Obsidian Worlds by Jason Werbeloff

Author:Jason Werbeloff [Werbeloff, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: grim fantasy, gritty thriller, cyberpunk urban fantasy, dark scifi collection, metaphysical horror detective, science fiction gore, unexpected tales

F**king Through the Apocalypse

When Harold heard the news that the world would be ending in twenty-seven days, he wasn’t surprised.

“Fanny,” he would say while she flipped the butterscotch pancakes on Friday mornings, “the end is coming.”

“Yes dear,” she’d say, and serve up the plate of steaming pancakes. Fanny wasn’t what you’d call paranoid. She was the sort of woman who answered ‘NO NUMBER’ phone-calls, heard the telemarketer’s pitch all the way through, bought her perfume from the local street-merchant, and ate gas station pasties.

Fanny was the love of Harold’s life. And when Fanny died, Harold wasn’t surprised. Everything good that had ever happened to Harold, died.

“I see,” he’d said when he’d returned the Coroner’s call – Harold, unlike his late wife, never answered ‘NO NUMBER’s. “A stroke … I see. No, that won’t be necessary. She … she’s all yours now.”

That scorching Monday was the last time he’d left the apartment. So hot it was, the beef jerky he’d left out on the balcony that morning had dried by sunset. Fanny had never cared much for beef jerky. “You eat it, dear,” she’d say, and kiss him on the crown of his head.

Harold stared at that spot now in the dim light of the bathroom. Spat out the used toothpaste. He was convinced the continuous friction of her kisses were the sole reason for his vertex baldness.

He fumbled for the aftershave, and knocked it off the vanity.

“Hell Goddammit!”

Can’t see a thing in this fucking light. Not since they cut the power two days earlier.

“One spray is all you need,” Fanny would say. More than that, and she’d sneeze. You know the way some women sneeze. Three times. Always. “Bless you,” he’d sigh. “Bless you. Bless you.”

The stench of the shattered bottle of aftershave was unbearable in the tiny bathroom. He spluttered as he unlatched the window, and suckled the fresh air. Broken glass crunched under his slippers.

“Jesus hell,” he muttered. He swept up the shards and dumped them in the trash. Too full to close the lid. He checked the cupboard. Only one trash bag left.

Harold had planned for everything long before they’d announced the impending asteroid impact. “It’s coming, Fanny,” he’d say as she served up his Friday morning pancakes. “Zombies, comets, nuclear bombs, or famine. I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s coming.” He’d stocked up the spare room. Where Jesse used to sleep. “He left,” Harold had shouted when Fanny pushed him on the point. “He fucking left. Why not use the room?”

So when the news of the asteroid spread, Harold was already prepared for the shortages and the hoarding. Harold had thought of everything. Everything except trash bags. Trash bags and flowers.

Since the first day of their marriage, fifty-nine years ago, Fanny had kept a vase of flowers on the dining table. Lavender, irises, and chrysanthemums; sunflowers in summer, and roses in winter. Always the same. Every Monday around lunchtime, she’d make her way to the florist at the base of the building. She’d be back

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