The Last Hibiscus

 

They said the world wouldn’t end with fire or ice, but with silence.

Long before the first waves hit, the wealthy and powerful already knew. Whispers passed through sealed doors in New York, Beijing, Berlin, and London. In Malaysia, only one bastion remained: Kuala Lumpur — a towering walled city rebuilt with the help of corporate families and political dynasties. The elite had funneled their funds to build KL into the final safe zone of Southeast Asia.

Tim never got the memo.

A second child in a below-average family from Melaka, Tim had moved to KL for work, just like millions of others. The same week the first cataclysm arrived, he was away on a business trip in Kedah. The train lines died. The sky turned red. Communications fell. And KL sealed its gates.

Tim was left behind.

He could’ve panicked. Could’ve cried. He almost did. But instead, he walked.

Through collapsed highways. Through towns half-abandoned. Past survivors turned scavengers. He carried a small bag, a bottle of water, and a metal baseball bat — the one he’d always kept in his car, “just in case.” It used to be a joke. Now, it was the only thing keeping him sane.

 

In Perak, he found a woman, Alya and her six-year-old son, Haziq, hiding in the back of a ransacked petrol station. They were almost out of food. Her eyes were sharp with fear.

She didn’t trust him. And he didn’t blame her.

“I’m heading to KL,” he said quietly. “It’s still standing. Come if you want. If not... I understand.”

He turned to leave, expecting silence. But then he heard tiny footsteps behind him.

Somewhere near Tanjung Malim, they found an old orchard. Mango trees stretched above them like ghosts. Quiet. Abandoned.

Tim didn’t sleep that night.

He scattered broken glass under the leaves. Tied nylon rope across the ground. Set up crude traps. Something in the air was wrong. He felt it in his chest like a second heartbeat.

 

At dusk, they came — three men, wild-eyed and barefoot. One had a machete. Another wore a necklace of teeth. The third dragged his feet like he’d forgotten how to be human.

They stared at Alya. At the boy.

Tim stepped forward, gripping the bat.

“We don’t want trouble,” he said. His voice was calm. Too calm.

The men only smiled — slow, deliberate.

Tim didn’t wait.

“Run,” he muttered, not turning his head. “Take your boy. Don’t look back.”

Alya’s breath caught. But she obeyed.

The trap worked. One man screamed as glass tore into his feet. Another vanished into the pit with a sickening crunch. The machete man lunged. Tim met him mid-charge — bat to the ribs, then to the face. He felt the bones give way.

The third man — crawling — fumbled for something on his belt.

That’s when Tim saw it.

A strip of leather. Strung with dried human ears.

Some were small.

Children.

Tim’s body moved before his mind caught up. He pinned the man down, his breathing ragged. He did what he must.

And then there was only silence.

When Alya returned later, she found him sitting by the river. The bat rested beside him. Blood on his hands. His eyes were empty, staring into the current like it could carry away what he’d done.

She sat beside him. Said nothing.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

 

KL rose like a dream in the distance — glass towers behind black steel. The last city.

At the gate, they were scanned. Blood drawn. Data cross-checked against old government servers. Drones buzzed like flies. Tim kept his arms at his sides, heart pounding.

“This child carries a rare gene mutation,” an officer said. “Resistant to radiation. The boy is a priority case.”

“The mother’s blood type is O-negative,” another added. “Extremely rare. She qualifies as well.”

Their names were stamped. Green ink.

Then they turned to Tim.

“Blood type A. Common. Former job: logistics. No medical expertise. No specialized skills.”

A red stamp hit his paper: UNSUITABLE FOR ENTRY.

Before Tim could speak, as he stood with the red-stamped paper in his hand, a man brushed past him in the crowd. A stranger in a patched jacket, voice low and oily.

“You know... you could sell them,” the man muttered. “Just a whisper to the right people. Black-market buys go for a lot. You’d get a pass. Or a seat in a convoy. Nobody would blame you. It’s just survival.”

Tim didn’t answer. He only stared ahead, the noise of the city gates muffled by the storm inside his head. The boy's tiny hand clung to his mother’s. Alya’s eyes searched his.

He looked at her, tired and calm.

“Take your son. Go.”

“Tim... you brought us here. You saved us.”

“Then let me believe I still made the right choices.”

Tim stared at the gates. At the lights.

“If survival costs me my soul,” he said, “Then I might as well be dead.”

 

He turned and walked south.

Back toward Melaka.

The roads were quieter now. Not peaceful — just hollow. The kind of silence that filled your chest and made you forget what laughter sounded like.

He reached his old home. It was burned to the ground. Charred ruins. No signs of life.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just stood there, letting the ashes settle in his hair.

Then he moved on.

On an overgrown hill near the straits, he found a quiet place. He cleared the land. Planted what seeds he could find. He built a small shelter. Lit fires each night for the lost ones.

They came. One by one. The rejected. The unchosen. The undesired.

He called the place The Last Hibiscus, after his mother’s favorite flower. She used to say the hibiscus was a symbol of love, passion, and the beauty in broken things.

He remembered her words like a prayer:

“When everything else is gone, you hold on to your kindness. That’s the only thing worth surviving for.”

And in a world that had forgotten itself, Tim built a place that remembered. THE END