by Art Robinson
Someone at the party says we're lucky to get such good seats and someone tells them to shut up.
The rock is almost as big as the Moon now, bright white in the sky, surrounded by stars. They're all out, because we're as far from the cities as possible. Too much light in the city, even though the power got drained to launch the Arks at Mars. Lots of burning buildings, burning cars, burning people. Lots of cults and militias, playing at priest and soldier with just days until the end.
The party was still going two days later. We'd been stocking up as soon as the official announcement was made, even though almost everyone already knew before then. Someone by a battery-powered radio told everyone to shut up and we did and we listened to replays of calls for help from the Arks. A chain of tiny rocks, tugged along like ducklings, had pulverized the fleet. The ones that still had people and the ones without were flailing, out of control. Some exploded, pushing holes through the Arks close enough. Some even crashed on the rock they'd spent so much time and wealth trying to avoid.