The asteroid hadn’t deviated from its course, and nobody expected it would except for the true believers who had congregated on an ersatz floating city in the South Pacific, at the projected impact point. There they knelt and prayed in eight-hour shifts, tens of thousands of murmuring voices.
At first we ridiculed them, the irrational, idiotic futility of their whispers against the coming roar. But slowly, things changed. More and more of us found ourselves tuning into the live feed, playing it at night, and then at work — at first on headphones and then, once we realized everyone else was listening too, aloud. We collected food and fresh water, small gifts, offerings, and shipped them there.
A week before Last Day, I stepped off a cruise ship with several hundred others and joined them. And for the past seven days, I have prayed with them. I don’t believe our voices are heard; I don’t believe tomorrow will come for anyone on Earth. I’m praying not from hope, but because of fervent desire for time we can’t possibly have. Because words and desire are all that’s left — that, and kinship with those around me. We are connected. We are together. We pray.
More than a few of us lift our heads when it comes. But I don’t stop praying until the crash.