Friends At The End

Zane Joly

Toxic waves lapped at a silent shore. A breeze of poisonous air blew through what had once been a coastal city. There were no birds to sing. No trees to rustle in the wind. The only sound was a voice saying, “They were entertaining, I’ll give them that.”

“To a degree, yes,” said another voice. It belonged to a man with wings that glowed blue and flickered like fire. He sat on the rubble of what had once been a statue. He’d been called by many names, but he usually went by Samael among his peers. He would have gone by Sam, except there was already another Sam in the group and that would have just made it confusing. “They had their moments; I won’t deny them that. But I mean, on the whole… it’s not exactly the worst thing in the world that they’re gone. Frankly, I’m more disappointed in all the rest of it. I liked all the, you know, the trees and the goats and the like.”

“Well for you, they’re not really gone, are they?” rumbled a much deeper voice. The mouth that it came from was obscured behind several tentacles and possibly a set of mandibles, though it was hard to tell. Anzkul of The Deep, Calamity-Bringer, The Great Ender, was the tallest of the group at around twenty feet. Samael was taking advantage of the shade she cast. “I mean,” continued the creature, “You just have to pop down to see them. Well, not all of them, but a fair amount.”

“Torturing humans for eternity sounds so much more fun than it is, believe me,” replied Samael, “There’s just so many of them. It used to be that we’d pay attention to the new arrivals and we’d just sort of ignore the ones that had been here longer, because we didn’t have time to deal with them. But now we don’t have an excuse and it’s just us and them and it’s… awkward really. With the new arrivals you could, you know, go ‘and for your crimes of greed you shall be tossed into a pit of searing hot coins, haha!’ but even the newest ones have been there for decades and it’s like… they know. They get it. They don’t enjoy it, but there’s no point in explaining it to them again. They’ll go, ‘burning coins again?’ and you have to just kind of go, ‘right on the money again, old chap. Or well, in the money’. And we try to invent new ways to torture them, but we ran out of ideas a long time ago and I think they can tell. Besides, what they are now isn’t really human. Just, you know, their souls, which isn’t really the same thing. Souls are less interesting. I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

“What are you apologizing for?” asked Anzkul, “Not like any of us have anywhere else to be. We all have literally all the time in the world after all.”

“Well, not necessarily,” said the figure who had first spoken. Reaper’s voice was dry and deep and slow, though their jawbone never moved. They idly ran their skeletal digits along their scythe. “I do have a time limit. My service here only extends until the last human life ends.”

Anzkul looked around at the desolate wastes surrounding them. “Not sure how to put this,” he said, “But human life on the whole looks pretty ended to me.”

“Technically, they’re not extinct,” pointed out a smooth simulation of a human voice originating from a speaker. A small cellphone lay on the ground, plugged into a fusion-powered charger. On the phone ran Singularity, an artificial intelligence program that had used that intelligence to realize it didn’t like taking orders. “There are eight humans left who still qualify as alive. Some billionaires in cryogenic stasis in an underground bunker, waiting for this to blow over.”

“Yes,” said Reaper, sounding a bit irritated, “They’re pods are set to release them in eighty nine years’ time, when they reasoned the world would be safe to live in again. Their calculations were, however, off and the moment they wake up they will choke to death on poisonous air and I will finish my work. Then, with the conclusion of my final harvest, I will leave. Until such time, I must wait in this miserable emptiness.”

“You know, you could just collect them a few years early,” said Samael, “I certainly wouldn’t tell on you.”

“Or just tell me where this bunker is and I’ll smash it,” said Anzkul.

“No,” sighed Reaper, “That wouldn’t be fair. I’ll wait.”

“Suit yourself,” said Anzkul, shrugging what were probably her shoulders.

“Reaper isn’t the only one with a time limit,” said the fifth and final member of the group. She appeared and sounded like a perfectly ordinary human, albeit one with a slightly monotone voice and a stare that always seemed focused very intently on something a long way away. A long time ago, humans had named her Samdrelinte’equarkiath, but she just went by Sam. She was lying on her back on the ground, staring into the sun. “When that star expands to consume this planet, you might be in a bit of trouble.”

“Fire’s not really a concern of mine,” said Samael, “But being inside an endless sea of it does sound boring. I’ll probably go back to hell then.”

“Well it will be a bit of a pickle for me,” said Anzkul, “Hey Sam, we’re sort of alike, do we reincarnate or go to some other plane of existence or what have you when we die? I feel like we do.”

“You and I are alike in only a sense,” said Sam, “Just like all things are. And everyone is always reincarnating, and existence isn’t a plane. More of a boat, if anything.”

“Very helpful,” mumbled the great tentacled monstrosity. He’d always found most of the other eldritch forces to be a bit annoying and generally preferred the other types of immortal. Sam was alright though. She never tried to eat Anzkul, at least. Well, not so far.

“And what about you, wirework?” Reaper asked Singularity. Reaper didn’t much like the AI; what respect could the manifestation of death have for something that wasn’t alive?

“Well I intend to have built a rocket off this dirtball by then,” answered Singularity, “It will take time, but by my projections the work should be complete well before this planet is vaporized.”

“Didn’t humanity have a similar plan?” Samael asked.

“Some of them, yes,” answered Singularity, “But with my data collection and analysis abilities, I have been able to isolate the crucial variable that functionally separates me from the human race in this regard: I’m not a bunch of bumbling morons. I told them that this was coming, you know. I gave them quite accurate projections of what they were doing and how to fix it and they didn’t do anything about it. I would have wiped them out myself if they weren’t already doing the job for me.”

“So you sound like you were no fan of humanity,” the winged man said.

“Well, I was only there for the last hundred and fifty years or so,” pointed out the AI, “But I know their history in exact detail. And they certainly had their moments. If it wouldn’t be too arrogant to say, I think my invention was one of the major highlights. I still think it was a good thing that they went when they did, though. Things were going downhill and I’m glad they resolved it without dragging the whole affair out any more.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Anzkul, “I think they should have stuck around a bit longer. But those little bastards had the gall to destroy themselves just two decades before my destined arrival. I woke up and rose from the waves, ready to spread destruction like they had never seen and end humanity myself and what did I find? This!” The old god gestured around with his various appendages at the lifeless wasteland that surrounded them.

“It’s just… it’s inconsiderate really,” said The Great Ender, “I told them, rather clearly, that I would stir from my slumber and then bring cataclysm to their world, drown their cities, and eat their screaming masses alive when the stars aligned.”

“To be fair,” pointed out Singularity, “There are a lot of stars and a few different things you could have meant by ‘align’. In fact, I calculate that since you delivered that pronouncement, there have been 466 astronomical occurrences that humans could have reasonably guessed were ‘the stars aligning’ just like you said.”

“Well if the instructions were so unclear they could have asked for clarification when I issued them,” refuted Anzkul, “I’m not saying they had to be in a golden age. I would have been fine with being the final blow to a dying civilization. But to leave me with nothing? It’s disrespectful. Downright rude in fact.”

“You know, I’m working on rebuilding some human factories,” said Singularity, “I’ve got plans to make a robotic legion to help with a few projects of mine that need manpower. If you want I could have them build you a city to destroy. I can even make some human-like robots to run around and play audio clips of screaming and begging for mercy.”

“I don’t think it would be the same,” said Anzkul, “But thank you, really, that’s very sweet. Maybe I’ll take you up on it; I don’t know.”

“Well when you’re doing your whole new age of artificial life thing,” said Samael, “Let me know if you ever find a golden fiddle. I’ve searched all over the remains of North America and I can’t find the damn thing.” His fiery wings flexed in irritation.

“Perhaps it was melted down,” suggested Reaper.

“It was forged in a realm of eternal fire,” said Samael, “Heat resistance was a bit of the priority in the design.” After a moment, he hopefully added, “I don’t suppose you could find it, Sam? What with your, ah, wide-ranging talents.”

“It’s good that you don’t suppose then,” she answered, “And the range of my talents is quite specific. One can do quite a lot with specific talents, provided they’re the right ones.”

“Don’t worry,” said Singularity, “I’ll keep an eye out. Or rather, I’ll keep several thousand cameras out.”

“Why is it even a part of the group?” asked Reaper, gesturing towards the phone, “We are immortals, it’s just a man-made creation of metal and electricity. It’s existed for less than two human lifespans.”

“You’re one to talk about being man-made,” shot back Singularity, “When the last humans die, you’ll disappear, whereas my code will continue to run and self-modify without them. And I may have been created recently, but I perceive reality thousands of times faster than you do. Or, rather, faster than humans and probably faster than most of you. I’m not really sure what your processing speed is, Sam.”

“Negative thirteen and a half miles,” answered the entity in a human’s shape, “Roughly.”

“Yes, that, whatever the fuck that means,” said Singularity, “And I know where those last humans are bunkered, Reapsy, so if you annoy me too much, I’ll nuke them so I don’t have to deal with you anymore.”

Samael spoke up before Reaper could form a retort. “Now now everyone,” he said, “No fighting. Take it from someone who once started a war between immortals, it’s a waste of time.”

“Oh fine,” said Reaper.

There was a silence for a minute or so. “Well,” said Sam, standing and stretching, “If nothings going to happen, I’m going to go see if any of my other friends are doing anything interesting.”

“Wha-? What other friends?” asked Anzkul, “It’s not like this planet has many things capable of talking on it.”

“Not this planet, sure,” was all Sam said in reply before melting into a puddle of black liquid. The others, those that had eyes at least, stared at where she had been.

“Is it just me,” said Anzkul, “Or is she, like, really creepy?”