The Last Days

         The lively streets were bustling with people, despite it being slightly after six in the morning. Apparently the old saying about New York citizens and sleep was true: they didn't need any. People have been dashing this way and that, far below my industrious hotel window I peered out of, damn near since four this morning. I have been standing here, watching them for far longer though. I could not deter my eyes from the window, from watching people whom I will never, in this lifetime meet. Then the tears came again, tears that would come unexpectedly, but come nonetheless. They fell down my haggard face, like diamonds strewn across a coal mine.
         I couldn't eat, I hadn't sleep in over thirty six hours, and, most importantly, I could not bring myself to move from that window. “Who am I, to make the call?” This wasn't like I was an umpire in one of my son's little league games, when he was a boy. It was far more important than deciding if the kid on second base, had made the catch in time. These were lives, we were talking about. Not just a few, either. Millions. Billions, even. Everyone, everywhere would be impacted when it hit. I focused my eyes down below again, to the people. So unaware that anything impending was going to happen. So caught up in their own individual lives that they could barely see past themselves. See past, to what was coming towards them. “They don't deserve this. Not a single one of them, deserve this.”
         I had only been to New York, a few times before. Once with my ex wife, long before she had drawn up the divorce and I knew about her exploits with her personal trainer, to see the ball drop on New Year's Eve. Another time on business, and once more when I was elected as a Presidential Adviser. It was here I had met the President.
         “He's the luckiest man in the world right now, and doesn't even know it. Hid away, holed up tight were nothing is gonna harm him, while everyone else in this world is gonna die.” I couldn't help but speak the words aloud.
         He's safe and sound, and just sitting there. Waiting for me to make the call. “15 people. I just scratch down fifteen people and fax it over.” Right now, I was playing God. I had the power to give the gift of live, without but the inevitability to stop death. I didn't want to play God, never asked for it. I couldn't imagine God like this, though. Choosing who to save, who to condemn to death. I don't think this comet was God's work either. I've never been a religious man, never really cared for religion. The last time I was even in a church, was for my son's wedding. But that was years ago. No, I'm not a devoutly religious man but I don't think this is God's work.
         The list, in all honestly, was not hard. In a way, it was already written and the people on it already chosen. The people on it were the ones who could give the most to whatever was left of this world after it hit. They were the smartest, brightest and most highly accomplished people of our day and age. They knew who they were, and they had all been briefed. The official order just needed to be given. The president couldn't do this, because at any given time he only knew half of what was really going on. The president really didn't run the country, his advisers did. I was now chosen to determine the fifteen people who would accompany the president in the safe house. I, myself, had two spots reserved. One spot for myself and one for someone else.
         I stood there, watching the sun's rays gleam from behind the Manhattan River, and I couldn't help but start thinking of my son. After two failed marriages and a lifetime of working with politicians who wanted nothing more than a quick dollar, he was all I had left. Him and my baby granddaughter. The tears came again when I realized I had only seen her once, and only held her in my arms for a split second before rushing off to take a phone call. I had failed my son, and I couldn't think of a man I knew who had been a worse father. I couldn't even make it to his own wife's funeral. It was election year, and I was too busy a man at the time. I didn't try to stop the tears this time.
         The phone, sitting on my bedside table rang furiously and broke me from my trance. For the first time in hours, I moved. I knew who the call was from, before I even answered it. The only people who had my number and knew I was staying at the hotel. I assured them that the list was complete, and I would fax it to them now. The tears stung like hot irons as I sent the fax. I kept telling myself that even if the list allowed for fifteen thousand people, it wouldn't be enough.
         I started to pack my things and checked out of the hotel, not wanting to be there any longer. I knew that right now, Secret Service was knocking on the doors of those who were named on the list and escorting them to the safe house so many miles underground. “How many days had it been since they knew it was heading to Earth? Six? Seven?” I couldn't remember. I did know, how many days we had left. Three days until it was all over. “Strike! Your out!”
         On the plane ride to Virginia, I briefly thought about calling my son. My mind raced over the things I would say to him, apologize for. I knew that if I tried his cell phone now, I might be able to reach him. Too bad I didn't have his cell number. I told myself it was best, in the car to my grandfathers old farm, that I didn't. I wanted no tears or pleas to come along. They would give him the letter I had left for him anyhow. It said, in writing, all the things I would tell him aloud. I knew they would because we all knew it was my last request. By the time I had pulled up into the driveway of the two hundred acre farm, all the tears in my body were spent, and I knew I would cry no more.
         This was were I was raised, this old farm. Most of my colleagues had always made fun of my country drawl, but it was just a product of my raising. I had lost most of it over the years, but there was always that emphasis on certain words that I would never loose. The house was just the same as it had been when Grandad died last spring. I had fit in a few days of grieving into my schedule, and then tried not to think of it. It had hurt more than words can ever express.
         Not wasting a second I went up to my old room and unpacked my things hastily. I changed from my stuffy business suit to a old pair of jeans and white cotton shirt. It was the first time since I was a boy that I had walked around barefoot through the house. I went back downstairs and sat on the couch and switched on Granddad's old TV. It wouldn't be long before they made the public announcement. They would wait until everyone that needed to be, was in the safe house, and all things were final before they broke the story. Predetermined reporters were standing by, waiting for the official word to break into the scheduled shows and interrupt with the devastating news.
         I wanted to watch as it happened, just this once.
         The next three days were the best of my life. I woke up early to watch the sunrise, and stayed up late every night reading old classics. I tried to avoid the news the best I could but occasionally I would watch it for a few minutes, just to see what was going on. I was right. The world had went straight to Hell since the news was released. That was to be expected though, we all knew it. I made fresh orange juice, just like my grandmother used to do and even read a few pages from the Bible. I went through old photos and scrapbooks and cried and laughed. Before those days, I don't suppose I had ever really lived. I was totally at peace. I knew that I could never really make it up to my son, but I hoped he would see my final act as a poor attempt to try. I knew that no matter what were to happen, they would be safe inside that underground bunker.
         On the evening of the third day, we could see it coming. Right before sunset it pierced the sky like nothing before it. It was all going to be over in a few more minutes. I sat down on Granddad's favorite rocking chair out on the porch, folded my hands on top of the  Grandma's Bible that sat on my lap, and waited.