He set out the next day, thinking he was prepared for anything. He always had been, but nothing could have prepared him for what he found beyond the camp. Towns, suburbs, cities — everyone was gone without a trace, simply gone. He continued eastward around Baltimore. Stalled vehicles clogged the beltway, turning his trip into a journey of detours and off-road treks. The closer he got to his destination, the worse it became. Bowen finally had to abandon the Rover in a snarl of vehicles just outside Philadelphia. He hoofed it those last few miles through the biting cold. They would survive. It would just be that much harder.
When Bowen pushed open the lobby doors to the Freedom Hotel, he was met by the scent of cooked meat and the faint odor of a man’s cologne. He checked his pistol and followed the sound of violins to the restaurant. The curtained glass door opened with a soft rush of air. A man stood up and faced him, his napkin dropping to the floor.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Loeb, Dr. Philip Loeb. Thank God, I knew there had to be others. You saw my message?”
“There aren’t any others. Just me.”
“How did you find me?”
“I’m not here for you. I came for Carmen.”
“There’s no one else. I checked every floor.” Loeb produced a card key from his wallet. “Here, take it. It’s the master key. See for yourself.”
Bowen glanced at the key and refocused on Loeb.
“Would you like something to eat perhaps?” Loeb continued. “I can put a plate together and have it ready for you when you return.”
Bowen raised his gun. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re going to shoot me? Six billion people vanish from the planet and you’re going to shoot me? What kind of imbecile are you? Look around, man. Everyone’s gone.”
“You’re not.”
“And you’re not either. Don’t you see? There must be others. We have to find them. We need a plan.”
“I’ve got my own plan.” Bowen waved his gun, directing Loeb to the door. “Let’s go.”
They got off the elevator on ten, and Loeb opened Carmen’s door. The room was empty. A makeup box lay scattered on the sink in the bathroom. Bowen picked up a lipstick. It was hers. Everything in the room still carried her scent.
“This is where she was when it happened.” He holstered his gun and sat down. A photo of them together taken last year stared at him from the dresser.
Loeb handed him his cell phone. “Call her. The phones are still working. Perhaps she’s just not here.”
Bowen looked across the room at a jeweled purse lying on the bed, and punched the numbers into the phone. A sad tune began playing inside it. He tossed the cell back to Loeb. “Have a nice life, what’s left of it.”
“Wait, you’re going to leave? Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
“But our chances of survival are better if we work together.”
Loeb followed him to the elevator where Bowen pressed the down button. “You’re fat, stupid, and lazy. I’d say your chances of survival are zero.”
“But I have shelter with heat, water, power, and food — enough to last the winter at least.”
“Really? What kind of heat have you got?”
“Oil. The tank was half full two days ago when I checked.”
“So a smart guy like you has already figured out from the manifests how often they used to get deliveries here, right? And a guy with your genius IQ would have already shut off heat to non-essential parts of the building to make what oil he’s got last longer, right? Stop me if I’m wrong. And I suppose Dr. Philip Loeb has located a fuel company nearby and knows how to drive their tanker truck here through totally blocked streets when the oil runs out… right?”
“I… I’ve considered those things.”
“I’ll bet.”
The elevator call button dinged and the doors opened. Bowen got in, and Loeb followed him, staying as far away from his scowl as possible.
“I really think you should reconsider this. Have something to eat. Stay the night. Sleep on it, and let me know what you think in the morning.”
“You don’t want to know what I think.”
“But I do.”
“I think if you stay here, you’ll be dead in a month.”
The doors opened onto the lobby. A man dressed in black was standing in their way. Bowen drew his gun and fired once into the air.
“For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” the man cried.
The Man in Black
Michael was an ordained minister with no congregation, a failed marriage, and two kids who couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore. He lacked conviction in his beliefs and himself, and had lost his sense of purpose. Life hadn’t always been that way — in fact, it had been wonderful — but when Michael was diagnosed with lung cancer caused by too many years of too many cigarettes, he lost faith, and with faith went hope, and then love. His had become a miserable existence, and trying to save others was pointless when he couldn’t even save himself. Michael, the powerful archangel of God, the leader of the Lord’s forces, was nothing like God or his angel, or anything that was holy or good anymore.
He wasn’t sure why he continued the treatments. He was dying. The doctors had told him that. Yet every week in the middle of the night he went on an insurance-funded four-hour trip by train to keep a 6:30 a.m. appointment with doctors who did their best to prolong his worthless life. He was sicker than usual after this last one. They offered to keep him overnight, but Michael refused, having long ago resolved that he would not exhale his final breath into an oxygen mask in a hospital, connected to machines by tubes and wires. They found him an ambulance to the airport and a quick flight home.
The irony was that he was praying when the end came, praying that it would all just be over, and that God would show mercy and put him out of his misery. He was in church. He didn’t want to be, but he was. He wanted to be in bed, but it was Friday. The church couldn’t afford a cleaning service anymore, so every Friday Michael cleaned. It was one of the few things he still did religiously, one of the things the church still let him do. He hated cleaning as much as he hated life.
He had stopped for a minute to let a coughing spasm pass when he saw what he thought was a flash of light outside, and on 12|21|12 at exactly 12:21:12 p.m. the Reverend Michael Costa understood. This was the end. This was God’s reckoning, and God had judged the world guilty. He had taken everyone away, everyone but Michael, because Michael was the one person who knew that we didn’t go to hell for our sins. Hell came to us.
The world fell out of kilter as Michael struggled the five blocks into the center of town past abandoned cars, the steaming hot dog stand, and the empty bus station. An overwhelming and oppressive quiet had settled over the town. The pizza place, the barbershop, the news agency, everywhere he looked — no one was there. His lungs ached and his coughing brought up blood. Michael gave up the search and limped home.
He turned on the TV and clicked through the stations looking for something, anything.
“I am Dr. Philip Loeb. If you are seeing this, you are one of the few left. As far as I can tell, everyone else is gone. It’s like this all over the city…”
When the message repeated, Michael wrote down the phone number and email address of this man who was sharing his hell. He dialed the number.
“Leave your message at the tone if you must.”
Michael hung up and then threw up, and then passed out on the floor.
When he awoke, it was getting dark outside. By his watch, days had passed. Michael packed his suitcase, filled his coat pockets with granola bars, the only thing he’d been able to stomach lately, and drove to the train station in the next town. The station was empty as was the train that arrived ten minutes later without a conductor. Its doors opened. He got on board and sat down. The bell rang. The doors closed, and the train accelerated toward the city.