Geoff North - How the World Ends

“There’s power,” Amanda argued. “That music hasn’t stopped playing for days.”

She was right. The music was still playing—that one terrifying instrumental piece without any singing was starting over again for about the thousandth time. They didn’t know what it was called; ten-year olds knew practically nothing about classical violin. If their father was there, he might be able to tell them it was Canon in D . But he wasn’t with them, and he never would be again.

“He’s using something with batteries, wired it into the main speaker system. That’s probably running on batteries, too. There’s no electricity anywhere.”

Amanda placed the big teddy-bear and stuffed lion on the floor. She took the candle her brother had used and poked it inside the dark fridge. There was a tub of sealed yogurt, warm to the touch, and swollen almost to the point of bursting. She should’ve opened it on day one; it might not have made her sick then. She pushed it off to the side and rummaged through the rest of the food—as they had both done dozens of times in the last forty-eight hours—looking for something sweet. There wasn’t much to choose from; the bloated yogurt container, a milk carton one-quarter filled with chunky stuff, the dry bread and margarine Michael was now using, a cardboard box containing four doughnuts as hard as rocks, and a jar of raspberry jam with maybe a teaspoon’s worth of goo stuck up along the inside of the glass. She settled for the jam, scraping out what she could with her finger.

“You should put that on some of this bread,” Michael said, offering the plastic bag out to her. “It’ll taste better.”

She scowled and sucked the jam dry from her finger. “I want chocolate.”

“You can’t have chocolate.”

“Yes I can. There’s a coffee store right around the corner from here. I saw tons of chocolates in there. You could tip-toe all the way there and all the way back. He’ll never hear you.”

Michael shook his head. “We agreed. We can’t leave. You saw what he did to all them people… what he did to Mom.”

Amanda picked the lion back up and squeezed it against her chest. The teddy-bear was for comfort, the lion protected her. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that anymore.”

Michael swallowed down the last of his crust and margarine. “Then don’t go thinking stupid things. He’ll shoot us dead, too, if we leave this place.”

She leaned up against the wall, her shoulder rubbing against the side of the refrigerator. Amanda slid down until she was sitting on the cold floor. That horrible morning came back to her. It hadn’t started horribly—it began like most other Saturday mornings. Their mom wanted to go to the mall. Dad wanted to stay home. The three went without him. Amanda and Michael fought, but it wasn’t about anything serious, it never was.

Things didn’t get serious until they heard Roy speak for the first time.

His voice had interrupted the soft music playing throughout the shopping center, warning all patrons to take cover. A war has started , he’d stated. All shoppers please remain calm, and stay out of confined areas. Helen Fulger had laughed it off—she told her kids that some jackass had found an intercom station and was shooting his dumb mouth off. When the floor started shaking and people started screaming, Amanda’s mother didn’t find it funny. When the big glass windows at the front of the Hudson’s Bay store they were shopping in blew inside all over the display mannequins, everybody started screaming and running. And over all that yelling and rumbling, Amanda heard Roy talking through the speakers—directing people to safety, telling them how to behave, trying to calm them.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. He sat next to her against the wall and offered her his hand. Amanda took it, and squeezed her lion tighter in the other arm. “Maybe he’s already gone. Maybe he took what he wanted and left the mall.”

“He’s still here,” Amanda whispered. “That song’s still playing.”

Most of the shoppers had disregarded Roy’s soft pleading. They had fled through the broken windows, and climbed over the collapsed sliding door frames, desperate to leave the stores behind, and to discover what was left outside. Helen hadn’t been one of them. She kept her children close and sided with Roy.

Listen to the man on the speakers, guys. Stay calm, and do as he says.

Michael and Amanda had heard the distant popping sounds before their mother. People were still screaming even though the worst of it was over. The popping got louder, and their mom said there was a reasonable explanation. Probably just the power trying to turn back on.

Michael had tugged at his mother’s arm. I think we should get out of here.

People were running from the mall plaza and heading fast for the Bay exits. A big woman knocked Amanda down in her rush to escape. Amanda had seen the woman stop in her tracks twenty feet ahead; a red spot appeared in the center of her fat back. It spread out over the white fabric of her sweater, like a rose blossoming in fast motion. She fell to floor, and her face made a cracking noise as it bounced off the tiles.

Helen pulled her daughter back up. Your brother’s right, we have to get out… now.

Amanda had been certain she was going to say more; she had seen her lips opening. That’s when the loudest pop of them all went off. That’s when something warm splattered across Amanda’s forehead and cheek. The top third of her mother’s head had disappeared. Amanda wiped bits of brain and skull from her face as Helen Fulger dropped to her knees. The hand holding Amanda’s arm loosened, then fell away. The rest of the dead woman flopped over the girl’s running shoes.

“Well we can’t stay here forever,” her brother was saying. “Sooner or later we’ll have to go somewhere else.”

“Where can we go, Michael? Maybe it’s even worse outside the mall.”

“I doubt that.”

They sat in silence, and watched as the small flame in the candle glass started to flicker and sputter. Michael leaned forward and poured the melted wax onto the floor. He righted the glass carefully, not wanting to drown the remaining bit of light left.

Amanda squeezed his hand. “Maybe they got some candles in that coffee store, too.”

“We can’t go… You said it yourself. That dumb song is still playing.”

“Well maybe he’s got a cell phone hooked up to the speakers and maybe he’s got it set on repeat. Maybe he left a long time ago… just like you said.”

Michael was shaking his head. That music has been playing for days. Any old cell phone battery would’ve died by now. No, that fat fucker is still here.”

“Don’t swear.”

“Sorry.”

The song played through and started up again. The candle burned itself out, and the twins were left cowering in complete blackness.

They’d started running after their mother was killed. Or Michael was running—Amanda was being pulled along. They hid behind a big square bin of men’s socks, and listened to the gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. There had been clicking sounds between the shots; reloading. Pop. Pop. Pop. Michael and Amanda lifted their heads slowly up over the bin and saw him. It was a security guard. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and black tie. His thick forearms were covered with hair as black as his tie, and his head was shiny bald.

He hadn’t said a word since entering the big store. He just kept shooting people—all kinds of people. He shot store employees and shoppers alike. An old man stuck in his overturned wheelchair begged for mercy. The fat guard shot him in the temple. A teenager was running up the steps of a stilled escalator—he shot her in the back, butt, and both legs. Both big fists were gripping revolvers. The fat mass of single jowl under his chin shook with the ferocity of each shot. Massive dark circles had stained the underarms of his shirt. The sweat glistened off his scalp and leaked into his bushy eyebrows. He was breathing in and out hard, huffing like a big animal. Amanda thought he was running out of steam—that he might drop dead from a heart attack—but then she realized it was adrenaline pushing him on. He was grinning sadistically. He was enjoying it.