End of the World Influencer [PT2]: A Dark Fiction Series
Chat, is Adam Cooked?
Read Part 1 Here
“This is a test of the national emergency alert system. Please remain indoors and await further instructions.”
“…What?” I mutter under my breath, hand darting to my pocket for my phone.
The government hasn’t tested the national emergency alert system since they dissolved the disaster preparedness department and replaced it with a prayer hotline.
When you call the number, it directs you to donate to “God’s children,” which is just a fancy way to use a fake religion to get a tax break.
You’d think, with all the other blatantly illegal things Douglas has done, he wouldn’t be worried about evading taxes—but taxing the rich properly happens to be his son’s campaign platform.
Promise to tax the rich while bleeding the poor. How retro.
My head jerks toward the window. The blackout curtains do too good of a job, but I peel one back with the edge of my hand.
The sky’s not just red. It’s wrong.
Like an Instagram filter designed by someone who’s never actually seen a sunrise—too saturated, too still. There are no clouds. No planes. Just color.
That kind of color doesn’t happen unless something’s on fire. Or bleeding. Or glitching.
I let the curtain fall back into place.
I’ve seen worse.
“You feel it, don’t you?”
The voice slithers up my neck and snakes into my ear from nowhere…and everywhere, all at once.
The hair on my arms stands at attention, goosebumps prickling despite the heat of July. A hallucination, of course. I chuckle, more for comfort than amusement. “Get a grip, Adam. You haven’t slept since Douglas’s third term.”
But then the voice crawls back, like a parasite embedded in my consciousness.
“The world is ending. You can feel it. I know you can.”
I don’t panic—exactly. It’s more of a jolt, like waking up realizing you overslept. My mouth goes dry, and my heart trips over itself. But I’m still here, alone in my room, the whir of my computer fans the only backdrop.
My eyes dart to the screen where comments flood in, viewers doubling—tripling even. I blink quickly, though it feels like each blink lasts exactly fifty-seven seconds.
A sharp, self-conscious laugh escapes me as I catch my reflection—mouth dry, sweating. I try to fill the silence with humor. “This is what happens when your caffeine intake doubles your REM sleep. Anyway, thanks for hanging out, guys. I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow. Adam, out.”
Truth is, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept. Nodding off at my desk for half an hour doesn’t count—or at least, that’s what Alex tells me.
I rummage through the top drawer until my hand closes around my weed pen. This is usually how I talk myself down from those late-night existential spirals: a slow drag, a beat of numb calm, and then nothing can kill my mood.
I hold it in, let the tension peel away. Wait for that gentle hum in my skull that tells me everything’s fine. Everything’s normal. It tastes faintly of burned caramel—something I picked up at that sketchy vape shop with the “Crypto Only” sign.
It was a hallucination. A trick of the mind. Or maybe a neighbor’s TV is too loud.
I open YouTube, half expecting to see a recommended video about “Do you hear voices?” but no—the one time I could use an assist, the algorithm’s serving me the content I typically search hours for.
Another puff. I scroll mindlessly, ignoring a creeping sense that something’s…off. Out of place, like…I’m out of place.
At some point, I realize my foot is tapping a frantic beat against the chair leg. I force it still.
“Get a grip, Adam,” I exhale. “Everything is fine.”
I almost believe it.
Just as I’m about to close my browser, the chat from my last stream flickers open—there’s that same username. The cryptic one. Predictably, the messages vanish the second I click, like they were never there.
Maybe I should sleep tonight.
But in the back of my mind, I feel an itch—like a hand pressing gently at the base of my skull, whispering:
“You have to wake up, Adam.”
I…I should be alarmed. Instead, it’s almost comforting.
Most guys probably wouldn’t tell their girlfriends they hallucinated another woman's voice to comfort them through an average panic attack, but Alex vibes with this crystal-witch stuff. She’ll probably trace it back to some childhood trauma or a moon phase or something.
Truth be told, sometimes I like to pretend I don’t believe her, just so she’ll explain more of the world I don’t understand—her world. It’s the only one that matters to me.
Then: a second of silence. No hum from my PC. No alarm. No ping from socials.
That’s the last thing I notice before the world goes dark.
I’ve never experienced darkness so deep it felt endless. Like the room itself has eyes and shadows are holding their breath.
But that isn’t the part that tightens my throat.
It’s the stillness—the kind that turns my room into a void, where all that exists is me, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my chest, the pressure of nothingness closing in…
…and whatever just began knocking from inside my closet.
“Hello?” My voice comes out quieter than I hoped—less adult man facing potential home invasion, more kid searching for their mom in the Walmart liquor aisle.
Not because I’m afraid something might actually answer. Truth is, I like a good fight—especially if the other guy doesn't see it coming. And if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
…Unless they have night vision goggles. Then I guess we might be even.
See, my capacity for violence is less rocket launcher, more sawed-off shotgun. Easy to underestimate until it’s pointed at your face. Sure, I’m short, scrawny, and still get carded for cigarettes at the geriatric age of 27—but people usually only make that mistake once.
I’m halfway across the room, gliding quietly in the darkness with the grace of someone who has memorized every corner of this apartment forward, backward, and after one of Alex’s furniture-shifting cleansing rituals, when a voice breaks the silence.
“PLEASE DON’T WATERBOARD ME, IT’S ME! IT’S ALEX, NOT THE HOME INTRUDER OF YOUR DREAMS. I WAS JUST TRYING TO PRANK YOU ON LIVE THEN THE POWER WENT OUT, AND I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN SECRETLY CALLING THE PRAYER LINE, PRAYING FOR SOMEONE TO TRY—”
There’s a beat of stunned silence before I fall to my knees—partly from relief, partly because I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe. Thank gods she’s okay.
Her laugh joins mine a second later as she crawls out of the closet, navigating the dark with the confidence of someone just as familiar with this apartment as I am.
“You’re such a baby.” I tease, my hand finding her arm and pulling her to me.
“I’m a baby? You were practically fetal. Crying like a kid who lost his mom in Walmart.”
Her voice is sharp, smug, perfect. She hits me with a flawless impression: “H-h-hello?
Like watching a master at work.
Alex’s fingers find mine in the dark. We don’t speak for a second—just the sound of our breathing, the world holding its breath.
Then she whispers, “Did you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
But she’s already moving toward the window. I don’t follow right away. Something about the silence feels off again. I can almost taste… is that metal? Dust?
Behind me, Alex draws the curtain open, and her voice just barely penetrates the void where our room once was.
“…Adam?”
How do you think the world ends? Let me know in the comments.
Keep your eyes open for Part 3.
Until then, be sure to check Subscriber Chat for updates, and your closets for poorly-prepared intruders (night vision sold separately).
57 is a good number.
I’m totally late for work and yet I needed to read NN words today. Playtime and wordsmithing is fun but reading the actual fiction … holy fuck. The electric toothbrush is stuck on hum in my mouth as goo drips in the sink and I try to scream (in the Void… Jeffrey … get me a Handiwipe .. Aisle 13 in the aforementioned Walmart).