It was 28 minutes until every living organism on Earth was erased from reality, but since I didn’t know, I wasn’t concerned. In fact, I was in a pretty good mood. Ignorance truly is bliss. I liked bliss. Better than reality if you ask me.
Reality was twisted metal, broken bones and shredded lives. Reality was running red lights, sirens blaring, hoping people would yield instead of blindly pulling out in front of me. Reality was sitting with my head in my hands knowing I did everything I could but it wasn’t enough. Reality was rinsing the blood out of the back of the ambulance.
I wasn’t a big fan of reality, so any day with less of it was a good one. Today wasn’t just good, it was perfect. We’d had our own version of a baseball pitcher’s perfect game, what we called a “quiet shift”. That meant no fatalities, and just like superstitious baseball players, we refused to acknowledge it was happening until it was over.
When my shift came to an end, I parked and sanitized the “bus”, then headed out into the cold, to my 2nd job at Capone’s Pizza. I wasn’t scheduled for tonight but I had to pick up my check now or wait until they opened back up next week.
With the holidays, I was low on funds and although my sister would forgive a late Christmas present, there damn-well better be one.
I pulled up to Capone’s, rapped on the back door until the night manager, Jim opened up, then followed him to the office where my check was waiting.
I grabbed the envelope from where it was pinned to the board, then pulled out the check to make sure it was mine.
“All good?” Jim hollered.
I looked. “Ethan Jones” was prominently printed in the “Subject” field of the paycheck. The number in the little box to the right seemed a little larger than normal.
“I sure am,” I replied. “Are you sure?”
He chuckled. “It’s just a little something extra. Merry Christmas, Jonesy.”
I touched the envelope to my right temple in salute, then left Jim’s office.
Out of habit, I checked the stack of pizzas waiting to be delivered and one name stood out – “SARGE”.
“Sweet!” I thought.
“Sarge”, as everyone called him, tipped well, but that wasn’t why he was my favorite customer. He owned and operated a dive bar outside of Ft. Bragg that was popular with the special forces guys and was an endless fount of history, stories, jokes (usually dirty), sea shanties, and startlingly perceptive advice. But that still wasn’t why he was my favorite customer.
“I got Sarge’s order!” I hollered and grabbed his double-pepperoni, double cheese, extra sauce pie and headed out before someone realized I wasn’t on the clock and vetoed.
Like most EMTs, I wore dark clothes so the blood didn’t show as badly and normally, I’d go straight home to avoid running into anyone while covered in gore, but I knew Sarge wouldn’t mind.
Two groups have seen enough blood to get used to it – soldiers and medical grunts. He was a soldier and I was an EMT, so it just made sense to bring him his pie and forget about how bad I looked. Who knows how long the pizza would sit there on the shelf before someone got it? I figured he’d rather get his food hot than get it from someone with a clean shirt.
Why would an EMT also deliver pizza? I’m glad you asked.
EMT pay ranges from awful to garbage. Everyone thinks we get paid well, but that’s just because it’s a job in the medical field and everyone knows doctors are loaded.
We are not and most EMTs make less than the average fast food worker. I had to take a second job delivering pizza just to handle the bills. More than once I considered giving it up and getting a job at Costco but as hard as being an EMT was, I couldn’t give it up to direct suburbanites to a 10 pound bag of cinnamon.
Outside of the pizza store, my dilapidated Camry “Mavis”, with her crumpled side panels, cracked windshield, and bubbling paint waited patiently. She didn’t look like much, but she had a good stereo, was reliable and cheap, so I couldn’t complain and after only a few tries, she started. “Thanks Sweetie”, I said softly and patted the steering wheel. Maybe treating her like a person didn’t do anything, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. Mavis and I had been through a lot together.
It was the last time I’d ever drive Mavis, although I didn’t know it at the time. I’d never feel the worn spot on the steering wheel where the last owner’s wedding ring had made a groove, I’d never have to shove cardboard under her when she leaked a bit of oil, and I’d never feel so totally comfortable in my own vehicle again.
For a last drive, it was a good one. She was running smoothly and I patted her. “Good girl,” I said softly, then turned up the music even louder.
Before long, the faded neon sign of Sarge’s bar, The Bloody Bastard flickered in the fog, dimly illuminating the nearly deserted parking lot. It was usually packed on weekends, but not today. Most soldiers had taken leave and flown home and although I wasn’t entirely sure why Sarge had kept it open, I was grateful for something to do and somewhere to go.
Whatever the reason, I approved. Robert “Sarge” Martinez, short, stout, proud owner of “The Best Goddam Bar This Side of Hell” was a wealth of stories and military history. Although no one seemed sure precisely where he’d served, or when, or in what service, or even for which country, he commanded universal respect.
Ft. Bragg is home to the 82nd Airborne division as well as the Special Operations guys and they all came here after a deployment to knock back a few beers and decompress. Whatever Sarge might be, he was one of them and they treated him with a strange reverence.
Ft. Liberty, I corrected myself mentally. The new name was Ft. Liberty.
I grabbed the insulated pizza carrier, exited Mavis, patted her on the hood, then walked toward the front door, hearing the muted thump of bass before I even opened it.
There was something about the place that drew me in. Maybe it was the old pool table with faded felt and warped sticks that I’d spent so many hours on, or the worn high tables with countless names etched into them, many with a line carved through them. Whatever it was, I loved the place and it was where I liked to relax after work.
Sarge stood behind the bar surrounded by hundreds of photos and curios brought back to him from soldiers who’d deployed all around the world. He was quite the packrat and as closely as I could tell had something from nearly every conflict in modern history, from the Boer wars in Africa to the SPECOPS fighting warlords in Afghanistan. There were scimitars and spears, old guns, boomerangs tipped in iron, thin knives, bayonets, and many more.
He had more weapons than most museums. Not that Sarge discriminated. There were also photos of new babies, weddings, far too many beaming faces holding keys in front of Dodge Chargers, and even one of my sister Hannah with her very first recurve bow, at a Boys and Girls Club camp. She had a giant beaming smile on her face and was wearing a shirt that said “Future Olympian”. Sarge had framed that one and hung one of her old cracked recurve bows on top.
“JONESY!” cried Sarge, and his ugly face split in half in what was his approximation of a grin, wide enough to see both of his gold teeth.
“SARGE!” I replied, and held up his dinner.
“OutSTANDING!” he said as his eyes lit up. He came around the bar, arms reaching out.
I started to hand it to him but a massive hand grabbed my arm and my forward movement ceased.
I looked over, then up at the towering bearded blond giant beside me.
He grinned down at me.
“Sup, Jonesy?” he asked with an easy, wide smile.
“Don’t you have a village to pillage?” I replied looking up at him, “and where’s your horned helmet?”
Tank, aka, The Viking Biker, laughed and released me. “My longboat is in the shop. And the horned helmet was a myth.”
He was 6’5” in his socks and sudden death in every direction, grotesquely overdeveloped, highly trained in myriad ways to cause pain, but turned into a stuttering mess around my sister and it was hilarious. He looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to say something.
“She’s still traveling,” I answered without him asking.
He looked hurt but didn’t try to deny his intentions. “Hey, I’m glad to see you too! Merry Christmas!”
“Yeah, yeah, Merry Christmas,” I replied and gave him a fist bump.
“How is she anyway,” the monster man asked with pretend carelessness that didn’t fool anyone. I looked at Sarge who rolled his eyes.
“She’s good,” I said. “I think she’s in Korea or something.”
“Ok, well, cool, you know, tell her Tank said hi,” he said and his face was red. Poor guy. He wasn’t the first, and he wouldn’t be the last. By all accounts, my sister was a babe. To me, she was just the goofy girl I grew up with, but to the guys here, she was a legend. They called her “AimBot” after a type of cheat the Russian hackers had come up with.
In online games like Call of Duty, people using an aimbot just had to click the mouse – the bot aimed at the heads of anyone in range. My sister was nearly that good on the range with every gun she touched and it was scary. We said it was her superpower.
“I’ll tell her,” I promised and moved to give Sarge his rapidly cooling pizza.
“WAIT!” Tank said, and slapped a dollar bill down on the bar.
It was 18 minutes until the end of the world.
Sarge looked over and grinned. He had a standing challenge to all patrons to “Stump Sarge”. If they could give him a military song, or a cadence, or a motto he couldn’t complete or didn’t know, they got a free drink. I’d never seen him give one out, but there was always a first time. It cost a dollar to play and was easily worth the price of admission.
Stolen story; please report.
Tank looked at Sarge and said very slowly and distinctly, “Garry Owen.”
Sarge reached under the counter and the music volume lowered until it was barely perceptible, then he winked at me, took a deep breath and without hesitation or talent, belted out:
Let Bacchus' sons be not dismayed
But join with me, each jovial blade
Come, drink and sing and lend your aid
To help me with the chorus:
Instead of spa, we'll drink brown ale
And pay the reckoning on the nail;
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garryowen in glory.
We'll beat the bailiffs out of fun,
We'll make the mayor and sheriffs run
We are the boys no man dares dun
If he regards a whole skin.
Tank shook his head in faux regret. “So close Sarge, but the 7th Cav would disagree.”
Sarge laughed easily. “Hell, son, I thought you meant the original. George Custer’s favorite song, you know. Last thing he and his men listened to before they left for Little Big Horn.”
Once again, he took a deep breath and loudly sang:
We are the pride of the army,
And a regiment of great renown,
Our name's on the pages of history,
From sixty six on down.
If you think we stop or falter,
While into the fray we're goin'
Just watch the step with our heads erect
When our band plays "Garry Owen."
In the Fighting Seventh's the place for me.
It's the cream of all the cavalry;
No other regiment ever can claim
It's pride, honor, glory, and undying fame.
Tank shook his head dumbfounded. “Thought I had you that time”, he said ruefully.
Sarge just buffed his nails modestly and took the dollar.
Tank shook his head again, shrugged in defeat and said “Next time,” then turned to me. “See ya, Jonesy. Tell Hannah I have something for her the next time she’s in town.”
I nodded my promise.
Satisfied, Tank looked over at Sarge. “I’m outta here,” he said, and gave an exaggerated salute. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and disappeared out the door and into the night.
15 minutes to go, 15 minutes before Mavis would cease to exist, 15 minutes before Tank was a literal memory.
Sarge opened up the pizza box and inhaled deeply, as if he could vacuum up the pie through his nose alone.
“Got time to join me for a drink,” he asked. It was a statement, not a question.
“As long as they’re cheap,” I replied. “Nowhere to go, nowhere to be, low on funds.”
“How’s free?” he asked as he went back behind the bar. He reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of scotch.
“Free’s perfect,” I said, then noticed what he was holding and squinted to read the dusty label. “Macallan 1926? Does that mean it was made before World War II?”
“Well,” he said, “they started in 1926. It wasn’t bottled until 1986.”
He poured two drams and slid one over to me.
“Cheers,” he said and raised his glass.
I raised mine in response and we each took a sip, taking time to savor the intricate flavors.
I sighed in appreciation. “This is amazing,” I said, “I bet it was a fortune.”
“Scotch that was 60 years old almost 40 years ago?” he asked mischievously, then relented when he saw my face.
“It’s ok,” he laughed. “I have a case of it. One bottle on Christmas Eve won’t hurt.”
“Good,” I said and drained the rest.
He motioned for my glass and poured me another. “Where’s your lovely sister? You said Korea?”
“Hannah?” I asked, as if I had more than one sister.
“Yes, Hannah,” Sarge said patiently.
“Yeah, I think Korea,” I answered. “It’s wherever the sponsors tell her to go. There isn’t a lot of money in archery endorsements, so she pretty much has to keep doing shows to afford the equipment. She’s always off jetting around to some tournament or exhibition or something. It’s hard to keep track. I haven’t even seen her in almost six months!”
“That’s tough around Christmas,” he said sympathetically. “Got any plans?”
I looked around. I was the only customer left.
I shrugged. “It’s just the two of us,” I replied. “So with her off doing her thing, I’m pretty much alone this year.”
“Hey,” Sarge said seriously. “She’s preparing for the rest of her life and has to take advantage of the attention. There are opportunities that she has now that she’ll never have again.”
“True,” I admitted and downed the rest of the shot. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
“Also true,” Sarge said and then cocked his head. “You know she would have been here if she could have been. She is probably meeting some dictator or christening a boat or something.”
We both laughed and he refilled our drinks.
“To Hannah!” I toasted.
“To Hannah,” Sarge repeated, and by now we’d progressed from delicately sipping our drinks like sophisticated men of means to tossing back the exquisite Scotch like it was warm tequila and we were out of salt.
Sarge refilled them again.
I shook my head. “I just miss her, you know? She’s all I had growing up and it feels like I lost a piece of me when she left.”
“I know you worry but she doesn’t need you to take care of her,” he pointed out. “Anyone messes with her wouldn’t live long enough to regret it”.
“Also true,” I chuckled. “They underestimate her to their own peril.”
“I didn’t,” Sarge said, chuckling.
“No,” I said thoughtfully. “You didn’t. But you were the only one. Somehow you knew she was special, from the first time you met her. If it hadn’t been for you…”
“Ok, ok,” he chuckled. “Let’s not get carried away. I just made a call to an old friend and she did the rest. She put in the time, she dedicated herself, and she earned the title of Olympian, just like she said she would.” He looked over his shoulder at her picture and smiled.
“To Hannah!” I toasted.
“To Hannah,” Sarge repeated, and we both downed our drinks.
He refilled them again.
“You should call her!” he said suddenly.
“In Korea? What time is it there?” I mused, then figured she’d take my call no matter what time it was.
I pulled out my phone and I scrolled down until the name “Legolas” popped up, and then tapped it. Hannah loudly protested being called Legolas after the elf archer in Lord of the Rings, but I think she secretly enjoyed it.
It only rang twice before she picked up.
“JONESY!” her happy voice reached out.
“Hiya Leg,” I said and all of a sudden I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
“Where are you?” she asked. “And Merry Christmas! Where’s my present?”
“I’m at the Bastard,” I replied. “And I need an address to ship it to!”
“Of course you are, and I’ll get you one,” she said. “Tell that old rascal I said ‘hi’.”
“Sarge, Hannah says ‘Hi!’”
“Tell that sweetheart any time she’s ready to settle down, give me a call!” he said.
I shook my head ruefully. “Sarge wants to marry you,” I said.
“HA!” she exclaimed. “Hand the phone over to him.”
“She wants to talk to you,” I said and handed Sarge the phone after tapping the icon to put the conversation on speaker.
Behind me, the bell at the front door rang and I turned in time to see Tank had returned. He was holding a shiny silver box with a bow on it and I could see the name “Hannah” written in thick marker. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. He had it bad.
I turned back to Sarge who was smiling. “Hiya, Darlin’,” he said, holding up the phone so I could hear her response. Nothing happened. “Hannah?” Sarge said but there was no answer.
“Call dropped,” he said, and I could tell something was wrong, but he just handed me the phone.
I took it back and noticed I didn’t have any cell service. Weird.
I opened my mouth to mention it but before I could say anything, Sarge’s entire body began to glow, as if someone had put a giant flashlight inside of him and turned it on, then he was surrounded by a bubble, as if he had his own personal force field.
Almost instantly, the glowing bubble extended out, flickering and pulsing, until it had extended roughly 30 feet, a sphere that encompassed most of the interior of the bar. A pleasant voice filled my mind and calmly announced:
STASIS ACTIVATED
EMERGENCY EXTRACTION COMMENCING
Sarge looked up, face hardening. “No,” he said in anger, through clenched teeth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a device slightly thicker than a cell phone, glossy black, with rapidly rotating symbols on the front. “No, no, no,” he kept repeating, as if his denial could change what he saw.
Tank had dropped the gift and was banging on the walls of the force field. I couldn’t hear anything he said.
The only sounds I could hear came from either me, Sarge, or the shaking items that were still inside the sphere. Through the transparent walls of the bubble, I could see the walls shuddering and pictures crashing to the ground, but it was utterly silent, like a muted TV.
The floor trembled beneath my feet, its foundation shaking, and I would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed the bar.
Rapidly filling with dread, I looked through the translucent force field and my eyes focused on the old, worn dart board nailed to the far wall. As the tremors hit it, a strange green light consumed the dartboard and the wall behind it, replacing its physical form with a grid-like wireframe structure. Digital, pixelated fragments started floating off like firefly sparks, disappearing into nothingness.
The bar stools began to dissolve next, their physical substance dissipating into binary codes, as if the very threads of reality were being unwoven. The wooden bar counter outside the sphere started to glitch, flickering between what it was and what it was becoming, a cascade of floating green numbers and symbols.
Tank pressed himself as closely against the bubble as possible, as if to somehow ward off the inevitable contact but there was nowhere to go.
His eyes met mine and he nodded slowly, then his body drained away like everything else. Soon all that was left was a 30 foot sphere around me and Sarge, except the bubble was beginning to shrink and the wood inside the bubble creaked and tore with the strain.
More objects crashed to the ground and there was a sudden pain in my leg. I looked down and the boomerang I’d noticed earlier, the one with the sharp metal ends, had fallen off the wall and bounced my direction, sending the sharp tip plunging into my calf.
I pulled it out, glaring impotently, but it was the least of my current issues, so I turned my attention back to the end of the world.
The dartboard, bar stools, and counter had long been erased, their existence replaced with the sterile emptiness of a deleted file and as the sphere constricted, the worn wooden floor of the bar continued to shift and warp. Like sand draining away through an hourglass, each individual plank was picked apart, dissolving into an endless stream of bits.
The bubble had nearly reached me. Like an idiot I held out the boomerang as if it could protect me from the end of the world. It could not. Fortunately, Sarge could. He’d jumped over the bar and pulled me back.
Come on! We need to go, now!” he yelled over the creaking snapping wood and splintering bottles.
“Wait!” I protested. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
He tapped his device and behind him, a shining door frame shot up from the floor, about six feet high, pulsating with a bright green glow. I looked through the portal and that’s when I knew I had gone insane.
On the other side of the opening stood a smiling man with a stovepipe hat and a chinstrap beard, beckoning at me encouragingly. I was no history buff, but that was Abraham Lincoln. I hadn’t ever seen any pictures of Lincoln smiling, but it was definitely Abe.
“Hey, that’s…” I said, pointing, but Sarge didn’t give me time to finish. He simply grabbed my arm and together, we jumped through the door, just as the bubble around us popped and what was left of the world disappeared.