It was like any other day.
The sun sat directly overhead, warming the waves as they rolled by.
The sails of my vessel creaked rhythmically, and the hull bent as if it would fail at any moment. I wiped the sweat off my brow and focused on the small dot on the horizon.
I would reach that small dot in around four hour’s time, just before sunset.
I straightened the wheel and let the wind take the reins as I sat on the floor and drank my final bottle of water. Being recycled rainwater, it had a small and rather strange aftertaste, but was extraordinarily crisp nonetheless. I set the then empty bottle down and shifted my attention to the wall opposite to me. The yellowing calendar pinned on the wall was covered in little red lines, reminding me of the length of this journey, and precisely why I had to continue.
It was day three-hundred and eighty four.
A year since we were exiled to the seas.
A year since the angels came.
A full year prior I was just like anyone else. I went to school like everyone else, and I had dreams and aspirations like everyone else. I had a family like everyone else. I certainly wasn’t a prodigy by any means, but I was normal, and lived a normal life; and looking back it’s something I far too often took for granted.
Then, as if a switch flipped, the day of reckoning came.
New York City was the first to be hit. Distant spectators of the first arrival recalled a blinding light in the center of the city, followed by a faint chorus of beautiful singing far onto the horizon.
The reality however, was far more sinister than the surface-level observations could ever predict. Those present at the first arrival shortly broke out into deranged fits of screaming for up to a full day at a time, abject horror plastered across their face. Then as if a switch flipped once more, they would simply go silent, and begin walking. Regardless of where they were, they all began walking in the same direction, through streets and mountains, hills and valleys; all towards an imaginary point on the horizon only they could see.
Of course, many collapsed and perished before completing their journey. However, every victim of this event had one common denominator, being they all perished face-down, with a single outstretched arm pointing in the same direction.
Across the planet, they all seemed to be pointing towards an unknown point on the oceanic horizon. Before the grid was officially knocked out from the following few hundred arrivals, many, such as myself, took note of this and departed to the seas in order to hopefully find this point.
Perhaps that point was the origin of the cataclysmic events. The surviving few of us could maybe put an end to everything, by some unreasonable odds and methods of which we didn’t know at the time. Perhaps we might meet the same unfortunate fate once we arrived. All we knew is that it was the only certainty we had left, and we were most certainly not going to let it slip away.
We were thankfully right in our assertions, as around fifty miles apart each, there were about a dozen islands at that imaginary point in the distance, fashioned in a strange geological grid. One of them presumably had some semblance of the answers we were looking for, but I had found no such thing in my previous three visits to the outlying islands. There were mostly friendly island locals you could trade with that would often offer shelter from the night, but they rarely spoke a single word, and didn’t appear to understand much spoken to them either.
Nevertheless, I persisted.
I shook myself back to reality, and noticed that the dot on the horizon was now significantly closer.
Similarly, another sailboat was approaching on the horizon as well, seeming to go perpendicular to my path.
I used a mirror to attempt to signal them to little avail, and they were eventually almost on my starboard side. I quickly ignited the auxiliary motor, it slowly sputtering to life as it sluggishly propelled me out of the incoming ship’s path. As it passed behind me I peered over the deck to potentially catch a glimpse of another survivor, only to see the deck of the boat in shambles. Supplies thrown around, with the interior in an even further state of disarray.
There was no captain to be seen, presumably lost at sea by an arrival.
The arrivals were far more uncommon at sea, being practically non-existent during the day. However at night, sailing in open water was far more of a risky gamble, so being on land and sheltered was a far safer bet.
When I departed the shoreline eleven months prior, I could spot around eleven ships on the horizon sailing in the same direction. We never directly interacted closely, as large groups of people seemed to attract the angels, but would occasionally signal each other from a distance regarding heading and weather conditions and such. On many occasions, singing or laughing could be heard coming from distant vessels, showing some semblance of normal life.
By this point, I was the only surviving member of that makeshift fleet.
Nobody else made it to the first island.
Nevertheless, I paid my respects to the ship as it passed by, and continued on.
The original dot on the horizon had begun to grow into a largely visible land mass, and the sun was just beginning to set. As any other day, I stood up and took charge of the wheel, and as any other day, I continued on.