Caught in the Middle of the End

The books rumble against her back. Abby swallows, turning-watching as the lights swing above them. 

‍ ‍The end. Her eyes flick down.

The girl across from her—she can’t even tell if she’s younger or her age—is watching the ceiling with wide, brown eyes. Her matching fingers splay against the dust covered floor.

‍ ‍Already. How? How bad is it going to get when they actually hit?

The girl’s eyes flick down. Abby swallows.

“Hey—I’m Abby.” The girl’s eyebrows furrow.

‍ ‍“Es americana?” she questions, after a moment—soft. Oh.

‍ ‍“Si-uh—” fuck—it’s been a few years since her classes in high school. It feels like ages now—feeling the ground tremble and shake—the ceiling sway—above and below her feet. She swallows against her dry throat. “Me llamo Abby. Uh-hola.”

The girl’s expression flashes with relief. “Soy Daniela.”

“En—encantado.” She hopes it’s enough. “Um…so…el fin?”

She nods up. Daniela’s eyes flick up before—after a moment, she nods. She says something—not something she can catch, lip gloss coated lips covered in a thin layer of dust too. Her tone says it all though, grim and afraid.

The ground trembles again.

‍ ‍Of course we both get stuck with someone who doesn’t entirely understand our native languages.

‍ ‍“Mi hermana,” Daniela says, softly. Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “Vive en Argentine.”

‍ ‍Ouch. She nods, swallowing thickly.

‍ ‍“Mi hermana—” what was it she used? ¿Vive? She thinks that’d be right on her end too—es is permanent like her teacher said. Estar—it doesn’t feel right for this but—

‍ ‍Viva. Live. 

Lived. She swallows. 

God, it really feels like decades ago now.

‍ ‍“Mi hermana vive Chicago,” she says quietly—the words taste weird against her mouth. She’s said them so many times but never in another language. Never in a situation like this. “Mi hermano vive en-Toronto.” Of all places to be. He just had to go. 

Chicago, Los Angeles, and Toronto. See you for Christmas.

She doesn’t think she’ll see them again unless it’s another world now. She plays with the loose fray on her sneaker.

‍ ‍“Mi madre y padre-viven en Argentine.” Daniela pauses, her lip trembling. She shakes her head. “Mi padre-no quiere mi aquí. Y…”

‍ ‍I see why he didn’t. And a lot of other things she doesn’t know how to express in Spanish—unless she finds a dictionary for English to Spanish in here and they can start writing on—

‍ ‍How much paper do we even have? Her head thumps into the bookshelf. Daniela chews on her nail, expression distant, a tear rolling down her dusty face. Lip gloss smears onto her finger.

It doesn’t really matter anymore.

Now they just have to—

Dust rains down like snow on them. She blinks away the dust—the ash-like flakes. If it’s shaking this much, it means they’ve already—swallow the fear back and—

Wait.

The end of the world, in Abby’s opinion, takes too long. It’s not just days that it happens over—even hours. Sure, maybe the official end—the bombs, the outbreak of a world war—that happens in hours to end it but—

The actual end, the way to get to this point, takes a lot longer. Years. Decades. Centuries. 

She’s realized that, wandering these damn shelves endlessly in the endless waiting. As Daniela fiddles with the old radio to try and get anything but static. She hums sometimes—sings, softly, in Spanish and, of all things, French.

She hasn’t found a Spanish textbook to find the word for college major. She wanders, tracing her fingers along the same path of the wooden bookshelf.

‍ ‍“Dos semanas,” Daniela had said, when it finally stopped shaking. When they turned on their phones, finding the date but—no service still. Like it was for two minutes before but the sirens started. “Para-boom,” she had made an explosion motion with her hands. 

Nuclear. At least she knows she’s not the only one who isn’t good at this either.

Daniela’s fiddling with wires, as she rounds the corner. Her hair is tied up with a rubber band, curls about to escape.

‍ ‍“¿Qué?” she questions, as Abby approaches. Takes the seat next to hers—watching, as she takes a tool she doesn’t know the name of from the soldering kit the library had. She didn’t even know they had one but—

She supposes that’s one of the benefits of their college with more certifications than she could ever count.

‍ ‍“Nada. Juste-miro-tu.” She winces. Daniela glances at her, eyes sparking with a little amusement. Her lip gloss glitters in the lantern’s light—somehow still on too.“La…trabajar.” 

She only hums, unbothered, turning back. 

‍ ‍“Como es…” she waves at the radio, cluelessly. “That.”

Daniela snorts, softly. She solders another wire, movements eased. “La radio—” her face burns, of course, the one time—as Daniela snickers, softly. “La radio es buena. Pienso—”

She clicks the tool off, setting it down, pulling off her gloves. Her nail polish is chipped to hell, as she flicks the radio on. It glows a soft green, where the tuning lies. She starts twisting the knob, static filling the air again. Her eyes narrow as Abby leans closer, curious.

‍ ‍“Sus clases,” Abby starts, quietly, as the radio whines. “W-la clases radio?”

‍ ‍“¿Qué?” she startles slightly. The radio almost seems to whine in protest, like, pay attention to me. Be amazed I’m still alive at the end like you. You’ve got nothing else to do. “Mi-oh. No-no, francés y árabe.”

‍ ‍“Oh.” She turns back to the radio-turning.

‍ ‍“¿Tú?” Abby shrugs.

‍ ‍“Biblioteca-para—” she waves towards the books—makes the motion to scan them with her hands. Daniela watches her, curiously, as she slowly turns the knob. The static seems to pitch up as she does. 

She says something—it sounds right though. 

‍ ‍“Si. Si—”

‍ ‍“Can anyone hear me?” Daniela yelps—she jerks back, and luckily, she doesn’t hit the knob. It stays, growing stronger, as Abby inhales sharply.

“What the—”

‍ ‍“Can anyone hear me? Hi—I don’t know if this thing works. It’s like twenty years old I think but—I’m trying. Uh—so, I’m—call me Pirate Apocalypse. Yeah.” There’s a giggle somewhere—lost in the waves. She can hear the person—Pirate Apocalypse—shushing them. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Anyway, we—me and my cohost, Little Bitch, are right outside the fallout. We can see it all and—it doesn’t look good. If you’d like to hear about it—”

They lock eyes, as the radio whines—a high pitched one before it clears to a low static, just underneath the currents.

‍ ‍“Hope you stay a while—welcome to the end of the world. And welcome—”

The radio whines, like a low protest caught in her throat, and Daniela’s eyes. A jingle plays—she thinks it’s a remix of I Don’t Want to Set The World on Fire, low and upbeat. 

‍ ‍“—to Apocalypse Radio.” 

‍ ‍Fuck, this is actually real. 

“Shit.” Daniela nods, slowly, her face pale—she grabs her hand. 

‍ ‍“Mierda. ¿Qué es eso?” 

‍ ‍I don’t know. And—

‍ ‍“We’ll be back after this short break.”

And she holds on, among these roaring currents of her own trying to drag her down too. A song starts playing, one she doesn’t recognize. Daniela’s fingers tighten around hers, hopeful and scared and—

‍ ‍Pirate Apocalypse.Welcome to the end of the world. Her heart’s thudding in her throat. Daniela is whispering something softly in Spanish.

‍ ‍“Dejan mi familia ser bien—”

She swallows, hard.

‍ ‍And let my family be okay too. She tightens her hand onto hers—floating above the wave.

‍ ‍Wherever they are now.

‍ ‍“Por favor—”

‍ ‍And Daniela’s too, until we meet again.