End of the Road (12 page)

Stop that, that's the one thing you never
really did, well two things, you were never a drunk, and you always
faced forward never looking back. So stop it!

His death was so easy. Why couldn’t they do
that for people? But no, humans have souls. She picked up the
photograph staring at the beautiful golden retriever grinning back
at her. Through her drunken haze she could see his tail wag with
delight.

Riley was nothing but soul, a loving soul.
There was no God, there was no afterlife, there was no Heaven or
Hell. And if there was, she was going to Hell. And that was alright
because…because… if dogs weren’t allowed into Heaven, how could it
be Heaven?

For the last week, he'd been so sick. He
tried so hard to follow her around. He wanted to be with her so
badly. She'd slept next to him, feeding him sips of water through a
syringe because she knew how thirsty he was. Could feel his thirst
herself. He couldn't hold anything down, just skin and bones, his
beautiful coat so thin now. He'd been a huge dog, over 100 pounds
and strong. Now he didn't have the strength to stand up. She had to
get the handyman to help carry him down to her car so she could
take him to the vet’s. They kept him overnight trying to save him,
but he was too old, too weak, too sick. Finally the vet had
inserted an IV, then taken a syringe and slowly injected its
contents. Riley looked at her, sighed deeply, closed his eyes and
stopped breathing. All his pain seemed to rush into her. It grabbed
her throat, slipped into her chest, clutching at her innards.

Did it matter that in the end it was a dog
that she had truly loved? Wasn’t love, love? Was God really
love?

“
I don’t believe in God,”
she muttered. She grabbed up a handful of pills, crammed them down,
grabbed up the bottle of gin and drank directly from it, shuddered
at the taste, grabbed up the plastic bag, stood up, turned, and saw
Riley standing there, watching her.

“
Riley?”

He grinned his doggy grin and bounded over
to her. She reached out to him and crashed to the floor. Her head
smashed against the counter. Blood poured out to pool around her.
She could feel his cold nose nudging her to get up, to come with
him because he loved her. She reached out a shaking hand.

I’m bleeding to death. It’s not suicide.

Riley, will they let us in?

THE END

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Alison Blake is an award
winning playwright and novelist. She has written for TV, and has
been an Associate Editor for a number of fan magazine. Check out
her website at
alisonblakewriter.com
.

Sometimes we take for granted those special
things that surround us.

Appreciate them while they are here for one
day they will be gone.

S.A.

In memoriam “The Senator”, Big Tree Park,
Altamonte Springs, Florida

Chapter 11

Death of the Senator

By Stephen Arseneault

1

I awoke, showered, dressed, poured my
morning coffee and settled in on the couch in front of the TV.
Watching the morning news was my standard routine before heading
off to another day of work. As I sat listening to the normal stream
of world unrest, catastrophes and human follies, a story came on
that almost brought tears to my eyes.

The Senator, believed to be the sixth oldest
tree in the world, estimated at 3,500 years old, had mysteriously
caught fire, burned from the inside out and then collapsed. The
city of Altamonte Springs had grown up around the Pond Cypress. The
tree's life, much of it lived before the time of Jesus, had been
spent towering over the other trees in a small public park just
outside of Orlando Florida.

The monolith was 125 feet tall and had a
17.5 foot diameter trunk at the base. A massive and majestic tree
it was. To see The Senator in person was to be in awe of one of the
natural wonders of the world.

Growing up in Orlando I remember having
family picnics in the park. My parents cooked hotdogs and
hamburgers on the grill while my brother and I climbed over the
concrete picnic tables, raced through the woods and around the
trees.

I remember as a teen going to the park after
high school football games to sneak in after it was closed. Many a
night was spent chasing my girlfriend around with a flashlight and
then making out with her on a blanket beneath the towering
sentinel.

In college I enjoyed taking my sweetheart to
Big Tree Park for the occasional romantic afternoon picnic. It was
on my knee, in front of The Senator, where I pulled a ring from my
pocket and proposed to my now wife.

And for years my wife and I had taken our
own children to see The Senator. We enjoyed the peace and
tranquility of the forest over which it stood guard. The Senator
was a foundation stone in our life, a rock, an ever present sign of
stability. It was a sight which brought chill bumps each and every
time when standing before it. But now, it was gone forever, removed
from the living... never to return.

After learning of The Senator's demise I
woke my wife and gave her a long hug as I told her of the tragedy.
I told her how the fire officials were unsure of how the blaze had
started and how I hoped it was not from the careless or perverse
behavior of some young lost soul. I comforted her as she lightly
sobbed; the tears of sadness rolled gently down her face. Our
tree... was gone.

The tragedy cast a pall over the remainder
of the day. The smiles and camaraderie that I normally enjoyed in
the workplace seemed hollow and meaningless. The food at lunch had
no taste. The family was in a somber mood when I arrived home and
we sat quietly in front of the TV for most of the evening. It was a
day of mourning for The Senator, our foundation stone, our rock,
our friend.

To those of our generation it was the loss
of one of nature's great creations. Never again would its majesty
bring about that feeling of awe and wonder. The fire investigators
were unable to determine the cause of the blaze. It was rumored
that a lightning strike several months earlier may have smoldered
in the hollow, rotten center of the tree before finally igniting
and bringing its long life to a sudden end.

Life for the rest of us would continue on,
but a hole would forever be left in our hearts. We would miss The
Senator and the stability in life that it stood for.

Almost two months had passed when I saw the
news of Llangernyw Yew in the United Kingdom. Llangernyw was
believed to be the fifth oldest tree in the world. Just as with The
Senator, the news of its burning and collapse was shrouded in
mystery. It was a cornerstone of local tradition and a symbol of
the region itself.

I wondered at how two of the oldest living
things on the planet had perished within the span of a few months.
Those thoughts brought back sadness over the death of The Senator.
The world seemed a lesser place.

Soon word came of the death of a third and
then a fourth old tree, all suffering the same fate of an internal
fire that burned unseen until such time as the whole tree burst
into flame. Each collapsed, in a pile of char and ruin, within a
matter of hours.

It was then that I learned of the Gathering.
Ten individuals had come together in Inyo County, California and
were gathered at the base of Methuselah, a Great Basin Bristlecone
Pine estimated at 5,000 years of age. It was the oldest known
living organism on Earth.

The Gathering was made up of ten individuals
from around the world, each having lived their lives within close
proximity to one of the world's oldest trees. Each told a story of
how their parents and the parents of their parents, as far back as
their family history was recorded, had been given the task of
watching over the tree nearest them.

None had ever been given a reason as to why
they had been chosen. None had ever had a break in the chain of
watching over their sentinel. The families were complete in their
devotion with each of the major races of man having a
representative seated before Methuselah.

The gathering was a spectacle, an oddity,
something the news channels or their patrons could not get enough
of. As a camera panned over the Ten, I noticed an old Seminole
Indian friend. He had frequented Big Tree Park since I was a child.
He was there in the Gathering representing our tree. I could see a
great sadness in his eyes. The legacy of his family, a major part
of his life, was now gone.

More bad news came a month after the
gathering had begun. Two more of the worlds oldest trees had burst
into flames. The eldest of the Gatherers then rose and addressed
the growing crowds. The onlookers had come in droves to witness the
Gathering and listen to the sage. Her name was Pearl. She was a 109
year old Paiute Indian.

Pearl began to tell a story of the world as
seen by the trees; a story of many achievements, many tragedies and
many generations of Man; a story of Man's rise to power and of the
Awakening.

She then took on a somber mood and began to
tell of the end time coming. She told of the ten Sentinels that had
watched over Man and how they were now leaving this earth as the
cycle was coming to an end.

She told that the end of
the cycle was in sight and that when the last tree, the greatest
tree, the Methuselah... "
When the
Methuselah bursts into flames and leaves this earth, the hour of
Nature's cycle will come to an end.
" The
old woman then returned to her seat on the ground before the great
tree. The large crowd of onlookers slowly began to bustle with
discussion.

The quiet discussion soon turned to loud
remarks and arguments. A near panic ensued as people began to turn
and run down the trail towards the parking lot and their cars. The
few attendees of the media continuously rebroadcast the reports of
the elder's statements to their affiliated networks.

Within hours the blogs and the news sites
were filled with rumors that the end of the world might be at hand.
It seemed the entire world was listening and the entire world was
wholly consumed with the plight of the trees. No one was sure of
what to do.

2

It was a Friday afternoon. When I arrived
home from work I immediately turned on the news. The reports were
not good. Riots had broken out in several cities and some of the
panicked people were making runs to hoard groceries. As soon as I
heard I gathered the family and headed to our local store.

We filled four carts with canned and dry
goods. I felt guilty about being a part of the problem, but I had a
family to protect and feed. The store was bustling with others
doing the same; the checkout lines were extremely long.

When we arrived home we quickly transferred
the food into the house as several of our neighbors looked on. If
food shortages were to come about, I knew we might end up with
knocks on the front door.

As we settled in on the couch, after our own
little rampage at the store, we watched intently as the chaos
continued to grow. On Sunday morning the church pews were loaded
with Holy-Day sized crowds. Our normal Sunday evening out to dinner
was canceled as we could not tear ourselves away from the live
broadcasts. My Monday morning routine brought news of more rioting,
fires and looting.

The day at work was wasted around the water
cooler and at the desk surfing the news sites. Management had made
the rounds warning workers of their lack of production only to be
caught later doing the same themselves.

As I began my drive home in the afternoon I
noticed the longer lines beginning to appear at the gas stations. I
stopped and topped off my tank as a precaution. Again, the feelings
of guilt over my actions emerged. But I had a family to care for
and a clear conscience would not keep the car moving if an
emergency arose. As I pulled away from the pump I took note of a
fight erupting between three of the customers. Fists were flying as
I pulled out onto the street.

When I arrived home I drove hurriedly into
the garage. I quickly closed the door securely behind me. I was
greeted by my wife as I came into the family room. She had news of
the rioting and looting only spreading. I told her of the fight at
the gas station.

Our children told of how many of their
classmates had not been in school. Several of their teachers had
also been absent. My wife had been sent home from work at the bank
early, after a run had emptied much of their on-hand cash.

We watched the news through the evening as
our civil society slowly slipped into chaos. The news from around
the world was not any better. In Greece, a quarter of the
government buildings were on fire. In Rome, crowds were gathering
at St. Peter's Basilica. In Beijing, the army was dispersing crowds
before they had a chance to gather. In Moscow, the Kremlin was
being heavily guarded with numerous troops and tanks as crowds
began to gather outside.

By Thursday I had stopped going into work
altogether. Only a skeleton crew remained to keep our servers
running. I doubted our IT workers would make it through the
weekend.

On Friday, during the middle of the day, two
neighbors had crashed their cars into each other in the street in
front of our home. A heated argument ensued as we watched through
our front window.

By Saturday morning I was outside installing
our hurricane shutters on all the windows. We would huddle in our
fortress as the world turned nasty. Our concerns for our safety
continued to grow.

Before the day was over,
government spokesmen from almost every state, from the federal
government, and from many nations of the world, were on the air
telling everyone not to panic as this was just "
Rumors gone wild.
" Many of those same
spokesmen were privately discussing the issue with their family as
to what they might do if the end was indeed at hand. Orders were
being given by those in charge, but largely not
followed.