The End

The ground shook violently. Trees were knocked over as if they were toothpicks. I was thrown from my bed and onto the floor. Outside my window, I could see the world I had known my whole life, the world I had grown to love. I watched as that world was destroyed. I watched as metal spikes ripped out of the earth and shredded my home. And then I woke up.

Three years after the End, nightmares continue to plague me. I still remember vividly how my parents grabbed me and ran to the nearest bunker, built in case of such an emergency. While we waited, my mother had explained to me that scientists such as herself thought that planet Earth was a machine programmed to self-destruct. She said that this was beyond what anyone had thought would happen. She said that we might not make it out of the shelter alive. My mother was not one to sugarcoat things.

My father had just stood and stared at the door, tears running down his face. He was the first to go. He died of thirst a week after we emerged from the shelter. Secretly, though, I think he died of despair.

Mom said that the machine had failed. I thought that the machine had done its job pretty well. All that could be seen in any direction was a grey dusty desert wasteland. The only water to be found seeped out of the dusty ground every mile or two in small trickles.

When Dad died I did not cry. There was not enough water to spare. Mom cried a single tear. I watched as it soaked into the hard, packed, earth.

Mom lasted longer, nearly two years. One day, she wandered off mumbling to herself about how she must “find the source, find the cog, find the source.” I have nightmares about that, too. Mom was never seen again.

There are only five of us left now. Most wandered off like Mom, mumbling incoherent words under their breath. The others died of starvation, exhaustion, or thirst.

We wander the flat, dry landscape, always moving forward, hoping for a place we could stop, rest in the shade of a boulder or dead bush, and then keep moving. We have no purpose, no reason for traveling, aside from the fact that it keeps us from stopping too long. I fear that if I stay still for too long, I will not have the strength to try and get up again.

One day, we lie down to rest. I have eaten just a bit of wild rabbit, and yet I feel full. My stomach, I fear, has shrunk to the size of a peanut. When I wake up, two have died in their sleep. There is no time to bury them. We must move on.

The three of us get up to move. I see the flat landscape stretching away in every direction as far as the eye can see. The day moves on, and the sun, although hidden by the clouds of grey, lifeless dust, is directly overhead. As we walk, I think. Why didn’t the End happen completely, as it was meant to? What if it wasn’t meant to destroy us? But these thoughts have to stop, because we come across a dead animal of some sort. I shoo away the scavenger birds, the only ones thriving in this new world, and my companions and I grab fistfulls of raw meat and down them, drinking from a nearby trickle. I get up to keep moving, when I hear one of the people start talking. I lean towards him, and listen to his nonsensical words.

“Rabbit hops, fox runs, we run. We all run!” Then his tone turns urgent, and he grabs my arm. “Run, little girl! You hear me? Run!” I pry his fingers off my arm, and step away. Just as I do so, he starts convulsing on the ground. He falls over, and white foam dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. My stomach contracts. Is this what happened to my mother, after she wandered off, babbling? Does this fate await all of us?

I feel sick. I double over and throw up. My head pounds. My vision grows distorted, and I think I see my remaining companion raise a gun towards me. I say, “Don’t shoot, please. Please and thank you!” No, that can’t be right, his hand is empty. Empty as my stomach. Imagine a stomach-hand! The thought strikes me as funny and I laugh, which triggers another round of throwing up. My knees buckle, and I collapse to the ground.

From this angle, I can see something through the dust: a beam of light. It reminds me of my mother, so I crawl towards it. When that becomes too difficult, I claw my way across the ground. I must reach that light! Finally, when my fingernails are cracked and my knees are bleeding, I emerge from the cloud of dust. I see a beautiful valley, full of gurgling streams, swaying palm trees, and- people! Healthy, wholesome people, not half starved and covered in dust like those I have been seeing for the last three years. One of them catches my eye and smiles welcomingly. I breathe in a lungful of sweet fresh air. Then another. The air rejuvenates me. I sit up.

The past few minutes are a distorted blur in my memory. But I still feel slightly loopy. As the fog hanging over my mind lifts, I realize that this place shouldn’t be able to exist. The Earth was nearly destroyed! Why should there be a perfect paradise in the middle of this barren wasteland? Perhaps I have died, although I certainly don’t feel dead. My head throbs slightly and the scrapes on my hands and knees burn painfully. I must not be dead. Then what is this? I can think of only one explanation.

Maybe the machine that destroyed my life wasn’t meant to obliterate us. Maybe it was simply meant to reset us, to bring us back to a time of peace and friendship, a time where nature is viewed as an equal, not as a force to be conquered. Maybe this is the Earth’s way of making sure we don’t destroy ourselves. Maybe this is a second chance, to not mess everything up. Because if that was the End, then this is the Beginning.