Kate

Kate studied the gun on the table. She picked it up, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and disengaged the safety. She'd done this every five minutes for the last two hours, worried she missed some important step that would render the pistol inoperable when she really needed it. What worried her more was that she didn't know anything about guns. It had been given to her by an ex-boyfriend when she lived in an inner city neighborhood, and despite her protests he insisted she keep it. She hated guns, hated this gun, but somehow this gun had traveled with her through every new stage of her tumultuous journey through adulthood. It was the most stable thing in her life, and now she depended on it more than ever. It had never been fired.

Kate wondered if she should fire the gun, just to make sure. Maybe she'd fire it at the wall or at the stained bottle of balsamic vinegar on the kitchen counter. It didn't really matter what she shot, Kate supposed, but there was always the risk that someone would hear. If the gun did manage to fire, it would probably fire again, and if someone who wasn't supposed to hear heard it, Kate would just have to trust herself enough to shoot straight. She was waiting for someone, and she just had to stay alive long enough for him to get there. She didn't know for sure whether he was coming, but a promise was a promise. Once he was there she wouldn't need the gun anymore.

Suddenly Kate's attention was drawn to the shrill shriek emanating from the tiny black and white TV in the living room. It had been the only way to get news, and some stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman had solemnly remained at his post like the captain of the Titanic, providing unverifiable updates about casualty counts and safe zones to an unverifiable audience. Kate had spent the last five days in earshot of the television, but she'd long since stopped listening to the words. It was just comforting to know that someone else was out there. She sometimes laughed as she glanced at the TV and saw the anchorman backlit by a waving American flag graphic accompanied by patriotic hymns. Every captain needs a band to play him out, she thought.

The stone-faced salt & pepper anchorman was gone now, replaced by a test pattern and those familiar loud beeps. Why those were considered preferable to silence she'd never know. She hadn't heard him sign off, and she wondered if he'd even had time to sign off. The TV station was operated out of one of the tallest buildings in the city, and she couldn't imagine it being ignored for long. She pushed the thought out of her mind, picked up the pistol, aimed for the balsamic vinegar, and pulled the trigger.

It was so much louder than she'd imagined. She dropped the gun and immediately covered her ears. When she looked up, the kitchen was in a sorry state. Black liquid covered a good portion of the available surface area, and the shattered tile behind the stove now adorned the floor like an experimental mosaic. She didn't care about the mess. She only cared that the gun had done what it was supposed to do. Now she'd have to wait to see if she'd need to fire it again. She decided it best not to sit in the eye-line of the window. She picked up the gun and huddled against the wall of the dining room. She wondered if she should turn the TV off, as the incessant beeps were compounding the headache given to her by the sound of the gun, but she found them strangely comforting. Lifeless or not, they connected her to the world she knew.

She began to regret the decision to shoot the bottle of balsamic vinegar. The stuff smelled awful, and any thoughts she'd had of how novel an exploding bottle would look as a bullet passed through it were mulled when she'd dropped the gun in anguish. She'd missed the whole thing. She felt miserable, truly miserable for the first time since this whole thing began. She hated the gun more than ever. She held it tighter.

As she waited she began to relax. No one had heard the gun, and if they had they probably didn't want to find out who fired it. She heard gunfire and shouts in the distance, and it's entirely possible her shot had blended in with the others. She hadn't been outside in five days. She had no idea what was going out there, but all she knew was that she needed to stay the hell away from it. From the TV she'd gleaned that millions were dead, and that was, at best, a rough estimate. Her parents were probably dead, her friends were probably dead, and for all she knew he was probably dead, and she was wasting her time waiting for him. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

She crawled through the dining room and into the living room for a better view of her surroundings. She was thankful her parents had installed that sunroom years before, as it provided a panoramic view of the hillside. In the distance she could see that the trees were burning, and the line of multi-million dollar homes that adorned the top of the ridge were now skeletal and black. Fire, ash, and orange were all she could see. She crawled back to the center of the living room and settled in next to the television. She placed the gun next to her head. She was exhausted, and the test pattern beeps lulled her to sleep. She dreamed of blackness, pure, perfect blackness, and it was the best sleep she'd had in years.

She awoke suddenly, grabbed the gun and sat up straight, pointing it into the darkness. Her head hurt again, and the overpowering stench of balsamic vinegar blanketed what had just that morning smelled of burnt musk. It was night, and the blanket of city lights that usually masked the infinite abyss had been replaced by a thick, orange glow. It was eerily silent. The beeps had stopped. The TV was still on, but the broadcast had ended. She didn't like the way it felt. The low battery LED-light blinked unceremoniously towards the bottom of the TV. She had no idea what she'd ever need the batteries for again, but her old compulsions forced her to rotate the volume knob counter-clockwise until she heard the familiar, satisfying click. The light faded. She ejected the clip, checked to make sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She was bored.

She sometimes felt stupid waiting for him. If he wasn't coming, she could easily use the gun on herself and that would be that. It's not like she wanted to live in what was to be left of the world, anyway. She also knew she wasn't going to pull any of that Romeo & Juliet crap either, offing herself just seconds before he arrived. Despite the circumstances, she'd defiantly convinced herself she wasn't living in a tragedy, and she would wait as long as she had to for him to show up.

She stood up for the first time in 18 hours. Her body ached and she twisted and turned to loosen up. Her foot immediately fell asleep. She and the gun hobbled their way down the hallway and into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror and laughed. She looked awful. Her hair was matted and her face looked as though it hadn't been washed in days. It hadn't been washed in days. She grabbed the gun and walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the three-quarters-full bottle of water from the counter. It smelled awful in there. She headed back down the hall and into what was once her bedroom and began to search through the drawers. She found a dried up stick of mascara, some far too rosy blush, and some glittery blue eye shadow. She sighed. It was better than nothing, but she really wished she'd remembered her own makeup bag.

She headed back into the bathroom. She set the gun down on the back of the toilet and looked in the mirror again. She didn't want to look like that when he got there. She screwed the top off of the water bottle and took three sips. It tasted old and warm. She poured some into her hands and rubbed the dirt off of her face. The dirt streaked down her cheeks, and her attempts to clean them up with toilet paper left her with soggy white patches all over her face. She might have felt frustrated, but it kept her busy. She dipped the mascara brush into the small reservoir of water that had collected in the sink, replaced the cap, and shook vigorously. She applied the clumpy mascara to her eye lashes and was moderately pleased with the results, considering the circumstances.

She opened the blush and looked at it. She never wore blush, but she figured she should use what was available to her. She didn't have a brush. She took the cap off the mascara again and dipped the brush in the water. With her fingers she squeezed the clumps off the brush until the sink was filled with black water, and then she ran the brush along the inside of the blush container. The mascara brush felt rough against her cheeks and she couldn't tell if the red she was seeing was from the blush or the irritation. She tried to smooth it out with toilet paper, but it still made her look kind of juvenile. She decided to skip the eye shadow.

She picked up the gun, walked into her parent's room and sat down at her mom's vanity. She glanced out the window and into the backyard. The tangerine tree was on fire, and she knew the un-watered grass would provide ample kindling to keep the blaze going. She still felt like she had some time. She opened the top drawer, pulled out one of her mother's old hairbrushes, and began to work through her matted hair. She winced as she encountered tangle after tangle, but she didn't stop until she felt like she had semi-conquered the beast. She looked in the mirror. It wasn't the ideal way to go out, but it would have to do.

Kate took the gun and went back to the living room. She switched the tv on. Still silence. She switched it off. She sat down on the floor, ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She sat and looked at it for a while, and she flicked the safety on and off for what seemed like an hour. She looked out the sunroom window at the backyard. The tangerine tree fire had spread to the lemon tree, and it slowly made it's way down the slender trunk. She scanned the hills. The mansions were no longer visible, obscured by a thick, smokey haze. If he was coming, he'd better get there soon.

Daylight slowly crept in, but it wasn't much different than night. The sky was a slightly more dull orange, and a round, almost fully engulfed glowing disc hung above. Kate sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, gripping the pistol tight and shifting her nervous gaze from the growing backyard blaze to the front door. She heard gunshots. They were close.

She ran to the dining room window and crouched towards the lower panels, aiming the gun out the window. She quickly ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She flicked the safety on and off for good measure. She heard more shots, this time from a much bigger gun, and lots of shouting. Her stomach churned. She ejected the clip, made sure there were bullets in it, and slid it back in. She heard an explosion, and a pillar of smoke rose urgently above the line of trees just beyond her gravel driveway. The gunshots stopped. The shouting stopped.

Kate sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the gravel driveway and the trees beyond. Smoke began wafting from below the treeline, and she held the gun tighter than she'd held anything before. A person was a lot different than a bottle of balsamic vinegar, and she suddenly felt very unsure of herself. She didn't even know how to shoot a gun properly, and the only time she'd fired it she'd dropped it. She assumed she'd miss the first time, and if she dropped the gun, she was dead. She had seven bullets in the clip and one in the chamber. She at least knew that much. What if she needed all of them for just one guy? God help her if there were two. Maybe it would be better to just shoot herself and save them the trouble and the satisfaction. She was frozen.

A figure appeared in the haze. He limped slowly through the smoke, coughing as he struggled up the gravel driveway. Kate had the drop on him, and she raised the pistol and aimed it, her hand steady and her grip tight. She didn't think she'd miss. He dropped to one knee and coughed gingerly, struggled back to his feet and continued towards the house. Kate started to squeeze the trigger and stopped.

The closer he got, the clearer the figure was in the smoke and the haze. She instantly recognized the blonde hair, even through all the ash. He looked like shit, but somehow Kate regarded him as the most magnificent thing she'd ever seen. His half-tucked button down shirt was stained with blood, and he struggled to maintain his balance as he attempted to navigate the stairs to the porch. Suddenly, he saw her through the dining room window, staring at him down the barrel of a gun. He smiled, and it was the first time his blue eyes were visible through all the dirt and grime.

She set the gun down on the table and ran to the front door. The doorknob was hot from the heat of the flames, but she ignored the pain and flung the door open. He stood there, looking up at her from halfway down the stairs, as the bloodstain on his shirt spread. He smiled again.

“Hey there,” he said. She smiled.