The Man Who Watched The World End

by Dietzel, Chris

  A year after the Blocks started appearing, China changed its one baby law to a zero baby law. The Chinese government soothed tensions by promising the law would only stay in effect until a cure was found. The reassurances didn’t prevent protests, but the law did result in a country without a population of Blocks outnumbering the regular adults. One country had managed to avert the crisis that every other country had fallen into. They still have a dying population, that can’t be stopped, but the last regular adults aren’t worried about taking care of their Block siblings. They aren’t wondering who will die first and who will be left until the end.

  In Norway and Sweden, Blocks were given every right afforded to regular people. They were allowed to vote, get driver’s licenses, and sue whoever they liked. None of this ever happened, but the people there liked knowing their Block relatives had the right to do these things anyway. In Mexico, a drug cartel used the Blocks as drug mules, cutting them open and stuffing them with bags of cocaine.

  In Spain, a single nun was taking care of more than one thousand Blocks by herself. She was eighty-three and the rest of her fellow nuns had passed away, leaving her as the only one left to handle all the chores. Seven days a week, from six in the morning until midnight, she walked up and down row upon row of Blocks, making sure each one had enough food and water, clean clothes, and a clean blanket.

  Thousands of Blocks died together in India when a group home was hit by a tsunami. Their caretakers and yelled, “April Fool!”" aid="s are all died in the flood too. In a few moments, that entire area of the world went from being occupied by thousands of humans, to being yet another part of Earth that no longer had a single soul. And so it goes.

  December 15It rained most of the day, which stifled the smoke coming from my chimney. No one will be able to save us if they can’t see our signal.

  Instead of being rescued by strangers, I spent the day emptying buckets. There are more leaks in the ceiling than I have buckets to catch the dripping water. I frame my memories by how many buckets were in the living room when an event happened. I know if something happened a week, a month, or a year ago depending on if there were twenty buckets, fifteen buckets, or three buckets placed around my house.

  I thought Andrew had a fever today until I realized a new hole in the roof was letting water drip right on his face. The house has become too great of a burden. It’s not much to ask of someone that they go from room to room emptying water as it fills each container, but it’s too much for this old man. Everything, it seems, is too much for me these days.

  After it rained, after the buckets were empty, I stared outside my kitchen window at the backyard, at the woods just beyond the spot where our property stops—or stopped, I should say, back when I had neighbors and everyone was careful about the boundaries of what was theirs and what was someone else’s. If you had told my parents their kids would one day inherit hundreds of acres of neighborhoods, including a full eighteen-hole golf course and a derelict shopping center, they would have thought we had a winning lottery ticket.

  The rain was enough to discourage the wildlife from roaming our streets; the predators stayed hidden the way they used to when Camelot was full of happy families. How long must it have taken for generations of dogs and cats, accustomed to the warmth and shelter provided by their masters, to accept rain and wind as part of their lives? Think about a Labrador and the first time it looked up and saw storm clouds gathering. Did it think to itself, what the hell is going on? Did it look up at the rain and wonder what it had gotten itself into, or was it happy to accept the wet fur if it meant it was truly free to do whatever it wanted without worrying about getting yelled at or slapped? The dogs could bark to their hearts’ content without being scolded. They could piss on anything they wanted without fear of being locked down in the basement. a nice, quiet neighborhoodof I sp

  Life had to be a lot tougher, though, once dishes full of kibble weren’t pushed in front of them twice a day. Were they skilled enough to hunt down squirrels and snakes, or did they turn into scavengers? A newborn lion watches its mother hunt in order to learn the tricks of the trade. What new habits did these trailblazing dogs and cats pass on to their offspring that hadn’t existed in the previous generation? How long did it take for the cats to teach their kittens that hollowed trees were perfect places to sleep during the rain?

  Five years ago, when not only the Johnsons were here, but two other families as well, I saw a deer burst out of the forest, its bucking hind legs resembling a stallion’s, while a Maltese cat dug its tiny paws into the deer’s flank and hung on like it was riding a mechanical bull. The deer kept jumping all over the place until it eventually hopped back into the forest. The cat was still clinging on for dear life (no pun intended) when they disappeared into the trees. An army of cats had been waiting there ready to pounce on the unlucky buck. The next time the deer jumped out of the forest, cats were all over it, bringing it down with sheer numbers and the persistence of animals that aren’t playing with little toy mice for fun but are struggling to find food for their survival.

  If I left a bowl of food or water out for one of these creatures, would it come up and enjoy the special treat, or would it sniff the bowl and wander back into the woods? If it did eat from the dish, would it let me come out on the patio with it while I drank my morning coffee? It would probably dart away, but if I spoke to it softly, would it let me reach down and pet it behind its ears? Would the animal even know it was supposed to like being petted? Or, more likely, would it think me strange for attacking it in slow motion?

  I sometimes wonder what it would be like to have a pet dog. Would it sit at my patio door, barking all day and night at the wolves and bears roaming around outside? Would it wish it was outside with them? Would it think of Andrew and me as its family? If I fed it and rubbed its belly when it lay on the living room floor, would that be enough to override its natural instincts to view us as food?

  Every once in a while I catch a whiff of something terrible in the air, the smell of sickness in the forest, and I wonder if it offends these former pets’ sensibilities the way our old dog avoided the kitchen anytime my mom made sweet potatoes or the way it slept on the other side of the house each time my dad made a fire in the fireplace. Do the former house pets avoid the awful smells in the forest, or have they forgotten what it was like to have that luxury? Surely they know by now that if there is food to be had, even if it’s near an offensive odor, they had better investigate right away before another animal takes it.

  The thing that bothers me about this most recent stench is that it’s not always there, which makes me wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. Odors don’t just come and go as they please. A lot has changed in the world, but smells don’t just enter when they want and then leave after they’ve outlasted their welcome. If the odor was consistent I would at least know I wasn’t going crazy.

  Yesterday I was in the living room watching Revenge of the Nerds with Andrew when I got into a coughing fit. The smell of spoiled food or decomposing trash was there as soon as I stopped coughing. Five minutes later I realized the smell had vanished again. Can the wind do that? Can the breeze send a smell my way and then retract what had been offered? Some visual proof of the wind would have been nice, but the trees outside were motionless.

  “Did you smell that?” I said to Andrew, a question usually reserved for after I’ve passed gas (no one is around anymore to tell me to act my age).

  The smell didn’t come back, but I couldn’t get the thought of it out of my head. I’ve never been to a landfill, but that’s the image that came to mind. I imagined a heaping pile of rotting trash with birds picking at the remains, bulldozers working the entire time to cover the huge pile of waste.

  This is coming from the same guy who, a month ago, was sure he smelled rotten food in the refrigerator. I barely have anything in the fridge anymore since the processor can make fresh food whenever I need it. It’s mostly used for storing leftovers. But even with a couple of bi
ns of food stored in there, I was still sure I smelled something spoiled. Finally, I emptied the refrigerator, smelling each container as I put it on the counter. When I was done, the counter was full of plastic containers, the fridge was empty, and the smell had mysteriously vanished.

  At the same time I smelled the pungent odor today, I swore a brown bear was roaming in the distance at the edge of the forest. It walked just in front of the tree line, never coming into the open of the community, never disappearing into the forest, always content to stay at the edge of both. It was clearly too big to be anything other than a bear. But then, right as it went into the shadows under a tree, the animal’s outline combined with the darkness and vanished. It hadn’t gone into the woods. It hadn’t rested on the ground. It simply hadn’t been. My eyes created the creature, let me follow it through three different yards, then simply stopped letting me believe it was there.

  I need to get down to one of the final communities before I lose my mind and my brother is left with a ravn my dreamedo ing lunatic. My fireplace will be going all day tomorrow. It’s a matter of time until someone sees the smoke and asks if we would like to go south with them.

  December 16Each day my chimney sends smoke billowing into the sky, but each evening Andrew and I are still alone. Some days, I sit at the window, waiting for a truck to enter our neighborhood and save us. Other days, I try not to think about it too much, try instead to focus on whatever movie happens to be playing. Don’t panic, I tell myself over and over. It doesn’t work.

  Each time I need more fuel for the fire, I scurry outside, gather up as many twigs and leaves as I can manage, and then sneak back inside before the animals catch wind of me. The collection does not last long, and I find myself scanning my yard for possible threats before hobbling out and getting another handful. If a bear is out there, or a wolf or a dog, I take apart one of my dining rooms chairs and burn that instead.

  More and more of what used to be mine has reverted back to the animals. Already, I’m stuck in my house most days by the predators prowling outside. Recently, though, I have also forsaken my basement. The spiders and snakes rule that portion of my house. It might as well be considered a temperature controlled version of the outdoors, the first part of my house annexed back to the wild.

  When I went down there today, spiders were crawling up and down the handrails and walls. Rats were scurrying from corner to corner. A giant black snake, the body of a full-grown rat still in its belly, lurked in the shadows. In the middle of searching for another book of matches, I felt something tap the back of my head. I didn’t think anything of it at first.

  Then it moved.

  “God damn it!” I yelled.

  I brushed the bug off my skin, then stomped on it over and over. I was out of breath before I stopped smearing it across the floor with my shoe, my violence a threat to the other creatures down there. A moment later, my attention having returned to the open box I knew contained additional matches, healthy heart and lungsli little sp I heard a little chirp by my shoes. A rat was there, nibbling at the laces. That little piece of shit actually looked up at me like I was the inconsiderate one for letting out a yelp. I grabbed the matches and ran back upstairs.

  It would be a cat’s version of heaven if it ever found its way down there. The lucky kitty would have a smorgasbord to last for years.

  I almost burned the entire house to the ground (exaggerating) one day last year trying to lift an old box of Christmas ornaments. Rats had eaten through the box’s corners. When I lifted it, everything in the box emptied through the bottom. The rats, it turned out, had also snacked on the Santa costume my dad wore each year. I was furious and wanted to teach a lesson to everything living down there. Fantasies of taking a blowtorch to the entire area quickly popped into my head. I’ll never lose myself enough, though, to forget Andrew is living on the floor above this madness.

  If the house was big enough, I’d bring everything up from the basement—after disinfecting it and setting off bug bombs—and store it in the living room. The basement door would be boarded up and locked, the little specks of evil trapped down there for the rest of time.

  Dread filled me as the logs in my fireplace started to burn out and I realized a second trip downstairs was necessary. The wood I’ve been putting in the fireplace doesn’t last very long and I’m not fond of scavenging for twigs around my yard while the animals lick their lips. On top of this, I can only burn so much furniture before I feel like this place is no longer my home. Already I’ve burned two chairs, an end table, and a cutting board.

  Substituting my old baseball cards will keep me from having to go outside as much. The cards, like stocks and bonds, rare art, and antique furniture, are completely worthless now, good for nothing more than sitting in oversized cardboard boxes that take up space in between stacks of photo albums. The players are all dead now, the last game having been played more than fifty years ago. Most of the cards have been picked apart by the mice and rats anyway. A Ty Cobb card couldn’t be traded for a loaf of bread. A Stan Musial card is worth as much as if it were a mere blank piece of paper.

  While down there, I rediscovered Mr. Lee’s old safe sitting next to a box of cards. The Johnsons and I found it when we inspected his newly abandoned house for anything useful. I asked them if they wanted it, but they both shook their heads.

  “What are you going to protect?” Mark asked.here’s noedo

  His sister added, “No one is around to steal anything.”

  They were right, of course. No one new had come to the neighborhood in over two years and there were millions of abandoned houses to pick through. I took the safe anyway. It was something I didn’t have, and it serves a purpose different from any of the other things in my house. A sticker on its door said it was both waterproof and fireproof. I guess a part of me liked knowing that, no matter what was happening around me, whatever I selected to go inside the safe would remain protected. Life has a funny sense of humor to give me the safe but nothing worth putting in it. I don’t need to protect my birth certificate or social security card anymore. No one is around to steal my mother’s jewelry or my father’s coin collection. I ended up putting a photo album filled with my favorite childhood memories inside before locking it back up.

  After coming back upstairs with a box of baseball cards, I pushed the old rag under the doorway to keep the bugs downstairs where they belong. It would be nice if I could create a similar blockade for everything lurking outdoors, something I could put around my property to keep the predators away.

  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror to make sure no bugs were hiding on my clothes, my thoughts went back to my high school cap and gown, which were downstairs in a box between the safe and some family photos. The last time I tried it on, it still fit like a bed sheet, just like the day I graduated. I finished high school fifteen years after the first Blocks were identified and nine years after a hundred percent of new babies wouldn’t be able to speak, move, or do anything for themselves. As a freshman, it was the norm to get treated like shit by the seniors. It was quite a bummer not to have anyone to do that to by the time I was a senior. Andrew would have been a freshman that year. If I saw anyone hazing him there would have been problems; no one gives my brother a hard time except me.

  My graduation year was noteworthy for being the same year the world’s population dipped back under six billion. At that point, twenty percent of people were Blocks. This was reported on the evening news as my family ate dinner, the anchorman saying it with the solemn voice saved for declarations of war or assassinations. My mother seemed to take comfort in the number of people in the world becoming more reasonable. She didn’t say anything like that in front of my father, but you could tell she was slightly encouraged by the way she asked us if we would like seconds of the mashed potatoes. My father told us the world didn’t feel any more vacant: the roads were still packed during rush hour, the lines still long at the post office. The comment was meant to comfort us.

 
Those were the circumstances in which I joined the adult worE">each for senior week. It was tradition; they felt like they had to let me go.

  The trip was supposed to be my final seven days of carefree life. My friends and I got drunk every night and hooked up with girls just as each graduating class before ours had, but there were also nights out on the sand where we passed jugs of wine up and down the line of friends while talking about the future. The ocean looked black in the night. Waves crashed against the shore while we spoke, causing some of what was said to be missed above the rush of water.

  We said the same things that other kids had said during senior week—“You guys are the best friends I’ve ever had,” and “I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life,” and “this is our last week of freedom”—but all of these things had a different context from when previous generations had said them. Each time one of my friends said something like this, it made everyone else in our group tear up. None of us made fun of anyone else for crying; none of us even really understood why we were crying, except there was a sense that things would never be the same. Even Trevor Hohntz teared up. In tenth grade, I saw Trevor yawn after his girlfriend broke up with him. It was the coolest thing I had ever seen. And even he cried there on the beach that night. The rest of us didn’t stand a chance of not crying.

  The kids in our group who had older brothers and sisters told us how other years’ senior weeks were different from ours: “The entire beach was packed with kids. Take our group and multiply it by a thousand. There were parties everywhere. Nobody was worrying about Blocks or the end of the world. My brother’s greatest fear was getting caught for under-age drinking.”