Death Knocks Twice

*Author's note: A short story for a contest about the end of the world.

Death Knocks Twice

A lot of folks in Odessa were calling it the Rapture; Armageddon. The mighty hand of God, finally come down from heaven to wipe the earth clear of His great mistake.

A few weeks back Emmitt Wills might have very well been one of ‘em. Running down to the church house, clutchin his bible, hopin’ to squeeze in one last prayer for mercy before the man upstairs dropped his fiery axe.

But old Emmitt knew better than that now. There was no such thing as God.

Of course there were the scientists, too; clamorin’ on the TV for their final fifteen seconds of fame. They had their own ideas on the matter. They threw around five dollar words like residual radiation, seismic anomaly and plate tectonics. They said old Mother Earth just couldn’t take the beatin’ she’d taken at the hands of her wayward sons. She’d finally given in.

But none of this bothered Emmitt much. Where other folks saw certain doom, old Emmitt saw opportunity. He wasn’t concerned with the cause of it all. Nor was he worried with how it would all end. As far as he was concerned the world had stopped spinnin’ a week and one half earlier. Planet Earth could fall off the mantle straight into the sun and he wouldn’t give a damn.

Long as he had time to do one last thing.

He took a hard swig from his bottle of Jim Beam then set it down between the shotgun shells scattered on the table. The earth shook violently beneath his home. The windows rattled in the pane. A couple of shells rolled off the edge of the table and jingled against the tile of the kitchen floor.

He caught the bottle before it could tip.

When the tremor passed he lifted the Remington Wingmaster that was strewn on his lap. He reached for a handful of shells but froze when his eyes met the faces of his wife and daughter. They were smiling at him, beautiful; from the picture that was set on the table. He smiled back at them for a while, I couldn’t say how long, then he laid the picture down on its face. He couldn’t bear for them to see what he was about to do.

He loaded the rounds into the chamber slowly. Rising from his chair he stuffed a few more shells into his coat pocket and seated his Stetson firmly on his head. Then with his shotgun in one hand and his bottle of Beam in the other, he strode through the front door into Hell on Earth.

The powder blue Texas sky of his childhood was gone. The afternoon sun was ugly and red, peaking out angrily through a black veil of soot and ash. The tornado sirens were wailing in the distance, trying in vain to drown out the low rumble of the earth. The listless air was smoky and thick; laced with the scent of the burning dead.

But none of this bothered Emmitt much. He lowered the brim of his hat against the sun and struck out on the path he’d set for himself. His boots clicked on the pavement of the street. He’d already made up his mind to walk. It wasn’t like he had far to go. Besides today was just as fine a day for a walk as any; The December air was crisp.

He wouldn’t have made it far in his pick-up anyway. The neighborhood streets were littered with cars and trucks abandoned by folks who must’ve figured they’d be better off on foot, too. Most of them were plowed into each other, driven by some damn fools watching the sky instead of the road. There was a silver Honda slammed into a light pole head-on. The driver’s limp body was halfway out the windshield. The horn was blaring endlessly.

The city streets were deserted. Most folks had barricaded themselves into the safety of their homes, hopin’ that might be enough to spare them from the imminent collapse of the world. Emmitt saw a few of ‘em peeking out through their curtains and blinds as he moseyed down the road. Their faces were painted with the fear of God.

There were power lines downed along the streets; their roots unearthed by the violent quakes that seemed to strike like clockwork. Emmitt minded them with caution, watching their black vines as they hissed and whipped against the ground.

He cut through the lot of Odessa Elementary School. Half of the building had collapsed into itself. The other half was engulfed in great, dancing flames that shot out wildly from the broken windows. Plumes of smoke billowed out into the sky.

He stopped in the park and took a long swig to wet his throat from the burning air. He didn’t have much farther to go now. The chains of the swing set creaked in stillness of the day. The merry-go-round and seesaw sat dead and abandoned, but then the earth rocked again and for a brief moment they sprang back to life. The quake knocked Emmitt back a few steps, but he never dropped the bottle from his lips.

When the tremor passed Emmitt wiped his face with his sleeve and continued on his way. He cut through backyards and in-between houses, even stepping over the debris of the homes that had failed to stand up to Mother Nature’s onslaught. He wondered how many bodies might be buried in the rubble beneath his feet. The stones he stepped on were red with blood.

Eventually he crossed another soul with the courage to face the outside world; a heavyset woman in a floral printed nightgown and house shoes. Her hair was matted and unkempt, the color of leaves in the deep of autumn. She was trotting down the sidewalk. Her plump face jiggled a bit as she turned it from side to side. She was yelling out the same thing over and over again. “Mittens! Mittens! Has anyone seen my Mittens?!”

Probably a damn cat, Emmitt thought to himself. He always found it strange the things that people held sacred.

Emmitt thought she might stop upon seeing him, but she didn’t pay him any mind at all. She just ran right by him on the search for her precious Mittens. I suppose the sight of a dusty old cowboy toting a shotgun loses its luster in the black shadow of the apocalypse.

But that didn’t bother Emmitt much. That was exactly how he hoped it would be.

He stopped again when he finally reached the opening of Ed McCoy’s driveway. He looked over the wild grass that grew unruly in the front yard. The two story house was dilapidated with peeling, yellow paint and a front porch awning that leaned hard to one side on the verge of collapse. But the old house was still standing.

Emmitt took another swig of Beam then chucked the half empty bottled into the front yard. It disappeared into the deep grass. He sauntered up the driveway toward the front door, studying Ed’s truck as he walked past. There was a dried out bottle of Thunderbird cast across the passenger seat.

Some things never change.

The hood was propped open full with a half of a broom handle. The front end of the truck was still mangled from the collision. Emmitt never had taken to calling it an accident. There were tools strewn across the engine compartment and on the ground in Ed’s halfhearted attempt at making repairs.

The porch stairs creaked as Emmitt climbed them one by one. The screen door was half off its hinge, tappin’ steadily against the side of the house. The window of the front door was draped with a dirty sheet.

Emmitt knocked twice, hard, then turned around to survey the wasteland he’d just crossed. The Odessa he’d known was gone, replaced by the burning city of Babylon. Great flames raged in all directions. Behind the black clouds of smoke, explosions flashed in the sky like the blinking lights of a Christmas tree. There wasn’t much time left. He hoped Ed was home.

He turned around when he heard the deadbolt rattle. Ed McCoy opened the door rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“Jesus Christ, Emmitt. Ain’t you got no sense?” His jeans and t-shirt had an assortment of stains. “The whole worlds gone to hell in a hand basket. What the hell are you doing outside?” He paused when he saw the well oiled shotgun in Emmitt’s hand.

Emmitt didn’t offer a response. Instead he lifted his Wingmaster until the barrel was inches from the bridge of Ed’s nose. “You know what I aim to do, Ed.”

The two men eyed each other over the long barrel of the gun. Emmitt's gaze was cold and merciless, causing Ed’s bloodshot eyes to light up with unmistakable fear. Emmitt couldn’t help but feel satisfaction at that.

“Now listen, Emmitt. I... I been meaning to talk to you.”

“So why ain’t you talkin’.”

“It wasn't what you think, Emmitt. I... I only had a couple of beers that night. It wasn’t my fault. Their car came out of nowhere, Emmitt. I… I tried to dodge it. Honest I did. It wasn’t my fault.” His breath stank of cheap liquor.

“You know she was pregnant, Ed. My daughter that is. Five months along. I was 'bout to be a granddaddy.”

“Now listen, Emmitt. I... I'm awful sorry. I didn't mean for none of this to happen." His eyes welled up with pitiful tears. "I wish to God I could take it back. Honest I do. You don't have to do this."

"No, Ed. I reckon I do."

"PLEASE, EMMITT!!" Ed cried out. His voice echoed through the bleakness of the world, lower and lower, until finally fading off into the desolate horizon.

His sudden plea for mercy brought the slightest hint of a smile to Emmitt's lips.

"Listen to me Emmitt. Let’s... let's talk about this. You don’t have to-“

The blast of the shotgun ended the negotiation. Ed McCoy’s head opened up into a messy red splatter. His body dropped flat in the doorway.

Having done what he had to do, Emmitt sat down on the tattered wooden stairs of Ed McCoy’s porch and looked out over the land. He wept for a while, I couldn’t say how long. Then he put the Wingmaster’s barrel in his mouth.

Nothing bothered Emmitt much after that.