It seems fair to say that when the world falls to hell, it is an undeniable truth that it will rain. Not the slow, steady rain that lulls children to sleep, nor the mist that creates an impenetrable coating on everything, but the heavy torrent that creates sheets of near black at any hour of the day will most assuredly grace the dying civilization with its presence for days. The remaining survivors of the apocalypse must endure it with silence because how could one possibly move from the battle for life to such a mundane complaint as the weather? Each waits in brooding tension, anticipating the moment someone dares to voice their frustrations, so that they may lash out, despite the general agreement.
The first to mention the unbearable rain was a young boy. He had no one who would hold and comfort him, no one who would whisper reassurances in his ear and stroke his hair when he was frightened. The whole ordeal had drained everyone emotionally, leaving no room in their hardened hearts for a child with dirty feet. As the words, "Why won't it stop raining?" left Dean Campbell's mouth, the jackals descended, a horrifying melee of jeers and shouts swamping him. He covered his ears with his hands. As he squeezed his eyes, he made wish after desperate wish for them to leave him alone, for things to go back to normal, for his mama to return from the doctor's quarters. He was never allowed to go there, not even to visit. It had been a week since he had last seen his mama. His tears went unnoticed by the screaming horde.
As he sat in the middle of the former chapel, the room slowly fell silent, allowing even the final echoes ricocheting from the highest eaves to make their last cries. The boy dare not move, refusing to become the center of yet another fracas. His tears were spent, and he felt empty, surrounded by those who would expel him from the only safety known to them without a spare moment of regret.
Dean ignored the hand on his arm. His eyes were tightly shut, fear keeping him rigidly still.
"It's all right." The voice was a low growl, intimidating as he imagined the person to whom the gruff murmur belonged to. He shook the child's arm almost imperceptibly, and Dean raised his head just enough to meet brown eyes with his own red ones. The man nodded and stood, reaching out a hand to help the boy to his feet. He led Dean past a cluster that glared at the floor, but said nothing. The two sat in a pew in the corner of the sanctuary as the crowd returned to grumbling, with occasional shouts for action.
"You shouldn't be alone, kid," the man said. His dark hair was matted, as was most people's, and he had a full beard, edged with silver. Bushy eyebrows made his eyes look grave and humorless. He was enormous in the seat, legs pushing against the next row, while the child's dangled. "Where're your parents?"
The boy kept his eyes fixed on the hymnal splayed open on the ground surrounded by pieces of the wooden shelf that had rotted through. "My mama is still hurt. They won't let me visit her."
"And your dad?"
"I don't know."
The man stayed silent for several moments. Curious, Dean glanced at him. His hand curled around his mouth and into his moustache. His brow was furrowed, eyebrows knitted into one as he stared blankly at the enormous golden cross resting at the front of the chapel. There were no windows, only battery-powered lanterns and candles that created sharp contrasts and flickering shadows across his face, making him appear simultaneously harsh and troubled.
"Well, you can't just be riling folks up. Things are real tense now," he said slowly. His entire countenance seemed heavy, voice thick. "You just stick with me, until your mom's feeling better. We'll get through this alright." With a bitter snort, the man fell even quieter and seemed to speak only to himself as he muttered, "Just an apocalypse, after all. The human race has been worse off."