Countdown

TEN

“You’re going to save us all,” they’d say, so I’d smile, taking their frail hands in my own to assure them I was still alive.

“It all happens for a reason,” they’d say, so I’d smile, ignoring how the tremble in their voice gave away their fear.

“You’re all we have,” they’d say, again and again and again.

So I’d smile.

Again and again and again.

NINE

I slammed my fist on the table, scattering the manuals I’d been reading. A strangled cry ripped from my throat, and I instinctively tried to stifle it before a maniacal laugh bubbled up.

Who was I impressing? There was no need to be polite anymore.

I began to ramble, hands desperately trying to organize the desk in front of me. “I can do this. I can figure it out. I can – I can do it. I can save them, I can save us. I can…”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” she interjected, her voice shattering the silence for the first time in weeks.

I froze, the sound of my heart pounding in my ears drowning out whatever she had to say next. Without turning around, I took a deep breath and screamed.

As long and as loud as I could.

EIGHT

They’d given me countless heirlooms: jewelry, pictures, letters, anything to remind the world we had existed. Who we had been. Humanity’s legacy will always be personal; our own selfish desires to be remembered take precedent over what should logically be preserved.

“Please, please,” she had sobbed, eyes glued to the empty corner as she insistently pressed the locket into my hand. “Take it, take…take him.”

I had gripped it tighter, the outline of the necklace – her heart, his heart – burning into my palm and my memory, as if by doing so I could keep them with me.

I suppose that’s the only way I could.

So I’d smile.

SEVEN

“Okay, all of that’s science fiction. You know that’s not possible.”

“I know.”

“Time travel creates an inevitable paradox. You wouldn’t be here to warn them if they had been warned in the first place.”

“I know.”

“And the existence of one alternate universe implies an infinite amount – what, somehow you’re going to tell all of them?”

“I know.”

“Not to mention they aren’t parallel to our own, so chances are this strain never hit. And if it did, it would be too late.”

“I know.”

“The greatest minds of our generation couldn’t solve it, so why do you think-”

“Look around!” I snapped, my patience gone as I kept my gaze on the monitor. “I am the greatest mind of our generation.”

She didn’t answer.

SIX

I, selfishly, had wanted to be sick too. It was exhausting to survive, to be responsible for listening to everyone tell me over and over that I was lucky. Lucky? I had wanted to yell at them, their deathbed an ultimate outlet for me to viciously spit my anger. You really want to be humanity’s last hope? To be responsible for curating Earth’s memory? The last vestiges of civilization? To be alone, completely, surrounded by knowledge that could save the world but that you couldn’t possibly begin to process?

And then they would tell me about how proud, how happy they were that someone, anyone, would be able to keep us alive. That they would give anything to give their family the chance. That if their daughter, their grandson, their partner couldn’t live – at least someone could.

And their eyes had filled with tears as they had stared into empty spaces that I knew weren’t empty for them, speaking sweet nothings that fell on nonexistent ears.

So I’d smile.

FIVE

“You don’t know how to fix it,” she scoffed. “You don’t even know what it is. Even if you could get through, what are you going to tell them they don’t already know?”

“Maybe they can make sense of all this,” I responded, gesturing wildly around the lab. “I can’t, but maybe…if they can figure out why I’m immune, then maybe they can stop it before-”

She barked out a laugh, genuinely surprised, before her voice softened to an imperceptible whisper I had to strain to hear.

“You know you’re not immune. You know that. You knew when I…”

She stopped and sighed, and then a beat, before –

“You know that.”

FOUR

I had reassured them with hollow, impersonal promises that yes, of course, I’ll celebrate your birthday; yes, of course, I’ll visit your grave.

Some promises were easier than others. After all, every day was someone’s birthday. And now every place was someone’s grave.

Everyone lives. Everyone dies.

“Yes, of course, I won’t forget you.”

Even I didn’t believe that one.

So I’d smile.

THREE

“That’s it, then?” she asked, sounding unsure of herself for the first time since I’d heard her speak. “This is all there is? There’s nothing else to be done?”

I nodded, not daring to turn around in case I lost my nerve. My hand was shaking as it hovered over the button, and I pulled it away for a second before finally extending my finger.

I heard her breath hitch, then a steel in her voice as she, too, accepted what I and everyone else already had.

“Somewhere I hope there’s a version of you that succeeded.”

TWO

People are stubborn and short-sighted, and we like to think the best of ourselves until the opposite is proven. We like to think we’re resourceful. That we’re the heroes of our own story.

But to be the hero of everyone’s story is a very different responsibility. To be the hero is tiring. Depressing. Lonely.

They’d always tell me they knew I was going to succeed. I would save everyone.

After all, the hero always wins.

So I’d smile.

ONE

I finally turned to face her as the countdown started, knowing she’d be just as I remembered her before. Beautiful. Effervescent.

Alive.

And she was.

So I smiled.

ZERO