Becoming Nothing

Day 53, November 1st

Reykjavik, Iceland

            An explosion of greens, reds and purples prismed through the darkened windows bathing the small office in a cocoon of soft, disconcerting light. It was a spectacular demonstration of the sun’s power, but Lilja payed it no mind. She had seen it all before, every day and night since the beginning. Instead, sitting on the edge of her office chair, she stared at a clump of long grey strands of hair in the palm of her hand, the roots weeping with droplets of bright red blood. Voices reached her through the locked door. Scared voices.

“I’m telling you she’s sick, she’s changing.”

“She’s just depressed.”

Faces appeared in the window. “Christ, look. She just pulled her hair out. Not a peep, not a whimper. She’s changing.”

“She’s not old enough to change. It only happens to really old people.”

Another voice, “No, I heard about some people in their 60’s that changed last week over in Grindavik. It’s starting to happen to younger people.”

The faces continued to stare through the window. “Is there anyone we should call on the short wave or the sat phone? Her sister?”

“She was working in Oslo when the grid went down. There’s been no word from her.”

“What about her Canadian friend? The astrophysicist living in Arizona working on that big defense contract?” 

“Liz Hunter? I know Lilja tried repeatedly to call her since the flares, but no luck.”

“Liz,” Lilja thought, overhearing the name, slowly turning the clump of hair over in her hands. Liz what happened to you? What’s happening to me?

Lilja’s moments of clarity were coming less often now. She realized that. When they did come, she grabbed on tightly, squeezing every ounce of life out of them. She thought back to the phone call.

“Liz?” A steady buzz had echoed through Lilja’s landline, loud then soft, fluctuating like a sine wave. “Are you there?“

“Lilja?” Liz replied. “You’re a little broken up. There’s a lot of static. How are things in Reykjavik?”

“Liz … I think it’s happening. The sky is on fire and radiation levels are off the charts.”

“Now? But we’re still months from the predictive window.”

“The skies don’t seem to care about your predictive window.” 

“You’ve measured three consecutive spikes?” Liz asked desperately. “Three consecutive flares overlapping?”

“We have. To be honest, I didn’t think it was possible. I never thought your model could be correct.” There was a pause as the static ebbed and flowed. “Liz,” Lilja continued, “What should we do?”

“Go to your sister, Lilja. Be with her. There’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing anyone can do. Everything and everyone will change.”

The voices outside the door broke through her memories.

“Well, she doesn’t look dangerous, I’m going in to check on her.” The door handle to Lilja’s office, locked from the outside, rattled and then suddenly, a distant, screeching alarm went off.

“Shit, the generator’s shutting down again.”

“Do you smell that?”

“What?”

“Burnt electric coils. The generator’s not just shutting down, it’s fried. C’mon …”

Lilja felt herself disappearing once more, losing her grip on reality. She sucked in deep breaths, her nostrils flaring, but no smells could penetrate the shroud that descended upon her. She fought it, pinching her forearm, drawing blood. The voices were distant now, running to solve problems. The lights began to flicker. Lilja stood and walked to the door, dropping the clump of tangled hair on the floor. Why can’t I smell anything? Why can’t I feel anything? 

She reflexively reached for the doorknob and turned. It opened, and she walked through into the corridor. She could hear the voices again, but they were far away in some other part of the building. She needed to get out, to escape. Her friends meant well, but they didn’t understand what was happening to her. How could they?

She slowly walked down the stairs and into the main entrance hall. Her mind cleared for a moment and she looked up at the large engraved sign over the doors and read, “Centre for Astrophysics and Cosmology, Science Institute, University of Iceland”. This was her life’s work. She wiped away a tear, pushed the door open and stepped into the cold, dark, November night.

A northeast wind swirled a light dusting of snow around her running shoes. For a second, a chill passed through her lab coat, into her body and rattled around her skull setting off another excruciating headache. And then, the moment past, and she could no longer feel anything. Not cold, not warmth, not the headache. Nothing. Autopilot took over and her feet walked towards her white Toyota Rav4 at the far end of the university parking lot. She fumbled for the keys in her pocket, got into the vehicle, started it, and made her way onto Hringbraut/route 49. She drove mindlessly past numerous abandoned cars on the side of the road at her usual speed in no particular direction until eight minutes later she found herself at the path leading to the Grotta Island Lighthouse. She got out of her car and experienced another moment of clarity. She stared at the revolving beacon of the still-functioning lighthouse and remembered watching colonies of Arctic Terns landing gracefully on the rocks, her sister capturing their every move with a telephoto lens. 

She looked up at the sky and her gut tore itself in two. The awesome splendor of the aurora borealis, with its vivid swirls of fluorescent green entwined with bands of pinks and purples was offset by her knowledge that this same splendor was associated with deadly radiation particles that rained down over most of her planet. The same particles that were changing her, killing her.

It was low tide, and she followed a path around the lighthouse and over some boulders to the water’s edge. Here, there was an inch of snow overlying beach sand. She kicked off her shoes and squeezed the sand/snow between her toes. She had a fleeting childhood memory of making sand castles with her sister on this beach. She tried to latch on to this memory, but as quickly as it came it faded like a shooting star. She gazed out towards the darkness that was the North Atlantic Ocean and a rainbow of colors danced off the windswept ice. She felt inexplicably drawn to it. She moved forward, each barefoot step leaving a deep imprint in the sand/snow. She reached up with both hands, trying impossibly to touch the vibrant colors that etched the sky all around her. And then slowly, as if someone were smothering her with a blanket, the colors dulled to darkness, and then … nothingness. As her final moment of clarity left her, she stepped into the water, her naked feet breaking through the thin layer of ice. With each step a wider path collapsed and salt water lapped through, now at the level of her knees. Her face was empty, her normally inquisitive eyes flat and dull. Her shoulders sagged, arms loose at her side. Her hands swept through the icy waters as her lab smock billowed around her like a ball gown. Still, she felt nothing. With each step, she sank further, the icy waters slowly extinguishing her soul fire. Still, she thought nothing. Salt water pushed its way into her mouth and nose, and shards of ice edged into her eyes, her long grey hair floating aimlessly as she took her last step. Under a fiery November sky, Lilja became nothing.