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Amid the desolation of a post-pandemic world, a lonely survivor clings to the hope of connection through a fragile online bond with another human. But as his own grip on life and sanity falters, he discovers that the line between the living and the dead may not be as clear as it seems
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Amid the desolation of a post-pandemic world, a lonely survivor clings to the hope of connection through a fragile online bond with another human. But as his own grip on life and sanity falters, he discovers that the line between the living and the dead may not be as clear as it seems
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Listen to Episode 2- Love & Lost in the End by Beyond the Event Horizon Presents by Dennis Gomez MP3 song. Episode 2- Love & Lost in the End song from Beyond the Event Horizon Presents by Dennis Gomez is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 21:04. This high-quality MP3 track has 97.053 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 8 Dec 2024. Stream and download Episode 2- Love & Lost in the End by Beyond the Event Horizon Presents by Dennis Gomez for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
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A person reflects on their life after the world has fallen apart due to a virus. They find solace in the absence of hate and negativity but long for human connection. They connect with a celebrity on Instagram and they begin communicating. They build a connection and plan to video chat, but the celebrity never logs on, leaving the person feeling disappointed and alone. Welcome, lost traveler, to another tale from beyond the event horizon presents podcast. You can die anywhere, if you chose to do it here, with us. We here, on the other side, appreciate your sacrifice. As you know, there is no escape, once you are beyond the event horizon. Oh the freedom. I glide down the middle of the street, the gentle warmth of spring peaking through the fleeting cold of winter. The golden California sun invigorates my chilled bones and exhausted soul. I close my eyes, only for a moment, to feel the wind rushing against my face without the distraction of sight, just like I did when I was a kid. It's ironic. In those summers long past, I knew unencumbered freedom, and now, with nothing left to care about, I've regained that same sense of liberation. My thoughts drift away from those pleasant times, taking on a darker tone. I imagine all the dead families in their beautiful houses, animating and shambling through their front doors. They stand on their well-manicured lawns, cheering me on. They're so happy to know that at least one of us survived. One, just one. In mindless conversations with loved ones, it always seemed quaint to imagine a long life where I'd outlive my family and friends, but in reality it's just sad. The dead peer at me, half jealous. Their slack jaws hang uselessly, no muscles left to tighten them. Their grotesque death masks reveal dark, lifeless maws, where mouths used to be. The silence of their gaze is deafening. I miss speaking to people, about anything. The weather, sports, even mindless gossip. Yet there's one bright side to their enforced silence. Gone with the vibrations of vocal cords are the hateful slurs, political vitriol, and sheer nastiness that once filled the air. In 2020, it seemed like hate was everyone's default setting. Empathy and fraternity, whether real or imagined, vanished from popular culture. Everyone from politicians to celebrities to the lady next door was ready to take offense and retaliate. I'd read somewhere as a kid that in the graveyard we are all brothers and sisters, but not me. Never the last one. A month ago, I wouldn't have dared venture outside. Back then, people were still around, still capable of hosting the nasty virus. They all ended up as unwilling hosts for the last guest they'd ever have. Now, I barely notice the car until I swerve toward it, crashing headfirst into its front left door. It's a beautiful white Range Rover. At least when I choose to seriously injure myself, I do it in style. I hit the concrete hard, the road rash blooming across my skin like a fresh spring flower. Humiliated, I glance around, but the dead are my only witnesses. They stand in their silence, unmoving, their blank stares betraying no reaction. After a few moments, they turn in unison, heading back to their houses. Without a sound, without a gesture, they resume their eternal home quarantine, waiting for Dr. Fauci to lead them out like the pied piper. When I finally reach my house, I'm a little wiser, a little more bruised, and a little bloody. The air conditioning hits my face as I walk through the front door, a welcome relief after a long bike ride. Honey, I'm home, I call out. Nothing greets me but stale, cool air and darkness. My voice sounds foreign, like an ancient recording from a deep space alien probe. Hollow, distant, yet familiar. I rarely use it these days. Who would I use it with? For some reason, the power is still on. I don't question it, though I know the automation running it will fail eventually. I've started to accept the idea of no power. Next time I'm out slamming into expensive car doors, I'll find a house with solar panels. Right now, all I want is a warm shower and some sleep. There's nothing quite like a warm shower, whether you're ill or the world has ended. Trust me. But take my advice, don't end up in my exact situation. I gave up turning on the TV weeks ago, nothing but a museum of old shows waiting to be binge-watched. The thought that there will never be another new show is more tragic to me than having no one to talk to, at least for today. I wander through the house, hoping for something, anything, to capture my attention or distract me. No luck. Finally, I settle in my computer room and log into Instagram, hoping against hope that a celebrity, an influencer, or a friend have survived and is waiting to update their feed. As always, there's nothing. All the stories have ended. What I'd give for one tasteless meme. Without thinking, I lower my head onto the desk and consciousness slowly slips away. I drift into uneasy, deep sleep. It's the same dream over and over, but I can never remember it. Only the terror lingers, coursing through my body, activating my once useful but now pointless fight-or-flight response each morning, awake or asleep. Peace eludes me. Oods. When the riots first erupted, they seemed a natural reaction to the months of quarantine. People had been gifted endless time at home, only to use it brooding over humanity's perennial issues, like racism. Isolation made them yearn for the company of other, living, breathing souls. And so, mass demonstrations formed, a silver lining to the crushing depression of society's collapse. Yet, this silver lining was also seeded with destruction, thanks to some microscopic, nameless organism that upended everything. The protests quickly spiraled. The police, the government, America itself. All became villains in the eyes of the desperate and disillusioned. Cancel culture rose like a storm, ripping apart what little cohesion remained. Celebrities, politicians, and even soccer moms eagerly fanned the flames of outrage. The government, paralyzed by its efforts to pacify the masses, forgot its primary responsibility. To find a cure and save the world. Like a grotesque parody of a Hollywood script, humanity wrote itself into extinction. The riots became super-spreading events. Shortly after, everyone was dead. A ping broke through my restless dream. It was mechanical, sharp, and distinct. The sound of a phone or computer alerting me to a message. I hadn't heard that sound in months, or had it been longer? Time was a blur in this purgatory. Las Vegas had always been timeless, with no clocks to ground you, and now the world mirrored that endless drift. The ping echoed again, and my subconscious surrendered its latest nightmare. I snapped awake, my head darting upward like a whack-a-mole. No hammer descended to greet me, but the chill of the air-conditioning gnawed at my skin. For a moment, I felt like a relic unearthed in some tomb. Yet the ping wasn't a herald of death. It was something else entirely. Jennifer Costa. Her name blinked on my screen like a beacon. The Jennifer Costa, star of waking from deep space sleep, destroy Mother Earth graphically, and Arrow Lady revolution. She had posted a single line to her IG story, World Am I Truly Alone? Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them. It was uncontrollable. For the first time in forever, I felt something. I wiped my face and fumbled to type a reply, hands trembling with desperation. I'm here, please don't log off. Her reply came faster than I expected. Are you sick? Are you okay? No, I'm fine, I typed quickly. Have you heard from anyone else? Unfortunately, no. Her words hit me like a punch. I'd always suspected I was the last person alive, but to see someone else confirm it made the thought unbearably real. I swallowed hard and typed, I'm not sick, I never caught it. Me either. We talked for hours after that, exchanging pieces of our lives like fragile treasures. She had spent her days reading books on Buddhism and Enlightenment philosophy. I told her about my bike rides, describing how they felt like fleeting escapes from the weight of the world's absence. She meditated at dawn and dusk. I napped twice, sometimes three times a day, and survived on stale chips. Despite our differences, we found an odd comfort in each other. I told her about the freedom of riding my bike, and how, for a little while, it made me forget there was no one left. She said she might try it someday, once she found the courage to leave her house. In my heart of hearts, I imagined us riding together, like a scene from a romantic comedy. I was tired of living in a horror movie. Did you lose anyone special? She asked suddenly. Her words made my stomach churn. The truth, I'd lost my wife. But admitting it felt like a surefire way to scare her off, and I couldn't bear to lose this connection, the only one I had left. So I lied. No, I typed, I lived with my parents after I lost my job. A weak, clumsy lie. What about you? I asked quickly, deflecting. No, she replied. I worked too much to develop anything meaningful. Her answer filled me with hope. I really have a chance, I thought. Ironic that the last two people on Earth finally have too much time. I quipped. She replied with an LOL, and I breathed a little easier. Then she asked, want to video chat? My heart dropped. I hadn't shaved, showered, or cared about my appearance in weeks. Sure, I typed, but I need to scavenge some food first. How about in an hour? Her reply made my heart soar. That's a date. As I rushed to get ready, I caught sight of my neighbor's decaying figure across the yard. His rotting flesh gleamed in the late afternoon light. It was a grotesque reminder of how the world had fallen apart. Yet somehow, I felt seen. If he could talk, I imagined him scolding me. Don't screw this up. She could be the last woman on Earth. I forced myself to look away, focusing on the task at hand. Clean shirt, shaved face, and a makeshift backdrop for the video chat. Everything had to be perfect, but when the time came, she didn't log on. I waited, staring at the screen, anxiety swirling in my chest like a storm. The minutes ticked by, then an hour, then two. No notification, no message, nothing. The silence was louder than anything I'd experienced since the world went quiet. What had I done wrong? Did she figure out my lie? Was it something else? My mind spiraled, dissecting every word, every pause in our conversation. The hope that had briefly lit my soul now suffocated me in its absence. The days that followed were an agonizing blend of numbness and self-recrimination. I tried to push it all away, burying myself in bike rides and books. I barely had the focus to read. I even dabbled in meditation, though I spent most of the time wondering if she was still alive or if this connection, brief as it was, had only been a cruel hallucination. The computer room became a ghostly reminder of what could have been. I avoided it, afraid to face the blank screen that mocked my loneliness. But as the days stretched into a week, curiosity got the better of me. Was she still out there? Did she leave me a message, after all? I moved the mouse tentatively, the screen flickering to life. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the message thread. There it was. New messages. She had reached out. But I hesitated. What if it wasn't what I wanted to hear? What if she knew about the lie, or worse? What if she was angry? My trembling fingers hovered over the notification. Coward, I muttered to myself, finally clicking it. Her message was short, almost cryptic. Sorry about the other night. Something came up. Can we try again tomorrow? Relief and apprehension fought for dominance in my chest. Something came up. What could possibly come up when the world is dead? Was she lying? Was I being paranoid? None of it mattered. Yes, I typed back, my fingers shaking. Tomorrow works. What time? Her reply was instant. Same time. And—I'm really looking forward to it. The knot in my stomach loosened just enough for a faint smile. Tomorrow. Another chance. Another possibility. I logged off and stood in the empty room, the air colder than ever. For the first time in ages, I felt a flicker of hope. Faint, but real. Maybe there was still something worth salvaging in this broken world. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough. I first noticed the scratching sound when I looked into the computer room for the fifth time that day. It was faint, like claws dragging over upholstery. I didn't own a cat. The sound stopped when I turned my head. I walked to the junk room, heart pounding, and flipped on the light. Nothing. Just the clutter of a life abandoned. Probably a rat, I muttered. Mental note. Evict the rodent. The world may have ended, but there was no room for roommates, even of the vermin variety. The next morning I woke to a scraping on the roof. Rats again, or so I thought until I looked out the window. My dead neighbor stood in the yard, staring up at me. It was rare for them to leave their own homes, even rarer for them to move with purpose. Yet there he was, motionless, gaze fixed on my window. Go back, I shouted, more desperate than angry. Shoo. The corpse didn't react. But then I noticed more of them, two others slamming their decayed fists into my walls, their hollow eyes locked on mine. The neighbors had never been violent before. My stomach churned. Their frenzy wasn't mindless. It felt like... a warning. I closed the curtains and slumped to the floor, trembling. Get it together, I whispered to myself. But the walls seemed to throb with their pounding, and my own thoughts pulsed with a dull, relentless rhythm. Find her. Talk to her. Jennifer cost her. I opened IG again, my fingers shaking. If I couldn't reach her, if I truly was alone, I'd lose what little grip I had left. We're the last, I murmured to myself. Adam and Eve of a broken world. If we couldn't connect, then humanity was truly over. I needed her. And perhaps she needed me too. By the time I noticed the fever, it was too late. At first I thought it was allergies, the dry cough, the chills. But the symptoms worsened. My body felt heavy, my limbs reluctant to move. Even the dead seemed to notice my decline. Their pounding grew softer, their scares less intense. I forced myself outside for a bike ride, hoping the motion would clear my mind. But my legs burned, and my breath came in ragged gasps. I passed the neighbors standing like statues in their yards. Two of them wept red tears, their sorrow mirroring my own. Why are they crying? When I returned home, I collapsed into my chair, shivering. I stared at the computer screen, struggling to focus. An IG message blinked in the corner. Jennifer had written back. I'm so sorry, the message read. I was scared. I couldn't bear to lose someone else. But we should meet. In person. Her words blurred. My vision swam. I rubbed at my eyes, smearing streaks of red across my face and desk. I tried to respond, but my body rebelled. My head fell forward, my mind sinking into a cold, weightless fog. When I opened my eyes, I was outside, halfway across the yard. My neighbors stood around me, silent and unmoving. I tried to call out, but no sound came. My hand reached instinctively to my mouth and froze. My fingers brushed something damp and jagged. I turned toward a broken window, catching my reflection. An empty, black maw stared back at me, blood-red tears streaking down a decayed face. A figure approached on a bike, radiant against the late summer sun. Jennifer. She rode with her arms outstretched, face lifted to the warmth, eyes closed in blissful ignorance of the horrors lining the street. My heart, or what was left of it, ached to reach her. I tried to move, to shout, to warn her. But I was rooted to the spot, no more than another silent sentinel. She passed, her joy untouched by the tragedy around her. The neighbors returned to their silent vigil, fading into the stillness. Inside, at my desk, my head slumped forward, the light from the screen dimming. Somewhere in the fog of my mind, a thought surfaced, fleeting and distant. I was waiting for something. A message. Something important. And then there was nothing. Thank you, lost traveler, for joining us on another unintended journey beyond the event horizon. We hope you join us next time for a new macabre tale. Until then, stay alive and breathe if you can.
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