Ahead happened, which if you've read, you'd probably agree was worth the delay.

There's something appealing about disaster stories; it's weirdly comforting to consider the worst-case scenario to drag you away from stressing over the small stuff for a while. I wanted to write a book about the end of the world to distract myself - plus there's a small, superficial part of me that always wondered if I'd lose weight if society fell apart. Like if I spent all my time walking or riding or running from danger, eating from the land, surely my extra kilos would melt away - like a boot camp but with the imminent threat of death to create extra motivation.

A final note: I'm trying something new with this story - I'm not going to define the racial characteristics of my main characters. This might sound weird, but when I picture a book character, I automatically imagine that they look kinda like me unless I'm told otherwise. Maybe you're the same, but then as you read, the character suddenly has blue eyes or poker straight hair or something else you don't have and the illusion is ruined.

So whether you'd like Karla and Rueben to present as Japanese, African, Indian, Islander, Aboriginal or anything else you identify as, I'll leave their looks up to your imagination :) The book is set in Australia, but we're a pretty multi-cultural land.

Much love and happy reading,

Kate J. Squires, August 2019

*

The end of the world began on a Tuesday. "I'm not even surprised," I said to my team as we watched newsreader weep on the office TV. "Whenever something truly crappy happens in my life, it almost always goes down on a Tuesday."

Bailey, my assistant, shrugged. "If the world has to end, way better to happen on a Tuesday than a weekend. Like what if it was Friday and Nev's weekly Tinder profile update got interrupted? Now that's a real tragedy."

"Shut up, Bailey," said Neveah, throwing a box of tissues across the room, then smoothing her chemically straightened hair back into place.

"You shut up, you walking cliché." Bailey threw the tissues back at her.

Nev ducked, wobbling on her high heels. "Ugh, you're such a knob, Bailey."

"Gender neutral insults, please," growled Simon from his place on the couch.

"Knob is gender neutral."

"Knob refers to male genitalia. Not a gender-neutral insult, and therefore not an appropriate slur for Bailey." Simon was always a defender of political correctness, which was usually handy when people stuffed up around Bailey. Not so much when we had bigger problems, like the disintegration of civilisation as we knew it.

"OMG," said Nev. "The bloody world is ending and you still want to friggen correct and insult me? You guys are impossible!"

Simon retorted, "'Guys' isn't gender neutral either."

"Well, how else do I yell at both of you? Karla banned me from saying 'yewse!'"

Bailey winced. "Your voice could make a banshee buy earplugs."

Using a falsetto squeal that brought tears to the eyes, Nev ripped back into both of them. I turned to our client and mentally composed an apology. They're normally very cohesive, friendly friction inspires creativity... Then I realised that it didn't matter; the contract that would have changed everything for our business meant nothing any more. Instead I smiled weakly at Reuben and said, "So, any plans for the last day of the universe as we know it?"

The day had started so well... I'd woken up at six, filled with anticipatory energy. Today I pitch to the largest energy company in Australia. The client I'd been pursuing for months by sucking up to secretaries, schmoozing big wigs at boring corporate dos, sending carefully composed email after email. I knew they needed us, and all I needed to convince them was fifteen minutes in a room with a flawless PowerPoint presentation.

Someone from their executive team was due to arrive at the Creative Minds office at ten, and I more than ready. I leapt out of bed, for once not annoyed by the fact that my room was so tiny, I only had six inches between my mattress and the wall. Although, as always when I had to squeeze myself into a small space, I lamented that if I wasn't such a fat ass, my life would be so much easier.

Edging my way around to my cupboard, I pulled out my well-planned outfit: a black pair of black, pin-tucked pants (with a stretchy waistband), and a floaty H&M shirt that hung almost to my knees in a fierce leopard print. Oh, and a pair of industrial strength suck-me-in underwear.

Armed to face the world, I moved into my lounge room. By which I mean, I moved to the end of my bed, where a two-seater Ikea couch faced a small TV. I reached for my favourite boots (knee-high, black leather, extra-wide to fit around my chunky calves) and flipped on a random morning show.

"...overnight, with talks once again breaking down between the two nations. With threats of retaliation escalating, the UN has implored leaders to put the fate of the world before their differences..."

Blah, blah, white noise, blah. We'd been hearing this nonsense for months, with the media hyping every bitchy tweet out of the Oval Office, and the indignant responses from the sovereign nation who controlled the majority of the world's fuel supplies. There'd been a news frenzy a few weeks ago when the US said they'd invented a type of nano-bot that could spread across the globe and render all fossil fuels useless, but then the other side had retaliated by saying they'd also created a nano-bot that could destroy all electrical circuits, so the US better think twice, too big for their cowboy boots, etc.

It had been a combination of terrifying and thrilling as Instagram was suddenly taken over with ads for solar-powered flashlights and DIY doomsday kits, while the Twittersphere blew up with people debating which career would be most useful on a post-apocalyptic planet.

But that level of stimulation was too hard to maintain, and I had a very clear insight into how people must have felt in the 50s during constant nuclear threat, awaiting a guillotine that might never drop and needing to still pay bills and buy tampons and think about Christmas presents. Life more or less continued with excessively high fuel prices and a hint of existential dread looming in the background - which as a millennial, was pretty much how I lived my days normally anyway.

Although, I considered as I sucked in my stomach and inspected myself in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door, this day was anything but normal. Today is the day everything changes for me.

I pushed the door open, shaking my hair and attempting to greet the day with complete confidence. I've got this, I said silently, stepping forward from my bedroom and into the Creative Minds office.

When I'd left my previous job to start my own company, I'd had to make a monetary choice: crappy office and live with roommates somewhere reasonably nice, or pretty awesome office and live in the storage cupboard out the back. I'd chosen the latter. The office building in Mascot was right near Sydney International Airport, and although it was built into the back of a 7-Eleven fuel station, it was red brick, high-ceilinged, and very funky. I sold my beautiful four-poster bed on Facebook Marketplace and ordered a slender single mattress, moved in the office, and never looked back.

That was two years ago, and I didn't regret my choice. Yep, I couldn't invite people over at night just in case the landlord came past and started wondering why the lights were on, and yes, my elbows were constantly skinned from bashing them against the raw brick in my miniscule room, and you better believe that every month I fretted that I wouldn't make rent. But against all odds, my company had bloomed and grown, from just me to three full-time staff and enough contractors to keep the place looking busy and important when clients dropped by.

And since a very important client was dropping by today, I had all hands on deck. Clacking on my boot heels into the staff kitchenette, (that makes it sound super-fancy; it was a sink, a microwave, an electric kettle and a bar fridge, with a couple of mismatched chairs around a vintage lino table) I turned on the coffee machine and retrieved the good coffee pods from where I'd hidden them from Simon last week after Nev dobbed him in for drinking seven cups a day.

I spent two hours practicing my presentation until I was convinced it was flawless, then hurried into the coffin-sized bathroom and made myself presentable. That meant just enough makeup that Nev wouldn't ask if I was sick, and not so much makeup that Bailey would ask if I was trying to impress someone. #moderngirlproblems

My stomach suddenly burbled, a sound that might have been mistaken for a word it was so loud. "Crap." Not enough time to duck out and find healthy breakfast, but I couldn't not eat. I'd planned to put out a few baked goods for our potential client anyway; surely I deserved one?

I fished about in the cupboard, battling with myself. On the one hand, I knew that if I ate a bagel or a Danish, that was it – the day would be a right-off because I'd eat junk for the rest of the day, justifying that I'd start again tomorrow. If I didn't eat, I'd be off my game, irritable and distracted. I couldn't afford that.

With one hand, I balanced the tray of baked goodies as I walked them through to the conference room at the front of the office. With my other hand, I quickly stuffed a frosted rhubarb donut into my face, once again wishing for the money to pay a personal chef to make me healthy meals, and a personal trainer to whip my butt into shape.

Being overweight wasn't the most important part about me; it was more like being born with a weird birthmark on my butt or having an extra nipple. It was something I was conscious of and would change if I could, but I could also hide it most of the time. Long shirts, loose dresses, and never let anyone see you naked, and maybe, just maybe, the world could overlook the extra kilos around your belly.

Sighing, I locked myself in my office with payroll paperwork and a chocolate croissant. It's not like anyone was regularly requesting to see me naked anyway...

Two hours later, the office was filled with creative-types, all looking busy, and I was calm and ready. Nev stuck her head around my door. "He's here! I put him in the conference room."

My stomach attempted to turn itself inside out. I stood and strode forward to meet my destiny. "Thank you, Nev."

"And he's pretty hot," she continued, her face confused. "Like, for an old dude. Like, he must be at least thirty? So old... Oh, wait – you're thirty-something, aren't you?"

I bristled as I walked through the office. "I'm twenty-nine, Nev, which is not exactly ancient."

As if I was an octogenarian, Nev said, "Yeah... I guess..."

"Okay, team, showtime," I called out to Simon and Bailey. They flanked me, and as a unit we entered the conference room.

"Hello," I said brightly, crossing the room and offering my hand to the admittedly-attractive man seated at the table. "I'm Karla Cook, Creative Director."

"Rueben Burke," he responded, offering a warm hand. "Executive of Future Directions, Australian Energy."

Be professional, I warned my nipples as they thought about hardening. Just because you're within proximity of a moderately attractive man does not mean it's time to throw a party and distract me.

Besides, he wasn't that attractive. Did he have my three favourite features: a short beard, kind eyes and no wedding ring? Sure, but he wasn't going to be chosen as the next Bachelor any time soon. Calm yourself.

"Nice to meet you, Rueben. This is my team." Do me proud, you guys.

Nev spoke first. "I'm Neveah Sanderson, Social Media Expert. If you want it trending, I can make it happen." She pursed her puffy lips in his direction. "Last year, I literally made worm farms the most searched hashtag on Insta. You're welcome, environment."

Simon grunted, folding his arms over his beer belly. "I'm Simon McCall. I produce content. Videos, animations, interactives. I don't do boring, and I won't do anything I don't believe in."

"Unless it pays well," said Bailey with a giant eyeroll. "My name is Bailey, I'm non-binary and my pronouns are they and them. I make everything happen. They have the ideas, but I'm the one at the 24-hour Kmart at three in the morning the night before a shoot because no one remembered the script called for a sequin unicorn pencil case."

To his credit, Rueben just smiled pleasantly at the three of them, then looked at me. "And what does a creative director do?"

"Well, my superpower is problem solving." The team sat, and I walked over to my clicker and lit the screen up, the first slide reading 'Australian Energy; Engaging the Future.' "I'm a project manager, trouble shooter, diplomat and all-around boss. I'm also a master Googler."

"Is that an official title?" he asked, a touch of a grin pulling at his features.

"It's a nationally recognised qualification," I responded without missing a beat. "Now, I'd like to start by walking you through some of Creative Minds biggest success stories to date-"

"Boss!" Rex, our brilliant Filipino animator burst into the office. "Susmaryosep, you need to see this!"

Anger flared in my chest. I balanced a silent scream of frustration with a serene smile. "Rex, we're in the middle of an important meeting. I'll catch up with you after this."

I turned back to Rueben, but Rex thumped the table. "No, you don't understand! You need to see this!"

Without waiting for my permission, he snatched up the remote for the widescreen TV and changed the source. My carefully curated presentation disappeared, and a news broadcast appeared.

And as we saw the words scrawling across the bottom of the screen and heard the announcer's terror, the world changed forever.