The End Time

THE END TIME

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

 

 

 

Fifty years ago today, the United Global Army flooded Earth’s atmosphere with Furon Gas and drove the invading Tarnacki out of our world and back to their home planet. Nearly five and a half billion human beings lost their lives in the two year struggle to save Earth from annihilation and another billion from starvation when food supplies ran out in areas that couldn’t be reached by the Planetary Red Cross. Tarnacki bunkers raided by United Global Army security forces yielded incredible discoveries and I believe a lot of good came out of them, i.e. food processing machines, universal translators, and such. But I also believe some technologies created by an advanced alien society are not meant for human application, the procedure device being one of them.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

3:45 p.m. Tuesday

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten more years to live?

Fifty?

Perhaps, a hundred?

I would know the answer to Jane’s results soon.

I shuffled nervously in the chair under hot institutional lights in the small waiting room, my underwear and T-shirt feeling clammy against my skin, while trying to get a grip on my fraying patience. At this very moment, Jane’s physical body lay strapped to a machine built by extraterrestrials while the spiritual energy that is her human life force whisks through bent celestial dimensions until it can travel no further.

The moment of her death.

Her end time.

It twisted my mind to think about it.

No matter how much I learned about the procedure at school, no matter how many times I’d read about the procedure in periodicals and newspapers, no matter how much I’d researched on my own the good, the bad, and all that could go wrong with knowing your own personal end time, I still believed I was absolutely prepared for whatever the outcome.

“Are you doing okay, Mr. Bradly?” the receptionist asked.

Mid-forties, attractive, with graying hair, and wearing a green dress too small for her figure, the receptionist turned away from typing at her computer to face me.

“Just anxious,” I replied. “That’s all.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Murmuring voices in the hallway caught my attention and the steel door leading to the procedure area opened. A male doctor wearing a white lab coat and blue scrubs stepped through. The door shut automatically behind him.

The doctor’s hair was dark and unruly. Heavy-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that artificially enlarged his eyes rested on the bridge of his nose. His face was clean shaven. I caught a whiff of oniony body odor as if he hadn’t showered in a while as he reached over and placed an electronic tablet onto the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist took the tablet and resumed typing.

“I’m Dr. Menning,” the doctor said. He reached out to shake my hand and a crease formed along his forehead. “Bob Bradly, I presume?”

I shook. “Yes.”

“Jane Powers’ application form states that you are her primary caretaker for her procedure?”

“I am.”

“Before we continue, would you please take this pill? Low level cosmic radiation may emit from a patient’s body for several hours after the procedure. This neutralizes any effects on those in close contact.”

An alarm rang in my head. I’d never once read or heard anything about side effects of having the procedure. Something didn’t seem normal.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

Doctor Menning filled a small plastic cup with water and handed it to me. He dropped the rather large, white pill into my palm.

“Ms. Powers had an unusual procedure,” he replied. “It took more energy than what’s typical to bring her back.” He motioned to the pill in my hand. “Please.”

 I swallowed it with the water chaser and handed back the empty cup.

“Right now Ms. Powers’ mental condition is quite fragile which is normal after having the procedure. It can be quite distressing witnessing the end of your own life no matter how old you live to be. This is why follow-up counseling plays such a vital role in how a patient copes with this knowledge.”

I nodded benignly. “I understand.”

Dr. Menning pressed his lips together. “And sometimes when the results of the procedure are not what one would have expected the trauma to the psyche can be even more serious.”

The back of my neck tightened “What do you mean?”

Dr. Menning looked at the floor and his glasses slipped to the end of his nose. He gave me an arched glance over them and met my eyes straight, then raised his arm to speak into a communication device strapped to his wrist.

“Bring in Ms. Powers.”

My stomach fluttered.

A moment later, an orderly wheeled Jane who was lying on top of a hospital bed through the steel door and into the waiting room. Her auburn hair fanned out over the pillow. Her face was so pale it looked as if she had no circulation. An unhealthy glaze filmed her eyes which were drowsy slits possessing a distant, zombie-like stare. Her chest barely moved with each breath she took.

I stood nearly overcome by the rush of emotion to comfort and take care of her, make her normal and happy. I hated seeing her like this, like she’d just come out of major surgery when there was no wound that had needed healing, no diseased tissue that had needed removal.

Swallowing subdued the lump in my throat. I reached down to caress her cheek and noticed that my hand was shaking. She became a little more conscious and rolled her eyeballs toward me.

“I…” Her voice came out as a whisper. “I saw my death.”

Queasiness hit but I dredged a smile.

“It’ll be okay,” I assured. “In a few hours you’ll be your normal self.”

Dr. Menning gestured to the orderly. The orderly glanced at me with a troubled expression before wheeling Jane back through the steel door.

“Where is he taking her?” I asked, as they disappeared.

“Recovery includes several hours of follow-up psychological counseling paired with anti-anxiety pharmaceuticals. Will you or a family member be here to pick her up after she’s completed? She’ll be in no state to drive.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Excellent. Is your telephone number on file?”

Uneasiness swept through me. I nodded.

“Is Jane okay?” I questioned. “She doesn’t seem okay.”

“Everything Ms. Powers is going through is on par for the procedure and recovery. Knowing the date and manner by which one’s own life ends can be very distressing.” Dr. Menning tented his fingers. His gaze seemed to pierce me. “Especially when it is sooner than one would have expected.”

My body electrified. “What are you saying?”

“Before we proceed I think—”

“Are you saying she doesn’t have much time?”

Dr. Menning removed his glasses and methodically cleaned the lenses with a tissue he withdrew from his lab coat pocket. His eyes did not meet mine.

“The patient should be the one who divulges that information.”

My muscles tensed. Heat rose to my face. “I’m on the confidentiality agreement! I have a right to know the results!”

Dr. Menning looked up and the lines around his eyes deepened. He replaced his glasses.

“You also have the right to counseling yourself, as per the contract that both of you signed. We generally schedule a follow-up session with the primary contact and patient twenty-four to thirty-six hours after the patient has returned home and had time to process what they experienced. But in your situation we can have one ready for you within the hour. Wouldn’t you rather have a psychiatrist with you when you learn the results?”

Questions pressed at my mind.

“I’d like to know before I see Jane.”

Dr. Menning shook his head.

“You do have this right,’ he said, without argument. “Are you absolutely certain you want to hear the results from me?”

I nodded with heavy concern.

“Very well.”

Dr. Menning sighed, looking grim-faced. “As I said before, it can be extremely distressing knowing the date and manner—”

 “How much time?” I interrupted, feeling frazzled. “A year?” I swallowed a breath. “A month?”

Dr. Menning adjusted his glasses and appeared a bit uncomfortable. He sighed again, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 “I’m very sorry, Mr. Bradly.” He looked at the device on his wrist as it relayed information. “The procedure shows Jane’s life expectancy from this moment forward at forty-eight hours and twenty-three minutes. Slightly more than two days.”

“Days?”

Strength in my legs gave way and I could barely keep my knees from buckling. I teetered and sank onto the closest seat, my whole body trembling.

“That’s Thursday,” I said, with a despairing shake of my head. “Not possible. You must have read the results wrong.”

“There is nothing to read or interpret,” Dr. Menning said, his voice controlled. “The scene, the moment of Ms. Powers’ ending, occurred and was recorded. We cannot control nor manipulate the outcome in any way. I’m very sorry.”

I stared at the carpet, at the intricate patterns of color, trying to digest the horrific information. I couldn’t process all that was happening fast enough. Reality didn’t sink in. I wouldn’t let it.

“Jane is in perfect health!” I countered. “She’s healthier than I am! How can she have just two days to live?”

Dr. Menning cleared his throat. “It is not a health related issue that takes her life.”

I glanced up, startled. “An accident?”

He didn’t respond.

“Then it can be avoided?”

His face remained stern, staring at the receptionist still typing at her keyboard. Another possibility hit and burned through my core. I shriveled up inside.

“Murder?”

Dr. Menning turned toward me and I felt the full force of his gaze as if it were a punch.

“I cannot divulge specific information about a patient’s end time even though you signed the confidentiality agreement. Only the patient who has undergone the procedure can tell you how they lose their life and the specifics surrounding the event. Ms. Powers is fully aware of the circumstances contributing to her end time. It is her decision whether or not she wishes to share the experience with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He glanced at the device on his wrist. “I have another procedure scheduled in less than fifteen minutes.”

 

 

Chapter 2

4:10 p.m. Tuesday

 

 

 

 

The receptionist reiterated that before I could take Jane home she would need about an hour or two of intense psychotherapy as required by govt. law directly following the procedure. I’d read that most of the therapy was to keep individuals with long lives from making poor life choices due to the fact that they knew they were going to be around for a while. Poor choices like eating more pinky slime than what a person requires and getting obese or becoming a drug addict because they know they will survive an overdose. Procedure therapy teaches that what lies between now and your own end time can be productive and fulfilling or it can be years of insufferable pain, unhappiness, and depression, unless that time is used wisely.

Most likely Jane’s therapy will be concentrated on getting her affairs in order and how to say goodbye to those she loves.

 

* * *

 

I decided to make the thirty minute drive back to my cubicle building hoping the trek would help to clear my mind of my distress and confusion. The receptionist would call me when Jane was close to being finished and ready to leave so I could come and get her.

I hit the accelerator and reached the city-pod speed limit of forty-five mph rather quickly before merging into traffic on the city-pod’s main highway, thirteen-lane General Measer Street; named after the man who single-handedly took down a Tarnacki Fighter Ship with a .45 revolver. I was feeling distracted by the bustle of the urban afternoon and swell of 6.7 million govt. workers getting off their 4:00 P.M. shifts simultaneously. There would be an hour break until the other half of the work force clocked in for their 5:00 P.M. shifts. The govt. timed labor this way so each family could spend a minimum of one hour a day together if parents happened to work opposite shifts. It kept citizen moral from slipping to new lows in an already gloomy economy.

Veering left out of the urban center of the city-pod metropolis and into the desolate outskirts, I kept thinking that if Jane only had two days to live than two hours to spend on teaching her how to accept her fate was precious time. Should she really be wasting those hours?

Two days to live!

The absurdity slashed through my rational mind while my brain continued to try to process and accept the information. I rubbed the back of my neck and shifted unnervingly in my seat. The reality of Jane not being in my life anymore was unthinkable. I loved her more than anything in this world. I would gladly trade places and give up my life for hers if it were possible.

It wasn’t.

Results gathered from the procedure have never been wrong. That fact is drilled into every child enrolled in the city-pod school system past the second grade. There is even a required course in high school titled, The Principles, Implications, and Expectations of Knowing One’s Own Means and Time of Death that fully explains the pro’s and con’s of having the procedure and how it may affect your psychological development later as you go through life.

Some lower caste citizens of the city-pod even participate in group fundraisers to raise money for the procedure so they can send their children when they turned eighteen. I would imagine if the results showed at age eighteen that you were going to live for another eighty or ninety years it could be quite liberating. Some of the city-pod’s greatest inventors, thinkers, and politicians of the last fifty years give credit to the procedure for freeing them up of the burden of knowing that death could lurk around any corner at any time. This awareness that they had decades to live instilled the confidence to achieve great things.

My parents had no money or interest in me having the procedure and neither did I. Surviving day-to-day on govt. salary and them not being killed by a renegade hybrid while on active duty was enough drama for my family.

We left our existences to fate.

 

* * *

 

As I drove farther from the populace the road grew narrower and lonelier and I watched the dome-protected rural countryside unwind passed my windshield against the stark black rise of the Appalachian Mountains in the distance. Out here, habitable cubicle buildings were few and far between separated by large, abandoned industrial complexes composed of hundreds of massive and decaying structures that had been used to supply the United Global Army with weaponry during the Great War.

Nearly all cubicle buildings out this far had been abandoned by the population after the sixty-five square mile molecular-reinforced protective dome was completed in 2064 and industries were either shut down because they were Great War related or the ones that still manufactured usable merchandise were relocated more toward the center of the city-pod metropolis in modern complexes. Workers moved to where there was actually work and property values around these parts dropped to such low levels it was easier for the owners to walk away from their cubicle buildings then to try and upkeep and sell their equity. Even the homeless had a hard time surviving out here where there were no stores and no means to attain pinky slime unless you owned a vehicle to drive you into city-pod center.

Sometimes security would perform routine sweeps of these supposedly abandoned cubicle buildings and find a dozen or more people dead of dehydration and starvation. These unfortunate citizens would hear grand tales of empty, majestic housing for the taking and sometimes hiked for days to get here only to find despair and death at the end of the road.

I live way out here because it’s the only home I’d ever known.

About two years ago, after I graduated from high school, I asked my parents if they would loan me money so I could rent a single person cubicle closer to the city-pod center metropolis. I was hoping to find a good govt. job before I turned twenty-one and my mandatory security training was activated. I’d heard that Master Sergeants at boot camp were less severe on those recruits who would be leaving the service after their mandatory year was up, focusing on the security lifers to teach the more complex battle skills.

But as soon as I landed a position filing air quality reports and sunlight dispersion levels for the Environmental Maintenance Division, my father passed away suddenly from a stroke and I was forced to move back home and care for my ailing, grief-stricken mother. She died a few months later, having seemingly lost all will to live without her husband of forty-three years.

I always hoped and believed that Jane and I would marry and that our marriage would last as long as my parents had or longer. Now, that h