The Last Murder at the End of the World

by Stuart Turton

“I’m just old,” replies Niema brightly. “Wrinkles look like wisdom to the young.”

This is the way they revere the dead. They remember what they offered the world and what everybody else has to do to fill the gap.

Any information they needed was borrowed from a screen, leaving them no knowledge to fall back on when those screens vanished.

He’s choosing to believe a lie. Allowing himself to be reassured by it, making it big enough to hide behind. For Emory, there’s no greater act of cowardice.

“You know everything you need to know to be happy,” I say, repeating a phrase that has become a mantra between us. “But I’m not happy,” she points out. “You’re dissatisfied,” I argue. “You have no idea what unhappiness is. I’m hoping you never do.”

Inclement weather is a feature of the postapocalyptic world, with scorching heat frequently punctuated by ferocious storms.

“You’re not human,” replies Thea. “You’re a product, Emory. Something Blackheath made and sold, like dishwashers and phones.

“I miss him, too,” says Clara. “Can you imagine how much fun he’d be having racing around the island?” “Can you imagine the facts!” declares Emory, making Clara laugh. “He’d be pointing out every animal he saw and telling us their Latin names and migratory patterns.” “He really loved a fact, didn’t he?” “Couldn’t get enough,” replies Emory, delighted to recall this forgotten habit of her husband’s.