“If that’s your reason for living, padre, you’re wasting your time. I’ve got nothing to confess.” Bowen looked into his empty glass. “I’ve got no reason to be here.”
“I know why I’m here. It’s because them dumb bastards missed,” Ferret laughed. “They blew the crap out of my place, but they didn’t get me. No sir. Must not a-been using them expensive smart bombs. Guess they could only afford the dumb ones for the likes of me.”
Cameron exhaled. “I write speeches. It’s what I do. And they’re good speeches. The president thought so… I thought so… Maybe God did pick us for a reason, but why choose me? I don’t have the brains of Loeb or the skills of Bowen, or your religion, Michael, or even Ferret’s dumb luck. I just write.”
“Grace is a gift that no one deserves,” whispered Michael.
The oak paneled dining room had seen many a joyous holiday over the years, but it was neither merry nor bright that Christmas. There were no presents under the dead tree and no stockings hung by the chimney. Over the fireplace, an old mantle clock ticked softly. After dinner, Cameron made coffee.
“And that is why God let you live, Cameron,” said Loeb. “That’s the best cup of coffee I’ve had in a long time.”
“Amen to that,” smiled Michael.
“I was a barista at Capital Coffee my junior year. Can you believe it? The pay was lousy, but I got a free coffee IV out of it. It kept me going. I’ve been thinking, Dr. Loeb…”
“Here we go again,” Bowen pushed his chair back. “I’m going to need more scotch and another cigar for this.”
“No, seriously, I’ve been thinking about this. If we do survive, maybe there is a place for a writer like me. Maybe I should chronicle this for future generations.”
Ferret slurped the coffee that had spilled into his saucer and wiped his mouth on the linen tablecloth: “Waste not, want not — that’s what I always say.”
Loeb shuddered. “That’s assuming, Cameron, that the human race survives at a level somewhere above Cro-Magnon, I presume?”
“You don’t think we’re going to make it, do you?” said Cameron.
“Oh, individually we will survive to the end of our days, assuming Bowen doesn’t shoot us first, but one thing is crystal clear. We are not, last I checked, an asexual species. If we don’t find others, specifically if we don’t find any women, our lives and the life of our race will wind down pointlessly, and there will be no future generations to read your chronicles.”
Ferret smacked the table. “Now you’re talking. I say we each round up as many chippies as we can, screw all day and party all night. Now that’s my kind of salvation.”
“Ferret?” Loeb said.
“Yeah what, Doc?”
“If it comes to that, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Don’t you worry Doc, they’ll be plenty for everyone.”
Outside the window, the night sky was filled with stars, and the moon reflected in pale blue off a fresh covering of snow.
“For the human race to survive, we must find the others.”
“We’ve been over this, Doc. The human race is finished.”
“I refuse to believe that, Bowen.”
“Believe what you want, it’s over for us.”
“Can we be a little more positive, people? Maybe we should focus on finding the one who viewed your video, Dr. Loeb?”
“Look kid,” Bowen scowled. “Don’t you think they would have contacted us by now if they could? Face it. They’re dead.”
“We should at least try.”
“Why? What difference does it make? When I die, that’s it; the world ends for me. Whatever happens to you losers after that happens. It’s no concern of mine. I’ll be a dead, rotting corpse.”
“That’s just cold, Mr. Bowen. We’re people just like you. We’re your own kind. We should stick together.”
“You’re nothing like me, boy.”
“You’d feel differently if Carmen were here,” Loeb said.
“You leave her out of this.”
“Who’s Carmen?” asked Cameron.
“Mr. Bowen’s one and only soft spot, apparently.”
“You shut up before I shut you up, you intellectual nobody.” Bowen grabbed his bottle and stumbled out of the room.
Loeb raised his glass in a toast and emptied it: “And to all a good night.” He dabbed his lips with his napkin and plopped it on the plate. “Well. There you have it. I can solve the most complex equations in the universe and come up with theories to explain anything, but I’ll never figure out people, even when there are only four of them left.”
“So wait, you do have an idea what happened, don’t you?” Cameron said. “You’re just not saying.”
“I am working on a hypothesis, yes, but I don’t have enough evidence yet.”
“Can’t you at least share? It’s not like we’d be calling the tabloids with photoshopped high school reunion pictures of you on a pyramid surrounded by aliens or anything.”
“It’s pure conjecture. I need more data.”
”Dr. Loeb, I know I’m only speaking for myself, but I’ll take anything at this point.”
“Suit yourself. The question is simple: Where are the 6.8 billion people? Answer that and the rest becomes obvious.”
Cameron turned to Michael. “Of course! Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Cameron,” Michael said, putting down his teacup. “I know you’re just trying to cope with this. We all are, but I’m not sure your sarcasm is helping.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this… this Armageddon. Maybe if I had more time to prepare, take some notes, brainstorm ideas…”
“Not everything in life is a speech, son. At some point, you just have to accept things and act.”
The fireplace was warm and relaxing. Loeb stared into its yellow and orange flames: “You do know that these gas flames are highly inefficient,” he said. “But they are designed that way because that’s what people expect to see when they looked at a fireplace. It looks more ‘real.’ We have the technology to make a more efficient gas flame, one with combustion so complete that it would give off little or no emissions, but then the flame would be cold and blue and uninviting. We can’t have that, can we?”
Cameron buried his face in his hands. “This is insane. I must be dreaming.”
“I’v considered that possibility as well,” said Loeb. “But ask yourself this: if this is a dream, why can’t you wake up? Furthermore, dreams are vague and indistinct constructs of our own experience. They may have the appearance of detail, but they are never this elaborate or this real. And even in my wildest dreams, I would never have included anyone remotely like you, Bowen, or Michael, and certainly not the likes of Ferret. No offense intended, of course.”
“None taken. Where is Ferret anyway?”
“He likely went outside to prowl. I saw him at the window a few minutes ago.”
Cameron picked out a few songs on the electronic jukebox that was next to the bar.
“You’re a little young to be a Beatles fan, aren’t you?” Loeb asked.
Cameron listened to the song and stared at Loeb. “What if we’re all in the same dream?”
“And we’re the ones who aren’t real? Preposterous.”
“But I don’t like the Beatles. I have no idea why I picked that song.”
“Then who is dreaming?”
“Maybe the one we think watched the video is actually the one who is dreaming, and we’re all just ideas rolling around in his head. Maybe that’s why we have no control over this, and that’s why I picked the Beatles — because he likes the Beatles. That’s why we can’t wake up. We’re not real.”