Нэнси Кресс - The End Is Nigh

“Why? What do you think is going to happen if this asteroid is real? Will you be transported off to a new world? Will you be elevated to a higher consciousness?”

I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“No,” she said simply. “When Nibiru hits the moon and the moon hits the Earth, I’ll die. It’ll probably hurt. I’ll be scared. Of course I will. But I’ll die here, among my friends, content with the will of God.”

I wanted to slap her.

I really did.

I wanted to hit her until she didn’t believe this bullshit anymore. We stood there in a churchyard surrounded by the graves of five hundred suicides.

“You need help,” I said. “Everyone here does.”

“No we don’t. We’ve found what we need. We don’t require anything else but to be left alone to pray, to love each other, and to die.”

She nodded to the stun gun I held.

“You can use that on me. You can take me by force. No one here is going to try and stop you, and you probably have help somewhere close. So… sure, you can take me against my will. If you do, and if they manage to lock me away somewhere where I can’t escape or can’t take my life, it won’t change anything. I’ll still die. We all will. However you’ll die knowing that you robbed me of being happy before I died.” She stepped close to me and looked up into my eyes. “Is that what you want, Mr. Poe? Is that what you really think is best for me? Will taking me out of here actually keep me ‘safe’?”

I got home around eight that night.

Last night.

I let the other guys go. Told him that we’d drawn a blank. Told them I’d call when I had a fresh lead. It was all the same to them. They were day players.

At my apartment, I cracked a fresh beer and took it out to the deck to watch the sky.

The moon was up. Three-quarter moon.

I drank the beer. Got another. Drank that.

Sat with the moon until it was down.

I tried fifteen times to get Rosie Blum on the phone.

Fifteen.

Cell. Office. Home answering machine.

Finally someone picked up.

Not Rosie, though.

It was her roommate. Rachael Somethingorother. A junior astrophysicist.

“Hello—?”

There was something about the way she said it. Tentative and a little weary. Like she was afraid of a call. Or of another call.

“Rachael? It’s John Poe,” I said. “Is Rosie there? I’ve been trying to get her for days and she’s not picking up. I really need to talk to her. Is she there?”

She took too long to reply.

Too long.

“John… I’m so sorry,” she said.

So sorry .

“What happened?” I asked.

“It… it’s going to be in the papers. God, I’m sorry. I thought someone would have called you.”

“What’s going to be in the papers? What’s wrong? Where’s Rosie?”

“She’s gone… ,” she said. “I didn’t even know she had a gun. Oh god, there was so much blood… oh god, John… ”

I stared at the night. Listened to the voice on the phone.

“When… ?” I asked softly.

“Last night,” said Rachael. “When she and Dr. Marcus got back from Toronto. They came back from the airport and they went straight into her room without saying anything. I thought… well, I thought that maybe they were together now. That they’d hooked up in Toronto and, well, you know… ”

“What happened?”

“Like I said, I didn’t even know she had a gun until I heard the shots.”

“Shots?”

“Yes. Oh god, John… she shot him in the head and then put the gun in her… in her… ”

She may have said more. There must have been more to the story, but I didn’t hear it.

I dropped my hand into my lap, then let it fall down beside my deck chair. The phone landed hard and bounced away. Maybe it went over the rail. I don’t know. I haven’t looked for it.

I’m sitting here now, and I don’t know why I’m recording this. I mean… who the fuck am I leaving a record for?

I watched the news this morning.

Sixteen suicides. Eight of the speakers at the Toronto conference.

Eight others who were there.

Not counting Rosie and Dr. Marcus.

Eighteen.

All of them there to talk about Nibiru. To work out what kind of message to tell the world.

Eighteen.

I guess the message is pretty clear.

I’m going to leave this recorder here on the dashboard. Not sure what good it would do for someone else to find it.

Across the street I can see the wrought iron gates and the granite pillars. And beyond that the white stones in the green grass.

I can see Sister Light standing there, watching my car.

Watching me.

Waiting for me.

Smiling at me.

She lifts her hand.

A welcome gesture.

Okay, I tell myself.

Okay.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jonathan Maberry is a New York Times bestselling author, multiple Bram Stoker Award winner, and comic book writer. He’s the author of many novels including Code Zero , Fire & Ash , The Nightsiders , Dead of Night , and Rot & Ruin ; and the editor of the V-Wars shared-world anthologies. His nonfiction books on topics ranging from martial arts to zombie pop-culture. Jonathan writes V-Wars and Rot & Ruin for IDW Comics, and Bad Blood for Dark Horse, as well as multiple projects for Marvel. Since 1978 he has sold more than 1200 magazine feature articles, 3000 columns, two plays, greeting cards, song lyrics, poetry, and textbooks. Jonathan continues to teach the celebrated Experimental Writing for Teens class, which he created. He founded the Writers Coffeehouse and co-founded The Liars Club; and is a frequent speaker at schools and libraries, as well as a keynote speaker and guest of honor at major writers and genre conferences. He lives in Del Mar, California. Find him online at jonathanmaberry.com.

Wilmington, DE

“Fucking animals,” Whitman hissed, as a gray hand reached for the cuff of his pant leg. He kicked it away. For a second he looked down into the man’s slack face. Nothing there. He looked lower and saw the hypodermic still plunged into the man’s arm. He tried to tell himself the junkie was just sick, a victim of a disease, but that metaphor had never really held water for him.

A field agent for the CDC, Whitman knew what diseases really were and knew that addiction was a very different kind of disorder.

He waved his flashlight around the room, looking for anyone conscious enough to tell him why he’d come here. He saw three people lounging on pieces of broken furniture or just slumped on the floor, all of them as wasted as the one who’d tried to grab him. Someone in this house had called the police to report violent behavior. The caller had reported that the violent individual was non-communicative and had bloodshot eyes. That had been enough of a red flag for the local cops to send for Whitman.

He’d been in Philadelphia two hours ago. The latest situation report said the cops had contained the suspect and would wait until he arrived before making an arrest. So far, so good—there might be a chance to get a live subject here, and that might make all the difference.

Whitman hadn’t known what he was getting into, though, when he hit the ground with his sampling gear. He’d had no idea he was walking into a shooting gallery.

He heard the crackle of a police radio and looked up. A uniformed cop waved him over, a big guy with a bristly mustache and dead eyes. “Sergeant Crispen,” he said, and shook Whitman’s hand.