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.

If any of these things disrupts your plan, the human race will be rendered extinct in one hundred and seven hours.”

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. There are no prayers here, no thoughts of an afterlife. The reward for a good life is the living of it.

Everybody dies on their sixtieth birthday, whether they’re healthy or not. They enjoy their funeral, then go to sleep as normal. At some point in the night, their hearts simply stop beating. After a lifetime of service, dying painlessly in their beds is the least I can give them.

Knowing when he’s going to die has afforded him the luxury of long goodbyes. For the last week, he’s seen everybody he wants to see. Everybody he cares for knows how he feels about them, and he—in turn—is full of their love. There is nothing left unsaid.

Ninety years ago, huge sinkholes appeared on every continent, swallowing entire cities. A strange black fog poured out of them, filled with glowing insects that ripped apart whatever they touched.

Love is simply a matter of what people need and what they lack. It’s two broken things fitting together for a time.

Sometimes the only way to win a game is to let the pieces think they’re the ones playing it.

There are moments in history when entire empires, whole branches of the future rest precariously on the words of a single person. Usually, they’re not even aware of it. They don’t have time to plan or consider. They simply open their mouths and speak, and the universe takes on a new pattern.

They enter a golden glade where three huge dewdrops are dangling from a pulsing vine that’s thicker than Emory’s body.

“You’re not human,” replies Thea. “You’re a product, Emory. Something Blackheath made and sold, like dishwashers and phones. Underneath that decorative flesh, you have more in common with these plants than me or Hephaestus.”

“Forty years before the fog, Niema grew the first generation of your people to fight wars so humans wouldn’t have to. She sold you to any government with a credit card and bought this island with the profits.”

“Anybody with savings could have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, a servant or a driver. That’s why you only live until you’re sixty. It’s built-in obsolescence, a way of ensuring Blackheath’s customers always bought the newest model.”

Purpose is something that must be given, or it will be endlessly sought.

Emory’s eyes are locked on Thea while Hephaestus studies the side of his friend’s face, a newfound suspicion bubbling in his thoughts like butter on a hot pan.