This is a little experiment, and though it does have potential I don't really plan on expanding it. Enjoy...?
October 23, 2077
1:52 a.m.
He couldn't breathe.
He was standing in an ocean of fire and he couldn't breathe.
His wife appeared before him, and as he reached out to her she crumbled to ashes. The skin melted from his hands, exposed muscle and bone dried and cracked in the heat.
Fire was everywhere.
Hot ash forced itself down his throat and he choked, tears stinging his face as his skin flaked away. Where was his gun?
He opened his mouth to scream-
Charles sits up, breathing heavily. Soaked in sweat and shaking, he places his handgun on the beside table and glances at the clock. His wife mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over. Blinking slowly, he stands. Pulling on his robe, he paces. He does not know what to think. He can't think.
"... Charlie?" His head snaps in the direction of the sound. His wife sits up, rubbing her eyes. "Did you dream about the war?" Charles shakes his head. He sits. He tries to- He can't explain.
He speaks.
"There was fire, everywhere." She wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his shoulder. "Rachel, you-" He chokes. He can't-
"You can tell me, it's okay. You're home, Charlie. You're safe."
"You died," he says in a small voice.
"Sh, shh... It's not real," she whispers, her lips ghosting across his ear. She pulls on him and he sways, leans back into her warmth. Rachel runs her fingers through his hair.
"I was..." His voice croaks. He tries again. "I was falling apart." Her fingertips slide over his stubble.
"How?" His eyes close and he grinds his palms into them.
"My skin... melted." He sighs. He opens his eyes.
"You were dying too?" she asks. Inquisitive. Concerned. Charles shakes his head.
"I was alive, but I was falling apart. It was painful." He sits up and she rubs circles on his back. She peels off his robe and pulls him under the sheets. In the semi-darkness, he stares unabashedly. She is so beautiful. Her hand trails across his jaw and lands between his fingers.
"I'm not going anywhere," she promises. "We are alive, and we are whole and that is never going to change."
"Rachel," he pleads. She responds.
They embrace in a tangle of limbs, and only then does he begin to feel safe.
9:07 a.m.
Her eyes flutter open, and she is content. Rachel inhales the scent of her husband, and shifts closer to him. She does not want to leave the bed. She smiles as his hands unconsciously wrap around her swollen abdomen. She knows Charlie will make a good father.
Her heart jumps into her throat when the telephone rings. She tries to get up, but his strong hands gently pull her back.
"We're asleep," he murmurs. Rachel pries herself out of his grip and answers the phone.
"Hello?" He props himself up to watch her. "Yes, this is she." She glances at him and smiles. Then stops. "I'll put him on." Charles leans across the bed and reaches for the receiver.
"Yes?" His face darkens, and he stands. Paces. She sits and watches him, feeling helpless. A stab of anxiety creeps up in her chest. His brow furrows. "I can do that." Rachel crosses her arms and glares in disapproval.
"Yes, sir," he says with finality. She can almost feel him saluting. He hangs up.
"Don't go," she pleads. He looks at her sadly.
"I am needed at the Pentagon." She frowns.
"You're retired." Charles can hear the words she does not say. You're done with that life.
"They need me." He knows she will not accept that. She doesn't.
"I need you." His eyes plead for her to understand. Finally, she scoffs. "Classified?" He nods. She shakes her head. "Don't be too long."
She helps him dress, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair.
They embrace at the doorway. "I love you so much," she breathes into his chest. Charles buries his face in her hair.
"I love you more than you could know." Rachel watches him drive away, waving sadly. Today was going to be just for us... She turns her face to the overcast skies.
The clouds reflected in her eyes do not mask the deep-seated worry she feels.
9:38 a.m.
The walls of the compound loom ominously as he stops at the security checkpoint. The guard recognizes him on sight.
"They're expecting you, Major." The word is bitter in his ears, and he grips the steering wheel tighter as he nods. He does not want to be here. He does not understand why he is needed. He thinks of Rachel as he enters the building. He should not be here.
Charles feels a twinge of unease when his old commanding officer tells him to sit down for the news. He heard the words in the back of his mind like static on the radio.
"... west coast was bombed this morning..." He does not think of the impending doom hurtling through the skies. He does not think of the massive loss of life. He thinks of Rachel and he should not be here.
A siren pierces the air and his mind goes blank. Charles tries to cut through the panicked crowds, to find his car, to get to his wife. He is dragged back by hands and screams, and a mute terror punches into his gut as he is swept into the underground bunker. He tears at the walls in frustration until his fingers bleed. Banging and pleas for sanctuary are muffled through the thick door of the fallout shelter.
Minutes pass in silence.
The woman next to him feverishly recites what must be a prayer in a language he does not understand. The terror in the darkness is palpable and he swallows thickly. He clenches his fists so tightly his nails bite into his palm and draw blood.
The rattle of gunfire makes Charles jump and reach for the cold handgun in his jacket, but the other occupants do not notice, as if there was no noise. He does not draw his gun. He does not remember the burning smell of Anchorage. The little blue pill he takes to get rid of the nightmares is not in his pocket, and a nervous sweat permeates the air as he clamps his shaking hands under his arms.
Charles is thrown from his feet when a tremendous shock wave shakes the building. Several people are crushed as parts of the ceiling collapse. Panic rises in the crowd. Hands flying to his head, he ducks. Waits for the impact and the jeers of the arrogant Chinese. The smell of blood and terror are too familiar and bile rises in his throat.
Hours pass and the dim light from above barely illuminates the photo of Rachel that he carries in his wallet. He traces her face with his fingers and repeats their mantra in his head.
"You're home, Charlie. You're safe, it's not real."
He loses track of time, and a sense of urgency overwhelms him when the doors are opened by survivors. The daylight is muted, and occupants of the bunker hesitantly shuffle out. Many stay behind. Charles does not know what to expect. His skin itches as the sight of the ruined city he once called home was drowned out by a single thought.
Rachel.
6:01 p.m.
He entertains a faint hope that his Georgetown home will still be intact. Screams and fires and cries for loved ones echo through the ruined streets. Recognizing the remains of an ugly townhouse on the corner of a street, he breaks into a run. He'll turn the corner, and his home will be there, his wife waiting, just like always.
The house is scorched. He kicks the door open and sees the entire back wall has been blasted away. Her name bubbles over his lips.
"Rachel?" Blood pounds in his ears as he waits for a response. He calls again, and sprints to the kitchen. Then to the bathroom. He bounds up the stairs with panic rising in his chest, a desperate thought that she made it to a shelter in time.
The scream rising in his throat dies at his lips.
A charred skeleton lies on the bed, turned away from the back wall.
Charles falls to his knees and retches. He wasn't fast enough. His skin itches as he lies beside her remains.
"I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm so, so sorry." The tears threatening to spill over finally do when he notices the tiny skeleton curled under her ribcage.
He reaches out to take the remains of her hand, and it crumbles to dust in his fingers.
This time, he does scream.