Every time I close my eyes, I slip into strange, fitful dreams.
Dreams of men and women, dressed in leather and fur.
Of wolves running through the city, broken and smoking beneath the light of the moon.
Of strange monsters that pour out of rifts in the sky, as if hell has been unleashed upon us all.
By midnight, I've given up on even the idea of sleep.
The remote feels heavy in my hand as I flip through channels. Sitcom laugh tracks and infomercials clash with the grim reality unfolding on news stations. It's surreal, like flipping between two different worlds.
"Breaking news from London—"
Click.
"Buy now and get a second set absolutely free—"
Click.
"Riots have broken out in major cities across—"
I settle on a news channel, muting the volume and relying on captions. The last thing I need is to wake the others. My eyes widen as drone footage pans over burning neighborhoods. Cars overturned. People running. Smoke billowing into the night sky. Military, dispatched against the civilians rioting in the streets.
A shiver runs down my spine. How can this be happening? Just days ago, life was normal. Boring, even. Now the world's falling apart at the seams.
I glance at my phone. The countdown ticks away, mocking me. Just over a day left.
Tomorrow's it. The end of the world. If the virus is to be believed.
Or, the world will return to normal, and we'll all laugh about this in a few years. At the massive hoax that scared the entire world.
Unease gnaws at my insides. Padding over to the window, I pull back the curtain. Our street looks calm compared to the chaos on TV, but it's far from normal. People mill about, their faces a mix of fear and excitement. A group stumbles by, laughing and passing around a bottle. Others walk with purpose, backpacks slung over their shoulders.
What are they all doing out there? Where are they going? Do they have some grand plan for their final hours, or are they just as lost as I am?
A couple embraces on the sidewalk, clinging to each other like a lifeline. My chest aches at the sight. If this really is the end, I'll face it alone. No one to hold. No one who truly cares if I live or die.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, squeezing my eyes shut. Is this how I'll spend my last day on Earth? Huddled in this house, waiting for the inevitable? The thought makes me want to scream, to run outside and join the masses in whatever mad adventures they're pursuing.
My gaze drifts back to the TV. A reporter stands in front of a massive crowd gathered in Times Square. The iconic ball sits atop its tower, but instead of counting down to a new year, it displays the same ominous timer as my phone. People cry, pray, and embrace strangers in the street.
I wonder what Brian's doing right now. Is he safe? Scared? Has he found someone to spend these final moments with? The familiar ache of missing him intensifies. If only I knew where he was. If only I had the courage to leave and find him.
A sudden commotion outside draws my attention. A group of teenagers runs down the street, whooping and hollering. One of them carries a baseball bat, swinging it wildly. My stomach clenches as they approach a parked car.
"Don't," I whisper, but of course, they can't hear me.
The bat connects with a sickening crunch of metal and glass. An alarm blares to life, piercing the night. The teens cheer and move on to their next target.
The house creaks, and I freeze. Footsteps in the hallway. I hold my breath, praying it's not Randall coming to torment me again.
Dad appears in the doorway, looking haggard. "Lauren? What are you doing up?"
I gesture weakly at the TV. "Couldn't sleep."
He nods, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Me neither."
We stand in awkward silence for a moment. There's so much I want to say, so many questions I want to ask. But the words stick in my throat.
Dad clears his throat. "Listen, I've been thinking. Maybe we should—"
A crash from outside cuts him off. We both rush to the window. The teenagers are back, this time with more friends. They're smashing windows out of every car on the street.
The night air fills with the sound of breaking glass and drunken laughter.
"Jesus," Dad mutters.
This would be a time where he'd rant and rave about how useless people are. How kids these days don't know respect.
Instead, he watches with a grim face, saying nothing.
Eventually, they move on. Probably heading to another street, looking for more cars.
A few more groups of people disperse with them, but the street is still busy.
"Are we wrong for staying home?" Dad murmurs, startling me.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. Has he been wondering the same as me? If he's wasting his last moments before the world ends? "What do you mean?"
Dad sighs, his shoulders sagging. "This house. It's not exactly Fort Knox, is it? All these big windows..."
His words trail off, but the implication hangs heavy in the air. I glance around the living room, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. The floor-to-ceiling windows that once seemed luxurious now feel like a vulnerability.
"Where else would we go?"
He shrugs, his gaze distant. "The warehouse, maybe. We could've holed up there."
"But Dad, the warehouse would be a giant target."
Another sigh escapes him, deeper this time. "I know, I know. It's just... I've got a bad feeling, Lauren. A really bad feeling."
My stomach twists. "Me too."
For a moment, we stand in silence, the weight of our shared dread palpable. Then Dad reaches out, his hand warm on my shoulder. The gesture is so unexpected, so uncharacteristic, that I nearly flinch.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart. Try to get some rest."
I nod, but make no move to leave.
"Do you think it's really coming? The apocalypse?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestures towards the window, where chaos reigns on our once-quiet street. Then he nods at the TV, still silently broadcasting scenes of destruction from around the world.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and grim. "Lauren, it's already here."
[World's End: 01:03:29:42]