The Bradbury Chronicles

The Last Invention

         The small pit fire crackled, spitting out sparks like petulant fireflies in flight. It offered little comfort against the early evening chill, yet the child sitting across from him didn’t seem to notice.

         He was dressed appropriately—thank goodness. Their stop at the derelict warehouse had rewarded their weary efforts with moth-eaten clothes that were still wearable.

         “Vroom vroom,” the boy whispered, spinning a model airplane in mid-air, mimicking a drunken bird in flight.

         Shadows danced across the child’s grime-smeared face. His too-long hair was matted with sweat, desperately in need of scissors to trim it into something resembling normalcy.

         He absently ran a trembling hand through the tangled mess, grimacing at the clumps that stuck to his palm. With a bitter smirk, he brushed them off onto his jeans and took another frustrated bite from a piece of crusted bread.

         What I wouldn’t give for a steaming bowl of chicken soup right now.

         “How much longer, Stefan?” came the quiet question from across the fire.

         Startled by the voice—rare as it was—Stefan quickly composed himself. By habit, he glanced at the broken watch on his wrist. The time was forever frozen at 3:45.

         When all hell broke loose, he thought.

         “Not long,” he said, offering a smile that might pass for reassuring. “You sure you don’t want to eat something before they get here?”

         He nodded toward the wrapped piece of bread beside the boy.

         The look the boy returned made Stefan’s heart sink. So adult. Was it pity? Understanding? Forgiveness?

         I should be furious with him, Stefan thought. He’s the reason the world’s gone to hell. No one asked him to meddle with things far beyond his years. God damn him for being such a genius—a deadly genius capable of building a device that nearly wiped out eighty percent of the planet.

         And he was only eight.

         Jesus.

         Stefan took another bite of bread. The dry crumbs tasted like sand, triggering the memory of that day.

         He was mowing the lawn that beautiful Saturday morning—an ex-Marine finally enjoying civilian life. Amanda, his wife, was in the kitchen finishing a birthday cake for one of her loyal customers.

         His neighbour waved from over the fence. Their golden retriever, Rover, barked in cheerful recognition.

         They were the typical happy people in a happy neighbourhood with happy plans until -

         What the hell is that? someone had asked.

         A storm maybe? another replied.

         It happened too fast for anyone to make sense of. One moment the sun blazed; the next, ominous clouds cracked with lightning. Rover barked furiously at the sky as dead birds rained down, followed by hailstones so hot they melted everything they touched.

         He could still hear Amanda screaming from inside the house as it caught fire—her voice, her body, everything, swallowed by the flames.

         He still didn’t know how he’d survived. He only remembered waking up in an underground facility, being briefed by the new authorities who demanded his help to find the person behind “The Device.”

         Drew L. Mitchum.

         Driven by grief and rage, Stefan accepted the mission. For over a year, he searched what remained of a world shattered beyond recognition. Apocalyptic movies had made it seem almost comedic. Reality wasn’t funny at all.

         Survival was a daily battle—against the air, against other survivors, against hopelessness.

         When he finally found his target, it was... anticlimactic.

         “You’re just a kid,” he’d said, stunned.

         The authorities only had a name. No photo. No age. Stefan had imagined some Einstein knockoff. Instead, he found a bleeding child beneath the rubble of a suburban home in Ohio, clutching a model airplane and staring at him with a mix of terror, defiance—and sadness.

         “I didn’t mean to do it,” Drew had confessed later, as their journey together began.

         No one ever does, Stefan thought bitterly. But here we are. One kid’s curiosity about nuclear power and the world goes poof.

         Suddenly, bright headlights pierced their camp. Three armoured vehicles rolled in. Men in military uniforms disembarked, guns at the ready. A woman in her late fifties, silver hair fluttering in the breeze, led them. She nodded at Stefan, then turned her attention to the child.

         “It’s finally good to meet you, Drew,” she said with a warm smile. “Shall we go? You and I have much to discuss—perhaps this time about making the world a better place, hmm?”

         She held out her hand. Drew stared at it for a long moment before placing his smaller hand in hers. He refused to let go of the airplane.

         It was the last thing his father ever built for him.

         “He wanted the world to burn,” Drew had said one night, as they huddled against the cold. “Mom died from an illness. He couldn’t afford the medicine. He was so angry—at everything. He said he’d finally finish ‘the thing’ he was working on. I didn’t mean to press the button. I was just trying to get my plane from his desk. I slipped, and then...”

         Stefan wondered how they’d react when they learned the real story: that the infamous Drew L. Mitchum was now ash. All that remained was a living legacy of one man’s rage.

         Good luck, kid, he thought, turning from the boy’s eyes—blue and filled with longing. Let’s hope you do make a difference, or choose to follow in Daddy’s footsteps.

         Because if it was the latter...

         God help them all.



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Word Count: 912
Prompt: Use in your poem or story the following: chicken soup, bread, evening, model air plane, happy people
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"