This Is the End

by Eric Pollarine

  The wind shifts gently and I fall back down to the rooftop. I’m crying and I can’t stop. I’m screaming and I can’t stop.

  This is all my fault. I grab at her shirt, take in handfuls of the material and wrench it around into my fists. The monsters below are wailing with me, a choir of longing, a choir of death. I match their intensity with tears and curses. I curse everything. I curse the sky and God and the monsters, Robert McMillan and, most of all, I curse myself. I let go of her shirt and grab the gun. I move towards the edge of the roof and peer over again.

  I fire a round into the crowd and hit one of the monsters in the shoulder and it goes down, only to come back up a few minutes later, completely unaware that it doesn’t have a shoulder anymore. Bone and rotten flesh, black goop and blood pour out of the wound. I fire again and again and again into the crowd.

  I manage to take two of them out with lucky headshots. I’m not aiming, I’m reacting, and I’m wasting bullets. I stop and look up towards the sky. The sun is so bright; it beats me with its intensity. It bores a hole in me with its light. I stare into it through tears and I raise the gun up and fire. I want this to end. I want the sun to die and the earth to grow cold and the buildings to come crashing down onto the street.

  The monsters beat at the sides of the building and windows and doors. I stand back up and limp around to the other side of the rooftop. There’s a small lid that looks like it’s a box top. I try to pry it up, but it doesn’t move—must be locked from the inside.

  “How the hell did we get up here?” I ask the air, looking back to Kel’s body. But there’s no reply.

  I scan the edges of the roof again and then see the metal ladder of the fire escape.

  “Why did you save me?” I ask back to Kel’s body. There’s still no reply.

  I limp over to the front of the building again and look back down. The sea of bodies undulates and ripples like a tsunami. Bodies swirl around the perimeter like a vortex. Their venomous eyes stalk me; their hungry rotten mouths click-clack open and shut at me. The moaning makes me want to rip my ears off. I press my hands and the gun up to my ears to try and drown out the sound; I get the sound of the moans and something that sounds like the ocean. But there’s something else. In the distance, underneath the sound of the monsters and the stillness of the city and ocean, it’s rising rapidly. The distinctive thump thump thump, the staccato beating of rotors.

  In the distance I see the pregnant belly of a black helicopter.

  8.

  I make my way over to edge of the building and try to wave my arms as I watch the helicopter make its initial pass through the city. Every time I move my shoulders it feels like they pop in and out of their sockets. I look around at the sea of pea pebbles and gravel on the roof, but there isn’t anything up here that would burn, except for Kel’s body.

  I shake the thought from the inside of my head slowly and look down. The monsters staring up at me have moved on to trying to find the sound of the helicopter. The motors and blades slice through the silence of the dead city like a song that’s skipping. I look down at the pistol in my hand and then pull the clip out. Just three shots left. I can’t waste any more of the bullets.

  I pull out my cigarettes and the lighter I got from off of Kel and light up; it’s the only thing I can do as I watch the helicopter make another pass around the roof of a building two blocks over. I stand up on the small concrete lip of the building. The monsters come back from looking around to looking up at me. The moaning and wailing intensifies with their collected frustrations at not being able to get to me, and then changes; they’re trying to find out where the noise of the chopper is coming from.

  I look down into the sea of faces and wrecked limbs and, for the first time since I woke up, the first time since I encountered them, I realize that they have it better off. Isn’t that always the plot in these things, these kinds of stories, the predictable monster movies like the one that I watched the other night starring some acne-scarred, rat-headed kid? The one I’m living.

  I envy their inability to know, I envy their fortune and, most of all, I envy the fact that they have one collective drive. I slip back off the ledge and shove the gun into the gap between the small of my back and my pants; the barrel hits something in my back pocket.

  I reach around into my back pocket and then pull out a single flare.

  I went through a very long phase where I didn’t believe in God, and then I went through a phase where I did and thought He had the worst sense of humor ever. Right now, I believe in God, and He’s a vengeful, spiteful God.

  I pull the plastic off the top, flip it around and watch as the helicopter makes another pass around where my building is. I look at both of my hands; they’re shaking so much I don’t even have to strike the top of the flare. The two ends make contact and the tiny sparks ignite and tear through oxygen, bringing a red blade of fire and smoke into life. The smell of sulfur pushes its way up to my face. I move back to the ledge and back into position at the lip of the edge. I wave it a few times in the air but my shoulders are still protesting any movement above my chest.

  The helicopter sweeps out wide and then back towards the lake as it sets its sights on the flare. I hold it high in the air despite the pain and signal it again. It dips its rotors once and makes one more pass around my building and then heads towards me.

  The monsters below are furious; the wailing escalates to epic proportions. I can barely hear the crackling of the flare; I can barely hear my own breathing. The helicopter makes its way and then does a wide turn around to gain altitude. It’s one of the big black Seahawk-model choppers, ugly and utilitarian. I look out towards where my building is, then down at the riot below as I’m stepping back from the ledge. The monsters are tearing each other apart trying to figure out a way to get to me.

  The helicopter starts dropping altitude and I can feel the downdraft push on the top of my head. I instinctively crouch down. My back and knees begin to protest. My thighs and groin are nearly as bad, but I move out of the way and try not to put my hands on top of my head to hold down my non-existent hair. The flare is growing hotter in my hands as I watch the side door of the helicopter open. I half-expect to see more monsters, but the silhouette of a soldier pops out from the opening and he waves me to move off to the side.

  He drops down the cable and it hits the rooftop with tremendous force. The massive noise of the helicopter’s blades isn’t enough to drown out the monsters as they try to crawl their way up the side of the building. Every time one gets to another’s shoulder height, one of the others in the crowd rips it back down into the massive pile. I smile at the irony and move towards the cable. The same soldier’s silhouette makes a motion for me to move back out of the way and then he swings out over the side and begins repelling down the cable.

  He touches down on the pebbles of the roof as silent and careful as a cat, and then he moves towards me. I back off a bit, but he holds his hands open and pulls off his helmet.

  “Sir, my name is Lieutenant Thomas Cooper, United States Army. I’m here to rescue you. Are you injured?”

  I look at the dark-haired man and I want to call him Scott. He’s about the same height and has similar features. My mind starts to index Scott’s face over top of this soldier. I blink a few times to push Scott’s memory back down and then I move towards him so I don’t have to yell as loud.

  “My name’s Jeff. And probably,” I say.

  “Yes, sir, I know who you are. ‘And probably’ what?”

  The Lieutenant’s statement surprises me, so I ask him, “How do you know me?”

  He looks at me for a few seconds and then surveys the horizon before turning his eyes back on me to answer.

  “You were Time magazine’s Man of the Year, sir. Are you injured?”

  “Oh, yeah…that. And, yes, I think I drove over a landmine,” I say back.

  He takes the time to look around one more time and then spots Kel’s body lying on the rooftop.

  “I
s there anyone else, sir?”

  I shake my head and say, “No.”

  He nods and then begins hooking himself up to the cable again, but this time it’s with clips and D-rings the size of saucers. The helicopter wobbles in the air above us. The wind and downdraft are nearly unbearable and my legs feel like they are going to give out on me at any moment.

  “Are you able to hold on to me, sir?” he asks, motioning me to come towards him. I limp up next to him and he puts his helmet back on.

  “I think so,” I say back and he moves to grab my arms, but stops.

  “What is it?” I ask him and he points at my hand.

  “The flare, sir. You’ll need to drop it.”

  “Oh, sure,” I say.

  I hadn’t even noticed that the flare was still in my hand. It was getting hotter and hotter as the paper and sawdust and nitrate moved closer and closer to my fingers. Maybe I can’t feel pain anymore, either. I look to the edge of the roof and then toss the flare over the side. The monsters roar over the helicopter’s motors. He moves in, grabs me and then places my hands around him in a bear hug.

  “Okay, hold on tight,” he says, then he tugs the line and the cable moves from slack to tight in seconds.

  I grip him in the embrace as our feet come off the rooftop and we move towards the opening in the side of the helicopter. After a few seconds I can feel my grip start to loosen; my arms are burning with pins and needles and great shooting knives of pain at the strain of holding on to the Lieutenant. The helicopter wobbles again and we start to spin as we ascend into the sky. As we turn I see Kel’s body and I start to hug the soldier tighter. As we move closer to the opening I can see her body fading away. I hold the soldier tighter and tighter—forgetting all about the pain in my arms as they protest—bury my head into his shoulders and I start to cry.

  We spin a few more times until the lip of the helicopter becomes my new horizon. I feel the arms of another soldier tear me away from the Lieutenant, but I don’t want to let go; I don’t want them to see me this way. I hear the soldier that’s trying to pull me into the opening yell something but all I want to do is hug the Lieutenant and cry. I try to reach out to him but my muscles are shot. I can barely hold my arms up, let alone reach out forward to the Lieutenant. I’m finally ripped away by the other soldier and dragged up and onto the floor of the chopper. I watch as the other soldier moves on to helping the Lieutenant into the opening. Once we’re both in, the Lieutenant unhooks from the cable and drags me back away from the opening.

  I don’t fight them when they pull me up and prop me into one of the seats; I don’t resist when they pull the seat belts and harnesses around me. I can’t…I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop looking out and down towards where Kel’s body is. The Lieutenant tells the other soldier to strap in and then sits down next to me and double-checks my harnesses. I don’t register that he’s saying anything to me until we’re already circling back around the top of the building.

  “You’re exceptionally lucky, sir. We gave up on finding survivors in Cleveland months ago,” says Lieutenant Cooper.

  I try to answer but can’t; my Adam’s apple is a rock in my throat and prevents me from speaking. The tears flow down my cheek and I start to feel faint. I watch as we gain altitude and Kel’s body fades into the pointillism of the rooftop. She’s beginning to disappear into the background colors of the pebbles: fleshtone, grey, purple, brown, bone and blood. Lieutenant Cooper moves towards the door and slides it closed. I look over at him as he sits down next to me again. I pull my arm up, wipe my snot onto the sleeve and try to clear my throat.

  “I’m not lucky, Lieutenant. If I were, I’d be down there,” I say and point towards where the rooftop should be.

  He looks over to the door and then stares at the floorboards of the helicopter.

  * * *

  I stare at the door of the helicopter and imagine the monsters and destruction of first the city and then the suburbs. I look up into the helicopter’s cockpit to try and see if I was right, and I can see the fires on the horizon, all this time, were homes in the first tier ring of suburbs. The second rings and tiers didn’t fare any better. When we start to pass outside of the southeastern suburbs, I take notice of less immediately familiar landscapes. Lieutenant Cooper has been staring at the floorboards the entire time. The other soldier that pulled us into the helicopter is asleep. I move to look at Lieutenant Cooper.

  “We’re heading south?” I ask.

  He snaps back nervously from his half-sleep and looks around the cabin of the helicopter, then to me and smiles. “Sir…yes. We’re headed south.”

  “I thought you guys were out of Port Clinton,” I say, then start to add, “The messages said that—”

  “Port Clinton fell. We’re from Virginia, sir,” Lieutenant Cooper says over me.

  “Is that where we’re headed?” I ask him and he nods back.

  “Yes, sir. We have orders to return,” he says.

  “Isn’t that a little far for a helicopter?” I ask.

  He nods his head. “We modified the chopper with an extra fuel tank.” He then adds, “We have enough fuel to make a roundtrip flight.”

  “Who gave the order to come get us—me, then?”

  He looks back out towards the sleeping soldier as if he wants the man to wake up so we can change the subject. He looks back to me after a few more minutes of beaming death rays at his partner. “The President, Sir,” he answers.

  “McMillan?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir. The President,” he says, nodding his head in agreement.

  I bring my hand up to my face and wipe away the salt and dirt from my face. “Do you have any water onboard? I’m thirsty.”

  “No, sir. Supplies are very low,” he says back to me.

  “You smoke?” I ask him.

  “No, sir—not anymore. There’s no more cigarettes to smoke,” he says.

  I pull out my pack and flip the top up. I have three-fourths of a crumpled pack, so I pull out two and hand him one that doesn’t look too badly damaged.

  He smiles and says, “Thank you,” as if the cigarette was encased in gold. He waits for me to finish lighting up to grab at the lighter. After the first couple of drags he looks like he’s going to puke.

  “You gonna be all right?” I ask him and he smiles as he exhales.

  “It’s been a while, sir,” he says

  “I bet,” I say.

  We finish the cigarettes in the relative silence of the cabin. After I stub out the butt on the floor, I let the ambient noise of the rotors lull me into something that resembles sleep. The Lieutenant continues to stare down at the floor. I know that stare well. He’s dead; he just doesn’t know it yet.

  9.

  I wake up to someone pulling my left eyelid up. I jerk forward and nearly headbutt the new person in the nose. He steps back and then resumes checking my other eye.

  “Sir, we’re here. Are you able to move?” asks Lieutenant Cooper from behind the new soldier.

  I pull my hand up and move my head around to try and get some sense of where we are but the soldier with the flashlight keeps trying to hold my head straight. I stop and look at this new one in the eye and then bring my hand up to the pen light and grab it out of his hand.

  “Sir, I need that to—”

  I toss the pen light into the confines of the cockpit behind him. “I’m good,” I say to the new soldier and try to give him an approximation of the stare that Scott would have given him. It works a little and he moves back for a second and then tries to check my pulse while bringing out a blood pressure cuff. I protest and wiggle in the restraints until I find the buckle of the harnesses.

  The new soldier starts advising me again, “Sir, your body’s been through a lot of trauma and—”

  I put my arms on his shoulders and push him down to the floor and out of my way as I stand up. My body creaks and moans in places I never thought it was possible for it to make noise. My right ankle feels rubbery and, as I move
to find out where I am, my left knee gives off a weird bone-on-bone pain. Breathing is also painful, but so is just standing.

  “Are you rejecting medical treatment, sir?” asks the new soldier as he gets up from below me. I pull out my pack of cigarettes and light up.

  “Sir, you can’t smoke here. This is a—” he starts to say but I stare at him again and he shuts up.

  “Where are we?” I ask Lieutenant Cooper. He moves out the open door of the helicopter and motions for me to follow him.

  My entire essence protests movement. I feel like there’s a micro-me inside my head screaming in pain, telling me to stop, but I push his screams into the back of my brain. I step down and out of the belly of the helicopter and see Virginia.

  The sky is a yellow haze of smoke and sunlight; tiny particles fall from the sky like snow, but it’s too late for snow, especially if we’re in Virginia. There are mountains and some dense thickets of trees surrounding us. Buildings are designated by Area A signs with call numbers; there are several parking lots full of military vehicles, and some of them look like the ones that we passed by in Cleveland. Some of the transports look even worse. The entire perimeter is encircled by razor wire and three levels of chain-link fencing. Just outside the second line of fences there are smoldering piles of bodies, with three-man teams of what appear to be soldiers decked out in plastic suits with round tophat-style plastic heads. One man stands guard and the other two chuck more bodies onto the fires.

  Just outside the first line of chain-link fencing, as far as the eye can see, there are monsters. I try to swivel my head around, but that’s just a bad idea so I turn around slowly and take in the perimeter: monsters and bodies and fires all around.