know what was at the top of the stairs, didn’t want to face whatever had happened. Surely he’d be better off waiting in the freezer for rescue or emergency services? Surely he could wait until later? But what if they never came? What if they were all gone? Mark hated the thought of going outside but even more hated the thought of dying forgotten in a collapsed building. Steeling himself, he looked down and kept going, stopping as he reached the threshold. A breeze gusted past his face, carrying with it the scent of fire and ash. He raised his head. And time stopped.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

There was nothing. Not even a crumbled ruin. No butchery. No street. No town. Around him was nothing but blackened ground and mounds of ash. The walls, the cars, the people. None spared.

“Ben?” he asked the air, tremulously. “Ben!?”

He stumbled forward a few steps then whirled in a circle, unable to believe the evidence of his senses. It couldn’t actually be this bad. Everything couldn’t be gone.

“What... what happened?” he croaked, his voice cracking. He dropped to the ground, sitting sprawled in the ash as possibilities whirred through his mind. Was the whole town gone? The whole country? The world? He had no idea. The vast emptiness surrounding him provided no answers and he knew, deep inside, that expecting any would be hopeless. His head whirled and he leaned to the side, vomiting, as shock and horror and disgust coursed through him. Then he screamed, the raw, primal scream of an ape that’s had the entire forest burn down around it. The feeble screech was swallowed up by the ashy air, muffled even to his own ears.

He broke.

Mark cried. Then he screamed. Then he begged God to answer him, and proceeded to threaten him in the same prayer. He sat numbly, watching small dunes of ash and dirt form across the newly formed plains. Eventually, night fell, and he coughed harshly as he slept the sleep of those who never wish to wake up.

Unfortunately, the sun still rose, and he woke up feeling surprisingly clearheaded. Accepting even. If nothing else, he didn't have to worry about creditors any more. Or his ex-wife. Mark stretched, and scratched an itch on his head. And a shock of terror went through him as a clump of hair came out in his hand.

"Oh." he said faintly, having a clear idea of what had happened now.

He wondered who had fired the shot. China or the US as a pre-emptive strike on an uncertain ally? Had that fat little shit in North Korea finally lost it? Hell it could even have been India or Israel. No real way to know. Mark knew now, however, that he was dead. He wouldn't be the one forced to live while everyone he knew died around him. It was... a relief in a sense, even as his survival instinct screamed against his apathy.

Whistling cheerfully, he started walking. Maybe he'd be able to get to the edge of the blast zone, where emergency services and people could still be. Maybe he'd even be able to get a shot or two of morphine to ease the pain. It's not like former addiction would be a concern now, although supplies would probably be short for terminal cases. All he had to do was keep walking. One step forward.

No different, really, from regular life.