The world ended on a Sunday. Anyone you meet who isn’t trying to kill, eat, or maim you will agree to that much. The part nobody else seems to care about was when, or why it all ended. Was it fifty years ago, or a thousand?I go to the calendar hanging on the bunker’s wall, straightening it only for it to sag crooked again, then bite the lid off a pen with my teeth. Thanks to the rotting collection of VHS tapes I’ve pieced together, I’ve worked out most of the days of the week from the Before times. There were eight to ten of them. Some I’m more sure about than others. Monday, Friday, and Sunday are a lock because they come up constantly on the tapes.
Beyond that, I’m stuck guessing. Was every Tuesday also a Taco Tuesday? Or were those only special ones? Did Game Day come before Sunday, or after?
Chalk it up to the great mysteries of the Before times, I guess.
There’s another loud sound from above. Deep down, I probably always knew this was coming. Doesn’t make the wondering any easier, though. Like will they eat me before they kill me? Personally, I’m rooting for a big fat “no” on that one.
I draw a small skull beneath the place where I’ve written “Taco Tuesday.” According to the helpful key at the bottom of the calendar, a skull indicates I’m probably going to die today. I’ve drawn a few over the past few years, but this one… this one feels a little more real.
I shade in the jawbones of my drawing. If humanity’s last calendar keeper is going to die, I want my memorial skull to pop, dammit.
“No,” I say, a little edge in my voice. “I’m not casual about it.” The pen scratches. “I just don’t see what good freaking out would do.”
Earl watches from the couch, judgment plain on his face.
“I am calm. Look at me?” I point at my mouth, forcing a smile that’s a little too wide. “Calm. That’s what it looks like.”
Earl sags to his right, his grin a little less jovial than usual. The hole in his skull seems to stare at me along with the empty sockets. I’ve put sunglasses on him to brighten the mood a bit, but his lack of ears and nose makes them a bitch to keep on.
“Yeah,” I sigh, the admission of defeat clear in my voice. “Well, I’d like to see you be calm if you were in my shoes. You’d be pissing yourself right now if you could.”
It’s true, and he knows it, so he doesn’t argue. Dead Earl never argues. That’s the best thing about him. Living Earl was an asshole who tried to rob me twice. Dead Earl is predictable. He doesn’t complain about which movie we’re watching, doesn’t try to stab or rob me in my sleep, and most importantly, he can’t run off and tell his friends where to find my bunker.
Boom.
I flinch. Whoever’s up there isn’t messing around. I can’t help wondering how I slipped up and led someone to this place. I’m always so damn careful, walking circles, sometimes even heading in the completely wrong direction after I’m done trading.
I grab the rifle from beside the door and check the chamber even though I already know. Empty. The last bullet gave Earl his skull hole. My only gun is a glorified club now. At some point, humanity made a metric shit-ton of bullets. The problem is they only work in the fancy e-rifles, and those only work when they’re powered. Unfortunately for us, most of the tech they used relied on some kind of ambient electric current they fed into the air.
So it’s antiques for those of us left behind, and the supplies and knowledge to make them work has nearly died out by now.
Bzzzt. Bzz.
I glance upward, throat bobbing. That doesn’t sound good. It almost sounds like one of the swords from the Star Wars movies. Mom always called that kind of thing “movie magic,” but it’s hard to know the magic from the real stuff when all I have are these tapes to go by.
I still remember when I found her and dad topside. I was eight, and I’d laughed. I laughed and clapped my hands, pointing at them as I called out “movie magic!” I thought I’d seen through their joke.
Nah. Turns out that wasn’t magic, and it definitely wasn’t a joke. Someone had tortured them just outside the doors, and best I can guess, they died instead of letting them in to get me. I hadn’t come out for a few years after that. Just to be safe.
I sit down beside Earl, ass plopping hard enough on the couch to rattle his bones. My eyes drift upward again as something clatters and bangs. It’s getting louder.
I can practically feel the clock ticking away, every second seeming to move too fast. Like I’m racing toward the end with no way to stop it.
On the TV, Home Alone plays. It’s my favorite part in the beginning where the whole family is scrambling around that enormous house, food everywhere, people everywhere, and not one of them trying to kill or eat another. There’s pizza, which humanity tragically never figured out how to put in a can.
I try to just enjoy the movie, but I can feel my mind splintering.
“No,” I say, shaking my head at Earl. “I can’t reason with them. Up there, the only way is to take. Trust is an open door, Earl. Anybody dumb enough to open it had their throat slit a long time ago.”
The bunker shakes. Dust trails from the ceiling and Earl’s sunglasses fall into his lap, his jaw sagging a little more.
Whoever’s up there will ravage this place, turning a hundred years of comfort into a few days of gluttony, and move on. They’ll be too dumb to keep the gardens alive. They probably won’t even take a few seconds to try to figure out the TV. They’ll see they can’t eat it and break it. Just like that, one of the last windows to what we were will be gone. For all I know, it could be the last one.
Down here I guard the history of what we used to be. It’s a sacred charge, one of the few things left in a fucked-up world that’s worth doing. The idea of someone smashing it apart, not even knowing what they’re breaking, is worse than the idea of my own skull becoming a cup or whatever it is they plan to do with me.
Something heavy crashes above. The door, I think. Or part of it.
My stomach twists. I tighten my grip on the rifle and work the plan in my head. It’s a shit plan, but I’d rather at least be prepared.
I’ll tell them they can have half of my harvest as long as they want. Convince them I’m the only one who can keep the gardens producing. If that fails, I’ll club them with the rifle. And if that fails? Well, I won’t really care too much because I’ll be dead.
Another option occurs to me, and I almost laugh: I could try to make them watch the movie. Sit them down in front of Kevin and Buzz arguing about who has to share a bed, and maybe they’d understand. Maybe they’d see what we used to be.
I doubt it. Earl saw it all, because I trusted him like an idiot, and Earl was getting ready to betray me. That’s how he got the hole.
“You deserved it,” I tell him.
The hole glares back.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Boots on the ladder now.
They’re inside.
It sounds like the bastard weighs four hundred pounds. My rifle-swinging plan starts to feel less and less likely to work, but I press my back to the doorway anyway. Best shot’s a surprise. Let them come down, let them get distracted by the TV, then swing.
I give Earl a final salute. “It was good knowing you. You were an asshole, but once you were dead, you grew on me.”
The intruder lands with such a heavy thud that the couch finally crushes the can of beans, sending Earl falling face-first. He lands, ass up.
I look around the doorway at the dust pouring down from above, clouding everything. I abandon the rifle club plan and tiptoe to the far end of the room, giving me as much space as I can from the doorway. I aim down my empty rifle sights, knowing there’s a chance my attacker won’t call my bluff.
Or maybe they’ll have a gun, too. Maybe seeing me aiming at them will just make them shoot faster…
My chest heaves so hard the rifle sights swing wild, but I hold my ground. “I’ve got food!” I call into the swirling smoke. “Whole garden of it! You let me keep growing, you eat every week. Kill me, and the gardens will die. I swear that.”
No response.
I lick my lips. “I’ve got a rifle, too. Ask the skeleton if it works.”
The shape comes through the dust. And the tip of my rifle drifts down on its own, because the shape is wrong.
It’s too small. Like a child. Maybe two feet tall and there seems to be an extra leg. It comes into view, smoke curling around its body. The creature’s covered head-to-toe in armor, including a metallic face-mask. Articulated metal arms holding all kinds of weapons and tools spring from its back like spider legs.
An alien. I’d assumed those were movie magic. Shit… was Predator a documentary?
“Oh,” I breathe. “Fuck.”
It moves into the room without hesitation. Stupidly, my finger pulls on the trigger again and again.
Click, click, click.
I lower the gun, staring as the alien looks over at Earl. Green light blooms from a metallic mask it wears. The triangular beam extends, scanning Earl up and down. “Unsuitable for harvest.”
“English?” I say, holding the gun in one hand to show I’m no threat. “You know our language?”
It turns toward me and the green light scans me up and down. “Living subject detected. Assessing.”
“Assessing me for what?”
“Subject suitable for harvest. Collecting.”
“Harvest this!” I shout, rushing at the little bastard, rifle cocked back to swing.
I only see one of the long arms begin to move before white light flashes, blinding me. I can’t feel my body. Can’t even feel time.
Dead, then. For a long time, I thought I’d be relieved when it finally happened. But as I feel my consciousness trying to slip away, all I want to do is fight. To cling on to survival.
My thoughts slow, then stop completely.