This is the End

This is the End

By:

Steve Smith



November 16, 2012 10:30 a.m. Neural Diary Entry #1,008

         The cold morning floats through the open window. The prickly air wakes me from the warm stupor of sleep. I feel it in my toes first; they are exposed from underneath the covers. I blink my eyes into focus. A sliver of golden sunlight slithers through the slit in the curtains and slices my torso in half. I sit slowly, silently, the sheets slide down to my waist. Goosebumps quickly rise on my exposed chest. I run a hand through matted, sleep-worn hair, then across a stubble-ridden chin. To my left the bed is empty. She must have gone sometime ago. The clock reads the time, 10:40. I’ve overslept. I push the sheets off of me and place my feet on the floor. The carpet is soft. I forget what she calls it but she says it is expensive. The whole apartment is expensive. From the sheets to the bed, to the bathroom and down the hall to the kitchen, she says it is all worth it. The money we spend. Not that it matters. I believe her with my credit card but not with my heart. Standing, I stretch myself into alertness. A yawn fills my lungs with air, the corners of my mouth tingle from the stretching. I walk to the expensive bathroom, turn on the expensive faucet, step into the expensive shower. Is the water I drench myself with expensive? It doesn’t feel expensive. I lather expensive shampoo and expensive conditioner and add it to my hair then wash it out with the inexpensive water.  Ten minutes later, I am sitting at the expensive table, eating inexpensive cereal with inexpensive milk, using an expensive spoon, reading an inexpensive paper. The countdown on the paper is ticking downward. Less than two weeks it says. Thirteen days, seven hours, forty two minutes, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, forty one minutes. The cereal is finished and I put the expensive dishes in the expensive sink. Back in my expensive bedroom, I put on an expensive suit. Armani, she told me. Some of the best clothes I’ve ever worn. I step out of the expensive apartment and into the inexpensive hallway of our apartment complex.

Down the hall, I enter the expensive elevator. I have forgotten to shave. The apartment houses the cars of all the residents in a three story garage across the street. I walk across and avoid all traffic. They should build a bridge for me to walk over the street, instead of across. Not that it matters. The car park is empty. I have overslept. Luckily, my inexpensive car has not been stolen. The news tells me that crime is at its highest ever. I do not own a gun nor do I know how to defend myself. Take the car, I’ll say, here are the keys. The shift sticks and you will be lucky to make it to the bottom of this car park without it stalling on you. I hope the mugger will give back my keys. I make my way out of the garage and onto the main road. So far, so good for my car. A fire is raging on my right at the McDonald’s. Firefighters have yet to arrive and I do not think they will. This is not a good neighborhood to live in. Not that it matters. My office building is on the left. The car stalls on the turn. I sit in the wrong lane, praying the engine starts before I am noticed or killed by oncoming traffic. It coughs to life and I roll into an empty spot. I crawl over to the passenger side and get out. The driver side door opens only from the outside. The car’s special, the dealer says. He’s right. The expensive building I work in only looks expensive from the outside. I walk past the fountain with the two angels and their missing heads. It was reported they were cut off one night two months back. I think the boss doesn’t care if they are returned. He doesn’t care about much these days. I walk to my expensive cubicle that is filled with inexpensive things. A ying-yang sort of way of making me feel worthless and worthwhile at the same time. The boss is seven feet tall and weighs around three hundred pounds. I always ask why he didn’t go into basketball. “I was never athletic enough,” he always replies. I don’t believe him. He says it doesn’t matter now. I believe him. It really doesn’t. Nothing has mattered for a few months now. That’s why I live in an expensive apartment. That’s why I show up late for work. That’s why I don’t bother getting my car fixed. It won’t matter in thirteen days, six hours, fifty-five minutes. [End Transmission]

November 16, 2012 2:53 p.m. Neural Diary Entry #1,009

         The boss wanders past my cubicle, wondering out loud why anyone bothers coming into work. I respond by saying it keeps up with the normalcy but he is already out of ear shot. I make a good point. Work is pointless. It has been like this ever since August.

         There had been rumblings from within the government that something terrible was going to happen to our planet. These rumblings were disregarded as rumors. The government denied any knowledge of these rumors and sent out a statement that everyone involved with these rumors were to be disregarded and marked as insane. Then the rumors became truths. A high level member of NASA came out and publicly addressed that everything was true. This official was fired and the government again released a statement that all that was said should be regarded as false. But the public outcry for the truth was too much for the government to handle. A plan to march on Washington spread like wildfire across the Internet. A date was set: August 3rd. This would be the day that the populous got its answers. The threat of this march occurring led the President to make an emergency broadcast that interrupted every channel. I was at home, lying on my then-inexpensive bed, watching the nightly news. The President’s face appeared abruptly; he was seated in the Oval Office, wearing a dark blue coat with a matching tie and white shirt. His hands were folded neatly in front of him as he began slowly:

         “My fellow Americans, I interrupt your local broadcasting with news of great trauma on the horizon for this planet.” I sat up straight at this, and called to her to join me in the bed. She walked in, wearing the silk nightdress I’d bought her, showing off her shapely, slim legs. She slid under the covers as the President continued.

         “In recent weeks, there have been reports from within this government of a great and terrible power that is within striking distance of our planet. We have denied all knowledge of these rumors to keep the general public unaware as we attempt to solve this problem. But the great people of this nation demand and deserve answers. I speak with you tonight to address those rumors. It has been brought to my attention by NASA, in collaboration with the Chinese and Russian space programs, that a dwarf planet, Ceres, has dislodged itself from the asteroid belt that lies between Mars and Jupiter in our solar system. This dwarf planet is roughly the area of Spain, Germany and France combined.” She put her hand over her mouth at this, and I squeezed her other one tightly. “It was first discovered in 1801 by an astronomer named Giuseppe Piazzi. It has been on our radar since 2008. With the help of the Chinese and Russian space programs, we have assembled a team of astronauts for this mission. Using a payload of three strategically-placed nuclear warheads they will try to throw Ceres of its course. This crew will embark on November 9th, in hopes of meeting Ceres before it is too late. Until then, I ask that all Americans, and the people of Earth, pray that this disaster can be avoided. Goodnight.” 

         Two million people still marched on Washington, believing that all hope was lost and the government was at fault. In order to keep this march under control, the President had ordered a state of emergency and called in the National Guard. The Guard was woefully unprepared for what was about to happen. The march turned into a riot, with people climbing the fence in front of the White House and sprinting across the lawn. Anarchy was the only way. 

         I sit at the computer and browse through the endless streams of websites. No office-work is done and no one cares to do it. I stand up and look out over the sea of cubicles. Six out of thirty are occupied. It’s a record for the week. I sit back down. I come to work because I hate the feeling of an empty apartment. I try the company of the television but it doesn’t work as well for me as it does for older people. I go to work for the company, I guess. When I am at work, though, I do not make contact with anyone else. Others keep to themselves and I do the same. The vastness of the Internet is my only company. I sit at my computer and just surf the web for hours. My apartment has no internet; another reason I leave it five days a week and come here. A pop up flashes on the monitor. I have it programmed to keep me up to date with all news concerning the end. It pops up large and blinking: FAILURE. This is the only word on the screen. I hear a loud moan from across the room. Others must have programmed their computers the same. I stare blankly at the screen. Thirteen days, two hours and twenty minutes. [End Transmission]

November 29, 2012 5:05 p.m. Neural Diary #1,048

         The wind has stopped. The birds have lost their voices. Everything is silent and still before me. The ocean of trees below my feet has ceased swaying; the odor of nature is the only thing I sense. I search for something poetic, nothing comes to mind. The cliff that juts out of the side of the mountain is the place I came to view the show. The waiting will end soon. Everything will end soon. “Planet Killer” was the last headline run in the paper ten days ago. Anarchy has ruled for much of the past four months. I stand on the precipice, wearing a pilfered welder’s mask and a suit of armor from the 1300s. The welder’s mask is for the blast. They say it will be twice as bright as a nuke exploding. They recommend shielding your eyes. Apart from the welder’s mask, I do not follow those recommendations. I also did not follow the recommendations to hide in caves or in bomb shelters. Either way, I am dead; better sooner than later. The suit of armor is for fun. I took it from the Museum of History about a week ago. I was surprised it was still there. I am not bothered by the weight, but inside it is sweltering. At least I look cool. Finally, I understand what everyone in the world strives for. She is at my side, not bothering with clothes. She echoes the statement of the past four months: What is the point? I lift up the mask and look into the deep blue pools of her eyes. She leans in and presses her soft lips to mine. I release her and check my watch. 5:13. A sizable portion of the sun is blotted out. I flip down the mask and look at it. It is coming. I smile under the mask and reach for her hand. She presses her palm in mine. The mass is slowly moving toward us. The scientists have determined that ground zero will be five miles from where I stand. Anything within a three thousand mile diameter will be instantly vaporized. Everything else will be annihilated by the ensuing tidal waves and black smoke. We have become the dinosaurs. Who will inhabit the earth when we are gone? The ground rumbles as the sky becomes darker. The noise grows louder, louder than any jet, louder than any spacecraft lifting off, louder than anything my ears can stand. I do not cover my ears; my smile only grows. The darkness disappears as the mass ignites coming through the atmosphere. This false sun streaks across the sky, leaving a flaming tail in its wake. Tiny pieces break off and smash into the area around us. The forest lights on fire. Chaos is swirling around us. Then, the impact. I feel it in my entire body. The armor shudders and she staggers, but I hold steady. A low rumbling in my feet. Bits of rock are falling off the mountain. The light is blinding. A giant fireball climbs the sky. She covers her eyes with her hand; I squint hard underneath the mask. It is beautiful. Like a giant angel, the light showers over me. The angel reaches out a bright hand. I stretch out to take it, but the angel turns dark. A massive wall of fire, smoke, and debris is speeding toward us. The monster devours everything in its path. I cannot make out the face of this monster but I know who it is. It is him. The Reaper. He has come for us all. [Transmission Terminated]