George Gardner popped open a cold beer and settled back in his easy
chair to watch the soaps. George had lost his job the previous Friday.
With the remote control, he adjusted the volume on his big screen
television set. It was hard to hear with Nancy vacuuming the bedroom
down the hallway. Suddenly, however, the vivacious image of the
voluptuous blonde actress who played Megan Ryan on Our Broken Hearts
winked out and the face of Tom Rockler, news anchor for American
Broadcast Network filled the screen. Tom, like most news anchors, had
the kind of boyish good looks that women go for. He sat his big
kidney-shaped desk, pretending to read important news cables while the
television cameras circled around him. Busy-looking people in a
glass-enclosed room in the background banged away at computer keyboards
and pretended to talk to inside sources on their phones. Tom was a
famous anchorman, and this could quite possibly be the biggest day of
his career. It was only two thirty in the afternoon, but regular
network programming had now been pre-empted for this special report on
– well, on the end of the world.
“At four twenty this afternoon,” Tom began, staring mirthlessly into
the camera, “Earth was invaded by a race of technologically advanced
aliens who notified our government that at precisely five o’clock
Eastern Daylight Time today, or just over twenty nine minutes from now,
they will begin the systematic extermination of life on our planet. We
interrupt our regular programming to bring you this special live report
on the end of the world …”
“Honey,” George called, “Honey, come see this.”
“What is it, George?” Nancy called from the bedroom doorway, where she
was busy coiling up the vacuum cleaner cord.
“Tom Rockler. He says it’s the end of the world. Some kind of special
report.”
“Really. Well, when it’s over, I need you to run over to the store for
me. I need a few things for supper.”
George pretended not to hear Nancy. He concentrated on what Rockler
was saying. The image on the television had changed. Flying saucers
were hovering over the White House.
“…and so we will continue our exclusive news coverage of the end of
the world after a quick station break.” A different view of Rockler,
now, from a camera a little further away and off to one side. He was
jogging a sheaf of papers on his desk, tidying up. The figures in the
background scurried from desk to desk, looking important. When the
commercial started, George got up to look for the pretzels.
After scanning the kitchen pantry, he called out to his wife again.
“Nance, do we have any pretzels?”
“If we do, they’d be on the second shelf from the bottom, near the corn
meal and the flour.”
“Okay, got ’em. Thanks.” George swung the refrigerator door open and
grabbed another brew. The special report was starting up again.
It was Linda Weatherby, the White House reporter for ABN. “It doesn’t
look good, Tom,” she was saying as George settled down again in his
favorite recliner chair. “There’s been no official word since the
brief announcement from the President ten minutes ago. A helicopter
landed on the lawn here just moments ago, and we’re speculating that
the President will be taken to Camp David to monitor the crisis from
there.”
“The President was scheduled to travel to the Grand Tetons this weekend
for a quick vacation. Any word on how the events of this afternoon
will affect his plans?”
“Well, Tom, of course everyone is concerned. If the aliens hold to
their threat, human life as we know it will be extinct on this planet
by tomorrow morning.”
“A sobering thought,” Tom observed.
“Yes, indeed,” Linda agreed. “We’re at the very peak of the summer
holiday season, and this could very well affect the plans of millions
of our viewers.”
“Honey, come see this, “ George called again.
“I will when I get done with the bedspread,” Nancy replied from the
bedroom, where she was still doing her housecleaning..
“I have with me in the studio right now professor Miles Sumner of
Harvard University,” Tom announced. “Professor Sumner, could you give
us some historical background? Has anything like this ever happened
before?”
Sumner, a fifty-ish looking academic decked out in a tan tweed sport
coat with leather patches on the elbows and a striped pinpoint Oxford
shirt open at the collar, shook his head gravely. “Not really, Tom.
There have been plenty of incidents in the past when one sect or
another thought that the world was going to end, but never anything
this convincing. Mass extinctions at the end of the Ccretaceous and a
few times prior to that, way back in the dim geological past. But, of
course, never a total end to human life on earth. Uh, I guess that
goes without saying.”
Rockler gazed contemplatively at the professor before asking, “What can
the President do, Professor Sumner?”
“Not much he can do,” Sumner replied. Except sit back and watch the
coverage, like the rest of us.”
The camera pulled away from Rockler and Sumner and this time,
transparent block letters filled the screen, spelling out “An ABN
Special Report: The End of the World.”
As another commercial started, Nancy appeared by George’s side and
said, “Okay, what’s this all about?”
“End of the world,” George mumbled, stuffing a pretzel into his mouth.
“Pre-empted Our Broken Hearts.”
Just as well, Nancy thought to herself. All he’s done every afternoon
since he got fired is gawk at those tramps on the soap operas. “Do I
have time for a quick shower?”
“I think so,” George said, digging in the box with his right hand for
another pretzel. They’re not going to start exterminating until three
o’clock our time. You’ve got a good fifteen minutes. But hurry – you
don’t want to miss it.”
“Okay, I won’t shampoo my hair. I’ll just rinse the grime away, towel
off and put on something fresh.”
Isn’t that just like a woman, George thought to himself. The world is
coming to an end, and all she can think about is making herself look
nice. He gulped a long draw from the can of beer and burped.
The news special resumed with a shot of flying saucers cruising over
Miami’s waterfront. Rockler was narrating.
“We’ve just gotten word that the exterminations have started early.
Our cameraman in Miami transmitted the footage you’re looking at now
just a few minutes ago. You can see people dropping in the streets…”
George squinted hard and saw the little ant-like figures of people
several blocks away from the camera, running and then falling down on
the ground. “Nance. Nance!” But Nancy didn’t answer. George could
hear the sound of the shower running. She’s gonna miss it, he thought.
Through the open living room window, he could hear screams. He peered
out over the front lawn and saw several of his neighbors running down
the street, shrieking and glancing up over their shoulders in obvious
panic … and then he saw it, too. A big flying saucer, floating right
over the treetops. George slammed the window shut. Rockler was
talking. George felt light-headed and weak in the knees. And then,
with something like an explosion going off inside his head, he fell to
the floor, quite dead. The shower continued to run, but Nancy was
dead, too.
************
The alien pushed the Gardners’ front door open about six inches and
peered inside. He opened it the rest of the way and stepped cautiously
into the living room. The television screen was still filled with the
words “An ABN Special Report: The End of the World.” But Rocker was
slumped over his news desk. Other figures in the background were
sprawled over their desks, and on the floor between them.
The alien picked up the remote control. There just hadn’t been any
other way. For almost fifty years, this electronic noise had been
emanating from Earth, polluting interstellar space with gaudy images,
mindless entertainment, stupid jokes. There had been millions of hours
of it, from Henny Youngman to Fred Rogers. Cartoons. Screaming
evangelists on Sunday morning. News broadcasts. Sitcoms. Soap
operas. You name it. Enough to make your head swim. To a race of
beings whose biological equipment included the ability to perceive even
the faintest of radio emissions at these frequencies, it would have
been like submitting Earthlings to fifty years of head-spinning,
non-stop, mega-decibel noise pollution.
The alien pointed the remote control at George Gardner’s television set
and pressed the “off” button. He twitched his antennae in relief.
Only another few spot checks in his sector, and they could all pack up
and go home. And enjoy the peace and quiet.
For
permission to reprint this article
please contact the author at
roasberryassociates@earthlink.net