Etiquette for the End of the World

chapter Two





Tess examined herself in the antique mirror, grateful for the soft lighting in her apartment. The day before, she had inadvertently caught a horrifying glimpse of her figure in the brightly sunlit, full-length mirror affixed to the outside wall of the dry cleaners on her block. She had looked like a swollen version of herself. (Was it possible that she was beginning to acquire a second chin?) Maybe it was just her state of mind these days—or maybe it was the mirror. She knew some clothing stores had mirrors that made you look skinnier, so why couldn’t there be mirrors that made you look fatter? Thankfully, this morning she looked more like herself. She had succeeded in styling her wavy brown hair more or less the way her haircutter did, with just the right sweep in the front. Her fail-safe Dolce & Gabbana teal summer pantsuit—purchased a couple years back when she still had money for nice clothes—flattered her curves, even if she was a few pounds heavier. When she added the 1930s Bakelite necklace, her favorite accessory, it was like signing her name to the outfit. And today she needed every confidence booster in her arsenal.

She could not believe she was taking this meeting with these crazies. She supposed she could always try to get an article out of it later; she could call it “Cracking Up in the Crackpots’ Crib” or “Desperate Times, Desperate Manuscripts.” But what magazine would she pitch it to? Psychology Today? The Journal for Emotional Disorders? O No Magazine? Tess sat down in the kitchen with her coffee, pulled the letter out of her bag, and read it once again:



Dear Ms. Schulberg,

We need help on the writing of a most important book. It is, quite simply, a guide to preparing for the end of the world. Though many people remain in denial, there exists convincing evidence that the Earth as we know it will be destroyed in the not-so-distant future.

We are coming to you because you are highly respected in publishing circles, as a publisher and editor, and also because you were the co-writer of the social guidebook Hold Your Head High with Your Foot in Your Mouth, published by Random House in 1993. Obviously that book dealt with a much lighter topic, but we feel that in the days to come we are going to need a similar interpersonal guide for people, a handbook that will lay down a new foundation for the future behavior of man- and womankind.



Okay, that’s good: “womankind” showed they were probably not fundamentalists, at any rate. But the whole idea that they wanted a post-apocalyptic self-help book was pretty far out there. And why would they care about Harriet’s odd little book, published seventeen years ago?



Would you be willing to meet with our group? We are sure you will find it worth your while.



The letter was signed “W.O.O.S.H., New York chapter,” with a phone number. (Woosh? Was that supposed to be the sound of the world ending?)

When Tess had called the number and said she was replying on Harriet Schulberg’s behalf, a soft-spoken man—after putting her on hold for a few minutes—had requested that Ms. Schulberg come to a meeting on September 15 at ten a.m., giving an address on the northern edge of Chelsea. Tess had agreed that Harriet would be there. Only of course she would not. Tess herself was taking the meeting. Crazies or not, Tess needed a job.



***



“Okay,” Tess told Ginny, “I’m here at the corner of Dyer Avenue and Thirty-First Street. This is so weird. I didn’t even know there was a Dyer Avenue.” Tess tended to be critical of people on the street who were always on their cell phones, but this was one time she was grateful to be able to talk while walking.

“That funky street near Tenth Avenue?” Ginny said. “That’s just one long on-ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel. Though not a bad location for a survivalist group’s headquarters.” Ginny was Tess’s oldest friend in New York. Tess had met her when they were both editorial assistants at Penguin, where they had cubicles next to each other. Now she worked at Brown Hill Press, as the senior editor in charge of New Age titles. A native New Yorker and cynical by nature, Ginny secretly despised most New Age books, but she had inherited a New Age project early in her career (To Ch’i or Not to Ch’i), which had surprised everybody by becoming a huge best seller. This had led to her big promotion—as well as to her getting more or less permanently stuck in the genre.

“It is kind of funky,” Tess said, scanning the industrial-looking intersection—huge parking lot, warehouse, construction site—as she rounded the corner onto 31st. Here at least she could see there were new brick buildings, with galleries and two or three storefronts. “I guess this means I must really be in dire straits, right?”

“Don’t make jokes like that when you are in there,” Ginny said sternly.

“I won’t, don’t worry,” laughed Tess.

After a few more steps she found she had arrived at the address, 434 West 31 Street. All she could see of the place was a large glass window completely filled with plants, next to a red metal door.

“Okay, I’m about to go in. If you don’t hear from me in four hours, call the police, or better yet, call Homeland Security.”

On the other end of the phone, Ginny laughed. So did Tess, but she had to admit to herself that she was scared. It was entirely possible that she was about to take a meeting with a bunch of real nut-jobs, the kind who ended up having stand-offs in Waco, the kind with firearms and gas masks stashed under their houses. Not to mention that these particular nut-jobs were expecting somebody else.

“What are you wearing?” asked Ginny.

“The teal suit,” said Tess.

“Excellent. You know you look like a movie star in that. Though maybe you should have dressed in fatigues for this interview. Did you bring pepper spray?”

Tess put her face up to the window and squinted, trying to see through the greenery. “Does anybody actually know anyone who carries pepper spray?”

“No, but it always sounds like such a good idea.”

“The truth is,” said Tess, glancing at her watch to make sure she was not late, “I’m more afraid of what Harriet is going to do to me if she finds out, than I am of these WOOSH people. Okay, call you later, Gin.” Thank god for Ginny. Tess would not have gotten through the last year without her. Other friends had fallen by the wayside as Tess had become more depressed, but no matter how busy she was, Ginny always had time to talk when Tess needed her. If she was in a meeting, it would rarely take her more than an hour to call Tess back. This had been especially true since Matt left.

Tess put her phone away and stepped back from the window. She noticed a small poster displayed in the lower left corner of the glass—no words, just a graphic. It looked like a tree with two outstretched hands emerging from the top. No. Not a tree. A mushroom cloud. Of course, what else? Tess took a steadying breath and turned to the door, where she could now see there was a small brass plate with thinly etched letters on it:



W.O.O.S.H.

The Way Through



The way through? What—the way through the door?

There was no buzzer; Tess pushed the door open. Once inside, she was pleasantly surprised to find herself in a sunny, welcoming reception area (the sunlight coming from an unobstructed side window) complete with an expensive-looking modern sofa and chairs and a low wooden coffee table with neat piles of pamphlets and flyers on it. A young, bleached-blond male receptionist sat behind a tall desk. He was focused intently on his computer monitor. Tess saw that the plants lining the front window were hydroponic, their stems and stalks gently suspended by some kind of slender wires or strings, the tendrils of roots hanging down through holes in water-filled containers. There was some fluty Enya-like music playing softly through invisible speakers. A small stone water sculpture bubbled soothingly in one corner, adding to the California spa feeling. Any minute a masseuse would appear, thought Tess.

She gave Harriet’s name to the receptionist who, with a boyish smile, informed Tess that “they” were waiting for her in the conference room. He led the way through a small hallway. Resisting a fleeting impulse to turn and run back out the door, Tess followed him.

The room was such a contrast to the reception area that it made Tess blink when she entered. There were no windows, just cold fluorescent lighting and black Aeron chairs around a large faux-wood table; in fact, it looked like every other office conference room she had ever seen, except that the table was round instead of the traditional oval—and except for the walls. The walls were completely covered with maps. There must have been hundreds of them—in color, in black and white, and in all different sizes. She felt a chill shoot through her. So many maps, with hardly any empty wall space in between. A sure sign of the paranoid personality—she had seen enough thrillers to know that.

Five people—two men and three women—sat around the table, leaving two empty chairs. At once a dark-haired man in an elegant silver-gray suit rose and came toward her.

“I trust you had no trouble finding us?” Tess thought she detected a slight teasing note in his voice, like someone who is enjoying an inside joke. He took her right hand and enclosed it firmly in both of his. His hands were cool. She looked up at him and opened her mouth to say hello, but no sound came out. Maybe that was because her throat, along with everything else in her body, had just blown a fuse.

He was shockingly handsome; his eyes were large and a soft dark brown—velvety pools you could get drawn into and never care if you found your way back out again. They were framed by thick, perfectly arched brows. In fact everything about his face was in absolute perfect proportion. He resembled George Clooney so much that it made her wonder for a second if he were actually related to the actor. He had a swarthy complexion; it looked as though he would have to shave three times a day. Tess stood still, waiting for her breath to come back. She noticed gray at his temples, and a few streaks in his thick wavy hair—he was probably in his early fifties. His shirt was so crisp and white it seemed to vibrate next to his dark, muscular neck. The dimple in his chin made you want to put your finger there.

As though he could read her thoughts, he grinned broadly, as if to say, “Yes, I know I’m good-looking, but I can’t help it, can I?” revealing (big surprise) flawless white teeth, and Tess felt herself grinning back and blushing like an idiot. She had expected paramilitary types, bug-eyed mental patients, or at the very least, earnest hippies. What she had not expected was this gorgeous specimen of exquisite maleness.

“I’m Peter Barrett,” he said, his voice slightly gravelly, still holding her hand, and still smiling and gazing into her eyes. Was he trying to hypnotize her or something? “I’m the head of Donor Relations. Welcome to our little war room, Ms. Schulberg.”

Tess managed to utter, “Thank you,” and Peter Barrett finally released her. Tess took the empty seat closest to her, trying to get her heart to slow back to normal. Maybe this really was some kind of cult, she thought, with a twitch of fear in her stomach—like the ones where everyone has to marry each other. And this stunning Mr. Barrett was the bait for new female recruits.

A pasty man to her immediate left nodded at her. He was about thirty, with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Tess nodded back and smiled politely at him, but he did not make eye contact. There was something definitely off about this one. He reminded her of a frightened mouse, a mouse suddenly aware of its being observed by a human. She could swear he was almost quivering. Clutching an open iPad in front of him on the table, he mumbled that his name was Alfred Hassenbach and that he was the “East Coast media manager.” He spoke so rapidly and softly it was hard to understand him. What a contrast to Peter Barrett. Total opposites on the man-Richter scale.

Just then the door opened and a petite woman entered. She had a ponytail down to her waist and looked Native American. Tess stood up as the woman approached her. Around her slender neck was a very large medallion, hanging down almost as far as her ponytail did. Tess could see that the medallion, which was intricately designed in silver and moss green gemstones, had some kind of markings or hieroglyphics on it. The woman smiled warmly, her manner (thank god) both confident and business-like.

“Ms. Schulberg, I’m Dakota Flores, the coordinator of our New York chapter.” The handshake was firm but the voice was girlish, with a slight lisp. She had the kind of gentle, wanting-to-help look Tess had always felt nurses and kindergarten teachers should have. Tess was relieved that she seemed to be the one in charge. (On the other hand, Tess reminded herself, Dakota Flores could not be all that normal—just look what she was in charge of.)

Reseating herself, Tess knew she was going to have to set the record straight before another moment went by. She had impersonated someone else long enough; she felt like a criminal. She only hoped they wouldn’t throw her out on her ear. She took a very deep breath. “First of all, I have to tell you all right away,” she said in the most self-assured tone she could muster, “I’m afraid I am not Harriet Schulberg. Harriet is over eighty.” (Forgive me, Harriet.) “She is very ill and regrets that she could not be here today. However, I’m Tess Eliot and I have been Ms. Schulberg’s close associate and protégée for many years, and it is to be sincerely hoped that … I mean, I sincerely hope that I would be more than able to suit your requirements sufficiently.” Dear god, why was she talking like this? She sounded like an insurance commercial. She did always tend to get overly formal when she felt out of her element. And this meeting certainly qualified.

The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.

“Aha,” said Alfred Hassenbach, without expression. He started tapping something into his iPad (was he Googling her?) and muttered something under his breath Tess could not make out. It sounded like “We have pears to heat up now.” Tess decided the best thing to do was smile as if everything was as it should be.

“Oh, well, I see,” said Dakota, frowning slightly.

After a few seconds one of the other women spoke up. She was very tall and square shaped, and even had a matching, square-shaped haircut. “Well, then,” she said with a stiff, fake smile. “Do you have a CV?” This woman, unlike the others, gave off a strong military vibe, as though she were waiting to be saluted.

Tess slid a résumé forward, mentioning in what she hoped was the casual tone of someone merely offering pertinent information that her “Tess Knows Best” column had been read by 300,000 people a week for the last four years, and explaining that she herself had done much of the actual writing for How to Hold Your Head High With Your Foot in Your Mouth while she was working for Harriet at Simon and Schuster. These were at best gross exaggerations; just because the newspaper’s circulation was 300,000 did not mean that many people read her column, and while Tess had come up with some of the chapter titles and subheads for Harriet’s book, that had been about it. But the square woman nodded, and passed the résumé to Dakota. Then, to Tess’s relief and pleasure, Peter Barrett said, “‘Tess Knows Best’ is a brilliant column. I can’t believe you are that Tess Eliot!”

Dakota nodded in approval. “The Universe provides us with what we need, when we need it.” There was a general murmuring of assent around the table. “I think the best way to begin, Tess,” Dakota continued, “is to show you our video.” She picked up a remote and pressed a button. “We have found it saves us a lot of time.”

A screen descended from the ceiling at the far end of the room. Someone turned the lights out. Okay, thought Tess, bracing herself, let the brainwashing begin.

The opening title came up: W.O.O.S.H.: the World Organization for Omniscient Solstice Harbingers. (Omniscient Solstice Harbingers? Oh, brother, this group really does need a writer.) Then there was an aerial view of a lush green mountaintop. The camera spun around and zoomed in until a human figure was visible in a clearing. Tess couldn’t help thinking that it looked very much like the beginning of The Sound of Music. But the soft background music here was New Agey—mostly flute and cello. The figure now filled the screen: a bald man in crisp ivy-green coveralls, with wild white eyebrows that curled up at the ends, resembling a pair of out-of-place moustaches.

He smiled into the camera. “Hello, I’m Dr. Wayne Orbus.” He had a powerful bass voice and an upper-crust British accent. He started walking, the camera following him. “Although many people may find this difficult to believe,” he said, looking very kind, and very patient, “there is a substantial amount of irrefutable evidence that civilization, as we know it, will come to an end—not a million years from now, not a thousand years from now, not even a hundred years from now, but on Friday, December 21, 2012.” He spoke in a rational, friendly tone of voice, like a doctor trying to calm a terminally ill patient.

“The ancient Maya had a knowledge of mathematics and astronomy that was astoundingly accurate.” Wayne Orbus was now walking in front of what looked like stone steps, but when the camera panned back, it was a huge stone pyramid, hundreds of feet high. Obviously Mayan ruins, but Tess could not tell exactly where they were. Probably somewhere in the Chiapas Mountains.

“They predicted—to the very second—every lunar, solar, and planetary event and cycle we know of. Like shamanic scientists, they could see forward in time, so attuned were they to the heavens and the movement of the planets and stars. In fact, the cycles of the moon were mapped so precisely that today—fifteen hundred years later—their calculations are only off a mere thirty-three seconds. Many pyramids like this one were constructed with such celestial genius and precision that on the afternoon of each of the equinoxes, the sun hitting the angles of the structure produces the image of a snake slithering down the stairs.”

Here the camera moved away from Orbus to show the vast stone staircase of the pyramid. A light—which was obviously artificial, probably from a powerful flashlight—zigzagged down it, snake-like. Until it got to Orbus’s feet. Then the camera moved up and zoomed out, and he started walking again. Hmm. Not the most brilliant filmmaking techniques, that’s for sure, thought Tess. But still somehow compelling. Wayne Orbus had a professorial demeanor, and a very seductive “I’ve got an amazing secret I am willing to share” way of talking. His piercing blue eyes looked at you as if they had seen everything there ever was to see.

“The Maya were the ultimate calendar keepers.” Orbus went on. “Their calendars are much more complex and more accurate than ours are. December 21, 2012 marks the end of a 5125-year-long cycle in the Mayan Long Count calendar, and is also the end of the much longer Precession of the Equinoxes cycle. This corresponds with what contemporary scientists call the galactic alignment, which will occur, for the first time in twenty-six thousand years, on the winter solstice in 2012, when the Sun will rise directly between the center of the Milky Way and the Earth. Many scholars believe that at that time the Earth will be cut off from an important universal energy source.”

The camera cut away to a stone wall of bas-relief carvings of human figures. A light (the same magical flashlight?) shined on one of the profiled faces. A large hand moved slowly in front of the light, intersecting the beam and causing the figure to darken. Then Orbus was back again, smiling calmly and walking among the ruins. No flashlight in sight; maybe it was in his back pocket.

“It is still a mystery, how such a primitive culture acquired this incredible cosmological wisdom. We can surmise they inherited centuries of knowledge from their ancestors, civilizations like the Olmec, who also were master observers of the stars and planets. There is even some speculation that an alien race, much more advanced than humans, provided them with the astronomical know-how of… .”

Oh here we go, Tess smiled inwardly. Aliens. Every cult worth its salt has got to have aliens.

“But the Maya were not alone in their predictions of the coming of a new planetary age in 2012. Many long-studied prophecies from other cultures,” Wayne Orbus was saying, “such as those we find from the Hopi Indians, in the writings of Nostradamus, in the Book of Mormon, in Islamic astronomy, in the Book of Revelation, even in the I Ching, serve to confirm what we have interpreted from the Maya. Some predict a comet colliding with Earth, some envision plagues, some global war. There is a lot of speculation about exactly how the cataclysmic shift would manifest itself, but not about the date itself.

“Indubitably, the world’s ancient civilizations, our forefathers, seem to be handing down a warning to us. In other words, we know the Mayan galactic clock has always been precise, and the alarm is sounding. Our time is up.”

Suddenly, the camera veered to the left, where, to Tess’s disbelief, an ordinary-looking round windup clock was perched on a rock. A loud bell sounded as the clock’s alarm went off.

Tess almost started laughing, but stifled it. She surreptitiously studied the WOOSH members in the darkened room. They seem totally spellbound (except for Peter, who flashed a smile over at her when she glanced at him). They didn’t even seem to be breathing. Hadn’t they seen this film before?

“We have already seen an increase in so-called natural disasters in our world—earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, a rise in temperature, a rise in the Earth’s water levels,” explained Orbus. “Scientists all over the world warn of a looming global climate crisis. In addition, solar physicists agree that solar storm activity, signifying potentially devastating solar emissions, will peak in 2012. We also know there are cracks in the magnetic field of Earth. It is quite possible the world’s poles could shift suddenly, which would have a disastrous effect on the planet.

“Your governments cannot help you. They will not help you. It is not in their interest to do so. The higher-ups already have their secret hideaways in place. In fact, ironically, many of WOOSH’s biggest debunkers are actually people who have their own bunkers.” Here he smiled even more—not quite but almost chuckling—at his joke. As if he wanted to say to the viewer: You see, we at WOOSH have a sense of humor. “Many less nefarious governments officials simply believe if people really knew what is to come, they would panic and the world would crumble just that much more quickly.

“One thing is for certain: The world as we know it is about to come to an end.” The camera cut here to a fast-paced montage of computer simulations illustrating Earth’s destruction: a comet hitting the planet, water washing over cities, volcanoes erupting, trees being blown over by hurricanes, mud slides, huge fissures opening in the ground and swallowing cars—ending with about a dozen shots of nuclear bombs going off.

“Billions will certainly perish. Most things will disintegrate around us.” Orbus stopped walking, smiled cheerfully, and raised his index finger up in the air. “But not everything.

“As most of you surely know, thousands of books and articles have been written, not to mention scores of films produced, on the darkness and chaos that is to follow the 2012 crisis. Appalling conditions like starvation, disease, tribal warfare—even cannibalism. But we at WOOSH have a different vision, a different message. We do not believe terror must necessarily reign. We emphatically do not believe that some human beings are meant to be saved, while others are not. We are building a kind of ark, but this is an ark aboard which all who wish it are welcome to climb, be it now or later. Many historians see what is coming as a cosmic correction in the vast cycles of time. We are therefore planning for a golden age, a new way of being alive on the planet; a world where everyone is engaged in the process of life; a world where everything will be distributed evenly depending on need, not might; a world where spirituality is more important than technology; a world where all people are truly equal.”

The camera followed Orbus as he moved over to sit on a stone wall. Then it zoomed out to show dozens of other people sitting on the wall, all smiling and facing forward, in one big line. As though they were waiting to watch a beautiful sunset.

“There are already a large number of WOOSH members located strategically across the globe, quietly making preparations for life after the Big Change,” intoned Orbus’s voice, the camera still showing the long line of seated people. “In anticipation of an existence without electricity, without the internet, without satellites, we are putting in place systems for New World communication and travel, for effecting cooperation between distant surviving clusters of people, for new methods of growing food, for helping to heal the massive carnage that will come. We as a species will need to evolve, to take a Darwinian leap into the future of humankind.”

In the next shot, Dr. Orbus got up from the wall and started walking again, toward the camera, toward the viewer.

“We are the harbingers of the coming End Times Solstice. We bring the message of cosmic shift, and along with it, an offer. How you weather the coming Earth changes is up to you. We need to work together. Do you want to be part of the big adventure?”

Then there was another montage, accompanied by the music swelling to a complete orchestral sound: people of many races building a house with rocks and clay, people singing happily around blazing campfires, people laughing while passing food to one another at long wooden tables. Then shots of happy barefoot children, and of wildflowers waving in a breeze.

Now Orbus was walking through a stone archway. “We at WOOSH are the self-appointed midwives to a difficult birth,” he intoned, “and it is by no means certain the baby will survive.”

And then, suddenly, there was a close-up of a screaming woman giving birth. Tess recoiled inwardly and closed her eyes. She had a weak stomach for graphic shots of childbirth. They always seemed to get thrown in when you least expected it, before you had a chance to protect yourself. When she opened her eyes, there was Wayne Orbus again among the ruins.

The camera zoomed in to a tight close-up of his face. Now you could see his crow’s feet, and the lines around his mouth. He must have been at least sixty whenever this movie was made. He smiled in a sad but knowing, paternal way, his intense blue eyes seeming to reach through the camera. Inexplicably, all at once Tess felt like she would really like to get to know this man. “In the face of unavoidable catastrophe, we offer solace, and hope. We offer … the way through. We are … WOOSH.” The camera backed up and Wayne Orbus opened his arms wide to the heavens. He really did look quite a lot like he was imitating Julie Andrews on the mountaintop. Tess expected nuns to start singing any minute.

The camera panned back out, and up, and the screen went black. Then the WOOSH logo she had seen on the window—the mushroom cloud with hands—came up on the screen, and below it an address somewhere in England.

The lights were turned back on. There were several seconds of weighty silence. Tess sat as still as possible, praying no one would ask her what she thought of the bizarre presentation. Then Dakota piped up. “On the bright side, of course, no one is going to be worrying anymore about their 401(k)s!” The group all chuckled and smiled and exchanged knowing glances. A pitcher of water was passed around. Handing Tess a paper cup, the woman seated to her right whispered to her with a proud little smile that the water had been “magnetically double-filtered” with one of their very own “WOOSH world-end inventions.” Her manner seemed conspiratorial, communicating special camaraderie; her eyes shined with excitement. The curls on her head practically danced with goodwill.

Dear lord, where am I? wondered Tess, putting down her cup after taking only the tiniest sip of the water. Have I fallen through the rabbit hole? Next thing you know they are going to tell me we are all getting picked up by some spaceship. Head spinning, she turned to Dakota and said, only half seriously, “So, but, I guess no one knows the precise minute the world will end, anyway.”

“Four hundred and sixty-three days from now, at 11:11 p.m.,” Dakota answered sweetly. “Universal time.” Tess almost choked. Everyone looked at Tess, apparently expecting her to ask more questions.

“Um,” Tess faltered, “Do you … is there any consensus at all, I mean any idea about exactly what you think is going to happen? I mean … solar flares, melting glaciers, World War III?”

Once again everyone around the table exchanged glances and nervous titters. It was like being the new person at a family dinner, where you don’t know the history but you can feel it around the table.

“We do not all agree on what is going to happen,” said Dakota. “A number of us have had … certain information come our way”— here there were one or two snorts of derision—“that indicates it will involve the movement of the Earth’s tectonic plates on a massive scale.”

Next to her, Tess heard Alfred Hassenbach breathe out a sarcastic “Riiiight.”

“Wow.” Tess tried to sound impressed but not disbelieving—and certainly not as though she wanted to escape from this room, as every fiber of her body was telling her to do right then. “And how many members are there in your … organization?”

“We have almost twenty thousand here in the U.S.,” answered Dakota, smiling. “With chapters in nine cities. I don’t have the international figures. The numbers will obviously increase next year.”

“Ah,” Tess swallowed. “Of course.” She glanced over at Peter, who raised his eyebrows in a “you’re doing fine” way. God, he was handsome. “So … what are … what are all these …... these maps here for?” She gestured at the walls. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to hear the answer, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She was afraid to ask about the writing project itself, afraid of revealing how out of her depth she felt.

“Maryanne?” Dakota nodded over at the tall, square woman. The maps must be this woman’s specialty, thought Tess. She certainly looked like the kind of person who would be in charge of maps and geography. Or troop movements.

Maryanne cleared her throat. “We can’t go into details at this point,” she began, with a sidelong glance at Dakota that plainly said: We should not trust this uninitiated stranger. “But speaking in the most general terms, you understand, some of these maps indicate where we expect the most damage to occur, and possibly—although I cannot confirm this fact to you, Miss Eliot—also the emergency locations of other WOOSH members.” She glared at Tess.

“I see. Kind of a personal WOOSH list?” said Tess, making the joke before she could stop herself.

Maryanne looked irritated, but Dakota smiled pleasantly and said, “What we really liked about How to Hold Your Head High with Your Foot in Your Mouth is the humor.” The others nodded seriously and vigorously at one another (all but Peter, who just smiled his sexy smile). “We have commissioned several other guidebooks on various aspects of physical survival and community organization. But we want, and need, an interpersonal handbook to help people deal with each other, to promote civilized behavior. And we believe that in times of great turmoil, humor is what gets people through, it’s really what saves people.”

Humor? With people panicked and sick and dying all over the place? I hope I don’t have to join up in order to get this job, Tess thought. These people are really out of their minds. But she forced herself to smile and nod along with everyone else.

“As Dr. Orbus intimates in the orientation film,” Dakota continued, with the proud aspect of someone about to offer delicious food to a hungry guest, “other post-2012 survivalist groups are fear-driven. But we at WOOSH consider ourselves seriously lighthearted. A light heart is a loving heart, and a loving heart is a powerful life force.” The smile on Dakota’s face deepened; she looked so blissful for a second Tess felt herself actually wanting to drink the proverbial Kool-Aid. (Though maybe not the “magnetic” water.) “This is why we envision a humorous how-to guide for the post-apocalyptic world. Humor is the magic dust for the human soul.”

Just then the woman who was sitting between Peter and Maryanne, whom Tess had barely noticed before, leaned forward with folded hands. “The other thing is,” she said quietly, looking very earnest, glancing over to check with Dakota, as if for approval to speak, “we believe that—because so much of the world is so used to consuming pop culture—to have a lighthearted guide immediately available will be an essential grounding tool for many people, as they struggle to cope, psychologically.” Tess automatically nodded along with this woman, whose buttoned-up collar and cardigan sweater were reminiscent of a Catholic girls’ school uniform.

But even given that odd pronouncement, the most confounding thing throughout the whole meeting was Peter. Peter was like an actor who had wandered onto the wrong set. He was in a thirty-million-dollar romantic comedy, while the rest of the group were doing low-budget sci-fi. At one point, when the conversation took an exceptionally ominous tone, and the incongruously fear-based Maryanne was outlining in an eerily phlegmatic manner how little food and water there would be in the days immediately following the Solstice (but, Tess noticed, not being very forthcoming about exactly how WOOSH was supposedly going to deal with that problem), Peter caught Tess’s eye and grinned a little secret grin at her. It made her feel they had already shared something very intimate, something he was trying to remind her about. Was it really possible this breathtaking man was flirting with her—unemployed, thirty-nine-year-old, unspectacular Tess Eliot—right in the middle of discussing the end of the world? Maybe she was having a long overdue nervous breakdown, and Peter was part of the hallucination. If so, she certainly had to hand it to her subconscious: What a great way to go nuts.

By the time the meeting was over, Tess had somehow succeeded in convincing the group that she was the perfect person to write Etiquette for the End of the World (the title WOOSH had already decided on for their “handbook”). “I have to tell you, I would love to be a part of the adventure,” she had bluffed with a cheerful smile. It had not hurt her case at all when Peter—his expression appreciative, almost covetous—had interjected, “Listen, people, we’d be lucky to get her.”

Tess still felt a little guilty about Harriet, but mostly she was waiting for someone to tell her she had been punked, and that the whole project was a practical joke. The fee—if they really meant to pay her—was unbelievably good, especially as she had been halfway expecting them to ask her to do it for free. It was enough money that she’d be able to pay off her credit cards and still have most of a whole year’s expenses. It felt almost too good to be true. When she left, Tess was given some WOOSH pamphlets and a 3-page outline, an outline which she was to expand into a 275-page manuscript. The contract would be signed and the advance check paid as soon as she had written the first 50 pages and they had been accepted.

Tess had no idea exactly who was in charge of approving the 50 pages. She had no idea whether WOOSH really was an organization of twenty thousand, as Dakota Flores claimed, or twenty. She also had no idea how she was going to figure out how to write a humorous book about Armageddon. She only knew that if she could somehow pull off this crazy assignment, she would have a roof over her head for the next year.