- Home
- Mats Strandberg
The End Page 2
The End Read online
Page 2
If Foxworth had been discovered years ago, we could have directed a laser at it from Earth. That could have been enough to change the comet’s trajectory. (Don’t ask me how. It’s got something to do with the gases inside it.) But by the time we found the comet, it was too late. Someone compared it to driving a car in a large open space: If another car comes at you from five hundred yards away, you can avoid a crash by turning the wheel slightly. But if you see the car only when it’s right in front of you, you don’t stand a chance.
There wasn’t enough time to flee Earth, either. Our disaster movies usually end with us sending an ark into space if all else fails—a huge spaceship filled with thousands of people chosen to perpetuate the species. The reality turned out to be less impressive. One famous multibillionaire, despite the fact that his money’s currently worthless, tried to organize an expedition to Mars. Even if he’d succeeded, ten people at most would have joined him, only to die slowly on our inhospitable neighboring planet. There weren’t a lot of volunteers.
The comet deniers will probably keep denying it until 'the bitter end, believing that the rest of us are just gullible. They know the truth. This is PR intended to let the Americans “rescue us” at the last second. Or “fake news” from Russia designed to distract the world while they prepare an invasion.
Or it’s a communist plot to crush the capitalist system. People believe whatever they want to believe. It’s not like it’s the first time. You should have seen how good we were at turning a blind eye to climate change. Earth has been ending for a while now.
At first, the comet's name was a combination of numbers and letters, but that felt entirely too impersonal for something that would end our existence. Now it’s called Foxworth, after the woman at NASA who discovered it. I wonder what it feels like to have your name associated with something that’s going to kill us all. She could have gone down in history. If there were anyone left to write history.
But I guess that’s what I’m doing right now. Theoretically, anyway. TellUs is an attempt to hand over to other life-forms stories about Earth and what it was like to live here. I wonder how many TellUs users really believe that anyone is going to read what they write. Still, it’s a way to pass the time. It gives you purpose. We need to believe that someone out there will know we were here.
What I write here is streamed to distant satellites that save our stories and send them out into space. When we’re gone, the satellites will keep transmitting. At least, until they break or are hit by space junk or whatever. Despite everything, this might reach you. If you exist. And if you have the right equipment. If you’re able to understand what I’m writing, or if you even care.
The same satellites will send out scientific facts about the planet, as well as coordinates of the places where we’ve tried to preserve our most famous works of art, books, and pieces of music, the DNA sequences of animals and humans—the seed vault that used to be at Svalbard (in a “doomsday bunker” that isn’t sturdy enough for this doomsday). Everything is being packed into protective materials and lowered into mines far from the impact site. No one knows if it will work, but it seems to be the best we can do.
One day, you might be able to re-create a human in an alien lab. Or at least plant a few geraniums. That thought is supposed to make our deaths feel less meaningless.
I saw an interview with a few people who’d decided to move into the mine in Kiruna. They’ll die buried underneath thousands of feet of molten rock. I can’t imagine a worse way to go.
Do you know when you’re going to die?
Humans have always known that we’re going to die one day, but never precisely when. Not like this, not the very second.
Maybe you’re wondering why I’m not panicking. I am scared. More scared than I might seem. But I think I’m less scared than a lot of other people. And the worst thing—the thing I can’t tell anyone other than you—is that a part of me is relieved. Well, maybe not relieved. That’s not the right word. But it’s not entirely wrong.
SIMON
It’s hot, way too hot, and it stinks of chlorine and smoke and booze and bodies. Screams, shouts, and splashes echo against the tiles and the windows and the high ceiling, drowning out the music from the speakers. I recognize one of Tilda’s playlists. It was her idea to have the party here. She still has the keys.
School was supposed to start today. That’s why we’re partying. We’re pretending that it’s something to celebrate. If things had been normal, I’d be a junior now.
I look at the large clock at the end of the swimming pool. Realize that I’ve spent an hour passed out in the bathroom. Wasted a huge chunk of time that’s already getting shorter. The seconds relentlessly rush past.
Four weeks and five days left.
Our days are numbered. Today, our final, tiny bit of hope was taken from us. Goodbye, cruel world.
I take a sip of moonshine; it tastes awful, not matter what you mix it with, but it’s the only thing available these days.
I search for Tilda among the heads bobbing in the turquoise water. This is her world, her place, her friends. I don’t know where I fit in anymore. I only know that I don’t want to stay. But I can’t go home, either.
Everywhere around me, people are slipping across the wet floor. There’s going to be an accident; it’s in the air. Hampus flips into the water, and his neck grazes the concrete edge of the pool. When I dived in a little while ago, I had to struggle back to the surface.
There were arms and legs everywhere.
I empty the plastic bottle, and someone pounds me on the back. Ali. He laughs and says something I can’t make out.
“Huh?”
“I said, Where have you been?”
“Have you seen Tilda?”
I can hear myself slurring: Hseetllda?
“Who gives a shit about Tilda?” Ali shouts, and runs toward the pool, gathering his legs up in the air to land in the water with an explosive splash.
I stumble on, past the bleachers where I’ve sat countless times to watch Tilda compete.
There are droves of bodies—some have fallen asleep, alone or curled up together. Others are having sex. A girl has wrapped a towel around herself and is riding a guy on the first row. I bump into his knee when I walk past them.
Johannes walks toward me from the short end of the pool. His curly hair is dripping, and his shoulders are up as if he’s cold. He says hi to someone who passes him but doesn’t take his eyes off me. My best friend. I can tell he’s worried about me. His girlfriend, Amanda, is sitting with a group of people in front of the low, tiled wall. Elin says something that makes them all laugh, but Amanda sneaks a look at me as she gathers her hair and wrings it out.
Johannes puts his cold hands on my shoulder. His fingertips are wrinkled with water.
“What’s up?” he says.
“Have you seen Tilda?”
This time, I manage not to slur. Johannes tries to smile. “I think she went home.”
“Johannes,” I say. “I love you, but you’re a terrible liar.”
He brushes aside the wet hair sticking to his forehead.
“Come on,” he says. “You’re wasted. Let’s go somewhere and talk.”
That would be a much better idea. I know that. But then I hear Tilda’s laughter. Behind the low wall is the kids’ pool with its red plastic slide. Johannes follows my gaze toward it. “Simon, come with me instead. We can get out of here if you want.”
I don’t say anything. It’s too late. I have to know.
Johannes calls my name as I round the wall.
This side isn’t as crowded. I spot her immediately. Tilda is on her belly on a float in the middle of the pool. Even from this distance, I can tell that she’s high. Her pupils are wide and dark. She’s in a swimsuit she used to wear during her competitions. The swim club’s logo on the chest, Tilda in cursive on her ass.
Sait is on his knees next to her; the water only reaches halfway up his six-pack. He drags Tilda off the floa
t. She shrieks with laughter. Their teeth glow in the underwater lights. I still love you, Tilda told me at the beginning of June. It was just days after we first heard about the comet.
She loves me, but it’s not enough.
I just want to live life to the fullest in the time we have left, she’d said.
So do I. But I want to do it with her. To me, Tilda is life. She’s the one I want to be with when the sky turns white.
Sait pulls her close in the water. I barely know him; he’s a few years older than us. His hand is inside Tilda’s swimsuit. His knuckles are clearly visible beneath the thin fabric. She closes her eyes when he kisses the side of her neck.
I should go, but I feel paralyzed.
I don’t want to see more, but I can’t look away, either.
Someone screams behind me. Tilda looks up. Our eyes meet. Sait brushes drops of water from his eyes and spots me, too.
I can finally move. I walk as quickly as I can without slipping, vaguely aware that some girls lounging by the pool’s edge are watching me. I jog past the dark café and into the locker room. When the door slides shut behind me, the music and the voices are muffled. I can hear my own breathing, heavy and panting.
It stinks in here. Someone vomited in one of the showers. Partly digested food is stuck in the drain grate. I continue between the rows of lockers, barely able to stay upright. It’s as though all the strength has left my body. My skin is tingling, my head spinning.
I collapse on one of the benches. Think to myself that I should have gone with Johannes. I can’t go back and look for him, but I just want to leave , and I don’t think I can make it alone.
The door to the locker room opens and closes. Wet footsteps sound against the tile, then against the plastic carpet.
When I look up, she’s standing there. Tilda has wrapped her arms around herself. Her dark hair is pushed back, dripping onto the floor by her feet. Her eyes are as glassy as a doll’s. A few months ago, I would have laughed if anyone had told me Tilda would ever do drugs. A lot has changed since then.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she says. “I didn’t think you were still here.”
“Can’t we leave?” I say. “Just go? I miss you so fucking much.”
Tilda shakes her head. I should shut up, but what do I have to lose?
“I don’t want to be alone,” I say, and realize I’m slurring again.
“That’s not a good reason to stay together.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
I pull on the rubber band around my wrist. My locker key jangles against the numbered badge. I let go of the band, letting it snap against my skin over and over again, to clear my head. But I barely feel it.
“I love you,” I say. “Why don’t you want to be with me?”
“I don’t want to be with anyone in the time we have left. You know that. I want to be able to do whatever I want.”
“We can have an open relationship,” I try.
A crooked smile. She doesn’t believe me. I don’t even believe myself.
“We can try it out,” I insist. “We belong together.”
Tilda sits down next to me. She looks sad, but I don’t know in what way. Maybe she misses me, too. Maybe she just feels sorry for me.
“No,” she says. “It’s never going to be you and me again. The girl you were with . . . she doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe she never did.”
I snort. “What does that even mean?”
“That you have to give up.”
Now I’m sure it’s pity I see in her eyes.
The room starts to spin. The taste of moonshine rises in my throat.
“You have to understand,” Tilda says. “Is this really how you want to spend your final days?”
Suddenly, I just want her to leave. Having her so close when she’s so far away hurts too much.
“You’ll be sorry it when it comes,” I say. “But you know what? Afterward, you can’t take it back, because there won’t be an afterward.”
The doll’s eyes blink.
Someone calls her name, and we both look up at the same time. Elin and Amanda. I don’t know how long they’ve been standing there. Don’t know how much they’ve heard.
“We have to get out of here,” Amanda says.
The changing-room door opens again. Voices from the showers. Someone lets out a disgusted shriek. Boots against the floor. Two police officers approach between the rows of lockers: a man with a beard and a short-haired woman who looks vaguely familiar.
“Right, kids,” the bearded one says. “Time to wrap it up.”
I get to my feet too quickly. The floor comes rushing up to meet me. Tilda catches me before I fall.
“We’ll have to give this one a ride home,” the female officer says, and I try to protest.
“You can’t walk all the way,” Tilda says.
“It’s fine.”
The officers grab me by the arms. I try to pull free, but their grip tightens.
“Where are your clothes, Simon?” the woman asks.
“How do you know my name?”
“Let’s discuss that later.”
She looks at the badge on my wrist and marches me toward the locker.
I lose sight of Tilda as people pour into the changing room. Another police officer is ushering them in, shouting at them to hurry up. No one’s paying attention to him. Not like they would have before.
And there won’t be any consequences. There’s no time for that. The world is ending. All the police can do is make sure we don’t kill ourselves in the meantime.
4 WEEKS, 4 DAYS LEFT
SIMON
Iwake up to panting in my ear. A wet nose is pressed against my cheek.
“Go away. I want to sleep,” I say, and reach out a hand, trying to shove away the wall of warm fur.
Boomer licks his lips. I reluctantly look up into a pair of large brown eyes. Boomer’s head obscures most of my field of vision. His tongue darts out, rough against my wrist.
Four weeks, four days left.
The panic comes crawling back. My thoughts spin in their endless circles.
I’m wide awake. I have to get up, have to move. It’s the only way to stay sane.
When I sit up, it feels like my head’s exploded. As if the comet has already smashed into my skull. Boomer barks excitedly and spins around on the spot. His tail sweeps my glass of water off the table; I manage to scoop my phone off the floor right before the water can hit it.
“Take it easy,” I say and unlock the phone to read what I wrote to Tilda when I got home last night.
I apologized for being pathetic and, of course, only managed to sound even more pathetic. It’s ok, she replied. But it doesn’t feel all that fucking okay right now, and I can’t help but wonder if she sent me that message from Sait’s bed. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.
“Judette and I want to talk to you.”
I lower my hands. Stina’s in the doorway, dressed for work. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back, and her priest’s collar is around her neck.
“Hurry up,” she says, and leaves.
I catch a whiff of smoke and chlorine from my jeans as I shove aside the covers. I fell asleep with my clothes on. Stars hover at the edge of my vision as I roll out of bed and push Boomer with my knee to get him to move.
They’re sitting, waiting for me on one of the living room sofas. I can really tell that Stina’s psyched herself up for this. We’re about to have a serious talk. Judette only watches me coldly. She can communicate more with a look than Stina can in one of her lengthy lectures.
We were supposed to have a video call with Judette’s friends in Dominica yesterday. I get that the moms are disappointed. But it’s not as simple as me wanting to be out partying. I didn’t want to stay home. I didn’t want to sit here with them, thinking about the end of the world and about death. I didn’t want to think at all.
“How are you feeling?” Stina asks.
> “Like shit,” I say.
“You’ve made your bed,” Stina replies, turning to Judette for support.
Judette crosses one leg over the other. “Do you realize how humiliating it was for me to see Maria drive you home in a police car?”
Stina looks annoyed. “That was hardly the worst part.”
My brain is still sluggish, but I’m starting to piece things together. The short-haired police officer—that’s how I recognized her. I’ve met her a couple of times. She was on Judette’s hockey team.
“I had a little too much to drink,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Stina snorts loudly—gesturing exasperatedly at Judette—but I can tell that she’s loving the chance to present a united front. I’m doing her a favor by being a difficult teen.
They’ve been divorced for six months now. Stina finally took off her wedding ring this past spring, but I know she still carries it around in her wallet. She’s told me that I have to let Tilda go, but she’s just as pathetic as I am.
“You can’t keep staying out every night,” Judette says.