Tevun Krus #123 - The Mandela Effect

Judgements's Day - A Story by @RJGlynn

Judgement's Day

By RJGlynn

Choices. Life was about choices. Even when that life—all life—would end in less than a week.

After hours cowering inside a stormwater culvert, Indy Conroy took the hand reaching out to her in the evening darkness, that of Wyatt Devlin. Before this moment, she'd not have dared get so close to the third son of the notorious Devlin clan, even though they were neighbours. High fenced and patrolled by mean-faced dogs, the Devlin compound had loomed over her modest, weatherboard home for longer than her seventeen years. People called the Devlins "lunatics", and many claimed Wyatt, at eighteen, "hadn't fallen far from the tree"—the six-foot-four one of "total assholery" that was Bobby Devlin. Along with his father's intimidating height, Wyatt had inherited Bobby's dark crew-cut and army-surplus fashion sense. Cargo pants encased his long legs, and a multi-pocketed, camo jacket hung from his wide shoulders.

As did a hunting rifle.

Somewhere in the distance, revving engines and breaking glass soundedâ€"then gunfire, concussive and jolting.

Indy flinched. Looters had invaded her semi-rural, home suburb, having already burned down their own parts of the city. Some looked disoriented and desperate, but too many seemed out to make the most of the end of the world—even hurrying it along. Her hand shook as Wyatt's fingers folded around hers to pull her upright. Was she making a mistake trusting him? They'd shared classes until he'd dropped out a year ago, but she didn't really know him. What she did know was his family lived by their own rules—the main one "screw the government".

The men who'd broken into her home that afternoon had been the same, saying the only law now was their law.

She'd barely escape their groping hands.

Her head went light at the memory. The suburban gloom reeled, threatening to send her back down to sodden leaves and fast-food litter.

"Hey, hey." Wyatt caught her, his arm hooking about her waist. "No fainting like a wimp, Conroy. Carrying you would screw my aim, and there's a bunch of arseholes down in Mrs McCarthy's glasshouse who need to make a choice: leave other people's property alone or leave Sweetwater Lane in a bag."

Indy willed strength back into her limbs, but didn't pull free. Wyatt's hold felt solid, an anchor in her spinning world. But safety was an illusion. "We're all going to die." She met Wyatt's narrowed, impatient stare. "It doesn't matter how many tomatoes or medicinal marijuana plants anyone takes."

"Shit." Wyatt rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you believe those NASA nutters? There's no space rock hurtling towards us, ready to vaporize our arses. Like Dad said this morning, those Yanks have their pointy eggheads too far up their arses. The globalists are paying the academic class to scare people—like during the 'plan-demic', when they conned people into getting the vaccine."

Indy stared, a lone, flickering streetlight carving Wyatt's sneer from the darkness—but also a faint scowl. For the first time in her short, never-to-get-any-longer life, she wondered how much he bought of his father's anti-vax, anti-government, conspiracy-mainlining madness. "I hope you really believe that—that there's no asteroid." She meant it. A day ago, people's insane ability to rewrite reality had frustrated her, like how they'd started to 'remember' the pandemic. Forget overflowing hospitals and morgues- the millions of dead: friends, relatives, nurses, and doctors. An ever-increasing number of people now believed it all a globalist-led psyop; that devious governments had used a "mild flu" to frighten people into accepting experimental, "untested" vaccine technology that secretly microchipped them to track them.