When I arrived at work this morning there was a note taped to my control panel which read:

The end is nearer now than ever. With every death it comes a little closer. The end is nearer now than ever.

Keeping the faith forever and ever,
— The Apocalypse Planning Committee.

At the end of every decade, the douchebags at the A.P.C. always spam my workplace with the same nonsense.

The first time I received this type of notice, I thought they were serious. I thought it was all going to be over shortly. That I could move onto the things I really cared about, like reuniting with my childhood sweetheart, Gena. At the time, I had a genuine smile on my face and even danced a little.

I think they do it to boost morale — to keep us hopeful.

Yet, over the many centuries since I started working here, these notices have done nothing but build a sense of despair. Every time I see a notice like this, my mind leaps ahead to a time and place where I’m sipping freshly squeezed orange juice with my sweet and charming Gena. A time when I can look over to her, and touch her. A time when my touch is met with a fond smile and a gentle caress. A time when I’ll give her a sip of my OJ and we’ll smile and laugh together. To put it simply, I would prefer to argue with her, than be at peace with anyone else. I’ve just tried to avoid thinking about her on the job, because I become a workplace hazard, or so I’m told.

What kind of a God keeps people apart like this?

I tore the note from the control panel, and tossed onto the floor.

I told myself that this time, things were going to be different. A guy can only have a carrot dangled in front of him so long before he decides that carrot probably doesn’t exist. Before coming to believe that there will be no Apocalypse. Before fearing he’s going to be stuck here forever, due to that dubious final clause in his contract:

Section 376.C-45: The signing employee understands that s/he is to be bound to his/her station until such a time that the whole of physical reality known as “the universe” ceases to be physical, and all things within it are safely transferred to our non-physical reality.

When I signed on, I hadn’t read that part. I was too eager to do the Lord’s work, and learn what Heaven was all about.

Boy, was I disappointed. I didn’t even get to meet God, which I’d always thought was part of the deal. In fact, I don’t know anyone who has met him. I’m just told he’s the guy who makes it all happen, and that in this world, we’re closer to him.

I’ve started to think it’s a bunch of crap.

Flipping the greasy black lever, the conveyor belt gears groaned. Then it hit me: why hadn’t I tried to just leave? What could possibly stop me? I doubted those angel guards would so much as lay a hand on me — from what I’d been told, such an act was against their religion.

A chair occupied by a young man with short black hair, a crooked nose, and gangly legs, jerked into place. The first inspection of the day. He looked a lot like I did when I was young.

As he sat frozen in his chair, I pondered whether to turn on the light above his head and push through the day, or flee. Grabbing the clipboard from the side of his chair, I scanned what information was known about him. Things like how he was killed by a drunk driver while biking to his mother’s birthday party, and so forth. Basic stuff. As I read on though, I learned he was a relative of mine. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandchild. However despite all the greats, his life story seemed fairly standard. But aren’t they all?

A low stern tone begged for my attention. Someone was wondering what the holdup was. I turned on the intercom.

“Sam, what’s the holdup?”

“Ummm. Nothing.”

Turning on the light, my “great” relative sprang to life. The one great thing I could glean from him was that some piece of me had continued to endure and replicate. A promising thought. The intercom cut out.

Confused, the young man looked at me as if recognizing part of himself.

“Where am I?”

“You’re dead.”

The young man, some small percentage my own blood, began to weep.

“Listen kiddo. Whatever they tell you, don’t sign anything. Got it?”

“Wha— What?”

The low, stern tone returned. They must have thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Maybe I was. All I knew was that my time to flee had arrived.

“I can’t explain. Just don’t sign anything. It will ruin you.”

Before he could respond, I tossed the clipboard at the light above his head, smashing it. Instantly, the “great” cocktail of DNA — mine and that of others — froze in his seat as everything went dark.

I ran.

Hearing only my steps, and the sprinkling of glass against the floor, I ran to make the carrot real. To put an end to my contract.

What’s the worst they could do to me? I already had the most depressing job in purgatory.