Me, My Wax Figure, and the End of the World

(knock knock)

   It was maddening. And, at the same time, oddly comforting. 

   (knock knock)

   Every 25 seconds like clockwork, she rapped softly on the trap door above me. Never louder or quieter, never one knock or three. Two knocks every 25 seconds. 

   (knock knock)

   And between the taps, a gentle humming. No particular tune to speak of, no repeating pattern, and no correlation with the nearly-dead heartbeat of her tapping. But, it was a warm sound. More than once, I’d passed into a peaceful sleep by focusing on the hum between the knocks. 

   (knock knock)

   It had been just over 38 hours since I’d grabbed the last of the supplies I’d been able to scrounge together, thrown them into the root cellar below the pantry, and jumped in after them. As I was reaching back up to slam the trap door behind me, I’d heard the tinkle of breaking glass and the crash of the front door being forced open. I’d dogged the hatch down as tight as I could and fastened the slipshod latches I’d hastily installed earlier in the day. 

   Then I’d waited silently, my heart pounding in my ears and my lungs burning as I’d tried to control my breathing. Above, there were heavy footfalls and a cacophony as they thoroughly ransacked the old farmhouse. I couldn’t see anything, so I don’t know if any or all of the intruders were human. I’m not even sure how to define that word anymore if I’m honest. At the time, my main concern had been staying invisible and waiting until they left. 

   It hadn’t taken long. They’d done their damage, left their mark. After a few hours of silence, I’d felt safe enough to crack open a bottle of water and one of the cans of corn chowder I’d stored in the root cellar. Later, I’d decided to go up and inspect the damage. See if they’d left the truck alone.

  So, I’d quietly unlatched the trap door and raised it, wincing at the squeak of the hinges. The root cellar was in perpetual shadow in the back of the wide pantry, but the kitchen beyond the pantry door was bright with morning sun. I’d managed to rise to the second step, head and shoulders past the opening, when a silhouette had lurched into the pantry doorway. With a yelp, I’d fallen backward, knocking my head hard on the lip of the trap door and bruising my tailbone as I landed on the hard-packed dirt floor. The door slammed behind me, and I’d secured it again before huddling into the corner clutching my head. 

   A few moments of silence, a few shambling steps, then the sound of weight settling on the door above. And then, 

   (knock knock)

   I knew what she was. 

   The experts threw their big words around: multiverse, wormholes, alternate dimensions, quantum entanglement. I’d just stopped listening after a while. The bottom line for John Q. Public was simple: big holes appeared randomly in the fabric of reality and things came through. Some of those things looked human; most didn’t. Some were clearly intelligent but most were dumb. Almost all of them, as it turned out, were unremittingly violent. No one really knew why, but once the body count started skyrocketing, no one cared much anymore. 

   We were just trying to stay alive, which I had. 

   Me and my Wax Figure.

   From the brief glimpse I’d gotten before falling, this one was gorgeous — like a tasteful amalgam of a dozen classic Hollywood bombshells. She was incredibly hot and, at the same time, she looked wrong somehow. We called them Wax Figures because they looked the most human of all the creatures that had come through the rifts, but they were like barely animated corpses beneath a nearly perfect exterior. They moved incredibly slow and their minds were slower still. Vacant eyes, seemingly devoid of emotion, barely registered the creatures around them. But, at least they were peaceful. Never harmed a fly as far as I know.

   Of course, that hadn’t stopped us from mowing them down mercilessly. After all, we’d tried to fight back on every front, but we’d been no match for the other visitors from whatever worlds the rifts connected us to. So, we’d taken our frustration out on the helpless Wax Figures. I’m not proud of it, but I’d taken down a few of them myself as I made my way to Uncle Charlie’s farm. 

   I wonder if she knew them. Perhaps loved them.

   (knock knock)

   For the first hour, I’d sat silently again, unsure of her intentions. I tried the door, but with her weight on it, there was no way I could lift it. And she didn’t seem interested in moving. Then, I’d railed against her and her incessant knocking — screaming obscenities, throwing cans at the door, pounding on it with bruised fists — but she hadn’t responded, and she hadn’t moved. She’d just kept knocking.

   (knock knock)

   After that, I’d resorted to tears and whining, mewling like a hurt kitten. I’d begged and pleaded, trying to reason with what I knew couldn’t reason. 

   Finally, I’d sat back down again and listened. That’s when she’d started humming. And, between the hum and the gentle knocking, I started to get a sense of this odd creature. 

   Like me, she was in a strange world, overrun with danger from superior creatures. Like me, she was alone and probably scared. And, like me, she was reaching out for connection and comfort to fill the space between now and eternity. 

   (knock knock)

   At this point, I’m resigned to this strange fate. I only brought down enough supplies for a few days, and water is already running low. My Wax Figure has chosen me for reasons unknown. She’s decided to stay with me as the end nears, like a kind of soulmate, I guess you could say. I won’t lie; it’s comforting to have someone so close at a time like this. As far as I know, I’m the last human being still alive. But I won’t have to die alone. 

   I have her.

   (knock knock)