[A response.]

         

Some days, there was the sobbing. The heart-wrenching, chest-wracking sobs, the tears and wails and anguish, the relentless, out-of-control heartbreak that hadn't come since childhood. And then the frantic gulping of air in between choking tears, like a drowning man looking for redemption in one last inhalation of oxygen before sinking forever into the cruel, burning sea.

Some days, there was happiness. The gentle, benevolent warmth that spread over you and made you smile, not because you yourself had been made happy but because the one you really cared about, wherever they were, was happy now. Those days were pleasant, but selfishly few.

Some days, there was only nothing. Just the desert wasteland, of the body, of the mind. The sand and the heat and the sun, stretching forever, into a silent, burning infinity. Those days came most often, and they always hurt the worst.







"We're going to die here, in a hallway."

Broken from an unpleasant reverie, but a reverie nonetheless, she turned and snapped irritably, "We're not going to die."

"Right, yeah, I know. But the beginning and the end, in a hallway. Doesn't that…I don't know, mean something?"

"Look." A little more kindly, but not any less hard—much the way the cool steel of the gun rested, ready to strike, in her warm hands. "I appreciate life's little ironies as much as the next man. They're what keep me going. But we're not going to die."

It was late. Not in the evening, or in the day, or even in the year, though certainly in the universe's plan for humanity (or, at least, humanity on Earth). There was just that general sensation of foreboding and tense unease; even at high noon, or new dawn, it would have been late.

Inside, in the hallway, there was quiet. The shuffle of boots on old carpet, the scrape of a jacket against the wall, the click of cold steel snapping into place. Sometimes, when these sounds faded into white noise and the silence was too much to bear, there would be conversation. Mostly, they didn't talk. They had been good at a lot of things, but never really at talking.

Outside, there was moaning, and shuffling; piteous noises, dark noises, muffled nightmare noises. Even as the fluorescent lighting seeped out underneath the doorway from the hallway to the outside world, those noises crept in. They weren't noises you heard and thought twice about. They were noises you heard when you were about to die. When you were dead. As good as dead.

Quietly, solace, an unexpected kindness. "You've never been as afraid as you sound."

Quietly, finally, a surprised admission. "…No."

There was never any doubt who took charge in this relationship—or at least, not on the surface. And the surface was where things counted, usually. But here in the dark hours, the late hours, the death hours, was where a human was stripped bare, and you saw all the ugliness in their soul, all the torment and pain and raw emotion, every black spot hidden beneath idle conversation.

Unless the death hours weren't here yet.

Or unless the ugliness didn't, deep at the core, exist.

"Remember your cargo pants, and those old t-shirts?" His gun, a darker grey, and larger, was held at the ready. They fought back-to-back, or were ready to fight, but, breaking formation, he craned over his shoulder to look at her.

"I remember." On the tip of her tongue, a sharp scolding. Instead, she turned to him. "Remember when you used to write about these days, instead of living them?"

"I remember." He stood: she didn't need to give the command. She joined him: he didn't need to ask. "I remember saying goodbye…"

"But it never really took. I keep winding up here, with you. …Always about to die." A laugh? Not in this dark place. Not at this late hour. But her smirk made a sound, if you were listening carefully.

"…In the hallway."

"Yes."

Without speaking, they moved forward, towards the door, towards the nightmare sounds, the crawling, hissing, moaning things, the dying things. Towards the world, or what was left of it.

"Ready to die, Captain?" He checked his gun one last time, though it was loaded and cocked.

She smiled, and tossed her head. Childish. Arrogant. 'Don't be so dramatic.' She didn't have to say it: it was in her eyes. No ready-set-go. No one-two-three. A swift kick, her gun at the ready, and the door was flying open. Towards the world, or what was left of it.

"…Not today, cowboy."