For Tommorow We Die

For Tommorow We Die

________________________________________

They weren’t heroes or astronauts, fighter pilots or cockamamie scientists, religion addicts or drug fanatics. They were just two people who, in the End, only had a flowerbed, silkworms, Nyquil, and each other.

________________________________________

         “It’s over tomorrow,” Annie stated. The familiar, defiant grin lit her face, but the desolate way her eyes lost their focus betrayed the truth. She had already given in. Appearance was important to her, but tonight the make-up, fanatically straightened hair, and corporate casual attire had been replaced by a girl in a tank and unwashed jeans. She stood in the neglected flowerbed in her socks, leaning against the porch stairs’ railing. Her head rolled up towards the heavens, and tears glistened like the stars. Even as she cried, she sank down into the dirt and laughed, “There’s going to be one Hell of a party tonight. We should go.”
         Lyle snorted, “So we just eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die?”
         Greasy hair fell across her eyes, but she didn’t bother to brush it away. “You got a better idea?”
         He leaned back into the porch swing and stared up at the grimy ceiling boards. The grayed wood was coated in Egg White paint that had been flaking off for years. Fixing it up had been on his To Do list for about as long. Now it would never get done, seeing as it, the porch, the whole house would be demolished in the morning.
         He shrugged, “We could order a pizza.”
         A clod of dirt was lobbed into the porch towards his face.
         “It was just an idea.”
         They fell back into silence. Annie looked to the stars while he studied a silky white mess hanging in the corner of the porch’s ceiling, trying to decide if he had spiders, silkworms, or just a nasty case of cobwebs. The web sack wasn’t the prettiest sight, but he didn’t want to watch the sky anymore. Everyone had been looking at it too much lately. Some searched for sign of an alien race (or Jesus) coming to save the chosen few. The rest spent their last few days among the living trying to catch a glimpse of the meteor.
         They were all obsessed with staring their death in the face, but what else could they do? The trajectories had been charted a thousand times, and collision was always the answer. There were no valiant heroes armed with advanced technology preparing to vaporize the stupid rock. Everyone just sat, twiddling their thumbs until Doomsday.
         Lyle looked down at his hands, his thumbs in particular, and resolutely pulled them apart. He stood and asked, “Annie?” She didn’t answer, didn’t look at him when he came down the creaky stairs and joined her in the flowerbed. She had the tense look, the one with her eyebrows touching and her jaw jutted forward. It looked like she was about to kill someone, but experience had taught him that the look meant she was lost in thought. She only whipped out the butcher’s knife when some idiot made her lose her concentration.
         Without warning, she stood and dashed into the house. Before Lyle made it up the porch stairs, she was back, carrying a blue-green bottle nestled in a plastic Packers cup like it was her newborn babe. She plopped down between the wilting daffodils and gestured for him to join her. Chuckling, she asked, “We’ve got what, five hours until dawn? I don’t want to sit up waiting for it to hit.”
         She handed him the cup and brandished her bottle of Nyquil. “The plan is we drink, say our goodbyes, and die in our sleep.”
         He stared at his cup’s faded gold and green G and sighed, “I prefer the plan where we party like the world was ending,” but he took the Nyquil from her and poured half in the cup. He held both for a moment and weighed them in his hands before he handed her the more full of the two, keeping the bottle for himself.
         “A toast,” he declared with a sloppy grin, holding the Nyquil aloft. “To a girl I know.” He raised it to his lips.
         Annie looked at the contents of her cup before adding, “To the end of the world,” and chugging. He capped the bottle he hadn’t bothered to drink and set it on the porch stairs. Long ago, he had decided to stick it out and witness the Apocalypse. She soon fell asleep in his arms, and he sat with her in the night.
The world was quiet, except for the normal animal noises. He shook his head at them. Animals were supposed to know when the world was about to go to Hell, but now it was the ignorant humans who had the forewarning. Unless there was a Dr. DoLittle in the house, the animal kingdom was going to die oblivious. Part of him wished he were so lucky. Knowing exactly when he and everyone he cared about were going to die had screwed with his head. All he could do was wrap his arms around her until the collision.
         The sky lightened in the east. He checked his watch. It read five thirty-four a.m. Earth was rubble at seven. Resolutely, he stared where the sun would rise, waiting for the end.

         Dawn rose, joyfully starting a new day that wouldn’t last for more than half an hour. The first rays fell on Annie and Lyle. She cradled a plastic cup like her cherished teddy bear, and he held her the same way.
         An empty, blue-green bottle lay in the dirt glinting in the light.

________________________________________