The End - Visions of Apocalypse Read online

  ***

  July 8th, 2022

  John remembered this day, so vaguely that he thought maybe he had imagined it. He had been a very different man in a different place then, but the event was the same; a gigantic object hurdled through the sky, impossibly dark and completely unnatural. Its shadow passed over the Earth as it seemed to speed toward the sun. Immense darkness, only a sliver of sunlight peeking out around its edge. And then it happened; for just a brief moment, a flash of fire illuminated everything. Flames burst out around the object, engulfing it as if the sun had exploded. It was beautiful.

  The first time he saw it had been long ago. He was with Kara and the children, and he had told them that he loved them. That was the last time they had all been together, the last time he’d been a father and husband. The last time he had been whole.

  We’ll always be together. Even in the hereafter.

  ***

  June 16th, 2012

  John’s eyelids snapped open. Bright spots were still dancing over his eyes, the memory of the event burned into his brain. It was real. Something had actually crashed into the sun. John was back in bed in his old apartment, except he hadn’t died. He was sure of it. He had been pulled back too soon.

  Why do I remember?

  He had asked himself that question a million times, never getting any closer to an answer. But this had been no coincidence. Something or someone was doing this, turning back the clock to avoid disaster. It was time to find out why this was happening. No matter how long it took, he would find the cause. It was his only way out.

  ***

  July 8th, 2022

  It was around noon. Werner limped into the tavern, easing the burden with his walking cane. He sat himself at the bar, climbing up into his stool and stretching out his aching leg. The television was on above the bar, displaying the local news. Werner picked up a menu and was about to flip through it, when he noticed the strange looking man sitting two seats away, staring back at him.

  Werner said nothing at first, merely ignored him and turned his eyes to the television. But the man continued to stare. “Is there a problem, sir?”

  The strange man smiled wide. “I’m just glad to see you’re still alive, old friend. I would have been disappointed if you’d killed yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

  “Many times, Dr. Werner.”

  “No one has called me Doctor for nearly a decade.”

  “Just Emil, then?”

  “Pardon me,” Werner said irritably, “but where have we met?”

  “Here, among many other places.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “No one remembers. Not like I do.”

  Werner gave the strange man a sideways glance and then turned his attention to the menu.

  “They’re already bringing our meals,” the man said. “I ordered you veal.”

  Werner slapped the menu down on the bar. “How kind of you,” he said sarcastically. “But I’m a vegetarian.”

  “I know, that’s why I ordered veal.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me, Dr. Werner, if you were on death row and you could have anything as your last meal, would you want a veggie platter?”

  “I’m not on death row.”

  “Yes you are. We all are.”

  “Are you insane?” Werner asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” the man said. “If I’m not insane, then there’s something really wrong with me.”

  The stranger got up from his seat and sat right next to Werner. “Does the name Joseph Heinrich mean anything to you?”

  Werner’s head perked up. “Yes,” he said. “He was a colleague of mine, many years ago. I take it you are affiliated with Dr. Heinrich then?”

  “Deeply affiliated.”

  Werner nodded. “He and I had plans for constructing a fantastic device capable of things you could only ever dream of.”

  “How fascinating,” the man said.

  “But fate, being the cruel mistress that it is, forced us to abandon the project in its infancy.” Werner shook his head in regret.

  “What a tragedy.”

  “Such is life. So, how is Joseph?”

  “Dead,” the man spoke without a hint of sadness. “His wife died eight years ago. His only child passed away a year after that. Then he was hit by a car while crossing the street, crippled and left permanently bound to a wheelchair for the rest of his days. He became a recluse, retreating to the safety of solitude, ever fearful that he was cursed. I could easily list the many lesser tragedies that occurred over the last ten years of his life, but there’s hardly time for that. He killed himself about a year ago. A shame. Truly, a pointless waste. If only he were here today, then he could die alongside his friend.”

  Werner stared angrily. “Who are you?”

  “We interrupt this report to bring you breaking news.”

  The man leaned in close. “I think you know the answer to that. I think deep down you’ve been tormenting yourself for years, running through all of the possibilities. You know that you’ve done things you can’t possibly remember. You spend all day every day thinking about what could have been and you know that just by thinking about building that device, there is the possibility that you’ve built it already.”

  “We’ll be keeping you informed as we learn more about this unbelievable event.”

  “You’re a fucking liar!” Werner yelled.

  “You two were the greatest liars to ever live. Letting the world believe that it has a future. You’ve made fools out of everyone. Except for me. You won’t fool me.”

  “The world holds its breath, mesmerized by an unprecedented phenomenon that perhaps threatens our very existence.”

  “In a different time and place, you two made a terrible mistake, one that needs to be corrected.”

  A sinking feeling weighed heavy in Werner’s stomach. He suddenly felt paralyzed, struggling to speak, to breathe. “I merely dreamt of saving the world.” He thought back to all of the hardships he’d endured over the last ten years, knowing in his heart that they were not coincidences. He leaned over his cane, looking down at his deformed leg. “What have you done to me?”

  “What can you tell us about this object and its origins?”

  “Everything. I made the last ten years of your life a living hell. I ruined every good thing that was ever going to happen to you. And most importantly, I made sure that your device was never built.”

  Suddenly the tavern darkened. Outside, the sky was enveloped by a black shape that stretched from horizon to horizon.

  “You’ve damned us all!”

  “On the contrary. I’ve saved us all from damnation. Admit it. You’d rather see Earth die, than see it carry on in some false existence for all eternity.”

  “All we can do now, is hope for a miracle.”

  Werner’s hands shook. His eyes twitched. “I should kill you.”

  “I’ve already killed myself a thousand times, hoping to escape from the nightmare you created. You never told anyone; I had to search for hundreds of years to find you, without a clue where to start. Do you have ANY idea what that was like? Can you imagine a worse torture? The places I’ve been to, looking without knowing what I was looking for?”

  Werner’s fear was now surpassing his anger. “How do you remember?”

  “If only I knew. If only I could forget.” He peered out the window. “It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I see it,” he said without concern. “Not much longer now.”

  Werner watched as the immense blackness shrunk in the sky, distancing itself from Earth and choking out the light as it neared the sun. “Why didn’t you just kill me years ago?”

  “Far too easy.”

  “You could have warned us. You could have saved the world!”

  “Why?” The man hissed. “Why is the world worth saving?”

  “But. . . We’ve given you a gift! You have infinite knowledge!”

  �
��GIFT!?” The man cried. “Can you make my wife love me again?”

  “I don’t--”

  “Can you give me my kids back?”

  “Well--”

  “Can you stitch my mind back together, after tearing it into a thousand pieces?”

  Werner didn’t answer.

  “You’ve taken away everything, and given me nothing.” The man got up from his seat. “This is it,” he said. “No time now for our last meals, sadly.” He walked out the door.

  Werner waited, and then reluctantly followed the man outside. He stared up at the sky.

  The street was already crowded with people, all of them watching as daylight dwindled. “The world died a long time ago. It’s just been waiting for someone to bury it.” The massive shape turned day into night, eclipsing the sun. John grinned from ear to ear. So this is death.

  The sun exploded. Fire spread across the sky, its heat reaching the Earth. A scalding wind crushed down on John, crushed down on everyone. There was a deafening roar as buildings collapsed around him. There was bright light, fire. And pain, pain worse than any John ever knew. But the pain belonged to him, and he welcomed it.

  Peace. Peace for everyone. Most of all, for me.

  Werner collapsed to the ground, wailing in torment. John leaned over him. “Her name was Kara,” he said. “Our children were named Jonathan and Elena. They were the world to me, and you took them.”

  Suddenly, the flames receded into the black object, and intense brightness gave way to absolute darkness, and frigid cold. John’s breath steamed as he exhaled. He smiled, imagining the entire world dying around him. He could hear their screams of terror and agony.

  I’ve freed you all. You’re welcome.

  The pain overwhelmed John, forcing him to close his eyes.

  He didn’t open them again.

  MICHAEL J. SULLIVAN

  Burning Alexandria

  Michael J. Sullivan is a full-time novelist and author of the well-received Riyria Revelation fantasy series. He is currently at work on a new novel and loves to hear from his readers. You can read more about him at riyria.blogspot.com.

  8.

  BURNING ALEXANDRIA

  by Michael J. Sullivan

  It was a pleasure to see the fire burn.

  Irwin Gilbert had managed it with just a magnifying glass, a cotton ball, and what was left of a bottle of 70% isopropyl alcohol that still bore the Eckerd Drug label. That bottle had to be three years old, the cotton balls even older. Irwin had a lot of old things squirreled away in his tiny home. They used to call people like Irwin hoarders, but now they’d call him a genius, if anyone knew. Only, if anyone knew, Irwin would be dead.

  For safety’s sake he’d started the fire in his largest and deepest cooking pot. The one with plastic handles that stuck out to either side like Mickey Mouse’s ears. He set the stainless steel kettle on top of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, then after a moments consideration, slipped Chicken Soup for the Soul between them. He nurtured the flame first with tissues, then junk mail and newspaper circulars. As the fire grew, smoke began to fill the room and Irwin started to panic. He’d forgotten about ventilation. Images of Wiley E. Coyote flashed through his mind as he struggled to unearth more of the partially covered window, the only one in the whole house that still admitted light. Digging it out, the room’s interior brightened with the white of winter.

  Nearly blinding himself in the process, Irwin fumbled for the latch and pinched his frozen fingers before realizing the window had been painted shut. In forty years, Irwin had never tried opening it. He remembered he had other windows, but they were buried and he’d lost track of their locations years ago.

  Exposed by the harsh light, Irwin’s living room was little more than a narrow gap between precarious cliffs of books, which ran from floor to ceiling. Hard covers formed the foundations, trade paperbacks the middle strata, with the little mass markets soared to the cottage cheese-textured acoustical ceiling. The stacks of books were easily eight deep in most places, and even if he knew where to dig for another window, he had no guarantee he would be able to open it either.

  His eyes watered and stung. The stark winter’s light grew hazy as the tiny space filled with smoke. The campfire smell, which had been pleasant at first, now coated his tongue, saturating his nostrils. Irwin began to cough.

  He could practically hear the Meep, meep! of the Roadrunner mocking him. Wiley E. Coyote, super genius, suffocates in his own home. Irwin had few choices: stomp out the little fledging fire with its promise of warmth, or break the window. He couldn’t afford to spend another night as cold as the one before. Picking up a copy of Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker he punched the glass.

  Thud.

  He rolled his stinging eyes and reached for Stephen King’s Under the Dome—one thousand seventy-four pages of hardcover, window-shattering goodness. The window pane cracked and splintered into jagged blades. Large shards slipped free from their gummy caulk and fell. The two guillotines missed his fingers but cut the otherwise mint condition dust jacket right across the big white “K” in King.

  “Goddamn it!” Irwin cursed, looking at the damage. He should have used Atlas Shrugged.

  As if summoned by magic, the smoke took notice of the hole and rushed toward it. Irwin moved the pot closer to the window to aid the migration. The fire was already starting to die, and icy air blew in, carrying the occasional snowflake or two. They were the hard sand sort, more ice than flake. By breaking the window he’d only made his situation worse. If he didn’t build up the fire enough to radiate significant heat, he’d freeze to death. A fireplace would have been great, a woodstove outstanding. He’d considered using his old electric stove, only it didn’t work—nothing worked anymore—the electricity died two days ago, killing the stove, the television, the lights, and taking the water and furnace with it. That’s when things had gotten cold.

  Irwin spent most of his time bundled up in blankets and sleeping in the grotto—what used to be his bedroom, but he couldn’t sensibly call it that anymore as he’d gotten rid of the bed years ago. He needed more space for his books and now he had to shimmy to slide into the small remaining gap, careful not to crush his prized thriller collection with its signed copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye, and an ARC of Dan Brown’s Di Vinci Code. As it turned out, crime fiction served as great insulation. His sleeping burrow had been cozy for a while.

  Irwin figured he’d be all right—much better off than the vast majority of the world’s remaining population. He imagined shadowy hordes moving in a line like Grey Haven-bound elves, or solitary figures on a desolate road similar to the man and boy in McCarthy’s The Road, speaking in such an economy of words as if those too were on short supply. Irwin was more like Smaug on his pile of gold, or Nemo in his submarine, safe from the tribulations of a collapsing world. Decades of saving everything from twist ties, to used dental floss, to sun-dried tomatoes—which hadn’t started out that way—had left Irwin uniquely prepared for the apocalypse. He was like a bear with enough fat to survive multiple winters. He could cocoon and later emerge into the light of a new dawn. Irwin was the cockroach that couldn’t be exterminated, that would live long after its betters had turned to dust like so many Buffy-slain vampires.

  He had everything he needed, although not necessarily what he would have selected had he known what was coming. Irwin wasn’t one of those survivalists with fancy freeze dried stroganoff. He would subsist on Ramen noodles, canned goods, and what was left of the entire assorted line of Hostess post-apocalyptic rations, once led by its flagship of snack foods the Twinkie. After his last case of Mountain Dew Code Red was gone, he could melt snow to water, and he had plenty to read—close to thirty thousand he estimated, but he had stopped counting several years back. Hari Seldon himself using couldn’t have set Irwin up any better to be the next foundation of civilization—except the temperature continued to drop.

  Global warming my ass!

  Maybe it was warming somewhe
re in the world, but Northern Virginia was heading for a second ice age. That was Irwin’s theory—he had lots of those too. All the crazies on television had prattled on about environmental shifts. No one agreed what caused it. They had plenty of ideas though: Industrial waste, carbon emissions, natural cycle, solar flares. One fella on FOX, the blond guy with the face pastier than Irwin’s, actually accused China of having a weather machine, as if the leader of the People’s Republic was really Sean Connery’s Sir August De Wynter from the 1989 Avengers movie. Weather is not in God’s hands, but in mine!

  The real kicker—the thing that no one expected, not even Irwin—was that electricity stopped working. The power hadn’t just gone out, this wasn’t a grid failure. Electricity stopped functioning, period. Well, not entirely, Irwin was still alive and he knew from numerous science fiction novels, and The Matrix, that the human body ran on electricity. So electrons were still flowing at some basic level, but the big currents had dried up as neatly as the Nile. Outside the body however, you couldn’t get a good shock with a balloon and a long-haired cat.

  It happened in stages. Irwin watched television reports about blackouts in areas where power couldn’t be generated. Scientists were baffled as generators proved useless and fresh batteries dropped dead. The blackouts rolled around the globe like a viral epidemic until one by one all the television stations winked out isolating the modern global community back into their respective caves. No one realized how much the world relied on electricity until it disappeared.

  In the big pot centered just below the broken window tiny tongues of flame licking up from the cotton ball like a hungry baby bird in a nest. Irwin fed it junk mail, angry with himself for not saving more. Of all the things he saved, junk mail wasn’t one, and they stopped delivering it years ago. The postman’s creed failed to include the threat caused by email staying these couriers rounds.

  The fire singed Irwin’s fingers as it eagerly lapped up Father Day Sales Events, and pre-approved credit card offers. He sneered as he sucked on his hand. “You’re not a baby bird—you’re Audrey II.”