His brush caressed the canvas, tinged a musty yellow from age, with knowing and well placed strides falling both long and short. Steady, well-trained eyes followed these strokes hypnotically. He watched shades mix into color, canvas turn to image and ideas come to life.
A slow, olive-green waning swoop curved from the middle, beginning at the bottom left to the upper right as Adrian began to connect two small images, both of which looked like nothing of much until drawn together. Now you could start to see what was once just paint on paper slowly turn into mundane foliage and low-hanging vines that connected misshapen, wretched trees together. A swamp began to take formation, putrid not only in visual appearance but also in the appearance of his conscious thoughts, something he repressed to a shelf in the back of his mind beside many other such uncherished treasures.
Revolting, ideal, alluring... a swamp is described as various things by different people. All that Adrian could call it now was a memory. A painful memory seemingly from another world, one where he maybe still stood in different shoes.
In this semi-catatonic state, blinking had become a long ignored and overdue bodily function. He robotically passed it off for a while longer yet, considering the fractions of seconds worth more than the relief his air dried eyes cried for. He didn't have much of an idea about how long he had been up in the dusty and antique-feeling attic, but the pale stream of light that poured through the dormer window that featured a rock-shaped hole in its pane of glass had shifted more then a foot-and-a-half to the left since he had began. Painting, a new hobby for Adrian since the dawn of these new days, had been something that when he started a particular project he liked to be sure he could dedicate a number of hours to it. It turns out that that amount of time wasn't so hard to come by nowadays. Without focus, his art was uninspired and he could see it in the finished product. If he ever left this place, he thought, those paintings would be brought along as firewood. He sought these hours of distraction that took him away from the isolation meeting him in the hours of his everyday life and the corners of this house, something that arts and crafts could bring him easier than numerous other hobbies he might of chosen. As seemingly random lines of oil paint, which Adrian had scavenged from the closet of a long abandoned art studio, began to take form... he sensed a heavy shadow of regret looming over him, not unfamiliarly. It was so suddenly that it made his brush’s stride jerk, and a fern in his painting now sprouted one abnormally large leaf. Dark clouds began to spread inside of his head, his thoughts began to race.
Distracted now, he set down his crusty paintbrush with the color-stained handle and his palette of paints on top of an old guitar amp that he had been using as a side table. The little amp had "ROBBIE C." written along a off-white paper slip that was held down with a scotch tape border. Eyes now muddled with gray storm clouds, he stared coldly at the easel holding his painting. His heart palpitated into a slightly more frenzied beat as his hands flew up in the air, a subconscious reaction from the momentum required to lift and then deliver the flat of his boot into the leg of the flimsy wooden structure holding today's detrimental memory. A snap quite like that of a twig passed through Adrian's ears, just as a few splinters of wood flicked across his jean pant leg, and then chaotically to the ground. His temporary rage settled and he heaved a shaky sigh. Adrian knew that today marked Day #250 since this all began. This eternal dusk built for the damnation of society. Encumbering those unlucky or unskilled, and favoring those born without hearts.
A little over eight months, now. When society still stood in its last week, Adrian tried to do what he could in the short amount of time he had available. Fleeting thoughts, last minute decisions and thousands upon thousands of second guesses all occupied the same space in his brain, which was swimming frantically in uneasy water and holding out for something steady to grab onto. He tried reaching out to his family, his friends. Anyone. Of those he connected with, he was unable to convince them to come with him, of the seriousness of the events that were inevitably going to unfold. As desperate as he had tried, his parents hadn't picked up their phone nor returned any of his calls. Douglas had been the only one to respond, actually. Adrian fled two days before the disaster happened (this he didn't know at the time, but ultimately found out along the way). Back then Adrian didn't have all of the things that he wanted, but the solitude he possessed now wore him down like chains.
Being alone for every second of the day brought on a new perspective in Adrian's life, like growing up again at the ripe age of thirty three. He had once been considered the "go-to" person for entertainment and social interaction. He was near the heart of his own social network, and caught a lot of the buzz. People often had him join them at their family dinners, at nights out at the bar (as the sober driver, he wasn't a drinker), and to parties of all different kinds. The fondest party of which he could still recall without feeling overwhelming discomfort, thoughts of the old world bearing too much pain on him now, would have to be his brother's bachelor party. Adrian was single and had been for some five and a half years now, but his brother had been over the top with glee while they planned out some of the wedding details. The ones that his fiancée trusted him with, anyway. They had been together since high school, this year would mark their fifteenth anniversary. It was because of their longevity and the love he shared for the happy couple that Adrian set plenty of free time aside for his brother. Thus, they organized the catering (shellfish from Bake Alaska, some tacky diner that Douglas was sure would be a hit. In the end Felicia was not amused with it), the seating arrangements, and most importantly... the bachelor party.
As usual, Adrian had taken the leadership role. A common trend for when they worked together. His brother, though the exact age as him (to the date), had an ocean's vastness of difference between them. Where Adrian ran forward, Douglas ran back. He was an offense to his brother's defense, which often made for a good combination when put on the same team. They had connected well, and had an easy time bouncing ideas off of one another to come to a reasonable solution because of a brotherly love and naturally ingrained desires to come to a conclusion. Most of that changed. Now Adrian finds himself cast adrift in a raft between their two souls. Unable to move, unable to live as he once did.
During the planning, Douglas would fill the air with the low tone of his voice. He'd speak almost too much about the big day to come, nearly drowning out the metallic clicks and clacks of Adrian's keyboard as he completed the lion's share of the work. He would speak of his and her memories, too. How they were assigned seats beside each other in Mr. Higgs' room, and how that led to their "eventual destiny", all the way up to the current. Their prom night, the night he said he had stared into her eyes and told her the ways of how he knew she was the one for him. Being old enough to go on a road trip, finally, after Douglas bought his first car. An old yellow junker that no one wanted to remember the details of. They had made it to the Grand Canyon and back before the engine overheated. He took it all in stride and smiled though, because that was who his brother was. Normally the one to see the bright side in the worst of scenarios.
Douglas's most recent cherished memory was of their trip to Venice, Italy, not but a year before the wedding was to take place. It was her idea, Felicia's. Ever since she had been a child it had apparently been her dream to visit the city with the beautiful architecture, the exquisite museums of ancient history, to see the majestic waterways and whatever else she would drone on about before, during and after the vacation. Adrian didn't care for historical architecture, or travel for that matter. He didn't see the appeal of staring at monuments and buildings built ages ago in far away places, so old that it now was deteriorating. He liked new. New clothes, new cities, new actors and singers. Adrian was very modern, he lived in the present and appreciated all that came with it, but wasn't unable to respect how they got to this point, even if he didn't necessarily know how it got there. It was one of many points that himself and Felicia would differ on.
He thought deeply about Douglas and Felicia while he cleaned the wooden fragments and splinters off of the floor. Quick and unstable bursts of anger were beginning to break through his otherwise collected demeanor more and more often. It washed over him instantaneously, like heat waves from a harsh summer sun. He guessed that he could still feel his sanity in tact, and with that he threw the remains of the flimsy oregon easel away in a nearby waste bin. One last look at the unfinished painting lying on the ground caused him to place his callused hands on his hips as he let soft puffs of air escape his nostrils. Finally, he turned around and followed the stairs, the corners of each step noticeably littered with dust, back down to the second floor where he stored most of his belongings. The two story plus an attic home that he now resided in once belonged to an elderly couple known as the Croteau's. Out of the way, small on the outside but roomy on the inside, and quiet. It was everything that Adrian was looking for while he was "house hunting". Santa Monica wasn't the city of his choice to relocate to, but then again... he never really had made a choice.
Sometimes he wondered about the Croteau's. Who they were before the apocalypse and why they left this place so well stocked and untouched, almost as if they took nothing when they abandoned it for one reason or another. This quaint, posh home was built in the Mediterranean style. It was as white as snow on the outside, and nearly every wall on the inside was a pale tongue-pink. The bathrooms, being the exception, were turquoise-blue. The walls were eerily bare, save for a cross above each doorway. Adrian left them there as a reminder that irony lives on, it doesn't falter with society. In place of other ornaments, the Croteau's owned a multitude of small tables, each topped with a vase of dead flowers (he didn't know which kind, though they all looked alike) or a steel tea kettle residing on top, sitting on hand-knitted circular table cloths. Like the house, these too were white. The cloths that supported a vase were scattered with petals that were colored a sickly purple. As Adrian passed through the hallway, one of the many tables flashed for a second, the one closest to the bathroom on this floor. The open wallet he had thrown there caught a glare of light as he walked to the next set of stairs. The wallet showcased a California driver's license, belonging to CROTEAU, EVAN CARTER. The license had been reissued as of March 2029, so the picture was recent. A bald man with pale blue eyes, glasses and a warm, wrinkled smile stared out as Adrian shuffled on by.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Adrian swore to himself. Over the course of 8 months, he had uncanned, peeled, opened and slowly cooked nearly all of the food that the family living here before had stored. There were three pantries and plenty of storage shelves stuffed with food. It was perfect, he considered. It meant less looting that he would have to do for the time being. He despised going outside in this new world, seeing what it was like now and remembering all that he had lost. Today, his only options for a meal would be stale Cheerios or one of the many jars of pickles in storage. He hated pickles.
He knew that he needed to go scavenging today, or else he'd go hungry. Rooting around for food made him feel like a rat, or a crow. He missed Costco, and 7/11 with a bout of despair he couldn't relate to. Similar to losing a friend you never knew how fond of you were, but more materialistic. On his way to Santa Monica he of course resorted to such tactics out of necessity. There were vivid memories of snacking on processed fruit snacks, his stomach not accepting them as meals and later gurgling from the pits of Hell. On one night while traveling, he found a tree. Oh, how he missed it. It bore red delicious apples from its long and still living branches, this part of America he was driving through still greatly unaffected. It was there, under the tree, that he camped that night alone on the edge of a dying and dead forest. Tucked into a navy-blue sleeping bag, he made another evening of avoiding any planning for his future or his necessities.
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How could he... how could he? The cloud that loomed over his head proclaimed. The only thought in his mind for the first six straight, long days after the catastrophe. Even now, he finds himself making time to ask the question, mouthing the words silently over and over. How could he begin a new life when everyone that Adrian Shepherd had ever loved was dead? Blown away by bombs. The town he had lived in was near the target of at least one of the bombs, maybe two, he couldn't quite remember anymore. One of the victims in a sickly game of darts.
A tear every night forevermore would not compare to those he shed during the first week as he left his parents, twin brother and his fiancée, and too many good friends behind. Knowing that they would die with disdain in their hearts for him, it made him retch when he thought about it. He was not strong enough to survive the journey set before him, but luck abides the unfortunate, it seems. Adrian encountered nary a problem as he drove for four days, which somehow made him all the more sadder. Even gasoline had been easy to come by, and he managed to create his own tools and learn a safe method to obtain it.
But after the first few days, things got more dramatic. He avoided the nearest bomb's explosion radius on day five, seeing the mirror-engulfing mushroom cloud in the rear view mirror. The shockwave spun his car out of control. He stayed out of sight when the invading army, their nationality still undiscovered to Adrian, plundered all of the desirable treasures out of America with their helicopters and soldiers and land rovers on days seven and eight. He also avoided scores of bandits. Luck abides.
How could he ever expect himself to answer a question that has caused him so much grief? Turning his mind away, Adrian scanned the storage shelves for any food he may have missed, absent of any conscious presence. Reaching up with the flat of his hand he patted down the very top shelf and felt a brief, mild shock that brought him back to his full awareness. Near the back he found a box of flax seed and cranberry granola bars. A thin glare of delight shimmered somewhere under his foggy slate blue eyes. Quickly, he made a mental task list for tomorrow, now procrastinating any looting that he had once thought was necessary for today. A new easel was in order. It would be light, so he could strap it to himself and still have room on his strong-bodied person to carry two duffel bags and a backpack for food and other supplies he wanted to bring back to home base.
Scanning the last container of food he owned carefully, save the shitty Cheerios and even less-desirable pickles. The expiration date stood out in bold font to his eyes before they could find it of their own accord. "04/21/30" rang out almost like a gladiatorial challenge to Adrian's empty stomach. The food had expired months ago, but as hunger often does, it tempted him to open the box and grab a bar. Before removing it from the shiny wrapping it was held in, he bent it and found it to be not too hard. He assumed it was going to be stale, but edible.
Crushed open and partially empty, Adrian set the box of bars and himself on the sofa made of purple corduroy, the color very radiant against the dull living room paint. He unwrapped the food in his hand, brought it to his dry lips and chewed. He was right, stale. The day was nearing its end, maybe an hour or two of daylight left. Now that he had excused himself from responsibilities for another day, he knew exactly how to spend it.
---
Outside behind the house a lifeless generator slept lazily. Amiss the low roar of its power, the large hunk of grey machinery was no more than an over-glorified paperweight. Though fortunate enough to have found it in a shed only two blocks up the road, the metal-on-concrete shrieking and scraping sounds as he brought it back home still sent shivers through his spine. Hunkered down, he ran a hand across one of its cold steel bars. The only way to use electricity these days was to produce it yourself. What little of the continent had power after the explosions lost it quickly in the following days. Adrian narrowed his eyes at the setting sun, the sky a glowing, beautiful peach color. His thumb flicked the red power switch into the ON position. Strong vibrations trembled his hand, electricity now lighting the house up. The electric heat would be kicking in, warming up the house just as he preferred it. Now he could also enjoy his other, less artsy favorite past time in this unnatural lifestyle he owned. Back in the Croteau's living room, he had set up a modern looking vinyl record player. He could put on Valleys of Neptune by the Jimi Hendrix Experience and drift away, letting the sweet melody of a guitar dissolve all of the weight he held, even if it was just for a few minutes of the day. Even though it wasn't the newest of the new, the music was comforting. It came to grow on him as he listened to it in this dishevelled world. Perhaps he would even enjoy a cigarette from the pack he had stashed away, just to feel a little headrush.
He swiveled his crouched body so that his shoulders could rest against the house, and he began rocking back on the heels of his brown hiking shoes, both sets of laces stuffed into them because he was tired of tying the strings together. Adrian's temples throbbed still from his bout of rage, even as he massaged them tenderly with index and middle fingers. He retired his hands to the back of his shaven head, closing his eyes and focusing only on darkness and the buzzing beside him. Two omnipresent reminders of the worries and questions he often thought of. He was helpless but to fall under the spell his mind's shadow often cast, holding his hand while walking him down a broken memory road. What would Douglas think of him now, who he had become? His brother... his sweet brother, who looked up to him once for support and answers. For most of their lives actually. After what happened with Alyssa, Felicia's sister, Douglas thought of himself as an only child and he grew a hatred toward Adrian. Even Felicia tried to regain their shrinking relationship once, to no avail. Douglas too, Adrian realized, lived with a cloud raining over him, but its name was his own. So it was that the twins finally separated. But even Adrian could not of predicted the distance that would stretch over time without contact, until the day came to evacuate the city. Adrian had no idea where Douglas lived. His brother had moved without giving his location to anyone in the family, so Adrian resorted to calling his brother on his cell phone, only glancing at the number of ignored texts he had sent over the span of half of a year.
"I told you to never fucking call this number" was the answer after four tones of the phone ringing.
"I know, but listen, you need to hear this, ok?" Adrian quickly stammered, his voice broken and hysteric.
"No, Adrian. I don't have time for whatev--"
"God dammit, Douglas, I think bombs are going to be launched!" Adrian interjected a little more loudly than he intended to.
"...What are you rambling on about?" Douglas asked, adding a hint of curiosity without removing any resentment from his voice.
"I don't have the time to explain. There are things that I need to show you.. tell you, in person. I found out that the United States, maybe all of North America, is in danger." Adrian spat out. As soon as the message passed his lips, he sense how insane it sounded. Five minutes passed over the span of five seconds, but Douglas's reply was crisp and short.
"I've heard nothing about this on the news, a source that I'm more comfortable with. I'm hanging up, don't contact me again, Adrian. "
"Doug, no! Wait!" Adrian yelled into the mouthpiece.
He was met with stone silence in return, then the dial tone humming in his ear so loudly, it clouded all of his thoughts. The humming stayed, spread into both ears long after he put the phone down. His eyes glazed with the reflection of oblivion. The noise grew louder, drowning out all other sound. He knelt to the ground, his head pounding now, the droning like a constant beat upon his eardrums. It grew louder. A persistent vibration that began to spread throughout his body. He felt his teeth chatter in his jaw, and had to pinch the bridge of his nose to sate his eyes, loosely shaking in their sockets. The phone had dropped but the volume and pressure had remained, increased, until... it shut off. Switched off was more accurate, as the humming faded, slowly growing more distant by the second.
---
Adrian opened his eyes back behind the Croteau's. The hum was dying all around him, his heart fluttered from his daydream. He shot a panicked look at the generator and found the source of the dying noise.
"No... no, no, dammit no... no!" Adrian screamed, leaping to his feet as the generator grew silent. He had been lost in thought for maybe ten minutes! How could this happen? What did he do wrong? It was then that he looked at the gas gauge, located on the side of the machine. Empty, resting on the bold and red "E" just as the last of its life ran out. The lights in the house went off, flickering at first. The ball of stress unfurled and convulsed in the pit of his stomach, a white hot chorus of disbelief and frustration washed over him. He was positive he had left enough gasoline for last night and this one!
Fists now curled, he swung his right foot back, leaning forward slightly with his body. He pulled his torso backward just a hair quicker than the speed he put into his kick, toes meeting dead on with the steel. The pain muddled by blinding rage, he kicked the machine once more. He could feel the toenail on his big toe crack and split, blood trickling out and being absorbed slowly by his wool sock. The generator, the clear victor of this battle, had shifted three inches to the east to expose dying and compressed grass .
"Piss." he muttered under quick pants of breath. He paced back and forth in front of the over-glorified paperweight, muttering angrily. It took a measure of time, but he regained his composure and let out one more shaky sigh before turning around and moving on.
---
Back inside, with one shoe and sock removed and a toe freshly cleaned, Adrian bandaged the aching appendage. That was stupid, he thought to himself. But it just doesn't seem possible to catch a moments rest or a chance to breathe. He remembered checking the gas tank yesterday, and can still see it in his mind's eye how the red marker rested confidently at the quarterway mark, pointing straight at the marker. Or... he thought so at least. Wrapped up tightly now, he put the wool sock back on followed by his shoe and tested his foot out. It hurt, but he could walk fine and without limping, so it was decided. He could wait until tomorrow for an easel and more food, but gas? Electricity? He needed that to keep the cold out, and more importantly to keep this house's power locks locked. He didn't have any of idea why the Croteau's had them installed, but he was thankful. The electrical locks proved secure and powerful, and up until now the physical copy of the key had been unseen.
Adrian grabbed a jerry can and his clear tube he had been using to siphon gas, recently cleaned. He put on a thick brown coat and at the doorway, with wind billowing in through the tiny cracks of the rectangular frame behind himself, he gently swayed the inside door to the kitchen backward, revealing his weapon of choice.
A cane as high as his hip, a beautiful dark brown and made entirely of hickory. The pommel was made of cold, sheenless, solid steel and featured an excellently brandished toad, his belly protruding out in a perfect sphere. Adrian was charmed by the item, with no clear idea why. Formerly Evan Croteau's, Adrian Shepherd had taken it in the event he needed to bludgeon someone with periling intent, which had so far remained unnecessary.
Now turning, he grabbed the brass doorknob, his other hand reaching into a coat pocket for the soft pair of gloves he brought (to make sure they were there rather than put them on), and stepped back into the frigid world known as "the outside" once more to brave the storm. His shoulders slumped as he thought "luck abides".