by Eirik Gumeny
But no one needed the manager’s approval: a commotion had already begun swirling around the four, its ferocity intensifying by the second, as every last one of the call center’s employees began panicking and packing up their belongings and making frantic phone calls to family members. A fair number skipped the formalities entirely and simply ran screaming for the exits.
“I don’t ... No, I don’t believe it,” said Jessica, ending the call and pulling off her headset. “It can’t ...” She began sobbing gently.
“This is nuts,” said Erin, with an entirely different tone.
“And kinda ... awesome,” said Jorge.
“What?!” shouted Jessica, erupting. “How are you possibly excited about this?”
“How are you not?” he countered.
“Can ... can I get a ride? With shomeone?” asked Sheila, trying for her feet and falling hard against the cubicle divider. “I’m not ... I’m not feeling so hot.”
“I mean, it is kind of awesome, Jess,” admitted Erin.
“What is wrong with the two of you?!” Jessica roared.
“What,” the redhead fired back, “you’re saying your heart isn’t racing?”
“You’ve never gotten that rush,” Jorge added, “thinking about being a part of some spectacular catastrophe?”
“No,” said Jessica. “I’ve just been thankful it wasn’t me.”
“Then you must’ve been doing something wrong,” said Erin.
“Besides,” added Jorge, “this time it is you.”
“And me!” said Erin. “And you, too, Jorge.”
“And me,” said Sheila, barely audible over the din of their co-workers. “And me ... Will shomebody please fucking take me home now?”
“Yes,” answered Jessica. They could hear her quickly collecting her stuff and rising from her chair. “Let’s go.”
“You’re leaving?” asked Erin over the wall.
“Quitters,” added Jorge.
Jessica appeared in the entrance to Erin’s cubicle then, red-faced and pointing a not inconsequential finger at them. “You two are crazy,” she said. Her eyes were practically bulging. “There are hundreds of meteors falling from the God damned sky, all over the planet! And you’re making jokes?!”
“Yes,” replied Erin flatly, looking at her computer screen. “And, we know. We can read, Jess.”
“I’m pretty sure they’re called meteorites once they cross into the atmosphere,” said Jorge.
“We should probably look that up,” said Erin, turning in her chair toward Jorge.
“I don’t want to die here!” shouted Jessica.
“Dying at home is better?” asked Jorge, making a face.
“You must have some really nice furniture,” added Erin.
“You guys ... You two are speshal,” said Sheila, staggering to Jessica’s shoulder. “Can we, please, please, get the fucking fuck out of here now, Jeshica?”
“Ye–” There was a colossal thudding sound, a thoooom, like something out of a comic book; the entire call center shook. Cubicle walls shook and fell; fluorescent lights snapped and swung.
“Good luck with that, guys,” said Erin, spinning away from them.
“Fuck you!” shouted Jessica, pointing again. “Fuck both of you.”
“You’re gonna regret saying that if we die.”
“I never liked working with you. Either of you. You are the worst employees, the worst people, that I have ever met in my entire life.”
“Erin’s acshually the top ... the top ...” Sheila spun away and vomited.
“So, is now a good time to ask about a raise?” said Erin.
Both of the other women made faces, equal parts judgemental and confused, before Jessica, all but carrying Sheila at this point, turned the pair and hurried awkwardly out of the building.
“Is that a no?” Jorge called.
There was another thud. Pens began rolling. The floor felt significantly less horizontal than a floor probably should have. Another, louder thud. The call center’s lights – the ones still connected anyway – flickered like strobes.
Erin spun around in her chair, looking up at Jorge. “Wanna see what we can see from the windows?”
“Yeah,” he said.
Taking her hand, he lifted her from the chair, and then Erin McCafferty and Jorge Reyes made their way, carefully, to Sheila’s office. Cubicle walls had fallen and chairs had been shoved aside with little disregard for traffic patterns or fire lanes. The commotion within the call center, though, was down to the slightest of murmurs now, as most of the employees had fled or crawled under their desks to pray to a variety of gods.
Jorge slid open the window. There were shouts coming from the parking lot, car horns. An air raid siren could faintly be heard in the distance.
“It’s a God damned disaster out there,” said Erin, leaning down and peering out.
“Probably literally,” said Jorge. Then: “Why are you still here?” he asked, staring absently out the window.
“Why are you?” she countered.
“Because my apartment is a shithole. I use a cardboard box as a coffee table. Don’t you have a fiancé to get home to?”
Erin shrugged.
“That seems like an inappropriate response to that question.”
“He’s ... kind of a dick,” said Erin. “He’s not the most present, gets angry a lot. I was actually planning on dumping his ass before the wedding.”
“That’s pretty cold-blooded.”
“You’re the one who kept telling me to do it.”
“I kept telling you you could do it,” Jorge replied with a smirk.
“We did get some really nice engagement presents out of it, at least.”
Another cartoonish boom rocked the call center; they could hear windows shattering farther down the building. A thick cloud of brown dust rolled past Sheila’s office, obscuring everything.
“I ... think I’m gonna call my parents,” said Erin.
“Yeah,” said Jorge, “me too.”
There was another, louder thud. This time the power cut out entirely, the entire call center falling dark and silent.
“Or not.”
“So much for that,” said Jorge. He leaned against the wall, then, suddenly heavy, gave up and slumped down to the floor. Erin sat down beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, crossing her ankle over his.
“We’re going to die here,” she asked, quiet, “aren’t we?”
“Almost certainly.”
“I knew this job was going to kill me,” she said with a sigh.
An explosion blossomed against the horizon.
“Fucking call centers,” said Jorge.
Erin shook her head and smiled at him. He took her hand in his. A slight tremor rolled through the office.
“So what now?” she asked.
“I guess we just wait,” said Jorge, “and see what happens.”
LAST MINUTE
the second apocalypse
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
The pamphlets had been falling for weeks. Emergency Procedures for the Planetary Shift. There were televised warnings, home visits, hijacked radio frequencies, loudspeaker announcements off the tops of vans. The governments were doing all they could.
“How ... how have you been?”
“Good, I guess. Given the circumstances.”
There was an asteroid on a direct trajectory with Earth. The impact will shatter the planet, one specialist had said.
The globe’s top scientists convened. They hastily figured out a way to move the Earth, change its orbit. The endeavor wasn’t safe, and it certainly wasn’t foolproof, but it was unanimously decided to be better than nothing.
“Oh, right, yeah,” stammered Laila, “I, uh, I actually meant in ... general, actually, not just since ...”
“Oh,” said Amy. “Oh, sorry, right. It’s just ... I’ve been ...”
“Yeah, no, it’s ... it’s ... I mean, we’ve all ...”
“Ev
erything’s just been so tense. I haven’t ...”
“Yeah, I ... I know,” said Laila. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry I waited until the last minute. I only got your text this morning and ...”
“No, Laila, it’s fine. I ... I didn’t think you’d ...” began Amy, before pausing. “Service has been complete crap lately.”
“At best.”
“And we thought AT&T’s reception sucked before.”
Society handled the news about as well as could be expected. Riots, looting, prayer groups. Gun sales skyrocketed and condom sales stopped entirely. Cities were either deserted or on fire, highways crowded with broken-down cars and teary-eyed pedestrians. There was a lot of yelling and commotion, everywhere, all the time.
“How’s Dana?” asked Laila.
“She’s in Virginia, with her family.”
“You didn’t go?”
“I didn’t go,” replied Amy.
In the final days leading up to the shift, however, there hadn’t been much of anything at all.
“What about you?” asked Amy. “Shouldn’t you be spending your final hours huddled in the arms of your mom and dad?”
“I don’t know that there’d be much huddling. I called, though. Said goodbye. I thought about going out to California to see them ...” replied Laila. “It just ... it didn’t seem safe.”
“Nothing’s been safe,” answered Amy with a laugh. “Nothing’s going to be safe. Why are you worrying about it now?”
“Because I want every hour I’ve got.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” said Amy softly, “but I think we’re down to minutes.”
“I ... I know,” replied Laila. “But maybe they’ve got it figured out, right? They did say we’ve got a fifty percent chance. And they are scientists, after all. This is what they do.”
“They said it’s fifty percent that some of humanity will survive.”
“It’s not like we haven’t been the minority before.”
Amy laughed again and said, “So what are you doing right now? Sounds too quiet on your end. Shouldn’t there be a mob of raucous drunks behind you?”
Laila chuckled softly. “No. O’Reilly’s closed down a month ago. Place was picked clean a day later. I’m just sitting at home, just me and Mitzy, waiting on the end of the world.”
“Hey, at least you’ve got your cat.”
“Right, ‘cause that’s the pussy I want to spend my final minutes with.”
Amy snickered, then said, “So I take it this wasn’t a calculated effort to go out with a few moments of quiet reflection?”
“Hell no. I just ...” She exhaled, short. “Things haven’t really worked out with anyone ... not since ... not since you left.”
“Laila ...”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she said, too fast, “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“God, you know I never –”
“I know,” Laila said sharply. “I know.”
The women fell silent. Amy could hear the faint sound of Mitzy mewling at Laila’s feet.
“I still can’t believe she dragged you to Jersey,” said Laila.
“It’s not that bad.”
“You swore up and down that you’d never leave Brooklyn.”
“It’s kind of like Brooklyn ...”
“You watch your mouth.”
“Hey, at least it’s not Staten Island, right?”
***
“Oh, crap,” said Laila. “Your TV on?”
“Yeah, I’m watching.”
... will throw the switch, altering the planet’s magnetic fields. With luck we’ll be shifted clear of the asteroid’s path.
“Or we’ll be ripped in half.”
“Amy.”
... the last of the preliminary tests. The final collider has begun spooling ...
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right, don’t –”
“No, for everything. I’m sorry, Laila.”
May God have mercy on us all.
“Amy ...”
“Christ, I ... I don’t ...” said Amy frantically. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No, it’s ... it’s my fault,” replied Laila, equally as rushed. “I shouldn’t have called ... I –”
“No, no, it’s OK, I ... I wanted ...”
... in 5 ...
“What? You wanted –”
... 4 ...
“Nothing, I just ... Nothing.”
... 3 ...
“God ...” said Laila, “I can’t believe this is our last moment.”
... 2 ...
“Laila ...” began Amy.
... 1.
“... I’m glad it was you.”
THE BRIDE AND THE DOOM
the fourth apocalypse
“And do you, Erin McCafferty, take Jorge Reyes as your ... your ...” The minister trailed off. “Motherfucker,” he said.
“I mean ... if I get pregnant, yeah? I guess?” Erin replied off-handedly. The redheaded woman narrowed her heavily-shadowed eyes and turned from her still-technically-a-fiancé to look at the thin, older man officiating their wedding. “That’s ... not part of the actual vows, is it? I mean, I know you’re internet-ordained and everything, and we found you on Craigslist, but I thought – This is still supposed to be, like, a normal ceremony, right? That is a weirdly specific thing to promise.”
But the minister wasn’t answering – and no one else, it seemed, was paying attention. All eyes in the park – from the guests gathered on white folding chairs; to the tourists and photographers beyond, there to gawk at cherry blossoms; to the very ducks and swans of the lake – had turned toward the sky.
Specifically, to the half-dozen city-block-sized flying saucers streaking downward at sharp angles, trailing smoke and red-orange fire behind them.
“Aw,” Jorge said, gently squeezing Erin’s hands in his. “It’s almost like our first night together.”
“Yeah,” she replied dreamily, smiling.
Alas, very few others seemed able to find the romance in an armada of alien spaceships falling from the sky. Many of them, in fact, much to the bride and groom’s annoyance – especially after all the cajoling it took to even get them here, outside and away from their makeshift bunkers – were beginning to panic and flee.
“Oh, come on,” Jorge grumbled to his – former, most likely, he considered – friends and family. “You’re still scared of a couple of busted UFOs?! You know they’re harmless, right? That’s why they’re crashing! The news said so!”
“This isn’t even the first time this has happened this week, guys.”
“There’s only six! I know you know that, Victor – where are you going? – you’re a mathematician, for Christ’s sake. Be smart about this!”
“God damn it,” Erin said with a sigh, waving her hand in front of the minister’s face. She shook her head, her elaborately-done hair barely moving. “I will finish this wedding myself if I have to,” she mumbled, before hitching up her enormous white dress and turning toward the guests still gathered. “Any of you ordained?” she asked, making her way into the rows of chairs. “Anyone?”
The bride raised her voice then, shouting over the muted thunderclap of the first spaceship smashing into the distant city, the skyline erupting into tendrils of lime green energy and billowing clouds of heavy smoke. “Does anyone in this park know how to marry someone?”
“You’re not getting your presents back!” Jorge called after the people running away. “I hope they were expensive, you cowards!”
NIGHT OF THE LIVING
the sixth apocalypse
The office was quiet, dark, lit only by the soft glow of a few auxiliary lights and the reflection of the moonlight off the snow outside. Most of the staff had left within minutes of the governor making his declaration of a State of Emergency – to pick up necessities, to get home to family, to try and beat traffic. Satish Laghari and Deepen Babu, model employees that they were, had remained behind with a handful of others to try and put
a dent in the department’s ever-increasing workload.
That was six weeks ago.
Not much had changed since, really. Satish and Deepen were still there, still hard at work, gnawing on what was left of the severed leg of their co-worker, James. The rest of James, and the carcass of his wife, Pamela, the receptionist, lay picked clean at their feet.
But then: Cleveland Scott, another co-worker, rushed over to them, as quickly as his bad leg would allow, visibly dismayed.
“Out,” he growled. “Out!”
Satish turned slowly toward Cleveland, a flap of skin hanging from his mouth, James’s calf in his hands, and asked, “Whuh?”
“Pee-ple,” replied Cleveland, pointing his scabbed and handless stump toward the window.
“Pee-ple?” scoffed Deepen, dropping James’s thigh onto his desk and turning to face his behanded colleague.
“Yeh,” said Cleveland, gravely. “Out.”
“Out?” replied Deepen even more skeptically, the brow above his one eye raised. “Out sigh?”
“Yeh! Pee-ple out sigh!” Cleveland was practically hopping in place, his torn, bloodied clothing fluttering as he bounced, his stump quivering with urgency and once again aimed at the window.
Deepen looked at Satish. Satish shrugged. Cleveland threw back his head, then turned sharply; his exposed kneecap beginning to slide down his shin. He limped toward the window. Deepen shook his head and trudged out of James’s cubicle, following after him.
“Urk,” said Cleveland, tapping his stump against the smudged and spattered glass. “Pee-ple.”
Satish and Deepen stepped up to the window and looked down from their fourth-floor perch, following Cleveland’s rapidly decaying appendage to the source of his discontent.
A man. A living, breathing, man. Knee-deep in snow, bathed in blue moonlight – and carrying a baseball bat.
Satish and Deepen exchanged glances.
“Fakking pee-ple!” exclaimed Cleveland. “Out!”
“Cahm,” said Deepen. “Cahm. One pee-ple. Nuh portant.”
