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the flames, unconsciously counting every blow.
She wondered what time it was. Without the electricity, there seemed to be no way to tell. The dull gray skies of morning had become the leaden skies of afternoon, blending perfectly together in a depressing watercolor wash. She had failed to bring her watch, and God only knew where Russell had left his. He made his own time.
The exact hour of day was irrelevant, of course; but the number of passing minutes made all the difference in the world. She could not tell how long he’d been gone, couldn’t even speculate on how long it might take him to return.
It already seemed like hours.
THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Raine Weaver
87
Despite the large size of the house, she was already beginning to feel like a prisoner. A prisoner not only confined to one room, but tormented by the blustery, repetitive sounds of rampaging nature.
And tortured by the thought that Russell was out there alone and vulnerable to the storm, and she could do nothing to help.
The sleet dinged like popcorn against the roof, and she gazed sadly at the buttered bowls and champagne flutes from the night before. What would it have been like, she wondered wistfully, to make love with him…
“No!” she shouted, startled at the sound of her own voice. “No, not making love. Sex. Just plain, simple, raw, down and dirty sex.
‘Fucking buddies’. That’s all we’d be, just until this nightmare is over, and…”
A sizzling flash of lightning, immediately followed by a deafening explosion of thunder made her hold onto the sofa for dear life. “That’s it,” she whispered. “The earth is going to open up and swallow me any minute, just for telling that lie.”
As if agreeing, the earth seemed to tremble and heave, and another ear-razing sound brought her quickly to her feet and racing toward the window.
THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Raine Weaver
88
Almost afraid to look, Iris yanked the curtains back. Something had happened, something that made the house shudder on its foundations, as if in fear.
She was not superstitious. She did not believe in omens. But the sight of the huge old maple, toppled by the tempest, its clawing, brittle branches laying claim to half of the garage roof, took her breath away.
It had landed exactly where Russ had been parked, where she had last seen him get into his car.
She clutched at the curtain in fear. It meant nothing. He was fine. He was a strong, capable man. And he would return to her in a short time, laughing about how silly they’d been and teasing her about her eagerness to abandon her celibacy, and about giant tomatoes chasing people down the streets of the city.
She was perilously close to crying again, and she would not have it. She was of no use to him right now, but, at least, she could make herself somewhat useful here.
Iris stoked the fire, adding fresh logs and removing the remnants of her shoes so that it burned with a cheerful intensity. She cleared all of the dirty dishes, tempted to wash them, but decided it THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Raine Weaver
89
would be best to save the water. She lugged the sofa closer to the heat, and whimsically arranged the pillows so that they would be perfectly positioned for the two of them to lie there together.
Because no matter what news Russell brought back with him, she fully intended to end her celibacy—with him.
Grabbing the remaining full bottle of champagne, she parked it in what was now the slush of his ice cube bin and removed a rubbery package of thawing steaks. Placing it near the heat of the flames, she paused, wishing she had something delicious to wear for him. For all he meant to her, and all he’d tried to do to set her mind at ease.
The groaning sound of the felled tree, still buffeted and stirring on its side, brought her quickly back to reality. What if it should continue to move, if it should roll right against the house? What if she needed to clear quickly out? He’d burned her damned shoes!
She wondered what time it was. Without the electricity, there seemed to be no way to tell. The dull gray skies of morning had become the leaden skies of afternoon, blending perfectly together in a depressing watercolor wash. She had failed to bring her watch, and God only knew where Russell had left his. He made his own time.
The exact hour of day was irrelevant, of course; but the number of passing minutes made all the difference in the world. She could not tell how long he’d been gone, couldn’t even speculate on how long it might take him to return.
It already seemed like hours.
THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Raine Weaver
87
Despite the large size of the house, she was already beginning to feel like a prisoner. A prisoner not only confined to one room, but tormented by the blustery, repetitive sounds of rampaging nature.
And tortured by the thought that Russell was out there alone and vulnerable to the storm, and she could do nothing to help.
The sleet dinged like popcorn against the roof, and she gazed sadly at the buttered bowls and champagne flutes from the night before. What would it have been like, she wondered wistfully, to make love with him…
“No!” she shouted, startled at the sound of her own voice. “No, not making love. Sex. Just plain, simple, raw, down and dirty sex.
‘Fucking buddies’. That’s all we’d be, just until this nightmare is over, and…”
A sizzling flash of lightning, immediately followed by a deafening explosion of thunder made her hold onto the sofa for dear life. “That’s it,” she whispered. “The earth is going to open up and swallow me any minute, just for telling that lie.”
As if agreeing, the earth seemed to tremble and heave, and another ear-razing sound brought her quickly to her feet and racing toward the window.
THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Raine Weaver
88
Almost afraid to look, Iris yanked the curtains back. Something had happened, something that made the house shudder on its foundations, as if in fear.
She was not superstitious. She did not believe in omens. But the sight of the huge old maple, toppled by the tempest, its clawing, brittle branches laying claim to half of the garage roof, took her breath away.
It had landed exactly where Russ had been parked, where she had last seen him get into his car.
She clutched at the curtain in fear. It meant nothing. He was fine. He was a strong, capable man. And he would return to her in a short time, laughing about how silly they’d been and teasing her about her eagerness to abandon her celibacy, and about giant tomatoes chasing people down the streets of the city.
She was perilously close to crying again, and she would not have it. She was of no use to him right now, but, at least, she could make herself somewhat useful here.
Iris stoked the fire, adding fresh logs and removing the remnants of her shoes so that it burned with a cheerful intensity. She cleared all of the dirty dishes, tempted to wash them, but decided it THE LAST MAN ON EARTH
Raine Weaver
89
would be best to save the water. She lugged the sofa closer to the heat, and whimsically arranged the pillows so that they would be perfectly positioned for the two of them to lie there together.
Because no matter what news Russell brought back with him, she fully intended to end her celibacy—with him.
Grabbing the remaining full bottle of champagne, she parked it in what was now the slush of his ice cube bin and removed a rubbery package of thawing steaks. Placing it near the heat of the flames, she paused, wishing she had something delicious to wear for him. For all he meant to her, and all he’d tried to do to set her mind at ease.
The groaning sound of the felled tree, still buffeted and stirring on its side, brought her quickly back to reality. What if it should continue to move, if it should roll right against the house? What if she needed to clear quickly out? He’d burned her damned shoes!
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