Everyone Says That at the End of the World

by Owen Egerton

  “Hello, Mr. Brock,” Milton said.

  “She’s gone,” he said. On the bed lay a woman. She was much older, her cheeks sunken and her hair a few wisps of gray, but Rica recognized her as the woman from many of the photos. Hayden was holding her hand. With the fingers of his free hand he slid through the beads of a rosary. “That’s all. Just gone.”

  “Who is she?” Milton asked.

  He shook his head, took a breath, and set the woman’s hand down. When he turned to them, Rica was struck by how much older he looked than on television. But better. Hayden was staring at Rica, his mouth slowly falling open. “Hey,” he said. “I know you.”

  “Mr. Brock,” Milton said, “We were sent to find you.”

  “Yes,” Hayden said, his eyes still on Rica. “You’re the one. Almond skin.”

  Milton looked at Rica. Rica blushed.

  “This is crazy, I’m sure,” Hayden said, shaking his head and standing. “Do you know me?”

  “My name is Rica.” Rica rubbed her arms and stepped closer. “We met once. A long time ago.”

  “But you know me, don’t you? I mean, we know each other,” he said.

  Rica nodded. “We do.”

  Rica’s legs buckled. Something moved and changed and water, hot as tears, poured from her and splashed to the floor. Hayden reached out and caught her.

  “Outside,” she whispered. “I want to be outside.”

  On the last day

  IN THE NINE seconds that WR 104 blazed most brilliantly in the sky, one-third of Earth’s population was struck with a fatal dose of radiation. Those living on the western half of the Southern Hemisphere woke on the last day with vomiting, diarrhea, and extreme fatigue: all the early symptoms of radiation sickness.

  The gamma-ray burst from WR 104 wiped out the little that remained of Earth’s shell. Subatomic particles, muons and electrons, from that distant dying star and our younger sun pelted the planet, spinning like tiny drills into the Earth and heating the molten blood of our crust and mantle. Scientists rushed to understand the situation, to measure the radiations, to explain the catastrophe, but they could do nothing to slow the process.

  Churches, synagogues, mosques, and temples filled to the brim with new replacements for those swept away by the Raptures. Bars and national parks and hospitals also filled to capacity.

  Though it seemed clear, most people would not accept that the world was ending. It had never ended before, why now? Many claimed the worst had happened. Millions had disappeared, millions more dying. But now things would improve. How couldn’t they?

  People made plans for the future. People looted computers and televisions, people locked doors before running from their homes, and many people—many—arrived on time for work.

  On that last day, the morning rain smelled of sulfur and the sun shone white. The ground trembled, a low humming vibration that covered the world. Still lakes rippled and birds refused to land. People across the globe felt the earth beneath them tense like an angry child holding her breath before a massive tantrum.

  Fire taking her body

  “WE NEED A hospital,” Hayden said, holding Rica beneath one of her arms. “Don’t we need a hospital?”

  “I’m going to that rock,” Rica said. She nodded to a flat stone the size of a dinner table sitting in the midst of the desert scrub. She kicked off her shoes and walked to the stone, aware of each step warm beneath her feet. At the stone she stood, steadied her legs and gazed at the landscape. Her body tightened. She squeezed her fists, closed her eyes, and saw the color of sunsets swirl on the inside of her eyelids. The rush pushed in, then receded. She opened her eyes to see Hayden on one side of her and the age-worn face of Milton on the other. They eased her down. She nodded. Yes. This was exactly how things should be. She smiled at both. Hayden was unsure, afraid, but holding her hand. Milton was strong-faced, his aged eyes fierce and present. She loved them both and there was no shame.

  “I love you,” she said. Both nodded.

  Another contraction grabbed her body. The squeezing, the opening, the softening. Is this like Milton’s spatting? This timelessness? This pain? These colors? She opened her mouth and sang a long minor note, sending her pain up to the sky.

  The sky seemed to respond, the clouds swirling in on themselves like creamer in coffee.

  Again the squeezing, a fire taking her body. Panic offered itself like a drink to her thirst. But Rica understood it was only saltwater. She pushed the pain in breaths and howls.

  “Push on my back, Brock!” she grunted through gritted teeth, rolling onto her side. “Lower and harder.”

  Pain crashed in on her. Nothing—not Hayden, not Milton, not the ending of the world was as thunderous as the pain. It was the truest thing Rica had ever known. She tensed her entire body. Then she opened to the pain, she held it, knew it, released it. And the pain left tidal pools of such joy that Rica laughed out loud.

  “That last one felt like an earthquake,” she said to Milton.

  “It was an earthquake. But don’t worry.”

  Rica looked up at the curdling clouds, burning with bursts of ball lightning. The earth shook again.

  Stay, she thought. Let the Earth do her work and you do yours.

  Sky to touch

  WHY ARE THEY screaming? Richard Van Sturgeon thought. If God is for us, who can be against us?

  He stood on the throne platform preaching. He’d been doing so for most of the last fifty hours, stirring up the coals of faith, keeping heaven warm with devotion. It had not been easy.

  First there had been the imposter. The small, dark man sitting on the throne. But that had led to the revelation! That man with his yelping and hiding, that man was the abomination of desolation as prophesied by scripture. And Van Sturgeon came across a new truth. Prophesy doesn’t end in paradise! The truth of scripture continues! He explained to the frightened masses how even now the foretold events of the last days were overlapping with the promised gift of eternity.

  “He will come to his bride!”

  And he came! Jesus came to them, tall, quiet, sitting virtuously on his throne. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. Scripture was complete. He had said all that need be said. And Van Sturgeon could quote scripture, he could be the voice of the Son. Hadn’t he been that all his life? Hadn’t he given voice to the unchanging truths of God? He called on the residents of heaven to praise in hymns and tears.

  Then a chunk of sky fell down upon them.

  An octagonal panel of sky blue, fluttering down like a wounded kite. Followed by another and another. Soon more than a dozen holes spotted the perfect sky, revealing swirling gray clouds behind them. Dark raindrops streaked the clear glass where the sky had been.

  For a moment, Van had to admit, he was shaken. What was this? What meaning? Like the crowd before him, he was silent. All of heaven held its breath and looked to Jesus on his throne. For a moment Jesus stared up at the imperfect sky. Then he faced his followers.

  “I don’t know!” Jesus cried, his voice reedy and basted in a thick Minnesota accent. “I’m just as confused as you!” He leaped from his throne and off toward a patch of maple trees. Some pursued him, but most just stood in shock. It was the second messiah they’d lost in less than a week.

  Some shook their heads and wandered off to find food or a place to be alone. Others refused to look up at all, and when someone mentioned the gaps, they’d hum hymns as loudly as possible. One man with a face Van Sturgeon recognized from some album he had kept in rotation ripped off his robe and darted toward the waterfall, crying out, “Sorry, everyone! Sorry!”

  Van Sturgeon threw his arms open to the murmuring masses. “Listen, friends. Did you think we’d be without doubt? Without sin? We are without sin in the eyes of God only because of the blood of Jesus. But we still have sin! Sanctification continues, friends! We continue to grow toward perfection. And our faith will be tested, honed. Let these signs drive the halfhearted away. Let them scatter. But brothers, sisters, let us r
emain. Let the faithful stay true. We are his remnant! He will preserve us. He has said so and his word is true!”

  He took fallen panels and broke them into pieces. They snapped like Styrofoam. He passed the pieces around and urged others to do the same. “Do not be afraid to touch the sky, children! He has given us the sky to touch!”

  He spoke for an hour, soothing the crowd like he might a colicky baby, speaking words more for their tone than their meaning. Shhh, shhh, his words said. You are loved. You are cared for. You will live forever.

  Then came the wind. A single gush ripped through heaven and peeled the remaining panels from the sky. The people cowered as the blue came down in an oversize flurry. Then they stood and gazed up to what had been their sky.

  “My God,” said Van S.

  Faces. They saw faces. Blue, long faces with dark eyes and open mouths. They peered in, a thousand or more.

  That’s when the screaming really took off.

  Men and women raced through the grounds of heaven, desperate to hide but finding no place the staring eyes couldn’t find them. People cried out, screaming confessions to the gaunt faces who watched without word or gesture. Others flung stones at the blue faces watching. The stones fell pitifully short, raining back down on others. From the platform, Van Sturgeon saw a woman burrow into the earth and pull dirt over her head and body.

  Though his throat was dry and his chest ached, Van Sturgeon preached on.

  “The witnesses of heaven look upon us. Peter tells us the angels long to look into these mysteries. And they are! They are watching us! Jealous of our fall because we know the glory of redemption.”

  Dozens, perhaps a hundred, listened. After an hour of enduring the stares from above, the whistling began. A low whine, like air escaping a balloon. And Van Sturgeon’s ears popped. Still, he preached.

  “This is our blessing!” he called to the dozen or so remaining listeners. “Our Pentecost!”

  Someone giggled. The giggler was joined by another giggler. People stumbled, drunk. The Holy Spirit descends on the disciples and they appear drunk to the onlookers. Yes! Yes!

  “This is the Spirit! The Holy Spirit!”

  Van Sturgeon watched people, their faces pale, falling to their knees, collapsing to the ground, confused and laughing. He sucked in and found the air thin. His chest empty, his head drunk. He gazed up at the watching faces and knew.

  They’re taking the oxygen. They’re suffocating us.

  He thought the words, but now the words made little sense. They bounced and rearranged in his mind.

  More people fell. Some just lay down in the soft grass as if they were taking a nap.

  “Father! Father! We are your faithful!” Van Sturgeon slurred. He swayed where he stood. “We are your chosen! I claim my adoption into your family in the name of Jesus. In the name of his blood.”

  He stumbled back, the world a haze, and fell into the throne. Sucking in uselessly, he gazed out from his seat at the last ones choking and falling. His hands gripped the sides of the throne. It felt good under his palms, solid. Though he could feel his lungs shrink inside him, he grinned. There was no pain, now. No panic. Black spots filled his eyes. He knocked his knuckles against the throne and whispered into the chaos, “I always knew it would end like this.”

  Whole life pushing

  SOMETIMES IN THE hours of labor, Rica fell into a quietness, almost a sleeping. Other times she moaned like a whale or yelped like a coyote. After one contraction she sent Hayden inside the cabin to find a pillow or a cushion. When he was gone she closed her eyes and pulled Milton’s head to hers.

  “Milton,” Rica said. “I see things.”

  “I know.”

  “Hayden is also a father to her.”

  “I know.”

  “How?” She opened her eyes and stared into his.

  “She told me,” he said, brushing Rica’s forehead. “Years from here.”

  Rica began to smile, but a new sensation struck her. A new contraction more fierce than any before. “My God, my God, she’s coming!”

  Hayden ran back, his arms full of quilted pillows. “Grab my leg, Brock!” She ordered.

  Rica had never wanted to do anything as much as she now wanted to push. She shifted onto her side, her head in Milton’s lap, Hayden holding a leg. She pushed with a yell that shook the sand. An impossible welling up inside, begging to be out. When it passed, she sucked in breaths. Another push. Her body carrying her forward, telling her what to do. How did her body know? Push! She rolled onto her back and reached above her head to take both Milton’s hands. When the next push came she squeezed his hands till his knuckles cracked. Then breaths, a brief rest. Another push, her whole body, her whole life pushing. Milton was yelling with her, howling. Push! The air was filled with complex smells and the pillows wet with every fluid her body could squeeze out. Hayden was still close, but his eyes were wide, horrified. Good. Let him see. She was bringing life. Push! Push! Fierce, like a planet wedged inside her threatening to split her open. Push!

  Lightning wiped the sky, dark clouds like a charging army crossed above her. The wind thrashed like a panicked animal. In the near distance, the roof of the decrepit cabin peeled off like the top of a can of fruit cocktail and the walls fell in on themselves.

  She pushed, crying out into the wind. How many hours? How many days? The baby seemed no closer to being born. Push! Why wasn’t the baby moving? What was wrong? Fear sat as close as Milton and Hayden. You’re going to fail, fear yelled.

  “Milton, Hayden,” Rica said, squeezing Milton’s hand and breathing hard. “She’s not moving.”

  “Okay, okay,” Milton said.

  “She doesn’t want to come.”

  Lightning and thunder nearly simultaneously slapped the sky.

  “Would you?” Hayden said.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Rica said. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid.”

  Volcanoes

  SOMETHING DEEP IN the mantle of Earth gave, like a planetary aneurysm setting the final phase of Earth into motion. Pressure spots and air pockets across the globe popped in an arrhythmic chorus, as if the crust were bubble wrap heated in a microwave oven. Pop! Pop! Pop! Volcanoes linked by hidden belts of molten rock burst in quick succession, sending poison air and liquid fire straight up and over the Earth’s surface. People living in any proximity to an active volcanic chain melted in the lava downpour. Rivers of molten rock sliced through their cities and dissolved all they touched. The world hissed a high-pitch sizzle.

  Glaciers melted, revealing frozen fresh carcasses of mammoths and extinct tigers. The redwood giants of Northern California burned like colossal birthday candles. Lava pouring from underwater vents built new lands in the world’s shallower seas, as if Atlantis were rising.

  The waters churned and swelled, crashing over the coasts. Soon, the oceans boiled, sending continent-size billows of steam floating across the globe, smelling of simmering fish, salt, and kelp. Rica would never know it, but on the last day, three-quarters of the world was covered with soup.

  He wasn’t he

  SO THIS IS dying, Roy thought. He didn’t feel pain or fear. Just sleepy.

  Ami had ripped up a section of her own shirt to bandage his neck and slow the bleeding. Roy admired her midriff. It made him smile, to be dying and still moved by a woman’s waist.

  She lay beside him, curled against his chest, humming old Pearl-Swine songs and stroking his sweaty hair. The sky above them was a shaken swirl of gray and yellow, clouds and lightning.

  In all his morning meditations on death, all the death scenarios he led his mind through, he had never pictured this scene. Bleeding to death? Yes, that he had imagined several times. But Ami was something entirely new. She made dying horribly difficult.

  “I hate to die, now,” he said, smiling from the corner of his mouth.

  “Shh,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I would have loved a few more days. A few more hours.”

  “Won
’t there be eternity?” she asked, looking up to him, her eyes wet and shining.

  Roy, for the first time in his life, wanted to lie. Wanted to take her small face in his hands and promise heaven and angels, white wine and doughnuts, each day, unending. She would smile. He could give her that smile. That hope. The lie hung before him like a ripe apple heavy on the branch. And she, and he as well, was starving. But Roy knew what comes of biting apples.

  “I don’t know,” Roy said. “I have no idea.”

  Ami exhaled. She’d been holding her breath, perhaps for years. She nodded.

  “I can trust that.” She sat up and gazed down at Roy. Then leaning in close, she placed her lips on his. She stayed there for a long wait, sand-wind cutting by, but leaving the kiss intact.

  She pulled back just an inch, keeping her face so close to Roy that he could not focus on her features. “Can I tell you something? Something that is maybe bad?” she asked.

  Roy nodded.

  “I’m glad Jesus didn’t take me. I’m glad I’m here.”

  Roy smiled. “Ah, Ami. The world is ending, I’m dying, my best friend grew old overnight, but the most extraordinary thing about today is you here with me.”

  The sky behind Ami’s face was mad and moving. Burning drops fell like tiny specks of wet fire. Roy was swirling inside. How do you die? He had presumed death would do most of the work. His job was not to fight it. But death was not prying his fingers from life. He had to let life go. He had to lose his life. Let go of hearing, let go of taste, even the taste of sand. Let go of what you see. Not just closing your eyes, that’s not the same. See it and don’t hold it. Open hand. Open palm. Let it all rest on top. Give. Let go of Milton and Rica and Ami. Her sweet face. Let it go. Let them be. Let go of Roy. Let go of I. Float. He wasn’t Roy. He wasn’t want. He wasn’t his history. He wasn’t he. He was the sand as much as he. The Ami as much. The air. The space between the air. Float. He was not he. He would not be coming back. This was going. Being. It was not work. It was unwork. The most important action, he realized, was this nonaction. He let go of realizing. Float.