"Let me out!" My fists pound against the unyielding wood, each impact sending shockwaves of pain through my hands. "Please! Someone!"
My voice cracks, raw from screaming. The darkness below makes time stretch and warp, leaving me disoriented.
I slump against the door, pressing my forehead to its cool surface. My throat burns, each breath a ragged gasp. The skin on my knuckles feels hot, probably split open from the relentless assault on the door.
A single bulb casts sickly yellow light from beside the door, barely illuminating the steep stairs leading down into gloom. Shadows dance at the edges of my vision, playing tricks on my exhausted mind.
I force myself to turn away from the door, to face the room that's become my prison. My eyes, adjusted to the darkness, pick out shapes in the murk. Lamps, their cords dangling uselessly, mock me from various corners. If only I could plug them in, chase away some of this oppressive darkness.
A mattress sprawls on the floor, its dingy surface a silent promise of discomfort. A desk and chair huddle in one corner, their purpose unclear in this nightmare scenario. And there, glinting in the feeble light—a large water bottle.
My parched throat screams for relief, but I hesitate. How long will I be here? Should I ration it? The very thought makes my stomach clench with dread.
I take a tentative step down the stairs, wincing as they creak beneath my weight. The sound echoes in the stillness, and I freeze, irrationally afraid I've alerted someone—or something—to my presence.
But there's no one here.
"Jesus!"
I bolt upright, gasping for breath. My entire body feels wet and clammy, sweat soaking through my pajamas. The remnants of a bizarre dream cling to the edges of my consciousness, but the details slip away like wisps of smoke.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I peel off my damp clothes. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. I hunt for fresh clothes, desperate to shake off the lingering unease.
"Get it together, Lauren," I mutter, pulling on a clean t-shirt and jeans.
My gaze falls on my phone, plugged into the charger. I'd done it reluctantly, clinging to some faint hope that someone might fix this mess. That the countdown might stop.
With trembling fingers, I reach for it. The screen flares to life, and my stomach drops.
Twenty hours left. The numbers mock me, a digital death sentence ticking away.
I blink, realizing how late I've slept. The house is eerily quiet. No shouting, no demands. Just silence.
My throat feels dry as dust. I grab the glass of water from my nightstand and pad towards the living room. Each step feels like I'm wading through molasses, dread weighing me down.
I pause at the threshold, steeling myself. Dad, Marian, Marissa, and Randall sit motionless, eyes glued to the TV. The news anchor's voice filters through, unnaturally calm given the words coming out of her mouth.
"...reports coming in from across the globe. Eyewitnesses describe what appear to be tears in the sky..."
The remote slips from Dad's slack fingers. Marian's perfectly manicured nails dig into the arm of the couch. Marissa's mouth hangs open, mascara streaking her cheeks. Even Randall looks pale, his usual sneer replaced by wide-eyed fear.
My brain struggles to process the images on the screen. Shimmering rifts hang in the air above cities, pulsing with an otherworldly light. People point and scream. Some fall to their knees in prayer.
The glass slips from my numb fingers. It shatters against the floor, the sound like a gunshot in the stunned silence.
Four heads whip around to stare at me. I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't think.
Marian stands abruptly, her movements jerky. "I need a drink."
She brushes past me, the scent of her expensive perfume momentarily overpowering the fear-sweat that permeates the room.
Marissa lets out a choked sob. "Daddy, what's happening?"
Dad doesn't answer. His eyes meet mine, and for the first time in years, I see raw vulnerability there. He looks... lost.
Randall breaks the spell, surging to his feet. "This is bullshit! It's got to be some kind of trick, right? Special effects or something?"
I want to believe him. God, how I want to. But the pit in my stomach tells me this is all too real.
"There are only twenty hours left."
Dad's face hardens. "What?"
Everyone reaches for their phones to confirm what we already know.
Less than a day.
"What are we going to do?" Randall asks, though the words come out as more of a whine. For once, he acts like the child he is.
Dad shakes his head. "Nothing."
"Nothing?!" Marissa's voice is shrill. "What do you mean, nothing? We have to do something!"
I kneel, carefully gathering the larger shards of glass. My hands tremble, making the task more difficult than it should be. The jagged edges catch the light, reflecting the surreal images still flickering on the TV screen. I force myself to focus on the task at hand, desperate for any semblance of normalcy.
"Lauren, be careful," Dad says, his voice oddly gentle. "Don't cut yourself."
I nod, not trusting my voice. The concern in his tone is so unfamiliar it makes my chest ache.
Marissa's sobs grow louder, bordering on hysterical. "Daddy, please! We can't just sit here! We have to do something!"
"Enough!" Dad's voice cracks like a whip, making me flinch. I keep my eyes on the floor, methodically picking up each shard. "We've already done what we can. We have enough supplies. Right now, we wait."
"Wait for what?" Randall sneers, but I catch the tremor in his voice. "The end of the world?"
Dad's jaw clenches. "We wait to see how this plays out. It's too dangerous out there with all the riots and looting. We're safer here."
I stand, cradling the glass shards in my cupped hands. The broom closet is just a few steps away, but it feels like crossing an ocean. I force myself to move, hyper-aware of the fragile silence that's fallen over the room.
As I deposit the glass in the trash and grab the broom, I hear Marian's heels clicking on the hardwood. She sweeps back into the room, the scent of alcohol trailing behind her.
"William," she purrs, and I have to suppress a shudder at the false sweetness in her tone. "Darling, surely we should consider leaving the city? My sister has that lovely cabin up north. It would be much safer there, away from all this... unpleasantness."
Dad's face is a storm of conflicting emotions—fear, anger, indecision. For a moment, I think he might actually consider Marian's suggestion.
"No," he says finally, his voice firm. "We stay put. We have food, water, and shelter here. Going out on the roads now would be suicide."
Marissa wails, burying her face in her hands. Randall paces like a caged animal, muttering under his breath. Marian's mask of concern slips for just a moment, revealing the fury beneath.
The rhythmic sound of bristles against hardwood is oddly soothing. It's such a mundane task, so at odds with the apocalyptic scenario unfolding around us. But it gives me something to do, something to focus on besides the crushing weight of our situation.
"Twenty hours," I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. "What can we even do in twenty hours?"
[World's End: 00:19:54:51]