When you picture the world endin' it usually don't have the soundtrack of Johnny Logan playin'. I got nothin' against the man myself. If a body's got talent, plough on I says. So long as it's still giving some enjoyment to other folk.

But you should know when to call it quits. I'm not talkin' the exact day or the minute. The way I see it, it probably looks somethin' like this: some innocent throwaway comment – sweetie wrapped 'round a poisonous dart. The look on someone's face. A wee nervous smile and shyin' of the eyes.

Then the moment of realisation when it dawns. You just ain't got it anymore. Time to cash in the ol' chips. See out the rest of your days in quiet comfort.

Least you got a choice.

Sometimes quittin' time is forced on us.

Me? I was sitting in me chair, sippin' on a cold one, watchin' the Late Late. The pad of my swollen thumb was circlin' the hollow under the beer bottle. Some foreign import with a name that used the junk letters of our own alphabet. Polish I'd bet. Maggie bought dem. Reward for fixing up the fence in the back. A splinter for my efforts. Made sure to let her know that too once the job was done.

I held my thumb up to my face, swipin' off the cold bottle sweat. I had sucked it out I was sure, but there was still a dot of blood there. Like a stubborn blackhead. Could it get infected? I was just about to shout to herself for a toothpick but thought better of it. Pushin' my luck.

I could hear her in the kitchen next door. As usual, the radio was tuned to some station playin' soppy love songs. The sort we'd have slow danced to back in the day. I smiled at the memory. Young ones nowadays would never know fear like it.

She was humming along to the Temptations. I could hear them singing about My Girl above the clink of the dinner dishes and splashing of water. I patted my belly with silent approval.

And that's when it happened. Clear as a bell.

A voice. Followed by the sound of a plate smashing on the kitchen floor. I looked over and saw her, back turned to me, through the open door.

"Children," the voice had said. "This...is God."

Maggie's standin' in the doorway, now turned my way. Broken plate pieces are 'round her feet. Starin' right at me like she's losin' her mind. She wasn't the only one.

"Did you hear-" she said.

I nod and pull off my seat. The beer spills as I park it on the floor.

"Quigley," I said through gritted teeth, eyes scanning the walls for God knows what.

"How?"

I wasn't ready to explore that option yet. A rage was beginning to grow in me thinkin' that he installed some sorta bug or device in our house. Surveillance. I could see our next-door neighbour watching on from the comfort of his own gaff, seeing me pacin' 'round like a madman, overturning tables and chairs to find his latest invention.

"His idea of a joke," I said, pulling cushions out from the settee.

"But they're in Malaga for the week," Maggie said.

Now the picture I have is of the bastard on a beach in Malaga watching from his laptop. Giggling with his buck-toothed wife as they sip on their sugary cocktails. The plates of my jaw grind at the image. He's not gonna win this time.

"John?"

"What?" I snapped and stared at Maggie.

She gave a constipated shrug of the shoulders. "What if it's not him?"

The idea pierces through the veil of anger and got me half thinking it's one of those candid camera shows. Boy am I gonna look the eejit when it's played back in the studio and I'm surrounded by friends and family. No. Can't be, I thought. That voice was seriously close though. Almost like it whispered right in me ear.

I headed to the front door. Looked out onto the street. One of the Morrison's litter had stopped riding her bike. She saw me and pointed to her head. Other people had stepped out of their houses. Each exchanging confused looks with their neighbours and then looking to the skies for an answer.

"I am speaking," the low monotone voice continued, "to every single one of you – to share something of monumental importance."

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That's when Damian and Ryan ran down the stairs. I turned from the doorway and watched Maggie hug them tight. Both pale as sheets. The look on their faces telling that whatever the madness was, it was catchin' quick. They started bombin' us with questions but I hold up a hand when it – whatever it is – starts speakin' again.

"The gates of Heaven are closing. After countless millennia, I regretfully wish to share that there is no more occupiable space. Except," the voice pauses for effect, "for a chosen few."

The images on the TV had frozen mid-frame. Tubridy's starin' back at me. A God awful cheesy smile scrawled on his face. No music from the kitchen either. The only sound was the voice.

"Tomorrow I will be setting a trial to test your worthiness and whether you shall covet a place in the Kingdom of God."

"Enough of this," I said and reached into my pocket to pull out me mobile.

"Da!"

"John!"

I scrolled through the contact list, when it suddenly piped up again.

"Automatic disqualification will be administered to those who engage others in dialogue outside of your street. No correspondence of any kind will be permissible." The speaker's voice took on more emotion, rising in urgency. "Guilty parties and their families will be relegated to the fiery bowels of the Earth where they will suffer for all eternity."

My phone couldn't get quick enough into my jean pocket. I looked up nervously, see the apple of my eye and my seeds as they looked at me helplessly. Best I could do was offer a smile.

The voice, when it spoke again is gentler.

"I already know what is in your heart. Trust in yourself to do the right thing. Prove your worth and you shall be rewarded with eternal paradise. Bless you."

Suddenly, there was a sound like my ear popping. Same as when cabin pressure drops in a flight. The TV and radio started up again. People on the screen didn't seem too affected. Business as usual. Look, sure there's Johnny Logan back with another hit.

*

We didn't leave the house that night though we could hear others gathered outside talking away. A lot of them were still out when we got up next morning. The street was littered with cans.

The Whelan's were sayin' it was the end of days, preachin' about the final Judgement. That didn't go down well with The Richmond's. The young couple clearly didn't fancy their chances in whatever the trial would be and were determined that if it was the End of Days, they'd bloody well enjoy it.

Someone had found a guitar. Oasis tunes were screeched out from Number 37. A few of our neighbours, those that should have known better, joined the growing entourage on the Richmond front lawn. The chordless wonder never let up, satisfying the beery shouted requests of the group.

Some of the other families, much like our own, crept outdoors during the day at intervals as the time of the trial crept near. Mainly to confirm that we were still without WiFi or phone signal, and that the TV and Radio channels were scrambled.

Looking at the situation a bit more soberly, we agreed that we'd live by the curfew that day. Tomorrow we'd look for answers. Head into town. See who else had heard the voices. Safety in numbers.

When 10pm came around, we were gathered in the living room. Maggie and the two boys on the settee. Holding hands. Her with rosary beads laced through her fingers. Bible on her lap. Hand pressed to it.

"My child," the voice began again.

I look up and see in my wife's eyes that she hears it too. It's a lot quieter outside now. The singing has stopped.

"I am the one true Saviour, although you know me by many names."

I reach out and take Damian, our youngest, by the hand. He's in tears. He looks at me, pleading in his eyes. I hear my voice crack as I try to reassure him. Best I can do is nod and smile.

"Now is the time. Heaven awaits. Your trial begins. First come, first served."

I look to the kids and then at Maggie. We share the same confused look. I'm about to speak before the voice cuts across.

"Kill. Or be killed. I'll see you soon my child."

A pop in my ear. Gone. A scream from down the street. Followed by another.

"No. No!" I say and get to my feet, looking outside the window.

"What's happening?" Maggie shouts after me.

"It can't be this way."

People running from the direction of The Richmond's. Some with blood spatter on their clothes. I see a guitar swing and clatter someone across the face. Others have left their homes, clutching kitchen knives, slashing through the air. The sound of a gunshot.

Maggie has her arms around the boys. They're crying. "Don't let them take my boys!"

I turn and watch the faces of my family frozen in fear.

"This can't be happening!"

*

A knock on the door.

"Enter."

A young man in military uniform strides into the room and addresses the back of a chair which is swivelled away from the desk.

"What have you got for me Colonel?"

"Well sir," the man says and takes a sharp intake of breath, "every indication is that the chemical compounds in the deposit have successfully been activated on the human host."

"At ease Piercy. English. Please."

The standing man clears his throat. "Certainly, Sir. The chemtrail deposit from our planes appear to have worked on our target."

"Worked?"

"Yes sir."

The man in the chair swivels around. He is dressed in a sharp business suit, angular cheek bones jutting out from his face. There's a hint of a smile tugging the tight cheeks. He slowly splays his arms out, sleeves riding up his tanned forearms and plants the palms on the desk.

"So, the trial is live," the man says, nodding slowly.

"Yes sir. The town is covered in it. Our signal is online."

"And the program download?"

"Operation Shamrock. They think God is talking to them right now. It's a blood bath," the man says, having difficulty suppressing a smile.

"You've cut all routes and communication to the town I assume." The standing man nods. "I'll need to speak with our convoy there to keep him informed."

"As you wish sir."

"Very good. That'll be all. Oh and Piercy?" The standing man had half turned but straightened up again at the instruction of his superior.

"Yes?"

"Let's try another town. Somewhere a little more challenging than the arsehole of Ireland." A nod from the standing man. "I'm thinking Libya."

"Libya sir?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No, sir. Not at all," the man says although his expression betrays his confidence. "It's just that logistically, it could be difficult."

The seated man smiles. "Not without a little faith. Don't you know? God can move mountains."