The World Ends in April

by Stacy McAnulty

  “Where are the Oreos?” he asks.

  “The coconut ones? I’ll bring them in later. We’ve ordered pizza and wings too. Should be delivered around eight.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  We fill our paper plates with snacks. I even take some vegetables because fresh food will be a luxury during the ice age that will come after the asteroid. I need to get my fill of baby carrots before impact winter. Mack and Londyn sit on the couch. She’s in my usual spot. I take the chair next to them.

  “Coconut Oreos? Really? That’s gross.” I shudder. I don’t like coconut-flavored anything, including coconuts.

  “I’m adding that to our bucket list,” he explains. “To try every Oreo flavor.”

  “Is that even possible?” Londyn asks. “They make new ones like every other day.”

  “But they have to stop in April,” Mack says. “I bet we can try fifty flavors before then.”

  “You can. I don’t eat coconut.” I gag. Coconut and pineapple are the worst flavors.

  “I came up with other ideas for the bucket list too,” Mack says. “We should go camping, and ice-skating, and set a world record.”

  “A world record? In what?” I ask.

  “A world record in dumb ideas? We have lots of those,” Londyn jokes.

  “True,” he laughs. “I heard on the TV that Johnson Automotive is going to try to set a record for how many people they can fit in a Fiat. We could do that!”

  “That sounds horrible!” Londyn says.

  “I agree. I don’t want to be squished up against strangers.” I imagine what that car might smell like.

  “Okay. I’ll find a different world record for us to break,” Mack says, undeterred.

  “So…” I try to change the subject. “What movies are we watching?”

  “It’s an all-apocalyptic evening,” he says. “This might be our last New Year’s Eve.”

  “At least the last with streaming,” I say.

  “We’ll start with World War Z,” Mack says as he plays with the remote. “Then The Day After Tomorrow, I Am Legend, and of course Armageddon. It’s about a huge asteroid heading toward Earth, and NASA sends up these oil-rig workers—not astronauts—to blow it to smithereens and save our planet!”

  “Spoiler alert,” I warn.

  “Why aren’t we doing that?” Londyn asks. “Not us personally, but NASA or the Air Force.”

  “Maybe they will, but they have to believe Dr. Cologne first.”

  “Or,” Mack says, drawing out the word, “maybe they are getting a team ready to go to space, but it’s top secret. They could be building the rocket and megabomb right now.”

  “Doubt it.” I lean back in the chair and throw my feet on the ottoman. My plate of food rests on my lap. “Start the first movie.”

  “Let’s do this. No need to spend the night talking about the end of the world. I want to live it through a big-budget movie.” Mack starts the movie, and then pulls his CCTV into his lap. He adjusts his screen so it’s only a few inches from his nose.

  We watch movies and eat snacks and pizza. They dare me to eat a coconut Oreo, and I do. It’s disgusting. Mack opens his present from Grandpa Joe—without his parents around—and we tell him the whole story from Christmas Eve. We have to skip one of the other movies to make sure we have time for Armageddon. (Which was a little disappointing because they didn’t spend any time preparing for impact.) And at midnight, we high-five and drink sparkling cider.

  “So begins our last year on Earth. Cheers!” Londyn raises her plastic champagne glass.

  “To our last few months of life as we know it.” Why do I have to keep emphasizing that the world is not ending completely?

  “To the bucket list!” Mack shoots off a popper and showers me in confetti.

  I know after impact I’ll be spending most of my time with my family. We won’t have a choice. But I’m not going to let these two out of my life. Once the firestorm is over and the acid rain stops and it’s generally safe outside, I’ll make sure we get to hang out.

  The month of January revolves around Nature Club, the Doomsday Express, and our bucket list. (The bucket list is mostly Mack planning out all our Saturday afternoons.) We also have end-of-quarter testing in almost every class, but I don’t let that take up too much of my time.

  Londyn and I distribute issue number two immediately after Christmas break. We take a little longer on the third one because we don’t know what to add—and I don’t want to get caught. But then Dr. Cologne puts out an important message.

  It’s predicted with 90 percent certainty that 2010PL7 will crash into Earth the first or second week of April.

  And we have our headline for issue number three.

  In Nature Club, I devote one meeting to first aid and the next to bug-out bags. I share my BOB, going over each item, but everyone is obsessed with the MREs. Spencer offers me ten dollars for my chicken pesto pasta. I promise to bring more next time.

  “I know a guy,” I tell them.

  Grandpa Joe hooks me up with a whole case of MREs. And on February 5, approximately two months before the asteroid is expected to crash, I load my backpack with twelve meals and leave my school binder at home.

  “Snack time,” I announce. They cheer and say thanks, and obviously have no idea what they’re in for.

  “I’m vegetarian,” Ajay says. I throw him the envelope marked elbow macaroni and tomato sauce.

  “I want pizza,” Mack says, holding out his hands. “Is there any pizza? Cheese? Pepperoni? I don’t care.”

  “No,” I answer. “Here. Have meatballs in marinara sauce.”

  Mack dramatically sniffs the unopened pouch and sings, “Yum.” It has no smell.

  “Each meal has about twelve hundred calories and a third of your daily vitamins and minerals.” I hold up the two that are left: beef stew and lemon pepper tuna. “If you were in the army, they’d give you three per day, but you can totally survive on one.” The thought of eating more than that makes my stomach hurt.

  “Can we eat these?” Spencer asks. “Or should we save them?”

  “You can eat these. But you should—”

  Spencer tears his open before I finish my sentence.

  “M&M’s!” he yells.

  “Yes. There’s also toilet paper and matches. These are military issue. They are meant to be used in the field, not in your house.”

  “Or in a science classroom,” Londyn adds.

  “True.” I nod. “You should probably have seven of these for each person in your family. They’re good in case you need to bug out. Might also be valuable for trade.”

  “How do you cook them?” Jade turns her package over, looking for instructions.

  “You don’t have to actually cook them. You could eat them right now. But you can heat them up. Here, I’ll show you.” I grab Jade’s envelope of Mexican-style chicken stew and place it inside the provided heating sleeve. Then I add the flameless ration heater and pour in the pouch of salt water. Steam seeps from the top as I set it upright on the table.

  “That’s so awesome.” Ajay leans closer. “It’s cooked by a chemical reaction.”

  “Yep, no fire needed.” I smile like I’m the scientist who invented this. “Now we just have to wait fifteen minutes, and your meal will be done.”

  “What are the matches for, then?” Brent asks.

  “Making a fire, which we’re not doing.” I collect the matches from everyone and hide them in the bottom of my backpack.

  Jade clicks her tongue. “There’s a lot of packaging here. This isn’t good for the environment. We’ll eat these meals in minutes, and this plastic will be around for years.”

  “Um, I’m just hoping I’m around for years,” Londyn says as she dumps the contents of her MRE on the lab table.

  “Me too
,” Brent says.

  Everyone unpacks their meals and “cooks” their main course. I assist Mack with his and don’t bother making my own. I’ve sampled enough.

  “Again, these are good for when you’re on the go. You need other meal options for in your house.” I open my backpack and pull out the Survivalist magazine. The guy on the cover is wearing a black tank top that shows off his massive biceps, and he’s holding a knife that’s longer than his arm.

  “Oh,” Spencer says, “I don’t have that issue.”

  “You can have this one when I’m done.” I open to the page I marked and show it to the group. “I’d recommend this. It’s a month of food in a waterproof container.”

  I pass the magazine around.

  “After impact, stores will be looted and emptied. You won’t be able to buy groceries. And because of the impact on the environment, we won’t be able to grow food for a few seasons. You’ll need these buckets.”

  “How many?” Izabell asks.

  “My grandfather has a year’s worth for every member of our family.” But because Dad doesn’t approve, we only have four buckets at our house—enough for a month for me, my brothers, and Dad.

  Wyatt takes a picture of the ad with his phone.

  “Text that to me,” Jade says.

  “Me too,” Dominic says. And Wyatt sets up a group text that includes all of us except Brent, who doesn’t have a phone.

  “Cell phones will be useless in a few months anyway,” Mack says, trying to make him feel better.

  The food continues to heat. Spencer touches his and shrieks. The outside gets pretty hot.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Walsh asks from the doorway between the classroom and her office.

  “Nothing,” I blurt out.

  She must suspect nothing means something and walks over.

  “Are those MREs?” She points and smiles.

  “Yes.” No sense in lying since the letters M, R, and E are boldly written on the outside of each brown envelope. Actually, it was kind of a stupid question. Mrs. Walsh can read.

  “My brother was in the Marines,” she says. “He used to bring MREs home, and we’d use them for backpacking trips. I’d mix the peaches with the roll and add one of the coffee creamers and make ‘peach cobbler.’ ” She makes air quotes around the words peach cobbler.

  “That sounds disgusting,” Jade says.

  “It was,” Mrs. Walsh says. She pulls her lips to the side, and I expect her to ask more questions. Instead, she tells us to be careful. “The packages can get pretty hot.” Then she goes back to her desk.

  While we wait the last five minutes for the main courses to heat, we arrange the rest of the food from the MREs across the table. Each comes with a side dish like fruit or rice, crackers or a roll, a spread like peanut butter or cheese, a drink mix, seasonings, and the best part, dessert.

  “Anyone want to trade?” Brent asks, holding up Tootsie Rolls. “I can’t eat them with braces.”

  “You might want to get your braces taken off before April,” I suggest. “Who knows when your orthodontist might be open after impact.”

  He touches his mouth. “You’re right.”

  “I’ll trade,” Izabell says. She holds up Skittles. Then Jade offers her crackers and jalapeño spread. She wants pretzels. They start swapping like it’s the day after Halloween. Somehow Londyn ends up with two packages of M&M’s, but she gives one to me.

  When the food is done, they carefully tear open their pouches and grab the provided plastic spork.

  “Bon appétit.” Mack sloppily scoops out a meatball. We watch him chew and nod. “Not bad.”

  Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He takes a giant mouthful and then another and another. The whole time he makes yummy noises.

  Wyatt eats a bite of his stew and his face falls. I suggest he add hot pepper flakes. He pours two envelopes on top and mixes it.

  “Better,” he says when he takes his next bite.

  Jade stirs her meal but doesn’t eat it. Izabell smells hers and exaggerates a gagging sound.

  “Do I need to remind you,” Londyn says, “y’all drank toilet water? Just try it.”

  Jade takes a bite. Izabell follows her lead.

  “It’s okay.” Jade shrugs. “But I’m going to miss real food like French fries.”

  “Maybe we should plan a last meal,” Mack suggests. “I want enchiladas verdes from Taco Casa. Mmm.”

  “I’d want fried chicken and waffles. Like my mom used to make.” Londyn looks at the floor, and then she catches me staring at her. “And the kitchen-sink sundae from Molly’s Ice Cream Shop.”

  “What would you want, Elle?” Mack asks.

  I rub my neck and think about the question. “Maybe doughnuts. Baked goods are going to be scarce.” The Krispy Kreme HOT NOW sign may never light up again. “And bacon, because, well, bacon is just the best. Goes with everything.”

  “Wait!” Wyatt looks up from his meal. “Are we not going to have bacon in the apocalypse?”

  “At least not often.” I shrug. “How are the MREs?”

  “Mine isn’t so bad,” Ajay says. He offers his packet to the group. Spencer takes a scoop. Jade and Izabell share theirs. Dominic gives some of his to Mack and Brent. Wyatt dips his spork in Londyn’s pouch. And just like that, it’s a communal meal.

  Londyn pushes her plastic spork into my hand. “Come on, we’re all doing it.”

  “I’ve eaten more MREs than I can count.” I push away her packet.

  “Be part of the team, Norie.” She won’t stop. “Nor-ie! Nor-ie!” Two months ago, this would have been irritating. I would have gotten upset and yelled and threatened to quit. Now it’s still annoying, but not as much. Maybe the asteroid is making me chill. Maybe it’s something else.

  The boys are in bed, and I’m finishing my math homework. I’d rather be working on our fifth newsletter. We distributed number four today, and students literally ran to the bathrooms to get a copy. We want to have an edition ready weekly. But if I don’t get my math grade up, Dad’s going to insist on tutoring me and checking my work.

  I’m almost done with the second-to-last problem when Dad comes to my room. Bubbles follows him in.

  “Can we talk?” Dad pulls out my desk chair and takes a seat. It’s never good when a parent says this. Either I’m in trouble or someone’s dying.

  “Okay.” I close my math book, leaving the pencil inside to mark the spot.

  “What is this?” He’s holding a copy of our first newsletter.

  “Nothing.” Stupid answer, but it’s what popped into my brain.

  “I found it in the bottom of your backpack.”

  Londyn was right. I should have gotten rid of all the evidence.

  “Why were you going through my stuff?” I look around my room for my bag. I must have left it in the kitchen.

  “Something smelled awful. I also found a rotten banana.” He cringes. “Are you anxious about this asteroid?”

  I shrug.

  “How often do you visit that website?” he asks.

  I shrug again.

  “Well, I looked at it. I really looked at it. This Martin Cologne is simply seeking attention. He was fired for his alarmist ideas. His colleagues have all dismissed his theories.”

  “Other experts believe him now. Like Dr. Yukofski.” My hands are balled into fists.

  Dad sighs. “I saw that. I think it’s part of the hoax.”

  Hoax? I get that it’s hard to believe. I understand that some may have doubts. But hoax?

  “What will it take for you to believe them?” I ask.

  Dad sighs. “Yukofski has not made a public statement in a decade. I believe someone is pretending to be this reclusive scientist. You have to consider that it might be an impostor.”

  “I’ll consi
der that it might be an impostor if you consider that it might all be real.” My eyes sting and I blink hard to keep from crying.

  “Eleanor, give me your computer.”

  “What?” It sits open next to me on my bed. I put an arm around it like I can protect it.

  He holds out his hands.

  “You can’t take away my computer.”

  “I’m not taking it away. I’m installing parent-protection software.”

  “No.”

  “If you want a computer, these are the rules.”

  I hand it over. “This is unfair. You’re like a Communist dictator. What else are you going to block?”

  “I’m blocking the website, and I will be tracking all activity. Your internet search history will be emailed to my account daily.”

  “This is like reading someone’s diary.”

  “You keep a diary? Since when?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m not about to now, Stalin.” I think Stalin was a Communist. “Will you be reading my emails too?”

  “I didn’t think kids emailed. I thought you only know how to text.” He’s trying to joke, but none of this is funny. “Do you remember what we talked about when you first got a computer?”

  I look away.

  “Everything you do leaves a digital footprint. Never write anything that you wouldn’t want your parent or teachers to see. Don’t send pictures you wouldn’t want to be shared in front of the class. The internet is not a safe place for secrets.” He types a few more commands, then hands it back.

  “Is your spy machine all ready to go?” I ask.

  “And now your phone.”

  “No! Seriously?”

  Every line on his face answers that question. I slap my phone into his palm.

  “When can I have it back?”

  “As soon as I password-protect the web browser.” At least he’s not taking it away forever. He plays with it for five minutes before giving it back.

  “Done?”

  “I’m satisfied.” He stands up. “Eleanor, I need you to listen to me. The world is not ending in April. Do you understand?”