Primetime

Armageddon was meant for exceptional people.

Mutually assured destruction meant that only the best survived: the geniuses and the deep pockets who funded them, tucked away in tight little bunkers or loaded onto spaceships filled with beans and seltzer water and a few vintage bottles of cabernet sauvignon that would be too much of a shame to waste.

Savannah did wonder if she knew anyone who had been selected for survival, but that was unlikely. She had grown up in an average no-name town and had spent most of her life as an average no-name girl and more recently, an average no-name woman. She sat in a gray cubicle tapping at a gray keyboard. Hell, even her name technically meant “plain.” She was destined for mediocrity before she ever spoke her first word.

There was comfort in mediocrity, an easiness that she was always vaguely conscious of but never quite understood, that is until the first bomb fell and nuclear war was in full swing. There was only so much room in those safe places, not enough for every expert in the world. How frustrating to be in the top minds of your field but not the top mind, not the brain worthy of a ticket despite devoting your life to your field, despite being the smartest person in most rooms. But that was the problem: smartest in most rooms wasn’t smartest in the world. When you were second place, you got to die like last place all the same. But when you were average, you didn’t have to hope for a place in the new world.

The first bomb fell a month ago, the second 18 hours later, and then a tense few weeks of negotiations with every other country in the world. Savannah watched the debates every night, some of them humanitarians begging for a cease-fire as they documented the long-term effects of radiation on the planet and how this would condemn not only this generation but every generation to come. The rest of the debates were corporate bigwigs and crusty politicians vowing vengeance, the absolute annihilation of all enemies, and days without surrender.

Savannah hadn’t been to work in a week and no one had called to ask where she was; she did wonder if everyone else had stopped showing up as well, or if she was just as forgettable as she thought she was. The only thing that got her out of bed these days was to feed and clean up after Duchess, the orange shorthair cat that was as disinterested in existence as her human mother. Duchess and Savannah kept each other alive, whether out of habit or some kindness, neither could say.

The food in the freezer was starting to dwindle and only two cans of cat food remained, but Savannah had stayed away from town. At first it was to avoid the mobs of crazy doomsdayers but then when doomsday became almost a guarantee, there was nothing left to buy. Then she was the crazy one for not being prepared, but if death was inevitable, a cart full of Fancy Feast and Lean Cuisines wasn’t going to matter anyway.

Duchess finished her meal before Savannah ever sat down in front of the television with her own dinner. Even the pepper shaker was empty. She took a swig of her last beer and turned on the television for another night of doomsday debates. Duchess climbed onto the arm of the chair, waiting for Savannah’s lap to open, licking the last hints of tuna-flavored gravy from her whiskers.

To Savannah’s surprise, the debates were over. A decision had been made. She couldn’t hear the news anchor’s words over the sudden blare of an air raid siren. An alert flashed on her phone to take shelter.

Ah.

The poor anchor was droning on about the results of the summit, her well-manicured nails nervously fidgeting with a heart-shaped locket hanging from her neck. Her thin fingers clutched at the tiny silver heart every time she said “nuclear war” or “impending fallout.” Savannah wondered idly whose picture was in the locket; her children? Her husband? Savannah had long since pawned all the jewelry her ex-husband had given her but remembered a similar locket. She hadn’t been fond enough of her husband to want to carry a picture of him around with her. That should have been her first sign that the marriage was doomed.

She chuckled morbidly to herself. Doomed for divorce, doomed to be erased from the planet in a concussive blast of radiation. Par for the course.

The anchor’s fidgeting was growing annoying. Savannah understood of course, but she didn’t want to waste her last minutes looking at that stupid locket and the sagging face above it. She turned the channel, turned it again, and then eight more times before she finally found a station that wasn’t covering the end of the world. She caught a glimpse of the banner at the bottom of one channel before she moved past it: six missiles had been launched and would be entering domestic airspace within fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes. Enough time to finish her beer.

Duchess curled up in Savannah’s lap, purring gently as she kneaded her paws into Savannah’s thighs. So this was how they’d go, watching some show about a vampire romance. There were worse ways to go.

She finished her beer and the television changed to static. Five minutes now, give or take. She scratched between Duchess’s ears and the cat hissed. Fine. Be that way.

The power flickered and went dark, a long streak of light passing by her window. Maybe they were car headlights, maybe it was the bomb. No point in going to the window to be sure.

Duchess climbed down for her evening constitutional. Savannah thought she might need to use the facilities as well, but dying in her bathroom was even more pathetic than just dying alone, so she stayed in her chair. Duchess came back as another streak of light crossed the window. This was far brighter than headlights and much higher in the window, definitely moving across the sky. Probably less than a minute now, but Duchess was back in Savannah’s lap so at least they could die together.

The cat seemed ready for affection now and let Savannah scratch at the fur around her collar, a tiny bell tinkling with the movement.

Wait.

Her husband hadn’t given her a locket. It was a charm bracelet.