Dawn After The Nights Turned Poison

20261004

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Every morning since the world ended, Gus watched the dawn from the window of what had once, centuries before the Fog came, been a tollbooth. And then it had been a historical building. And then, after the world ended, it wrapped back around in some ways, and was the local Watcher’s Cottage.
He cupped the battered old camping mug of fresh tea between his palms and watched the flagstones become visible once more. Waiting for the last of the Fog to dissipate. Only then would he step outside, making sure it was definitely safe, and ring the market bell.
It was comforting to know that the bell, and the booth, and the old metal plaque reading “Market Street”, had been here for hundreds of years. They’d seen the world change many times. They’d watched it end once. They were still here. Still doing their jobs. He found it oddly inspirational. ‘Things change, and we change with them, but the core remains’.
Alright. The sunlight had done its work, burning away the clinging toxic vapours. Time to do his.
So Gus downed the last of his tea. Put on his coat and boots and the faded felt cap which was all that remained of his father. Then he took a deep breath - partly to steel himself, and mostly because if there were vapours remaining, he had to be able to hold his breath long enough to get the door shut again and run the filter.
But the outside air didn’t burn his eyes. And a testing sniff didn’t leave him doubled up coughing. He’d judged right. Good. While they needed every scrap of daylight, especially as the year waned and the nights grew longer and wetter and more deadly, it was never worth risking a lungful of Fog for a few extra minutes.
Satisfied, he walked to the bell and rang the morning signal. The precise sequence telling everyone that it should be safe to leave their homes, and the weather was clear and expected to remain so. He rang it five times, counting off a minute between each.
Before he’d finished the third ringing people were filling the street. Having been waiting, goods gathered ready, for the signal.
Funny thing. Before the world ended, they’d been a small town. But when suddenly having an offshore wind farm and sewage treatment and water processing all fairly local was not only noteworthy but vital, they found themselves a gathering place for… well. The people who remained. Now they weren’t just a supporting vestige of the city, they were its surviving fragment.
Gus counted people off. Checking faces. Not just that they were present, but what state they showed. How haggard. How downcast, or withdrawn, or vacant they looked. And especially he kept watch for skin with that sickly blue tint. Another vital tell made harder by the cold weather. Not least because of how everyone had to bundle up.
Well… everyone would be checking themselves on the regular. Surely. They all knew how important it was. And he did see several people stopping at the Watcher Cottage mirror to inspect their face in the morning sunshine.
Alright, they tended to fix up their appearance after, but so long as they were making sure Fog Sickness wasn’t setting in, that’s what mattered.
Edna’s stall was up first. Her whole family would’ve been baking for hours. Toiling away in close, hot quarters to get food ready for everyone. The fresh scents which filled the air were another immense comfort. Bread. Pasties. Even pastries. The sight put smiles on so many faces.
Thank goodness the wheat harvest had been good this year. Most of the harvests had been alright, actually. So folks should be alright through winter.
Across the way Jacob was stacking coolers of meat products. Once that trove would barely have filled a supermarket butcher counter. Now it was everything they had to parcel out. Chicken, mostly, as they were far easier to keep safe from the Fog. But apparently they’d managed to get the cow herds to mostly recover. There ought to be more milk to go around next year. Assuming luck held, that is.
What was really missing was fish. Used to be a mainstay here, as anywhere on a coast. But now the ocean was death. Like any body of water deeper than sunlight could reach.
Gus sighed. The distant ghost of fresh winkles taunting his tongue. He could barely even remember the taste, only that it’d been his favourite summer food. Before the world ended.
You could rarely even go down to the harbour now. Only on sunny days, when the spray wouldn’t leave you choking and clawing at your eyes. And there was nothing there, anymore, except sand and emptiness and poison.
Funny. If you’d told him as a child that one day he’d sore miss seagulls…
He shook himself and firmly turned back to his work. Monitoring the bustle and hubbub and life which filled the street, everyone coming together and making do.
The world changed. Sometimes it even ended. But they were still here. Still doing their jobs. Rebuilding, even. Market Street had held this community for hundreds of years, and might yet see a few hundred more. For now, they had to make the most of the daylight. Had to make sure everyone was home safe before the Fog rolled back in.
So Gus watched the people, and watched the sky, and did his job.

Prompt was “Describe a crowded city street, where the remaining humans gather in a post-apocalyptic world.”