Please note: this story was provided by the author and published as is.
The asteroid was the size and length of a skyscraper.
Like a spear hurtling through space it moved at impossible speed, giving the planet only a half-hour to crunch the numbers and calculate the devastation. Every action theorized the same result, the damning evidence assuring the world as a whole that there would be no saving grace, no trump card to pull. Humanity simply didn’t have the time.
Alarms echoed in the face of annihilation, nations pleading their citizens to cherish their final moments as the world awaited an impact that would surely erase us from existence.
Be it dumb luck or an act of God, the shard from the heavens impacted just inside the coast of The Great Basin Desert of Nevada, a merciful miscalculation of trajectory that granted a wall of sand instead of a fiery death of biblical proportion.
We hugged our loved ones as the dust settled, rejoicing in the miracle that had saved us from destruction. Nobody could figure out the how or why, the specifics of the phenomenon seemed too great for us to understand. Miles wide, impossibly deep. Like it had reached the core of the Earth and stopped.
Was it the sand?
Did the asteroid break apart at the last second?
Was it aliens?
Was it God?
The theories continued long after the dust settled. No amount of data could tell us the reason. Like the asteroid itself had chosen a softer landing. After the news crews got their scoop and everyone went back home, we settled back into our cozy life, and the hole left behind became another wonder of the world. The more we tried to fathom it, the less others seemed to care. Needless to say, it didn’t take long to move on from it. The total destruction of humanity became a meme, and we continued our blissful struggle of existence like it never happened.
It became an attraction, like Niagra Falls.
People came from across the world to look at the hole, and marvel at its impossibility. It started with food trucks and carnival games. HOLE t-shirts and HOLE food. HOLE memes littered the internet, until you couldn’t surf without seeing the massive crater that could’ve been our eradication. People laughed and made signs with their hands, some in worship, others in excited appreciation. It was a sign of our continued humanity; the icon of our second chance.
In time we just accepted the hole, rather than question it.
As the months flew by, some people never left. People continued to flock, coming together in the Sahara to see the wonder, to do their part. It was all over the news, headlines like:
“FREE-LOVE MEETS ALIENSTOCK”
In time, investors took interest. What started as a joke cultivated into a plan to build a town around the diameter of the hole, a new age Point Pleasant for the anomaly that was our mercy. Crews were assembled, lumber was cut, and the days of euphoria and admiration were filled to the sounds of saws and hammered nails.
We built across the sand, surrounding the crust of the massive hole with general stores, condos, and vacation spots. A-list singers wrote songs about it. Influencers lined up to be a part, spreading the hype that the world couldn’t ignore. In the midst of the bustling construction and blissful peace, a church was erected.
It didn’t matter where you were in the world, everyone loved the Hole in their own way.
Until it started consuming us.
The first casualty was deemed an accident. An elderly woman, well into her nineties and vacationing with her family. Rumor was she stumbled in by mistake, in a risky photo-op past the boundaries set up to prevent such a thing. Bystanders assumed she had lost her balance and tumbled over the side. But the family swore she wasn’t thinking straight, and that she threw herself in. This was documented as an “freak accident”, and everyone moved on.
After the next victim, people started to worry. A young man, early twenties. Frequent jogger near the hole that had made it a daily regime to run around its diameter. Turned on his heel mid stride, and kept the same jogging pace until he reached the mouth of the gigantic pit. People said he only took a second to look down into its depths, before holding his arms out and falling head first. Funding was allocated to install better railings around the hole, in an effort to appease those making a stink over the second casualty.
Was the hole dangerous? Should we make an effort to close it?
Heresy. The hole saved us.
The newly erected church boycotted any attempts to seal the danger, going as far as restricting the crews trying to better fortify the edge to prevent further loss. The community seemed torn over the prospect. Petitions were signed, both in favor and opposing the sealing of the hole we had built the community around.
The third instance shook everyone, and made national news. The next victim was not singular but many, a group of 17 to be exact. Several simultaneous 911 calls rang the following Sunday, people reporting a potential mass suicide near the church. Police arrived on scene as quickly as possible, but the reported victims were already long gone, leaving responders to look in awe at the gaping hole that seemed to radiate nothing but eerie silence.
Eyewitness testimony stated they had “tied ropes to each other and gone in single-file”. It sounded insane, but local security cam footage affirmed such a thing. Grainy footage showing the Reverend of the Hole-Church leading a small group, all bound in a continuous leash towards the wide maw of the infinite crater.
The first few went in willingly. After the fifth, there wasn’t much of a choice.
Following this incident, the government called for an executive order to block off the hole to prevent more casualties. The Church of the Hole was shut down and demolished in an attempt to prevent any worship that would result in theoretical death by falling into the hole.
The next day, a fleet of construction crews converged on the hole and began what was predicted to be a seamless and smooth operation, especially with the recent deaths. However, when the trucks reached the hole, they were met with heavy protesting. Civilians inhabiting the surrounding town had blocked all roads leading in. A case of mass hysteria had fallen over them, stating the construction team was there to harm, not help.
“The hole is here to protect us.” They said in droves, men, women, and children alike standing hand in hand to thwart the coming boundary.
Those who didn’t stand against the machines, began walking to the hole, including local law enforcement trying to break apart the mob. By the time the National Guard was called, it was estimated over forty people had willingly thrown themselves in, but it was impossible to tell exactly how many.
By the next morning, it was estimated to be in the hundreds.
Madness seemed to fall over the community by the hole, an anomaly that was now broadcast on live television. There was no feasible explanation. The world watched as not only citizens, but members of the construction crew simply put their hands at their sides, and walked towards the hole. Police officers calmly set down shields and followed, no matter how loud their peers shouted for them. Live recordings of news anchors covering the event were seen setting down their microphone, and walking away from the shot, only for the camera to drop to the ground as the crew followed suit. Crying children watched their parents abandon them without a word. The National Guard mid-command would simply lower their weapon, look towards the hole, and march towards it.
They offered no reasoning, they said no prayers. Only willingly fed the hole. Some who witnessed the anomaly on television would simply get into their car and drive to the location, ignoring police roadblocks and driving around jammed traffic, all to offer themselves to the hole. Scientists scratched their heads at the madness, unable to discern what was causing people to act in such a way. When local law and fire departments of the neighboring towns and cities were exhausted, the U.S. Army was called, an action that only yielded the same results. Every road leading the ever-consuming hole was filled for miles with abandoned cars, emergency response vehicles, military trucks. Those who couldn’t find a direct route with GPS turned to crossing The Great Basin on foot, those who didn’t perish in the way fed the Hole with diligence.
Estimated loss in the ten thousands and climbing.
The President of the United States issued an executive order to evacuate and “quarantine” towns neighboring the Hole, sealing off Baker, Ely, Delta, Salt Lake City. By nightfall, Las Vegas. By morning, Nevada as a whole.
Nothing seemed to stop this “Brainwashed Death March”, the inconsolable need to feed the Hole. Single file hordes of American citizens stared blankly ahead, to throw themselves into the bottomless pit.
Government officials sweat as the world grew angry, wondering why a solution had yet to be provided. People turned off their televisions and canceled subscriptions in fear of the mind-control the Hole had over people, even avoiding radio contact. Newspaper presses ran hot with every new shred of information, new rubber-banded chaos hitting front porches every eight hours. Hiding in their homes people read of the sealing of neighboring states, too afraid to phone loved ones in Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming. Nevada goes dark entirely, California not long after.
Casualties in the millions, and unable to accurately count after. The Hole continues to consume the willing with no end in sight. The scent of death and decay carries on the wind for hundreds of miles.
An emergency meeting is called at The Millennium Summit. At first the general consensus was to bomb the Hole and everything around it off the map, dropping megaton after megaton via remote-piloted planes to prevent further mass suicide. However, this brought concerns over damage on a planetary scale, as it was unknown as to how deep the Hole actually went. Aside from the possibility of creating an even bigger sinkhole or breaking the planet in two, there were many concerns with the potential side effects of eradicating the threat with such volume—poisoning the earth’s soil and atmosphere, tainting the world’s water supply, or setting off earthquakes across the globe of unspeakable magnitudes.
Negotiations ran on for days, and specialists in every field were flown directly to speak in front of World Leaders to try and formulate a plan to save what was left of America—and mankind as a whole. While the hours ticked by and the casualties climbed, professionals argued until they were blue in the face, unable to find a feasible solution that wouldn’t just steer us into another form of extinction. But through every failed debate, came the same recurring question:
What if we tried to understand it?
After days of running in circles, a decision is made. World Leaders agree on a final attempt to learn more about The Hole, before bombing it into oblivion. Hands are shaken, funding is greenlit, and a message is delivered to the public.
We are going into the hole.
The submersible would take a month to build, offsite near The Hudson Bay, nearly two-thousand miles away. The USS “Hope”— trillions of dollars of the latest tech funneled into the ultimate surveying machine, completely climate controlled and capable of withstanding pressures of the darkest depths of the ocean. Ten to pilot, ten for maintenance and repair, and twenty to make sense of it. Aside from the rigorous mental prescanning, each candidate would be provided with an extensive engineered travel suit and helmet to withstand pressures of the deep dive as well as to shield against malicious anomalies and amplify mental fortitude. It was agreed that all volunteers would be wired a sum equivalent to ten-million US dollars, and given the danger of the expedition, it would be delivered to their families if they didn’t come back home. The payday was phenomenal—but paled in comparison to experiencing what the world had never seen before, as well as a chance to help save the human race.
As a fail-safe, the craft was also equipped with a state-of-the-art artificial intelligence copilot, to ensure a safe extraction amidst the compromised human brains, its sole mission to ensure the craft made its way back to the surface.
No weapons were allowed on board, and the submersible was designed to be welded shut from the outside—both to prevent something from entering, and a member of the crew sabotaging the mission if mentally compromised.
The lift to lower the submersible, known as “The Cradle” would take two months to erect—a tripod formation that would be built directly over the anomaly. Prefabricated modular components flown in by drones and dropships, all assembled by remote viewed automaton robots to thwart the influences of The Hole. Technology revealed from black-budget conglomerates to the public eye for the first time, all resources pooled in an effort to save the consumers they held so dear.
An overhead crane system that would lower the submersible, reaching over The Hole like a bridge. Each heavily threaded spool housed miles of suspension cables, heavy-duty wiring that could withstand the blind descent into The Hole. A half-circumferential distance across the earth was 7,926 miles, and the crane packed over eight-thousand. Riveted beams fortified to lower the weight of The Titanic, refitted to reel something the size of a city bus.
Mechanical limbs worked towards the effort, and humanity’s fittest trained to brave the unimaginable. Biologists, entomologists, and oncologists alike prepped for the descent of a lifetime, to explain the unexplainable, to make the home stretch.
Construction was slow, and painstaking. The world watched and waited, waiting for something to save them amidst the hysteria that had befallen the nation. The casualties continue to climb in a slow spread across the country—but we didn’t count those numbers now, only focusing on the days it took for the project to complete. Faces disappearing and shops boarding up were becoming the new norm, to the point you ignored the slow marching of souls on the news, or the flies buzzing the ones who expired before they could make it. It seemed all of humanity’s hopes were drawn to the construction and the expedition that followed.
The submersible was completed three days ahead of schedule, the benefits of an offsite build coming to fruition.
“The Cradle” was built slowly but surely, a flurry of rusted joints ferrying parts to and fro—a view broadcasted through multimedia drone feed. While immune to the influence of The Hole, automated labor of The Cradle was broadcasted worldwide, and we were forced to watch the wear and tear of our devices slave away as they saved us from extinction. Every bolt turned and each rivet pressed through the view of mechanical exhaustion. In time, The Cradle stood among The Hole, like a spire of humanity’s greatest efforts, directly over a gaping mouth to hell.
With the team trained and ready, the only thing left to do was get the submersible in place and operational without human hands.
The world watched and confetti flew near The Hudson Bay as the team suited up and waved goodbye, hugging their families before piling into the submersible. The heavy locks on the outside could be heard on every television across the world, and those present to witness the welding on the outside looked visibly uncomfortable.
As cargo carriers lifted the craft into the sky, we wondered if we were making the right decision.
A constant feed of the interior was provided to every news station, an effort to keep all of the populace on the same page without censorship, although most of the media discussion derived from the internet consisted of harrowing memes of humanity’s last days, and tasteless betting pools revolving around the expeditions potential outcomes.
The submersible reached its destination without problem. The Great Basin was mostly vacant now—save for those on their weapon, dedicated march. The old town surrounding The Hole was nothing but a wasteland of death. Empty streets buzzed with flies, and filled with the ghosts of our failures to contain the damage. There was no one left to protest, no one willing to risk feeding themselves in an attempt to jeopardize the mission.
Only the ones at home with the courage to watch the screen, some with teary eyes, others with mild disinterest.
The submersible was attached to the cable pulley system painstakingly via drone, much like a cabin rigging into an elevator shaft. On the inside, the crew—although rattled—seemed excited and optimistic. The video feed was crystal clear and positioned in many corridors within the craft, along with numerous views and spotlights on the outside to view the interior of The Hole as it lowered. Audio comms worked as designed, each crew member able to tap into channels to teams at homebase to prevent overcrowding voice traffic. A direct line of communication was also cleanly established to the AI copilot, and would be closely monitored at all times.
After an in-depth AI system calibration and testing of the reliability of The Bridge’s motor functions, the order was given to proceed with the expedition and begin lowering.
With the creak of pulleys and the whispering groan from the depths below, The USS “Hope” made its descent. In just a few minutes, the craft could no longer be seen from the surface, swallowed entirely by darkness. The only reminder of its existence was the slow unwind of the cables above.
It was predicted the descent could possibly take days, and time seemed to stop in the midst of its slow endeavor. The pulleys worked slow and methodically, and inside the crew acquainted themselves with their quarters. Some buzzed with excitement and monitored every mundane detail, while others simply sat themselves near others and silently observed. Each suit was equipped with a multi-language translator, to ensure they could communicate seamlessly regardless of their home origin. Each crewmate was instructed to keep the suit on at all times, until safely returning to the surface.
Even at a hundred miles deep, there seemed to be nothing of note, other than the occasional thud of someone falling from above. The sounds of the impact were steady, an almost rhythmic bump of people hurdling down, only to bounce off the structure and disappear into the darkness below. The impacts made some of the crewmates shiver and fidget, while others laughed.
At five-hundred miles, the video feed started to degrade, albeit slowly. Slow lines would creep into the 4k resolution, much like the effect of an old VHS player. Sometimes the audio would distort with a bit of static, slowly drawing out the words of the crewmates before returning to normal. After an inquiry from home base, it was reported everything was working nominally, both from the human crew and AI copilot.
A deep groan could be heard from within The Hole, but it was unknown if it was just the echoing strain of the cables, or coming from below.
The USS Hope had yet to report life forms of any kind, stating over and over that “there was just more darkness”.
At a thousand miles, the distortion happened more frequently. Visual feed would flicker every thirty seconds, and audio would distort in almost every vocalization. It was made note that there were some discrepancies in the shaft surrounding the submersible the deeper down they went, like the carved tunnel had started to change. Some of the crew merely hovered near others for comfort, while others started to pace, sometimes laying down on the floor or leaning against the wall for periods of time. When questioned by other crewmates, it was like they were pulled out of a daze. Some of them would wander off screen for hours at a time, hiding in blindspots of the cameras. Human crew reported difficulty in audio contact, as well as reported hearing voices other than those of the crew and the contact at homebase. The AI copilot assured everything was nominal. The pulleys continued to lower, unspooling their endless coils at the top of The Hole.
At two days, and approximately 1,800 miles, visual contact from the outer hull of the submersible ceased. There were several thuds heard outside the craft, although whether it was the result of falling corpses or something else, it is unsure. Half the human crew requested returning to the surface, the other half tried to reason, or berate. AI reported everything was nominal. Home base instructed to proceed with the mission, despite a potential mutiny in the crew.
After 2,000 miles, visual feed proved unreliable. The constant footage was reduced to a series of frozen stills—each from a random angle of the interior. A heavy grain of distortion had taken over the feed, and the color had been reduced to a high contrast of black and white. Some of the crew laid on the floor and refused to move. Some were seen staring at their reflection in mirrors throughout the craft. Some had taken their helmets off. Nobody appeared to be actively monitoring and piloting.
The audio seemed unable to maintain stable connection, and whatever did make it through was shattered. Sometimes it would be incoherent rambling, a muffled sob, a heavy labored breathing—all through waves of deafening static. None of the crew members would respond through direct contact. Whenever the AI copilot was contacted, it responded in a continuous feed of numbers, indecipherable pages of rolling code.
At 2,200 miles, a final transmission was heard from a human crewmate, although which one it is uncertain. It came in the form of a distorted scream, like their voice was being ripped apart. Televisions across the world faded to black. All video and audio transmissions ceased, and an emergency override was activated to order the AI copilot to return to the surface. The USS Hope stopped suddenly, and after the cables groaned and swayed in silence, it began its ascent.
It took two days for it to return to the surface, and through the painful hours left in the dark, no attempt to regain contact with the USS Hope was successful. We could only watch as The Cradle reeled it back in, through the ever growing march of those still succumbing to The Hole’s influence. A new team of freshly fabricated automatons were dispatched to open the hull, this time with a private feed to the different branches of government, away from the public eye.
When the submersible finally reached the top, televisions tuned back in to receive a control view from a safe distance, but even from far away, there was no denying the state of the USS Hope.
The entire submersible had been dented and splattered with heavy gore—but not penetrated. Tendrils of flesh and spotted mold clung to the craft, while some of it appeared frozen.
All of its outside equipment had been damaged beyond repair, including its spotlights, and the several protected antennae used to radio home.
Cutting torches ate through the mess diligently, but when the hatch was opened, the people could only speculate what was inside. Only the highest of clearances were allowed to see the interior, and whatever horror lay inside was never fully disclosed. But the effects of the impressions it left behind, would scar the earth forever.
It is unclear who gave the first order. Mere minutes after the hull was breached missiles were dispatched with the highest of payloads, all aimed at the total destruction of The Hole and everything around it. The madness that unfolded afterward came in a series of sirens and shockwaves, and before anyone could try to make sense of it, there was no one left to push a button.
It’s been years since I’ve been above ground. Human life has been reduced to a benign tumor, scratching around in dark tunnels with no real goal but to keep living. I won’t tell you how I know all this, because it really doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure if there’s anyone left up there to save, the sounds of mankind’s self destruction have been silent for some time now. The casualties caused by The Hole proved to be nothing against what we were capable of doing to ourselves. I don’t know what it looks like above ground, and I don’t have any plans of going up there any time soon.
I’ve come to accept this life we have now. Deep down I know we deserve it, some strange form of causality paying us back for all the bad we’ve done in the world. I’ve made amends with that. And even though the story of the USS “Hope” and “The Hole” are merely a glimmer of a memory, I still find myself terrified.
It’s not claustrophobia that gets to me, or the fact I’ll never see the sun again. It’s not that I know we’ll never rekindle what The Hole took away from us, or that the husks of people around me are probably the last humans I’ll ever see.
It’s the whisper I hear in the back of my head, just when I’m about to fall asleep. The Hole calls to me, a murmuring that doesn’t make sense, but one I understand nonetheless. It wants me to go to it. It wants me to feed it. I can brush it off for now, and most times it just feels like a bad dream.
Other times, I wake up standing in front of the bulkhead. Whatever it is, it’s still out there. Waiting patiently.
I… I don’t know how much longer I can resist.