It's the End of the World as I Know It

by Matthew Landis

  “Just that you’re working on this big project. Something she wants to help with.”

  So she didn’t tell him. Phew. “Yeah.”

  “So are you going to let her help?”

  I shake my head. “I gotta do it myself.”

  Mr. Killroy nods. Thinks for a little or something, just sits there. Then he starts rolling up his sleeve—way up, all the way to his armpit almost. The big giant bicep of his right arm is out and he’s holding it up to me like Witness my big giant bicep.

  “See this?” he asks.

  I lean back a little. “Uh.”

  He turns his arm some more and then I see it—a big scar running across this bicep. There’s another one below the crook of his elbow. Both way darker than the other skin around it.

  “Oh, man,” I say. “Whoa.”

  He unrolls his shirtsleeve back down. “You know what spotting is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s when you lift weights with somebody else—you stick real close to them during the set. If they can’t handle it, you step in to help. It’s for safety.”

  “Okay.”

  “But when you’re the strongest guy in the room, who needs that?” He grunts. “I was bench-pressing one night in college, alone. Thought I was a real tough guy. But on the last repetition, I couldn’t get the bar back up. I pushed so hard that my bicep tendon tore right off the elbow joint. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds was just sitting on my chest, slowly crushing me.”

  “How’d you get it off?”

  “A janitor cleaning the locker room heard me screaming. He ran in and helped.”

  “Hmm.”

  Mr. Killroy buttons his cuff and smooths the sleeve out. “You get what I’m saying?”

  I think about it and then say, “Don’t lift weights.”

  He smirks. Throws an eyebrow up and starts writing me a pass back to class. “Don’t lift weights by yourself.”

  4

  On the way home I hang my arm out the window and make a wing with my hand. I’m picturing Mr. Killroy in the gym, his arm hanging all weird from the ripped bicep. I wonder if he cried. I can’t picture that.

  “Dee,” Claudia says.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Dad and I are going to the cemetery on Thursday. We want you to come.”

  I tilt my hand forward and the air shoves it down—way faster than when I tilt it up. “Why?”

  “What kind of question is that? Because She’s our mom.”

  I look over at her. “Maybe Dad will bring one of his Internet girlfriends. We’ll go around the circle sharing family memories, but when it lands on her, things will get really awkward.”

  “Do it for me.”

  I think of how mad she was about me ruining movie night—even though it wasn’t really me. It was him. The Real Jerk.

  “So you’re coming?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I say. “But I’m not saying anything.”

  1

  “Had you been in downtown Manhattan on that day, you might have thought the world was ending.”

  Mr. Hines goes to the next image on his 9/11 PowerPoint. A bunch of people are in the middle of a city street, totally covered in white dust. Some of them have cuts on their faces. They all look dazed and confused. One lady is crying.

  “Two thousand nine hundred seventy-seven people died during the terrorist attacks that day,” he says. “Hundreds more from lung cancer and respiratory diseases related to debris inhalation. It remains the deadliest attack on American soil in our country’s history.”

  The class is silent. I look around and see them all sucked in by the photo slideshow.

  “They didn’t die.”

  I think, Yeah, they didn’t just die, and look for whoever said it, but people are looking at me. Mr. Hines is looking at me too, and I’m sweating a little, wondering how what I was thinking came out of my mouth.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Hines asks.

  “They were killed,” I say. “They didn’t just die. Somebody killed them.”

  Mr. Hines strokes his big black beard. “You’re right.”

  “And other people were killed because of this too.” Jeez, I can’t shut up. And it’s like a sauna in here. “Lots of people in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Hines says.

  “Some of them weren’t even soldiers,” I say. Am I yelling? Kids are turning in their chairs to get a better look at me. “They weren’t fighting, but they still got killed.”

  “Yes, they did.” Mr. Hines leans against the whiteboard and folds his arms. It’s like he’s waiting for more, but that’s all I’ve got. I think. “Last year you studied the Civil War, remember? There was a general who said ‘War is cruelty.’” He looks around to the kids nodding, but ends up back at me. “I think that’s about the truest thing a person could say about it. Everybody loses.”

  I pick the plastic edges of my binder. Sort of feels like I’m sliding to one side. I really want to disappear. Mr. Hines passes out a background reading on 9/11. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  UPS Update: Your package is arriving today.

  Instead of doing the worksheet, I find an online version of the steel door manual and start reading.

  2

  I’m waiting in the garage when the UPS guy pulls up.

  “Got a big one today,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  He drags out this giant rectangular box and scans it.

  “Need help?” he asks, but I’m already dragging it around back.

  I lay it down under the maple tree and rip open the box. I line up all the parts, make sure everything is here, and start reading the directions. It’s almost four, which gives me about three and a half hours of daylight to get this thing on.

  “Did you get a rocket launcher?”

  Misty comes out of nowhere and starts touching random pieces on the ground.

  “It’s the door I told you about.” I get up and take a couple of bolts from her hand. “Come on. Stop.”

  “What’s wrong with the doors that are on there?”

  “Hinge doors have too many weak points. They could be forced open.”

  “Right.” She claps her hands. “So what do we do first: Take the old ones off or build the new one?”

  “I said I don’t need your help.”

  “It’s supposed to rain, you know. You could do it faster if I helped.”

  “Not until ten,” I say. “My doomsday blog uses this special weather app. I got plenty of time.”

  I get my screwdriver and hammer out and start popping pins out of the old hinge doors. The first one comes off easy, but the next one is so rusted I have to unscrew the whole plate. It goes fine until the last screw flies out and the door falls on my foot.

  “Crap!” Is it broken? No, I don’t think so. I wiggle my toes and put weight on it. It’s sore, but I can walk. I start on the second door, which comes off way easier.

  “Fecal-borne pathogen,” Misty says. She’s in the shade, reading on her phone. “That’s when flies land on your poop, then land on your plate. You’re basically eating—”

  “I get it.”

  I grab the two big steel brackets from my new door assembly and bring them in the shed. I lean one against the wall and line the other along the inside door frame. Using a clamp, I lock it in place and then drill all the pilot holes for the bolts that will secure it to the shed. I do the same to the other side and check my watch: 4:32 p.m.

  “How much money do you have left from your deck fixing gigs?” Misty asks.

  “Almost six hundred bucks. Why?”

  She walks over and shows me her phone. “The Poop Master 5000: A Dry Flush Composting Toilet. Runs on lithium batteries. Five hundred bucks at Home Depot.”

  “Lithium batteries explode. No way I’m putting t
hat in here.”

  “Only the phone ones exploded,” Misty says. “Just check it out.”

  I scroll through the specs. It does look legit. “Hmm.”

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  And then a raindrop hits the screen. Splat.

  I look up and see this big black cloud rolling at us. “Where did that come from?”

  Misty jerks her head back a little, then wipes her cheek. “Uh-oh.”

  “Crap,” I say. Another drop hits me in the eye. “Crap.”

  “What do we do?” Misty says real loud. The wind has picked up. I can see deck umbrellas starting to bend. “Put the old doors back on?”

  “We can’t. The hinge is bent.” Crap. I picture the shed getting soaked and moldy and turning into a bacteria biohazard and I’m breathing so hard but can’t get enough air.

  Why wasn’t I more careful? And how did my weather app get it wrong?

  This is a disaster.

  And then Misty sprints toward my house. Her ponytail whips back and forth against her head as she bolts around the side to the front. It’s starting to rain now, for real, getting heavier by the second. Most of the steel door stuff is laid out under the maple tree, but that won’t protect it for long. I start hauling it by the armful into the shed. I’ve got most of it in when Misty runs back with a giant blue tarp.

  “Grab the corner!” she yells above the rain. It’s straight-up pouring now, dripping off our faces.

  I duck into the shed where my toolbox is to grab the staple gun. I take the loose corner and drape it above the left side, stapling like crazy. It’s ugly, but it should keep most of the stuff dry until the storm passes.

  “Some is still getting in,” Misty shouts, pointing to the floor.

  She’s gone again, then back in seconds with another tarp. I fold it long ways and lay it down by the opening to keep the floor dry.

  “How did you know where these were?” I ask.

  “I saw them the other night. After I tried to rob you.”

  “Right.”

  She looks around the edges for water. “I think it’s good. I think we got it.”

  I dig into a crate and take out a camping towel that absorbs water like a sponge. I go to wipe my face, but see Misty wringing water from her ponytail with two hands.

  “Here.”

  She wipes her face and gives it back. “Thanks.”

  I dry off, and we sit on the floor, listening to the rain beat on the roof. She lifts the tarp to peek out and watch the storm, and I see her smiling like this is the best day of her life. I’ve seen her do that before, I think. Smiling wide, laughing. Hanging out by the shed.

  Her hand gripping the wagon handle.

  1

  I’m in the desert.

  The mountains are extra pretty today. But the sky is weird: It’s ceiling tiles instead of that blue going on forever. The watermark from Mr. Killroy’s office is spreading and turning black and then there’s an explosion—but it’s not the KABOOM I’m expecting on September 21.

  It’s a Whoooooooooooook!

  Like an alarm.

  No—a siren.

  The Apocalypse Soon! air raid siren.

  The one that gets pushed out to all members when an “Apocalyptic Event” goes down in the world.

  Whoooooooooooook!

  I jump out of bed and fall on my face in the dark room.

  Whoooooooooooook!

  This is happening.

  It’s happening.

  I claw for shoes in the dark but can’t feel my fingers—totally numb. How much time have I lost already? Ten seconds? Twenty? I grab my go bag from the bedpost and tear it open, throwing on my headlamp. Drop it twice. Lunge for the door and fall because the room is like rotating weird. I crawl for the door and finally get up and sprint downstairs.

  Whoooooooooooooooooook!

  Whoooooooooooooooooook!

  Whoooooooooooooooooook!

  I’m halfway across the yard when I see it.

  The tarp.

  No.

  My heart skips three times, real fast. Stuff tilts again and the air is super-thick and I’m taking these big giant gasps to get more. I dive through the tarp where the doors used to be and strap on a gas mask. I’m choking now and it fogs up so I can barely see enough to put on my hazmat suit. I’m shaking pretty good and I can hear myself crying, which is weird because I don’t feel like I’m crying but I definitely feel like I’m on fire. Part of my brain is still in the desert with the watermarked ceiling and I’m thinking, Mr. Killroy really needs to get that leak fixed.

  Somebody grabs my arm. I scream. I kick and punch but they keep grabbing me and all I’m thinking is, The door the door the door. This is all because I didn’t put on the door. I’m hitting the person but they’re too strong and now they’ve tackled me to the ground and I can’t get away. Their arms are like cement and I’m totally outmatched and so I just give in because it’s obviously already over and this is The End and I wasn’t ready. My mask gets ripped off and now I can really hear myself scream, and yeah, I’m definitely crying.

  But somebody else is too.

  Claudia.

  She’s standing outside the shed, hand on her mouth, watching my dad hold me down. He drags me onto the cot, telling me that nothing’s wrong. I reach for my phone and see EARTHQUAKE: MEXICO, 5.8 MAGNITUDE.

  Air comes back into my lungs. The tilting sort of levels out.

  My dad’s panting. It mixes with Claudia’s whimpers like some awful soundtrack to The End of the World and I shove my hands over my ears. I curl up on my side and see that black knot spiraling out on the wall, ruining a perfectly good plank. I should’ve knocked it out before I started.

  I should’ve gotten that door on.

  2

  I wake up and stare at the clock on my night table. 9:03 a.m. Blink a couple times and then it all comes back and I shut them. How can you be dizzy lying down? I take this giant breath and let it out slow and sit up. Feels like I’ve been drugged. There’s banging downstairs in the kitchen and it smells like bacon. My phone has a bunch of messages from Brock and Tommy saying they hope I feel better.

  I shower and change and log onto Apocalypse Soon! to see what the crap happened. The message boards are crammed and some of them are still freaking out but mostly everybody is angry. My in-box has a message from the website admins that is this big long apology about what happened. Apparently there were two other smaller quakes along a fault line in the Indian Ocean, which triggered some super- fancy tsunami warning that the admins also follow, and they got jumpy and sent out the air raid. To make up for it, they gave everybody a couple free months of membership.

  So it wasn’t The End.

  But I’ve got a bigger problem—I wasn’t ready.

  If last night had been The End, I would be like everybody else.

  Unprepared.

  Gone.

  My stomach grumbles because that bacon is smelling pretty amazing. I go downstairs and my dad is at the stove cooking eggs.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  A giant plate of bacon is on the counter and I sit on the stool and start eating it. It’s amazing but still hot and I have to take it easy because I’m scorching my throat. I cough a little and get some water and then keep eating.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks.

  “Okay.”

  “Thought you could use a day off.”

  “Yeah.”

  He puts some eggs on a plate and slides it across the island to me. Maybe this is the best breakfast ever.

  “You want to talk about what happened?”

  I chew for a while. Shake my head.

  He drinks his coffee and watches me. “I called Dr. Mike.”

  “What?”

 
“Derrick—come on.”

  I stare at my eggs and bacon and keep eating. “I’m okay now. It was just a mistake.”

  “What was a mistake?”

  “This thing—it’s not a big deal.”

  He takes this big giant breath in and lets it out slow through his nose. “He has an opening today.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t need to talk to Dr. Mike. He can’t help me.”

  My dad dumps his coffee out and stares at the kitchen window. Maybe he’s looking at the shed. I am, through the back slider, and I can’t wait to get out there and put on that stupid door.

  “I want you to take the day off,” he says.

  “Yeah.” Perfect, actually. I’ll have that door installed by lunch. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  “From everything,” he says. “School and the shed. And that website you follow. I want you to just rest today.”

  I drop my fork and it goes clang real loud on the plate. “What? Why?”

  “Derrick.”

  “Dad, you don’t get it—last night was a mistake. The guys who run the website messed up and so I thought It was happening. But it wasn’t, so I’m fine. I just need—it will take me like an hour to install that door. Probably less.”

  He shakes his head and my stomach is sort of cramping hard and all that bacon is feeling not so good. I can see the tarp over the shed door through the back slider and it’s starting to spin to one side and I can hear somebody screaming Fine and it’s me and then I’m stomping upstairs and grabbing my schoolbag. My dad follows me and stands in my doorway.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going to school,” I say.

  “Derrick—”

  “What, I can’t go to school?” Yelling again. I shove past him and head for the garage and grab my bike. Take a day off this close to The End? What an idiot.

  “I’ll drive you,” he says. “Okay? I’ll drive you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to drive you!” he yells.

  I freeze. This is new, and sort of weird. He’s standing there with his hands on his hips just watching me.