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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Judgment day was upon them. It was the twenty sixth day of October, the 2008th year of our Lord. Under a week ago, a mysterious figure who called himself Mihael had taken control of all of the nuclear weaponry by means of the computer. No amount of effort had been able to free the computers from Mihael's virtual clutches. The FBI was now on a search for him, yet to no avail. They would all die.



“As far as we were told, we would live until December of 2012. Apparently, we were lied to.” She twisted the hand-held video camera around from the scene of the rising sun to her face. In the bright light of the dawn, her features were easy to distinguish. She stared deep into the lens of the camcorder with chocolate eyes. As the sun began to rise above the horizon, the sunbeams made her eyes gleam and sparkle. Excitement, fear, and passion swirled about them in a hurricane of emotions.

“Who are we, anyway? What do our lives mean to anyone? Will anybody notice when we're gone?” She cocked her head to one side, causing her frizzed, strawberry-blonde waves to sweep across to her naked right shoulder. “My name is Molly-Amber Dorian, and this is the last day I'll ever be alive.”

She rose from her bed, filming her room. It was painted in a deep shade of red-wine, with silver curtains, thick, ebony carpets, and a scene of the celestial beings that came out to play at dusk painted beautifully upon her ceiling. Molly moved to the southern wall, which was entirely a mirror. She pointed the camera towards it.

“For anybody who survives this massacre, for anybody watching this, find him.” Anger swelled into her soft alto. “Find him, hang him, flay him, drown him, burn him, I don't care which, but make him suffer.”

She wiped silver tears from her pale, rounded cheeks with small, plump hands. Her dark make-up trailed down her face to her mouth. Behind her rose-tinted lips sat two rows of slightly-crooked teeth slightly yellowed with the hint of second-hand nicotine. Her beauty was hidden behind the mask of the emotional torrent raging across her face.

“Since the twenty-first of September, we, the people of Earth, have spent our days in fear, filled with tears, and violence. The violence is now peaceful, quiet suffering. When we die, if he doesn't come with us, I beg you to make him wish he'd never been born. Find him, torture him, kill him. For anybody that survives, never let anyone forget him. Make his name a curse for eternity.”

She sat the camcorder on her cherry-wood dresser, still facing the mirror, and crumpled to the ground like a rag doll, as if all her limbs had become Jell-O. She sobbed there, for a good while, as the sunlight crept slowly, quietly, across her onyx floor, as if afraid to disturb her distraught figure. She took in three deep breaths, and focused upon a motive: bravery. When Molly's 5'9 frame finally stood, she put her hands on her bare hips, examining herself.

She wore only a pair of dark boy-shorts, and an orange mid-drift tube-top. She observed at her tall, slightly chubby reflection staring boldly back at her. The insides of her snowy forearms held even paler lines left behind by the bite of steel many moons passed. Her chest was buxom, and her body was kissed by the figure of a woman, yet her stomach ruined it all.

From just below the tube-top to right above her waistline ran a long, thick, ugly scar. It formed a cross through her belly-button, leaving her deformed. The kiss of surgical steel sure as hell had left it's mark, scarring not only her freckled skin, but her very soul. Her legs were long, and shapely, but her thighs held more weight than they should have. Her neck was elegant, her shoulders curved, and her arms long, and slender.

Molly sighed, and looking to the camera. “If I had it my way, I would have died beautiful. Yet, the gods felt it needed to send me to the Underworld scarred, hideous, and pale as Death himself. If I had it my way, we wouldn't have to die at all.”

She tugged on dark blue denim jeans, a violet and a lime sock, a slim-fitting Beatles tee-shirt, and black converse. Her red-gold waves were left down to tumble over her shoulders, and she nestled a charcoal bow amongst them. She snatched up her camera, and traveled out of her room into a dimly-lit hall, where she flitted like a fleeting shadow across the threshold.

There was a CLICK, and then the lights flickered on to reveal a bathroom done up in blues and tans to create a scenic view of the shore. She set the camera down again, and took a washcloth from the shelf, dampening it in hot water, and rubbing the sooty streaks off her face. She re-applied her black eyeliner, and her mascara, and nodded approvingly at the camera. Freckles were daintily scattered across the bridge of her nose, and her cheeks kept a pink tint to them.

Placing the camera back into her hands, she ducked out into the hallway, and tiptoed down the stairs. A grandfather clock bellowed in a deep bass, the sound reverberating across the den. She twisted to aim the lens at the clock. It was old and worn with time, but it gave the room a pleasant feel. It read 6:00. She padded silently from the cushy mahogany carpet of the den to the sunshine linoleum of the kitchen. There she found a blonde boy of about twelve seated on the counter, just idly swinging his legs.

At his feet sat two small fluffy white canines; one collar pink, one collar plum. They looked towards Molly with big, confused cow-brown eyes. She whistled, zooming in on their faces as the confusion turned to joy. They bounded over in two white blurs, jumping up at her. She sat the camera on the counter, and opened her arms, falling over as they collided. Her crooked smile flashed across her crimson lips, giggling. Her eyes turned sad, as she looked up at the camera.

“Tag and Mitzi,” she glared, stroking the plum-collared pup first, and then the pink, “die because of him. All this joy, all this love in the package of snowy fluff is gone.” She snapped. “Because of Mihael.”

It was the twenty-sixth of October, the two-thousand-and-eighth year of our Lord. On the twenty-first of September, the world had gone to hell. A mysterious figure, who went by the name of Mihael had seized control of every nuclear bomb, missile, and power-plant on this planet. At first, everyone thought it was a joke, until no one could regain control of their nuclear network. No matter what any nation's Government tried, no one could free the computers. Even pulling the plug wasn't working.

With his nuclear power, Mihael was determined to burn the world to the ground in a fit of nuclear warfare. The date? October 26th, 2008. This was the price they paid for taking apart God's atom, he said. For defying the sanctity of Adam and Eve. For killing children, and women, and all the violence. For existing.

The FBI, CSI, Scotland Yard, and every other agency in the world resorted to tracking him down. They couldn't track his I.P. address, they couldn't do anything. Voice recognition was impossible since he used a voice-synthesizer. Mihael was untouchable, and everyone was going to die.

From the radio in the kitchen, they heard him.

“I believe this world is burning to the ground.” The artificial voice rang. “Will I spare you all?”

After a few more moments of misery-pearls falling from her eyes, the blonde boy hopped down from the counter. He knelt next to her, wrapping his arms about her as the dogs kissed her tears away. He looked exactly like her, but a tad bit shorter, and thinner. His eyes weren't the liquid caramel of hers, but the mix of blue and gray of mist as it hangs above the rocking waves of the ocean. She recovered quickly, and smiled cockily into the camera.

“He may be taking away our lives, but he'll never take away our love. You've failed, Mihael. You've failed.” The camera clicked off, as the battery died.



“This lovely creature is Marcus Aurelius Dorian, also known as Marx.” Molly was on her stomach under the dining room table, her camera the only thing peeking out from under the cloth. The lens focused in on the blonde boy. He wore black denim jeans, a black shirt with silvery designs flowing about it, and a red THUNDERCATS hoodie.

“Molly stop it!” Marx grumbled in a light tenor, twinging with the hints of puberty.

She panned to the grandfather clock, which began to cry out twelve chimes. It was noon. Molly scooted out from under the table, followed by the two fluffy puppies. Mark looked up at her from his lap. He was stringing a homemade bow with skill.

“Live a little Marx!” She grinned jokingly. He only glared.

The T.V. Flipped on as Marx held the remote.

“Let's see how far we've come. Nuclear weaponry? Only for your death.” Mihael rang out. Marx quickly shut it off. The Dorians stared at each other silently.

Finally, Molly stood, the camcorder tucked under her chin, and a puppy in each arm. Marx set his equipment aside, and rose, taking the camera, and pointing it at her like she had been showing him.

“Go bother Mikey.” He half-snarled, half-whimpered.

“You know Mike told us to leave him alone. He's busy on his computer video chatting with his girlfriend in California.” She sighed. Mike was the eldest of the three.

Molly kissed Tag, the purple-clad pooch first, and then Mitzi, who wore the pink so lovely, and then set them down.

“Let's go out Marx.”

Marx turned the camera to face him, giving it a skeptical look. “What's outside but death?”

They had long ago come to accept their fate. Every clock on the face of this planet was set to 11:49 P.M., and theirs was no exception.

“What's inside but death?” She retorted. “Besides, I'll let you hold the caaameeeeraaaa!” She sang the last word.

Recovering her camera, she smiled; she had won. Marx leashed up the dogs, and they left their two-story townhouse. The camera flickered out.



They had no destination but their graves, so they let the leather soles of their sneakers carry them. The pups took them, ironically, to the old bone-yard on E. A. Poe Boulevard. As they passed beneath the wrought-iron arch, eaten by time, rust, and the passing of souls, they exchanged a look. They would be with the residence soon.

“Hey Marx, how many dead people do ya' reckon are in here?”

Marx tilted his head to think. He was used to her riddles. “I give Mollyfish, how many?”

Her crooked grin spread across her painted lips. “All of them!”

Her brother rolled his eyes as she chuckled. Molly was the morbid member of the family. She feared nothing, and was an optimistic pessimist: hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. Her glass was neither half empty nor half full, but had a broken edge that would slit your throat if you tried to drink from it. Serious moments were rare with her, because in her eyes, life was just a game that was lost one way or another to the ultimate player; Death.

Marx hated life, and took everything like a funeral; much too seriously. He was, like Molly-Amber, was the same optimistic-pessimist with that screw life attitude. Mike, however, was the opposite of both. He rarely talked, had no sense of humor, and hated everything. They had lived with him since their father had gone gay. Both their father, a strong man from Russia, and his lover had died in a car crash three years ago. Their mother had died birthing the fourth member of the family, who had died with her.

They heard him. They couldn't make out the words, but they heard the crackling audio of Mihael and his death threats. They both sighed, hugged quickly, and then split up. Molly took the camcorder, and Marx the pups. Molly went to the joint grave of her grandparents upon a lone hill. She set the camera on the raised tombstone, and knelt.

“Hey Me-Mom. I'm coming to see you soon. I'm sorry it took so long, but I'll finally be by your side again.” Her voice choked as the tears took over. “Pop-pop, I miss you so damn much. I'm coming, I promise. We can read Clifford the Big Red Dog again, and talk about how bad the Yankees suck.”

She looked to the camera, her normally playful circles of gold darkened with the sweetest thing; revenge. The sun was behind her, causing a silhouette.“Mihael, you bastard, you're giving me the gift of my grandparents. How's that taste?” The camera faded to static.



The air was thick with the sultry taste of silence. The lens panned to show a crowded street, and then was set on a mailbox. People were hugging and kissing right there on the asphalt. Molly-Amber and Marcus Aurelius sat on the painted curb, staring at the lines upon lines of cars. They were staring at the passengers, and waving goodbye.

Stumbling up to them, garbed in ratty, filthy clothes, with a hole in his left shoe that his big toe poked up through, and flaunting the scraggliest gray-beard either of the Dorians had ever seen, came a man one would classify as a “hobo”. His skin was gray, like his hair, from being unwashed, and he smelled of low tide.

“Ye' wor'less lot! Yer lives all be i'si'nifi'nt!”He stopped, turning to the Dorians, and gasping. “Mo'y Ambe'? Mars? Tha' be ye'?” The man paused from his preaching. His straw hat was askew atop his matted gray, or maybe just white and dirty, hair. He peered upon them with blue eyes, filmed over with cataracts. He gave them a big smile, revealing three teeth; one had a hole right through it.

He had, to Molly's best translation, tried to say “You worthless lot! Your lives all be insignificant! Molly-Amber, Marx, that be you?” which she quickly whispered to her brother. They both smiled.

“Masta 'n missus Dor'n, wha' a pleasa' t' see some f'rmilla faces in this he' t'mo'l. Wha' ye' chillun be doin' ou' hur? Shou't ye' be ah ho' wi' tha' ol'e b'tha o' yers?” he slurred.

“Master and Missus Dorian, what a pleasure to see some familiar faces in this here turmoil. What you children be doing out here? Shouldn't you be at home with that older brother of yours?” Molly whispered swiftly to her brother.

“Afternoon Mister Burns. We're enjoying this lovely day.” Marx offered quietly.

“Yeh, 'll, I ho' ye' chillun bee' t' curtch, 'cuz all the' damn foo' goin' t' bur' fo' all 'tern'ty.” He whispered, and then continued to scream. “Y'ALL GOIN' T' HELL YE' NAS'Y SIN'UHS!” as he tottered away.

“What did he say?” Marx asked when he was safely out of earshot.

Molly sighed. “Said he hoped we'd been to church, 'cause all the damned fools are going to burn for all eternity.”

Frank Burns had been missing a bolt or five since he got a car accident in 2004. Since then, he'd been to church every Sunday, never missing a mass, but he'd been off his rocker.

“I'm so glad the old coot has the right to tell us about Hell, considering he raped his wife and her baby girl.” Marx growled.

Molly rolled her eyes, looking up at the camera.

“Marx has an issue with reli-”

“I DO NOT HAVE ISSUES WITH RELIGION!” He interrupted his taller sister.

“Death is upon you. You created it, and now it will take every single one of your lives.” Their killer called in stereo. Every car had it's radio on, and every station was tuned to him.

Molly simply hugged him as he began to cry. “I don't wanna die Mol. I wanna wake up tomorrow, and enjoy the last day of my weekend. I just want life.”

Molly looked into her camera. “You can take my life, Mihael, but you will never take my freedom.” She reached over a small hand, and pressed the off button.




There were two gravestones upon the hill, upon which the camcorder rested. The sunset stretched it's great red-orange tendrils though out the sky behind them, with a single yellow candle lit in front of each stone. Engraved in the white marble upon the first was such as this: ??? ????? ???? ??? ????? ?? ???? ??? ??????? ?????? ?? ????? ?? ???????? ??? ?? ??? ?? ????"? ?????????? ?? ?????? ????? ??? ?? ????? ?????? ?????????? ???? ?? ?????????? ??????????????????????.

“She lies under six feet of Mother Earth, wrapped in the embrace of the trees of the forest. Her soul floats above with the Almighty Lord, awaiting you to join her. She has come so far to glimpse the Lord. Here lies Beverly, Heavenly servant, wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. May the Sun and Moon forever shine upon this stone, for even the heavens may never forget her.” Molly read in her quiet alto, her eyes glistening with tears in the setting sun.

Marx waited down the hill by the tree, watering the dogs.

The second, a dark marble, held this message:??? ???? ???? ???? ????? ?? ???? ??? ???.???? ????? ??? ??? ???? ???? ???? ?????? ?? ??? ????? ???????? ???? ????? ????? ?? ???? ??????? ???? ????? ???? ??? ??????? ??????? ??? ?/??? ???? ??? ????????? ??? ???? ?????? ??? ????? ???????? ??? ?????? ??? ???? ??? ???? ???? ????????? ???????? ?????? ?????????? ?????????? ???? ?? ????.

“He is enveloped under the very body of Mother Earth. His Earthly vessel lies in a vessel carved from the woodland of the Earth Mother, who's lives were slain to guard his body. The Sun and Moon dance eternally above his closed eyes as he rests in peace. His soul awaits his Molly at the Pearly Gates, his hand extended just as when he taught her to walk. Loving husband, dedicated father, amazing grandfather, and loyal to the Lord. here lies Ralph.” Her tears a torrent down her freckled cheeks. The fading sunbeams made her skin glow.

“I'm coming home for you, Me-Mom. I'll take your hand, and walk through with you, Pop-Pop. Eleven forty-nine Philadelphia time, I'll come home.” She stared deep into the camera. “I don't want to die. I want to live with Marx on high forever. You're stealing this from me, Mihael. I go home to my Grandparents with my brothers. Who awaits you in Hell?”

The sun blinded the camera, and then it was dark.



The sun had long since set. Molly walked hand-in-hand with her smaller doppelganger. The sun had risen and fallen. It was the moon's turn to dance across the black velvet sky. Stars twinkled above, sparkling in a glistening array of sequins. Her camera was on night vision.

“Maybe I'll spare you, scum of the Earth.” Mihael cackled in his synthetic disguise.

He had been taunting Earth's population with salvation since the sun set. Molly looked down at her cell-phone, but the time didn't stick in her mind. She couldn't remember giving a damn for the past hour or so. She had tried to be so brave all day, for Marx, and maybe for herself. Her courage fled her.

She fell to her knees, and started crying, and she couldn't stop herself. Marx took the camera, and filmed like he was trained to.

“TURN IT OFF!” She screeched.

And the camera went black.



She was running. She didn't know where. Marx waited patiently, somewhere far back. Maybe a mile or so. She looked into the camcorder.

“Why,” she puffed a breath quickly, “am I running when there's no where to run to?” She stopped, and fell down on the curb.

She was only wasting her time until the cold claws of Death wrapped themselves around her jugular. She was sweating, not from running, but in the freezing cold clasp of fear. Molly-Amber Dorian couldn't remember a time when she had been this terrified. Marx was jogging, with her almost-exhausted pups, up the street. She looked down into the puddle, and then into the camera.

“Where do I think I'm going? This world's going to hell.” She whispered hoarsely.

Marx caught up with her just as she shut off the camera.



They had called everyone. All their aunts and uncles, all the cousins, neighbors, and friends. They had called 911 to say goodbye to the operators. They had spread the last love of their lives. They had four minutes of life left, and still they had not seen Mike. Camera in hand, Molly kissed Marx softly on the top of his head.

“Mom would be proud of you.” She cooed as she wiped tears from his freckled cheeks.

She kissed him again, and headed for the stairs. The pups were sleeping, unaware, just as she had wanted. She ascended the plush staircase, and down the hall to the door that led to the attic. She opened it, and began to climb the dusty wooden stairs. They creaked beneath her weight.

“Mike?” She called. She got to the top, still filming. “Mikey?”

She stood there, looking around the “lab”. It was justly named, as it was full of computer jazz. On his big screen was a countdown timer.

“Mischa?” Mischa was the Russian name for Mikey. Short for...

“Ah, Mollyfish, I wondered when you'd come.” He whispered. “I, Mihael, bring this planet justice.” The synthesizing voice rang throughout the city. 11:49 hit, and he clicked a big button.

DETONATE. And then it was all blindingly white.

Submitted: October 31, 2011

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