It all seemed so absurd. I was tired of the questions, the headlines, the knowledge. The following evening I announced that the program was going to be cut from half an hour to five minutes, and I wasn’t going to answer any more questions.
Since then the program has existed in its five-minute format, and I have stopped reading newspapers and listening to whatever they say about me on the news.
But now, with less than twenty hours left, didn’t they have a right to know?
“And, finally, the main item for today.”
I have my doubts until the very last moment. It is, perhaps, the most difficult decision I have ever had to make.
~~~~~
2020 (June 11, 17:10)
By morning none of the personnel remain in the hotel. It seems the tradition by which the ship’s orchestra keeps playing even as the ship goes down is relevant to ships only. People ran away, and who could blame them?
Judging by what I see from the window, there is still some disorder on the streets, but in comparison to the mayhem that went on throughout the night it’s getting better. During most of the night, crowds stampeded the shops, trying to stock up with goods, drugs, and weapons, while others stormed the airports, hoping to depart for somewhere — though there was no place to go.
At some point planes stopped taking off. Phones didn’t work. Television and radio broadcasted government announcements urging citizens to take shelter and not surrender to panic, but very few bothered to stop their stealing in order to listen.
By now, the waves of those wishing to run away have died down, and through the side window of my room, I can see empty streets packed with deserted cars. People ride bicycles or go on foot now. Only those who have succumbed to their fate remain in the city.
Two guys pull a huge television screen out of a shop and load it into a shopping cart. A young woman appears out of the trashed window of an expensive boutique, balancing on high heels and holding a few paper bags full of clothing. In the cafeteria at the corner of the street, all the windows are smashed and most of the tables and chairs turned upside down. At the only table standing, a young couple is sitting. They talk, laugh, and with one spoon feed each other a pie that by some miracle has survived the night.
The question “What would you do if you had one day left?” is suddenly relevant on a universal scale.
Many chose to stay at home, play with their children, look at photo albums and tell each other things that should have been said long ago. Movie theaters show old movies in succession and are half-filled with audiences. Out of the big panoramic window of my room I can see the ocean and people on the beach, lying on the sand, playing, talking, and it looks like just another ordinary day.
Perhaps telling them my last prediction was the right thing to do.
However, many disagreed. During the night, a crowd stormed the Meridian Hotel where I was thought to be staying. They didn’t find me. After each broadcast, my look-alike went to the Meridian while I was secretly taken to another hotel — less swanky, but good for privacy and with an excellent view of the ocean.
Eric is with his family now, on another continent. I miss him, actually. I know that he tried to call, but the phones don’t work.
He wanted to ask one question: “Selia, it’s not true, is it?”
And what if I had got it wrong?
Impossible. I never make mistakes.
“Selia, excuse me … but it’s not true, right? It simply can’t be.”
I turn with a half-forgotten feeling of surprise —after all, I usually know in advance everything that is going to happen.
It’s just an elderly businessman who is staying in the room next to mine. I’ve been hearing his continuous muttering on the other side of the wall since morning — talking to himself, praying. Now he decided to pay me a visit. I haven’t locked the door. Why bother?
“You know the truth.” I turn back to the window, as my feet register the first slight shake of the floor.
“But how can it happen so suddenly? There are detection devices. Surely scientists had to have known; there must have been some time to act, to prepare…”
Some knew, that’s for sure. Cataclysms of such scale don’t occur without a warning. Some guessed, some knew for certain. There were folders with “Confidential” stamped on them, in which the forthcoming disaster was predicted quite accurately, but those responsible for making decisions chose to keep it a secret. Why spread panic if nothing can be changed?
But they couldn’t predict the consequence the way I could. Bunkers with necessary supplies were prepared, evacuation plans were shared with the chosen ones, those who were meant to survive the worst and rebuild civilization from ashes. In fact, I was supposed to be among them, having received a secret government offer.
I refused. By that time, I just didn’t care about anything anymore.
One more shake, almost imperceptible.
My guest doesn’t even seem to notice them. That’s not surprising, since the first earthquakes are supposed to begin far out in the ocean. Then tsunamis will hit the coasts of several continents, one after another, with more and more destructive force. Simultaneously, a series of earthquakes along the coastline of North America will trigger an eruption of the huge Yellowstone volcano. Apart from destroying everything on a large section of the continent, the eruption will be accompanied by the enormous quantities of volcanic ash. The cloud will spread and block the sun worldwide. Within several years, this will lead to the extinction of many species on the planet.
The end of mankind will not be immediate. Thanks to our knowledge, people will hold on for a few more decades, but they will never succeed in rebuilding a global civilization. For the various disconnected groups of people, it will be increasingly difficult to cope with living conditions so different from the hospitable climate and clear atmosphere that will cease to exist in just a few hours.
“Why didn’t they know, then?” my neighbor goes on. “After all, scientists… research…”
A strong jolt shakes the building so unexpectedly that both of us are suddenly on the floor. Through the window, I hear the shouts and cries of the people on the beach. My neighbor starts muttering to himself again, not even trying to get up. I make it to my feet, balance on the vibrating floor, and get to the window. People are running away from the water. Primal instincts are stronger than the understanding that there’s no place to run. Fear drives them to seek shelter.
I watch, captivated, as a huge wave rises slowly on the horizon.
Very soon, I will know nothing again.
Jackie Bee lives in Israel, works as a computer programmer and loves to spend free time writing fiction. You can find her on Facebook.
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About Fiction Vortex
Fiction Vortex, let’s see …
A fiction vortex is a tornado of stories that pick you up and hurl you through a barn to find enlightenment on the other side. It’s a whirlpool of fascinating tales so compelling that they suck you in, drag you down to the bottom of your mind, and drown you with incessant waves of glorious imagery and believable characters.
Nope.
A fiction vortex is an online speculative fiction magazine focused on publishing great science fiction and fantasy, and is run by incredibly attractive and intelligent people with great taste in literature and formidable writing prowess.
Not that either. But we’re getting closer.
Founded in the 277th year of the Takolatchni Dynasty, Fiction Vortex set out to encourage people to write and publish great speculative fiction. It sprang fully formed from the elbow of TWOS, retaining none of TWOS’s form but most of its spirit. And the patron god of writers, the insecure, the depressed, and the mentally ill regarded Fiction Vortex in his magic mirror of self-loathing and declared it good, insofar as something that gives writer’s undue hope can be declared good. Thereafter, he charged the Rear Admiral of the Galactic 5th Fleet to defend Fiction Vortex down to the last robot
warrior.
Now we’re talking.
Take your pick. We don’t care how you characterize us or the site.
Fiction Vortex focuses on publishing speculative fiction. That means science fiction and fantasy (with a light smattering of horror and a few other subgenres), be it light, heavy, deep, flighty, spaceflighty, cerebral, visceral, epic, or mundane. But mundane in a my-local-gas-station-has-elf-mechanics-but-it’s-not-really-a-big-deal-around-here kind of way. Got it?
Basically, we want imaginative stories that are well written, but not full of supercilious floridity.
There’s a long-standing belief that science fiction and fantasy stories aren’t as good as purely literary fare. We want you to prove that mindset wrong (not just wrong, but a steaming pile of griffin dung wrong) with every story we publish. It’s almost like we’re saying, “I do not bite my thumb at you, literary snobs, but I do bite my thumb,” but in a completely polite and non-confrontational way.
We've got more great stories online, with a new story twice a week. Visit our website FictionVortex.com, follow us on Twitter: @FictionVortex, and like us on Facebook: FictionVortex.
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