The Last Murder at the End of the World

by Stuart Turton

Streaking away from this moment are dozens of possible futures, each waiting to be conjured into existence by a random event, an idle phrase, a miscommunication, or an overheard conversation. Unless a violin performance goes flawlessly, a knife will be rammed into Niema’s chest. If the wrong person steps through a long-closed door, a huge, scarred man will be emptied of every memory, and a young woman who isn’t young at all will run willingly to her own death. If these things don’t happen, the last island on earth will end up covered in fog, everything dead in the gloom.

The refugees had grown up in a world where food was found on shelves, medicine was bought in shops, and an individual’s survival was due to finances rather than skill. Any information they needed was borrowed from a screen, leaving them no knowledge to fall back on when those screens vanished. They didn’t know how to farm or forage or how to repair the derelict buildings they were depending on for shelter.

The great benefit of being in somebody’s head since birth is that your voice is easily confused with their own. Over the years, I’ve displaced Emory’s conscience and better sense. I’m trusted implicitly, because she doesn’t know how alien I am.