It's the End of the World as I Know It

by Matthew Landis

  Because now I see them—two guys in blue uniforms and they’re standing on the deck and my dad is there and Claudia is there and I’m in the shed, watching. Misty’s here with the empty gas can and the red wagon, old but in good shape with big black-and-white tires, and I’m wondering why they’re all looking at me, but I know why—everybody knows why they come. My dad calls for me. Son. But his voice isn’t right. None of it’s right, but I go anyway, across the grass where Claudia is crying and the military guys look all serious and my dad says We should go inside. The one military guy’s lips are moving and I hear it in my head.

  Deepest regret.

  Killed in action.

  Improvised explosive device.

  I try to get up but fall and then scramble past Misty, shoving the snake box hard to one side and kicking some bins to the other because something else is here too—something important and wrong that I have to get to because it’s been here with me all along. I fumble for my headlamp and switch it on so I can stare at the plank.

  At the black knot of wood.

  I scream at it and go to punch it with my busted hand but Misty grabs my arm and so I end up sort of falling into it, my head an inch from it, face-to-face. I put my good hand against it, trying to cover it up because now I can see.

  Now I remember.

  4

  I don’t know how long I’ve been crying.

  I look at my watch.

  8:21 p.m.

  A long time.

  I take my hand off the plank. Misty gives me some water and I gulp it down.

  “I sat here,” I say, and it comes out all hoarse. “After they told us. I think I was dazed or something.”

  “One of the Air Force guys told your dad you were in shock.” Misty’s sitting Tommy-close, but it’s not annoying.

  “You were still here?”

  She nods. “Until my mom made me come home.”

  I unzip the hazmat suit. My shirt is totally soaked. “They said She was on her way to a military base in Iraq. There was a bomb on the road. They said She died right away.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Like She was just gone, you know? Like we all talked to Her a couple days before, but then She was gone.” I wipe my nose. “And my dad—I just don’t get it. How can he keep going when She’s gone?”

  Misty just nods.

  “Oh man.” I lie down and shut my eyes. I should be terrified because The End is basically here. Hours away.

  But I feel kinda good, like that Jupiter storm probably feels when it’s taking a break. Or maybe when it’s finally done.

  “Maybe you could stay,” I say. “Like before.”

  “Yeah.”

  Misty starts humming this song, and I’m asleep in seconds.

  1

  “Derrick.”

  I forget where I’m at for a second.

  “Derrick,” Misty whispers. “Wake up.”

  I start to sit up, but she’s holding me down.

  “Don’t move.”

  “Why are we whispering?”

  I hear her swallow. “Pete got out.”

  “What?”

  “I got up to get some more water, and I saw the top of his box was off.”

  My brain is scrambled. “But he’s in a glass cage inside the box.”

  “I think it broke,” she whispers. “When you moved it. Something broke.”

  “How do you know?”

  She puts an index finger to her lips and points up. My heart pounds. I don’t see anything until she moves my headlamp beam to the right.

  “Ah—” I start to scream, but Misty clamps her hand on my mouth.

  All five feet of Pete is hanging from one of my rafter hooks.

  “Shhhhhhh,” she says.

  I nod real quick. She lets go and I whisper, “Oh man. He thinks I’m Tommy. He wants to eat me.”

  “We need to go. Real slow. Really, really slow. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Misty gets to her knees. It takes me longer since I’m on my back, but finally we’re in crawling position.

  “You first,” I say, and she’s on her way. Every scrape and bump and scuff seems like dynamite going off, but we’re getting there. Just a couple more feet.

  Thunk.

  We freeze.

  “What was that?” Misty hisses.

  I swing my beam up and—

  “Oh crap,” I say. “He’s not there.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Forget it! Just go—go!” and I jump up to run the last five feet. Only Misty is still going with the crawling plan, so I trip over her and go flying, shoulder first into the door. This horrible crunch sound rips through the shed.

  “Oh man,” I say. “Sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Are you?”

  “I think so.” I rotate my shoulder, then swing the light across the shed. No sign of Pete. Crap.

  I grip the steel door handle with my good hand and pull.

  It won’t budge.

  “Hurry,” Misty says.

  “I’m trying.” I pull harder, but it only goes an inch. “What the—”

  And then my light hits it: the door track.

  It’s bent.

  “No no no,” I say, trying to yank it up again, but it’s twisted right above the wheel. Crap. I swing my beam around and scan for my toolbox. There—other side of the door. I dig through it but crap crap crap it’s not in here. My crowbar, to wedge the track back in place. I left it in the garage.

  No.

  “What’s wrong?” Misty asks.

  “The track is busted.” I scoot over and try to shove it back into place. “Maybe I can—”

  “Shhhh.”

  I freeze. Listen. Shine my light around.

  Pete is coiled a couple feet away, right in the middle of the shed. His tongue is going in and out.

  “Derrick,” Misty says. “I am starting to freak out.”

  The fear in her voice kicks mine out for a second and I mentally scan my survival book. There’s stuff about snake bites, but nothing about avoiding a constrictor you brought into your own shed.

  Crap.

  I swing the light around the room, looking for things to fend off Pete with when I spot it—the mice box. It’s on top of the Poop Master 5000.

  Mice.

  Poop Master 5000.

  Pete.

  Bingo.

  “Okay, listen. Listen.” I reach over Misty and unhook the fire extinguisher from the wall. “If he comes at you, poke him back with this.”

  “What? Will that work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “No time.” I dig in the bin next to her and pull out a bigger flashlight. “Just keep this on him so we know where he is.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn off my headlamp and inch toward the left wall. Can snakes see in the dark? I don’t know. I move slow, stopping when my legs bump into the cot. I crawl onto it. Pete’s coiled up, still just watching us. Good Pete. Stay.

  I make it to the other side of the cot and lift up the toilet seat. Pete doesn’t move. “Good boy,” I say, and Misty says, “Why are you talking to him?” but I’m all adrenaline now. I pick up the mice box and start to open it. They go crazy.

  “Watch out!” Misty says, and I see Pete slither toward me and then clang—something goes flying by his head. She chucked the fire extinguisher at him. “He’s coming for you!”

  I’m frozen, watching him slither onto the cot, his gross reptile skin all wet and nasty on my sleeping bag.

  “Derrick—move!” Misty shouts.

  I unfreeze.

  I dump the mice into the Poop Master 5000. Then I leap off the cot just as Pete sticks his head into the toilet af
ter them. He’s going nuts in there, snapping and thrashing like a snake version of bobbing for apples, his back half still slapping around on my sleeping bag. A few mice make it out and I think Good for them but that means Pete could slither out too and he’s gonna be pretty mad that I shoved him in a dark hole that has some of my pee in it.

  Time to finish this.

  I grab the sleeping bag with my good hand and fling the rest of him into the toilet. Then I slam the lid shut and sit on it.

  “Whaaaaaat!” Misty shrieks. “That was amazing! Derrick!”

  “Oh man.”

  Misty keeps pumping me on the back yelling about me almost dying by snake attack. I’m feeling really tired all of a sudden. “It was my fault he got out. I never put the hinges or lock on and then I busted his cage open. Man, that was close.”

  “I thought he had you.”

  I take a couple breaths. “Grab that bin right there with all the batteries.”

  Misty hauls it over and I put it on the toilet seat to keep it down. No noise from Pete.

  “So what do we do with him?” she asks.

  “We flush him.”

  “Why not just leave him?”

  “I can’t. Brock is going to bring the thunder if he finds out this happened.” Ugh. He was right. About so many things. “It won’t hurt him—it’s a dry flush. It will just seal up the bag and then I’ll lift him back into the box.”

  “So how do we flush it?”

  I reach around and feel for the button. “Kinda glad we get to try this, anyway. It was pretty expensive.”

  “Yeah. Okay—let’s bag this reptile.”

  I press the button.

  It doesn’t make any sound at first, and then it makes a ton of sounds—a soft hum that kind of vibrates the shed floor. Then it’s a sort of motor sound—that’s probably the bag part cinching up. Now it’s a gear grinding, and it doesn’t sound good. It’s getting louder and louder and Misty is saying, “Should it be making that sound?” and then it shuts off.

  “Maybe he clogged it,” I say.

  “How do you clog a dry toilet?”

  There’s a weird cloud of dust wafting up from the back, and my headlamp is getting all these particles in the beam, and then I realize it’s not dust.

  It’s smoke.

  “Oh man,” I say.

  “What is that?”

  There’s a burst of something, and a tiny orange flame kicks up around the back edge. I say, “Fire,” but it’s not that loud, and Misty says “What?” And now I’m screaming.

  Fire!

  2

  I stumble back and knock Misty over.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  I yank her up and she says, “You need to get that door open.”

  I lunge for it and yank harder with my left hand, but it’s not enough.

  It won’t budge.

  I bang on it and scream and then kick it as hard as I can to make noise—somebody has to hear.

  Please.

  Somebody.

  I keep kicking and yelling and then hear somebody outside yell, “Derrick!”

  “Dad!” I scream back. “There’s a fire—and the door is stuck!”

  He’s yanking too—I can see his fingers hooked under the bottom and now he’s yelling, “Grab it!” and there’s other hands joining him. Maybe like eight hands and they’re all lifting, but the track is so bent it doesn’t matter.

  “Get my crowbar!” I yell to them. “In the garage.”

  “Hurry!” Misty shouts.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  I rip open the gas mask bin, throwing one to Misty and then me.

  “Derrick!” she yells, sort of muffled in the mask, pointing at the corner where that little flame has jumped to my cot. I grab some water bottles, but it gets to my sleeping bag, which goes up like paper.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Then I see it—the fire extinguisher, lying on the floor. I crawl on my belly for it and feel the heat warm my face. I slink back to the door and fumble with the plastic cord, tear it off, and then aim at the cot. I’ve read the directions a hundred times. I know exactly how to use this.

  Grip handle.

  Point toward flame.

  Depress indicator button.

  The extinguisher shakes in my grip as the nozzle flies off the end like a bullet. This weird foam oozes out maybe two inches. I keep pressing, looking at it through the smoke to make sure I’m doing it right.

  Nothing’s coming out.

  It’s broken.

  Misty screams inside her mask. Now she’s banging on the door, fists pounding, and I keep pressing the stupid button. The flames are growing. I chuck the busted extinguisher and slide the snake box between us and the flames. I stack bins on top to block the heat.

  “Derrick!” my dad yells, and a crowbar slides under. I grab it and try to bend the track back—but it’s so twisted from all the yanking.

  I rip my mask off and yell, “It’s broken. Dad.”

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  I cough and choke and put my mask back on. The flames are roaring now—burning down the wall of stuff between us. Misty is freaking out and rips her mask off—she’s hyperventilating. I’m trying to make her put it back on and screaming I’m sorry I’m sorry but she’s in full panic mode and way stronger than me. She can’t get air and now she’s sliding to the floor. I grab her shoulders and yell, but she’s limp. I put the mask back on her face and try to think, but the terror is like a black hole. Like that knot of wood—a sign that we’ve finally arrived.

  The End.

  Because of me.

  THUNK.

  THUNK.

  THUNK.

  It’s like the shed is exploding.

  “Get away from the wall!” my dad yells.

  THUNK.

  THUNK.

  THUNK.

  A silver piece of metal smashes through the plank where my head was five seconds ago. It pulls out and crashes through again and again and again as he hacks at the shed wall.

  THUNK.

  THUNK.

  THUNK goes his ax. There’s a huge craaaaaaaaaaaack as a hole opens up. I see tree trunk arms pulling back pieces of the planks to make it wider because Brock is here—and when he comes, he brings the thunder. Tommy is here too, digging at jagged splinters, and my dad comes into view with the ax yelling, “Son!” like he did That Day.

  “Take Misty!” I pick her up and don’t even feel my busted hand. I think she’s mumbling something—she’s still here. My muscles go into overdrive and I hoist her headfirst through the hole to a bunch of waiting hands.

  I jump and yell. Something just bit my calf.

  Fire.

  My leg is on fire.

  I whack at it with my hands, but it’s not working, so I wriggle out of the suit. My leg is this weird mix of red and black. Shouldn’t that hurt?

  “Come on!” my dad yells.

  I shove my arms through and they start pulling, but the shards are digging into me big-time. “It’s too small!” I yell, and sink back inside. I see my dad’s face in the firelight, all wide eyes and he’s jacked up on adrenaline and ready to do something crazy.

  “Get out of the way!” he yells. He drops the ax and runs back a couple steps and now he’s running full speed at the shed and lifting his foot like a front kick. “Move!” he screams, and I cram myself into the corner just as the heel of his big shoe slams through the planks and rips the hole wide open. His whole body launches through like the Hulk—he’s almost in the fire and I try to pull him back, but he’s shoving me outside.

  I suck in cool air as people carry me away. I’m screaming Dad Dad D
ad but they don’t listen. The shed is so bright, all of it on fire. I can’t see him. Fire engines honk everywhere. Somebody is streaking at the shed—Claudia—but a firefighter bear-hugs her, lifting her off the ground. Another firefighter gets there, and then another, and then they’re pulling on something and finally my dad topples out. They drag him toward me and suddenly there’s giant streams of water dousing the fire. I’m coughing and crying and scanning the lawn for Misty.

  And then I see her.

  On the ground, by the deck.

  An EMT pushing on her chest with both hands.

  1

  My eyes open and I’m staring at a ceiling. It’s tiled like the one in Mr. Killroy’s office, but no watermark. There’s beeping sounds, but it’s mostly quiet. Light is coming in a window and I feel pretty relaxed.

  Then it all comes back.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  Fire.

  I try to sit up, but my head is so heavy. I fall right back. I yell, but it’s a raspy version of “Misty.” I start to pull all these wires out, but I’m so tired I just flail at the machines and more stuff beeps.

  “Look who’s up,” a nurse says. She leans over me to reconnect the wires. Her ID says Mary and she looks older and pretty tough.

  “Dee,” somebody says.

  I see Claudia in a big hospital chair near the bed. Her hair is everywhere and her eyes are puffy. She comes over and hugs me for probably five minutes.

  “Misty,” I croak.

  “She’s okay. Smoke inhalation, like you and Dad.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Her parents transferred her down to Children’s Hospital in Philly because that’s where all her transplant doctors are.”

  “Oh man.” My eyes burn.

  She hugs me again. “She’s gonna be fine.”

  “You’re sure she’s okay?”

  “Brynn’s been texting me nonstop. She’s totally okay.”

  I lie back on the pillow. “Dad?”

  “He’s got some deep cuts on his right leg and stomach, but nothing major.”

  “Oh man, he must’ve got stabbed by those plank shards.”

  “He’s tough, Dee. He can take it.” She grips my good hand pretty hard. “You got it the worst.”