People underestimate the end of life as you know it. If you had asked me weeks ago, I’d have said it’d probably be horrific and quick. A mushroom cloud blossoming into the air, a few screams, and then darkness. If not a nuclear explosion, maybe a meteor strike. Seconds of horrendous shaking, grasping wildly for someone to hold, and then darkness. 

Well, it’s not quick. It’s not even all horrific either. Sometimes, if I look closely enough, there’s a morsel or two of calm hidden under everything else.

The line of pines bordering the road is a verdant blur as our car rushes past them. It seems odd that after everything, the trees are still standing the same way they were two weeks ago. We’re the only car on the road—the only moving one, that is. Elijah’s careful as he maneuvers around the few upturned vehicles and the piles of glass shards surrounding them. 

It’s been two weeks of us trying to figure out what’s next. At first, we didn’t do much of anything besides watch the news. The TV disconnected after the fourth day, and that’s when Elijah brought an old dusty radio in from the garage. Neither of us mentioned that it used to be his father’s. Neither of us mentioned that the only reason I knew how to get it working was because of my own father. 

Soon, it was clear we couldn’t stay put. An abandoned factory caught fire two miles east, and the radio said there were lethal chemicals coming from the flames. Since miraculously surviving the first chemical spill last week, Elijah and I decided not to push our luck. 

So we grabbed the belongings we couldn’t part with, loaded everything into Elijah’s Honda Civic, and headed west. 

Elijah keeps the radio on almost 24/7. Most of the time I don’t think he’s actually listening, but I guess it’s just nice to hear we’re not the only survivors. Maybe it’s selfish, but I think we’re both relieved other people are living through this too. Misery loves company and all that. 

I know, most of all, he listens in order to keep the memories at bay. If there’s a constant voice talking to us, it’s harder to dwell on the voices we’ll never hear again. At night, I can hear him call out to his sister from a dead sleep. He sleeps fitfully and I barely sleep at all, but at least we’re alive.

Right now, the radio host has taken a break from reciting the cities affected by the noxious chemicals. The list of safe states has dwindled significantly in the past two weeks. Every time we think there can’t possibly be another spill or explosion, there is. No one knows what started it all, and no one can figure out why some people are affected worse than others. I guess we’re just blessed. Or cursed, depending on how you look at it. 

An old country song starts playing from the tinny car radio speakers. I roll my eyes, but Elijah reaches over and cranks up the volume. 

“You like this?” I ask. 

The singer’s voice is rich and rumbly, and Elijah joins into the song in lieu of a response. 

“Flesh and blood need flesh and blood, and you’re the one I need.” 

I can’t help but laugh when he leans close to me and yells out the lyric with the passion of a performer in front of a large crowd. It’s a rare glimpse of who Elijah was before all of this. He used to laugh with his whole body and smile with his whole face. His mother would say he had the spirit of a mustang that couldn’t be tamed, which was exactly right. I’ve been scared all of that went away, never to be seen again. 

The song’s melody is simple enough, and by the second chorus, I’m yelling out the lyrics right along with him. Half the population may be gone, but I’m laughing for the first time in what feels like forever, and I don’t want anything to change. 

If the past weeks have taught me anything, it’s that you rarely get what you want.

As the song is fading out, Elijah slams on the brakes and whips his hand in front of me so I don’t hit the dashboard full force. 

“What the—” I look at him and watch every ounce of calm in his expression evaporate as he stares ahead.

My gaze shifts slowly. There’s a boy in front of our car, but he doesn’t even seem to notice that we could’ve hit him. While he aimlessly stumbles across the road, he holds his throat and gags like he can’t breathe. My hand flies to the door handle, but Elijah reaches over and catches my wrist before I can open it.

“What are you doing?” I ask him frantically and try to twist out of his grasp. It’s futile, but I can’t collect myself enough to do anything else. I can hear the animalistic sounds coming from the boy even with all the doors and windows closed. The heaves and coughs are too familiar. Elijah speaks before I can start connecting the boy with the last memories of my mother and father.

“Look at him, Becca. No blood or nothing. It’s the air that’s killing him. There’s nothing we can do.” Elijah turns and looks at me for the first time since stopping the car. The sudden eye contact makes me release the door handle. 

“People get dangerous when they’re not in their right mind. Stay put.” His voice is firm and the opposite of the lilting tone he was singing in just a minute ago. 

“He’s just a kid. What if it was Lila out there? Wouldn’t you want someone to help her?” My voice has turned desperate, and I know immediately that I shouldn’t have mentioned his sister. His expression goes slack for a moment before hardening.

“Eli, I—” His sudden movement stops my words before they can trip out of my mouth. He’s turned around and stretched toward the backseat, where all of our bags are. 

“I’d want someone to help her in any way they knew how. I’d want someone to make sure she didn’t suffer,” he says. I don’t understand what he means until the pistol is out of his backpack and he’s checking the magazine. 

“Don’t look.” 

“No! Maybe we can find a doctor, you don’t know how far gone he—” I stop when Elijah rolls down the window and leans out of the car. For a moment the boy looks toward us and his eyes widen as he notices us for the first time. I want to call out to him. I want to ask what happened to his family. I want to comfort him. 

The shot rings out at the same moment the tears fall down my cheeks. I avert my eyes, but I can still see the growing splotch of red on the pavement in my periphery. 

Everything is still for a few seconds. Time resumes when Elijah inhales shakily and rolls up the window. Instead of returning the gun to his backpack, he places it on the seat next to his thigh.

His grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles go white. He edges the car around the boy’s body and presses onto the gas hard once we’ve passed him. Elijah won’t look at me and I can’t stop staring at him with my mouth open. I’m expecting some sort of protest or accusation to come out, but I don’t have the strength. Somewhere deep in my heart, I know there was nothing we could’ve done to save the boy. Elijah probably spared him from another hour or two of agony. Still, I have to wonder: at what point did Elijah become someone who could kill, even out of mercy? And at what point will my empathy turn dangerous?

I sink back into my seat and look ahead at the open road. Elijah keeps driving.

Grace Tynski is a high school student from Illinois. She enjoys writing fiction, poetry, and essays. When she’s not writing she can be found spending time with her pets, listening to Fleetwood Mac, or browsing the aisles of her local library.