Everyone Died+My iPhone Stopped Working: An Oral History of The Robot Apocalypse

Epilogue

Marietta opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. The sun was peering over the horizon, painting the sky in blues, purples and pinks. A soft breeze caressed her face as as she leaned her elbows on the wooden railing and breathed a grateful breath.

Morning had come. And she was alive.

A rustling of leaves caught her attention. She saw a pair of gray squirrels in her elm tree. Her muscles tensed and her hand reflexively reached for her sword. But there was no need. Whatever madness had seized them was gone and they playfully chased each other, scurrying higher and higher in a carefree spiral until they disappeared from view.

Marietta smiled to herself. Already, her fear of these adorable woodland creatures felt foolish, childish. The residue of a frightening dream dissolving upon waking.

She surveyed the devastation in her neighborhood, the rubble and twisted metal a sculptural testament to what they had lost, and to the work ahead. Cleaning up, rebuilding, reconnecting.

She saw someone in the distance walking towards her. Marietta instantly recognized it as her nemesis Sheila Arnett, her tacky lime green jogging suit unmistakable even from this distance.

Marietta was surprised. She had thought that Sheila had been killed in the first wave of the robot assault. She felt a pang of guilt as she remembered the unseemly delight she had taken in the news of Sheila's demise. But she also realized that this new beginning afforded her the opportunity to make amends.

She waved to Sheila, but she did not wave wave back. Then she called Sheila's name and still, no response. She called her name again, louder this time. Still nothing.

Old resentments bubbled up in Marietta. The Robot Apocalypse was over, but Sheila, apparently, was still a B-word.

Marietta noticed that there was something odd about the way Sheila was walking, with lurching steps, her leg dragging behind her. Other neighbors appeared, ten paces behind Sheila, their steps jerky and labored.

They're hurt, Marietta thought. The walking wounded.

But as Sheila grew closer, Marietta could see that the skin on the left half of her face had been torn away, exposing cheekbones and teeth. And there was a softball-sized hole in her sternum, intestines dangling.

No, Marietta realized. Not the walking wounded. The walking dead.

Blangdang zombies!

She unsheathed her sword. It gleamed in the morning sun.

OK, you monkey-flunkers, she said to herself. Let's flippin' do this!

THE END