Hero of the Apocalypse.
Yes, me, Duncan McGeary.
Respirators at first. In their hundreds. Convoys of trucks lining up in front of my garage. At first the neighbors were annoyed, but as the pandemic took hold, they cheered.
Yes, me, Duncan McGeary.
Respirators at first. In their hundreds. Convoys of trucks lining up in front of my garage. At first the neighbors were annoyed, but as the pandemic took hold, they cheered.
Then facemasks, in their thousands, piled loosely into cars and trucks--anyone who wanted them.
There was only one catch.
Don't ask where they come from.
I went to bed that night feeling pleased with myself. I was exhausted, for I'd had to move all those respirators and facemasks out of the garage all by myself. But it was worth it. I was saving the world.
Me, Duncan McGeary.
I woke up the next morning gasping for breath. The virus? Oh, my God. Was I to die before I could save the world? Oh, the irony!
But no, my chest is clear. I have no temperature. It's just that there is no air. I throw open the curtains.
Twenty dollar bills, plastered against the windows. Cracks spreading even as I watch. The roof above creaking under the weight.
And I know. My neighbor, Billy, a good man when he's sober. But he's never sober, always drunk, howling at the moon at midnight, hungover and begging for money in the mornings. He must have broken into my garage. He must have put a twenty dollar bill in the device. And five minutes later there was another twenty dollar bill, and five minutes later there was four twenty dollar bills, then 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512...you get the picture.
It's too late. I know this. I'd tried so hard to keep ahead of the curve, taking the respirators and facemasks out of the device when they started to get ahead of me.
Billy must have passed out. What time was it?
Too late, that's what it was. There was no way I can dig my way to the garage. The device will never stop. The house is groaning now. I hear muffled screams from my neighbors.
It won't be long.
I'm no hero of the apocalypse. I am mankind's doom.
Sorry about that.
There was only one catch.
Don't ask where they come from.
I went to bed that night feeling pleased with myself. I was exhausted, for I'd had to move all those respirators and facemasks out of the garage all by myself. But it was worth it. I was saving the world.
Me, Duncan McGeary.
I woke up the next morning gasping for breath. The virus? Oh, my God. Was I to die before I could save the world? Oh, the irony!
But no, my chest is clear. I have no temperature. It's just that there is no air. I throw open the curtains.
Twenty dollar bills, plastered against the windows. Cracks spreading even as I watch. The roof above creaking under the weight.
And I know. My neighbor, Billy, a good man when he's sober. But he's never sober, always drunk, howling at the moon at midnight, hungover and begging for money in the mornings. He must have broken into my garage. He must have put a twenty dollar bill in the device. And five minutes later there was another twenty dollar bill, and five minutes later there was four twenty dollar bills, then 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 512...you get the picture.
It's too late. I know this. I'd tried so hard to keep ahead of the curve, taking the respirators and facemasks out of the device when they started to get ahead of me.
Billy must have passed out. What time was it?
Too late, that's what it was. There was no way I can dig my way to the garage. The device will never stop. The house is groaning now. I hear muffled screams from my neighbors.
It won't be long.
I'm no hero of the apocalypse. I am mankind's doom.
Sorry about that.
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