In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. The sea gave up the dead which were in it, and all the stars in the sky dissolved as the heavens rolled up like a scroll; all the starry host felt like withered leaves from the vine. (Genesis 70:3-7)
In the depths of a rotting basement in Washington D.C., television static mingles with labored breathing. The last breath not only of a man, but of humanity itself.
Here, in humanity’s tomb, verdant moss creeps between crumbling bricks while a viscous black rot seeps from structural wounds, pooling on the floor around the last specimen. The sickly odor of human waste permeates the air as he hasn’t moved from his bed in days. His skin bears a grotesque greenish color, barely visible in the stuttering blue light cast by a broken television set, its missing leg causing it to project at an unsettling angle onto the partially collapsed ceiling. Beyond this artificial glow, absolute darkness reigns.
The darkness is not limited to this basement. Outside, a once-vibrant blue marble has been reduced to a lifeless rock, the sun having been… consumed.
Through the static, words begin to crystallize with unexpected clarity. The last human recognizes this moment of lucidity for what it is, a final gift of consciousness before the eternal darkness. Despite having heard this broadcast countless times while alone in his dark room, he decides to listen one last time.
A distorted rendition of the American anthem emerges from distorted speakers, periodically interrupted by the mechanical skip of the vinyl against its needle. Through grainy footage, a faded American flag ripples against a peculiar sky, its pole firmly planted in a bed of roses. President Lyndon B. Johnson appears, his face bearing the weight of unspeakable knowledge.
“My fellow Americans,” the President’s voice carried through the microphone. “The hour we dreaded has arrived. Despite the honor of our forces and the blood of our citizens, it has breached our final defenses.”
A pause follows, during which the tilting camera captures a subtle shift in the President’s pupils, as if reflecting something vast and terrible just out of frame. Whispers of journalists follow as the camera regains its frame. President Johnson regains focus and carries on his speech.
“They now walk our blessed land, breathe our American air, and occupy our national waters. Yet, they cannot—will not—conquer the American soul. This is why I must invoke this emergency directive.”
His hands tremble as he adjusts papers that seem to contain symbols rather than text. “To preserve the honor and memory of our nation. I speak to you as I have already acted. Now each American, all those who have once seen our starry sky, must follow. The window of opportunity is closing.”
The president leaned forward, his face betraying his composure. “Let history record our final words: we remain victorious in our downfall.”
In the vacuum following the President’s words, text cards begin to scroll across the screen like a movie’s credits, each bearing its portion of this final directive.
“Answer your nation’s final call. Exercise the ultimate civil right, the right to preserve American dignity. Your participation is not just a duty, but a sacred privilege. History will honor your choice. Select your method with calm resolution. Your final act gives strength to others. Peace awaits. The moment requires swift action. The protocol recommends readily available firearms. Place the barrel at an upward angle beneath the chin. We thank you for your service. Follow your community in this task. Your family is waiting. Your faith will guide you. God bless America. America’s legacy depends on your farewell. Participation is mandatory by federal law. Authorities have mobilized to enforce compliance. Hesitation constitutes an act of treason. These directives will continue until the completion of the protocol. Assume the patriots’ response: centered on your home soil, eyes to the stars, limbs together.”
After a moment of static, the image skips to an empty children playgrounds while a lone voice falsely sings “Sancta Maria.” “For children and domestic animals: first attend to their duty. Speak with measured calm. Guide them to their destiny. The youngest citizens lead our way.”
The last human attempts to summon memories of home, of his mother’s last embrace, but such recollections are now illegal. This realization brings not just sadness but profound loneliness as humanity’s ultimate insignificance proves too heavy to bear. His breathing slows down, then stops. Not caused by physical ills, but from the simple truth that there remains no reason to continue drawing breath.