Everyone Says That at the End of the World

by Owen Egerton

  I actually get it

  “I CAN’T DO this,” Rica said in a quiet voice Hayden could just hear over the wind. “She won’t come!”

  The old man put a hand to her head. “This baby will be born today.” He was calm, sure. Hayden wished he would reach out and comfort him, too.

  “Don’t let her die in me, okay? Don’t let that happen, Milton.”

  Hayden stood, feeling an acidic bubble in his throat. He threw a hand over his mouth and turned from Rica. He walked in the direction of the maroon shed. Too much.

  As Saint Rick, Hayden had once delivered a baby in a grain elevator, but that had been clean and quick. A few minutes of loud breaths and a plump, pink, fourteen-pound baby was in his arms. This was different. The yelling, the smells, the fluids. And she was afraid.

  He walked farther, breathing in and out, trying to clean the smells from his lungs. Too much, he thought. You’re asking too much of me.

  But he didn’t leave. He didn’t walk to the town and thumb a ride. He could, but he would not. He was supposed to be here. He had found the girl from the dreams. Or she had found him. She needed him. No wait, she did not need him. He was not needed.

  Hayden put his hands to his face and looked up at the twisting, steel sky. No one needed him. This was the world, and he was not the star.

  He looked back to Rica. Beautiful, birthing, sickening, existing Rica. She was slowly sitting up, hands on her belly, the old man behind her. He could run. But he did not want to. He wanted to go back to them. To be near them. It hurt, the want, it hurt like a cracked rib cage.

  So, this is love, he thought. That’s what he was feeling. Love for her, for him, for whatever was squeezing to get out. And for more, for sand, for the few drops of rain just starting to spit down, and the heavy scent of ozone each carried, for his own, stupid, arrogant, God-blessed self.

  My God, he thought. I actually get it.

  He could hear music, singing. It was a song he knew. The Beatles’ “Hey Jude.”

  The singing was coming from behind him. He turned. In the distance a crowd was walking. Their steps slow and their voices full. Some held hands, some shuffled dance steps. In front of them it looked as if a small stone was walking. Hayden watched it, wondering if his mind had melted into delusion.

  It was no stone. It was a crab. A hermit crab and it crawled directly to Hayden, proceeding under his legs. The crowd, over thirty deep, flowed past him, smiling and singing.

  Hayden recognized two of the faces. One was the bearded man in flannel whom he had sat with for so many hours the night before. He grinned and walked past Hayden. Behind him came a wrinkled, leathery face half-hidden under an off-white Stetson.

  “Jim Edwards?”

  “Hey, Hay! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Where’s my car?”

  “Got into a little fender bender.” Jim rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, who the hell needs a car? I’m following him.” Jim pointed to the crawling crab. “How the hell are you, TV star?”

  Hayden stared back at Rica crying out on the stone. “I think she’s dying, Jim.”

  Jim stared in Rica’s direction for a moment, then patted Hayden’s back. “Nah. Just having a baby,” he said. “Dying’s a lot quieter.”

  As each claw

  CLICK COULD SMELL Rica. He could smell her joy, her fear, her strength, and it drew him near. He was here. His goal. This was home. He crawled toward her.

  The ground shook beneath Click. He had no fear. He was near now. He could see and see and see. Each sight was all things. Each grain of sand was as miraculous as each claw as each eye as each sunrise.

  He crawled up the stone and up onto her rising chest, skin wet with puddles of salt that again said home, home, home. He moved toward her face, stopping in a warm valley. He could see her eyes. Breaths poured from her mouth. He sent his own gill breaths back.

  To be born

  RICA STARED DOWN her body. The crab stood between her breasts watching her. She smiled. The crab raised a purple claw and snapped it in the air. He turned and climbed the hill of her belly, stopping near the peak and scratching at her skin. She knew her child was listening. The crab was calling her to be born.

  Her insides tensed and wriggled. A new push was coming. The crab pulled his body into his shell and rolled off her belly. Rica watched him go as the tension in her belly built. He crawled through the crowd and into the waiting hands of the short, bearded man.

  Above them a storm cloud ruptured and the rain that had only teased fell in full force. Rica bent her legs beneath her and stood to her feet with a yell. Milton grabbed an arm, Hayden ran to her and grabbed the other. Rica pushed.

  The women moved close, making a tight circle around her, every face urging her own, sharing her pain, giving their strength. The rain pushed down, carrying sand and mountain smells. Wetting and washing the ground, making the world mud. The other men formed an outer circle. They joined hands and sang “Strawberry Fields Forever.” And behind all this, peeking above the men’s heads, a face—blue tone, kind eyes, a constant state of awe.

  Push!

  The sky burned purple and red and the wind blew in three directions, kicking up stones and water and swirling them around in a whirlpool of air and earth.

  Push!

  Above her three balls of white light swarmed about like burning gnats. The lights, the mystery lights. So near she could feel their warmth. They zoomed back and forth in wide arches, bringing a white glow to the party circling Rica.

  Push!

  She could feel the head now dropping down lower, the baby urging herself down. Oh God, she wanted to hold this baby.

  Push! Bear down and push!

  The wind ripped chunks of earth from the ground and propelled them like roadside trash. The sky now a black rippling sheet streaked with red-orange veins, but below the mystery lights the air glowed white. The light balls floated around Rica, dancing before her. They hummed. Rica’s near-perfect and full breasts answered in harmony.

  Push!

  Rica reached a hand down between her legs and felt the wet hair of her baby’s head.

  She saw no one now. The world was nowhere, nothing but the welling within her. With a deep, endless moan—the moan of a blue whale, of a widow, of a planet slowing to a halt—Rica pushed and the child, the last child, squeezed from her in a rush and cradled itself in Rica’s cupped and waiting hands. For a beat between heartbeats, the child mutely gasped at the world and then, above the storm’s howl, sang her high-pitched birth cry.

  Austin died

  AS RICA LABORED, Austin died. The air caught fire and a circle of transparent flames closed in on the city. Trees and houses dissolved into smoke and dust and heat. Birds with feathers turning to ash screeched through the sky. The people circled inward, wrangled by invisible fire. Highways of unmoving traffic, horns yelling worthless protests, panes of glass bursting, sending showers of hot glass down to the crammed streets and sidewalks. Rain turned to steam before hitting the ground. The air singed lungs and bent light. Barton Springs boiled itself dry.

  Jeppy sat drawing circles with Carl on their tile kitchen floor, the crayons melting in their hands. Her boyfriend raced around the house, yelling into a phone that no longer worked. He was crying. The air was heating fast, the walls creaking as they expanded. Carl swirled green crayon wax with his finger.

  Out the kitchen window, Jeppy caught a glimpse of blue through the smoke. Perfect sky blue. Her boyfriend ran in squeezing the phone. She caught his eye and smiled.

  “Above the smoke, the sky is blue,” she said.

  He paused. Then dropped down, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  She put a hand on Carl’s curly head. “My baby is going to die and the universe doesn’t give a high-flying fuck.”

  Shelter

  THE SKY WAS streaked with the color of birth, and the baby cried in her arms.

  “Is she okay? It’s a she, right?” Hayden knelt beside her.

  �
�We have to find shelter,” she said.

  “There’s nothing. It’s all gone.”

  “Then build something!”

  “Hey, Hayden,” the old man with bent legs said. “What about that shed? We could at least squeeze her and the baby in there.”

  Hayden jumped to his feet.

  The old man smiled at Rica and tipped his rain-soaked hat. “Congratulations,” he said, and hobbled after Hayden.

  Someone was touching her hair. Rica turned to find Milton, his wet eyes ancient, his touch warm.

  “We have to get her inside,” she told him.

  He nodded and touched the baby’s toes. “She’s wonderful.”

  We won’t miss the show

  THE HARD RAIN pelted down on Hayden. He yanked at the shed’s handle, but it didn’t budge.

  “Come on!”

  “Try the number pad,” Jim Edwards yelled as he approached.

  “And type in what, exactly?”

  “Shit, Hayden,” he said, pushing Hayden aside and typing random numbers on the LCD panel. “Just because you’re probably wrong doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

  The display only flashed a red error.

  “Might as well keep trying.” Jim Edwards punched more numbers. Chunks of earth flew past, one smacking into Jim’s head.

  “Jim!” Hayden grabbed him as Jim toppled sideways.

  “Damn!” Jim threw a hand to his head. Blood dripped past his fingers.

  Hayden pulled Jim closer to the shed door and threw his fist against the panel.

  “What the hell is this?” Hayden slammed on the door, solid and unmoving.

  “Well, at least we won’t miss the show,” Jim said. Hayden turned. The sky was a dark rainbow of purples and reds.

  Something behind Hayden clicked, a shift in the shed’s door. Hayden and Jim turned. The door pushed open and a small Haitian man in a cream-colored mock turtleneck gazed out.

  “Iola?” Hayden gasped.

  Iola gasped.

  “Mr. Brock!” A round man with a copper-red beard emerged from the darkness behind Iola. “You made it!”

  For a moment, Hayden was lost. The bearded man stuck out his hand.

  “Dr. Kip Warner,” he said. “Innovator of the Lifepod.”

  “Hold on,” Hayden said, stepping inside the shelter of the shed and grabbing Dr. Warner’s shoulders. “You actually made Lifepods?”

  “Sure as hell, I did,” Dr. Warner said, sweating and smiling. “You should know, you bought three!”

  “I thought it was just a fun scam.” Hayden glanced down the steep metal staircase that led down farther than he could see. “Wait. I bought three?”

  “You, your wife and Iola here.”

  Hayden glanced at Iola, who shrugged.

  “You’re my best customer,” Dr. Warner continued. “Truth be told, you’re my only customer.”

  Thunder, like a forest of trees snapping in unison, echoed from the sky. Hayden jumped back outside into the wind and rain. The people with the crab had closed in over Rica and shielded her and the baby with their bodies.

  Hayden turned back to Dr. Warner. “How many spots have you got?”

  “Let’s see, not counting your spots and mine, about thirty-eight.”

  Hayden grinned at Jim. Jim nodded and stuck his head out the door. “Hey Crabites! We got a spot to lay our heads!”

  “Wait, no,” said Dr. Warner. “I’m a businessman. I sank near $10 million into this baby. No free rides.”

  Hayden already had his wallet out. He shoved it in the doctor’s hands. “Charge me and add a good tip.”

  Dr. Warner opened his mouth, but Hayden was already through the door.

  Baby mewed

  THE BABY MEWED in Rica’s arms. The people formed a tent over them, humming the melody of “Julia” and blocking some of the roaring storm. The crab sat in the palm of a teenage girl swaying to the song.

  “Milton,” Rica said softly. “I’m so tired . . . ”

  “I know,” he said, brushing the hair from her forehead.

  “I don’t want her to die, Milton,” she said.

  Milton nodded.

  Hayden pushed through the people.

  “We’ve got to go, okay?” He knelt at their side, yelling over the wind. “Can you stand? No, don’t stand. We’ll carry you. Can we carry you?”

  “I’m so tired,” Rica said. “I can’t seem to move.”

  She held out the child to Milton and he took the baby in his arms. Hayden lifted Rica from the stone. The wind cried.

  “We have a place to go,” Hayden said. “A safe place to go.”

  To hide away

  THE GROUND BUCKLED, bubbled in places. Lightning shot upward from cracks in the soil, colliding in the sky and bursting into sparks of white and yellow. People moved, leaning on each other as the wind pushed and squealed. Hayden carried Rica in his arms and Milton followed, holding the baby to his chest.

  Dr. Warner stood at the open door, waving them through and pulling the heavy door shut. The din of the storm vanished.

  “Iola, would you scoot ahead. Get them into the showers. I don’t think we have much time.”

  Iola nodded, then turned to Hayden. “I tried to reach you, Mr. Brock. I tried as soon as the doctor called.”

  “Thank you, Iola.”

  He nodded again and darted down the steps.

  “What is this place?” Rica asked as Dr. Warner double-latched the door.

  “Bit of this, a bit of that. The initial construction was done by the Air Force back in the ’40s. Built a bomb shelter here in ’46. Abandoned it in ’47 when they closed the base. An old woman lives on the land. Been using it as a fruit cellar, if you can believe that.”

  “She’s dead,” Hayden said.

  Dr. Warner paused. “Well, a lot of people are.” He maneuvered around them and started down the steps. “I offered her a pod of her own. Flat-out refused. No one believes it’s safe.”

  “Is it?” Hayden asked.

  “Safer than up there,” Dr. Warner said. “The spot is near perfect. No significant volcanic activity, no ocean to drown us. No major cities nearby, so fewer zombies to deal with.”

  “Zombies?” Milton asked.

  “Just taking every possibility into consideration. Overall, this place is as safe as it gets.” A sound like thunder vibrated through the metal walls and the stairs shuddered. “A little less seismically stable than I’d hoped, but what can you do?”

  “And the Lifepods?” Hayden asked.

  “Designed them myself,” he said. “Simple, really. Temperature and pressure controlled. Each pod will have just enough hydrogen sulfide pumped in to induce short-term hibernation. We wake up in six weeks. Plenty of food, water, and medical supplies to keep us happy for over a year.”

  Rica hushed and hummed in Hayden’s arms, her eyes dropping. The singing of “Yesterday” rang up through the stairwell.

  “I can walk now,” Rica said at the base of the stairs. Hayden lowered her feet to the ground and Rica leaned against the railing. “Really, I’m all right.”

  The stairs led to a short hallway ending at a thick door like something from a submarine. A pile of discarded clothes lay just outside the door. Carefully placed a few feet from the clothes was an off-white, well-worn Stetson hat.

  “Good, good,” Dr. Warner said. “Undress here. That should be fine.”

  Hayden and Milton shared a look. Dr. Warner rolled his eyes.

  “We didn’t get the brunt of that gamma-ray burst. That was farther south. But we got some of it. Can’t be bringing all that radiation in. Now, strip down and shower off.”

  He hopped through the door, clapping his hands.

  “Where’d you find this guy?” Milton asked.

  “Television commercial.”

  Rica lifted what was left of her dress above her head. Milton held the baby out to Hayden.

  “I’ve never held one before,” Hayden said.

  “Funny,” Milton said. “
Neither had I.”

  Hayden took the baby and Milton helped Rica.

  The baby was warm, tiny. Hayden watched her face, sleeping but moving, as if it were experimenting with expressions.

  How can this be? he thought. How can any of this be?

  He looked up to Rica’s outstretched hands.

  “You made a beautiful baby,” he said, handing the child to her. She smiled and pulled the baby to her bare body.

  Hayden quickly undressed as well. Strange to feel the familiar vulnerability of nudity even as the world ended. As he removed his pants, something fell from his pocket.

  “I guess we can’t bring this in either.” He picked up the worn string of beads carved by Brother Brendan. He turned to Rica. “But this is for your daughter when she comes out. A birthday gift.”

  Rica smiled. “Thank you, Hayden Brock.”

  He placed the rosary down beside Jim’s hat and the three walked through the heavy door together. Inside was a long room lit with fluorescent lights and lined with showerheads. The Crabites, including Jim Edwards, were finishing up, standing naked and wet.

  Still fully dressed, Dr. Warner moved through the crowd handing out brown capsules.

  “One a person. Helps with radiation sickness.”

  “Potassium iodide or diethylenetriamine pentaacetic acid?” a bald man asked.

  “Yes, yes.” Dr. Warner said. “Just take it.”

  On the far side of the room, the doctor joined Iola in yanking open a hatch on the floor. Dr. Warner faced the naked crowd. “No towels, I’m afraid. Just, you know, wipe off any excess moisture, if you can. I’ll prepare the pods.” With that he lowered himself down the hatch followed by Iola.

  “You know,” Jim Edwards said, shaking the water from his arms. “If this guy is some kind of pervert serial killer, he’s got it made.”