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wouldn’t you? At precisely 12:21:12 p.m. on 12|21|12, the world as we know it ceased to exist. The exact day the Mayan calendar ended — incredible coincidence, don’t you think?”
    “You don’t really believe that, do you? That’s the same as people in 1999 saying 2000 was going to be the end of the world because PCs stored the year as a two-digit number. Don’t you think it’s more likely the Mayan carver just ran out of space on his calendar wheel?”
    “What do you mean?” Michael asked.
    “I mean, maybe the Mayans should have had Macs. They’re good till the year 3000, right? I don’t know. I’m just saying that nobody predicts the end of the world with a calendar. It’s like saying Hallmark controls our destiny.”
    “How does someone predict the end of days, then?”
    “With fire and brimstone like they do in the Bible, or maybe they tweet it, or put it on their Facebook page. I have no idea. Come on, Dr. Loeb. Tell us. You were the Enquirer ’s poster boy. That was you on the cover a few months back with your arm around that three-headed alien, wasn’t it? What’s going on?”
    Loeb winced. “It’s amazing how little it takes to turn scientific inquiry into a three-ring circus.”
    “So was it Mayans, or aliens, or what? Because I, for one, would really like to know.”
    Michael put his hand on Cameron’s shoulder: “Take it easy, son. We’re all doing the best we can under the circumstances.”
    “Circumstances? What circumstances? Didn’t you say just a little while ago in our meet-and-greet that hell has come to us? That’s what you said, right? What’s there to understand about that? They burn you on one side and flip you over to do the other.”
    “Cameron,” Loeb said. “Get a hold of yourself. I’ve never believed in doomsayers, Mayan or otherwise, and I refuse to believe that we have been visited by a supreme entity holding the Bible in one hand and eternal damnation in the other. There has to be some logical explanation for this.”
    “But you said yourself it was an incredible coincidence. So what is it, really?”
    “Face it, kid,” Bowen said. “Loeb is just as clueless as the rest of us. It’s the end of the world. Just deal with it.” He emptied his glass. “Damn, that’s fine scotch.”
    “If you can explain to me how we are discussing the end of the world after it has ended, I will certainly entertain the notion,” Loeb said. “But Bowen is right about one thing — the president does know how to stock a bar.”
    The Christmas tree twinkled in red, yellow, and green. A pile of brown dried-up spruce needles covered the carpet underneath. Cameron unplugged the lights. “Do you think there are any others like us out there?”
    “I’ve thought so from the beginning, and we are the living proof of that. There must be other pockets of civilization gathering just as we have. We need to find them. We have to join forces if mankind is to survive. It’s our only hope.”
    Bowen crunched another ice cube between his teeth. “What for? They could all turn out to be like whack-job over there. Why bother with the rest when we can live here like kings for a hundred years?”
    Ferret stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and went back to his fitful snoring sleep.
    “God is punishing us,” Michael whispered.
    Loeb poured himself another glass of champagne. “Don’t be ridiculous. God does not punish people with fifty-year old single malt scotch and Dom Perignon. Cameron, is there caviar by any chance? I read somewhere that the president fancied it.”
    Michael drew on his bottle of water, suppressing a cough. “Wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler, and whoever is led astray by it is not wise. Proverbs 20:1.”
    This trip, Bowen brought the bottle back with him. “Yeah? Well get this — shut the hell up. No wants to hear your crap anymore, you religious prick. Bowen, chapter one, verse one.”
    “We are being punished for our sins, Mr. Bowen.”
    “I’ve