The Chosen One

by EvelynHail 

We stay awake to await the end of the world. An event of such magnitude cannot be taken lightly, let alone missed by falling asleep.

However, many times the end of the world had been announced without anything happening, if only by meager torrential rains or sporadic gusts of wind that de-roofed houses.

This will not be the case this time.

At least the countless forecasts, maps, graphs and expert analyses promise so.

A destruction cloud will pass close to where we are and the chances of survival are practically nil. The previous ends of the world had not defeated us. We had been able to pick up the debris, put up houses and buildings again, find (and immediately plant) food, and rebuild our routines and institutions.

I insist: it will not be like that this time.

The Authorities are so convinced of the futility of any effort that they have not urged us to take measures.

Why store water and canned food? What's the point of sealing doors and windows, keeping candles and flashlights on hand, and buying a portable radio to get information when the electricity is out?

The wind will tear houses apart, the water will drown or poison us, the lightning will produce massive fires. And there is nowhere to run.

"It is time," the Authorities have said in their final message.

So we have gathered here to drink the last bottles of wine and eat our hearts out until it hurts. No one speaks of amorous memories, much less of unfulfilled dreams or unrealized projects.

In the brief moments when the chatter is interrupted, all we can hear is a sound of silence.

It's a peculiar silence, different from any other silences I've ever experienced. One that probably runs through this entire Verse. The Verse that is not going to miss this planet or its inhabitants.

But the days go by and there is no lightning or floods or wind, neither the television nor the radio is working. No web page we consult has been updated since the date the end of the world was announced.

Shortly thereafter, there was no internet either.

When the wine and bottled water ran out, we looked at each other in terror: who is going to risk drinking the tap water first?

Out of fear, some declare that they are ready to die, as food is already scarce anyway. They lie in their beds and wait for the end to come.

"What if we go out?" someone proposes, when the rotten smell of those waiting to die has become unbearable. The sheets reek of sweat and excrement, the sores on their bodies have opened and, as if by magic, have become nests of maggots.

What if we go out?

The others do not reply, but we are sure that whoever has just had that idea has gone mad.

My little brother takes the initiative. He leaps at his feet and unleashes his pent up rage and frustration, as he strangles the dissident with his own hands.

No one stops him, no one even flinches. However, when the corpse lands on the floor with a thud, I hear what seems to be my condemnation.

"Fuck. Now you've gone and done it, Rico. Who's gonna take out the dead guy? If someone doesn't take them out into the street, we'll all die too."

Without a second's hesitation, I know what I have to do.

I take over Rico's punishment. I throw the corpse over my shoulder and with a gesture I indicate that I am ready.

"Everly, don't," says the almost imperceptible shake of my little brother's head. Yet his mouth remains closed and his resigned gaze soon glues to the floor as everyone else's.

No one touches me, no one speaks to me.

From now on, from the moment I step out from the safety of the bunker to the uncertainty of the surface, I am also a pariah.

One of dem Covidead.

The door opens, and I take a deep breath, shielding my eyes from the intense light.

Outside, there is a beautiful, rounded sun, just as I remember it from my childhood years—ever-rowing its glimmering boat across the seas of the skies.

I see the breeze gently swaying the leaves of the trees, but it must all be a deception.