When The Sky Broke

Blurb

Ahmed Kawthar, a sixteen year old runaway, seeks freedom from neglectful parents. As he traverses a normal London morning, tragedy tears through the country.

The sky breaks apart, chaos ensues, and Ahmed faces turmoil threatening his life.

And the life of a close loved one he must save.

A thrilling post-apocalyptic short story by S. H. Miah, featuring a London breaking apart and a teenage runaway with the world on his back.

Chapter 1

The sky broke when Ahmed Kawthar had least expected it. At, quite literally, the worst time ever considering the circumstances.

See, Ahmed Kawthar had, at the ripe age of sixteen, decided to run away from home with nothing but the bare necessities on his back. Run away from his God-awful parents that paid more attention to their screens than him, barely even spoke to him other than with spats of contempt, and who'd much rather have only one son in their lives than two.

That one son being Ahmed's younger brother Umar, who was eight years old and just starting to really come into his own as a person. Ahmed was heartbroken to leave little bro behind, but life gives difficult circumstances, and in those times, difficult decisions need to be made.

And leaving home with a backpack of essentials fastened to a hardening spine and nothing else—was that one hell of a hard choice to make.

Ahmed had grabbed a train from his home in South London and tailed it all the way to Barking on the east side, after waking up the earliest he'd ever done in his life. Rush hour was crazy, but half five in the morning had a certain charm to it that couldn't be understated.

Sure, London had the worst weather in the world sometimes, but today had been the most peaceful in Ahmed's life for a long time. At the beginning of his journey, Ahmed had beelined it without glancing back once, tunnel vision tunnelling his legs forward each step.

But now he was out in the Barking breeze, he paused for a second, wiped the slickness from his forehead, set his feet against soft grass in the little patch he stood on, and just took everything in.

The train station towered behind him, but nobody came out. No, only bodies streamed in for the morning commute, such was the way of London after all. The busy centre acted like a black hole, pulling everyone from all sides into its corporate centre to be swallowed up.

The grass he stood on comforted his feet, however, assuring him that he’d made the right decision. The darkened skies above turned a shade of pale blue, and Ahmed noticed the first hints of orange pulsing against the horizon, coinciding with his heartbeat.

Amongst that pale blue blinked an airplane, flying low yet steady, and Ahmed wished he could board the plane and head to wherever it was destined.

But Allah had other plans for him, whatever they were.

Smells of cologne and perfume clashed with the strange overpowering mustiness of the greenery he was surrounded in. The little patch of nature, with sole grass and a singular oak tree, like his own haven away from the tyranny of his parents.

The tyranny he had escaped, for the better, with no plan and only the supplies on his spine to sustain him.

And then a voice called out.

A voice he didn't want to hear.

And then that voice was drowned out by the sky breaking.

Chapter 2

“Baya,” was the voice that called out from behind Ahmed. A low voice, an almost pleading voice, yet a voice that could cut through a crowd in a heartbeat such was its recognisability.

And desperation.

The voice of Ahmed's eight year old brother, Umar. Who, when Ahmed turned around in a flash, was staring at him with tears in his eyes and trembling lips and tousled hair.

Umar’s mouth opened once more and Ahmed's brother said something else, but it was drowned out by the crashing of cars on a street nearby, hurtling into each other at ridiculous speeds, whilst a shadow above loomed bigger, blocking out more of the sun, as if the heavens had broken.

And one car, a silver Nissan Micra with the woman inside unable to keep her car on a leash for some reason, swerved to avoid a lamppost as black as tar.

But that swerve sent it careening towards the patch of green Ahmed was standing on.

Sent it towards Umar.

Who was none the wiser.

A car against an eight year old.

There was only one end to that.

For a second, or perhaps a sliver of a second, Ahmed stood frozen. Feet stuck to grass that seemed to clump around his battered trainers now. The spinning wind nearly blinding his vision, dust flinging into his eyes, rough texture against his tongue.

But Ahmed wasn't, and didn't want to be, and never would be, someone always stationary in life.

Someone who took what life handed him with their wrists tied.

No, Ahmed would grab his destiny with both hands.

He flung himself forward, as fast as his tired and bruised legs would carry him. Umar started towards him too, but the car was moving fast.

Too fast.

Way too fast.

And Ahmed’s first foray into the real world away from his home would be witnessing his brother die right before his—

No.

Not if he could do anything about it.

Ahmed wouldn’t let himself fail, not on something as dire as this.

With a roar Ahmed didn’t know he had in himself, he launched into a dolphin dive like in one of his favourite video games.

His bag bobbed against his spine, as if to break it. His supplies weighed him down, gravity adding to the force pulling him to the ground, but Ahmed’s resolve held him up.

But would it be long enough?

Umar reached out for a hug.

But Ahmed couldn’t hug him when the world was crashing down around them and a car was about to splatter them both to nothing.

Mid-dive, Ahmed grabbed Umar’s hand and tried to yank him back.

Their fingers met, as though the bond of siblings pushed them together.

But Ahmed’s hand slipped since it was too clammy. And he missed Umar’s fingers. The temporary warmth like a flash of lightning in the dark.

Which meant the Micra was about to take both of them out.

But Ahmed’s left hand scrambled out from under him like a crawling spider.

Hooked itself under Umar’s elbow.

And pulled him to the right.

Just as the car flashed past both their heads. Narrowly missing them by inches. The heat of the near-miss sizzling Ahmed’s hair as he dropped onto the grass and smelt nature mixed with burning.

They could’ve been decapitated, both of them, and only survived by the skin of their teeth.

Only survived because Allah had wanted them to, Ahmed realised. Because had Allah decided they would die in that moment, the car would’ve for sure hit them.

It was, by all accounts, a miracle.

The first true miracle Ahmed had ever witnessed.

And Ahmed wanted to rest on the green patch with Umar beside him. Wanted to believe that the car was just some freak driver not knowing where they were going. Wanted to believe that all bad things could be taken away just by closing one’s eyes.

But more cars slammed into each other, roaring out of control, engines screaming and screeching like hounds in the night in the middle of a haunted forest.

An almighty bang rang from Ahmed's right. Near deafening. Crunching. Rattling his ears.

He pushed himself to his knees, eardrums ringing. Noises echoing, more crashes joining in the torture.

He glanced in that direction.

Three people sandwiched between a pile up of cars. Heads lolled to the side. Unconscious. Eyes white and pupils gone.

Blood splattered beneath them, on the concrete. Right as another car slammed into the rear of the pile up.

They're dead, that voice in Ahmed's mind said. Dead like in Black Ops.

Except this wasn't Black Ops. This wasn't a video game you played for fun. You couldn't respawn in real life.

If you died, you were dead. Until the Day of Judgement. Until Allah’s Reckoning arrived.

The thought, despite the raging heat from fires that had broken out due to burst engines, chilled Ahmed to the bone marrow.

“We need to go,” Ahmed yelled over shouts and screams.

Screams of death.

But Ahmed shoved that thought from his mind.

Umar gazed up at him, from the grass, as though Ahmed was his saviour.

Worry in those brown eyes.

Then the grass they stood on turned a shade darker.

Then another five shades.

Darker than dark.

Ahmed glanced up.

A plane was falling out of the sky.

Falling fast.

Ready to tear the earth a new one.

Chapter 3

“This way,” Ahmed screamed, pulling Umar along as the plane fell, accelerating as it descended its wrath upon the world.

Ahmed couldn't die.

Not when he'd just gained the little freedom the earth could offer him.

Not when the world was crashing down to hell.

And he couldn't let Umar die with him.

A glance up revealed a sky ashen with smoke. Plumes of it polluting the otherwise clear white clouds.

A grey tinge overtook Ahmed's vision, as though he looked through pain-tinted glasses.

“Baya, what's happening?” Umar said in such a small voice Ahmed barely heard him over the noise.

Umar's fingers were as clammy as Ahmed's felt. But Ahmed held firm, almost squeezing the life out of Umar's palm to ensure he wouldn't let go of his brother.

But Ahmed couldn't offer a reply to Umar's question. Because the world was crashing down to nothing and Ahmed had to find a way out of this hell. And because he himself didn't know what was happening, as hadn't the bodies lying on the ground in pools of their own blood.

If Ahmed didn't find an escape from the terror descending on the world, he and Umar would join those bodies.

“Help me,” a voice said from Ahmed's right. An old man on the ground, limping on his arms whilst groaning in pain, blood dripping from both his scraping legs and filling the cracks in the concrete.

Ahmed looked away from the sight, and he turned Umar's head too. Not that it would help things, because more dead bodies flooded the street like dropped flies. Littered in every direction—Ahmed couldn't avoid them even if he’d wanted to.

But he could join them if he wasn't safe.

Ahmed picked up the pace.

All whilst that shadow looming over them enlargened. The grass nearly grew devilish black as Ahmed flung himself across the destroyed street, past a couple of defunct cars that were smashed to bits, and into the next road.

New pavement scraping the soles of his foot, as he dragged a confused and frightened Umar in tow.

Smells of burning and blood and a nasty nausea that burrowed right into the back of his throat.

It was all too much. Too much to bear, too much to witness, especially on sixteen year old shoulders.

But the world threw you into situations far beyond your capacity, perhaps to test just what that capacity was. That was, sadly, the way of the world when hardships struck.

Ahmed would have to find out his own capacity for enduring terror. He didn’t have a choice otherwise.

Whilst he legged it through to the next street with Umar’s hand firmly clasped in his, the ground rumbled and shook with the force of a thousand earthquakes. The sky looked as if it had been torn apart, with plunders of smoke pushing through to create more rips in grey.

Plumes of smoke rushed through the street from the plane’s crash site near the train station Ahmed had left behind. Had he remained there, with Umar—

Dead. That was what they would have been. Undoubtedly, unequivocally, dead. Just like the bodies they’d left behind.

The old man came to Ahmed’s mind. The old man who had requested their help, only for Ahmed to refuse because he wanted to save himself and Umar.

That old man was dead.

And, paradoxically, Ahmed’s decision to preserve himself and his brother over saving another life had been the right one.

He glanced back once, to see how far the plane crash was, right as dust flung itself into his eyes.

Blinded for a second, Ahmed let go of Umar’s palm and scrubbed at his eyes with both hands. Furiously, trying to clear them, before opening them once again.

When he did, Umar was gone.

Chapter 4

Panic struck Ahmed like a shot of lightning to the back of the head. Near-black smoke strung a pungent tinge that attacked his nostrils and jabbed down to his throat, and Ahmed’s footwork wasn't good enough to block the hits.

The smoke was almost opaque too, to the point where Ahmed couldn't tell, save for the concrete beneath him, whether he was in a London street or a ghoulish desert sandstorm.

Water brimmed in his eyes from the unbearable heat and nasty smells, but Ahmed clenched his jaw and screwed his resolve tighter.

Because Umar was gone.

His brother's hand was no longer in his, their clamminess stuck together, and that spelled trouble.

Deep, deep trouble.

Ahmed had wiped his eyes, let go of Umar's hand in the process. And that caused his brother to stray from him, to disappear into the smoke the way quicksand trapped bodies.

Perhaps never to come out again.

No, Ahmed couldn't allow that to happen.

“Umar,” Ahmed called out, toxic air flinging into his mouth with violence. He coughed once, then again, then called out his brother's name for the second time.

Then, strangely, silence.

Ahmed's ears filled with smoke, yet he couldn't hear a thing, could barely hear himself breathe.

As though the world was insulating all noise from entering his senses.

He waded through more smoke, arms heavy, feet already sore from the running, mind burnt out on danger.

Greyness wrapping around him like a blanket of death. Rushes of smoke tingling his skin. Hair feeling crispier than freshly fried French fries.

And then he heard it.

A cry from somewhere near him. Somewhere around him. A cry for help. A cry of, “Baya.”

A shrill cry, low yet sharp, like a harsh whisper. Cutting into Ahmed’s eardrums, pincering his attention in a vice.

But he couldn’t locate Umar at all. His mind swirled, as did the smoke bruising his body from all directions. He whipped around, then again, then turned to his left, right, step forwards, then back a few.

But nothing, not one thing. Not one hint of where Umar could be. The call echoed in Ahmed’s mind. A reminder of the brother he couldn’t find.

He waded through three more steps of smoke, covering his mouth with a hand. Eyes watering at the stinging sensation hitting them. Ahmed could barely keep them open.

“Baya.”

“Umar,” Ahmed called into the grey void.

But no reply came.

For the hundredth time that morning, Ahmed’s mind jumped to the worst conclusions. That Umar had been swallowed by the smoke. That his little brother was coughing violently due to the gas, that the elements and the chaos had swept Umar away.

Never to return him again.

Never to return him again.

Ahmed smacked a hand against his skull to get those thoughts out, before searching the grey smoke. For any sign of Umar.

Any sign of anything resembling life.

He found bodies at his feet. People who had died from car crashes as they spun out of control and slammed into lampposts, shop windows, and pedestrians.

Blood on the ground. Blood that could be—

“Umar,” he shouted again. Voice nearly tearing his throat.

Praying that his brother heard him.

And praying that he could hear a reply.

But Ahmed never heard a thing.

Instead, he saw a silhouette in the smoke. Of someone moving, shifting, slightly darker than the already dark smoke.

The shadow was smaller than Ahmed, which meant it could be—

“Umar!” he shouted.

He jumped forwards, into the smoke. Ignoring the heat oppressing his face. Ignoring the way every breath stung his throat.

He reached towards that dark black silhouette and grabbed at it.

But nothing met his hands. Like he was trying to grab air.

The silhouette shifted, almost impossibly, as though a ghost from a nightmare. Untouchable, invincible.

But Ahmed was determined to get his brother back.

He stormed after the shadow, jumped to reach it again, arm outstretched.

Wrapped a hand around something solid. A wrist. A human wrist.

And that wrist had a pulse. Was warm. Was alive.

He pulled the shadow towards him, and Umar’s face smacked into his stomach.

But his brother was alive. At least. And that counted for something.

Right as a deafening noise split the air behind him. Vibrations shaking off the smoke before him, creating an almost halo-like circle.

Ahmed hugged a warm Umar into his side and looked through the smoke-surrounded circle. Only to find a car, engine revving at a million miles a minute. Storming through the circle without a care in the world.

What on earth?

The car was erratic. Movements about as consistent as the engine’s noises. And Ahmed stood frozen, Umar hugged to his left. Watching the car hurtle towards them.

Not knowing which way to run because the car seemed more like a heat-seeking missile.

Or like a Formula One car zipping left and right when behind a safety car.

Ahmed watched the car about to end their lives.

Chapter 5

The car’s movements were erratic, blazing through the ashen street and bursting holes in the thick smoke.

All whilst Ahmed just watched, with bated breath. Umar hugged to his side. Body warmth pulsing with every rushed heartbeat.

Ahmed needed to move. To act. Needed to find a way out of there. Find a way to safety. Whatever that meant in the chaos around them.

But nothing came to mind. As the engine’s roar bulleted the street like a gun’s fire.

As flames doused the whole of London in fiery red.

As smoke contaminated the clouds and turned them black.

Ahmed could barely keep his legs under him. But he recalled what he’d told himself, whilst the acrid smoke dug a hole in his nose and nested there.

He recalled his words before abandoning home—

I’ll have to survive, no matter what it takes. No matter the cost. Because freedom is worth everything.

At that time, Ahmed had been preparing for homelessness. Preparing for fights, druggies attempting to steal his belongings, the battles for life when death knocked at his door.

He hadn’t expected the world to come crashing down within a few hours. And hadn’t expected another soul to care for as that destruction erupted across everything he knew.

And now a car swerved towards them.

And Ahmed had to make a choice, as it got close. Because one of them surviving was better than none.

A choice to sacrifice himself to save his brother.

But it was a fifty-fifty decision.

And if Ahmed chose the wrong side to dive to, Umar would die with Ahmed alive.

And Ahmed would never forgive himself in that case. He had to be the one to die. He had to put himself in danger for Umar’s benefit.

The car swerved to the left. Ahmed pushed Umar to the right and flung himself backwards.

But in his mental equation, Ahmed hadn't factored in one variable.

That Umar wouldn't let go of Ahmed's side. That Umar's grip would prove too strong.

Umar held on, arms wrapped over Ahmed's waist, as Ahmed flew back to the pavement behind them.

Terror struck Ahmed.

Had he just gotten himself, and his brother, killed?

An engine's roar slammed into him, and concrete tiles smashed his back. He rolled, once, then slid whilst Umar was wrapped into his chest.

The engine passed. Growling louder than lightning.

Before growing quiet. Into the distance. Gone.

And silence shrouded them in a blanket of dread and relief.

Ahmed glanced up, at the ashen sky turning black, and smelt the flames.

Despite the chaos, they were alive.

Somehow, someway, Allah had kept them alive.

Ahmed alone hadn't the strength to push himself and Umar out of the car's way. But if he and Umar worked together, their strength was enough.

That was the factor Ahmed hadn’t considered. And his idiocy had almost gotten them killed.

“You're alive, Umar,” Ahmed breathed out.

Umar's eyes and lips trembled, and he squashed himself into Ahmed's chest and cried. Loudly. Sounds of his weeping filling the still air.

Ahmed held onto him, and just managed to keep his own tears at bay. For the sake of his brother, and for himself.

Other than bodies in the distance—dead bodies—and the odd shout from across the street, the world was peaceful.

Though smoke still perforated the air, and though burning still ensued in all directions, a semblance of safety had been reached.

Had been given, by Allah.

And for Ahmed, a semblance was all he needed.

As the tide of the apocalypse died down across London, Ahmed and his brother made their way to an abandoned office building to one side of the street. It was one of the only places that weren't burnt down, though it teetered dangerously to one side. Grey debris littered the ground, and floating dust carried the smell of waste and ash.

But shelter was shelter at the end of the day. And that was all that mattered.

Ahmed grabbed his bag and took a tissue, then wiped himself and Umar down. Him and Umar sat on a couple of chairs that were, impossibly, unscathed by the chaos aside from a little dust. They were comfy too, fabric springing up like it had a life of its own, never to be weighed down.

“Want a Kit-Kat?” Ahmed asked, rummaging through his bag to get the pack of four out.

It was one of Umar's favourite chocolates, and Ahmed had taken a liking to them recently.

“Whoa!” Umar exclaimed, looking shocked that such a delicacy could even exist given the world's state.

But, as Ahmed and his brother bit into the wafered chocolate and relished the sweet taste, Ahmed appreciated the small things in life, and thanked Allah for them.

Sure, the world was going to hell from the looks of things. And there would be more chaos to come. And Ahmed would have to struggle his hardest to survive and protect his brother.

But if a chocolate could taste this good despite the circumstances, then Ahmed was hopeful for now.

An optimism he hoped he could always hold onto.

JazakAllahu Khayran for reading!

Feel free to read any of my other free short stories, or click the all fiction tab above for info on where to find my longer works.