William's story has been nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize by EIR
William Diamond
THE END OF THE WORLD. NOT.
After three months, Gideon was disappointed in the end of the world.
He cradled his gun and sat on the rock outcropping that had views of the main approaches to his hidden bunker. Gideon had determined the most effective sight lines, and practiced with numerous stockpiled armaments. His camouflage clothing blended with the thick forest of the remote mountain.
All was quiet. Abel lolled in the sun with an occasional wag of his tail. Gideon’s fingers itched to utilize his well-honed expertise. But, there was no one to fend off. No desperate enemies coming to harm his family and steal his precious supplies. He ran his hand through the stubble of the military cut above his crest-fallen brow.
Gideon had prepared for the apocalypse most of his adult life. It had become his life. Now, as he neared fifty, it had arrived. But, little had changed. Many had died, of course, but, it wasn’t the complete breakdown of society he’d anticipated and made provision for. Most of that quarter of a century, his existence was lonely and harsh.
The end hadn’t ridden in on a foreign attack or internal conflict. Those had been his preferences. No catastrophic natural disaster. A messiah hadn’t arrived in a second coming to declare him among the worthy and prescient. Gideon wasn’t crazy and, therefore, had never believed in aliens as some of his fellow survivalists. So the fact that they hadn’t landed was no surprise to Gideon. He was ready to fight off the black helicopters of the globalist conspiracy. But, they’d never darkened the sky. Gideon believed he was no dupe. He had studied and listened and questioned. Then believed. The facts he’d selected seemed compelling. Demanding he take drastic action.
Plague, virus, whatever the technical term was, had brought the end. A mutation of an animal disease had jumped to humans. It was airborne and apparently there was a two week latency period. That was enough time for the pathogen to spread across the globe. Those who were infected early traveled and infected others. Helping the wind. Too late for preparations or countermeasures. Isolation hadn’t helped.
Once the dying started, it was quick and deadly. Worldwide the death toll was between fifty and sixty percent.
The epidemic was indiscriminate. It struck saints and sinners alike. The already weak, the sick and the compromised elderly, were slightly more vulnerable. But, the athletic and healthy also died.
If the evidence was to be believed, there was no foreign power nor malignant actor behind it. The blight wasn’t a tool of an angry god striking down the evil. No country was immune. All the various ‘Chosen Ones’ had no special reprieve. There was no blessed race, religion, party or gender.
There was some panic, but it hadn’t metastasized to society-crumbling chaos. Where disruption had occurred, it had been contained and suppressed. More people turned to helping each other and their communities, than fighting.
In the early days, his favorite media icons had preached that god was finally wielding his sword to exact retribution. As in the Bible, the religiously and politically righteous would be spared and elevated. That didn’t happen. Then the shills pivoted. A few speculated that the plague would create an army of the undead doing the work of an immoral, unseen hand. But, there were no zombies to repel. The dead stayed dead. Some of his flame-throwing media figures perished. From the plague. From angry mobs fed up with those trying to divide and benefit from misery. A few from disillusioned believers, or their own hand. Gideon understood the sense of betrayal that the promise deliverance and idealogical justice never materialized.
In a particularly cruel blow, those with full inoculations had some cross protection and, as a result, higher survival. Gideon and his fellow medicine resisters were particularly hard hit. Their death toll was comparable to that of impoverished third world countries. He had buried his wife and the two sons who’d stayed at the compound. His daughter-in-law had left with her surviving child in the hope advanced medicine would provide the infant additional protection. Gideon hadn’t tried to stop her. Because of the isolation he’d imposed, they were less prepared for survival, not more.
Among Gideon’s fellow travelers, some dead enders tried to spin the disparity as evidence of a plot to get them. Gideon just couldn’t buy it anymore. Whether it was forty-five percent or sixty-five percent of your friends and neighbors and church goers and countrymen who died, it was equally devastating. From what he’d heard, and personally seen in his excursion to Boise, no one was immune from the impact. There might be some group, somewhere, that was safe and manipulating everything. But, it just didn’t make sense. Those who had been castigated as possible leaders of the Cabals (politicians, business titans, religious leaders) had been equally ravaged.
A few Armageddon advocates tried to make things worse in god’s name. They were crushed with impatience and brutality, thus granting their personal end-of-days wishes.
As quickly as it had come, the plague dissipated. Like a single sweep of the grim reaper’s scythe. The scourge plucked its victims and, satisfied, melted away. It crashed as fast as it had spiked. By the end of six weeks, the dying largely stopped. At least from the disease. There were no residual physical effects for the living. There was inability to cope, survivor guilt and bereft suicides. But, most of those were past. Survivors began surviving. The world had changed. It had not collapsed.
Gideon swatted at the ever-present mosquitos and took another sweep of the terrain through his binoculars. Empty. His shoulders slumped. “Let’s go, boy.” Abel jumped up. His demeanor was unaffected by the events. At the hand-built cabin, Gideon activated his solar powered communication array. The latest news was the same. More rebuilding efforts. More damnable normalcy.
The government he’d suspected and resisted had swung into action. Looters were shot. Critical infrastructure was protected. Bodies efficiently gathered and disposed of. Diplomacy had prevented the worse of inter-country finger-pointing, blame and violence. Even the despised United Nations had been a force for calm and rationality. Community unity prevailed over individual interest.
After the death wave passed, people went back to work. Surviving military and essential personnel kept the communication, energy, transportation, medical, food and water supply grids operating. Now, there was preliminary discussion of a long term “Critical Mass Project”. The notion was to voluntarily concentrate people in the most sustainable cities around the country to focus expertise and better operate essential infrastructure. The path from devastation and pain was trending upward toward hope and recovery, not national and self destruction.
Gideon turned off the computer. He whistled for Abel. “Time for the monthly inventory.’’ Habit rather than necessity.
After uncovering the hidden entrance, Gideon unlocked the sturdy and expensive security door on his cache. Monitoring the stores had been Helen’s job. The thought brought a tear and he choked up. The vast provisions had been for longterm, survival in a shattered world. They were superfluous in a world that was injured, but functioning. His ammunition and weapon supply was worthless. There was no one to fight or resist. Attackers weren’t assaulting his bunker. Rather than descending into warring factions and wandering mobs, people responded with kindness and determination. No one was coming to put him in a camp or indoctrinate his kids. He was free to do what he wanted. Just like before. If he decided to stay here by himself, no one cared. Without implacable enemies, Gideon couldn’t use all this ammunition in a millennium.
The new world was a time of plenty. At first, an abundance of loss, grief, guilt and depression. That was a short phase. There was no time to wallow. There was work to be done, in numbing shock, then with resolve. Half the people meant there was a near term surplus of everything, not a paucity to be fought over. The catastrophe eliminated other world threatening crises. Less competition for limited resources. No water shortages. No food shortages. No housing shortage. There would be full employment. Immigration was disappearing as an issue.
Earth wasn’t the debacle Gideon had warned about. Had trained for. In some ways, that he had hoped for. That he had blindly sacrificed so much for. The world wasn’t falling back to primitive times. It was taking a path forward. The road was eased because the physical skeleton of civilization was unscathed.
The coin of the realm wasn’t gold bars or personal weaponry, but human skills. Gideon had prepped for long term survival under siege in a pre-industrial world. That world would never return. Now he was obsolete.
Sitting among his devalued treasure, he wondered what was his purpose? Over the years, some of Gideon’s children had asked that very question. They had argued. He’d been accused of paranoia. Gideon had responded with charges of naivety and blasphemy. He’d squandered a son and daughter before the plague in an almost more devastating loss. Gideon cast their decision to leave as a betrayal of his beliefs and his life. Bitterness. Recriminations. Years wasted.
He’d recently heard from his estranged daughter seeking information on the family. Her atheist husband was also alive and they’d lost only one child. She conveyed the news that Isaac, his youngest, had succumbed. She invited him to join her in Portland. Gideon couldn’t accept.
He was glad his daughter and some of his grandchildren had survived. It wasn’t enough. They were supposed to live because of him. Not in spite of him. He’d believed he was right. Was doing right. His heart ached. The worst pain was the searing doubt that had replaced his absolute certainty.
For Gideon, this was the worst imagined outcome. His dreams and life shattered. It was as if he’d been found unworthy and punished for his hubris. Cast out into the wilderness, not by choice, but by his self-inflicted actions and decisions.
He studied the mountain of ammunition he had hoarded like Midas’ gold. Gideon looked at Abel with forlorn eyes. Tonight, there would be a use for two of those bullets.
After three months, Gideon was disappointed in the end of the world.
He cradled his gun and sat on the rock outcropping that had views of the main approaches to his hidden bunker. Gideon had determined the most effective sight lines, and practiced with numerous stockpiled armaments. His camouflage clothing blended with the thick forest of the remote mountain.
All was quiet. Abel lolled in the sun with an occasional wag of his tail. Gideon’s fingers itched to utilize his well-honed expertise. But, there was no one to fend off. No desperate enemies coming to harm his family and steal his precious supplies. He ran his hand through the stubble of the military cut above his crest-fallen brow.
Gideon had prepared for the apocalypse most of his adult life. It had become his life. Now, as he neared fifty, it had arrived. But, little had changed. Many had died, of course, but, it wasn’t the complete breakdown of society he’d anticipated and made provision for. Most of that quarter of a century, his existence was lonely and harsh.
The end hadn’t ridden in on a foreign attack or internal conflict. Those had been his preferences. No catastrophic natural disaster. A messiah hadn’t arrived in a second coming to declare him among the worthy and prescient. Gideon wasn’t crazy and, therefore, had never believed in aliens as some of his fellow survivalists. So the fact that they hadn’t landed was no surprise to Gideon. He was ready to fight off the black helicopters of the globalist conspiracy. But, they’d never darkened the sky. Gideon believed he was no dupe. He had studied and listened and questioned. Then believed. The facts he’d selected seemed compelling. Demanding he take drastic action.
Plague, virus, whatever the technical term was, had brought the end. A mutation of an animal disease had jumped to humans. It was airborne and apparently there was a two week latency period. That was enough time for the pathogen to spread across the globe. Those who were infected early traveled and infected others. Helping the wind. Too late for preparations or countermeasures. Isolation hadn’t helped.
Once the dying started, it was quick and deadly. Worldwide the death toll was between fifty and sixty percent.
The epidemic was indiscriminate. It struck saints and sinners alike. The already weak, the sick and the compromised elderly, were slightly more vulnerable. But, the athletic and healthy also died.
If the evidence was to be believed, there was no foreign power nor malignant actor behind it. The blight wasn’t a tool of an angry god striking down the evil. No country was immune. All the various ‘Chosen Ones’ had no special reprieve. There was no blessed race, religion, party or gender.
There was some panic, but it hadn’t metastasized to society-crumbling chaos. Where disruption had occurred, it had been contained and suppressed. More people turned to helping each other and their communities, than fighting.
In the early days, his favorite media icons had preached that god was finally wielding his sword to exact retribution. As in the Bible, the religiously and politically righteous would be spared and elevated. That didn’t happen. Then the shills pivoted. A few speculated that the plague would create an army of the undead doing the work of an immoral, unseen hand. But, there were no zombies to repel. The dead stayed dead. Some of his flame-throwing media figures perished. From the plague. From angry mobs fed up with those trying to divide and benefit from misery. A few from disillusioned believers, or their own hand. Gideon understood the sense of betrayal that the promise deliverance and idealogical justice never materialized.
In a particularly cruel blow, those with full inoculations had some cross protection and, as a result, higher survival. Gideon and his fellow medicine resisters were particularly hard hit. Their death toll was comparable to that of impoverished third world countries. He had buried his wife and the two sons who’d stayed at the compound. His daughter-in-law had left with her surviving child in the hope advanced medicine would provide the infant additional protection. Gideon hadn’t tried to stop her. Because of the isolation he’d imposed, they were less prepared for survival, not more.
Among Gideon’s fellow travelers, some dead enders tried to spin the disparity as evidence of a plot to get them. Gideon just couldn’t buy it anymore. Whether it was forty-five percent or sixty-five percent of your friends and neighbors and church goers and countrymen who died, it was equally devastating. From what he’d heard, and personally seen in his excursion to Boise, no one was immune from the impact. There might be some group, somewhere, that was safe and manipulating everything. But, it just didn’t make sense. Those who had been castigated as possible leaders of the Cabals (politicians, business titans, religious leaders) had been equally ravaged.
A few Armageddon advocates tried to make things worse in god’s name. They were crushed with impatience and brutality, thus granting their personal end-of-days wishes.
As quickly as it had come, the plague dissipated. Like a single sweep of the grim reaper’s scythe. The scourge plucked its victims and, satisfied, melted away. It crashed as fast as it had spiked. By the end of six weeks, the dying largely stopped. At least from the disease. There were no residual physical effects for the living. There was inability to cope, survivor guilt and bereft suicides. But, most of those were past. Survivors began surviving. The world had changed. It had not collapsed.
Gideon swatted at the ever-present mosquitos and took another sweep of the terrain through his binoculars. Empty. His shoulders slumped. “Let’s go, boy.” Abel jumped up. His demeanor was unaffected by the events. At the hand-built cabin, Gideon activated his solar powered communication array. The latest news was the same. More rebuilding efforts. More damnable normalcy.
The government he’d suspected and resisted had swung into action. Looters were shot. Critical infrastructure was protected. Bodies efficiently gathered and disposed of. Diplomacy had prevented the worse of inter-country finger-pointing, blame and violence. Even the despised United Nations had been a force for calm and rationality. Community unity prevailed over individual interest.
After the death wave passed, people went back to work. Surviving military and essential personnel kept the communication, energy, transportation, medical, food and water supply grids operating. Now, there was preliminary discussion of a long term “Critical Mass Project”. The notion was to voluntarily concentrate people in the most sustainable cities around the country to focus expertise and better operate essential infrastructure. The path from devastation and pain was trending upward toward hope and recovery, not national and self destruction.
Gideon turned off the computer. He whistled for Abel. “Time for the monthly inventory.’’ Habit rather than necessity.
After uncovering the hidden entrance, Gideon unlocked the sturdy and expensive security door on his cache. Monitoring the stores had been Helen’s job. The thought brought a tear and he choked up. The vast provisions had been for longterm, survival in a shattered world. They were superfluous in a world that was injured, but functioning. His ammunition and weapon supply was worthless. There was no one to fight or resist. Attackers weren’t assaulting his bunker. Rather than descending into warring factions and wandering mobs, people responded with kindness and determination. No one was coming to put him in a camp or indoctrinate his kids. He was free to do what he wanted. Just like before. If he decided to stay here by himself, no one cared. Without implacable enemies, Gideon couldn’t use all this ammunition in a millennium.
The new world was a time of plenty. At first, an abundance of loss, grief, guilt and depression. That was a short phase. There was no time to wallow. There was work to be done, in numbing shock, then with resolve. Half the people meant there was a near term surplus of everything, not a paucity to be fought over. The catastrophe eliminated other world threatening crises. Less competition for limited resources. No water shortages. No food shortages. No housing shortage. There would be full employment. Immigration was disappearing as an issue.
Earth wasn’t the debacle Gideon had warned about. Had trained for. In some ways, that he had hoped for. That he had blindly sacrificed so much for. The world wasn’t falling back to primitive times. It was taking a path forward. The road was eased because the physical skeleton of civilization was unscathed.
The coin of the realm wasn’t gold bars or personal weaponry, but human skills. Gideon had prepped for long term survival under siege in a pre-industrial world. That world would never return. Now he was obsolete.
Sitting among his devalued treasure, he wondered what was his purpose? Over the years, some of Gideon’s children had asked that very question. They had argued. He’d been accused of paranoia. Gideon had responded with charges of naivety and blasphemy. He’d squandered a son and daughter before the plague in an almost more devastating loss. Gideon cast their decision to leave as a betrayal of his beliefs and his life. Bitterness. Recriminations. Years wasted.
He’d recently heard from his estranged daughter seeking information on the family. Her atheist husband was also alive and they’d lost only one child. She conveyed the news that Isaac, his youngest, had succumbed. She invited him to join her in Portland. Gideon couldn’t accept.
He was glad his daughter and some of his grandchildren had survived. It wasn’t enough. They were supposed to live because of him. Not in spite of him. He’d believed he was right. Was doing right. His heart ached. The worst pain was the searing doubt that had replaced his absolute certainty.
For Gideon, this was the worst imagined outcome. His dreams and life shattered. It was as if he’d been found unworthy and punished for his hubris. Cast out into the wilderness, not by choice, but by his self-inflicted actions and decisions.
He studied the mountain of ammunition he had hoarded like Midas’ gold. Gideon looked at Abel with forlorn eyes. Tonight, there would be a use for two of those bullets.
Bill Diamond is a writer living in Evergreen, Colorado. Recently, several of his initial stories have been published.
