(rough) Untitled post-apocalypse excerpt.

I scream her name, needing a response from her. I knew it was weird when I woke up after she did—she never sleeps later than I do. But then she wouldn’t respond to my shaking her, and she wouldn’t respond to my voice, and now she’s not waking up to my screams. It’s not weird anymore. It’s disturbing. She could be more than just unconscious.

“Juno,” I say, my vocals almost giving up on me. I cup her face in my hands, praying for a miracle to exist just this once. I never ask for anything. Not from Juno, not from God, not from anything else that might hold the universe together. But I need this.

I need it not to be true. I need it not to be my fault.

It was, though. I killed Juno. I let her die.

In my final effort, I shove my ear against her chest, hoping to hear a steady heartbeat. Anything. Something that will tell me she’s not finished.

There is a heartbeat. It’s not steady. Like the inconsistent flutter of butterfly wings. I could let myself cry out of exhilaration, but I don’t. I keep myself together, letting the relief swallow me, but not for long. If that butterfly heart of hers decides to stop flickering, then I am alone in this world and relief would do no good.

I round her body and lift her, my elbows curling under her arms, her head lolling back against my shoulder. Her heels drag along the court floor as I tow her out of the mall. I wish I could leave her here. But two break ins over the course of seven days have led me to doubt the security of our home. She can’t stay here, not in this condition.

Pulling her out of the building is a harder task than I figured, taking longer than it should. She can’t be more than eighty pounds, so why does it feel twice that? I want to get her help now. I want to hurry. I want to talk to her, to give her words of encouragement. But she won’t hear me, and I can’t go any faster, and there is no help in the world. It’s as empty as it was yesterday. And the day before that. And the week, and the month, and the year before that. The streets are barren, silent except for my struggling to carry the girl. The buildings towering over us hold nothing but the science that killed us in the first place, the storehouses and the factories full of bodies that couldn’t survive as long as Juno and I have.

I scream. My throat is already sore from trying to wake Juno, dry from my own lack of hydration, and my head spins if I even raise my voice. But I scream again. I don’t know if I’m saying words, but in my head I’m crying for help. I need somebody to hear me.

Is it too much to ask for another miracle?

I don’t do it. I should, but I don’t. Nothing is going to respond. Nobody is going to hear, and even if they do, nobody is going to listen. I was wrong yesterday. The world is lonely all right, but maybe we are alone.

Maybe we are alone.