By: Deadman
The two men in the dusty and torn jackets sat by the window of the small cafe. The lights flickered every now and again, dust fell from the loose ceiling tiles sporadically, obscuring the view for a few seconds. Despite the obvious turmoil that they were in the two men seemed jovial. John wore a blue suit decorated with rips and tears, and across from him sat Brian, a grey suit with burn marks here and there.
John was still smiling as he wiped a tear from his eye, brought on from laughter, “Yeah. I remember her. Judy. God she was ugly. Her boyfriend tried to pawn her off on me one time. I think you were there.” Brian thought for a moment, “Oh yeah! You were so drunk and what did you say...uh…?” They both rubbed scraped up chins with dirty hands as they tried to recall the phrase. The blonde man in the brown suit snapped his fingers as it came to him, “I remember! You said 'Dude! I don’t wanna fuck a dog!'”
They both erupted with laughter again, the grey suited one with dark hair added, “Yeah! You got in a fight with him that night.” They both laughed just a moment longer while each finishing off the beer bottle before them. Another rumble made the near dozen empties rattle against each other. A sigh ended their guffaws, the two men looking at the table between them, searching for another subject to discuss.
Soon their smiles melted to despaired frowns, a pair of bottles joined the others, and another rumble came. A few ceiling tiles fell, a light crashed to it’s spark-throwing end, none of it seemed to matter to John and Brian. The dark haired one spoke so soft it was barely audible, “Never thought those guys with those signs standing on the street corners telling us to ‘Repent or die’ would’ve been right.” John nodded his agreement, slipping the stolen glock pistol from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table. Brian gave a forlorn look from the weapon to it’s owner then did the same, producing his own pistol, a 1911.
“I have one round left.” Both sets of eyes went to the glock, then to the other. “Me, too.” Somebody screamed outside, long and bloody, ending in a gurgling sound. “Are you too drunk to pull that trigger?” John asked, keeping his eyes down. “No. Are you?” Brian responded. “No.” It was easy to understand what the blonde man with the grey suit was getting at. His blue eyes met Brian’s green ones. A window gave way on the other end of the diner, a sign that time was nearly up.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t save Becca and the kids.” Tears cut clean swaths in the ashes that covered both their faces as emotions bled through. “I’m sorry you had to watch your mom and brother go like that.” The two men looked at each other and nodded, their condolences said. John had always been the strong one in their 25 year friendship and now he had to use that strength, “At the same time. On three.”
Unsteady arms leveled weapons that only had a bullet each. Green and blue eyes stared down the barrel of a gun. “One.” They counted together. “Two.” One of their voices broke a bit. “Three.” Fingers started to squeeze triggers. Brian’s arm dropped to the table, not firing his last round, “I ca-” John’s gun flashed and the world went deaf for a moment, Brian slumped over in silence. The blonde man with no more bullets started screaming. He asked why over and over again. As he broke into sobs the windows next to him shattered. What looked like thick, black, smoke that was alive and writhing with purpose poured into the diner.
Everything shook again. Lines danced across the screen. The video ended. The time stamp on the corner of the screen placed it 160 years ago, to the day. The day now referred to as “Armaggedon”. Some call it “The Rapture”. But the few people left on this world agree that it was a day of darkness. Now the video footage of John and Brian is being sold in a slum market as an antiquity. A hard drive whirred loudly as a few buttons were pressed. Another video began to play.
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