Introducing Ms. Harlow...
Harlow...
Ever heard of Judgement Day? Armageddon? The Rapture? If not, allow me to explain. For as long as mankind has been on this Earth, there has been faith, in one form or another. A belief in something higher than ourselves, an almighty power that ultimately decides when we live and when we will die. And along with that faith comes the idea that, one day, everything we know will come to an end. How it would happen, no one could ever be sure: a Great Flood that would separate the just from the sinners, such as Noah's; a colossal flare that would destroy man, predicted by the Mayans; or perhaps our modern day global warming, our Earth suffocating under a blanket of deadly fuels.
But, in the end, it was never some unknown force that brought the world to its end. Instead, it was us. Mankind.
Maybe we grew too greedy. Perhaps we demanded too much. Or it might have always been coming. I, for one, will never know. I can only tell you what happened that day. The day the world ended.
The Earth was at war. Every continent, every country, was armed to the teeth and ready to use deadly force. We were struggling, every one us standing on our last leg, clinging to any bit of hope we could find. The Earth had become too populated and it was dying. The growling stomachs of the people couldn't be supported by the dwindling supply of food and countries were beginning to starve. Desperation and hostility thrived in the chaos and tensions grew high. Our resources fell short and oil became practically non-existent, with the superpowers of the world fighting over the last scraps. We were like rabid animals, killing each other for the last leg on a carcass.
When the bombs were dropped, we received no warning. No offer of peace or surrender; it wasn't even an invasion. It was as if the sky had split open and the very essence of hell was raining down upon us. It bled, lit up by the destruction of the ground below. Great mushroom clouds bloomed, reaching for the heavens, and the Earth shook, as if its very fabric had been torn. The Sun seemed to go out, smothered by the destruction and there was panic everywhere. People were running through the streets, screaming for loved ones, for an escape. They died in those streets, blown apart by the sheer force of the explosions or crushed by falling rubble as buildings and cities collapsed. The pavements were painted red as we ran, searching for some form of salvation.
I remember being frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening. I had read the great stories of Pompeii; the great blast that ended an entire civilisation. I had been taught about the horrors in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, of Little Boy and the murder of thousands. But I had never imagined that I would experience something so terrifying; to me, they could have been ghost stories, things that went bump in the night but could never actually hurt me.
How wrong I had been.
As the building began to shake, its foundations giving way to the blasts, my father took hold of my hand and told me to run. Run where, he never said, but that didn't matter. It was just run; run and don't look back. Don't stop, don't hesitate, don't think. Just run.
So I did.
I made it as far as the lobby before the roof began to cave in. Chunks of marble and steel and granite rained down on us like hail, and my father forced me into cover, trying to shield me. I cowered into him, my heart beating hard against my ribs, and I was sure that would be the end of us. There was no escape, only death; we were kidding ourselves believing that we could fight fate. I shut my eyes and waited for the inevitable.
Something wrapped around my waist, something strong and supporting; I honestly thought that it was the arms of death, prepared to carry me far away from there. Can you blame me for hoping, in my last minutes, that maybe angels did exist and they had come to take me? I relaxed into the grip, deciding that there was no use in fighting. What would be the point? Why would I want to fight, to return to a world where the sky was made of fire and the ground was layered by dust? That world had no future, no relief...no hope.
But then there was a voice in my ear, ordering me to move and I opened my eyes. I wasn't dead. I wasn't being delivered to Heaven. I was still cowering behind a toppled desk, my arms wrapped around my father's neck and my lips muttering a prayer that I didn't believe in. The arm tugged on my waist again and this time, I didn't question it. I didn't look to see who it was. I just obeyed. I took my father's hand and followed the person holding me, running and swerving to avoid falling rubble and leaping over the bodies that already littered the floor.
We burst through a heavy door and almost tumbled down a flight of steel steps, the arm around me unrelenting and demanding as we took the steps two at a time. At the bottom was a second door, one made of wrought iron and bolted, air-locked like a World War Two bunker. The man who had grabbed me moved forward and fumbled to open the door, cursing loudly as the building continued to shake. I was sure we were going to die.
With a great screech of metal on metal and the groan of hinges that hadn't been oiled in decades, the door was wrenched open and we dove inside, collapsing to the ground as my legs gave way beneath me; my body trembled as if an earthquake was taking place inside me. Distantly, I was aware of the door being slammed shut and the sound of several locks being slid home, but in my mind's eye, all I could see were the great clouds of gas and toxins, the great skyscrapers toppling as if they were made of cards. And the bodies of millions, brought down by an impossible force and crushed by the stampeding crowds.
Most would say I was lucky. That I had survived what thousands could not. And perhaps I was, at the time at least. But now, knowing what I do and having experienced life in that bunker, I have only one thing to say:
The lucky ones died in the blast.