36 Hours a series by Jean-Thomas Louvier BEFORE THE END “Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of light, and the earth will give birth to the dead. - Isaiah 26:19 A pearl moon shivered amongst the stars, sleeping in the ink black sky. Its cool glow slithered over the palm trees and ferns adorning the marble walkway. The fronds drooped downwards, perspiring gloom that never seemed to leave, drawing your eyes into a never-ceasing stare. The rapping of shoes against stone echoed between the trees at the side of the path; young and old, couples and singles, men and women, children and grandparents made their way up the path, through the chilled night, into the warmth of the building. Velvet draperies clung to the windows, pushing back the night, trying to forget that there was an end to the day. People stood in groups amongst the room, talking quietly among themselves, holding briefcases and purses. Some cried, and they were comforted. Against the walls were plaques filled with pictures of a baby; the next plaque showed snapshots of a little girl, six or seven, grinning with mustard on her church clothes. A woman stroked the images and turned her head, closed her eyes, throat quivering. A man placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezed. Flowers covered the back of the room, where, upon a marble pedestal, sat a small rectangular box made of oak wood with silver lining, velvet insides. The coffin was closed, holding back the young girl. As visitors paid their respects, they shook their head, wondering why such a beautiful young woman would have a closed-casket viewing. The simple answer: “The sickness ravaged her. She isn’t recognizable body or soul.” “What kind of sickness?” Ruffled murmurs, whispers in the shadows and corners, under the ease ways and among the elegant gardens: “The doctors don’t know. It took her slowly over a matter of days. They don’t even know how she contracted it. It’s never been seen before.” The visitors huddled together, staring at the coffin, then exchanging frigid glances over to the mother and father, clutching each other; the wife buried her head in her husband’s shoulder, sobbing desperately. “Taken so soon,” someone said. “So innocent.” Two men went outside under the cool stars, shedding of their rich jackets. One tossed it over the arm of a bench, and turning away from the building, lit a cigarette. His friend didn’t want one. So they stood out in the cold, one taking drags and blowing smoke into the garden flowers. “Such a pity, a life taken like that. Aren’t there more sicknesses now than ever? It’s like an epidemic.” The other managed a small sigh despite the pain. “There’s always an epidemic every century. We’re still waiting on ours.” “It’s about time.” The friend shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry too much about-“ They swung around, hearing a strange noise from inside the building. A gasp, then silence. They looked at each other. The chain-smoker tossed his cigarette into the bushes, grabbed his jacket, and they trotted in through double-wide French doors. Everyone had gathered around the coffin, staring. The two men pushed their way to the front. The mother and father buried the visitors in their elbows, wedging their way to the foot of the coffin. The tears had stopped; the eyes sparkled. The two men stared at the coffin. It shuddered. “Oh my gosh…” the mother croaked. Something in her eyes: Hope. The two men gawked at the coffin. It lay still. No – it shook once more. Then it lay still. The mother moaned. The father held her back. Was it all an illusion? No. Everyone else noticed it, too. The coffin seemed to jump an inch off the platform, and inside there was movement, pressured squiggling and shoving. The mother wailed, “She’s trying to get out!” “She’s dead,” someone said. “This isn’t-“ Others yelped, “Open the coffin! For God’s sake, let her out!” The two men jumped forward, answering the call. They clambered over the coffin, grabbing the latches. The father yelled, “Don’t open it! Please! My daughter is dead!” His wife clawed at him. “She’s alive! Our daughter’s alive!” “Olivia! She is dead! She’s been dead for two days! She laid in the morgue for two days!” The two men hovered over the casket. It shook beneath them. One of the men slid off. No illusion. The crowd yelled, “Let her out! She’ll suffocate!” “Ginger! Ginger!” the wife screamed. The coffin rattled. A noise from within. It sounded like a cry. The two men stared downwards. The sound came again, hit their ears – their hearts chilled. It didn’t sound right, didn’t sound natural, didn’t sound… human. “My daughter cries for me! Do you hear her? She cries for me!” The crowd hollered, “Let her out!” Those out on the walkway and gardens filtered inside. The two men stared at each other. The coffin quaked. They grabbed the rungs. “No!” the father hollered. “Don’t open it! My daughter is dead! Her beauty is scarred! It is a trick!” They grabbed the rungs. The chain-smoker said, “She’s going to suffocate in there, Mister Allen.” Clawing from within. She was clawing at the velvet coating inside the coffin, trying to escape. The two men grabbed the rungs. The father threw his wife to the side and launched after them; their hands wrapped around the rungs; he hit one with his fist broadside against the cheek. The chain-smoker’s hand gripped the latch as he fell, and the lid popped open; the two men tumbled into the flowers, knocking them over, water and soil and sweet fragrances staining thousand-dollar-suits. The chain-smoker tried to stand, slipped, and heard muffled screams. The world spun; his jaw ached. His friend kicked him in the groin, and he toppled over; rolling onto his back, he opened his eyes, seeing the plants draped all around him. A bright light stung his eyes. A shadow fell over him, something hit him; he tried to stand as his neck seared with pain; he saw spots and felt his flesh ripping. He could feel his blood gushing all over him. The sounds of screaming died away. The pressure vanished. He lay in the pile of funeral flowers, bleeding all over the stalks, eyes glazing, and he lost consciousness. Two minutes later, he stood. DAWN OF THE END “If you take one of something, and double it, you get two. Take two, and double it, and you have four. Do the same to four, and you have eight. Let us say a disease spreads in such a way, and does so in intervals of an hour. In only twenty-four hours—one lunar day—the number of sick would jump from one to sixteen million, seven hundred seventy-seven thousand, two hundred and sixteen. If such a rapidly-spreading and fatal disease ever touched the earth, the human population as we know it would be gone, completely destroyed… in only 36 hours.” --Mathematician, 18th Century A.D. The End began on April 23, 2010 The following entries are taken from the blood-stained journal of Austin Copernicus April 18, 2010 Sunday Woke up late. Mom shook me awake. “You’re going to be late to church.” I had rolled over in the bed. “I’m not going until second service.” “You’re not going to work in children’s ministry?” “Not until next Sunday.” Breakfast was some Manchuan Raman noodles. Really, if you haven’t eaten Manchuan Raman noodles, you are missing out. Chop up some portabella mushrooms and boil them in with the noodles, and you have a gourmet meal. I showered, got dressed, and drove to church. The Jeep shined in the sun. It was a really nice day, but the weather-man said it wouldn’t last. Never does. Spring is unpredictable. I love these warm days. I am sick of the rain. It rained all last week. During worship at church, I sat alone, prayed that God would forgive me for slipping away, for being a hypocrite, for living a lie and only doing “right” when it suited me best. Tears in my eyes. Gave Chad his Norma Jean—they’re a hardcore rock band—t-shirt. He went to his girlfriend Erin’s place, Les came over here with my sister Ashlie. I want a girlfriend so bad (Mom, Dad keep making a big deal out of Lauren. Lauren is a girl I have met, she is very cool, but Mom and Dad are driving me insane!), but I must be ready to accept that maybe God has different—better—plans for my life. Sat down in YMCA lobby (Southwest Church meets at the Springboro YMCA), and Faith Stevens sat down next to me. It surprised me. We hadn’t had the best relations over the years. She has stabbed me in the back, and I have stabbed her likewise. I said, “How’s it going?” She smiled. I like her smile. “Okay. We have school tomorrow.” “Yeah. That really sucks. Sucks.” I guess Adam Sexton is going to Prom with her. He is a cool guy. Good-looking, popular, a real star at Springboro High School. Unlike me. He has liked her for a while. I found out in Geometry class.