N. White: The End - Visions of Apocalypse

Her eyes close, almost long enough for me to consider moving, then she snaps back to alertness. “I wanted to. I really did.” She leans back, brushes the barrel of the rifle with the tips of her fingers. “I knew you’d come.”

I nod. “So where do we go from here?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” she says. She reaches behind, still looking at me, and takes hold of the rifle. She lets it hang down and away from her, looking like a little girl with a rag doll.

I hold my breath. She raises the weapon across her chest, then points it at me. Stock first.

“Do it,” she whispers. “I can’t.”

I take a step toward her, just a small one. I’m a little surprised to be alive.

She licks her lips. The rifle trembles in her hands. I take another step, and another, then reach out and put my hands on the grip.

For an instant, she holds tight. Then it’s mine.

Her voice goes up in pitch. “Do it. Don’t make me wait, you heartless bitch!”

She grabs the muzzle and holds it to her chest, dead centre.

No one will judge me. In a few weeks, not even God will remember us. It’s what she wants.

But she is not a Thing, one of the desperate survivors I have trained myself to see as less than human. She is a woman and I know her name. And though I hate her right now as much as I have ever hated anyone, I cannot pull the trigger and shoot her in the heart.

And for what she has done, she deserves to suffer.

I pull the gun away and step back. She drops to her knees, fingers pulling at her hair, a wordless moan escaping her open mouth.

I fill a flask from the printer’s reservoir of euthanasia and make my way to the exit. The party is coming to an end: Men and women lie sprawled everywhere; their lips blue.

They are happy, at least. Perhaps it won’t be so bad.

The car is gone, so I walk. The pain in my shins is bearable, but the injured calf muscle is really starting to hurt. Halfway there, I’m limping. When the park comes into view, I’m hallucinating again.

“Not far now,” he says, walking silently behind me.

Damn, my leg hurts.

“I’ve been having a think,” he says. “Maybe it’s not a plan by all bacteria. Maybe they’re fighting a war amongst themselves.”

“Then they’re as stupid as we are,” I say.

“Not if they’re ruthless and logical enough to destroy pretty much all life on Earth, including most of their own kind, as long as a seed colony survives somewhere. Then the survivors can take over the planet with no competition.”

“Pretty advanced tactics for microbes, don’t you think?”

“Well, they have had a couple billion years to work it out.”

I arrive at the park. The bodies are where I left them. I had thought Matthew might be here, or he’d have buried Diana, but she’s still lying there staring at the sky. Evaporation and wind will break up these cadavers, not the rot we used to enjoy.

Something smells putrid, though. I sniff the air, but can’t locate the source.

I head for the trees. Below the knee, my leg is a solid block of agony.

“It’s peaceful here,” he says when we reach a clearing. I sense him sit down. “Why don’t you rest?”

I’m feeling light-headed from the pain. I take out the flask and feel the weight in my hands. As I sit, the smell of decay gets stronger and I realise it’s coming from me.

I pull up the cloth and take off the dressing. Below the knee, my leg is swollen and dark, the skin crackly to the touch.

“Gas gangrene,” he says. “ Clostridium perfringens , or something similar. Anaerobic, so it doesn’t need oxygen. Looks like they think it’s safe to come out.”

The cap twists off in my hand.

“I hope they give dinosaurs another try,” I say.

He moves next to me. “So you believe me now?”

“I have to. Otherwise it’s our fault.”

The trees rustle in the wind, bare branches moving with gentle waves. The sky is clear blue.

I turn to look at him. I see his face clearly.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask.

He takes my hand. “Of course, my love.” I stare into his eyes. They are beautiful.

Wilson Geiger is a fantasy author who decided, at the ripe age of 41, that he’d better start taking this writing thing seriously. He is, of course, thankful that it happened before the great ending of us all. You can find more of Wilson’s works at wilsongeiger.com.

What does a man do when he realizes he’s made a grave error? Does he admit it? Ignore it? Hide it? Does he try to correct it? What makes a man, what defines him, are his answers to those very questions; often they may go beyond the personal dilemma, maybe resulting in dire consequences. In the following story, a young, promising scientist is forced to confront demons of his own creation, and the terrible answer he finds within. If that answer doesn’t kill him first.

In the end, Ragnarok was nothing like the stories told to us by our Father’s Fathers. Yes, man fought man, the earth was torn asunder, but the Gods? They stayed out of it, content to watch us all die. There was no great serpent, no wolf Fenris, no Odin. Only men and fire.

And that, let it be said, was most certainly enough.

The viral strain had gone through extensive testing, reactive and passive, and it was deemed suitable for the next stage: live testing. The strain was tested initially on rats, with excellent results; spikes of 300% above normal hostile and aggressive response were documented. After the incubation period, which took several hours, the rats began to posture. After further observation, the subjects would lash out at any that came near them. In the third phase, they became aggressive to the point that the specimens attacked each other on sight.

The decision was made to fast-forward the process; testing moved to simians, with similar outcomes. The virus set family on family initially, until familial bonds were broken by the mutations; after that it was simple elimination of every individual.

The Confederation suits were very encouraged by the results.

James could not believe what he was seeing on the live feeds. Once he realized, it was almost too late.

Gunfire and screams had erupted down the hall, shattered the pristine image the designers had engineered for the complex. White clean walls, the streamlined structure of security doors, the lighting that had been fed through streaming chambers above and below; blood had spattered along the passages now, the smoke and screams of fighting and death had ruined the calming effect. James could almost imagine the designers’ sneers of contempt, their outrage at the pillage and anarchy that defaced their artistic vision.

James had told the remaining staff that he was going to notify security, and quickly escaped the administrative bay and its terrible video feeds. He had to find Major Thomsen; he had promised James protection and evacuation, if necessary. James told himself that Thomsen wouldn’t have left him, he was far too important to be left behind with the regular staff. Maybe if he repeated it enough times, he would believe it.