Day 222

That nagging, “Is this the end of the world?” question that we all ask ourselves in the face of increased violence and mayhem – the one we eventually cast off as an absurd macabre fantasy - was finally answered with an irrefutable “yes.” The world as I knew it is gone.

Civil unrest and extreme terrorist cells tore at the fabric of free society until anarchy and barbarism ruled. Governments have collapsed across the globe. Skyscrapers toppled. Digital infrastructures imploded. Average neighborhoods are now targeted strike zones or refugee camps.

My current circumstances could have easily been ripped from the pages of some post-apocalyptic film script. Except the nightmare is real.

I am an actor by trade. By rank, I’m an A-lister. A big name with a big box office draw. Red carpets, screaming fans, hounding paparazzi when I’m heading out of the gym. Today, that charmed life seems like a distant dream.

Even still, my strong work ethic has afforded me some benefits in this strange new world. Today, for example, I swapped a solid gold statue for about two weeks’ supply of canned food and water. A flicker of recognition crossed the trader’s face. But he never asked my name. To be honest, we both looked like hell. Two grown men – one an international celebrity – both haggard, and hopeless.

The statue meant nothing to him. He planned to melt the gold and collect some sort of cashless bounty. Once it was everything to me – the ultimate accolade – the highest acting pinnacle. None of it matters now – except that it bought me a chance to live longer. My street smarts also give me an advantage. I was a troubled teen. Before everyone knew my name, I did some time in juvenile detention. Back then, I knew how to hold my own in a fight, and thank God I still do.

The meager supplies I got for that “career-affirming” trophy might have cost less than a hundred bucks. I knew it wasn’t a fair trade. But I couldn’t worry about that. My goal is to stay alive. And now others are counting on me.

I’ve never been more aware of the nerve endings pulsing under my skin. I feel jacked up and jittery as I head toward the hideout. So many ravaged souls would happily kill me for a crust of bread and my backpack is bulging with food.

The streets are oddly quiet as I snake my way across burnt patches of lawns. Some are littered with bricks from crumbled houses and in some cases, entire uprooted trees. An acrid smell hangs in the air – a mix of rotting animals, decaying human flesh, and smoldering asphalt.

I pray they will all still be there. Their wide, hollow eyes speak volumes about the trauma that has greedily sucked their childlike wonder away. I’m all they’ve got in the world. I can’t fail them.

I stop short about 100 feet away from my destination. A delicate crackling sound startles me. I spin around, expecting a stealthy attacker. Nothing’s there. I inch forward. More crackling and closer. What the hell is that?

The remaining grass is dry and brittle. Walking on it produces an unsettling “crunch.” I cinch my backpack tighter to my body. When I turn again, I see her. I’m guessing she’s about five years old. Her round blue eyes warily take me in. Her thick red curls are tangled. Freckles dot her small face. She’s holding a plastic grocery bag. It crackles in the sporadic breeze.

I smile slowly and do a 360-degree turn, looking for others – for her parents – or some sort of adult to spring out from behind the piles of rubble. Looks like it’s just us.

“Hi,” I say softly. She stands perfectly still and says nothing. “I’m James.” I’ve been using my middle name. Anyone who knows my public name might kill me for imagined spoils of my wealth.

She blinks, drops the bag, and looks down at the ground. I step forward. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. What’s your name? Are you lost?”

A tear runs off her quivering chin and onto her dirty red sneaker. “I’m Ella. M-my mama d-died. I d-don’t know wh-where to g-go.”

I drop to my knees and draw her into my arms. Ella sobs, in big hyperventilating gasps. Her tiny body shakes against my chest. When will it stop? How much more suffering can anyone take?

As much as I’d love to comfort her, my survival instincts kick in. We’re not safe out here, exposed. I scoop her up and run to the shelter. We can’t risk being discovered. Today marks 222 days we’ve gone undetected.

When we enter the bunker, my niece, Jenny, dashes over and hugs my knees. She’s eight. She’s got my brother’s fair hair and dimples. At 12, her sister Annie is a miniature replica of my sister-in-law. Annie’s hazel eyes flash concern. “Who’s she? I thought you said no one can ever know we’re here.”

I lower Ella to the floor. She scurries to a corner and draws her knees up under her chin. I get Annie's reaction. But I’m hoping she’ll cut Ella some slack.

Annie’s friend, Alex, pipes up. “Give her a break, Annie. She’s tiny and looks terrified. I’m guessing she’s alone, like us.” His eyes lock with mine, waiting.

“That’s right, Alex. Her name’s Ella. She has nowhere else to go.”

“You mean her mom’s dead,” Jenny said. I wince at her bluntness.

Ella raises our headcount to five. We’re in my best friend’s state-of-the-art underground shelter. Built to survive even a nuclear blast. Many mega-rich people have luxury apartment-style bunkers with flushing toilets, oak flooring, hot water, full kitchens – the list goes on – and nothing can penetrate the military-grade doors.

I used to call Pete paranoid. Now, I’m thanking God that he trusted me with the access codes. Sadly, he’s gone missing.

I’m Jenny and Annie’s legal guardian now, per the terms of my brother’s will. I never had kids of my own. In this catastrophic reality, that’s a good thing. I can’t help but wonder how long we can make it here – isolated from the rest of the world. What kind of existence is this, really? How long can we stand not seeing natural daylight? Will we eventually go crazy?

As careful as we’ve been, we’re running low on food. So, I’m forced to go out and find more. Alex helped me put away the canned vegetables, soup, and ravioli I got today. I also scored a box of crackers and three bananas. Wanderers and gatherers covet provisions like these. I can’t believe my luck. In all, it’s been a good day.

Ella washes up and Jenny gives her an oversized t-shirt for a nightgown. She takes Ella’s hand and I think it’s rather sweet of her. They climb into Jenny’s twin bed together. As they settle under the covers Ella looks at me and says, “You’re really nice, for a famous human.”

The hair on my arms bristles. Did I hear her right? I stave off the dark thought with a quick smile. “Famous?”

She smiles back, “Alex told me. You’re a movie star person.”

I’m relieved at her childish phrasing. “I used to be,” I say. “It’s late. Better get some sleep.” Jenny is already out when I lean over to kiss her forehead and click on the night light.

I plop down on the couch and open my notebook. I’ve kept a journal since the day we arrived here – as a record – in case the worst happens. My diary also serves as a historical document for a future generation. At least today, I’m still holding out hope there is one.

I start listing the items I picked up today and Annie stomps into the room, hysterical. “I can’t find Mom’s locket!”

I try to calm her down, so she doesn’t wake the little ones. “We’ll find it, Annie. It’s got to be here someplace.”

Annie never takes off her mom’s heart-shaped locket. It’s gold with a rose on the front. Pictures of Annie and Jenny are inside. My brother gave it to Marissa on their 10th wedding anniversary. Annie borrowed it for a school play and then …

We tear off her bedding, look under the bed, the desk. Nothing. We check the closet, clothing pockets. Her shoes. Still nothing.

Annie is inconsolable. I hug her. “It’s going to turn up, Honey.”

Morning comes and Annie’s visibly crushed. Ella pads out to the kitchen and Annie’s somber face crinkles into sudden realization. “You took it! Give me back my mother’s necklace!”

Ella looks at Annie, shocked. Then she looks at me. “I don’t have it.”

“I don’t believe you. Give it back!” Annie spits.

“C’mon Annie,” I say.

Jenny enters the fray, taking her sister’s side.

Ella’s cheeks turn as red as her hair. She kind of howl-screams, “I. DON'T. HAVE. IT!”

“That’s enough!” I shout. Everyone freezes and looks at me. “The next one who yells writes 1,000 sentences.”

The girls retreat to different spaces. Alex sits down with Ella. He gives her some crayons and paper and tries to be nice. “It must be hard, living with strangers in a strange place. It was hard for me, at first. But it’s good that James brought you here.”

“It’s the other way around,” Ella says, coloring.

“What do you mean?” Alex asks.

“I picked him,” she says. “I’ve been watching all of you. For 222 days."

Alex stands up and quickly backs away. “What the f- “

I jump up from the couch. “Stop this nonsense, Ella!”

She smiles. “Humans are so emotional. But you’ve all been worthy subjects.”

A chill races up my spine.

Ella mimics my voice, “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

What’s happening? “Who are you?”

“Ella, of course,” she says smugly.

“What the hell is going on?” My head starts spinning. I start to sway.

“An intergalactic experiment. We loved your performance in ‘Uncertain Destiny,’ by the way.” An adult voice is coming out of Ella’s little mouth.

She’s an alien?

“We simulated the global disaster – should I still call you James?” She continues, “This bunker is ours – an exact copy of Pete’s.”

I fight a sudden urge to vomit – and lose.

“The serum is wearing off. You’ll feel better soon, James. You passed the test. You gave up your Earthly treasure to save others. We’re impressed.”

I collapse onto the couch as the kids call my name. I can’t reply. My tongue is too heavy. Everything goes black.

***

Feb. 22

I can’t stand award show after-parties. My cell phone buzzes as I press through the throng of bodies. It’s my brother. “Big night!” he says, “Congrats!”

“Thanks,” I duck around a corner for privacy.

“Marissa can’t find her locket. Have you seen it at your place?” he asks.

“No man, I haven’t. I’ll look though.” Someone is approaching me. I cut the call

"Congrats!” The girl is gorgeous. Wavy black hair and striking blue eyes.

“Thanks,” We both laugh and her hand flies up to her neck.

“Oh no. My necklace broke.” She’s in heels and a fancy gown so I scoop the chain off the floor.

It’s a heart-shaped gold locket with a rose on the front. What? I don’t even ask. I just spring it open, expecting to see my two nieces. Instead, I stare at two curly red-haired girls with striking blue eyes.

A sharp pain stabs my temple. She takes the locket from my hand. “That’s me and my twin sister, Ella. I’m Emma. I decided to go dark.”

As she turns her wrist, I see a small “222” tattoo. Emma notices my glance. “Our lucky number. We were born on day 222 of a leap year - August 9, 1984,” she says. “Oh – and today’s February 22. Isn’t that something?”