Stewart had once asked Clarissa, “Do you think the end of the world will come at night time?”
“I don’t care,” she said, stroking his hair as he lay across her lap on the sofa in their new city centre flat, “as long as we’re together.”
It was the answer that told Stewart everything he wanted to hear from her. He didn’t think Clarissa had seen that film, but he had always loved it. It always made him feel a sense of closeness and isolated security, the same thing he got from Clarissa.
Four weeks later that film would no longer exist.
As it turned out, the world ended during the day. A Wednesday afternoon, around half three – that’s when it began. Countdown had just started. Children were arriving home from school. Thousands of people were taking afternoon cigarette breaks.
The first two bombs hit London and Manchester within moments of each other, instantaneously destroying the country’s two biggest media hubs. Still, word spread quickly. It was only ten minutes before panic saturated Stewart’s workplace like a flood tide: “We’re under attack.”
Stewart instinctively grabbed his wallet and mobile, though both were already obsolete. He joined the crazed rush down the stairwell. People he’d only previously seen chatting at Christmas parties were now elbowing and kicking each other in their haste to escape. There would be no more Christmases.
“They’ve hit Birmingham,” he heard someone say as he pushed his way into the open air. He sprinted across the car park to his Sierra and thanked himself for filling up this morning.
Someone had crashed the barrier and cars were pouring onto the streets. Chaos had already descended upon early rush-hour Nottingham.
Nobody knew where the bombs were coming from – al Qaeda? Korea? Russia? America? Space? – but everyone knew where they were going: the cities. Leeds had been hit, according to gargled radio reports. Newcastle and Southampton too.
It was only a matter of time before Nottingham was struck too and the rush to flee was immense. London Road was solid with out-going traffic in all lanes as Stewart headed towards the city. He weaved his way between cars, cut across verges and pavements. They were all running for the safety of the country, but he sensed that any flight was pointless. There was only one thing worth reaching.
As he turned onto Parliament Street he saw the petrol station being ransacked by looters. Shattered bodies lay on pavements below tall buildings. Abandoned children screamed for vanished parents. It had taken a mere half-hour for all society’s sense and reason to disappear.
Stewart abandoned his car when the traffic became impenetrable and ran the last few hundred metres.
The stairs seemed to ascend forever, but he finally reached the apartment. The door was unlocked.
“Clarissa!” he called.
There was no reply.
He rushed through to the bedroom. Clothes lay scattered across the bed and her bag was gone.
Missiles flattened Nottingham just after 5, but Stewart’s world had already ended.
Great piece. I loved the sense of chaos, which is the heart and soul of all apocalypse stories. Also, a real heartbreaker of an ending.