Jack Little was a stranger to destruction. She was not acquainted with Death, nor could she even begin to fathom the terrifying depths of his darkness. So when his blackened grip loomed over the sprawling city of New York, she was not prepared for the swallowing pitch that overwhelmed the life hurrying along the streets. All of the innocent dog walkers, soccer moms, overextended businessmen, blotted out in an instantaneous blast of deadly energy. Nuclear war. An attack on the United States’ largest city.

The beginning of Hell on Earth.

She recalled the ground shaking, first. The cups and plates in the kitchen cupboards were rattling and crashing into one another, creating an irritating din. There were strange tremors in the air, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. Jack and the other students thought it was an earthquake and immediately ducked for cover in the nearby living room, clinging to each other in a futile attempt for stability, physical and mental. Deep down, they probably knew a mere earthquake could not create such a lethal atmosphere. There was a certain unnatural, inhuman fright that a natural disaster could not conjure up. And in half a second, they would find their secret suspicions to be entirely too true.

The next few images were blurry at best, but the young woman remembered the echoes of shattering glass and wood, the shrill twisting of metal, and above all else, the sounds of screaming. Her own lungs on fire from the violence of the shockwave and the cries it elicited. But all of the destruction grew foggy and blank after pieces of the ceiling descended upon her and the others, whose fear-fueled grips left bruises on her hands and wrists. When the blackness enveloped her, she thought she was surely going to meet Death. But it was not so, and unfortunately she was marked to survive.

What felt like hours later, she woke up to a worse chaos. Gunfire, blood, cries for help. A tumultuous, fiery pain erupting from her head.

Fighting through the turmoil, Jack slowly struggled to collect her shattered mental being, registering which body parts she could move and which ones were trapped under debris. She could feel someone’s grip on her left wrist, a tightness she hoped meant they were still alive. She tried to raise her head up to survey the damage, but the throbbing pain brought it right back down.

“Help…” Her voice was a husky, hurting ghost, barely more than a whisper when she had meant to yell. She tried again, “Help!” A little more volume, and the sound of oncoming footsteps under the din of devastation told her she had somehow succeeded. Someone yelled for reinforcements as they began to remove the debris covering her body, and she heard other voices, spurring some hope inside her. Surely her friends were okay, seeing as how there were still people walking and talking and helping others.

Jack hazily recalled being helped up. She was told to pack, that she had to run. Someone said there was war raging. War? How could there be war? She was only sixteen; she was too young for war. Too young for whatever the hell was going on. But despite her confused protests, she did as she was told and headed to her room, haphazardly wiping away the blood falling into her eyes. It burned and mixed with her tears, leaving a trail along a path strewn with death. At the time, she didn’t know the sheets were covering bodies.

There was no door to open in Jack’s room. Its splintered pieces covered the surrounding area and into the room, which thankfully did not look as totally destroyed. There were remnants of glass and wood and general debris everywhere though, and it was hard to find safe places to walk over, as well as under. A particular spot in the ceiling looked ready to collapse at any instant.

She didn’t notice the body until she saw the bullet holes.

It was Elizabeth.

Oh, God.

Through the stained windows of a beat-up Jeep Wrangler, one could barely make out a slumbering figure. A young teenaged girl lay on the backseat, a dirty blanket covering her up to her chest. Her once delicate hands were balled up into tight fists, a sign of disturbance and anxiety even in a state of dreaming. It wasn’t that the dreams were bad or frightening; she wasn’t having nightmares. No, the girl was dreaming of her home, of family and friends, all smiles and laughter. No sign of the recent destruction that had plagued the Earth. The girl was dreaming of faces she would never see again.

Washington D.C., the second city to go nuclear. The country’s capital was completely decimated in an explosion worse than the one in New York City. Radiation reportedly extends for miles and miles. There are said to be no survivors in the immediate area, and in the country’s state of war and panic, it is unknown when a full survivor search will be conducted. The president, transported to an unknown safehouse right before the bombing, is already calling for retribu—kssshkzz.

It seemed those days, Jack could never stop crying. Salt water tears constantly flowed from reddened eyes, accentuating the dark rings under her lash lines. Her eyes looked bruised sometimes, when the sleep deprivation got severe. It was a look that she saw on many survivors, and a look she saw on many of the dead. She never thought she’d get used to seeing those haunting faces, pale and blue and utterly hollow. A mocking shadow of life in their final expressions. The images burned in her mind, the way her tears burned down her face.

It seemed those days, any semblance of “home” was nonexistent. Houses, apartments, dirty boxes, all in shambles. Any sort of family, real or imagined, wiped out. Schools for mutants…overtaken by angry mobs. (Jack had yet to return to the mansion, in fear of what she might find there.) No one stayed in one place anymore. Some traveled in packs, but those were often short-lived, suspicion and betrayal the causes of disbandment. Jack hadn’t joined or formed any groups since her haphazard separation from the other Xavier students. During those days, she roamed the desolate streets alone, locking herself in abandoned cars or buildings whenever she had the chance. She didn’t trust human contact.

It seemed those days, the teenager’s mutation was the best thing that had ever happened to her. How else could she have warded off thieves or crooks, and how else could she gather supplies? (And by “gather supplies,” she secretly meant steal. It was not something she was proud of.) At first glance, she was a helpless little girl, barely old enough to drive, let alone fight for her life. Easy pickings for anyone bigger than her. But it was to her great satisfaction when offenders fled after witnessing her mutation, or, if they were reckless and stupid enough, after experiencing the mutation firsthand. Truly, without her powers, Jack could not have survived.

It seemed those days, she preferred being electric. She felt less that way. Talked less that way. Interacted with humanity less that way. Because who could she believe in anymore? Humans, mutants, they were all alike. All violent criminals in the aftermath of the apocalypse. The evils of humanity were finally basking in the spotlight. During those days, those sorts of thoughts occupied her time and kept her from going insane, because surely a nihilistic attitude was better than a crazy one...or an introspective one.

It seemed those days, desperation ruled the streets. Men, women, kids…doing anything to get by in the apocalypse. It didn’t matter how seedy or disgusting it was, how it affected others. Anything to survive in a collapsed society.

It seemed those days, everyone was dying. Whether from radiation, sickness, starvation, or murder, it was all the same.

It seemed those days, life was a thing of the past. Death was the only truth left.

Some blamed the man with the horn…a self-proclaimed god walking amongst men. They said he and his church of fanatics was to blame. Others claimed the Super Unicorn Man was the best thing that had happened post-apocalypse. His church was helping others survive, with its offers of food and shelter. Some rejected their handouts. Others begged for them. Jack wasn’t sure what to think, much less do.

On one hand, if the half-hearted rumors were true, that Sebastian Csendes truly was to blame for the nuclear holocaust, then the teenager had no reason to revere him, or even tolerate him. In fact, she would hate him. But the rumors were hardly audible whispers in the darkest of alleyways, and the goodness of his actions throughout the apocalypse contradicted such whispers. She hardly believed he was a god, but he was certainly a powerful man. A powerful man who could heal any illness, any injury, and even grant immortality. Of course, those perks did not come without a price: namely, eternal devotion and service to him. What a thing to give…All of one’s free will, for the “reward” of eternal life.

Why would anyone want to live forever?

Why would anyone want to continue living in such a horrific world? Jack did not understand. She did not understand many things, but this was one of the larger mysteries for her. Whenever she saw the church members on the outskirts of the Town, preaching about the goodness of their god, insisting everyone swear fealty to him, the girl wondered how they viewed the conditions around them. Hunger and sickness, violence and betrayal. Above all, insurmountable pain. How was any of that worth living for? How was any one person, even if they were a god, going to fix all of that?

She rolled those thoughts around in her head as she found her next bed for the night. It was a smashed up sedan, its back end so destroyed it was impossible to discern the make or model of the car. The faded paint suggested it was once an ugly olive color, though it had become much uglier. The sides were relatively unscathed, however, and the back seat looked large enough for her. It would be cramped and uncomfortable, but she was too tired to look for a better alternative. Traveling around in her electric form, no matter how adept she had become at controlling it, was incredibly draining. Though she had the will, she did not have the stamina to maintain it for so long, or for so many short bursts. And she needed to squeeze in a few hours of rest before the sun went down and the night creatures crawled out of the woodwork, anyway.

She pulled on the door handle, praying it was unlocked, and cursed her luck when the door didn’t budge. She tried the other side. No dice. The front doors? Nope.

Darn it.

Really, all she wanted was an easy evening. For once in her godforsaken, post-apocalyptic life, Jack wanted a comfortable bed—whether it be the backseat of a car or a torn up mattress in some abandoned house—and have a nice, dreamless sleep. Just a few hours void of destruction and crime, a blanketing cloud of absolute, untouched white. Empty. She wanted to think nothing, see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, even for a couple minutes. Was that too much to ask?

If gods like Super Unicorn Man existed, why were they allowing such travesties and hardships? Why couldn’t people like her get a frigging break for once? What had she ever done? She felt like screaming, but that immature part of her had been forcibly stifled long ago. Instead, she put down her patchwork backpack and started banging on the helpless vehicle, fists and poorly-covered feet leaving small dents all over the front end. She felt stupid, so very stupid, for overreacting over such a simple problem, but the irritation and aggression piled up from the past few weeks had to escape somehow. At least it was an inanimate object she was taking it out on, and not a person.

“Why!” Punch.
“Can’t!” Punch.
“I!” Kick.
(“Ow!” Stubbed toe.)
“Get!” Smash.
“A!” Knee.
“Break!” Two-handed clobber of internal desperation and desolation.

…..

She felt callow and selfish and self-absorbed when it was over, but that only meant she could think straight. She calmly whipped out a tarnished metal baseball bat from her pack and aimed it at the driver’s side window, swinging a couple of times before finally breaking the glass. A few minutes later, she found herself half-laying in the backseat, her back against her backpack against the door, her feet stretched out in front of her. It was cramped and uncomfortable, but at least she had something to lie on.

Quickly Jack found herself falling asleep, the exhaustion of mutational overextension and general emotional chaos catching up to her. She needed to savor the rest…she’d be awake in a few hours anyway, due to the fear of what lurked in the dark. She felt safer if her eyes were open during those particular hours of the night.

As the teenager’s eyes closed, she prayed for oblivion instead of the usual nightmares. To whom she whispered her words, was unknown…