Mayhem has ruled the streets since our impending doom was announced a week ago.

Even the cracked pavement I was ambling down wasn’t spared from the chaos. A city gone mad around me, but I was just in search of a pack of watermelon bubblegum.

Folks were shoving each other or using bats to break into shops.

Glass crunched under my feet as the scent of burnt leather filled my nostrils.

Up ahead I can see a few fires lit up within some cars like it was the Fourth of July. Probably the source of the stench.

Hands shoved in my pockets, I whistle a small, aimless tune of some old commercial I saw as a kid. The beat was catchy and was constantly stuck in a loop in my head.

Skirting past a brawl that was leaving the sidewalk bloody, I scan the signs of the adjacent stores in search of the one I want.

These folks have it all wrong.

They’re fighting each other and hording goods, but we’re all going to die in 24 hours.

They really should be enjoying what life has to offer them in their final hours.

That was my plan anyways.

It’s not the first time I’ve faced my own death, but this might be the only time it actually sticks. Figured I’d live it up a bit before the clock chimed the end.

Death was coming for us all, no escaping it.

See Asteroid Seven, one of ten colossal rocks hellbent on ruining everything I had planned for my life, was aimed right at Earth. The rest of them? Moonbound or just passing through.

Just as I’m about to turn around to go down a different street, a bright pink neon sign catches my attention like a siren calling sailors to their fate.

A smile grows across my face as my pace quickens.

Shoving the bar rimmed glass door open, a tinkling bell announces my arrival.

The cashier grumbles in my direction without looking up as they sit hunched over a small device, the news blaring updates on the asteroid’s trajectory.

Flickering lights show me the way to a picked over candy aisle that boasts only a few remaining items. Mostly the stuff that no one ever wants but somehow is always available.

Holding my breath, I search every shelf and duck down to reach my hand to the dark corners in hopes I might find something.

My fingers brush something rectangular and my heart begins to pound.

Pulling it out from its hiding place, I realize the universe has finally rewarded me.

The iconic pink wrapper seems to shimmer under the fluorescent light like it’s winking at the irony of me finding it when the world is ending around us.

Clutching my treasure to my chest, I traipse over to the counter and hand a five dollar bill to the cashier who snatches it before returning their attention to their device again.

Moving to the side, I open the plastic wrapping and pull out a slender slice of gum.

Pocketing the rest, I hold the gum in my cupped palms.

I raise it to my nose and inhale its sugary scent bringing memories of sunshine glinting off of pool water, bikes in the cul-de-sac, and fresh cut grass of a baseball field.

I carefully unwrap the gum and slowly place it on my tongue.

The fruity flavor bursts along my tastebuds just as shouts erupt.

Gun shots go off around me in the store.

Blood splatters across my cheek but I’m back on that sun-drenched baseball field tasting summer one last time.