Jack dug her hoe into the dirt, tilling the land under the hot autumn sun. She brought the back of her hand to her brow and wiped the sweat off, slightly annoyed.
The last few days had been rough for her. An Indian summer had come around three days ago and decided to plop itself down onto October’s coattails as if it belonged there. And while harvest had wrapped up some weeks ago, there were still plenty of chores to be done to settled the land for the winter season. Her brother Mac and sister Alice were in Appaloosa visiting her cousin, so she had to stay behind to take care of the farm work that couldn't wait—tasks that now came with rivets of sweat and two showers a day, as if it was the middle of the Goddamned summer.
Resting her calloused hands on the top of the hoe, she briefly shut her eyes, thinking about lunch. She had laid out some pork tenderloin in the sink before she had stepped out to milk the cows, but still had no clue what sides she wanted to go with it. Her granny might, though; and the thought of her scalloped potatoes made Jack's mouth water. She tilted her Stetson back, getting ready to finish the till line before heading towards the house when a familiar voice called out to her.
“Yoo-hoo! Darling!” the high-cultured voice belonging to Rarity sang through the air. Jack debated briefly on pretending she hadn't heard it, but decided to follow her better nature and cupped a hand to her mouth.
“Out by the corn!”
Rarity came into sight a moment later, traveling down the hill the house was on and hiking to Jack. Her gypsy mane of violet hair tumbled over the shoulders of a short dress of fire red. Her face was a miracle formed of high, ice-edged cheekbones, a full, sculpted mouth painted as boldly red as the dress, skin smooth as cream, and eyes as blue as the deepest part of the ocean. When she finally got to the farmer, she brushed off the skirt of her dress and pursed her lips, those eyes looking Jack over lazily, one brow lifted in a perfect and derisive arch.
“Gracious, you're dirty,” she remarked, looking slightly surprised at that fact.
“I've been out here bustin' my butt since dawn. Dirty comes with the territory.” She was wearing those needle-thin heels she was so fond of, Jack noticed. The kind you could kill a man with. Jack could never figure out why anyone would put their innocent feet in such torture chambers without a gun being held to their head.
“Does the smell come with the territory as well?” Rarity asked.
“Yer a comedian,” Jack replied dryly. “Diane been teachin' ya some tricks fer yer routine?”
Rarity narrowed her eyes, as did Jack. After a moment, though, they both smiled warmly at one another.
“So, what can I do ya for? It's gotta be somethin' if yer willin' ta risk getting those heels dirty.”
“Well...” Rarity gave a small scratch at her cheek. “Perhaps I do have a favor to ask.”
“Ya gonna have me whip up a meal fer a date again?” Jack smirked. “Who's the lucky guy? Or, uh, gal. Whatever's ticklin' yer fancy nowadays.”
“It's nothing of the sort. Rather, it's the finalization of a business deal regarding where I buy silk. I'm celebrating with a client tomorrow, and I knew the perfect beverage to use!”
“An' it ain't one of yer fancy wines? Outta Vega Sicilia or somethin'?”
Rarity paused. “How in the heavens do you know about wine brands?”
“I ain't jus' a whiskey an' cider girl. Jus' cause I don't always have it, don't mean I can't get a lil appreciation outta those kinda drinks, sug.”
“Well, I didn't mean to suggest you couldn't. It's just simply a surprise to me.”
Jack scratched at her chin. “Mostly from my Manhattan days. They're a buncha snobs out east, but ya gotta give 'em credit: they know how ta make drinks.”
“Don't sell yourself short,” Rarity said. “Your cider brings people from all across the state every harvest season. That cider is so exquisite, in fact, that I wanted to share it instead of wine.”
Jack laughed awkwardly, feeling a touch of heat rise on her face. “Alright, alright. Ya sugar-coated me enough. We'll getcha a bottle from the cellar. The good stuff,” she answered with a wave of her hand, putting down the hoe.
They marched through the fields, finally coming to the Apple clan's house. Jack's Granny rocked slowly in a chair on the porch, working steadily on a quilt.
Jack gave a small wave to her; only barely glancing up from her work.
“Makin' a welcome home blanket fer Alice, I bet,” Jack said once they passed by her. “Granny spoils my sis rotten.”
“I'm surprised you didn't go with them,” Rarity answered, glancing towards the farmer as they passed by a well-used tractor, its hood open and the engine exposed. Jack made a small note to herself to finish working on the damn thing sometime soon.
“Same reason ya didn't go with yer sis ta Virginia. You an' me got obligations. Somethin' a lot of the other gals don't get.” She paused, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, nah, that ain't fair. Diane, Twila, the rest-a 'em, they understand. Jus' somethin' that don't click with 'em right off the bat. Especially not Dash.”
Rarity hummed in agreement, giggling at the familiar ribbing. “Well, we can’t all have trust funds.”
As they rounded the side of the house, Jack spotted the small rise of stone jutting at a slanted angle from the bottom of the house, the heavy wooden doors and rusty padlock marking it as a cellar. It was built by her grandpa, back during “the Red Scare.” He had intended it to be a bomb shelter, but once he had got over his insistence that the Commies were going to blow a town in the middle of nowhere up, he had sheepishly turned it into a cellar for storing aging ciders.
She moved to the door, reaching up to a single light above it. Fishing around, she found a key tucked to the base of the light and unlocked the cellar.
Pulling it open revealed a set of stairs leading down into inky blackness. Jack reached over and pulled a string, lighting the stairway and the faint outline of a dirt floor.
“Try not ta fall. They're concrete.” Jack started down, taking the steps two at a time. Rarity followed suit with a lot more care on her high heels; about halfway down the steps, a loud clang made her jump out of her skin. She snapped around, noting with alarm that the door had shut behind them.
“Relax, sug. Wind musta caught it,” Jack reassured, not even bothering to look at the tailor as she felt along the wall at the base of the steps, clicking on a light and illuminating the cellar floor.
“It can't lock with us inside, can it?” Rarity questioned, glancing at the cellar door once more as she joined Jack's side.
“Nope. It ain't gonna trap us, Rare.”
Rarity took a few steps towards a shelf lined with bottles. Underneath the shelf sat two wooden barrels resting on their sides. Rarity ran her fingers over the edge of the barrel.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Whiskey,” Jack agreed. “Ma tried her hand at makin' wheat whiskey way back in the day. Got rid of the still before Mac was born.”
“Interesting. How is it?”
“I ain't had any yet, Rare. Been saving it fer a special occasion.”
Rarity paused, looking down at the barrel. “Mac's... twenty-eight. You're suggesting it's...”
“'Bout thirty or thirty-one years,” Jack replied plainly.
“Getting to be almost vintage, I'd say.” She looked over at the farmer. “What kind of special occasion? Mac settling down?”
“I dunno, jus'... somethin' outta the ordinary, I guess,” Jack said with a shrug. “Didn't seem right ta pop it open fer a glass by my lonesome.”
“Indeed.” Rarity raised a finger up. “Which is why, as your friend, I say it's imperative I have a glass with you instead.”
The farmer cocked a brow and stared at Rarity. “Yer kiddin',” she said, unsure what the woman’s ten dollar word meant, but playing along until she got the context.
“Well, it wouldn't do for you to have a glass by your 'lonesome,' as you put it,” Rarity said. “And I know Malcolm isn't a drinker: ergo, the responsibility falls to me.” She nodded to herself.
Jack put a hand to her hip. “Why ya wanna wet yer whistle so bad on this stuff? Ya don't seem the type ta...”
“Drink whiskey?” Rarity finished with a wave of her hand. “Darling, there's no shame in a drink like that. Some of the most prestigious artists and singers of the last century have had the beverage at the forefront of their mind. In fact, it was Mark Twain that said, 'Too much of anything is bad, but too much good whiskey is barely enough.'”
“He said that?” Jack asked, surprised. She stepped further into the cellar, rummaging through a small box at the base of her feet. “I always was fond of that boy, seems like he had good taste in drink, too.” She pulled out a barrel tap and gave a small smirk Rarity's way. “Well, I guess ya need a lil' treat if ya can remember somethin' by Twain.” She rummaged further, grabbing two beer steins resting next to some long-necked bottles and ran her shirt tail over them. Rarity's nose wrinkled at the sight, but she did her best not to complain. For once.
With a grunt, Jack hoisted the keg up on its head and placed the tap on top of it. She looked around herself briefly and sighed in irritation. Balling her fist up, she slammed it down into the faucet a few times, setting it squarely into the keg before turning the barrel onto its side again and testing the tap with her stein under it.
The drink came out, filling the air with its bitter, hoppy scent. Rarity winced at its strength, fanning her nose.
“Second thoughts?” Jack asked, her hand resting on the faucet at the barrel.
“A woman doesn't retract her statements, darling. Pour me,” she announced.
Jack shrugged, doing as requested, pouring Rarity three finger's worth into the stein.
Handing the glass to Rarity, she looked down at her drink. “Toast?”
“Of course. Á votre santé,” Rarity said, bringing her glass up.
“What?” Jack repeated. “Any reason yer speakin' fancy?”
Rarity rolled her eyes. “To your health,” she repeated.
“Then why didn't ya jus' say so?” Jack asked, shaking her head before stating one of her own. “May ya have warm words on a cold evenin', a full moon on a dark night, an' a smooth road all the way ta your door.”
They clinked their glasses together, and Rarity swirled her drink for a moment as Jack took a pull and grimaced, narrowing her brow in thought as she licked her lips.
“That was surprisingly poetic, considering it's you,” Rarity mused. Jack shrugged.
“Irish toast. Figured if ya were gonna go crazy with yer foreign one, I'd follow in step with a few words from my granddad's side.”
Rarity sniffed down at the drink resting deep within the beer stein. “How's it taste?”
“I ain't gonna lie an' say it's perfect. Sure as hell ain't smooth. But it's got a good finish.” Jack exhaled. “Ma didn't have what it took ta be a bootlegger, goin' by this barrel, but it's still kinda nice havin' a lil'... more, I guess.”
“More?” Rarity asked, finally taking the plunge and gritting her teeth as a sip went down her mouth and throat. She coughed hard, making Jack smirk. The expression fell through after a moment.
“Yeah. More. Like, uh...” Squinting, she shook her head. “Like I'm cheatin' an' gettin' another memory of her. It's dumb, but...”
Rarity took another sip, wincing. “There's no shame to it, darling. I'm sure that...” Rarity shrugged. “I'm sure if something happened to my mother and father, I'd have a few eccentric habits like you do.”
Jack stared at her, taking a drink. “Ya know, sometimes yer somethin' else.”
She blinked. “How so?”
“Nevermind. Jus' how ya word things. I never know whether ta smack ya till yer curls fly off, or hug ya.”
The fashionable woman gave a small press to her violet curls, brushing a looping bang to the side of her face. “Best I keep you on your toes, dear. You'll step in less shit that way.”
Jack blinked at Rarity's crass word, before tilting her head back and laughing hard. “I can tell someone's had a bit too much.”
“Barely enough,” she replied with a titter, reaching over to the tap for another splash. Jack drained the last drops of her own. The drink was cool going down, warm when it got to the stomach. Already, Jack could feel a bit of the day’s frustrations slide off of her spine and shoulders like water off a duck’s feathers. She glanced over into Rarity’s cup.
“Dang, girl. Yer almost bone-dry in there.” Without waiting on Rarity’s confirmation, she poured the woman another glass, well aware that the girl could take her fair share of slugs before going totally down for the count.
Rarity took the mouthful with a pleased hum, downing it and only clearing her throat slightly.
“A shame the recipe has been lost to time, isn’t it?”
Jack gave a small bounce of her head. “Yeah. But who knows? Maybe ma wrote it down in her diary. I should look sometime.”
“Indeed. And when you achieve results, I should be notified posthaste! A good drink is not one to have alone.”
“Another excuse ta get shitfaced, can’t say I’m shocked at all.”
Rarity didn’t argue, instead she flashed a coy grin Jack’s direction, finished her drink, and was poured another. Third time’s the charm.
The last one finally hit her and a crimson flush came to total fruition to her pale face. She reached forward to put the stein back onto the shelf and stumbled a hair with her glass, dropping it instead; it was only Jack’s lightning reflexes that stopped it from landing on the concrete floor. She caught it by the rim, then tossed it up into the air, catching it in her hand.
“Bartender’s cuttin’ ya off. Think yer feelin’ good enough now, ain’t ya?”
“Mmm,” she replied, a full grin coming to her lips, bringing a sensual streak of red across her rosy cheeks. Looking down at her wrist, she noted the time. “Gracious, I should get back. I had not realized I'd take this long.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack agreed, reaching over and grabbing a bottle of cider. “Can't forget yer reason fer comin' here.”
“I almost did,” Rarity put a hand to her forehead. “Gracious. Your mother made a strong drink.”
“Strong like she was,” Jack agreed. “Kept up jus' fine with Pa.”
“I remember her, vaguely. Recalling correctly, my mother complained the first time she shook hands with the woman. Quite a grip.”
Jack laughed, giving Rarity a tap on the shoulder with the cider bottle. “Come on. Let's get ya back home an' ready fer yer lil' client celebration.”
Marching up the stairs, Jack led Rarity outside and pointed to a worn and beat-up truck, which sat in screaming contrast next to Rarity’s convertible mini cooper.
“I'll take ya back. Ain't no need fer ya ta drive. Dash got stopped two different times last week for speeding. Guess the new sheriff got his boys on a tight patrol.”
“You drank too,” Rarity pointed out with a raised brow.
“Just the one. An' I got almost a foot on ya,” Jack replied with a small wave of her hands and a bow as if to say 'here I am.' “Drink ain't shakin' me up.”
“Eight inches,” Rarity said huffily, for argument’s sake. She walked to the truck, frowning at its rusted hood, and pulled the door open, shaking her head at the loud groan from its hinges. Wrinkling her nose at the foam bleeding out of the torn passenger seat, she nevertheless climbed in and sat down.
Jack shuffled into the driver's side, the shocks letting out a small moan as her weight came down. She turned the key.
Instantly, the truck roared to life, the engine strong despite the broken appearance of the car’s frame. Jack took her hand down to the gear shift, and they took off, the gravel and dirt path crackling under the truck's tires as they backed, turned, and traveled to the end of the drive, then took a right, heading towards Mansfield.
After a few moments of silence, Jack punched a button on the cassette player. Johnny Cash crackled to life, crooning out “In The Sweet By And By.” Rarity spared a glance towards Jack, then brought her attention back to her phone.
“You could at least splurge for a CD player in this, darling.” The tailor leaned back, bringing her phone screen closer to her face and furrowing her brow before giving up and dropping it onto her lap. The phone service in Mansfield was never top-notch.
“Ain't my normal ride fer trips. Mac an’ Alice took the Chevy out to Appaloosa. This is jus' a farm truck fer checkin' out the far backfields, sug. Ain't got no need fer a CD player.”
Rarity tossed her feet up onto the dash and looked out the window at the fading day.
“Feelin' alright?” Jack asked, not bothering to look towards the woman.
She managed a smile. “Yes. Just fine. Just... thinking, I suppose.”
“Should I ask?”
“Do you want to hear my thoughts on a dress and the different types of cloth that would synergize well with the texture?”
Jack let a derisive snort out. “Nope.” She licked her lips. “But I think yer lyin' ta me.”
“Come now, Jack.”
“Ya look a lil' sad's all.”
Rarity huffed. “Well, if you must know, I was simply a little nostalgic.” She looked over at the cassette player. “While your mother I have a hard time remembering, I recall your father. He took me home a few times after we played.” Shutting her eyes, she shrugged. “He always listened to this kind of music.”
“Got jus' bout sick-a gospel thanks ta it,” Jack admitted with a chuckle. “Even this makes me kinda roll my eyes.”
“Isn't Johnny Cash supposed to be the King of Country? Or something to that effect? How can you be sick of it?” she asked.
“Gospel ain't country. Are diamonds a ruby?”
“No,” Rarity replied, finding the question a little bizarre.
“There ya go. They might both be gems, but there's differences. Jus' like here. Gospel, country, bluegrass: different kids, same parents, ya know?”
“I suppose so,” Rarity answered after a moment of hesitation. “Anyway... it reminded me of Alice and Stephanie. They're growing up so fast.”
“Alice really is,” Jack remarked. “'Fore I know it, she'll be datin', drivin' a car 'round… drinkin'.” Jack gave a small drum of her fingers against the wheel, turning with the road as it winded through a small patch of woods. “Hell. She's probably done all of 'em on the sly if she's anythin' like her big sis.”
“My Stephanie’s the same way. She's such a sweetie, but...” Rarity wryly smiled. “She's growing. Luanne will lead them to trouble as well, lest we forget the last of the terrible three.”
“How could I?” Jack laughed, turning her head towards Rarity as they rounded another corner. “I tell ya what happened jus' a few days 'fore Al an' Mac went on vacation? I get ta the barn, an—“
“Jack!” Rarity cried out, snapping to attention, her eyes wide in panic. Without even a moment's hesitation, Jack slammed her foot onto the brake.
Tires squealed, locking hard. The truck nearly broke free from Jack's iron grip, but she held on, preventing them from fishtailing and finally getting the vehicle to a dead stop, a mere three feet from a car half-off the road.
“Are ya alright?” Jack instantly asked.
“Just some frayed nerves,” Rarity replied, clutching her frantically beating heart. On hearing that, Jack leaned back in her seat, putting her hands to her face.
“Jesus,” she stammered out. “That coulda been...”
Rarity looked over at the car. “Hmm... doesn't look like anyone's in it.”
Jack took a moment to process her words, glancing absently at the car. Her brow furrowed. “Engine's still on.”
Curiosity got to her; she parked the truck and opened the door, stepping out.
“Why would the engine still be going?” Rarity asked from inside the cab.
“I dunno. Maybe the fella had ta take a leak?” Jack shrugged, looking around the fairly open fields but spotting nobody.
“If that's the case, he could have done us a favor and got off the road.”
“'Specially 'round that curve.” Jack rubbed the back of her head. “Gonna sound dumb, but let's move it outta the way. If I almost smashed into it, imagine if someone went as fast as Dash does ‘round that corner.”
“Mmm.” Rarity grunted, looking out the window. “I agree.”
They left the truck and went to the car. Jack paused as she made her way to the front.
“The hell?”
“What?” Rarity made her way to the back, resting her palms on the rear bumper of the car.
“Still in gear.”
“It's still in gear?” Rarity repeated, incredulous.
“I stutter?” Jack asked, glancing back at her. Reaching over, she swapped it to neutral and joined Rarity. They gave it one hard push onto the shoulder, then Jack went forward and put it into park.
After a moment, they headed back to the truck.
“Odd,” Jack said as she took the truck out of park and passed by the abandoned car.
“Indeed,” Rarity replied, glancing out the side-mirror as they traveled further along down the road.
They finally came to the outskirts of town; Jack parked in a nearby lot. Most folks didn't go through on four wheels. The town was small enough that it honestly had only a few streets, and the main road going through was typically packed with merchants and dealers, Jack herself included when it came to produce. Most of the town's food supply came from her backyard.
They made their way through the town, passing by the church, then about a block's walk from there, the school, where a playground swing creaked slowly in the wind.
Halloween made its presence known. All over the place, there were decorations; some over the top, some amusing, others half-assed. Jack smiled wistfully. There were only a few times during the year when the absence of her parents was cranked up to ten. Halloween was one of them.
Back when Jack's Pa was alive, he'd dress up in a Soviet uniform he got from an odd army surplus store down in Drewhurst and march around the house during Halloween, speaking Russian. Or at least a close enough mesh of syllables and grunts that it convinced Jack and Mac it was Russian. Granted, he was a bright son of a bitch—a trait Jack would freely admit she didn't inherit—so he might have picked up some words along the way.
He loved to decorate the house for Halloween, sometimes planning the theme months ahead—Jack would never forget the time he built an entire backside of a pirate ship sticking out the side of their house as though it had crashed into it. The paper had run a front page story about it, and on Halloween night it seemed like the entire town came to their front step to admire his sheer craftsmanship and dedication to the holiday.
As they traveled towards the heart of the town, something was off enough that though they said nothing, their uneasy gazes at each other communicating enough.
There was no noise. No talking, no merchants packing up their wares, no children running about, nothing.
Finally, Rarity nervously laughed.
“Starting to feel like an episode of the Twilight Zone.”
“Awful quiet,” Jack reluctantly agreed. “Somethin' must be goin' on across town. Diane throwin' a party, the mayor doin' a meetin' with all-a the business owners, somethin'.”
“Then why weren't we invited?” Rarity reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “No phone calls, no texts, no e-mails, no—“
“I dunno!” Jack snapped back. “If yer tryin' ta freak me out, yer doin' a bad job!”
“Then why are your hands shaking?” Rarity questioned, her tone slightly smug despite the situation.
“I'm cold,” Jack awkwardly lied, crossing her arms and looking away, towards the town square as they prepared to turn to the road leading to the boutique. Jack snapped out and grabbed Rarity's arm, squeezing it so hard Rarity hissed in pain.
“Jack, what—“
Saying nothing, the farmer pointed towards the town square in the distance.
Dozens of carts stacked with fruits, hats, pies—one splattered top-first onto the ground—littered the square, as if everyone there had gotten up and left at the same time.
“If this is a joke, I'm not laughing,” Rarity said.
Jack reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She flipped it open. No messages.
“Let's see... Chylene's outta town, same with Isabelle. Maybe Twila'll know somethin'.”
“She's at the capital,” Rarity said, then another bolt of realization struck her. “And Diane's visiting her big sister in Waeldestone.”
“Shit,” Jack said, breathing out as she looked over her contact list. “Uh... could try the mayor.”
“Yes, yes, I think the mayor would be a wise decision,” Rarity agreed. She looked up at the sky. “Suppose a tornado warning we missed while in your cellar?”
“Ain't lookin' like tornado weather, but...” Jack gave an unsure shrug at her suggestion, liking the idea compared to the dozens of panic-stricken thoughts in her mind right now. “Maybe.”
She found the mayor's number and pressed 'call.' An automated voice promptly greeted Jack.
“Service temporarily unavailable. Please try again later,” it said in a cheerful, apologetic tone. Jack swore once more, flipping her phone closed.
“Nothing?” Rarity guessed.
“Not a damn thing.”
“Maybe...” She looked to the sky, shaking her head in frustration. “Maybe she forgot to put more minutes on her phone? She's done that before, after all.”
“Y-yeah,” Jack said, deep down knowing that probably wasn't the case, but accepting it for now. “Good thinkin'. Bet they're all in the town storm shelter.” She forced a chuckle. “Chicken Littles thinkin' the sky is fallin'.”
“Indeed,” Rarity agreed, almost too quickly. “What do you say we go there and rouse their attention, darling?”
“If we don't, who would?” Jack looked around the deserted town. “Aside from a stranger or someone livin' on the outskirts that didn't hear the tornado alarm.”
“Like how we didn't,” Rarity said, turning towards the path on the other side of the main strip and walking at a near jog towards it, Jack hot on her heels.
“Eyup. Jus' like how we didn't.”
A ten-minute walk later and they found themselves in front of a large protrusion in the dirt, much like the Apple family's cellar but much more prominent.
They shared another nervous glance at one-another, then Jack went to the shelter's door and pounded it with her fist.
“Y'all! We're clear!” Jack bellowed, beating again on the door. “Ain't no need ta be in there now!” Trying the door, she found it locked. “Y'all!” she cried out, pulling hard on the knob, then pausing when she noticed a lock in place. It jangled once more as Jack pulled against the door. “Y'all...”
Jack's shoulders slumped and her head dropped. Rarity took a step forward and put a delicate hand on the farmer's arm. She said nothing; her thoughts troubled as she stared at the empty world around them.
“What should we do?” Rarity finally asked.
“I dunno,” Jack admitted. “I, I dunno.”
“There has to be...” Rarity trailed off, rubbing her eyes. “We can't be the only people here.”
“Maybe we are,” she said quietly. “They left town fer some reason. Daemarrel?” Jack offered.
“Why would they have migrated there?”
“I dunno,” she repeated, the words quickly becoming almost a mantra to her. “What,” she snapped, glaring at Rarity. “Ya got a better idea than Daemarrel? It's the largest fuckin’ town for fifty miles.”
Rarity said nothing, staring at Jack. Finally, the farmer threw her hands up.
“Thought not. People don't jus' disappear.”
“I never said they did. Don't put words into my mouth,” Rarity warned. Jack balled her fists up at the tailor's tone, but sighed after a beat, relaxing her pose.
“I'm sorry. I jus’...”
“It's fine,” Rarity neutrally said. Putting a hand to her chin, she looked past Jack, towards a few of the buildings.
“Perhaps Daemarrel is a good call,” she pondered aloud. “It's a quick way to tell if this is a localized incident, or...”
“Yer thinkin' that whatever happened here...?”
“Isn't it a possibility?” Rarity gave a small twirl of her hands, encompassing the town. “It's not like we'll find answers here.”
“What if nobody's there?” Jack asked, her mouth feeling like cotton at the question.
“Don't think about it. We can, er, burn that bridge after we cross it, yes?”
“Alright. Meet me at the edge of town in an hour. I'll run home ta pack an' tell—” Jack clammed up, her eyes suddenly turning to emerald pinpricks.
“Pack?” Rarity asked. “It's an hour’s drive at worst. Why would—“
Without another word, Jack darted past Rarity, going at a dead sprint towards her truck.
“Jack!” Rarity called after her, only to watch her vanish behind a building. Letting out a tsk of irritation, Rarity shook her head. “Honestly.”
She turned and walked, heading across town. The silence as she made her trek grew from unsettling, to disturbing, then, finally, oppressive. Every footstep clicked on the stone and asphalt of the roads, echoing across the buildings, reminding her of the fact she was alone, thanks to Jack's actions.
It was almost a miracle when she saw her boutique, dressed up festively for the night’s trick-or-treaters; all made by her own hand, naturally. Going at a brisk, unladylike jog, she all but leaped onto the shop's landing and rammed her key to the door's handle several times before striking home. Twisting it, she nearly dove inside, locking it cautiously behind her. Not that there'd be anyone to bother her honestly. As she soaked in the familiar sights around her, where she was expected to be alone, save for the occasional overnight guest or her sister, she finally was able to breath easy.
Moving to the kitchen, she turned the stove top on. Fire came to life, and she grabbed a tea bag from the cupboard and put water in a kettle.
That done, she turned and sat dumbly at the kitchen table, looking past her hands limply splayed across it.
She should be bawling. She should be panicking, impossibly distressed. For all she knew, Jack and herself were the last people on earth.
“Good luck repopulating,” she said with a wry, almost angry smile, before sighing again.
It was too early for theatrics, honestly. For all she knew, it was just Mansfield that was affected. And there were undoubtedly hundreds, if not thousands of explanations.
Regardless, she couldn't help but feel like this was more... ominous. It was just a sense, of course, but it still stuck with her so hard she shivered.
It reminded her of one of the world's shortest stories.
The last man on earth was at home. There came a knock at the door.
As she sat there, looking towards her teakettle, there came a knock at the door.