The Seventh Day

by Scott Shepherd

  “I suggest you take a few steps back.”

  Fixer didn’t need to be told more than once.

  Abe pulled out a lighter. “Sometimes it’s good to triple-check,” Abe said as he flicked it and held the lighter over the makeshift fuse.

  Then Abe shoved Fixer to the ground and jumped on top of him.

  The explosion burst the engine into a thousand pieces.

  The two men watched in silence as parts smoldered on the ground and the flames died out. Finally, Abe helped his chagrined employee to his feet.

  “Double-check and triple-check.”

  “Gotcha,” replied a mollified Fixer.

  “Broom and dustpan are in the closet just inside the door.”

  Abe patted Fixer on the shoulder and went back in the garage.

  It was the last time Fixer had to use the broom and dustpan to sweep up explosive debris. He’d been extra careful all those years he worked at Abe’s after that. Sometimes he even quadruple-checked.

  Now, as he busied himself pairing pieces that had as much business being conjoined as a cat and dog, he kept thinking about that day in the parking lot outside Abe’s.

  He highly doubted that the Strangers triple-checked anything. They had grabbed so much stuff in such a short period of time that advanced civilization or not, they couldn’t have gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb before heading back across the universe. They took the cream of Earth’s crops and left the rest behind. The debris field proved it. The abandoned parts might be worthless by themselves, but like that engine tube in Abe’s lot years before, there might be something worth rechecking.

  So, Fixer kept building his strange little automobile while peering inside each and every piece he dug out of the red-loamed dirt. It took a while, but he finally found a gear and a bolt with similar smudges to what Abe had shown him. He casually fit them into the core of the car, and kept about his business.

  Primo kept nudging him along, impatient to get moving. Fixer walked a delicate balance, giving the impression he was making progress so that Secundo wouldn’t just get frustrated and slit his throat, but slowing things enough to give Joad time to find him.

  At least Fixer had a backup plan in case Joad hadn’t gotten his Morse message back at the spaceship or didn’t even go looking for him in the first place (which would have disappointed Fixer deeply).

  His eyes kept straying to the smudged gear and bolt, as he thought about what would happen when he focused his Gift and powered them up.

  Fixer did everything in his power not to grin.

  Primo sensed he was preoccupied and shoved him in the back.

  “Keep at it.”

  Fixer couldn’t wait for the eldest brother to take his new car out for a test drive.

  He had been watching for a few hours.

  When he’d first come upon Fixer and the brothers, Joad was tempted to plow straight ahead with a rescue effort. But he immediately reconsidered when he saw Fixer in the middle of a field that resembled a garage sale that had imploded on itself. Joad was immediately curious about what the man was up to—and it didn’t take long (between Primo barking orders and Fixer working away) for him to figure out they were building some kind of vehicle.

  Joad had been smart enough to leave his horse about a half-mile behind. He’d seen the random cloudbursts as he moved southwest, and figured Primo was having a hard time controlling his temper. (Which was corroborated as Joad watched the oldest brother grow impatient with Fixer, causing the now-familiar concentrated climate changes). Joad decided to lie low in the foliage near a muddy pond, about a hundred yards from the field. He figured he could still make a run for his mount if need be. That way, his horse wouldn’t betray his presence by moving around unnecessarily.

  As the contraption became more defined, Joad wondered about Fixer’s exact plan. To call it a car would have been an insult to General Motors. It looked like a thick pogo stick with a seat and wheels; not quite a streamlined motorcycle, but it did remind him of those bikes that Peter Fonda and his buddies hit the road on years ago, backed by a Steppenwolf anthem.

  It was going to be able to seat only one person, which Joad was certain wouldn’t be Fixer. The only question was, how long after its completion would the brothers decide to get rid of its inventor? Strangely enough, Fixer didn’t look worried—he just continued to work away. Joad could see how the man might actually have made a go at those garages he was going to open with his half-sister. Joad figured that Fixer had to know his time was up the moment he finished, which likely accounted for the deliberate manner in which he was putting each piece together.

  Was he stalling for time until Joad arrived? Or did Fixer have something else up his sleeve for the brothers?

  Joad had no way to know. But he was intrigued by the vehicle and started to think of ways he could grab Fixer and his contraption in one fell swoop.

  He sank deeper in the bushes and fingered the slingshot in his side pocket, while waiting for answers and the situation to unfold.

  Primo had been watching Fixer like a hawk.

  He noticed the increased fervor with which the man had begun to work, and knew it couldn’t just be plain enthusiasm.

  Fixer was definitely up to something.

  He’d seen him move his fingers more than a few times over a particular gear. Fixer had clicked it into place the first go-round. Then he must have checked it half a dozen times as he continued to add parts onto the vehicle.

  Primo didn’t like the look of that. Not one bit.

  What had his old shop teacher said? Measure twice. Cut once.

  Not six times.

  Primo encouraged Fixer to keep going. He was definitely going to let him finish the job.

  But Primo wasn’t going anywhere near the thing when it was done.

  Not until Fixer got on it first.

  SAYERS

  He was having a hard time enjoying himself.

  It hadn’t been a fight, actually. Barely a disagreement.

  Naomi wasn’t much for arguing; it was one of the many things he adored about her. She said little about the unpleasantness of her first marriage—all Sayers really knew was that the jerk had cheated on her, and upped and left, never to be heard from again. Sayers was constantly amazed at how—what was the phrase he used to hear growing up? Oh, yeah—“high on life” she was. Working days at the car wash while raising the little girl on her own, with nary a complaint. He’d known before the entrée was served on their blind date at The Carvery that Naomi was something special. By the time they shared a humongous piece of key lime pie, he was ready to propose.

  And did three months later.

  The only reason it took that long was the girl.

  Not that there was anything wrong with Laura. Far from it. She was a sweet, whip-smart child who went through life with the same smile as her mother; there didn’t seem to be a mean bone in her tiny body. But she was six years old. And Sayers didn’t know how to act around her.

  Tommy had mentioned it during the pitching change. They’d gotten around to a lot of stuff in the first five innings; mostly sports-related and a bunch of things going on at the medical center where they both worked. Tommy had asked how married life was going (“She’s an angel,” Sayers had said), and eventually wondered how things were with the kid.

  “We don’t talk much,” Sayers told him.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t really know what to say,” Sayers admitted.

  “That’s kind of bizarre,” Tommy pointed out. “Seeing as how you’re a kids’ doctor.”

  “I spend my days saying ‘Go ahhhh, I promise this won’t hurt, and which flavor lollipop do you like’? It’s not like we get into a lot of deep discussions.”

  “Who has deep discussions with a five-year-old?”

  “You haven’t met Laura. She’s six going on forty.”

  Sayers was used to taking a clinical approach with children. He pronounced them healthy for school or prescribed an antibio
tic for the ones with strep. On the rare occasion that something not so nice came through the door—a diagnosis that sent the child to a specialist for something that threatened to break Sayers’s spirit—he’d been thankful he didn’t have one of his own for God to play a nasty trick on.

  Now he’d gone from bachelor to new husband with a five-year-old who wanted to be his best friend and the daughter he never had.

  He was having trouble adjusting.

  “They can be a handful when they’re young,” agreed Tommy as he bought a third hot dog from a vendor. “How old again?”

  “Six today. It’s actually her birthday.”

  “Really?”

  Sayers sipped his second beer and nodded. “Yep.” He looked up at the clock on the Coors Field Jumbotron. “Party oughta be starting just about now.”

  “Then, how come you’re out here with me?”

  “Because you asked me to go a month ago, and I was looking forward to it.”

  “We could’ve gone to a different game.”

  “Naomi gave me a hall pass. She figured twenty screaming kids hyped up on cake and ice cream was kind of unfair on my day off. I get plenty of it at work.”

  The first little lie.

  Those had been his words; not his wife’s.

  “That’s okay,” Naomi had said. “There’ll be plenty of other moms to take up the slack. You go with Tommy and have a good time.”

  Definitely not a fight. Never came close to raising her voice or arguing.

  But looking back as the Rockies took the field in the top of the ninth, Sayers knew she had wanted him at Laura’s party. She’d just been too sweet to actually say it.

  So, Naomi ended up hosting the party on her own as he sat behind first base, never really getting into the game. Nobody wins.

  Well, check that. Surprisingly, the Rockies were clinging to a 4-3 lead as they entered the last frame. Tommy had insisted they have a beer for each run the Rockies had scored, and Sayers was thankful it hadn’t been one of those Coors Field slugfests—he was already a little buzzed, having just drained the fourth tallboy.

  “C’mon you bums,” Tommy yelled. Sayers’s buddy was on his feet with most of the stadium. The Mets had a runner on first with two outs and their best hitter at the plate. Sayers got up as well, mostly just so he could see. The fan in front of him—clad in Rockies purple from head to toe, his face painted like one of those Braveheart guys—was jumping up and down. It was like being stuck behind the purple Teletubby.

  Sayers didn’t give a shit. He really wasn’t in the rooting mood. He was too busy wondering if Naomi was angry with him. Maybe he’d stop and buy flowers on the way home.

  Oh, and something for Laura. He hadn’t gotten her a present.

  He just felt lousier and lousier.

  In that moment, he wished it had been 12-3 in favor of the home team. At least he would have been in a drunken stupor.

  There was a crack of the bat and the crowd roared. The Teletubby waved his purple arms back and forth, screaming, “No, No, No!”

  The Mets batter had laced a base hit toward the gap in left-center. The runner on first was hightailing it around the base paths as the center fielder played the ball off the wall and hurtled it back toward the infield.

  “He’s going for it!” cried Tommy.

  Sayers peered past the Teletubby to see the Mets runner rounding third. The shortstop cut off the throw and whirled around to rifle a bullet home.

  “Oh God!” yelled the Teletubby.

  The runner slid into home just as the ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt. The Met and the Rockie collapsed on top of the plate, surrounded by a cloud of dust.

  “Out! Out! Out!” yelled the Purple Teletubby.

  “Damn, I think he’s safe!” Tommy’s opinion.

  Even Sayers was caught up in the moment, waiting for the dust to clear and the home plate umpire to make a decision.

  All tied up or Rockies Win!

  The heavens filled with purple light instead.

  When he regained consciousness, Sayers was on the ground.

  For a moment, he had no idea where the hell he was. He knew he’d had a few beers, but not enough to pass out. He concentrated and remembered waiting for the play at the plate. Safe or out.

  Maybe in all the excitement, the purple Teletubby had backed up and knocked him cold. The guy was certainly big enough.

  But it was peculiarly quiet down here on the ground.

  Had he missed the end of the game? And where was Tommy?

  And for that matter—where was his seat?

  Sayers finally forced himself to straighten up and look around.

  Coors Field was gone.

  Well, most of it. The stadium structure was evident—except for the right field bleachers that had collapsed.

  But all the seats were missing. The Jumbotron was gone. The light stanchions as well.

  Not to mention the fans. There wasn’t a single person in what used to be the stands, except for Sayers. Had they beaten a hasty retreat and taken their seats home in some bizarre giveaway? And how had Sayers possibly missed all this?

  None of it made sense. One second they’re waiting for a call at the plate, and then suddenly what? An earthquake? A nuclear bomb?

  No, thought Sayers. The stadium wouldn’t still be standing.

  It must have had something to do with the purple light, the last thing he remembered before waking up on the concrete.

  His mind continued to race. Naomi. Laura. He wondered if they were okay. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Which wasn’t there. He frantically searched all his other pockets: pants, jacket, shirt. Not only was his cell missing, but so were his wallet and car keys. Even his wedding ring was gone.

  It was getting more bizarre by the moment. He glanced at the ground; nothing but their empty beer cups, along with a few hot dog wrappers.

  How could Tommy have just left Sayers lying on the ground, helpless while the world came apart?

  The world.

  That’s exactly it, thought Sayers. That’s what it feels like.

  The End of the World.

  The moment that entered his head, Sayers noticed that he wasn’t completely alone. He saw another person.

  The catcher.

  Face down on the field behind home plate. He looked dead.

  Sayers hadn’t noticed him because he’d woken up on the concrete. Oh, and that minor distraction of the entire stadium having pretty much disappeared.

  But there was the catcher—right where Sayers had last seen him. Sayers jumped up and headed toward the field. With no usher to stop him (though, for once, what he would have given to see one; he’d ask them where this situation was noted in the fine print on the ticket), he raced onto the grass and made a beeline for home plate. The catcher remained motionless; the umpire nowhere to be seen. The Mets runner who had bowled into the Colorado catcher had also vanished, along with every player on either side.

  Sayers noticed that the catcher still hung onto the ball, gripped tightly in his oversized mitt, clutching it to his chest in what seemed to be death’s repose.

  Sayers dropped to his knees, his medical training kicking into gear, and checked for some sort of mortal wound.

  The catcher’s eyes bolted open, and he grabbed Sayers by the arm with his non-gloved hand.

  “Did you see it?!”

  Sayers yelped, and tried to pull away. But the catcher held on tight.

  “What? See what?” he managed to squelch out.

  “In the sky. It was so huge!”

  “It?” Sayers just blurted out the word. He really didn’t want to know. He wished more than ever he’d gone to the damn birthday party.

  “The ship! Biggest thing I ever saw. Came right out of the purple.” The catcher was beginning to hyperventilate. Sayers took advantage of the man’s panic to break away—and in the process, knocking the ball out of the glove.

  “A ship? You mean a plane?” Sayers, in spite of one pa
rt of his brain telling him to let it go, was trying to make sense of the catcher’s jabberings. “Was it one of those stealth bombers the military has?”

  He could see the catcher’s eyes dancing wildly through the mask. There was madness in them, and in that moment, Sayers felt blessed that he had passed out, instead of witnessing whatever had pushed this man over the brink of sanity.

  “No, no, no! Just one. It was a spaceship, man! With these big fuckin’ arms like a radioactive octopus grabbing everything in sight … Hey, where you going?”

  Sayers was crawling away on the grass, trying to regain his feet. He could think only of getting away from this lunatic and going to look for his family. But the catcher lunged and grabbed hold of his legs, pulling him back toward home plate and his insane tale.

  “You can’t leave me! What if they come back?” screamed the crazed catcher.

  “Get away!” cried Sayers. “Keep your hands off me!”

  He kicked with his feet, but the catcher, who probably bench-pressed four times Sayers’s body weight on a regular training regimen, wouldn’t let go.

  “Don’t you get it, man?” implored the catcher. “We’re the lucky ones. We’ve been spared. We have to stick together ’cause they’re going to realize they left us behind and they’ll come back! I know it!”

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Sayers screamed, continuing to try to break away.

  “Don’t leave me!” cried the catcher, still keeping his death grip on the physician’s legs.

  Sayers spied the baseball lying inches from his hand. He wriggled and stretched until he was able to grab it. Then he hurled it directly at the catcher, hitting him square in the back of the head.

  Blood gushed as the catcher let go of Sayers’s legs. The man tumbled to the ground, the foul-line chalk puffing up and all over his body. Sayers scrambled to his feet and started to run away. But then he thought better of it and decided he’d check on the man once more.

  He knelt down and checked for a pulse. For a brief moment, he thought there was nothing—then the catcher gasped and began to breathe normally, though still comatose. Sayers figured he would be all right.

  At least physically.

  He wasn’t sticking around to find out anything else.