The approaching asteroid sat mighty in the heavens, gazing down on Earth like a bratty child preparing to destroy an anthill.

At the Santiago de Compostela Airport, a siren blared. Crackling voices shouted at the pilot through his intercom. He winced at the jabbing ache in his skull.

The pain had haunted him for hours.

Soon, it would be gone.

Soon, it would all be gone.

This, he knew.

A red-faced lady barged into the cockpit. He’d forgotten to lock the door. She glared at him, her bloodshot eyes wild with fear.

“Do you see what’s out there? Fucking go!”

She was crying. Her spittle stuck to the pilot’s face and his array of dials, lights and switches.

He nodded.

He could see the violet sky.

He could see the asteroid.

But he thought of his wife.

She had a dress that colour, didn’t she?

The lady yelled once again, tearing him from his daydream.

“You see it? You DO? Then GO, you imbecile!”

Wearily, the pilot complied. He wanted to go. He didn’t want to die. She was beautiful in that dress.

Flight A091 accelerated along the tarmac, gathering speed as the wind battered against it. The skies were murky. Terrible conditions. If it were Thursday, he would cancel his student’s lessons.

Did I remember to refund Hugo for last week? Oh well.

The plane lifted off, thrashing against the harsh storm thrust upon the world by the asteroid. It had fried the plane’s electronics, forcing the pilot to go analogue.

No problem. He’d been licensed for nearly fourteen years, and flying even longer. He gripped the stick and checked his instruments. Everything he saw told him they were flying straight and true.

Everything he saw was a lie.

The sky danced. His head throbbed, ripping at his sanity. The violet expanse shifted before him. Her face…

There you are again. I see you. I’m coming, sweetie.

Flight A091 dipped as the pilot slumped forward, his shaking body pushing down the stick. If there were a doctor on board, they might have diagnosed it as a psychological nonepileptic seizure, but it would do them no good. A diagnosis wouldn’t stop the plane.

They hit the earth at three-hundred kilometres an hour.

**************

When Myra felt the first thump, she clutched Pehinka to her chest. Pehinka yelped, then buried her snout in the safe scent of Myra’s shirt. She lay still.

“An earthquake, Pehinka. Your first.”

Myra stayed seated on the front step, lifting her face. She wasn’t allowed to go outside and play, no matter how much her new swing set beckoned.

Something was happening out there.

“It’s warm, Pehinka. Do you feel the wind? It’s warm, girl.”

Pehinka shuffled. She could sense what her master could not, and it frightened her. She urinated in her place on Myra’s lap.

“Oh, Pehinka! That’s…”

Myra didn’t know what to do. She placed down the golden retriever puppy and stood, watching the trail of urine as it dribbled down the cracks in the floorboards.

The wind was getting hot. It was uncomfortable. The open door sucked it in, invading her home and hurting her eyes.

“Mama! Papa! I think Pehinka is sick!”

Her parents were right there, sitting in the living room. They could hear her, but the television held their attention. She squinted. There wasn’t a lot to see on the small screen except a starry purple sky, which abruptly turned to static.

Pehinka’s tongue lolled. Myra felt like doing the same. Despite the rattling wind, the world was still. She was used to hearing cars and trucks as they honked down the main roads and narrow streets, the drivers hurling insults or yelling to familiar faces, but now the sound had faded.

Everything but the wind was gone.

She turned to her friend and crouched. “I’ll look after you, Pehinka. You are mine, and I am yours.”

The temperature surged. Her skin felt dry and cracked. She remembered what happened when Papa put the pork skin in the oven. It popped and crackled and shone.

It cooked.

“Mama?” she whispered.

Papa stood and turned off the television. Mama embraced him as he stumbled towards her, weeping.

They turned and looked at Myra.

They smiled.

They burned.

**************

A hundred kilometres away, Binky McGee was so high he’d forgotten he had toes.

Even further than that, Darol Felter saw the news and promptly proposed to his newest girlfriend.

In New Zealand — the furthest nation from the impact zone — Penny Alfwather felt the second thump. She decided she better take the tea bag out of her cup and slurp it down quick-smart.

The Apocalypse was indifferent.

It consumed them all.

**************

*****

**************

“$$|||&&%#$”

“…”

“$$|||&&%#$???”

“…”

“<>”

The pilot took a deep, shuddering breath. He should have been mangled. He should have been eviscerated.

Instead, he lay on his back in a quiet, gloomy forest.

Alive.

“<>”

He registered the sound. It started in a different language, something he didn’t recognise. The voice, too static to be human, but too calming to be hostile, urged him to complete the same obvious task.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

“<>”

“I am, goddammit.” He coughed out the words, bringing up an orange mucus and spitting it onto the bed of pine needles to his right. The heady scent of sap and decaying plant matter wound its way to his nose.

The smells of Earth were so sweet when he had expected only Death.

“<>”

Dumbfounded, the pilot did as he was told, rising to a sitting position. He checked his surroundings. To his right lay a wreckage of scrap metal. Behind it, a wide trench of torn-up earth telegraphed its flight path. Small plants and young saplings had started to grow in the space where their predecessors had been unceremoniously obliterated.

My plane. The passengers?

He crawled to the wreckage on hands and knees. Wet soil seeped under his fingernails and dewy leaves brushed his naked body. There was an uncomfortable tension near the centre of his chest.

“<>”

The pilot raised an arm and looked down. A clean red scar ran from the top of his chest down to his sternum. With each beat of his heart, an orange glow emanated through the thin cut — fused together with not a stitch in sight. It reminded him of a particularly gruesome movie he’d seen, one where two characters had bombs installed in their chests. He hoped that was not the case for him.

“<>”

“What the hell? Are you listening to my thoughts? You’re inside my head, right?”

“<>”

The pilot wanted to demand answers, but another mouthful of orange mucus stopped him. He leaned his shoulder against the wreckage, coughing hard and struggling to sum up the courage to look inside. There were a lot of people on that final, manic flight. A lot of bodies.

What happened? I had that awful headache, then I saw her, then…

Another one of his seizures. The pain had reached its climax and the world fell away from him. He’d seen his body shaking and smashing against the broken controls as if he were floating outside himself. After a short nosedive, they pierced the tall pine canopy and crashed into the forest. The explosion and the blaze would have lit the sky.

For a moment, onlookers would have been granted some small relief from the violet oppression.

And now he was here.

“<>”

“Yes! Yes! I’m fucking breathing, okay? I get it!”

More mucus.

“<>”

The pilot groaned as he struggled to his feet.

He’d been having the seizures for months. They usually happened at night, so he hadn’t told anyone. And now that he slept alone, there was no one around to witness them.

I’m sorry, baby. I got all those people killed because I thought I was strong enough. I thought—

He stopped himself. The psychiatrist had warned him that he might relapse in high-stress situations. The last thing he wanted was to return to his former husk.

Not now. I should at least find some clothes first.

The chunk of metal he’d leaned on budged when he pushed his weight against it. The dirt held fast where it had been embedded in the crash, but a few scoops of soil wouldn’t stop him.

With a indignant effort — yelling and orange mucus abundant — the pilot tore off the barrier and entered the remains of his craft. The front half of the plane was a masticated write-off, but the rear was tenable. He held his nose and walked along the areas of the cabin that weren’t burnt through or covered in human remains. Judging by the state some of the bodies were in, as well as the fact that some foliage and trees had sprung up in the plane’s path, it had to be at least a month since the crash.

Some of them are just bones. Others…

“<>”

He recoiled from a rotting arm draped over a first-class seat. Sweat gathered in his underarms and on his brow. The stench roiled around him.

“Strong enough? You’re kidding! I was at the front of the plane; my body should have turned to mist!”

“<>”

He didn’t. Not here, amongst the ghastly remains of his passengers. Not yet. Some slim hope guided him to the rear of the plane, praying that one of the previous flight attendants had gotten lazy. If they’d forgotten to check the cupboards before they disembarked…

His prayers were answered. A spare set of clothing sat neatly folded in one of the lockers.

Not wanting to endure the horrific scene and unbearable smell much longer, the pilot quickly yanked on a pair of black pants and pulled the light red shirt over his head. The pants were at least a couple sizes too small, and judging by the wider hips, made to fit a woman. The shirt was okay, though too breathable to protect him if the temperature dropped.

He checked the other compartments. Some of them were locked, but snapping the flimsy locking mechanisms was a simple feat. His search rewarded him with a matchbook, two packs of tissues, and a first aid kit that felt suspiciously light.

Shoes would have been nice. Socks, too. Seeing another human being might have brought him to tears.

‘The only one strong enough.’ I fucking hope not.

He trudged down the corridor, stepping over what was left of the people he’d failed to protect. He preferred them when they were panicked and wailing at him; even the red-faced lady would be a welcome sight. She wouldn’t be crying anymore, no sir, not at all.

Once outside the plane, he finally gave into the voice’s advice. “I’d like to see my Power, please. Would you like to— woah!”

A hologram zapped into focus before him. It was mostly transparent. Several tabs ran along the top of the rectangular screen, most of them blanked out with a simple ‘?’. The only one available to him read:

{Enter Name}

| Animal Authority (1) |

{Enter Name} can control small rodents. Maximum creatures under effect: 2.

Below that sat a thin grey bar divided into six equally sized compartments.

“Animal Authority? The hell does that mean? I’ve never owned a pet! Why not make me a pilot?”

“<>”

It spoke at least a tone higher than usual, like it was exasperated.

The pilot didn’t argue. He looked over his shoulder at the ruined aircraft. Seeing what was left of the cockpit made his stomach churn, both nausea and hunger. If a ‘small rodent’ ran by, he thought he might just tell it to run into his mouth and sit quietly while he ate it.

“<>”

“Aren’t you a part of me?” he complained. “You should know my name. It’s…”

He paused. His mouth was poised to say something, but he couldn’t work out what it wanted to spit out. Everything felt natural until it came to the point of actually uttering the sound.

“It’s…My name is…”

“<>”

He gripped his head in his hands, massaging it and trying to squeeze out a lost memory. It was right there, but something barred him from extracting it. His teeth clenched and he scrunched his eyes shut, reaching out for that memory.

What did she call me? I remember her saying it. ‘I do, ______, I love you and I do.’

Nothing.

He sighed.

“My new name…is Pilot.”

**************

Night fell over the forest like a sodden blanket. Even during the day, the canopy stole away most of the light before it hit Pilot’s head and back, but now he was nearly struck blind. He walked hunched over, ducking under both real and phantom branches as he looked for somewhere suitable to camp.

He wanted to breach the fringe of the forest before settling down. Not only would that calm his nerves, but it seemed like the smart thing to do.

There were also other reasons, ones he didn’t want to admit to himself, in case that made them real.

Ever since he’d left the crash site, it felt like he was being followed. The snap of a branch beneath his foot sometimes echoed around him. Other times it did not. The inconsistency plagued his senses, conjuring made-up dangers.

If I make it out, I might find people. If I make it out, I might find help.

His haggard journey carried his foot directly onto the jagged edge of a fallen branch. It pierced his skin like a nail, shooting lances of pain up to his calf.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck! Arghhhaha!”

The pain immediately felled him. He collapsed to the ground, writhing as a fresh jolt of pain flashed through his foot and leg. Falling over had torn the gash sideways rather than snapping off the offending piece of wood.

His ragged screams steadily turned to heaving cackles of self-pity. This was his luck. The world was taking its pound of flesh.

Adrenaline coursed through his body, keeping him awake and dulling the pain. He scrabbled around in the darkness for the first aid kit, unzipping it and shoving his hand inside.

His fingers found the matchbook, chiding him for not giving up earlier and starting a fire. Next he grabbed the roll of gauze and the bottle of antiseptic cream, thanking every deity he could think of for providing these essentials.

“<>”

He gathered a pile of pine needles and set them alight with a match. Acrid smoke drifted into his eyes, but that was the least of his concerns.

“Is the chance of infection zero?” he asked.

“<>”

“Then I’m putting on the cream.”

He paused for a moment in case the voice wanted to tell him anything else. It stayed silent. He raised his foot to the flickering light of the fire and squeezed a glob of white cream onto the wound.

The chill and the sting made him gasp, but it was nothing compared to the original agony. He held his breath and tried to push some of the cream in deeper, closing his eyes and grimacing as the adrenaline died down and his discomfort soared. He considered planting his foot on the burning pine needles.

No. Cauterization is best left to professionals.

The first aid course at work had involved a brief lesson on CPR (pump to the beat of Stayin’ Alive), and what to do if he found himself with a knife in his belly (leave it in). In his mind, advanced techniques were best left alone.

Once the cream had gone tacky, Pilot wrapped a section of gauze around his foot, tying it off at the top. The fire was dying. He gathered another armful of pine needles and dumped them on the sputtering flames.

Right when the largest clump ignited with a whoosh of embers and light, something moved at the edge of his vision. It scurried over a log, frightened by the sudden activity in its tranquil habitat.

A rat, or a vole.

A rodent.

He reached his hand out and focused on the furry brown lump. It crested the top of a log. Soon it would escape.

Come on, Pilot. Control it. Your dinner is escaping.

His fingers wriggled and he raised an eyebrow in effort. The vole stood still. He turned his wrist and brought his hand to his chest, drawing the vole into his mental grasp.

It scampered into its hidey hole, completely unfazed.

“<>”

“Clearly.”

Exhausted and disappointed, he collapsed next to the dwindling fire and fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamt of a young girl. She stood with her arms by her side and her clothes on fire. She peered at him, her blank eyes like two neon-blue marbles. No pupils, no irises. Only her mouth moved.

“What is your name?”