12|21|12 (2 page)

He set the station to broadcast at full wattage and tied it into the national network. The tape would loop infinitely. Loeb streamed it over the station’s website and linked to it from every video hosting site he could find. He created his own login to the station’s billing and tracking software. He couldn’t track TV viewers, but if someone watched the video on the Web, he would know. The message was there for everyone to see. Now, all he could do was wait.

Loeb arrived back at the Freedom Hotel when the long afternoon shadows were washing the streets with bitter cold. The world hadn’t yet noticed the absence of man. It would be hundreds, maybe thousands of years before the effects of human folly were erased from the planet, but far less before everything shut down and the world came grinding to a halt. Time was “x,” the unknown variable in the next equation to be solved.

Fate had not left him a graduate assistant to do his grunt work, so after one stiff drink, and then another to take the chill off, Loeb settled into the chair at his desk by the window and began checking for replies to his posts, comments on his ads, or any sign to indicate someone else was out there.

It came very simply as a soft ping and the appearance of a “1” in the view counter beside his video. Someone else
was
out there. Someone had watched the video. Someone had heard his message. He checked his cell, checked his email — nothing — just that solitary “1” on the computer screen. It stared at him for hours.

Loeb was awakened from a dreamless sleep by music, a song he despised. In the “before” time, he had chosen it as his ringtone for someone not in his cell’s phonebook, someone unknown and therefore not worth his time. He cursed the phone, pressing all the wrong buttons before the call went to voicemail.

Night had come to the city. The Parkway was beautiful at night. He had always thought that but had never really taken the time to appreciate it when time was not the issue. Now, with time the
only
issue, he connected to his voicemail. There was one message. He recognized the voice, a woman he had met once, an admirer of sorts, someone infatuated with his mind as well as his body. “Call me, Philip,” she said simply. “You know the number.” He stared at the phone. The date stamp was two weeks old. He had been in the airport and was tired of waiting in the security line to be screened. He had ignored the call then as he often did. One view, one missed call, no message —the commercials, the test patterns, and his recording played over and over.

The smartest man on the planet realized he was also the hungriest. He showered, dressed, took the elevator down to the restaurant, put on a CD from the collection behind the maître d's station, and listened to classical music while making dinner. What his cooking lacked in culinary skill, he more than made up for with a bottle of wine from the Freedom’s cellar. Loeb was drinking the last of it when the out-of-place intruded — the sound of a door opening and a chill gust of air from the lobby.

Bowen closed his eyes and listened to the helicopter blades chopping the air above. He saw everything: the gleam of the sun on the craft as it dropped below the clouds, its shadow moving across the bright snow-covered hills, the faces of the passengers in the windows looking down at the pristine forest. He saw it all. He had acquired his inner vision from Little Feather, the old Apache tracker. He had lived with him for a year in the wilds. Little Feather taught him about the forest, about people, about life and death.

Bowen opened his eyes when he heard the first crunch. The waiting was over. The buck was eating the apples laid out on a tree stump next to his hide. Thick falling snow was forming a white ridge on the animal’s back as it stood motionless and alert. Once the six-point whitetail determined that it was safe, the doe and the young ones hiding in the nearby brush would follow. They were beautiful creatures. Bowen was not hunting them. He had been waiting in his hide in the woods for hours for no other reason than to be close enough to touch one.

Bowen was a survivalist who lived in the mountainous forests of Western Maryland. He offered classes on the subject to anyone willing to shell out $2,000 for a week in the wilds. If they were good enough, students learned how to start fires with a bow drill, how to find their way without a compass, and how to endure their own purification in a sweat lodge. He had written two books on the subject and had become something of a celebrity after tracking down and rescuing a lost child in the mountains, succeeding where the National Guard, a team of trackers with dogs, and an implanted GPS had failed.

Over the years, his business had grown to a staff of five and his lone cabin into a complex protected by ten-foot razor wire and security cameras. There was a mess hall, a dorm with heat and running water (so the paying customers who were learning how to survive off the land could come back at night to a hot shower and a warm critter-free bed), and several hundred acres of real wilderness.

It was four days before Christmas and this was the last class before a two-week break. Bowen was more than looking forward to it. He could smell it as clearly as the musk of the nervous buck beside him. Bowen, the man who made his living teaching others to survive without society, was going to spend his vacation with a woman who never set foot outside the city, the only person in the world he cared about — Carmen. Theirs was an intermittent and unusual relationship, but that was Bowen.

He had taken the group a day’s walk from camp and taught them to build shelters to survive the night. Most fared pretty well. The class exercise this last day was to sneak up on a deer and get close enough to touch it. Bowen was waiting there for them. The class was still several hundred yards away, laboring closer behind their camouflage, but making far too much noise. Soon the deer would decide that the danger of the unfamiliar sounds outweighed the temptation of the apples, and class would be dismissed. He closed his eyes and thought of Carmen, of the scent of her perfume and the milky softness of her skin.

The deer bolted, and three crows were flushed from their roost by a loud crack. He heard the student swearing as the deer disappeared over a rise, and he imagined the crows winging off, becoming mere black specks on a vivid winter sky. But the vision was wrong — his class was no longer in it — the crunching twigs, the soft whispers, the rustling leaves were gone, and at 12:21:12 p.m. on 12|21|12 silence spread through the forest like the panic of a student as he was spun around blindfolded and told to find his way back to camp without the use of his eyes.

Bowen searched for his class. He found where they had been. He found signs of all eight of them. He found the last blade of grass one had crushed in an effort to sneak closer to the deer, but he found no tracks leading away, no bodies, no blood. They had simply vanished.

Bowen was not a religious man. His parents had raised him in the church. He couldn’t remember which. It didn’t matter. They believed in a God who would return to judge the world and he did not. What he believed in were signs, in cause and effect, and for him, life was simply a trail that man followed to its end.

He hiked until dark and built his shelter against an outcropping of rock on a steep hillside with a view of the valley. The forest was home to many animals in winter, yet Bowen hadn’t seen a single one since leaving his hide. Whatever happened to his students had scared them all off. There was no sleep for Bowen that night.

He returned to the complex the next morning and found his staff and students gone. They were there one moment and gone the next, just like his class. Outside his office, a boot print and a spidery pattern in the snow told Bowen that someone had been bending over tying his shoelaces when he’d vanished. In the mess hall, he saw where a group sat down at the table, had been enjoying their midday meal, and then were gone. Everywhere he searched, the effect was the same. The cause was unknown and there was no trail.

Bowen picked over some cold food in the mess hall, weighing his options. He called Carmen several times and left messages. There was no answer at either the Ranger Station, the police in the town on the other side of the mountain, or the Maryland Highway Patrol. He spent the rest of the day packing from a mental list of what to bring to the end of the world. That was what his instincts told him he was facing. Whatever had happened in the woods was just the beginning.

Bowen’s repeated phone calls to Carmen went unanswered, but he stuck to his plan — pack the Rover, get to the city, pick up Carmen, and drive as far south as his gas would take them. If they could make it as far as the Carolinas… He knew a place on the water down there, a nice place. It would be tough on her, but they would survive, and if they ran into any trouble along the way, he was ready.

He set out the next day, thinking he was prepared for anything. He always had been, but nothing could have prepared him for what he found beyond the camp. Towns, suburbs, cities — everyone was gone without a trace, simply gone. He continued eastward around Baltimore. Stalled vehicles clogged the beltway, turning his trip into a journey of detours and off-road treks. The closer he got to his destination, the worse it became. Bowen finally had to abandon the Rover in a snarl of vehicles just outside Philadelphia. He hoofed it those last few miles through the biting cold. They would survive. It would just be that much harder.

When Bowen pushed open the lobby doors to the Freedom Hotel, he was met by the scent of cooked meat and the faint odor of a man’s cologne. He checked his pistol and followed the sound of violins to the restaurant. The curtained glass door opened with a soft rush of air. A man stood up and faced him, his napkin dropping to the floor.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Loeb, Dr. Philip Loeb. Thank God, I knew there had to be others. You saw my message?”

“There aren’t any others. Just me.”

“How did you find me?”

“I’m not here for you. I came for Carmen.”

“There’s no one else. I checked every floor.” Loeb produced a card key from his wallet. “Here, take it. It’s the master key. See for yourself.”

Bowen glanced at the key and refocused on Loeb.

“Would you like something to eat perhaps?” Loeb continued. “I can put a plate together and have it ready for you when you return.”

Bowen raised his gun. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re going to shoot me? Six billion people vanish from the planet and you’re going to shoot me? What kind of imbecile are you? Look around, man. Everyone’s gone.”

“You’re not.”

“And you’re not either. Don’t you see? There must be others. We have to find them. We need a plan.”

“I’ve got my own plan.” Bowen waved his gun, directing Loeb to the door. “Let’s go.”

They got off the elevator on ten, and Loeb opened Carmen’s door. The room was empty. A makeup box lay scattered on the sink in the bathroom. Bowen picked up a lipstick. It was hers. Everything in the room still carried her scent.

“This is where she was when it happened.” He holstered his gun and sat down. A photo of them together taken last year stared at him from the dresser.

Loeb handed him his cell phone. “Call her. The phones are still working. Perhaps she’s just not here.”

Bowen looked across the room at a jeweled purse lying on the bed, and punched the numbers into the phone. A sad tune began playing inside it. He tossed the cell back to Loeb. “Have a nice life, what’s left of it.”

“Wait, you’re going to leave? Just like that?”

“Yeah, just like that.”

“But our chances of survival are better if we work together.”

Loeb followed him to the elevator where Bowen pressed the down button. “You’re fat, stupid, and lazy. I’d say your chances of survival are zero.”

“But I have shelter with heat, water, power, and food — enough to last the winter at least.”

“Really? What kind of heat have you got?”

“Oil. The tank was half full two days ago when I checked.”

“So a smart guy like you has already figured out from the manifests how often they used to get deliveries here, right? And a guy with your genius IQ would have already shut off heat to non-essential parts of the building to make what oil he’s got last longer, right? Stop me if I’m wrong. And I suppose Dr. Philip Loeb has located a fuel company nearby and knows how to drive their tanker truck here through totally blocked streets when the oil runs out… right?”

“I… I’ve considered those things.”

“I’ll bet.”

The elevator call button dinged and the doors opened. Bowen got in, and Loeb followed him, staying as far away from his scowl as possible.

“I really think you should reconsider this. Have something to eat. Stay the night. Sleep on it, and let me know what you think in the morning.”

“You don’t want to know what I think.”

“But I do.”

“I think if you stay here, you’ll be dead in a month.”

The doors opened onto the lobby. A man dressed in black was standing in their way. Bowen drew his gun and fired once into the air.

“For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” the man cried.

Michael was an ordained minister with no congregation, a failed marriage, and two kids who couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. He lacked conviction in his beliefs and himself, and had lost his sense of purpose. Life hadn’t always been that way — in fact, it had been wonderful — but when Michael was diagnosed with lung cancer caused by too many years of too many cigarettes, he lost faith, and with faith went hope, and then love. His had become a miserable existence, and trying to save others was pointless when he couldn’t even save himself. Michael, the powerful archangel of God, the leader of the Lord’s forces, was nothing like God or his angel, or anything that was holy or good anymore.

He wasn’t sure why he continued the treatments. He was dying. The doctors had told him that. Yet every week in the middle of the night he went on an insurance-funded four-hour trip by train to keep a 6:30 a.m. appointment with doctors who did their best to prolong his worthless life. He was sicker than usual after this last one. They offered to keep him overnight, but Michael refused, having long ago resolved that he would not exhale his final breath into an oxygen mask in a hospital, connected to machines by tubes and wires. They found him an ambulance to the airport and a quick flight home.

The irony was that he was praying when the end came, praying that it would all just be over, and that God would show mercy and put him out of his misery. He was in church. He didn’t want to be, but he was. He wanted to be in bed, but it was Friday. The church couldn’t afford a cleaning service anymore, so every Friday Michael cleaned. It was one of the few things he still did religiously, one of the things the church still let him do. He hated cleaning as much as he hated life.

He had stopped for a minute to let a coughing spasm pass when he saw what he thought was a flash of light outside, and on 12|21|12 at exactly 12:21:12 p.m. the Reverend Michael Costa understood. This was the end. This was God’s reckoning, and God had judged the world guilty. He had taken everyone away, everyone but Michael, because Michael was the one person who knew that we didn’t go to hell for our sins. Hell came to us.

The world fell out of kilter as Michael struggled the five blocks into the center of town past abandoned cars, the steaming hot dog stand, and the empty bus station. An overwhelming and oppressive quiet had settled over the town. The pizza place, the barbershop, the news agency, everywhere he looked — no one was there. His lungs ached and his coughing brought up blood. Michael gave up the search and limped home.

He turned on the TV and clicked through the stations looking for something, anything.

“I am Dr. Philip Loeb. If you are seeing this, you are one of the few left. As far as I can tell, everyone else is gone. It’s like this all over the city…”

When the message repeated, Michael wrote down the phone number and email address of this man who was sharing his hell. He dialed the number.

“Leave your message at the tone if you must.”

Michael hung up and then threw up, and then passed out on the floor.

When he awoke, it was getting dark outside. By his watch, days had passed. Michael packed his suitcase, filled his coat pockets with granola bars, the only thing he’d been able to stomach lately, and drove to the train station in the next town. The station was empty as was the train that arrived ten minutes later without a conductor. Its doors opened. He got on board and sat down. The bell rang. The doors closed, and the train accelerated toward the city.

An hour later, Michael got off at the platform below Seventeenth Street, and the train clattered off into the twilit tunnel. On the street, the light changed at the intersection, but the cars did not move. No one sat on his horn. No one ran the red light. There was no yelling, no pushing and shoving, nothing. He tried calling the man in the message again, but the skyscrapers blocked the signal. Logan Circle was the closest open space. He walked the one block there and had begun to dial Loeb’s number when he heard music coming from the Freedom Hotel. On any other day he wouldn’t have noticed, but on this day he did.

Michael entered the lobby through the glass doors and stopped at the elevators. The floor indicator above the middle elevator was moving from ten, to nine, to eight… It pinged softly when the “L” lit up. The doors opened and a man drew a gun and fired.

“For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” Michael dropped the suitcase, gripped his chest, and collapsed onto the cold marble floor.

He awoke under a blanket on a bed. The air was warm and heavy with men’s aftershave. He heard muffled voices from the next room. It was morning. The cold gray sky was thick with clouds. A man appeared at the door.

“You’re Dr. Philip Loeb.” Michael sat up. The pain had subsided. “I saw you on TV.”

“Loeb will do. And you are?”

“Michael. Michael Costa.”

“You’re a priest?”

“Minister. There was a man with a gun.”

“That’s Bowen. He was just leaving when you showed up. Your timing was rather fortuitous as it turns out. He’s decided to stay.”

“Are there others?”

“Just we three, but I am convinced there are more. How did you get here?”

“I live about an hour west of the city by train. The trains are running themselves.”

“Interesting, and possibly useful. How did you find us? I didn’t name the hotel in the message.”

“I was just trying to get my cell to work. I was going to call you.” Michael tested his legs. “I’ve haven’t felt this good in months.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Bowen gave you a shot of morphine. There’s breakfast in the other room. We’ll be waiting.”

Michael joined them and ate while they studied a map. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

“There,” Bowen pointed. “In those mountains.”

Michael looked over his shoulder. “What’s there?”

“Camp David,” said Loeb. “Mr. Bowen has convinced me that our current situation is untenable. The logical alternative is the presidential retreat at Camp David. It’s self-sustaining and designed to be isolated for up to a year in case of extreme emergency. More importantly, there is a top-secret underground train there that can take us to the capital. With the main roads impassable, it may be the only way to get to Washington, and if anyone is still left who knows what happened, that’s where they’ll be.”

“How did you know about the tunnel if it’s top secret? Do you work for the government?”

“Hardly. There is very little that can be hidden from public scrutiny anymore if you know what you’re looking for. There’s a maze of secret tunnels and trains that connects every major installation in the capital. It has been under construction since the Civil War. I’ve seen old photographs of it. The Pentagon, the FBI, Andrews Air Force Base, Langley, even the presidential retreat here in these mountains are all connected to allow continued operation of the government in a case of extreme emergency.”

“It’s about 180 miles or so.” Bowen stroked his beard. “Holy boy here will never make it back to the Rover on foot. I say we try the same train he took and get west of the gridlock, grab a new set of wheels and as much gas as we can carry, and head west. We can take the turnpike if it’s clear. That’s the quickest way. We go south here,” he pointed. “With any luck, we can be there before dark.” He glared at Loeb, “You’d better be right about this.”

“Mr. Bowen, if I’m wrong, and I’m not, you may feel free to leave us there and continue on to wherever you wish to go.”

While Bowen and Michael packed provisions for the trip, Loeb logged into the Channel Three servers and switched tapes. He had recorded several messages in anticipation of all possibilities, in case he had to move locations. When the indicator showed the new message in place, he switched on the TV.

“…If you are watching this message, know that you are not alone…”

Before turning off the computer, he checked the video’s hit counter. It was still a “1,” but that “1” blinked hopefully. Now they were three, and there was at least one other human being who had gotten the message. That made four.

The men made their way to Seventeenth and the Boulevard and found the underground platform. The train, as yet oblivious to man’s disappearance, arrived right on schedule.

As they pulled into the last stop, Michael looked out on the snow-covered woods. “All my life I’d been taught to think that we were put here to be stewards of this world, but the truth is, the world doesn’t need us to take care of it. It was just fine before us and will be again long after we’re gone. We’re no more than parasites, insects sucking on its lifeblood, killing it a little every day.”

Bowen tossed him his bag. “It took the end of the world for you to figure that out? Maybe if we get lucky and survive this, you can preach
that
from your holy pulpit and somebody will listen next time.”

Bowen found a vehicle in the parking lot with the key still in the ignition. They filled up at a gas station, packed several more five-gallon gas cans in the back, and headed west. The turnpike turned out to be easy going. Traffic had been light through the sparsely populated mountains west of the city at 12:21:12 p.m. They turned south off the main highway and onto the snow-covered backcountry roads of the Maryland State Forest.

It was while winding around a mountain that they saw the creature — a mass of fur lumbering south. Loeb dismissed it as a bear. Bowen said it was no bear — too upright, too slow. It was something else. He stopped, and it crossed the road into the woods. When he eased forward, the creature spotted them and ran. Bowen stopped the truck and jumped out. “Hey!” he shouted and fired a single shot.