Paul Jones - Extinction Point - The End

“Try one of the local stations,” Thomas said. He told Jim the station’s channel number but when the screen flicked over, an unrecognizable picture filled the screen.

“What’s that?” asked Jessica, tilting her head to her shoulder as if that might give her a better idea. “Looks like some sort of fabric.” The screen had filled with what looked to be fur under magnification. As they tried to understand what they were looking at a low, sobbing filtered from the TV’s speakers.

“Is that someone crying?” Jim said.

Faintly, as if from a distance, Jim could hear what sounded like the sorrowful sobbing of a woman. He reached over and turned the volume up and the woman’s weeping filled the room.

“It’s the back of a chair,” said Jessica suddenly after she had switched her head to the other shoulder. “See?

It’s fallen over on its side and I guess the camera must be zoomed in really close… but it’s definitely a chair. You can just make out the back support up there.” She pointed to the top of the screen but her excitement wilted as another wave of mournful weeping filled the room.

It felt to the three of them gathered around the TV as though they were the unwitting witnesses to a terrible tragedy; it was at once fascinating and repulsive.

“The poor woman,” said Jessica after a minute had passed, and then she reached over and changed the channel.

“Are you hungry,” asked Jessica.

Jim hadn’t even given food a thought. At the mention of it, his stomach gave a low grumble. How long had this day been? Jim gave Jessica a look of thanks. Jessica smiled and headed towards the kitchen shouting back over her shoulder “Ham and cheese sandwiches okay for you two boys?”

“Sounds great,” he replied and as she disappeared into the kitchen he took the time to ask Thomas a question: “How you holding up?”

Thomas took just a second to consider it before answering. “I’m afraid,” he said candidly and continued to scan the channels for signs of life.

Jessica was fetching their sandwiches from the kitchen — thick chunks of sourdough bread with what must have been half a pig packed between each slice — into the living room when they finally found a live broadcast.

On the screen a man in his late forties, his graying hair brushed meticulously across his forehead and the hint of a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, sat behind a horseshoe shaped presenters desk with room for another two people on either side of him. The logo of WWN , the World Wide News network fixed prominently to the front of the desk. The man seemed to be talking to someone off camera as he rearranged papers on his desk, although he was obviously speaking no sound came from the TV. The newscaster looked vaguely familiar and it was Jessica who finally identified him.

“Norm Jones?” she said as she handed Jim his plate of meat.

“Right,” said Jim, drawing the word out to twice its length and snapping his fingers in recognition.

Norm Jones had been an anchor with the local Los Angeles WWN affiliate for as far back as Jim could remember. He had retired a few years back (or a multitude of years from now, depending on how you chose to view it). Now here he was, looking tired, looking confused, but the familiar face was a reassuring sign that normality had not completely disappeared off the face of the earth, the newsman had become an anchor in a much higher sense of the word.

“Did you turn the sound off?” Jessica asked.

“Nope,” Jim said. “They must be having technical problems.”

A sudden burst of static from the television was quickly replaced by a strong, sonorous male voice. “— on yet? … Okay… Apparently, you can now hear me.” The presenter seemed to relax a little, some of the stiffness leaving his stress-lined face as he settled back into his chair.

“ I have to apologize for the rough construction of this broadcast but as I am sure you are all aware this is not a normal day. We here at WWN are trying to pull together as much information from around the country and the world as we possibly can. Unfortunately, we are operating with limited staff due to the,” he paused searching for the appropriate word, “…event. I must also apologize for my ability to present this segment, as it’s been ten years since I last sat in this chair and I may be a little rusty .

“ We have pulled as many news feeds from the network satellites as possible. In summary: This does not appear to be a localized event. From the limited contact we have had with other news networks — and I must stress that it has been very limited — both here in the US and worldwide, they are experiencing similar, and in some cases far worse circumstances to our own. The consensus of opinion seems to be that there is no current explanation for the event but it does seem clear that an extraordinary occurrence has taken place. We have attempted to contact authorities but have received no reply to our calls. If anybody watching this broadcast is able to explain this situation then we would be most happy to hear from you .”

Norm rifled through a pile of papers on his desk until he found one he was looking for.

“ In summary, here is what we have learned so far, and I must repeat that all of this is of course unsubstantiated at the moment: The country is in chaos. Emergency services seem to be non-existent; most telecommunications seem to be down, although some areas do appear to have telephone service. There are reports of several large aircraft crashes throughout the state, including several within Los Angeles Airport and its outlying areas. Fires are burning uncontrolled in most parts of the city. Freeways appear to be impassable due to the large number of vehicular accidents; the same applies to most main streets throughout the city.

“ We are receiving similar reports from—”

The newscaster stopped mid-sentence, his left hand moving to his ear as if listening to someone whispering to him.

“— and I’m getting new information… yes… that we are about to receive a special feed from the Whitehouse — are we ready? Do we have the feed lined up? Okay — the Whitehouse .”

Replacing the WWN anchor, another image appeared. A lacquered teak lectern ,the presidential seal prominently placed on the wooden upright and echoed in a larger form on the wall of the room in the background.

A door opened and a commotion of people entered the room. One man walked to the lectern escorted by two others, their glances at the few press crowded in front and behind the camera as well as their flat-line expressions immediately betrayed them as secret service.

The man at the lectern shuffled a few papers before pulling the microphone closer to his mouth and then looking directly into the camera.

A shock of black hair highlighted a narrow face watched over by carefully manicured eyebrows. Dressed in a black business suit with a blood-red tie, he looked to be in his fifties. A century before, he would have been described as dapper but tonight he looked drawn and gray: haggard. Pale puffed flesh under his eyes and pink tinged conjunctiva striated with blood.

A white caption appeared in bold letters at the bottom of the screen— VICE PRESIDENT NATHANIAL RODERICK.

“ My fellow Americans ,” Roderick began, staring deep into the lens of the camera. “ I must first inform you that President Sarandon is incapacitated and, that I, as Vice President, have been appointed as President Pro Tem until she is able to resume control .” Roderick’s voice carried a certain lofty tone, bordering on arrogant.