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Phil went outside once the broadcasts started to repeat themselves. Hours ago there'd been screaming and shouting, but now the world was quieter, realization settling in. Someone set off fireworks at the end of the block. A neighbor had put out a buffet, kids chowing down on pizza and chocolate, a birthday party for the end of the world.
Phone lines were down. Phil drove to the music festival on the city limits and reached it by late evening, pulling into a lot flooded with headlights. Wilbur's face twisted when he saw him backstage, and a moment later he was in his arms, hugging tight like he hadn't since eleven. "Phil," he gasped, "Dad, fuck, I didn't think you'd-- how did you-- look, I know it's selfish but I can't leave now, the show's going on--"
"I don't expect you to leave," Phil told him, full up on agonized relief. Dread had eaten his organs all through the drive, but here was his son in front of him, alive and devoted to what he loved. He hadn't died in the chaos. Phil had found him. "That fucking thing's the size of New Jersey, where would we even go?"
"Underground, possibly," Wilbur said, "but I'll rather court a quick death over a slow one. Go out with a bang, one last power chord. You want front row seats? I warn you, you'd be right by the stage. Could be loud for old man ears."
"Fuck off, child, I was going to concerts before you were born," Phil told him, and when the band started filing onstage he went around to the seats by the speakers where he could see his son up close.
Next to him at the front was a scrappy-looking blond kid, wearing clothes that could've come out of a Goodwill. Tommy had others with him, a short brunet and a tall one, but Phil knew him on sight. Wilbur had sent a lot of pictures over the past couple years.
"Wil came and got us out of the city," Tommy told him when he asked, hunched like for a blow. "He's-- it'll be a good set tonight, you know? And we're all here. If we're dying anyway, it might as well be to music, yeah? Not like we've got anywhere else to be."
"I'm glad you're here," Phil said, meaning it. "You're lucky to have each other. Death can be scary, but it's not so bad with loved ones around-- and anyway, it's looking like it'll be a hell of a show."
Opening chords. A ragged cheer rose up, crescendoed as the crowd threw themselves into it. Wilbur stood out on the stage, backlit by blinding white, the evening washed out to stars and wispy clouds. One of the stars was larger than the ISS, brighter than Venus. Coming closer. Tommy huddled into his friends as the first song started, slipped a sweaty hand into Phil's. Phil squeezed his fingers, reached out for one of the others when they slunk toward him, let them take comfort in his steadiness. The bass line pulsed through their feet.
Phone lines were down. Wilbur was here, close enough to reach with reckless driving, but Techno was on another continent, separated by leagues of dead air. Probably he was looking up at the night sky too, waiting for what happened next, but Phil wouldn't get to know for sure. He'd just have to hope Techno died quicker than they did.
A third song queued up. Wilbur met his eyes from behind the microphone and smiled, rueful and exhausted. He'd play right up until the impact.
Phil pushed aside his grief and horror, the furious wish that they could've all died together somewhere private, said their goodbyes and gone out painless, and smiled back, letting the rhythm draw his heartbeat up faster. Stood there in the soothing dark, crickets singing in the grass, food trucks giving out snacks for free.
The end of the world would come by dawn, but they could live in the present for a little while longer. Death would find them whether they feared it or not.