The sun standing high in the sky, shining, in all its golden glory as the June heat wave poured in; or at least that's how it should have been. The air now was thick with the oppressive warmth of the now red sun, shimmering above the cracked asphalt of
what had once been a bustling suburban neighborhood. The few birds that still lived chirped lazily in the distance, their calls muffled by the haze, as they sought refuge in the sparse, withered trees. On a playground, choked by the passage of time, the creaking sounds of the merry go round pushed by the wind replaced the kids that would have usually helmed the contraption themselves; the creaking was the closest thing to the cry of a 12 a year old with a melted ice cream cone in the June heat.
Emeka George remembered the world as it once was, or at least, he tried to—not as it was now, but as it used to be, in those halcyon days when life seemed eternal. The kids playing on the swings, their gleeful cries as they leapt into the air, the sand between
their fingers as they built castles that would be gone by nightfall. Memories of the slides, the seesaws, and the merry-go-rounds spinning through his mind like a broken record, skipping over the details as they blur into the haze of a slowly deteriorating mind.
The days of friendly conversations with his neighbor, Mr. Thompson, down Onwe Road, or the warmth of his daughter's small hand in his own as he picked her up from school, linger like ghosts. If Emeka tried hard enough he could still hear her giggles as she
babbled on about what her friend, Jane, did during break time, her excitement a pure, unfiltered joy that seemed to light up the world. They would rush home, eager to catch dinner before the sun dipped below the horizon. And there she was, his light – Mary, always waiting at the door, her smile as welcoming as the aroma of a home cooked meal. Oh, Mary George had such an angelic smile—a smile that never wavered, even in her final moments.
Why do I remember now, of all days? Emeka's mind tossled as memories that he thought were reduced to cinders as the world burnt resurfaced. It is said that a man seeshis life flash before his eyes at the moment of his death. Maybe this is my time, maybe it's a premonition, an omen, or a prelude to the inevitable. One thing, however, was certain even as he feared that
his madness would take him, even now as the crimson sun hung ominously over his
head and as he scurried like a mouse wondering when and where the cat would
strike: The playgrounds would forever be devoid of life, his wife would never
carres his cheeks and his little girl would never be in his arms again. The end could never end if you live in the end.
Emeka's steps tapped the floor lightly as he journeyed ever so carefully through the rubble of what once was, the ruins of civilization crunching beneath his worn boots. The shattered remains of houses and buildings loomed like the skeletal hands of the past, clawing at the sky in a futile attempt to hold on to what was already lost. The
wind whistled through the broken windows, carrying with it the faint scent of decay and ash. Here, in this desolate landscape, the echoes of the world that once lingered like shadows, haunting the ones left behind.
Sometimes, when the silence grew too heavy, Emeka found myself wondering how society came to a tragic end. It was hard not to. "The day the world stood still" or "The
beginning of the end"—those were the phrases thrown around by the few forgotten
he had encountered. An acquaintance, whose fate now unknown, described it as a
day that time stopoed. Blessed are the righteous and cursed the ungodly. No one had foretold that June 16th, 2066, would be the last day ever officially recorded. A day that began like any other, only to unravel into chaos.
Emeka flinched as he heard a voice—one he hadn't heard in years, calling him with an honorific only one person had ever used: "Daddy." His heart stopped. My daughter. He could hear her voice, clear and unmistakable, beckoning him through the thick veil of darkness. It had to be her he thought as I stumbled toward the quivering
voice in the dark alley. I knew she was alive, she had to be. My little girl, my angel, is waiting for me.
"Daddy, please, I'm in pain!" she cried harder, her voice trembling with desperation, drowning out all reason. The sound of her suffering pierced his chest, compelling him to move faster, to find her, to save her from whatever horror had found her in this
godforsaken place.
I reached out to take her into his arms, just like he did 15 years ago, before she was taken from him; before this hell on earth began. She was just as he remembered — so small, so delicate, her eyes filled with the same innocence that had once brought light to his world. As he drew closer, something in her expression shifted. That innocent smile, the one he had held onto for so long, twisted into something grotesque, something wrong. Emeka's heart lurched as the root of his neck felt cold, a shiver running down his spine and suddenly, the world tilted.
He could feel the ground getting closer, as if falling, even though he hadn't moved. The image of his daughter flickered, her form wavering like a mirage, before she began to fade away, her evil grin still present, even as she disappeared into the shadows.
Emeka could still feel his body, even as my head bounced across the pavement, the sharp, metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. He had been beheaded—alive,
but beheaded—and yet, all he could think about, even as the pain dragged him toward
unconsciousness, was how he could no longer remember that innocent smile, no
matter how hard he tried. All that remained, all that replaced those beautiful memories, was that dark grin, on a face that was identical to his baby girl.
"Damn, that was brutal" a tall slim man in a fancy dark outfit remarked to the woman in the black trench coat standing beside him. He spoke with a casual indifference, as though he had seen this sort of thing a hundred times before.
"I know he's still alive and all, but damn, that was your father" he muttered under his breath, casting a sideways glance at her as she cleaned the edge of her sword with a fine cloth.
The blade gleamed in the red light, its surface reflecting the dull, gray sky
above. She gave him no reply; she didn't have to, and she didn't need to. Her
silence was answer enough.
With a deliberate, almost reverent motion, she picked up the man's severed head, cradling it in her hands as she looked at the face of the man who had given her life and raised her. Her cold eyes, usually hard as steel, softened for a brief moment as she rubbed his cheek with her thumb, the gesture a fleeting echo of the love that had once existed between them.
Carefully, she placed his head into a safe, closing the lid with a soft click, and turned to the car. Her voice, low and melodic, rang out like music in the background, commanding and undeniable. "Get the rest of him."
The man who accompanied her wanted to protest, but he bit his tongue, thinking better of it. He knew better than to argue with her, the most dangerous woman in the world. Instead, he sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, as he moved to restrain the headless body, lifting it with a grunt and tossing it into the back seat of the SUV like
a bag of garbage.
As the engine roared to life, the woman climbed into the passenger seat, the safe resting securely on her lap. The wind whipped through the open windows, tugging at her hair as they sped down the empty road. She closed her eyes, letting the breeze wash over her, feeling the last remnants of the past slip away like sand through her
fingers.
Memories of her childhood danced through her mind, unbidden and unwanted. She saw herself running through the fields behind their house, her father chasing after her, his laughter filling the air. She saw her mother, Mary, kneeling by the garden, her hands
dirty with soil, and her smile radiant in the summer sun. Those were the days of innocence, of peace—a time before the world had gone mad. But those memories, no matter how vivid, held no power over her now. They were relics of a life long gone, and she had no place for sentimentality in the task that lay ahead.
She knew what she had to do, and she was running out of time. The end was only beginning, and she would see it through to the bitter finish, no matter the cost.
The road stretched out before them, a twisted ribbon of cracked asphalt leading into the unknown. The sky above was as blood, an endless expanse of swirling clouds that seemed to press down on the earth, suffocating all that remained. The future was as bleak as the landscape, but for the woman in the passenger seat, it didn't matter.
The past was dead, the present was hell,and the future was inevitable.
As they drove on, the woman's thoughts drifted back to her father, to the man he had once been. A part of her, buried deep beneath layers of resolve and determination, mourned the loss of the man who had loved her unconditionally, who had protected her from the evils of the world. But that part of her was small.