The Abode

Because he is who I'd like to be, and I am curious . . I of course accepted the invitation to visit my other self on the
next available weekend, which is . . now.
He has invited me to his abode, a kind of Fortress of Solitude inhabited by each of our souls but physically maintained
by him until I decide to join him once and for all . . or not.

The drive up-country is exhilarating on this Saturday morning, the air cool and clean. Leaving the interstate behind, I
now wind through the hills on a smaller two-lane road that climbs steadily higher into the forested mountains of his
refuge. There are no towns to be seen , the last being maybe twenty miles back. The morning fog dissipates as I
arrive in front of the ten-foot high iron gates, the sun breaking through and warming the surrounding landscape. I step
out of the jeep and walk carefully to the call-box mounted on the side fence, waiting for my "sea-legs" to leave and for
my "land-legs" to return. I lift the cover and press the white button. The lock releases and the gates swing open.
I have arrived.

The jeep carries me on another single-paved road leading up to the . . . sanctuary. It is both comforting and
intimidating in its appearance. Part castle, part tower, it rises to a height of 165-feet, a silo-like aberration built from
corrosion resistant steel and armored glass. As out of place here as a wooden barn would be in a downtown,
metropolitan district of a large city. A stand-alone momument to profound eccentricity. An abode.

( From high up on the top floor I watch my other self arrive and park in the underground garage. I saw him stare up
at me just before he disappeared from view, and I wonder . . if he is okay ? )

A feeling of nostagia overcomes me as I enter the elevator and head for the fifthteenth floor. I am home.

The ride up is swift and quiet. The elevator slows, then sinks into position, and the doors open . . to my sanity.
A deep feeling of relief washes over me. I feel comfortable and secure here, yet I am but a visitor. A returning
visitor, with decisions to make.
The top floor is my base of operations. Walking into the room from the hallway I am preceded by the automatic power
surge that turns on all of my lights and equipment. In seconds everything around me is in active mode. Computers
hum as I settle down in my favorite chair and say "Mother, . . . report !"

Immediately seventeen screens begin broadcasting pictures from around the world. Mother began talking in a calm,
but firm voice, telling me about time-tables, projections, trajectories, and probable impact locations. Everything was
still the same as far as I could tell, nothing had changed during my brief trip up country. The "event" was still going
to happen ! Son-of-a-beech . . !

I sat back in my chair and wondered if I could pull this off. Live coverage of "The End of Times", duly noted and
recorded . . and preserved . . by yours truly . . me. Not that I was anything special, . . but I had volunteered to do this
for the University as a gesture of thankfulness and good will, and . . . it was a one-way ticket to immortality . . of our
planet's cyclic un-doing. THIS TIME A RECORD "HAD" TO BE LEFT BEHIND, for others that would come . .later.

My friends have all gone back to their families, something I probably would have done too, had I any. But I was never
blessed with siblings and I buried my mother and father ten years ago after their terrible car accident. I've been kind
of a loner most of my life anyways, but there was . . . Sarah, I guess. Ah Sarah, the fantasy lover, the dream-kitten
so hard to convince, so easy to forgive. Wish you could've come along for the ride ! One hell of a ride, I sense !

Screen #2 is showing the final exit from Washington, D.C. It appears to be nothing but a ghost town, no public
transportation operating, abandoned cars haphazardly parked here and there, and very few pedestrians to be seen.
I do notice however that all of the traffic lights are blinking red in an eerie cadence of frustration, as if the lights
themselves are disappointed that there's no one around to obey them anymore. Most of the politicians have been
secreted to underground bunkers in preparation for the Continuance of Government. Ah, the continuance !

Screen #3 also appears to show parts of Washington, D.C., but more of the suburbs. I see very few pedestrians
here too, although as the scaning continues I see a small group of men and women tearing down some kind of
fence surrounding very lush vegetation. It must be the Zoo. They're breaking into the Zoo ! No, wait, . . they're
letting all of the animals out of their cages . . letting them go free !
Another group is headed for the local animal shelter, . . . probably to do the same thing there ! Jesus !!
One is carrying a sign, can't quite make it out . . . . it says . . . "If the world is going to end, all of God's creatures
should die free !" Damn, . . right on !

Saturday afternoon drags into Saturday night. I have been watching various screens for hours now, recording when-
ever I believe a situation merits documentation. The same scenario repeats itself no matter what part of the world is
monitored. Mad rushes from street to street, blocked highways, intensive fear, and chaos. I feel, at times, caught up
in the desperate anxiety of it all. But I have a job to do and I must not get involved. Besides . . what could I do ?

I instruct Mother to continue the observations while I break for something to eat over in the kitchen side of the room.
Ah, a nice cool glass of Red Rose wine ! And cheese wedges, and pickled cucumbers lightly salted ! And fresh
bread with strawberry jam ! I eat slowly, watching the world outside of my armored glass enclosure begin to accept
change as it comes in unseen ways. Right now it's something in the wind . . the hair on the back of my neck rises !
Wild animals dart from cover to cover fifteen stories below, their eyes wide and wild. For an instant, just for an
instant, I think I see my other self . . running away with the animals . . running away . . in anger.

So this is how things turn out ? This is how it ends ? Nowhere do I see any government entities riding out the storm
with us. They have all disappeared, underground. All governments, all over the world, all gone down into bunkers.
A situation predicted months ago, but now truly happening. Survival of the chosen . . death for the others. A cyclical
purging of a generation of living beings ! Left behind . . left to perish.

My thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of the phone ! Who could be calling . . now ? The land-line has been
used maybe three times in the last seven or eight years, and then only for necessary local points of contact. Never a
call in though . . until now ! The ringing sounded out-of-place . . alien in nature. I picked up the receiver and said
"Hello ?"

Heavy, forced breathing met my ear, then . . CLICK !

Mother is doing an excellent job of recording "end-of-days" scenarios around the world, per my instructions. Screens
#9 and #10 show European reactions to strict enforcement of COG procedures. It mirrors everything that has
occurred in the United States, up to and including evacuation of the "chosen" to bunkers and the abandonment of
the masses . . . to whatever fate awaits them. It appears no place is any better than another place.

The skies are becoming filled with thousands and thousands of fiery meteors that slowly shower down on the land
and water below. Long, smokey trails paint crooked lines from one horizon to the other. They fall . . everywhere !

An alarm begins to sound throughout the abode but Mother is on it immediately, shutting and locking all doors and
accesses on the ground floor and one floor above. Heavy steel roll-down doors slide all the way down to the ground
from the second floor, completely sealing off the bottom of the silo, protecting it from intrusion and/or fire. It becomes
strangely quiet. I take a long swig of my wine and scan the screens.

I cannot believe how many people are praying, all across the world. I skip from one screen to another, . . to another,
only to find people of all cultures and religions stopped in place and praying. Some are kneeling, some have
assumed prone postions, lying flat on their backs with their hands folded together and pointing to the sky, and some
are standing together with their arms raised to the heavens, as if asking for forgiveness. Most are crying. These
"working class" left-behinds . . . all seem so equal . . . now . . . that the end is near. Funny how things go.

I cannot in good conscience continue to watch the end of planet Earth as we know it with the faked demeanor of a
businessman. And although it is a job I volunteered for, I am having misgivings.

My other self has not returned. Maybe he never will.

Mother is calling me.

I continue the observations, surprised that so far I have lost none of my remote cameras. All units are working.
Images of abandonment flood into my chambers. People have disappeared, animals have disappeared, so too
the birds. From every angle, nothing visible moves.

Outside, here at the abode, fires continue to burn, blue smoke covering all.

I cannot grasp the total destruction.