Alternative Apocalypse

by Debora Godfrey

  It was a sour truth, but valid. One thing Skyler had quickly learned was how much worse things could get when rule of law broke down.

  His family had witnessed the brutality of human nature literal minutes after the attacks had begun, even as air raid sirens screamed the death cry of civilization. While terrified television personalities delivered panicked warnings to seek shelter, Skyler’s neighbor had arrived at his front door. John Beckman had offered the Lendonberg clan safe haven in the efficiently prepared, subterranean bunker he’d had constructed years earlier.

  The thought of John prompted a powerful burst of grief, and Skyler was surprised to find himself struggling against fresh tears. The memory of that terrible morning still haunted him

  The two men had grown close when, several years earlier, Skyler (who taught creative writing at the local high school) had John’s son in his class. Under his guidance, the boy demonstrated a genuine talent. Encouraged and inspired by a teacher who was making an investment in him, the teen had eventually submitted and successfully published his first short story.

  Skyler and John had been close friends since. Though their politics might be different, they shared a mutual respect. Skyler had been deeply moved to discover his family had a standing invitation to accompany the Beckmans should the need for the bunker arise.

  The men who had accosted them on the way to the shelter that terrible day had been merciless as they gunned John and his family down. Skyler had barely managed to enter the access codes John had given him months earlier, ushering his family inside just as the gunmen turned their weapons on them. The last clear image he had of the world topside was of father and son, their bloodied bodies crumpled a few short feet from one another. The boy’s eyes had been wide open, staring up at a sky he could no longer see.

  Chills ran down Skyler’s spine as he recalled with uncomfortable clarity the echo of bullets bouncing off the access hatch as he’d sealed it above him, scrambling after his family down the accompanying ladder. As the hatch had closed, he’d heard the shrill, terrified death scream of one of his friend’s murderers as hellfire vaporized him.

  They’d found themselves in a short tunnel at the bottom, lit by a string of artificial lights, culminating in the entry to the living quarters. As they’d made their way inside what would be their new home, the world had trembled and gone dark. Skyler had huddled with his wife and child in the blackness, that shriek of horror replaying inside his head.

  After what had seemed like days (surprisingly, only a matter of hours), emergency lighting had kicked in, and they’d decided to move about to investigate their surroundings. There was enough water and canned goods to last for several years. Further exploration revealed a back room equipped with a small generator and several large, metal, drums of gasoline. The generator powered regular interior lighting, as well as grow lamps for plants and the radio array. An exhaust tube plunged into the concrete foundation, preventing carbon monoxide poisoning by presumably expelling toxic fumes.

  A filtration system had been installed which recycled and freshened the air. There was even a system for producing electrical current by turning a wheel and charging a battery which stored the energy in panels. It had been installed in case the generator failed.

  The communications console Skyler had been manning for so many weeks was situated in a smaller room, next to the makeshift greenhouse.

  John hadn’t missed a trick, it seemed.

  And the man was gone, along with his family, murdered scant yards from the entrance to the place. Now the counter serving as their fallout warning was delivering the frightening news: Their haven was no longer safe.

  There in the communications room with the forever silent radio, Skyler openly wept.

  ***

  Upon entering the bunker’s common area, he noted his wife had fallen asleep on the sofa John had installed. The room was designed much the way a standard living room would be: The sofa facing a television set up (no broadcasts to pick up, of course, but there was a sizable library of movies and music to play, all stored digitally on protected flash drives which could be plugged into the TV), both separated by a small coffee table. In the corner, a standing lamp cast a warm, amber glow. Under normal circumstances, it would seem cozy. The idea (so Skyler had been informed by his late neighbor) was to establish a sense of familiarity. John had reasoned it would help anyone inside cope with the overwhelming reality of what had transpired above.

  Madeline was curled up, her legs drawn under her, her face half buried in one of the small throw pillows adorning the sofa. Soft breaths escaped her every few seconds and a smile curled her lips. Skyler’s heart ached at the sight of that smile. Only in her dreams could his wife express anything remotely approaching joy these days. During her waking hours, her face remained impassive. As if it were taking all of her energy just to not break down.

  Which is probably the truth of it, he thought.

  A sudden, blazing anger swelled inside of him, directed at God, the Devil, Man and any other target he could think of. Skyler wasn’t sure which was worse—suddenly knowing they were all going to die, or his absolute impotence in the face of that reality.

  He considered waking her, then thought better of it. What would be the point? Rousing Madeline now would only pull her from a seemingly benign dream, denying her the only escape she had left. There was little point anyway, he reasoned. All he planned to do was let her know it was time to take the pills.

  Skyler shuddered at the thought of the tiny red lock box stashed away in their bedroom. There were six tablets inside, placed there in the event of a worst-case scenario. Specifically, this scenario. Three had been intended for John and his family, the others added once he’d decided to invite Skyler and his brood to join them.

  “A last ditch solution,” John had explained, his tone grim as he revealed to his neighbor the key to the lock box. “If the radiation does somehow get in and it looks as if we’re not going to make it, swallowing one of those will allow us to slip out peacefully. You’ll go to sleep and never wake up.”

  Madeline had been adamant the pills be kept somewhere their son wouldn’t get to them. Aside from the common area, the communications room and a small restroom, there were four other spaces designed as living quarters. Two would host the respective parents, the other two occupied by the children.

  Skyler had suggested they place the box inside one of the two empty rooms. Part of his reasoning had been based on the anticipation they would never truly need the tablets. On some deeper level, though, he knew that wasn’t the only factor. He wanted a reason to close off those two rooms for good, so their devastating emptiness wouldn’t provide a constant reminder of what had already been lost.

  Madeline wasn’t having it. If there was any chance their son could wander into the selected room unattended and get his hands on that box, that was an instant deal breaker. She pointed out, with good cause, the boy was likely going to enter his teenage years while still surviving down here. One day he might be tempted to pick the lock on the door of the forbidden room while they were both asleep, just to see what was inside.

  Both parents had finally agreed the lock box should be kept in the bedroom they shared. Skyler had decided to keep the key on him at all times. They took the extra step of never telling their son about the box.

  Skyler quietly crossed the common area, approaching two similar doors. He carefully opened the one on his left, peeking in on his child. The boy was curled up in his bed, fast asleep. His face was a mask of complete peace. Next to him, a wind-up alarm clock with luminescent hands revealed it was a quarter past midnight. No wonder everyone was asleep.

  Trembling, Skyler quietly closed the door, slipping inside the other room. Satisfied he hadn’t woken either of them, he made his way to the bed.

  He groped at the shadows underneath the bed frame for a few seconds before his fingers found purchase on cool metal. His heart beginning to beat faster, he withdrew the lock box, balancing it on his kn
ees. He slipped his hand in his pocket, extracting a small ring hosting a single key.

  It was a dull thing, nothing more than a sliver of tarnished silver. Yet, as innocuous an object as it was, it might as well have been a loaded gun.

  Skyler remembered something John had told him one afternoon, as the situation overseas had grown worse and talk of affairs potentially leading to the much dreaded Big One had begun to dominate the media.

  “It’s inevitable, Skyler,” John had said with a calm certainty. “For all of human existence, mankind has been dancing on the edge of eternity. We’ve courted the Grim Reaper—against our own interests, even—for the entire duration. Every year we come closer to finally tipping the balance and tumbling over that edge.

  That’s because—despite our so-called civilization, despite all of our culture—we’re still just primates. If we can’t dominate, we’ll settle for the instinctual pleasure of destroying our enemies.”

  They’d drowned the rest of that rather mordant conversation in some tasty beer that day, and Skyler had, for the most part, put it out of his mind. Staring at the key now, he realized how completely he agreed with the dead man.

  A bitter snort escaped him at the thought. It would be folly not to believe. With everyone else dead because of the human need to “get them as good as they got us”, and his own family staring mortality in the face, there was no other recourse. Life itself had become the confirmation of John’s truth.

  He made quick work of opening the box and extracting the needed number of tablets. He moved to again secure the box and return it to its dark space beneath the bed, when it occurred to him there was no point. There would be no one left to get at the contents.

  Skyler held the three tiny, gray pills in his open palm, regarding them quietly. He felt hollow.

  Do you realize, he thought, the emptiness seeming to echo through him, you may well be holding the end of the human race in your hand? Ladies and gentlemen of the universe, all you elder Gods of Heaven and Hell—presenting Skyler Lendonberg. Age forty. Father of one, husband to Madeline Baker-Lendonberg. The man who rendered the human race extinct.

  For all he knew, it was true. If the radiation was seeping in here and had also taken the members of the colony, it stood to reason the same drama was playing out all across the globe. The three of them might be the last people left.

  The sound of his wife stirring on the sofa pulled him out of his grim reverie, and he chided himself for indulging such melodrama. If ever there was a moment requiring his complete, undiminished attention, this was it.

  Skyler rose from the bed, palming the tablets and slipping them into his pocket. He braced himself, knowing he had to do this but hating it every step of the way. A while back, when John had explained to him about the pills, his neighbor had offered him an opportunity to glance through a medical journal containing images of people who had suffered fatal radiation sickness. He found himself presently grateful to John for driving the point home. He shivered, combating a surge of nausea as the reality of what his family was facing truly connected for the first time.

  Slipping back into the common area, he was surprised to find Madeline awake. She favored him with a sleepy half-smile. A tremor of grief forced his heart to beat faster. Was he really about to do this to someone who could still give him any kind of a smile under these circumstances?

  He reminded himself of the pictures from the medical journal. It served to quell the doubts.

  “Is Jacob sleeping?” she asked softly.

  “Yes,” Skyler told her. “I think he’s having a good dream. He was smiling.”

  “Thank god,” she answered, shifting on the sofa and stretching her legs. She yawned, reaching over her head, her back curving like a cat’s. He watched her, remembering the day he’d proposed. They’d been at a quiet spot by a lake, the place where they’d first met. She’d been wearing nothing fancier than cut-off denim shorts and a midriff tee shirt, but Skyler had thought her to be the most beautiful creature on the planet. Nothing had changed in the years since.

  That had been late summer. Since then, he’d come to love the end of the season, as it reminded him of his happiest memory. He’d been presumptuous enough to believe that would never change. Then the world had gone mad, his fond memories another victim of the global catastrophe.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  The question brought him back to the present. Skyler felt a stab of guilt. Given this was the last conversation he was likely to have with his wife, this was a most inappropriate time for woolgathering. He sat down next her.

  “Just life. How, in the middle of this nightmare, we somehow managed to stay together as a family.”

  “Oh.” Whatever interest she might have had was already draining away. The dull, empty look was returning to her eyes.

  “Hey, would you like a drink of water?” Skyler asked. “You look a bit thirsty.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great,” Madeline affirmed, at least attempting a smile. She reached out and placed a hand on his cheek. “I know I can’t really show it, but I’m glad we’re all together too. You’re what’s been keeping me going.”

  Skyler leaned in and planted a light peck on her cheek before exiting the room, stepping into the short outer corridor connecting the common area to the communications array. As soon as he was out of her line of vision, he released a breath he hadn’t consciously realized he’d been holding. His eyes stung and he swiped at them angrily, willing himself to not cry again.

  Further ahead on the left was a small space where they stored the consumables. The door was partially open. No doubt that had been Jacob, forgetting to close it behind him as young children are known to do.

  I would have him forget to close doors, not put down toilet seats and never clean up after himself every day for the rest of his life not to have to do this, Skyler thought bitterly.

  At first glance, it would seem to anyone not in the know there wasn’t enough here to keep a family alive for more than a few weeks. In reality, the floor of the storeroom had a door built into it. Underneath, a short ladder accessed a storage space roughly the same dimensions as the entire bunker. Most of the goods were kept there. How ironic it would likely never be found or used.

  Up top, several cases of bottled water were stacked in the corner of the room, next to bags of rations, powdered milk and other items designed to provide necessary nutrition without requiring refrigeration.

  The shrink wrap binding the top case had been torn. He rummaged inside of it, grabbing one of the plastic cylinders and unscrewing the top, the plastic ring crackling as he twisted it loose. Skyler slipped one of the pills through the mouth. Once the tablet had disintegrated into a fine cloud, he shook the bottle, mixing it up. The milky quality of the contents quickly cleared. At a casual glance, it looked like a perfectly benign bottle of spring water.

  He had started back to the common area when he heard his wife speaking to someone. This was followed in short order by the sleepy tones of a child’s voice. Jacob must have awoken and come out to see what was going on.

  “Sky, sweetie,” Madeline called from the other room, “Jacob is awake. He says he wants a drink of water. Can you grab a bottle for him as well?”

  “Sure. Be right there!” he yelled back.

  It all came crashing down on him. The strength went out of Skyler’s legs and he sagged, pushing his back against the wall of the storeroom for support. Turning his head to one side, he closed the door behind him and buried the muffled, screaming sobs he could no longer push down in the crook of his arm. His body shook with each violent outburst of horrified misery as it all forced its way out.

  Get it together, man, he warned himself. If you’re in here too long, she’ll get worried. If she sees you like this, they’ll know something’s up. Clean up and get on it with. All you can do now is give them a blissful exit.

  The cold reality of this last thought dragged him mercilessly out of his state.

  All you can d
o now is give them a blissful exit.

  And that was all there was to it, right?

  Skyler dried his eyes and cleaned up his face using the hem of his shirt. He snatched two more bottles of water and quickly went through the same steps for each. He’d decided he would let them drink first, waiting until they drifted off. Then, once he’d confirmed it was done, he would consume his own.

  There would be no need for burials, no one to discover what remained or be offended by it.

  It would be quick and it would be quiet.

  Peaceful.

  He stepped into the hall, wondering how it would feel as the dance ended and they plummeted over the edge into eternity.

  The Last and Greatest Vision of Saint Ethan The Obscure

  P. L. Ruppel

  God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.

  -Voltaire

  Father Jonathan Walsh, the last surviving monk of the Order of Saint Ethan the Obscure, was ninety years old when he visited the Vatican Library. He had worked with his brother monks and sister nuns to produce a small book of keys. And now, in the culmination of lifetimes of work, he was ready to decode the manuscript Ethan Ultimo Apocalypsis, the record of the last and greatest vision of his order’s founder.

  Ethan of Britain was called the Obscure because he was almost unknown outside a fifty-square-mile radius of a town called Maryloss and because he made all his prophecies using a series of increasingly difficult codes. The old monk had said that his last prophecy was his most accurate. He had also claimed that the code was unbreakable.

  At the Vatican, Father Walsh was led to a small climate-controlled room where the fragile document lay. They gave him a pair of cotton gloves and demonstrated how he should handle the pages. They smiled and pointed, but didn’t speak, because the old priest was stone deaf.

  The manuscript was written in a closely spaced script on pale beige sheets of parchment, the edges crumbled. The margins were filled with faded paintings of angels blowing trumpets with their backsides, mandrakes making love, and naked nymphs sporting with satyrs.