The End Is Now

by John Joseph Adams

  Right. Great plan.

  But just imagining meeting Helen Anderson lifted the black cloud, the despair, if only slightly. What was the worst that could happen? She would say she was fine and thank him for his concern.

  Ray already regretted his grand proclamation. He should have let Eileen pack up and leave.

  He touched the glass over the spot where Helen Anderson had written her address. He knew she still lived there. He’d confirmed it on the county tax assessor website a dozen times over the years, each time he dreamed of driving over there on some pretext to meet her before talking himself out of it.

  It was a crazy idea; Don Quixote on steroids. But chances were he was going to die very soon. Why not seize the day? Why not do something a little crazy?

  Ray paused outside his car, considered going to the garage to say goodbye to Eileen. He might never see her again. They might both be dead in a week.

  Then he remembered the look on her face, when he said he would leave. Masked joy and relief.

  He climbed in, yanked the door shut.

  Half a block from his house, Ray slowed.

  A woman was lying on the sidewalk, twitching.

  Until now it had all been on TV. This woman, lying right outside his car, made it real. Ray’s every instinct screamed that he had to stop and help her. Her forehead was bleeding where she’d hit it on the pavement. Her head was jerking up and down, her eyes round with terror.

  If he touched her, he would die too. The symptoms wouldn’t show up for a week, but he’d be infected immediately.

  Around the corner he passed a wreck—an SUV wrapped around a light pole. The driver was nodding so violently her chin was bleeding where it rubbed the airbag that pinned her to her seat. In the back, two toddlers strapped in child seats nodded in unison.

  Ray’s chest hitched; he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the SUV. It was too much—he didn’t want to see any more pain, any more clear, terrified eyes.

  He was surprised to see Walter and Lauren sitting on their front porch. He rolled down the passenger window.

  Walter raised a hand in greeting. Lauren, sitting in the rocker beside him, was nodding wildly.

  “Oh, shit,” Ray said. He raised his voice. “Oh God, Walter, I’m so sorry.”

  Walter looked down at his lap. “It started an hour ago.” He touched her shoulder. “I brought her outside. She’d rather see grass and sky than four walls.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Ray asked.

  Walter shook his head. “I’m just waiting for it to take me. I kissed Lauren on the mouth to make sure.”

  Ray wasn’t sure how to respond. In a way he envied Walter. At least he and Lauren were going to die together.

  “We’ve had a good life,” Walter called from the porch. “Please give Eileen my love, and Lauren’s love, too.”

  “Eileen left me,” Ray blurted. “Or maybe I’m leaving her. She was having an affair.”

  Walter’s head drooped. “I’m so sorry.”

  A lump rose in Ray’s throat; this time he couldn’t stop the tears. “Thank you. You’ve been a good friend.” Then he remembered Lauren could see and hear everything. “You too, Lauren. I’m sorry.”

  Lauren went on nodding. Soon the nodding would stop, and she’d be still.

  Walter raised his hand in farewell. Ray couldn’t believe this was probably the last time he’d ever see Walter. No more listening to the Dodgers in Walter’s backyard; no more drives to the Green Leaf for a beer. Despite being thirty years older than Ray, Walter was still his best friend—the best friend he’d ever had.

  Wilshire was chaos. The sidewalks were crowded with people humping backpacks, their mouths covered by surgical masks, gas masks, scarves, scuba gear. Each minute it seemed they had more victims to step over. The road was littered with standing vehicles, their drivers frozen at the wheel, heads nodding. Ray tried not to look at them as he weaved around. There was nothing he could do, he kept reminding himself. There was no cure, no treatment, no room in hospitals.

  South Doherty was completely blocked. Ray pulled onto the sidewalk and inched through the crowd until he reached the intersecting street.

  The traffic lightened as he hit the winding residential roads of Beverly Hills, where mansions were set back from the road on huge shady lots. He wanted to turn the radio off, because the news made his heart hammer and turned his mouth to cotton, but he had to stay informed.

  Communications were down on the East Coast. States in the Mountain West were the only ones spared the plague so far. They were shooting refugees who tried to enter.

  Ray pulled onto Cardiff Drive, glanced at the envelope in the passenger seat to confirm that he was looking for eleven fifty-seven Cardiff. He slowed in front of Helen Anderson’s house. It was smaller than the others, with sloping roofs and an alpine feel to it. Two big trees blocked much of the front, and the gardens and shrubbery around it were lush to the point of being overgrown. Wondering what the hell he was doing, Ray turned in and rode up the long driveway.

  He took a few whooshing breaths at her front door, shifted from foot to foot. Finally he reached up and rang the doorbell.

  It occurred to him that it might not be Helen Anderson who answered. As far as he knew she wasn’t seeing anyone. (And if anyone would know such a thing, it was Ray, because he read everything he could find about her online.) But what if a friend, or a housekeeper answered?

  A lock clattered; the door opened six inches until a chain inside snapped taut. Helen Anderson’s face appeared in the crack. She was barely as tall as his shoulder. He’d known she was five-four, but somehow hadn’t realized how small that was.

  “Yes?” Her hair was short and unkempt. She was wearing no makeup. She was beautiful, her eyes the light gray of misty mountaintops.

  “Miss Anderson, my name is Ray Parrot.” His tongue clicked off the roof of his dry mouth. “I—” Suddenly the words he’d rehearsed seemed foolish. I’m your biggest fan? He couldn’t say that. “I’ve come to see if you need help.”

  Helen Anderson tilted her head. “Do I know you?”

  “No—I’m an admirer of your work.”

  Helen Anderson gently closed the door. Ray waited, hoping to hear the chain rattle so she could open it further. Instead, he heard receding footsteps.

  He waited a few minutes, then headed down the steps, his face burning. He felt like such an idiot. Had he really thought Helen Anderson was going to swing her door open to a complete stranger, maybe invite him in for tea?

  “Excuse me?”

  Ray turned. Helen Anderson was on her stoop in a blue sweater and jeans.

  “Yes?” He took a step toward her, paused. “I’m sorry. It was rude of me to show up on your doorstep like this.”

  “No, I’m the rude one. As usual. I don’t need any help, but, thank you for asking. That was kind of you.”

  Ray nodded. “You’re going to ride it out in your home?”

  Helen smiled. It was not her dazzling Batgirl smile, but the saddest, most heartbreaking smile he’d ever seen. “Something like that.”

  “You have enough food? Water?”

  She closed her eyes for a second. “More than enough.”

  “Well, good luck, then.”

  When Ray got to the end of the driveway, he put the car in park and stared at Helen Anderson’s mailbox. What now? Try to get to Omaha, where his sister lived? The National Guard was shooting refugees on sight in Nebraska and the rest of the Midwest.

  What had she meant by Something like that? It was a peculiar reply, especially paired with that sad smile. Ray wondered if she meant she was going to start drinking again. Helen Anderson was a recovered alcoholic, sober twenty years, a vocal supporter of Alcoholics Anonymous. Ray couldn’t blame her for falling off the wagon at this particular juncture. If he’d ever stopped drinking he’d be leaping off the wagon.

  There was something about her answer, though. Something about her whole demeanor. She hadn’t been scared; sh
e’d been sad.

  Ray headed back up the driveway on foot.

  This time when Helen opened the door, there was no chain.

  Ray held up both hands, palms out. “I’m so sorry to bother you again, Miss Anderson, and feel free to slam this door in my face, but I’m worried that maybe you’re not all right.”

  Helen raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “When we spoke a minute ago, you didn’t back away from the door like you were afraid to catch the virus from me. You just seemed sad.”

  Helen swept a stray hair out of her face, folded her arms. “Well, Ray, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I am sad. I’ve been sad for a long time.”

  Ray nodded slowly. “When I asked if you were going to ride this out at home, you said, ‘Something like that.’”

  Helen half-turned, looked off into the trees. She was fifty-eight years old. Ray could see those years in the lines under her eyes, the loose skin under her chin.

  “I came back to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

  Batgirl’s eyes locked on his. “How could you possibly—” she stammered. “A complete stranger, at my door on this particular day, coming to see if I’m okay.” Helen pressed her forehead. “You could have come yesterday, or tomorrow. Even two hours from now.” She studied his face, shaking her head.

  Finally, she swung the door open. “Come on in, Ray.”

  His mind reeling, Ray followed Helen Anderson into her house, through a high-ceilinged living room, into a spacious kitchen with black marble countertops.

  Helen snared a bottle of tequila from the counter as she passed, took a big swig as she continued to the kitchen table, which had an army of pink pills and three prescription bottles spilled across it. Helen gestured at them. “I was just about to get started when you rang.”

  Movement out the window caught Ray’s eye. Little birds, darting between a feeder and the safety of an orange tree. To them it was just another day.

  “My wife left me today. We were married twenty-two years.” It just came out.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Ray.” Helen went to a cabinet and pulled down a glass, then ducked and produced a second fifth of tequila from under the sink. She set the glass on the kitchen table, twisted the cap on the fresh bottle. “Probably not a good idea to share a bottle.” She poured, slid the glass in front of him, pushing some pills out of the way in the process.

  Ray took a swig.

  “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Eileen.” Ray set the glass down with a thunk as the tequila burned its way down his throat. “She told me she’s been having an affair. Justin. From work.”

  Helen nodded. “So, your wife walked out on you, and you got in the car and came to make sure the star of a thirty year-old TV show was all right?”

  Ray shrugged. “Whenever I feel bad I watch a few episodes of Batgirl, and I feel better. I was feeling so bad that I figured only Batgirl herself could make me feel better.”

  Helen threw back her head and laughed. “Maybe if you’d turned to Eileen when you felt bad instead of a TV show, things would have turned out better.”

  Seeing Ray flinch, Helen clutched his forearm. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say.” She reached for her bottle. “Now you know why I’ve had three husbands walk out on me.”

  “They were all out of their frickin’ minds.”

  “No,” Helen said. “No. They were smart.” She surveyed the pills scattered across the table, muttered, “I was always uneasy about all the higher power shit they went on about at AA, but this . . .” She shook her head. “It’s like God sent you to tell me, ‘Not so fast. You’re not through here yet.’” She looked up at Ray and laughed. “Which makes you my guardian angel.”

  Ray spread his arms. “That’s exactly right. That’s me.”

  • • • •

  The giant TV on the living room wall was muted, which was fine with Ray, because the images were loud enough. Times Square in New York, shown from above; the streets were hopelessly clogged, drivers frozen at the wheel. People with covered faces pushed along the sidewalks, climbed through the maze of traffic, stepped over other people lying on the ground twitching, nodding, or just perfectly still. They were all trying to get out of the city, even though they were being told to stay put. The more people moved around, the more the virus spread.

  Ray had always imagined that if there was an apocalypse, it would be a violent thing—people fighting, buildings burning, looting. But this was quiet. Civilized. When you’re afraid to let other people breathe on you, let alone bleed on you, it made sense that things would be peaceful.

  Lightning flashed outside. The sky was dark; the palm trees in Helen’s back yard bent and thrashed as rain hammered the ground.

  He eyed the pile of empty bottles in the corner, then looked at Helen, amazed all over again that he was there, sitting in her living room. Eileen would choke if she knew. On her good days she’d tolerated his passion for all things Batgirl with amused disdain. On her bad days she’d told him he was embarrassing himself.

  Helen looked at him. “What?”

  Ray shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Stop staring at me all the time.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “It makes me paranoid. I feel like you’re trying to catch a glimpse of Batgirl behind the bags and the wrinkles.” Her words were only slightly slurred, which was impressive, given how many pulls she’d taken from the bottle since morning. “That face is gone.”

  Ray sprung from his seat. “Are you kidding me? Is that really what you think?”

  Helen stared, glassy-eyed, into the bottle.

  “I can’t take my eyes off you because you are Batgirl. The way you move, your expressions. Since I was fifteen I’ve been mesmerized by you, and now you’re right here, moving around this house. I can’t help watching you.”

  She gave him a flat cynical, very un-Batgirl look. “I’m an aging has-been who had very little talent to begin with.”

  Ray clicked his tongue. “What a shame that you think that. So many people would give anything to be you. You should savor it.”

  Helen sighed heavily; she looked like she was about to cry.

  The TV, the lights, flicked off. Outside, the hum of the air conditioner died.

  “Damn it,” Ray hissed. They’d been expecting the power to go out for days, but it was still a blow. Things were about to get harder.

  Helen went to the kitchen counter and twisted open one of the prescription bottles lined up there. “Shit.” She dumped the contents into her palm. “I only have three Xanax left.” She looked around, as if searching the bookshelves for a stray bottle she might have left lying around. Her gaze settled on Ray. “I can’t make it without my Xanax, Ray. I’ll die.”

  Ray grabbed his keys off the counter, where they’d been sitting, untouched, for four days. “I’ll get it.”

  She intercepted him as he headed for the front door, wrapped him in a warm hug. “My guardian angel. Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. Stay here.”

  • • • •

  On West Pico, Ray passed a red-haired woman wearing a surgical mask who reminded him of Eileen. Ray wondered where the real Eileen was. Home, with Justin? Lying frozen on some street corner, waiting to die? Would Justin care for her if she got the nodding virus, or just leave her? Ray had no idea, because he didn’t know Justin. Eileen had cheated on him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care what happened to her. He wondered if he should check on her.

  The thought made him chuckle dryly. What if he showed up with Helen? Imagining it gave him a childish glee that quickly morphed into sadness. He missed her; his life felt so strange without her in it.

  The parking lot of the Wal-Mart on Crenshaw Boulevard was half full, the glass doors smashed so he could step right through. Ray pulled the silicone rubber skirt of his scuba mask tighter around his ears.

  Even through the mask, the stink of rot and urine
hit him almost immediately. The aisles were crowded with people laying frozen—their chests rising and falling—mixed with corpses. Ray wound a path through the bodies, down the main aisle perpendicular to the registers, toward the pharmacy. Everyone who was still alive followed Ray with their eyes as soon as he stepped into view, silently pleading for help. It made his skin crawl, all of those eyes staring at him.

  The store was silent, save for voices over in the supermarket section.

  “Excuse me,” he whispered as he stepped over a teenaged girl who stared up at him, terrified. “I’m so sorry.”

  A young Indian woman in a pharmacy vest lay in front of the swinging half-door that led into the pharmacy area, so Ray climbed over the counter. The shelves were almost empty, boxes scattered on the floor. The young Indian pharmacist was dead, her skin a horrible, waxy gray. Ray tried to hurry, moving up and down the shelves, a finger extended as he read the labels.

  The shelf above Xanax was empty. The same for Klonopin, Valium, Atavan, and the rest of the row. Cleaned out.

  “Damn it,” Ray hissed.

  • • • •

  All of the pharmacies in the area were cleaned out. In hindsight it seemed obvious that would be the case. The first person who went inside for sedatives would take them all, because who knew when there would be more? Maybe there would never be more.

  The thought rattled Ray. When the Internet was still up, some had been predicting ninety percent of the world’s population would die off. Some estimates were even higher. What sort of world would be left?

  Helen opened the door, eyebrows raised, as Ray climbed the front steps.

  He shook his head. “Cleaned out. I went to every drug store in the area.”

  He wasn’t prepared for her reaction. She sank to the floor, covered her face with her hands, and wept. Ray squatted beside her, rubbed her shoulder.

  “We’ll find some. Maybe we can find a drug dealer, or a black market.”

  Helen shoved him away, hard. “Where? Where would we find a black market in the middle of this?” She wiped under her eyes. “I’ll just have to drink more.” She nodded. “I’ll just have to drink more.” She looked at her watch. “In fact, it’s almost noon and I haven’t started yet. Time to get going.”