Lauren: They're All Gone

"What do you mean, they walked out?"

Dad's irate voice spills into the hall. He's screaming.

Surfacing from my computer screen for the first time in five hours, I squint in the direction of his office as my stomach rumbles.

"If you don't get every single one of their asses back in their chairs in an hour, you're all fired. Yes, every one of you! Do you think this company's a joke?!"

Shit.

The crash of Dad's phone against the receiver echoes through the office. My heart races as I approach his door, the acrid scent of his cologne mingling with the stale air.

"Dad?"

His face, a mottled red, turns to me. Veins pulse at his temples. "What?"

"I heard... Is everything okay?"

"Okay?" He barks out a laugh. "Half the damn company's walked out. Worried about that stupid countdown nonsense."

My stomach drops. The timer on my phone feels like a lead weight in my pocket. "What? But why—"

"I don't know, and I don't care. We have too much to do." He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "See how many people are left. Now."

There's no point protesting when he's like this, so I back off, glancing around the floor. It's eerily quiet. No clicking of keyboards, no murmur of voices.

How did I not notice?

Our floor feels like a ghost town. Empty chairs. Blank computer screens. My footsteps echo as I pass by the reception desk. Sarah's family photo sits abandoned next to her headset.

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal an empty car. As I descend, floor by floor, my chest tightens. Each level greets me with the same silence, the same emptiness.

Marketing. Human Resources. Accounting. One after another, deserted.

By the time I reach the lobby, I've given up. There's no one here. Dad's tirade probably scared the last of them off.

We can't fire an entire company. We'll be screwed without an entire work force.

"Miss Lauren?"

I jump at the voice, turning to see Mario, our security guard. His weathered face creases with concern.

"Mario? What happened? Where is everyone?"

He shrugs, his uniform looking oddly out of place in the deserted lobby. "They all left at once. Like a stampede."

"But... why are you still here?"

Mario's eyes soften. He fidgets with his hat. "You've always been good to me, Miss Lauren. Couldn't just leave without saying goodbye."

A lump forms in my throat. I think of all the times Mario greeted me with a smile, asked about my day. How he always saved me a parking spot close to the door on late nights.

"Mario, you should go home. There's no point in staying if no one else is here."

He hesitates, glancing around the empty lobby. "You sure?"

I nod, forcing a smile. "I'm sure. Go be with your family."

His shoulders sag with relief. He gives me a small salute. "Take care, Miss Lauren."

As he walks away, the vastness of the empty building settles over me. The silence is deafening. I pull out my phone, the countdown ticking away mercilessly.

What am I supposed to tell Dad?

My feet feel like lead as I make my way back to the elevator. Each floor passes in a blur of emptiness. When I reach our level, Dad's voice booms from his office.

"Lauren! Where the hell is everyone?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for his reaction. "Everyone's gone."

His face contorts, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "What do you mean, gone? All of them?"

"Yes, every floor is empty. It's just us now."

Dad's fist slams against his desk. "Cowards! All of them! After everything I've done for this company!"

I flinch at his outburst, my own frustration bubbling up. "Dad, maybe we should consider—"

"Consider what? Running away like scared children? Absolutely not." He glares at me. "We have work to do. You'll have to pick up the slack."

My jaw clenches. "Dad, there's no one left. How are we supposed to run an entire company with just the two of us?"

"We'll manage. We always do." He turns back to his computer. "Now get to work. Start with the Johnson account."

I stand there, frozen. The weight of the situation crashes over me. Everyone's gone. The world might be ending. And Dad wants me to work on an account?

"Lauren! Did you hear me?"

My hands ball into fists. "Yes, Dad. I heard you."

As I turn to leave, a flicker of movement catches my eye. Outside the window, people stream down the street. Cars honk. A faint siren wails in the distance.

I head back to my computer, but this time, I don't pull up the Johnson account. Instead, I open my favorite internet browser and check the news.

Everyone didn't just get up on a whim and leave. There was either an effort of coordination, or something happened to terrify everyone who was on the fence about this doomsday virus.

The news site loads, its homepage a chaotic mosaic of urgent headlines and flashing alerts. My eyes dart from one sensational title to the next, each more alarming than the last. A video starts playing automatically.

"Good afternoon. We interrupt our regular programming to bring you breaking news from across the nation."

My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly as I turn up the volume.

"Reports are flooding in from major cities across the country of a mysterious countdown appearing on digital billboards, smartphones, and other electronic devices."

The camera cuts to footage of Times Square. My breath catches in my throat. Every massive screen, usually ablaze with advertisements, now displays the same ominous timer I've been seeing on my phone. Crowds mill about, their faces a mix of confusion and fear as they stare up at the looming numbers.

"As you can see, the situation in New York City is tense. Similar scenes are unfolding in Los Angeles, Chicago, and other metropolitan areas."

The video switches to aerial footage of downtown LA. Streets choked with cars, horns blaring in a cacophony of panic. People abandon their vehicles, streaming out onto the sidewalks and into the roads.

"Local authorities are urging citizens to remain calm, but as the hours tick by, unrest is growing."

A lump forms in my throat as the camera zooms in on a group of people smashing store windows. The glint of broken glass catches the sunlight as looters pour into the shop.

"In some areas, the situation has escalated to rioting."

The scene shifts again. This time, it's a wall of police officers in full riot gear, their shields raised as they face off against an angry mob. The air is thick with tear gas, figures stumbling through the haze.

This can't be real. It has to be some kind of sick joke or mass hallucination. But as I watch people flee, their faces contorted in terror, I know it's all too real.

"The White House has yet to release an official statement, but sources close to the administration say emergency meetings are underway."

I barely register the reporter's words as the footage continues to roll. Families huddled together in the streets, clutching each other. Store shelves stripped bare. Lines of cars stretching for miles as people try to flee the cities.

This is what happens when millions of people realize their world might be ending.