Curse Of Man - Rob Astor (books to read this summer .txt) 📗

Curse Of Man
By
Rob Astor

Returning from his lunch meeting, Brian went to the bathroom. A perfectly innocent respite, the only he took that busy day. Brian stared at bright tiles over the sink. R.E.M.’s It’s The End Of The World As We Know It

whispered through overhead speakers. Two more minutes then back to the rat race…
The building shuddered. Earthquake? Brian shoved the door open, dashed into the lobby, and froze. Outside, automobiles, buses, and delivery trucks jumped up on sidewalks, bounced off utility poles, or mowed over fire hydrants. Geysers of water spouted skyward. Shop windows shattered as cars careened through them. Stands snapped with heavy thumps. Fruit rolled along the sidewalk. Magazines and newspapers fluttered through the air. The busy intersection was a jumbled mess of mangled metal spouting steam and orange flags of flame.
Eyes wide, mouth agape, Brian gazed around. Car alarms squealed. Horns blared. No angry shouting. No one got out of a single car.
Before Brian had time to digest everything, a yellow car smashed through the atrium. It smacked into the receptionist’s desk, thudding against marble panels.
“Miss Patterson!” Brian’s heart hammered in his ears as he dashed to the desk. Antifreeze and exhaust fumes hung in the air. He pulled a phone, broken computer monitor, and bent chair aside. However, there was no sign of her.
“Miss Patterson, can you hear me? I’m going to get you out of there.” Brian leaned against the side of the cab, peering below, horrified. “Miss Patterson!” Still, no answer.
She must be unconscious. Or dead. Brian jumped up, circling the car. “Miss Patterson!”
In a small pile on the floor lay a blazer, blouse, skirt, women’s under garments, stockings, pumps, and jewelry. “What the…?” Brian checked under the car again. “Miss Patterson?”
Standing, Brian went to check on the cab driver. Maybe he could move the car. “Hey, buddy, you okay?” Brian opened the door. The seat was empty except for a shirt, trousers, and sneakers on the floor.
Breathing raggedly, Brian stared outside. No one was moving. Stepping over debris, he picked a path outside. Checking car after car, Brian found no one. Just discarded piles of clothing. Nothing moved. Engines still hummed. Fruit stands and newspaper racks were demolished. But, there were no people. No tourists clicked cell-phone pictures. The bum under the cardboard… Vanished. The musicians… Poof! A dented saxophone lay on the cement. And piles of clothing.
Brian saw the white sign some old man wore every morning. “Repent! The End Of The World Is At Hand!” Could it be it’s happened? The Biblical Rapture really happened?
Before Brian could make any sense of the chaos, sound roared overhead, shrieking through him. A 727, flying much too low, swooped down at a steep angle, turned on its left side, barely missing buildings.
“Oh my God.”
Brian couldn’t stop watching. The crash was surreal. A wing flew off. The cylindrical body slammed into the crowded street several blocks away. Rising up with a huge whoosh of sound, the orange-red fire ball was spectacular.
Gaining control of his senses, Brian ran. Blocks later, he hurled himself down a subway entrance. Through a haze of thick smoke, train cars lay on the platforms, some angled up high to the ceilings. Fires raged, swamping their interiors.
Picking up the nearest pay phone, Brian frantically punched 9-1-1. The line rang, then clicked to an automated recording. Agitated, he threw the phone against the wall, leaving it hang by its metal cord.
Daring to get as close as he could to the inferno, Brian checked a few of the cars, certain he’d find bloodied bodies. “Hello? Anyone need help?” No one was there. Just more clothing.
A new kind of terror raced through Brian when he heard an approaching train. It roared up the underground tracks like a bullet, speeding toward the wrecks. Brian never knew he could run so fast. He leaped up stairs as the subway plowed into the previous train. Passenger cars explosively collapsed like accordions. Others folded up or snaked out toward the boarding decks.
Reaching street level, Brian never looked back.
The moaning of a gargantuan animal seemingly chased Brian as one of the subway cars grated sideways up the stairs and out to street level. Sliding in slow motion, it cleared a path across the wide street, crashing into a brick and glass façade.
Brian ran until he collapsed in a grassy area, lungs greedily sucking air. Similar wreckage was all around. Some buildings were engulfed in flames. Distant planes fell out of the sky. Gas mains snapped, sending up mushroom clouds of orange-red fire. Cars exploded. The city was beginning to burn. None of it made sense. Yet, it was all too real.
*****
Harrowing was the word that came to mind whenever Brian reflected on his first night alone in New York City. Endless fires. Choking clouds of billowing smoke. An orange-red sky. A perfect vision of Hell.
There was an utter lack of people. Absolutely no one around. Millions completely vanished!
Brian made his way across a congested George Washington Bridge, avoiding dying fires. City lights faded, blanketing the night in an ebony of finality. Out in the suburbs, quiet was the silence of death. Clusters of trees kept silent vigil along empty streets. Brian got into a car the following day and began driving to escape the carnage.
Around noon, Brian stopped at a highway mall. “Hello?” The same quiet as the night before was the only response. He ransacked refrigerators and built himself a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich. He then took bags of chips. At the hardware store across the street, Brain found a cooler. He filled it with ice and soda and loaded it into the back of the car.
Everywhere Brian saw any patch of green, there were tall, twisted trees, as if planted at random. He noticed how long branches spanned across roads. They weren’t the well manicured specimens he was used to seeing.
Brian thought about what had happened. It couldn’t be the Rapture, could it? Why was he the only one left? Was he the only unfaithful person in the world? Shouldn’t there be others? Or, was it a sneak attack? Some kind of new bomb? There was no news to be heard on the radio or television.
Not knowing what to do, Brian kept driving. Gas was plentiful. He would go inside the empty stations and figure out which button to push to activate a pump. One day, pushing the button didn’t work. He discovered the refrigerators weren’t humming. None of the lights were on. Power had finally failed. He packed his things into another car.
There certainly was a lot more green around. The further Brian traveled, the more trees he saw. Brian settled into the novelty of surviving. He collected food, water, clothing. Then he began taking money out of unattended cash registers. With all the feeling of a criminal, he told himself he’d need it later. Survival made sin justifiable. Jewelry, gold, and precious gems became his treasures. They brought Brian a sense of happiness. For a short while.
Novelty wore off. He stopped collecting meaningless things like money. Every day, Brian hoped he would find other survivors. Every day brought new hope. Every day Brian was let down. He couldn’t escape this reality.
Days passed into weeks. He had to make do with canned goods and boxed foods now. Stores stank of rotting produce and frozen food now that electricity had shut down.
Brian kept a record of his experiences in notebooks. Somehow, it felt important. Someone, someday would know about this, if only to validate his existence.
Brian went to his parent’s home, feeling a deep need to see, talk to, and hold his mother. Much like the countless places he’d already passed through, the town was deserted. Trees sprang up everywhere. Root systems buckled sidewalks, forced apart building foundations, and ruined once flat roads.
In front of his childhood home, two trees intertwined, leaning out over the driveway. Windows were broken. Paint faded and peeled. Shingles and siding had been blown off by wind. A section of the roof was missing. The only sound was wind rustling though trees, whispering to him.
Inside the house, the walls were stained from water damage. Mosses and molds grew on the dirt coated floor. Wood deteriorated. Pictures faded. No more was there the smell of fresh baked apple pies. No sounds of kids laughing. The human abode was now home to mice, squirrels, and birds.
Brian took a photo album from a bookcase. It was heavy with moisture. He flipped the cover back and was greeted with partial pictures of a past that no longer existed. His chest tightened. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he sobbed.
Brian checked around outside. What was left standing of the barn was empty. Whatever animals had been there had managed to escape. Wheat fields were now overgrown with trees.
A dog happily galloped up, tongue flailing, tail wagging, paws climbing up his leg. Brian gladly returned the affection, petting and hugging the lonely animal. Mindlessly, he shared his story. The dog seemed to listen intently, unwavering dark eyes affixed upon Brian. They became best friends. The only companions either had.
Brian settled into a new life raising stray dogs and tending a vegetable garden. For all he knew, he was the last human.
*****
Brian exited the library with his faithful canine companion, carrying his notebook. “What should we eat tonight, Skylar?” he asked, cutting through the park.
“Mr. Buckley.” The voice sounded like a truckload of acoustic drums bouncing through a metal tunnel. Brian spun, notebook clattering to the ground. Skylar yelped, backing, hair raised, growling.
“Oops. Sorry,” the glowing figure said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. The voice modulator’s all out of whack. There. Is that better?”
Brian nodded. “I haven’t heard another voice in years.” He stepped forward and passed right through the figure. “What the...?”
“My fault. Should’ve warned you. Intangible lifeform here.”
Skylar curiously circled the figure, sniffing, occasionally growling.
Brian paused, rubbing his eyes. “Who are you?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not if I’m asking.”
The figure sighed deeply, grumbling, “Give them brains to think with, they said.” He straightened his posture. “I’m God.” Unimpressed, Skylar cocked his leg.
“God. Creator of the universe?” The translucent figure nodded. Brian studied this man wearing black rimmed glasses, a button down shirt and pressed slacks. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure? Am I sure! Of course I’m sure!”
“Didn’t mean to offend you. Shouldn’t you be more… imperious?”
God waved him off.