The End - Visions of Apocalypse

The street was already crowded with people, all of them watching as daylight dwindled. “The world died a long time ago. It’s just been waiting for someone to bury it.” The massive shape turned day into night, eclipsing the sun. John grinned from ear to ear. So this is death.

The sun exploded. Fire spread across the sky, its heat reaching the Earth. A scalding wind crushed down on John, crushed down on everyone. There was a deafening roar as buildings collapsed around him. There was bright light, fire. And pain, pain worse than any John ever knew. But the pain belonged to him, and he welcomed it.

Peace. Peace for everyone. Most of all, for me.

Werner collapsed to the ground, wailing in torment. John leaned over him. “Her name was Kara,” he said. “Our children were named Jonathan and Elena. They were the world to me, and you took them.”

Suddenly, the flames receded into the black object, and intense brightness gave way to absolute darkness, and frigid cold. John’s breath steamed as he exhaled. He smiled, imagining the entire world dying around him. He could hear their screams of terror and agony.

I’ve freed you all. You’re welcome.

The pain overwhelmed John, forcing him to close his eyes.

He didn’t open them again.

MICHAEL J. SULLIVAN Burning Alexandria

Michael J. Sullivan is a full-time novelist and author of the well-received Riyria Revelationfantasy series. He is currently at work on a new novel and loves to hear from his readers. You can read more about him at riyria.blogspot.com.

8. BURNING ALEXANDRIA

by Michael J. Sullivan

It was a pleasure to see the fire burn.

Irwin Gilbert had managed it with just a magnifying glass, a cotton ball, and what was left of a bottle of 70% isopropyl alcohol that still bore the Eckerd Drug label. That bottle had to be three years old, the cotton balls even older. Irwin had a lot of old things squirreled away in his tiny home. They used to call people like Irwin hoarders, but now they’d call him a genius, if anyone knew. Only, if anyone knew, Irwin would be dead.

For safety’s sake he’d started the fire in his largest and deepest cooking pot. The one with plastic handles that stuck out to either side like Mickey Mouse’s ears. He set the stainless steel kettle on top of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, then after a moments consideration, slipped Chicken Soup for the Soul between them. He nurtured the flame first with tissues, then junk mail and newspaper circulars. As the fire grew, smoke began to fill the room and Irwin started to panic. He’d forgotten about ventilation. Images of Wiley E. Coyote flashed through his mind as he struggled to unearth more of the partially covered window, the only one in the whole house that still admitted light. Digging it out, the room’s interior brightened with the white of winter.

Nearly blinding himself in the process, Irwin fumbled for the latch and pinched his frozen fingers before realizing the window had been painted shut. In forty years, Irwin had never tried opening it. He remembered he had other windows, but they were buried and he’d lost track of their locations years ago.

Exposed by the harsh light, Irwin’s living room was little more than a narrow gap between precarious cliffs of books, which ran from floor to ceiling. Hard covers formed the foundations, trade paperbacks the middle strata, with the little mass markets soared to the cottage cheese-textured acoustical ceiling. The stacks of books were easily eight deep in most places, and even if he knew where to dig for another window, he had no guarantee he would be able to open it either.

His eyes watered and stung. The stark winter’s light grew hazy as the tiny space filled with smoke. The campfire smell, which had been pleasant at first, now coated his tongue, saturating his nostrils. Irwin began to cough.

He could practically hear the Meep, meep! of the Roadrunner mocking him. Wiley E. Coyote, super genius, suffocates in his own home. Irwin had few choices: stomp out the little fledging fire with its promise of warmth, or break the window. He couldn’t afford to spend another night as cold as the one before. Picking up a copy of Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker he punched the glass.

Thud.