The End

by Justin Chiang

  She began taking inventory of her own possessions as well as the events leading up to her current predicament. Did she try any weird drugs last night? No mostly just the booze that Cora had schmoozed off of some guy. Cora! Where the hell was Cora? They'd been together just before the last set began she remembered. Cora had to take a piss so she'd left Soleil to make her way towards the line of port-a-potty's near the parking lot. Soleil grabbed her bag and made her way towards the parking lot. On her way she picked up several things she thought looked interesting and shoved them into her bag, looking around as she did, just in case.

  As she approached the port-a-potty's she stopped dead in her tracks. There on the ground all in a heap was Cora's Kiss My Shit t-shirt. There was only one shirt like it in the world as far as she knew because she'd made it herself. Just to the side of it was a pink skirt and a pair of black and red Doc Martens with rainbow socks still in them. Soleil wanted to scream and run away suddenly feeling very mortal but she remained silent.

  Everything was still. Everything was silence. She was fearful of making any noise at all. Fearful of what may come for her if she made her presence known. When a stray microphone rolled closer to one of the speakers a loud piercing screech filled the air. Soleil nearly pissed herself. She was staring at the stage now, hands over her ears. The screeching didn't stop and she knew it wouldn't unless she did something about it. She ran across the field, hands still covering her ears. She climbed onto the stage and kicked the mic onto the field. No sooner did the silence return before it was replaced by another horrified screeching sound. Soleil realized after a moment that the sound was coming from her.

  There in the middle of the field stood a small child not 100 yards from Soleil. Her pale face was expressionless and she appeared to be surrounded by wisps of black smoke forming almost wing-like behind her back.

  "Hey!" shouted Soleil. "Hey, little girl!"

  There was no response. The child stared at her from the middle of the field. Soleil couldn't help but wonder where the little shit in her stupid pink hoodie came from. Maybe there was something extra special in that booze from last night after all because this was just too goddamn weird. The girl remained motionless although the black wisps of smoke, clearly not dissipating in the faint breeze, did appear to flutter occasionally.

  Soleil jumped off stage and headed towards her. As she approached within 50 yards of the little girl thing she stopped dead in her tracks. The girls head moved. More like a twitch than anything fluid. She remained expressionless but her mouth was opening now. Opening wider than any normal mouth of a child had any business doing. It opened even wider still, just wide enough to, Soleil thought, to swallow her head whole.

  There was a loud rumbling and then "GET DOWN!"

  Soleil obliged, fainting again. The girl’s mouth slammed shut, her cheeks contorting back to normal and her once expressionless face screwed up into a scowl as a bearded man on a red motorcycle swung a guitar at her head. The little girl disappeared in a swirl of black. Several dark objects appeared around her and then they all continued eastward. When Soleil came to moments later the first thought that popped into her head she said aloud, "Santa?"

  . . .

  Patrick hummed along to the practicing choir of parishioners in the main hall as he prepared his Sunday sermon. He was mostly stuck on the part about raising awareness on upcoming community projects and events. The message was always hard to convey. Speaking of faith, God, Jesus, that was the easy part. Incorporating a solid fundraising message within? Well. That just made it all feel cheap. But at the end of the week, tithe didn't keep the cross hung on the wall and unfortunately neither did faith.

  He ran his fingers through his beard. So what do you say to the people that trust you enough to preach to them about something as significant as their faith? How do you sell the message of God? It was never about abundance for Patrick. His intentions were true... but the business of running a church, at times, was very difficult to manage without selling yourself out. How do you keep a church standing, help the community, and spread the message of God without funding? It's not like he could sell ad space in the weekly newsletter. Could you imagine? Come to Church Monday night for a second helping + $2.99 off a small ice cream cone at Dixie's Dippin' Dots. Yeah right.

  When everything suddenly went black he didn't even notice as he'd been bowed in prayer for the few seconds when everything went down. When he opened his eyes his office was unchanged. What caught his attention was the silence. The choir was in full swing one moment and then... nothing. He couldn't help but feel butterflies in his stomach anytime he prayed for a message, a sign, or any help from God because he knew that someday God would answer. So when Patrick asked God what he was doing wrong, what he could do or say to make the "flock" want to help their fellow man and the church, he got what he believed was his first real answer.

  When the choir didn't begin their practice again he stood and made his way to the main hall. As he approached the stage he found that his parishioners were no longer there—their robes askew on the stage. As if that weren't shocking enough, before he could yell rapture, a Blue Moon delivery truck full of beer crashed through the stain glass window of the church.

  Patrick bolted to the truck to see if anyone was hurt but the cab was empty. He peered through the gaping hole in the stained glass. Across the street he could see another accident and here and there he noticed more clothes laying about in the shopping center just past the accident. To his left he could make out a red dodge ball rolling across the parking lot, the daycare children nowhere to be seen.

  He quickly made his way to the back office of the church, "Fran! Call 9-1-1 there's been an accident!" Fran's flowered dress was on the floor atop her signature yellow Skechers but no Fran. Father Patrick picked up the receiver to dial 9-1-1 but there was only static, not even a dial tone. He slammed the receiver down, frustrated at the new device and instantly missing his old landline phone.

  Fran had insisted on upgrading the office phone to the latest VOIP model. Something about 2.4mhz phone static interference making it difficult to collect money when nobody could hear her. He knew though, deep down, that some of his parishioners weren't passed pretending to be unable to hear their calls. So he'd ponied up the money out of pocket to upgrade the phone.

  He pushed his wire frame glasses up the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. What is this, God? Is this your sign? There was an explosion followed by a loud screeching noise (or was it a scream?). Patrick ran back to the main hall and stared out the gaping hole. He looked up, compelled to identify the source of the inhuman call. Way up high he saw two dark objects hovering in the sky. He'd swear one of them was wearing a pink hoodie if he'd believed it himself. A third object appeared to shoot up towards the other objects from out of nowhere—all flying on dark non-corporeal wings. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a key. What in the heavens is going on? He strode across the church parking lot and hopped onto his cherry red Suzuki Intruder. It's the end, he thought, it's the end of days and I've been left behind like a... like a.... He gunned the engine and glared up at the sky, whether at God or the dark objects hovering just far enough to be indiscernible, he wasn't quite sure in his heart. The dark objects shot eastward. Fuck it, he thought and took off after them.

  . . .

  "No, dear, I'm afraid not." Patrick said putting his hand out to Soleil, "I think it's best if we get inside." Soleil looked warily up at the man. He pulled his hand back, "I see."

  "Yeah I guess not. That sure ain't Santa's sleigh," eyeing the Intruder after a moment more of hesitation.

  He resisted the urge to ho-ho-ho, "My name is Patrick and it seems to me that we are sharing the same nightmare."

  "Yeah," Soleil began, "Nightmare is right. What the hell is going on? Where is everybody?"

  "I don't know, dear."

  "Soleil."

  "Soleil," he smiled, "French for the Sun. I don't know, Soleil. You're
the first pile of clothes with a person in them I've seen in several hours."

  Soleil began to sob, "I thought I was hallucinating."

  "I kind of wish you were. I've been following those... those things. They led me right to you," Patrick frowned and extended his hand again, "Let's get out of here. There's a shopping center down the way. We can freshen up there."

  Soleil nodded and stood up. She wiped her eyes as best she could and straightened her clothes then got on the motorcycle behind him. The field was filled with the rumble of the Intruders engine. The sun began to set behind them as they took off towards the shopping center.

  . . .

  They sat in silence, quietly munching on Wendy's burgers and fries that were only a few hours old. Quite possibly the last fast food they'd ever eat. The food had been sitting under a heat lamp. The scene at the restaurant was much like everything else. Discarded clothes here and there. Soda splashed on the floor where a lidless cup had fallen. The odor of greasy fries still soaking in the fryer was everywhere. Soleil looked up at Patrick into his old eyes.

  They'd talked as he drove them to the shopping center. She learned that he was a youth minister in a town a few hours west of here. She told him very little about herself after that. What do you really say to a minister when your life is pretty much the definition of sin? They compared notes but didn't come to any conclusions about the end of the world either. The one thing they had in common at the moment, other than the apparent disappearance of everyone else on Earth, was hunger.

  "What do you think those things were?" asked Soleil finally.

  "Demons," Patrick replied without hesitation before taking another hunk out of his triple cheeseburger.

  "Yeah I guess." Soleil got up and refilled her cup from the frosty machine, "So where do we go from here?" she asked as she sat down, shoveling more chocolaty goodness into her mouth, "I guess I mean, where you were headed is fine."

  Patrick looked at her for a moment tentatively, still chewing. "Like I said before, I've just been following those things eastward since everything happened." He pointed a finger at her and asked, "Better yet, where do you want to go, Soleil?"

  "Abbey Downs," she said immediately. She looked confused, "but I have no idea why that is."

  "Interesting..." Patrick said, "I was thinking the same thing."

  4

  Tessa was in a meeting when it happened; day dreaming, not really paying attention. She is the appointed leader of the Abbey Downs Township, the arbitrator of petty town disputes and other municipal matters. She's also one of the youngest to ever hold the position. To her it's more an honorary title, passed down to her as the last of the towns folks to carry the Dunham name. The Dunham's purportedly the founders of all that is Abbey Downs. Mrs. Marley is droning on about Kyle Morrison's tomato plants growing into her yard, Kyle is swiping through content on his phone and Tessa is twirling a strand of long blonde hair around her finger.

  She has a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knows that something is about to happen. She knows that "it" is about to happen, she just doesn't know what "it" is. She wonders if a storm is coming but that doesn't feel right. No this feels bigger. She's reminded of her childhood lessons. She's reminded of Evan. She's reminded of the prophecies that never came to be. The feeling grows stronger within her. Tessa will later describe this feeling as warm, as if this is what it feels like to glow, to emanate, to radiate power.

  "Are you even listening to me, young lady?" Mrs. Marley snapped grumpily but before Tessa could reassure the elderly woman that she was indeed listening everything went black. The woman's wig and Kyle's phone thunked to the table simultaneously. Outside a car smacked hard into the mailbox in front of City Hall with a loud crunch. The sound of birds chirping was replaced for a moment with clattering and then all was silent.

  Before the darkness has even fully dissipated, Tessa is up, heading towards the house on top of the hill. Dunham Manor. Where everything began. Home. She isn't driving her white GT down the empty streets or even running along the footpaths that intersect in the town square. No, if any of the residents of Abbey Downs still existed corporeally they'd bear witness to a young beautiful blonde literally floating home on the wind.

  Tessa glides smoothly towards Dunham Manor, bypassing the front of the house altogether, she lands in the backyard where years before we watched her and her Mother enter a cellar towards a secret entrance that led to the depths of Abbey Downs proper. As she makes her way through the caverns beneath the house the walls light up and pulse with dim green phosphorescence. She travels half a mile in no time at all before she comes to the center. Here she stops at the great pit. She closes her eyes and for just a moment breathes in the various odors of the cavern. The combination of moss and mint is strong, with just a hint of brimstone.

  She turns around and begins poring over the glowing words etched into the stone wall, looking for something specific. Something she remembers from her childhood. According to the lessons taught by her own Mother, these etchings were left by an ancient line of their family as a warning of things to come—but unlike other findings throughout the late 20th century, these prophecies were not in some obscure dead language. There was no Sanskrit or hieroglyphs. No cave drawing or the ancient puzzles of the Missouri Indians. No these messages carbon dated thousands of years before any of that and yet as impossible as it all seems, they were written in 20th century English.

  Some of the etchings were written as a timeline of events. They predicted great discoveries, the fall of empires, world wars, even the moon landing all with precise month and year dates. But this strange fact is not what concerns Tessa at the time. She's looking for a specific event that ends the timeline and begins a channel of text that unfortunately has faded with time and is no longer legible. As her eyes find the exact spot she reads aloud, "the extinction of the human race at the hands of dark angels - October 1999."

  Her family eventually gave up on the ancient etchings. 1999 came and went uneventfully and the timeline did not include any event that followed. Evan and his mother eventually went as far as to leave Abbey Downs permanently after Evan's father died. He was trying to preserve the records of his research on what ultimately ended up being a false prophecy of the end of the world. Distance and time eventually faded all that Evan had learned about their destiny into a childhood memory that may or may not have happened.

  It's not that they didn't believe everything else that they learned and taught each generation. There was no question that there was magic and that they weren't quite human themselves (although the bloodline was very thin anymore). Nobody questioned the existence of magical creatures that only their kind could see and hear. Nobody denied the control their kind had over the natural and unnatural forces of the world around them. It was just the prophecy. Evan's father even theorized that the events foretold in the etchings wouldn't come to pass in 1999 because they were foretold and now Tessa is beginning to think he was right. According to Samael, the reason the etchings were so accurate spoke more about who was writing them, than about the events themselves. He believed that the timeline, while a warning of the end, was also like a validation. If the United States of America landed a space ship on the moon in July of 1969 than this added credence to the end date.

  The fact that they were also written in 20th century English was the next obvious indicator. Some theorized that the etchings weren't in any particular language but rather written in magic that would adhere to whatever culture ultimately existed when 1999 came around. Samael didn't believe this either, he thought it was written in 20th century English because those that wrote it were originally from the 20th century.

  He spent hours in the caverns uncovering different etchings, even some in the great pit, and documenting them all, piecing them together as best he could. Trying to make sense of them. Everything wasn't as cohesive as he thought it ought to be. There were texts about a great war that came in the early 21st century following the end of the timeline bu
t it was disparate at best and didn't seem to be written by the main scripter.

  He went on to say that whoever wrote the texts must have changed the timeline simply by inserting themselves into it in the past but before he could finish this line of thought a fire broke out at the library where his research was stored and he died trying to save it.

  Tessa turned around as the shadows on the cavern walls around her began to contort into a vaguely humanoid shape. A man approached her and they embraced. His unnaturally large eyes were the color of emeralds and he smelled strongly of brimstone, "I thought I'd find you here."

  "Is it true? Has the prophecy finally come true after all this time?" Tessa asked tentatively.

  "I don't know," said Ozmo. Tessa looked him in the eyes and nodded. She knew the answer was yes, he just didn't want to be the one to say it. What alternative was there? The hold Abbey Downs once possessed over the darkness was no more. She needed to act now or all would be lost.

  "It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said solemnly, "It wasn't supposed to be just me."

  Ozmo nodded back, "It's time."

  Tessa shut her eyes and took a deep breath. The shadows contorted again as Ozmo returned to his natural form, his skin the deep green of his eyes, his limbs long and thick and scaly. Tessa climbed onto the back of the dragon as he dove into the dark pit that while seemingly endless did eventually turn and open into the light of day. Moments later they were flying high over Abbey Downs, her hands grasping at his thick mane and her thighs pressing hard against the musculature of his back. She didn't open her eyes again until they were above City Hall. There she let go of Ozmo's green mane and in one fluid motion leapt into the air as he continued on towards the end of town.