Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  We lay her down. Her hair gets trapped under her shoulders, which keeps her head tilted back with her jaw pulled open.

  JuanCarlos hunches down and straightens her out, so she looks more dignified. He stands, not knowing what else to do. He takes a step back. His shirt and hands are covered in blood.

  BP clothing is scattered around. “You should change,” I say.

  He faces away and pulls his shirt over his head. His right shoulder-blade has a cross, and his left shoulder-blade has a Buddha, both tattoos recent enough to be inflamed.

  My camera is on the counter. I must have left it back here when I got the box cutter. Where is the box cutter? I put it down somewhere too; I just don’t remember where. I should film this and prove to myself that Tara is dead, but I don’t have the heart. JuanCarlos is grieving. I couldn’t do that to him.

  Hunter breaks down into a stream of babble: “BP, helped me. They did. Me and my dad. We’re talking again. He loves me. Matthew did this to help us. Help all of us.”

  I think Tara shooting herself has caused Hunter to lose it completely. He shouldn’t be here; he should be with the others in the coffee shop. I wish I could help him feel not so alone, but JuanCarlos needs me right now.

  Tara is dead.

  JuanCarlos cries out in anguish as he wipes his hands on his shirt.

  At least Hunter doesn’t seem in agony as he mumbles to himself. He pulls open a cabinet drawer. I’ll keep an eye on him, so he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else, but for now, I leave him be.

  I put my hand on JuanCarlos’s bare shoulder. “She’d want us to film Weber's confession. We can still do this.”

  “Dad, can you hear me? What should I do?” Hunter pulls out a catalog from the cabinet. What the hell!?

  I snatch it from him. I can smell it, and oh god, do I want to continue smelling it! I crave it on my skin. This is what I’ve been missing. I could die happy if I could smell this in my grave.

  JuanCarlos shoves Hunter against the wall; grief turned to anger in an instant. “He was exposing her!”

  I forgot where I was for a moment, but JuanCarlos’s anger scares me and knocks me back to reality. I’m standing over Tara’s body. She has a hole in her chest.

  He takes a switchblade from his pocket and puts it to Hunter's throat. “You did this to Tara.”

  “Hey, Stop!” Victor says. “Put the knife away!”

  I throw the catalog back into the cabinet and slam the drawer. “He didn't know what he was doing. The pheromone. It’s doing this to all of us.”

  JuanCarlos growls, “Hunter betrayed us. He needs to pay.” JuanCarlos is going to kill Hunter if I don’t do something!

  “Tara killed Loo!” It's the only thing that might make him understand.

  He lets go of Hunter and points his knife at me.

  My adrenaline spikes. “She told me last night,” I stammer. “She thought she was helping you.”

  “You're lying.”

  “We can't turn on each other like this.” My eyes water. “We have to hold Weber responsible. He did this to us!”

  I look to Tara on the floor. Blood has pooled around her body. Her face has lost its color.

  JuanCarlos punches the wall in rage. I’m gasping, crying, and shaking. I thought he was going to kill me. He throws his arms around me instead. He squeezes tight, calm already, calmer than me at least; my heart pounds as tears run down my face. He whispers in my ear, “You’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Just get Hunter out of here.”

  He lets me go and kneels back down beside Tara. He takes the ring box from his pocket and puts it in her hand.

  I wipe my eyes so I can see, sniff back snot, and firmly grasp Hunter’s upper arm. “Ow!” I don’t care if I’m hurting him. Victor follows behind us.

  “I’m not leaving,” Hunter protests. “I want to thank Matthew Weber personally. I want to be here. I have the right to be here! I work here too!”

  Victor and I shove him out the front door into the desert. He falls hard in the sand. But there’s no sand, there can’t be, so he must have landed on the sidewalk or even out in the street.

  Bram continues filming.

  “Make sure he doesn’t get back inside,” I say.

  Bram stands in the doorway as Victor and I get the filing cabinet from the stockroom. As we make our way back through the store, past Clara frantically cleaning, I can smell the catalog, and my desire to look through its pages scares me. We burst out the front door and heave the big hulking cabinet out into the sand. I have an impulse to run out and retrieve the catalog, but people are counting on me. They’re in the coffee shop. I can’t see them because of the desert, but they’re out there, most likely watching us.

  While most of the lower level BP employees are against the company, Hunter remains an example of a true loyalist. For his opinion that the activists should work with BP instead of demonizing them, he’s ostracized from the group. . . .

  [Bram] focuses the shot on Hunter standing beside the smashed filing cabinet in the middle of the street, which seems to have been blocked off because no traffic or pedestrians pass by the whole time they talk.

  “The catalog helped me with my father,” Hunter says to Eric, who is out of frame most of the time, but who watches from the sidewalk in front of BP’s entrance. “It helped you too. Admit it. How did you get over your parents?”

  Eric doesn’t respond.

  Hunter struggles with the filing cabinet, grabs a catalog, and shakes it in Eric’s direction. “The catalog helped you! It helped you grieve for the people you’ve lost. Weber did this to help us!”

  Hunter walks down the street. The camera pans, and we see a police barricade at the intersection. Riot police make an opening. People in hazmat suits rush through the opening and surround Hunter before he makes it very far down the street. . . .

  This is the first evidence [in “The Archive”] that governmental institutions have a role in the crisis. . . .

  Hunter gets a baton to the back of his legs, an entirely reasonable police response to a general population getting out of control. Hunter falls to his knees and screams something about his father, but the audio is difficult to make out because he’s too far away.

  The people in hazmat suits take the catalog away and seal it in a red bio-hazard bag. After they restrain Hunter and start dragging him away, the segment cuts off. (Sartain, 163-165)

  Like a mirage, Hunter wavers out in the desert heat and disappears.

  Bram changes his tape.

  Hunter doesn’t have any water. He’s alone out there. There’s nothing as far as the eye can see.

  The heat intensifies. I thought it was early spring. Climate change is really doing a number on us this year. The sand and the expansive sky are ridiculously bright. I squint and shield my eyes with my hand, but still can barely see.

  JuanCarlos, from behind me, touches my shoulder. “Wait with the others. We can take it from here.” Even if I wanted to abandon them, I’m not sure I could find the coffee shop. The whole world has been annihilated from climate change.

  Loo is dead. Adam is dead. Tara is dead. Who’s next? Who am I going to lose next? I lust for violence, but there is no one to fight.

  “It's too late,” I tell him. “The loneliness, the pain, the anger, it can't get any worse. I have to see this through.” I know it can get worse, but I don’t want to admit it out loud. If Matthew Weber doesn’t show soon, I won’t make it.

  Bram and JuanCarlos look to the horizon. Bram raises his camera to resume filming.

  I look to see what they’re looking at. A SANDSTORM billows.

  It’s a hallucination, surely. There’s no storm. But if there is no storm, what’s out there coming for us? Bram and JuanCarlos are looking at something.

  JuanCarlos looks scared. What could worry him so much if not a sandstorm?

  “What's out there?” I ask them.

  The footage resumes not long after the previous cut. Hunter has seemingly been detained an
d removed from the scene. The people in hazmat suits have regrouped and now advance toward BP in a formation that fans out in a line across the street.

  JuanCarlos can be heard telling everyone to get inside. The shot remains focused on the advancing line for an uncomfortable amount of time until it looks like the line is ready to pounce on the camera, but before they do, Bram ducks inside, and JuanCarlos closes the door. (Sartain, 172)

  Victor, JuanCarlos, Bram, and I retreat into BP. JuanCarlos locks the door behind us. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it seems like a good idea to get off the street before the sandstorm hits.

  Victor backs away as if the doors will be blasted open. I doubt the storm could be that strong, but it’s possible. Anything is possible now that the outside world has turned to sand.

  Victor asks me, “Should we let them in?”

  But I’ve let people in. I’ve done my best. JuanCarlos and Victor are both my friends. And Hunter… I hope he’s alright, that he found shelter out there in the desert. We didn’t give him any water. “We should have given him water.” All he has is the catalog. And where is Marshall? He never came back after he left this morning. Is he out there somewhere searching for other survivors?

  Bram films me.

  What is there left of me to film?

  The emptiness inside, with the rest of the world gone, is now more physical than emotional. I’m like a piñata without candy inside. I pull up my shirt. Sand pours from a HOLE in my stomach. That’s not good. The special effects budget continues to skyrocket.

  As the people in hazmat suits pound on the front doors, Eric pulls up his shirt and looks down at his stomach. “I'm just sand inside,” he says. His muscled abdomen looks normal. His hallucinations are obviously escalating.

  The pounding stops. The camera turns to the glass doors. A black woman in a pantsuit and gas mask waits to be let inside. She lifts a silver briefcase and points at it. (Sartain, 173)

  The sand blasts the glass. Figures stand out there in the churning. Maybe they are Adam’s shadow men or Abigail’s aliens. Whichever boogie men they are exactly, they want inside.

  Victor asked a question only a minute ago, and I don’t remember what it was. “Sorry, but you have to understand, all my sand is pouring out!”

  Victor opens the doors to the storm. It’s a strange relief; maybe I can get some of my sand back. But there is no storm, only a woman:

  MONIQUE, a 60-year-old scientist in a gas mask, steps inside with a silver briefcase.

  Where did she come from?

  Monique, all business, walks past us and goes deeper inside the store.

  My team exchanges looks and follows after her. I’m leaving a trail of sand on the floor. God! How much sand can pour out of me? I’m an hourglass running out of time.

  Monique removes papers from her briefcase and lays them out on the sales counter. Maybe she’s here to read the world’s last will and testament.

  “Is this it?” she says.

  Clara watches from a safe distance, clutching a bloody shirt. She hides the shirt behind her back.

  JuanCarlos and Victor surround Monique, closing in. Bram films them.

  “Where's Matthew Weber?” I say, trying to remain calm. I look under a display table. He has to be around here somewhere. Or he got lost in the desert. I would track his footprints, follow him to the edge of the earth, but the sandstorm must have wiped the prints away by now.

  “The founder is close by, but we've deemed it too unstable. I'll be his representative. I'm authorized to give you the treatment. All you have to do is sign these nondisclosure agreements. And hand over the camera.”

  “No ruttin' way,” Bram says.

  The scientist, if she’s really a scientist, glances around like she doesn’t trust us. “Is this everyone? Is there anyone in the back?”

  Only Tara’s body. We better not show the nice scientist Tara’s gaping shotgun wound. We don’t want to frighten her away.

  JuanCarlos takes Monique by the collar and shoves her up against the wall. Papers scatter onto the floor. “We talk to Matthew Weber.”

  “We want answers,” Victor says.

  “We were promised Matthew Weber!” My voice sounds desperate and alien.

  She pulls her mask to the top of her head. She stares JuanCarlos in the face. “It was my team. We embedded modified pheromone into the fibers of the catalog. It is causing all of this. It’s my fault as much as anyone’s.”

  “You admit it!? Why didn’t you warn people?” Victor says.

  “We didn't know the effects would accumulate. But we are rectifying the situation. Like I said, we have a treatment.”

  The corner of the room CRACKS OPEN and sand pours in. It can’t be real, but it feels real. God! How can I trust any of this is actually happening?!

  I lose the stability in my legs, and I grab Victor for support. “The papier-mâché! It’s ripping apart!”

  JuanCarlos lets go of Monique and gestures at me. “For God's sake, help him.”

  She removes a layer of foam from the briefcase and reveals a LINE OF SYRINGES. “If you sign, we'll treat the symptoms.”

  “What do you mean ‘treat the symptoms’?” Victor says, no doubt worried about his sister. “This isn’t a cure?”

  “The syndrome has an accumulative effect on the psyche,” she says. “It’s chemically inspired. The pheromone triggers things in the mind. We can neutralize the lingering pheromone in the system, but the lasting psychological effects… Drugs can only do so much.”

  Clara says from the corner, “But then how does… How does my son get better?!”

  Monique is right. It’s not just the pheromone causing this; it’s me. My fear of isolation, inspired by the latest BP posters, has created a desert that only I can see. But how do I stop it from consuming me? I saved myself last time, but I don’t think I can do it again. Before I was dealing with Foster Mom and Foster Dad’s death, but it’s more than that now. It’s everything. My whole world is falling apart.

  The room quakes with the RUMBLE of an approaching subway train. I back away, watching the sand fall from the ceiling. It’s coming! The fear. The isolation. It’s coming, and I can’t stop it!

  “How does anyone get better?” Monique says rhetorically. “Therapy.”

  “I’m not going to make it to therapy!” I wail. A two-dimensional subway train cuts through the room like a cleaver, obscuring the rest of the group from me.

  “No! I can’t do this alone!”

  Through the windows and between the subway cars of the speeding train, I can see the rest of the room change. Once the train finally passes, the walls have faded, revealing endless SAND DUNES. The scientist, Clara, JuanCarlos, Victor, and Bram are gone, leaving me behind to fend for myself under the relentless sun. I’m the last man on Earth.

  And then I discover what’s worse than being alone: My old friends Mindy and Shirin, or at least malicious versions of them that exist only in my mind, stand on either side of me out in the sand.

  They close in, Shirin’s black hijab blowing in the wind.

  I try to run, but as I back away, I sink into the sand up to my shins.

  “You're such a burden,” Mindy says, seeming fatter and more grotesque. “Your new friends had no choice but to leave you to save themselves.”

  “You make the house feel heavy,” Shirin says.

  “Adam and Tara killed themselves because of you.”

  “You’re such a downer.”

  “It’s no wonder the others had to flee.”

  After footage of Bram in the stockroom, the footage cuts back to a shot of Eric panicking in the checkout section. The scientist Monique, Eric’s friends JuanCarlos and Victor, and the protest organizer Clara Powers, are all here, even though it seems Eric can’t see any of them. In tears, he backs away into a wall of shelving.

  Off camera, Victor says, “How do we know the treatment isn't a trick to make us sign?”

  Eric shakes his head, looking at something
that's not there. He grabs a tool from the shelf beside him. It’s a box cutter with an extendable razorblade.

  Bram says from behind the camera, “Guys! Look out!” (Sartain, 210)

  Dunes are in all directions. Even if I could pull my feet from the sand, there’s nowhere to run. I’m clutching a UTILITY KNIFE. Did I manifest it with my mind to protect myself?

  Mindy and Shirin walk around me in a circle, like bullies on a schoolyard. I have to fight back!

  “Do it,” Mindy says, but she uses Victor’s voice.

  A disembodied female voice says, “Not until you sign.”

  “Fight back?” Shirin laughs at me. “No one wants you. Just end it already.”

  “Or the darkness will devour.” Mindy grins and glances to a dark shadow boiling on the horizon. It’s the size of a mountain, and it’s coming for us.

  I look back at the utility knife. Maybe it’s not to protect myself. Maybe it’s to slit my wrists. Everyone I love, the world takes away. I could let go and join them. I could end this struggle.

  [Monique] holds out a pen to JuanCarlos, who hesitates to sign.

  “Do it,” Victor says again off camera. “Before he gets worse.”

  The shot pans over to Eric, who stares at the extended blade in his hand.

  Victor has gone over to get the weapon from him. “Come on, Eric. Put it down. You're gonna hurt someone. We’re here. Everything will be okay.” (Sartain, 210)

  Mindy and Shirin on either side whisper malicious nothings while the sandstorm rushes in around us, the force of which almost knocks me over.

  “End the pain!” Mindy says in my ear.

  From the other side, I hear: “End your worthless life. Can’t you do everyone that one small favor?”

  They’re wrong. I’m not alone. I spin around with the knife, trying to fight them off.

  “I’m not alone!”

  Eric randomly slashes the air as he spins. Victor jumps back but is too late to avoid getting sliced in the shoulder.

  Eric continues to attack the air and repeatedly cries out, “I’m not! I’m not! I’m not!”

  He stops slashing and glances around like a frightened animal. His chest heaves for air. The deep breaths calm him a little. Everyone stays back.

  The shot scans around and finds Victor and his bleeding shoulder. “Damn.” He cringes in pain. “He really got me.” (Sartain, 210-211)