They led a half dozen of us into the sacristy and told us that the world had ended. It was the pastor, the deacon, and a couple of the Eucharistic ministers, and they were passing a very official looking letter back and forth between them as they spoke. It was clear they were trying to be as precise as possible, so as not to leave any doubt.

We didn’t have any doubts, not at that moment.. There had been signs. Just little things that had prepared us for this official revelation that the world had, indeed, come to an end. TV channels started disappearing, one by one, for example. So did the stars in the night sky, but it took us longer to notice because there were more of them and you couldn’t always see them every night anyway on account of the streetlights.

More than anything what stood out to me about the days leading up to the end of the world was how calm everyone was. It was like the late innings of a baseball game where the score is so lopsided that all the tension’s gone out of it and you just want them to wrap up so you can get going and beat the traffic. I thought the end of the world was going to be some kind of violent thing. But it wasn’t. Everyone just kind of realized it was over and agreed to stop. It was actually kinda nice. A little boring, maybe.

The letter was from the bishop, and was a summary of a much longer letter he’d received from the cardinal, which in turn was a distillation of an official declaration of the ecumenical council. Which is to say it was watered down a bit. It wasn’t even in Latin. The deacon told us that the other religions and denominations were similarly informing their congregations about the end of the world and what was expected of them, which had been revealed at some kind of interreligious summit, but that the less organized ones were having a real hard time of it, so we were ahead of the game so to speak. When we asked which denomination had been right—I mean, we had to ask, obviously—the pastor told us the letter said we should avoid asking, as it was impolite, and assume we were all in this together, working toward the same goal, even if the specific methods and interpretations differed a little. I took that to mean we’d been mistaken. I wonder now if that is where I started to go wrong.

+

So the deacon said that we’d been selected for a very important job. And he started to read the letter. It said, more or less, that we are told that at the end of the world, Christ will return to judge the living and the dead. And it went on to describe the resurrection of Christ in great detail: how he awoke in his tomb and was then confronted with an enormous boulder blocking the entrance. And being the newly resurrected Son of God, he naturally just rolled this big rock out of the way so he could get out and go about his business.

And it kept going, and frankly it started getting downright poetic. I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. The letter said that Christ has returned, and the judgement of the living and the dead was complete. But that although we are made in God’s image, we lack the strength to free ourselves from our own graves, the way He did. We were all on the edge of our seats, because it’s pretty compelling stuff, but we still weren’t connecting the dots. And so the pastor put it all together for us. 

You six have been selected, he said, to roll back the stones. Or in this case, to dig up the graves in the cemeteries around town and free our resurrected congregants from their caskets so they can be reunited with the living. Truly, the first thing I thought about was what this meant for my grandfather on my mother’s side, who had been cremated. His ashes were in a tackle box in our attic. But I kept it to myself, assuming there’d be time for questions at the end. (There wasn’t.)

+

Our town was little, but old, so our graveyards were narrow but deep. We didn’t have a proper public works department or much heavy industry around, so there wasn’t any big machinery to be had, nothing like a backhoe or bulldozer, and we were told the towns nearby that did have them were already putting them to use to the same end. So we were given shovels. They paired me off with this guy Andy who I knew a little, but not well, and sent us to Old Calvary out on the far edge of town to get to work. The rest they sent off to the other cemeteries, New Calvary and Cedar Hill. They didn’t tell us explicitly that we had to sleep out in the cemeteries, but they gave us sleeping bags and some basic supplies, so we got the message.

Andy was a churchy guy. I mean, we all were to some extent, but Andy particularly so, in a way that made even other churchy people a little uncomfortable. Myself included. We got off on the wrong foot, arguing about where to start. He thought it’d be good to dig up the recently deceased, as their families back in town would probably be happy to see them up and around again. It wasn’t a terrible suggestion, I admit, but I felt pretty strongly that we should start with the oldest graves. First in, first out, I said. It seemed wrong to make some guy who’s been buried for a hundred or so years wait around while we freed somebody who hasn’t been down there more than a month. Oh, they’re probably in some kind of state of grace, Andy said. We compromised and decided to go about it geographically, from the back of the cemetery to the front.

Well, it didn’t matter, because by the end of the first week we’d dug up over fifty-eight graves and hadn’t turned up a single live one. Nothing but corpses, rotted and withered. I asked Andy if he thought we should go back and talk to the pastor, but he wasn’t having it. He didn’t want to go back empty handed. He was getting anxious that we’d wasted a week on people who apparently hadn’t been deemed worthy of salvation. I took this to mean that he thought all the people who’d once occupied these graves were in Hell, which I suppose made sense given what we had been told. It was hard to believe though. But then again, so was everything else that was happening. If you thought about it, that is.

I had trouble sleeping that night, trying to figure out what this all meant. If all the corpses we’d found had already been judged, what did that mean for the living? What had become of the unworthy among us? I had so many questions, but knew that Andy wouldn’t entertain any of them. At this rate, I figured it would take us a few more weeks to finish Old Calvary. I hoped that when we got back to town, the pastor would have more answers for us. Or at least some reassuring words. I stared up at the night sky, waiting for the sun, which, thankfully, had not departed with the rest of the celestial sphere. 

But in the early morning, just before dawn, I thought I saw the twinkling of a star low on the horizon, just above the hill on the far side of the cemetery. I sat up, startled, and watched as it grew in intensity. I soon realized it wasn’t a star at all, but a lantern. Someone was coming down the hill toward us. I thought maybe we were being relieved of duty. I shook Andy awake. 

It was an older man carrying a shovel, a digger like us. He told us he had been helping out in the next town over, but was headed back home, just passing through. Andy invited him to join us and offered him some of our meagre provisions. It was nice to have someone else around, to break the tension. I hoped he’d have some good news. But I was too afraid to ask directly and the stranger avoided the subject, instead focusing on little frustrations and annoyances we’d also experienced: getting splinters from the shovel handles, struggling with overly complicated casket-lid clasps, tacky headstone decorations, and the like. He told us he and the crew he’d been working with in the other town had cleared over three hundred graves.

Wow, Andy said. It must’ve been amazing to save so many people. 

The stranger’s face darkened. Well, he said. That’s the thing. Out of those three hundred, we didn’t find a single living soul. And everyone I’ve met in the towns along the way from there to here has said the same thing. I was hoping you might have some good news for me.

I told him we’d also had no luck.

The stranger nodded. Seems like it’s the same everywhere, he said. I’m beginning to wonder.

There’s nothing to wonder about, Andy said. The way the world was, it’s no surprise that there are so many lost souls.

I suppose, the stranger said. Maybe it’s a regional thing. Maybe we’ll find some fine, upright Puritans back east eventually. I laughed, but Andy didn’t seem to think it was so funny.

I wanted to know more, though. Hadn’t he heard anything that might clear things up?

And so he told us this story, but he was careful to tell us that it wasn’t his story. He’d heard it from someone a town or two back, and he trusted that it was the truth but couldn’t say it wasn’t just a rumor. He thought he heard it from the guy who’d lived it, but sometimes people pass stories off as their own for some dumb reason. So make of that what you will, he said, but here goes.

He said this guy had been on a crew in a cemetery downstate and that they’d come upon something odd when digging. About three feet down, they found a hand. The knuckles were all torn up and bloodied. They kept digging and uncovered the rest of the body. The ancient, wooden coffin he’d been in was split open; it looked like the man had punched through it in a panic and tried to claw his way out of the grave but couldn’t quite make it. He suffocated in the dirt. 

That’s bullshit, Andy said, which was the strongest language I’d ever heard him use. He hadn’t even sworn when I clipped his toe with the blade of the shovel a few days earlier. He’d said something like “Gosh,” or something equally goofy. The stranger put his hands up and repeated his disclaimer. Anyway, he said, there’s nothing saying he was one of the saved. He could’ve been a poor guy who got buried alive before any of this ever happened and never would’ve been found if not for all this. 

Or it’s just a made up story, said Andy. That could be, granted the stranger. At this point the sun was just peeking up over the hill and the old man excused himself, saying he didn’t want to get in the way of our work. Andy picked up his shovel and headed to the next grave.

We didn’t speak much that morning. We just kept digging, another dozen or so graves full of nothing but old bones. The silence gave me time to think—never a good thing. Every time I sank the tip of my shovel blade into the earth, I imagined finding someone caught in the dirt like the stranger had described. Andy worked right through lunch, occasionally throwing me dirty looks as I lazed atop a pink marble headstone. It didn’t bother me, though. I was too wrapped up in my thoughts, wondering if so many people could really be damned. If perhaps we wouldn’t find anyone at all in our cemetery. Or any cemetery, for that matter.

By late afternoon, I couldn’t hold it in anymore

You know, they never showed us that letter, I said. Andy stopped digging and leaned on the long, wooden handle of his shovel. They never showed it to us, I stammered. They never let us read it.

He told me to get to the point. 

I don’t know, I said. I’m not blaming them, but I wonder—what if they got it wrong? If they misunderstood. I told him I thought we should go back to town and maybe get a look at that letter ourselves, just to be sure. 

Andy, God bless him, was doing his best to contain his irritation. But he let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t see any point in wondering. We’ve been given an important task, he said. A great privilege. What difference does it make that we haven’t found anyone? That’s not our fault, he said. Not everyone is going to be saved. You have to accept it. This work, he said, is not for the faint of heart.

He was right about that. But I had to ask: Then why did they pick me? 

I could see that he’d been wondering the same thing. 

The Lord works in mysterious ways, he said.

 Can I tell you what I think the reason is? I asked. 

Andy quickly said no, but I went on, regardless: I told him I’d been thinking it over and that I’d come to the conclusion that this wasn’t a privilege. That it was a punishment. That they had lied about what was in that letter. That they had been instructed to send us here and get us out of the way while everyone else went off to… wherever. 

That’s why they didn’t show it to us, I said. That’s why we haven’t found anybody. And if we went back to town, we’d see—everyone would be gone. These bodies we’ve been digging up—they’re not the damned. We are. It’s us, I said, and this place is Hell.

Andy shook his head. 

Forget about it, he said. Just keep digging. And then, a few moments later, he added, quietly: I know I’m saved. 

You can’t know that, I said. 

Well, you can’t know I’m not, he shot back. 

True enough. I let it drop.

We finished the next grave together, and when Andy bent down to open the casket, he handed me his shovel. Inside was another corpse. But as I looked upon its sunken, desiccated face, something strange happened. I thought I heard the ravaged skull speak to me. Memento mori, it seemed to say. I know I must have imagined it—Andy didn’t seem to hear it. Still. It seemed to be the answer I had been looking for. Suddenly, I felt I knew exactly what I needed to do.

I tossed both shovels out of the hole and clambered out. Andy extended his hand, so I could pull him up. 

But I didn’t. 

Come on, he said, we haven’t got all day. We’re losing daylight.

I picked up my shovel.

I told him that I’d figured it out. A way we could know for sure whether or not we’d been damned.

I raised the shovel over my head. 

A look of horror briefly flashed on Andy’s face. But he quickly composed himself and settled on a more familiar expression, one of deep annoyance. 

That’d be it for you, was all he said. 

At least then I’d be sure, I told him. How long would it take, do you think? 

He thought for a moment, which I appreciated.

Three days seems about standard, he said. 

I nodded. I told him I was sorry. 

You will be, he said.

He stood up in the grave, ramrod straight. The shovel suddenly felt unbearably heavy. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. But Andy was impatient—just do it, he said. Not too poetic, as last words go. But then again, I suppose he didn’t believe they were really going to be his last. 

I brought the blade of the shovel down on his head with all my might. It let out a hollow, almost cartoonish clang. He collapsed into the grave like a rag doll. I watched for a few moments to make sure he had really expired before I started shoveling the dirt over him. I took care to separate out the larger rocks so I didn’t shovel them back in—I wanted to make it easier on myself when I had to shovel it all back out in three days to check on him. To see if he’d come back. If he’d been saved. 

If he was right, I figured that what I’d done wasn’t so bad. It could be forgiven. Forgotten. And if I was right, well, then it didn’t really matter at all.

When I was finished, I returned to our little encampment. I washed Andy’s blood off the shovel and watched the sun set. I wondered how I should pass the time. Three days may as well be an eternity.

And now I’m just sitting here, all alone, obsessively checking my watch, waiting for the sun to come back up. It should’ve come by now. At least, I think it should have. Maybe my watch is slow. That’s probably it. But still. Looking up at the blankness of the empty night sky, I can’t help but worry that maybe I won’t see the sun rise again. That maybe, after all this, the last star has finally gone out. 

+++

Michael Patrick Brady is a writer from Boston, Massachusetts. His short fiction about aspiring ghosts, trivial psychics, and petty saboteurs has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, CHEAP POP, BULL, Maudlin House, Flash Fiction Online, Flash Fiction Magazine, Ink In Thirds, and Uncharted. His criticism has appeared in The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, and The Wall Street Journal, among others. He is currently seeking a home for his novel. Find him at www.michaelpatrickbrady.com.