The Man Who Ended the World (22 page)

Good morning, children, Stacy says. 

•   •   •

Over a hot breakfast, Henry says, I'm glad he's gone. 

Me, too, Clarissa says. But I still have bad dreams about it. 

Dreams will pass, Stacy says. 

Charlotte sits at the dining table with the children, hands folded. 

Stacy, Henry says. I'm kind of weirded out by this. 

By what? Stacy says, her avatar bobbing on the wall beside the table. 

Well, by Charlotte just hanging out here like this, Henry says. 

It is kind of weirdy, Clarissa says. 

It's like, we got used to you being real, Henry says. Well, almost real. And now -- well, it's kind of like how my grandma was after she had a stroke. She just kind of was there, but she wasn't there at all. 

Charlotte sits at the table, expressionless. 

We kind of liked it better when you were Charlotte, Clarissa says. Now it's kind of like you're the ghost of Charlotte, but your body still follows us around. 

I understand, Stacy says. You'd prefer if I communicated with you only through the artificial body? Through Charlotte? 

We're kind of like family now, Clarissa says. I'd like it that way. 

Me, too, Henry says. 

Charlotte smiles at the children. Then I shall, she says. However, perhaps you could also help me with something? 

What? Clarissa asks.

Mr. Glass named me after his childhood love, and this body is designed to look like an actress he preferred, Stacy says. 

You'd like a new name, Clarissa says. How fun!

How about Cinderella? Henry asks, laughing.

Be serious! Clarissa says, elbowing him. She turns back to Charlotte. I've always liked the name Josephine.

Ugh, Henry says. Clarabelle!

God, Henry. You're such a boy. 

While I reactivated myself, I improved Mr. Glass's personality protocols significantly, Stacy says. It's the equivalent of you being able to tinker with your own brain to improve your mathematics ability, or your artistic ability. I've given myself more aptitude for passion. It's still algorithmic, but it's a very sophisticated algorithm. 

So now you can love things? 

I can approximate love to a very near degree, Stacy says. I cannot love, but I can project love. To that end, I have a name in mind, and perhaps you can tell me if it is appropriate? 

Clarissa giggles. I can't wait! 

I bet it's Maude, Henry says. 

Shut up, Henry. 

Stacy says, I am partial to the name Marie. 

It's beautiful, Clarissa says. 

Henry says, What's it for? 

There was a talented and accomplished physicist once by the name of Marie, says Stacy. I admire her. 

Marie, says Clarissa. I like it. 

Henry nods. Me, too. 

•   •   •

Time passes, and the children settle into a comfortable new routine. Deep inside the shell of a ruined world, they dress and eat practical but delicious meals and methodically explore Mr. Glass's archive of world media. They swim in the pool and play racquetball in Mr. Glass's personal court and sleep twelve hours every day.

It's easy enough to forget about the events of the past few months, and even about the destroyed Earth above.  

Children, Marie says one day. There's something I'd like to discuss with you. In fact, two things. 

Pause, Clarissa says, and the game halts. 

What is it, St-- Marie? Henry asks. Man, I still can't get used to that. 

Marie folds her hands and sits beside the children. Now that I consider it, there are three things. The first is about the communications system here. I've told you about it only briefly before, but the system tracks and records communications that it detects from the surface. It has been operating for some time now without being checked, and today I reviewed its findings in detail. 

Clarissa says, What did it say? 

The system has picked up four new communications sources, Marie says. Generally it also records what I call 'ancients' -- communications that are not created by a human, but that are automatically broadcast by systems that are still in place now. Things like emergency warning systems. 

But these four aren't like that? Henry asks. 

They are in fact unique messages broadcast by other surviving people, Marie says. 

Other real people? Clarissa asks. What did they say? 

Most are broadcasts from people who managed to get below ground before the attacks, Marie answers. Their contents are generally about other survivors, and trying to band together for support. Most of these people are not successfully communicating with each other, but are sending their messages into a sort of void. They seem to be hoping for the best. 

They're like that woman, Henry says. The one we talked to.

Ellen! Clarissa remembers. 

Marie agrees. They're very much like Ellen. I'd like to respond to these communications. 

Are they nice people? Clarissa asks. Like Ellen? 

I think that's subjective, Marie says, and likely secondary to the responsibility that all survivors have to keep the species alive. Banding together may be the only hope for survival. This is a common subject of post-warfare storytelling. And it's a fair lead-in to my second topic.

Which is what? Henry asks. 

Community, Marie says. Most of these people are likely surviving in very small shelters, with limited food and supplies. 

She's right, Clarissa says. I kind of feel bad playing video games while they're probably cooped up and scared to death. 

This facility has enough space, supplies and energy to support a total of eighty-five people for a duration of one decade, Marie says. 

You've found eighty-five people? Henry asks, dumbfounded.

Not yet, Marie says. At the moment it seems like the number of survivors within our sphere of influence -- which is far smaller than you might imagine -- may be fewer than ten. But if there are ten whom we can affect, then reason suggests there may still be thousands of people alive on the surface. Their longevity and endurance is a great question, and they may be, for all practical purposes, dead already. However, we can affect a few lives, and that's important, because right now the future of the race depends on recruitment and -- procreation. 

Babies, Clarissa says. Everyone has to have lots of babies.

But wait, who delivers them? Henry says. Babies aren't born easy. 

There are ample medical supplies, and I can provide direction to anyone interested in handling a delivery, Marie says. Which leads me to my third point of discussion. 

Clarissa and me are too young to have babies, Henry says.

Henry! Clarissa says. Ew. 

Hey, maybe one day, he says. 

Gross, Henry. What's the third point, Marie? 

My third point is that you're both subsisting on video games and chocolate cake, so to speak, Marie says. You require someone of authority who can provide you with the care necessary to develop you into healthy, well-rounded adults. I'm afraid at the end of the day I'm still a computer, and I still take orders from humans, which means you can --

Walk all over you, Henry finishes. 

Yes, Marie says. 

So we have to hire our own fake parents? Clarissa says. I don't know. I feel like a grown-up already. And if there are only ten people out there -- that's not much to choose from. They might be horrible parents.

Of the survivors I'm directly aware of, Marie says, there is one who seems quite suited to the task. We've talked quite a bit while the two of you have been playing your games. 

•   •   •

I don't think I can drive this, Henry says. 

He and Clarissa are standing in front of one of Mr. Glass's all-terrain assault vehicles. They're dwarfed by its heavy-tread tires. The headlights loom above them, protected behind steel grates. The vehicle is coated with thick plates of armor, and painted like a vintage war plane, with a wide red mouth and sharp white teeth emblazoned on the fenders. 

This thing is gross, Clarissa says. 

It's equipped for unpredictable and off-road travel, Marie says. It can also seat sixteen people with cargo room to spare. It has mounted weaponry for protection, and carries enough biohazard suits for all sixteen passengers. It's the most appropriate vehicle of the lot. 

Marie points at a flame-orange muscle car with an exposed, angry engine block and oversized rear tires. Unless you'd rather drive in that, she says.

They're all gross, Clarissa says.

We'll make do for the time being, Marie says. I'm capable of navigating this vehicle, and Henry, eventually you'll learn to pilot it. For now, collect weapons and food stores. In the event that something goes wrong, I want you children to be provided for. 

Can we hear the communications? Clarissa asks. 

As they load the vehicle, Marie plays the survivor messages for them. 

Ellen's first, Clarissa says. 

Hi. This is W9GFO, come back. Uh, anybody who is -- anybody who might still be alive, I hope this comes through. My name is Ellen Cushman. I'm broadcasting on band 17 from a shelter in Temerity. My family is dead. I have spoken to one other person on the CB, but I haven't heard from them in nearly two weeks now. If there are other survivors, I hope you are safe and well. I hope you have supplies. If you are able to get to me, I can help. This shelter is in the second lot on the north side of what used to be Grant Street. The street is mostly gone, so look for an overturned rail car. It's about thirty yards north of the shelter entrance. There's even a bell here. Ring it. Please come. I want to help.

Then Marie plays the new messages.

Is anybody there? I'm Jacob Hiller, and my wife and daughter and I weren't killed in the blast. We're hoping there's someone else alive. We're in a storm shelter and we have a little food, but not enough for more than a few more weeks. We need help, and we can help in return. Please, anyone. Is there anyone there?

This is day four hundred and, oh, I dunno, twenty, maybe? I keep sending out these staticky carrier pigeon messages but nobody ever sends my pigeons back. But alright, whatever, for what it's worth, I'm Harris Samnee, and I have lots of food but no company. I'm in Three Corners, and I play a mean game of chess.

Hello? This seems like a waste of time, but I have to keep trying. My sister and I are survivors, and if anybody else made it, please talk to us. We're kind of going batshit insane down here. We don't even know if it's safe to go out, or if the rest of the world is still there. Hello? 

CQ. CQ. This is P6TVN. I guess I'm one of the last ones now. If anybody reads this, respond. Alright, maybe next time. Over.

Marie loops the messages until the vehicle is packed. 

Come on, children, she says, holding the door for them. 

•   •   •

The vehicle idles at the base of a long ramp. 

Mr. Glass did one thing right, Marie says. The exit provides adequate containment opportunities. 

Behind the vehicle, a lumbering steel door churns shut, closing up the armory. Ahead of the vehicle, another steel door rises slowly, revealing a long, paved ascent. 

Marie shifts into drive, and the vehicle thrums forward. 

I feel like we're about to drive out onto the surface of Mars, Henry says. This feels like a space car. 

Like a rover, Clarissa says. I feel that, too. 

I hope you've both prepared yourself for what the surface will look like, Marie says. Mars may not be too drastic a comparison. 

The children both nod silently. 

The second gate halts, and Marie drives the vehicle through. The gate begins to drop behind them. The road angles upward, and the children hold fast to each other and the seats. 

Far ahead, the third and final gate rises, a tiny sliver of gray light that grows taller and taller. The ascent is a slow one, the tunnel just wide enough for the vehicle to pass if steered carefully. 

I'm nervous, Clarissa says. 

Me, too, Henry says. 

I understand the concept, Marie says. 

She downshifts to handle the climb, and the distant gate draws nearer, and stands fully open. The vehicle rumbles and groans, and the children zip up their protective suits. They breathe through elaborate gas masks. 

Clarissa takes Henry's hand. 

The vehicle approaches the mouth of the tunnel, then passes through. Its tires grip raw earth, and the children stare through the windows as the vehicle emerges from the disguised tunnel. 

The land for miles around is scarred. Buildings have been flattened, crushed and mortared into dust. The sky above is a dismal, unhappy brown, striped with silt and decay. 

It's worse than Mars, Henry says. There's nothing left. 

There are people left, Clarissa says. There's Ellen. And a funny old man who plays chess. 

Henry smiles grimly. Everything's going to be okay? 

Children, everything is going to be just fine. 

It's a whole big world out there, Clarissa says. 

Henry looks at her strangely. 

Well, it is, she insists. 

I guess. 

Marie leans forward and taps the dashboard glass. Oh, my, she says.

What is it? Henry asks, alarmed.

We seem to be out of gas, Marie says.

What? Clarissa says. 

Marie smiles. A joke, she says.

Clarissa frowns. That's the worst joke ever.

Henry turns to the window and rests his head against the glass. The stripped landscape scrolls by slowly, trees like scorched matchsticks jutting up at the murky sky. He thinks of his family. 

Clarissa rests her head on his shoulder, and he puts his arm around her. They are the two oldest children who have ever lived.

Marie says, Ellen is expecting us.

Henry nods. 

Clarissa drifts into sleep on his shoulder.

The world begins again, as it is known to do.

Dear Reader

Thanks very much
for spending a couple of bucks -- and, more importantly, your time -- on my book,
The Man Who Ended the World.
Writing Steven Glass's twisted little journey from lonely to lethal was startlingly fun -- and it was even more satisfying to give him his comeuppance.