The day the world ended, Matteo decided to sleep in.
He was stuck in Texas — the worst place to be when the world turned quiet.
A week ago, he'd come as a missionary to a small-town church. A day ago, he'd told the townsfolk what the Pope had told him in secrecy: it was coming.
They didn't listen. Now the church was empty.
Candles burned low around his bed, the air thick with holy water and dust. Matteo woke, opened the closet, and pulled out his backpack. Inside: a crucifix, a Glock 17, both blessed by a cardinal who no longer answered his calls.
The church was silent. Pews overturned. Bibles scattered. The cross above the altar hung sideways, one nail missing.
He checked his phone. The screen was black — until it wasn't. It stared back. A reflection that wasn't his own. Matteo fired six rounds before it hit the ground.
Outside, fog rolled between the houses. Church bells were still. Windows sealed shut. The world looked asleep.
From the shadows, a man stumbled forward.
"Mister… please… help me… they took everyone…"
Matteo knelt before him, whispering a prayer. Then he pressed the gun to his head and fired once.
"You are released."
The echo faded, leaving only silence — thick as sin.
A few days later, Matteo reached the ocean in a stolen Ford F-150. The road behind him was silent, the towns empty, the air tasting of salt and ash.
He stepped out of the truck, pulled the crucifix from the rearview mirror, and slung his pack over his shoulder. The pier stretched ahead like a skeleton — boards creaking, gulls gone, waves whispering against the shore.
The water looked wrong.
Too deep. Too blue. Too still.
"I guess the waters aren't safe anymore," he muttered, though no one was there to hear.
A small boat drifted near the edge — barely more than a dinghy, with space for one man and a few fuel tanks. It would have to do.
He worked in silence for hours, loading gas, food, and a small oil lamp. The sun sank behind him, and the world turned gray again.
When the last rope was untied, Matteo looked once more at the land — the dead towns, the empty churches, the places that never listened.
Then he crossed himself, started the motor, and whispered:
"Half the world, Lord. Just you and me."
The boat slid into the water, the ripples stretching out into the blue until the land vanished.