I had thought the apocalypse, when it came, would be dramatic. Fire in the skies, lightning strikes, maybe a meteor or two. But no. The apocalypse, as it turns out, is slow and pathetic. The world won’t end in a bang, but a whimper. Specifically, the whimper of small children dying of hunger, the cries of mothers holding babes they know will never grow up, the groans of men too tired to shout, unable to express their rage. Unable to feel it. Rage is a tiring emotion.
100 days they said, 100 days until the water would run out. No one will make it that far. And that’s the saddest part. This world will end, it will die and it will do it alone. No one will be left to keep it company, to hold its hand. We’ll all be gone and then it will be too.