"An apocalyptic masterpiece: harrowing, hilarious, disturbing, heartfelt, and suspenseful. Not to be missed!"--James Rollins, best-selling author of Map of Bones
"Reads like a road movie travelling toward Armageddon, and its powerful, stylish writing and raw emotion will stay with you for a long, long time."--Tim Lebbon, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Desolation
"Relentless. Shapiro delivers a compelling narrative."--Jack McDevitt, Darrell Award-winning author of Eternity Road
"Eric Shapiro has created a gloriously horrific, touchingly intimate tale of the surreal reality of a world turned inside out; of one man's very human, very brutal struggle to 'grow the f**k up' as everything around him races headlong into madness."--Elizabeth Massie, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Sineater
"Shapiro has crafted a damn near perfect Apocalypse story in IT'S ONLY TEMPORARY; it shuns the usual trappings of the genre, concentrating on people and life rather than impossible schemes and crazy gadgets. A very engaging read!"--Michael Oliveri, Bram Stoker Award winning author of Deadliest of the Species
Chapter 1:
"So, what're you gonna do now?"
That's the question, isn't it? That's the only question we have. All the other questions are supporting players to that one. You can ask yourself if you paid the rent last month, ask yourself if you should leave your husband, ask yourself if you're in the mood for pasta, but when you boil it all down, you're left with:
"What now?"
On this day, the question is particularly hard. Perhaps excruciating is a better word. There won't be other days for doing other things. This, as they say, is it. Whatever you do, you had better choose wisely, and you had better do it right. Or wrong. It really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Because pretty soon, there will be no grand scheme of things.
Tonight, just before seven in my time zone, the clouds will part and the sky will darken and a giant rock--far too giant for words--will enter the ocean and pound the earth, just off the coast of New Zealand, turning us all into God-knows-what (assuming, of course, that there is a God; most of us have been wondering about that lately). This rock will hit the planet so hard that no matter where you're standing, no matter what closet you're hiding in, no matter how sturdy the foundation of your home is, you will fall (or if you're lying down, shake) so violently that your bones will shatter and your life will end. The same goes for most of your worldly possessions. The same goes for all animals. (Many bugs, however, will be spared.) The orb will go silent. Your body will eventually deteriorate. Your checkbooks and foodstuffs and music collection (all of them dusty and broken) will be available for the scrutiny of any aliens that may eventually pass through. Some reports say that .00001 percent or .00002 percent (or whatever) of the human race will survive. Varied regions of the earth won't shake too hard, they say. Other reports deny that. In any case, this event will be off the Richter scale. Don't even bother to hold on tight.
Predictably, people have resorted to a variety of coping mechanisms, some of which are depraved, others of which are enlightened. The word got out six weeks ago. The powers that be have been aware of this for years, but they kept things quiet to avoid mass hysteria. You could imagine their surprise when the town of Butler, Maine, blew itself up with a low-level nuclear reactor two days after the announcement. Talk about mass hysteria. "Maybe we shouldn't have given them six weeks," the powers probably shrugged.
They gave us the advanced warning with a charitable mindset, so we could quit our jobs, say our good-byes, start shooting heroin, plan a few orgies, that sort of thing. Again, the results have been split. Some have developed a glaring intimacy with the almighty. Others have drawn up "who to kill" checklists and reached for their gun racks. We've even heard reports of a crazed lion tamer who's been touring small towns, introducing his pets to human meat. (I hate to be a Pollyanna, but I find that a little hard to swallow. Aren't tamers supposed to tame?) Several folks--who are clearly in the iron grip of denial--have gone about their routines, eating steak every Tuesday night, showing up at work even though the boss has shot himself, et cetera.
Suicide has become a trend. I never guessed that such a thing would be trendy, but the context has paved the way. The evening news ran a story on it. At the end of the story, the blonde anchorwoman climbed atop a ladder and hung herself. Talk about visual aids. On the whole, television has never been better. Our local weatherman appeared without pants the other morning. I don't recall him saying anything about weather. Needless to say, all programming schedules have gone out the window. Sometimes you tune in to shots of empty studios, sometimes sobbing pundits, mostly religious sermons. Given my knowledge that every second is precious, I'm trying not to watch too much TV. But sometimes it's hard to get off the couch. Sometimes there's very little blood flowing to my legs.
Most of my time is spent with my family: mother, father, younger sister, younger brother. We've been praying around the dinner table. Having lengthy philosophical discussions. Engaging in infinite hugs. We're all learning wild things about each other, not to mention ourselves. Mom dropped ecstasy the day after The Word got out. Dad admitted that he's been attracted to some males during his lifetime. I confessed that I found suicide tempting. They talked me out of it. They want to be looking in my eyes during the final moment, and me looking back at them. Because if there are no lights or tunnels or mystical beings, at least we'll have each other. At least we'll have the flesh-and-blood magnet that holds us together.
So I wait. I watch the meaningless clock. I have long talks with my friends. Try to read Buddhist books. Try to read Palahniuk. Smoke tons of marijuana. Eat tons of junk food. Masturbate constantly. Drive nowhere. Stay out of the frightening streets. And more than anything else: think about Selma. Despite the panic burning up my mind, somehow there's always room for Selma.
"I want to go to her," I tell my mother.
My mother knows how close we were. I see the understanding in her eyes.
My mother says, "You have to be here with us."
She says, "You should have thought of this before now."
I shrug and say, "I couldn't think clearly. Now I can see straight. I think Selma's the person I want to be with."
I can hear my mother's heart beating. She goes, "It's dangerous out there. You don't know how people will behave."
"It's a three-hour drive. Probably less since there's no traffic."
"How do you know there's no traffic?"
"Because everyone's at home. There's less than ten hours left."
We look at each other.
"You don't like it?"
"You know I don't like it."
But she follows that with, "But you have to make up your own mind. I'm not your protector anymore."
Suddenly I'm chilly. I don't need to hear that, but I know what she means. What use is a mother if she has no more days with which to raise you? She's no longer my mother. She's just the portal by which I entered this world. We've become peers. Everyone has.
Her eyes are moist.
"So, what're you gonna do now?" she asks me.
And so that's what I've been asking myself.
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