We lived in a time when people believed the end of the world was a myth. For all intents and purposes, mankind became gods, positioned atop the pedestals of technology and humanism, curing cancer and various global crises, drunk on their own power and vanity. The religious zealots were shrugged off the streets and the conspiracy theorists were given the cold shoulder.
We were dwellers of the quietly burning earth, wrapped either in blissful naivete or a blatant refusal to believe in our own inevitable desistance. There were signs. There were warnings.
The religious zealots were right after all.
For me, it all started when I was on my way to work one morning. I was running late, having earlier dealt with my sick, fussy, infant daughter until my wife arrived home from her late shift. Once she could take over watching the kids, I rushed out the door to my car, heading to the office. Traffic was heavier than usual, slowing my progress even further. When I finally pulled into the parking lot, white-knuckling the whole way, I climbed out of the car and began to half jog-half walk toward the entrance, glancing at my smartwatch.
The moment the graphics displayed I had taken a measley 203 steps, I heard a loud, sudden drone. When I looked up, the building exploded.
Everything after that was a blur.
That was how the end of civilization started.
An account lets you keep track of your saved stories and unlocks additional perks if you claimed the full app.Login with Google Login with Twitter View saved stories Log out