Love in the Apocolypse

Fiction by Lauren Purnell

Jonah bit into an apple. It was mushy, sweet, almost rotten. But he hadn’t had fruit in months, and Jonah would never pass up such an opportunity. And besides, Jonah deserved it after what happened last year. The secrets. The gunshots. The blood of his lover staining his hands. 

In the first month of The Plague, a group of former office workers from Queens took him in. They showed him how to shoot a rifle, ride a horse, and start a fire. And he needed that, being a sheltered graduate student at a university in the wealthy part of Manhattan. Jonah was tasked with finding food for the group, along with a man called Michael, who was an inch shorter than him and smelled like warm spices and smoke. They spent their nights talking by the fire, cuddled up to each other. It was easy, those days. Sure, the world was collapsing, but at least he had someone’s shoulder to rest on. 

Now, he couldn’t afford to rest his eyes. Not even for a moment. 

The only tech that worked was the kind before the age of the Internet. Jonah listened to his music on a portable cassette player. While he did his scouting from the Plateau, 90s hip hop and R&B records played softly in his ears. It was what his mother listened to, back when Jonah was young. On Fridays, the gangs collected their dues with violence and intimidation. It was best to lay low. Jonah had lost his group, and he was a rogue now—life for rogues in this city was tough. 

Right now, the horizon was clear. Jonah exhaled. He pulled at a curl, twirling it between his fingers. His hair needed a trim. He grabbed the shears from his utility pouch and got to work, finding the split ends by touch. 

Then, rustling from behind him. He dropped the shears, resting his hand on the gun’s grip. No one else knew about the Plateau but Michael. And he was dead. 

Whoever found Jonah and the Plateau was a clever fellow. But also, a severe threat to Jonah’s life. 

Jonah quieted his breathing, to make sure he was undetectable. More, louder rustling came from the bushes, and Jonah saw the heel of an olive green boot. Camouflage. This was no newcomer to these parts. 

He spun to face the bushes, keeping an eye on the rest of his surroundings. Jonah released the safety on his pistol. He sucked in a breath. 

When the other human finally revealed themself, Jonah positioned his gun right at their head, finger ready on the trigger. “Stop right there.” 

The person, still holding their rifle, held their hands up. “I mean no harm.” A warm, deep voice. A few shades lighter than Jonah, dark brown hair sticking to his face with sweat. Muscular. Without weapons, he could take down Jonah easily. 

“Drop the rifle and I’ll believe you.” Jonah did not waver; his voice did not shake. 

He placed the rifle on the ground, like parent putting their child to sleep. Then his hands went up above his head. 

Jonah lowered his pistol, shifting away from the man in front of him, for just a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, He swore he saw him pull out another long range weapon. On instinct, Jonah pulled the trigger. 

The man [name: Jesus. metaphor for a savior????] yelped. When Jonah took a closer look, the man didn’t have a weapon at all. He’d just shot someone unarmed. Jonah cursed under his breath, then walked to go help him. The bullet pierced his leg. Blood gushed from the wound. 

Well, now Jonah felt bad. He yanked his medical emergency kit from his pack, and approached the man. “I’m sorry. I thought you had a gun.” 

He smiled—why would he smile after being shot by a stranger?—and said, “I understand. I’ve made that mistake before.”

Jonah didn’t know what to say. He figured the man would attack, and Jonah would have to flee across the city again, watching his back at every moment. Instead, Jonah was about to fix his bullet wound. 

He stumbled over to the man, who was now slumped against a tree, panting. Jonah learned how to take care of injuries only a month ago. The steady gush of red liquid still freaked him out, and being near to another person—especially a stranger—made his heart pound. 

Jonah did exactly what his former crew taught him, and what he’d read in the old medical manuals. 

“You must come here often,” the man said. “You guard this place like it’s your palace.” 

Jonah grunted in response, yanking out the last piece of bullet shrapnel he could find. The man winced. Jonah could feel the man’s eyes on him, curious and waiting. 

“What?” asked Jonah. 

The man’s lips quirked up. “You haven’t told me your name.” 

He debated lying, giving the man a false identity to protect himself. Instead, he said, “Jonah.” 

The man didn’t wait for Jonah to ask before responding. “My name is Jesús.” 

“Nice to meet you,” muttered Jonah, because he didn’t know what else to say. He rinsed off the wound, wrapping the largest bandage he could find around Jesús’s thick, muscular legs. 

Something about his presence drew him in. He wanted to talk to him, ask questions. Jesús seemed like the listening type. Someone who wouldn’t shy away from the mess that Jonah was, in the aftermath of last year’s incident. 

Jonah stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “I’ll help you down from here.” 

Jesús laughed. “Can’t I rest for the night?” 

Jonah blinked. He hadn’t considered that. “Oh. Sure.” Hesitantly, he sat back down, avoiding Jesús’s eyes and staring at the setting sun. It was purple and pink, like wild berries. “Where are you from?” 

“Born and raised in the Bronx, but I moved to Massachusetts for work. Then my mother became ill, and I moved back to take care of her.” 

Jonah nodded. It was dark now, and he turned to face Jesús. “Is that your real name?” He knew some people who changed their names after The Plague. 

“You’re looking for a reason to distrust me,” said Jesús. Was he in Jonah’s head? 

Jonah pulled at a loose thread in his jeans. “I just don’t know you, that’s all.” 

“If it helps,” said Jesús, adjusting his sitting position, “I don’t have a group.” 

It did help. He was a rogue, like Jonah. No alliances, no affiliations, no shield from a cold, loveless city. For a moment, hope swelled in Jonah’s chest.

Jonah swallowed hard. “Would you like something to eat?” 

Jesús’s warmth came nearer. Grass tickled Jonah’s ankle as he reached into his pack for the deer jerky he’d stolen from a stand at the market. Wordlessly, he offered it to Jesús. While he chewed, Jonah got to work on trimming his hair. He glanced over at Jesús every five minutes, just to make sure he hadn’t stolen any of his belongings. 

At around midnight, he found Jesús, leaning against his pack and snoring softly. Jonah felt a strange urge to drape his winter jacket over the sleeping man. He pushed it down. 

Jonah used to feel the same about Michael. They would lay awake after the rest of the group dozed off, and then they would sneak away to the Plateau. Michael would shower him with kisses some nights, and others he would sob on his shoulder. On the best days, he did both. 

A member of their crew must’ve feared the worst, because she followed them to the Plateau one night. He and Michael were so lovestruck that they didn’t hear the soft crunching of leaves behind them. They didn’t hear Alycia cock her gun. 

Alycia, like the rest of the office workers, never got past their hatred for gay people. Jonah and Michael knew that. They took the risk to love each other anyway. 

As Jonah grabbed his gun, three bullets tore through Michael. Heart, leg, head. Alycia was smart enough to run. 

And then it was just him and Michael, whose blood seeped through Jonah’s clothes and stained his hands. Even after his last breath, Jonah couldn’t move for hours. His wails were heard across New York City. 

Eventually, Jonah settled down next to Jesús. Despite the fact that a stranger lay next to him, Jonah succumbed to sleep almost instantly. 

###

Jesús was gone the next morning. Bleary-eyed and yawning, Jonah reached for his pack. He dug through each pocket individually. Nothing was out place. Jonah exhaled. 

It was fine. Jesús was a stranger anyway. He should’ve feel glee now that he didn’t have to gauge another man’s trustworthiness, just to be let down. Instead, Jonah missed the company. 

Jonah shrugged his backpack on and ventured back toward the city. 

Then, a familiar rustling of leaves. Olive green boots smeared with dirt. Jonah rested his palm on his gun’s hilt, but he knew it wasn’t necessary. 

Jesús emerged, panting, sweat glistening on his forehead. “I found us some breakfast.” He walked past Jonah and sat, opening the small brown bag. Inside were two pieces of smoked duck and four pieces of hardtack. 

“We’re not a team,” Jonah blurted. 

“I know,” said Jesús, with a soft smile. “I was getting breakfast for myself, and I figured I’d bring some for you.” 

Jonah didn’t know what to say. So he grumbled, grabbed his share of breakfast, and ate. 

Jesús tapped his foot, humming a melody familiar to Jonah. He couldn’t recall where he heard it first. Maybe his mother, who sang him to sleep every night. Maybe from church, which he attended every Sunday with his grandmother. Or maybe something from the radio, from a simpler time before New York fell to chaos. 

Jonah hummed along, letting himself share this forgotten part of his past with Jesús—even if it only lasted until sunset. It was worth it.