How to Run Away With Your Lover at the End of the World

a post-apocalyptic short story about love

On starting:

When you run away with your lover at the end of the world, be sure to take his hand, not his wrist. The world may be ending, but your love is not. When you take his hand, he takes yours too; when you take his wrist, you take away the choice.

On rations:

The meager supplies are dwindling, and if you were with anyone else, you’d hide them, save them for yourself, fight if you had to. But you’re not. You’re with him, so you bicker over who deserves to eat less, pleading for the smaller portion, each word a dark shadow of your phone call conversations from the time before.

On morale:

When the sun goes down, the sky fills with a chemical orange, a perversion of the soft gradient sunsets of before. He watches with wonder stitched into his skin, with the same hope that somewhere beyond the horizon is a place that is safe and warm and green. You know better. You know that beyond the horizon is nothing more than the same barren lands and icy ruins you inhabit, that the orange in the air is only a reminder of the acid contaminating your every breath. But all he has left is hope. And all you have left is him.

On scavenging for food:

On lucky days you find rivers that run green, lakes with thin, scrapable films. The cracked water filter you carry has long lost its effect, but it’s the only container you have. Once, you splashed around knee-deep, your lover’s laugh bubbling like the streams. Now the pollution stings when it hits your eyes, and his actions are as stagnant as the waters.

The fish are slick and small; in the woods only the condors remain. You do your hunting in the ruins when the sun goes down. When luck finds you, you hear the quick scamper of a coon; when luck turns its back, you find a rotting, acrid scent.

You light the cooking fire; your lover cooks the finds. When it’s time to sleep you hide well away from the smoke.

On reassurances:

He doesn’t ask anymore whether you’d die for him. He already knows. Each time you touch him is an answer and a promise, your fingers combing through his hair, your palms pressing into his, each spark of damp heat, of skin on skin a hopeful, unfiltered truth, a desperate love letter from your soul to his.

You don’t ask if he’d die for you. You don’t want to know.

On picking up strays:

When you see a child crying at the edge of a road, your lover cradles it, cooing. Don’t fall into the trap. You’re already falling behind; you don’t need another mouth to feed or another weight to carry. You stand back and watch as your lover cradles the child, singing and swaying, and you fall in love again. You’ll never get another chance to see yourselves as parents.

On self-defense:

In your rucksack and between the folds of your clothes you’ve stashed a rifle, two dulled knives, and several sharpened sticks and stones. You sleep with the rifle clutched in one hand and your lover’s grip in the other; he sleeps with the child pulled to his chest. You spend dusk sharpening weapons for the next day; dawn, equipping and testing them. Your lover gives the child a knife to practice, teaching grips and stances and aim.

You know you’re safe, especially with your lover by your side, but you worry. In the dark you think you see faint silver glimmers above your head.

On life or death situations:

When your lover dangles off the edge of a cliff — or a highrise, it doesn’t matter — the only thing holding him up is the desperate grip of your frozen hand. You lost feeling hours ago. Your muscles scream for air; you don’t have enough strength to hold him much longer, let alone pull him up. He begs, his voice strained and impassioned; you shake your head, tears freezing in stripes down your cheeks. He lets go; you scream, you grip him harder; he begs. He is all you have left. No, he says. You have the child, you have the future — you have your life.

Your arm burns. You let go.

On ending:

When you run away with your lover at the end of the world, be sure he takes your hand, not your wrist. The world may be ending, but your love is not. When he takes your hand, he promises to stay by your side; when he takes your wrist, he gives himself the option to let go.