The Fall

by Michael McBride

  He snapped his wrist before him so he could read the time.

  In precisely eight minutes he would be sitting in his office chair with his suit jacket draped carefully over the back, a fresh pair of indoor shoes on his feet. He would check his messages for the next seven minutes before donning his scrub top over his shirt and tie and heading for the Cath Lab, where for the following three hours he would place Swan-Ganz lines in assembly line fashion: a patient every fifteen minutes until he rotated into the OR where he’d complete one coronary artery bypass graft after another until he took a dinner break exactly at the six hour mark.

  By the time he had crossed the courtyard, Charles was halfway through his workday.

  Stick to the routine.

  No surprises.

  His right shoe clacked on the first cement stair, his hand closing around the cold iron railing that bisected them.

  “Help me!” a woman screamed.

  Charles stopped. There was a moment of hesitation where he was forced to close his eyes to concentrate. Don’t turn around, he told himself. Just walk straight through those doors into the lobby. If you quicken your pace toward the elevator, you can make up the time you’re losing right now. Let the ER staff handle this. It’s their job after all. This is what those adrenaline-junkies live for.

  Besides, if he turned around, he’d surely end up ruining another shirt and tie, and maybe the jacket as well. He would begin his afternoon off schedule, and he would never be able to catch back up. And the amount of paperwork he’d have to file if he interceded…

  “Please!” the woman shrieked.

  The briefcase fell from Dr. Charles Eagan’s hand, landing squarely on the stair. He turned around slowly to face the courtyard.

  A woman ran toward him, wheeling a long tandem stroller at a full sprint. She wore a thin dress that covered her from her neck all the way to her ankles, made of an almost satiny material that reminded him of the scarves his mother had worn when he was a child. A shawl of the same material was pulled over her head, completely swaddling her hair and wrapped around her face to cover everything from the bridge of her nose to her dress. All he could see were tiny black irises set into extraordinarily wide eyes against creamy caramel skin. The sockets were sunken, the rims of her lids red, as though she hadn’t slept in ages.

  He looked back over his shoulder to the revolving doors.

  When he turned back to her, he’d closed his eyes.

  “I’m a physician,” he said, shaking his head as he reopened his eyes, his attention immediately falling to the contents of the stroller as she quickly came to a stop at the foot of the stairs.

  The seat back had been folded flat, and where he had expected to see twins sitting one behind the other, he saw instead mounds of tangled blue and pink blankets.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, reaching into the stroller and tugging back the blankets.

  He looked hurriedly up and into her wild eyes.

  She screamed into his face in a foreign tongue.

  “I can’t understand you. Please…slow down. Try to…”

  His stare darted back into the carriage.

  There weren’t two children covered under those blankets. There wasn’t even one.

  She continued screaming at him, the sash falling away from her mouth and allowing her words to speckle his glasses with spittle. He recognized the single word ‘Allah’.

  A long silver canister rested in the stroller. At first he thought it was some sort of new oxygen tank, but he realized what it was when the red LED lights started flashing sequentially.

  He caught the word ‘Jihad’ as her fingernails tore at his cheeks.

  This was really going to throw off his schedule.

  A light even brighter than the sun exploded from the canister.

  IV

  Barstow, California

  EVELYN PLOPPED DOWN ON THE BACK PORCH, FINALLY REMOVING THE filthy blood- and soot-stained gloves and tossing them aside. A tower of black smoke rose from the other side of the barn, funneling up into the early dawn sky. She felt guilty for the sudden rise of hunger at the scent of so many birds cooking on the open pyre. She’d lost count at one hundred thirteen, or maybe she’d just stopped keeping track. There had to be over two hundred pheasants of all breeds burning to charcoal in the fire ring. That was literally thousands of dollars of their sole means of income turning to ash and blowing away into the desert. With her father unable to work and accruing medical bills at a phenomenal rate, this was likely to be the straw to break the camel’s back.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  She’d failed her father. She’d failed herself.

  It was only a matter of time before the creditors came calling. Then what? The medical bills were the obvious priority as her father would still need to be cared for, but she couldn’t lose the house in the process. She’d considered the notion of taking out a second mortgage on the house and land, but she’d only end up using the money to pay the combined mortgage payment for the two loans. It was a stall tactic at best. All it would do was buy them more time to sink.

  The time had come to consider every alternative. If they put the house and accompanying acreage on the market now, then, even if it took a while to sell, the equity should end up being enough to balance out the deficit, but little more. What were they supposed to do then? There would be no money to pay the bills unless she got a job, and while she was at work, who would take care of her father? Without her Master’s Degree, she wouldn’t be qualified to work in oceanography. Even with the higher degree, it wasn’t an industry that made many people rich.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she whispered to the sky, holding her breath awaiting an answer she knew would never come.

  Sighing, she finally dropped her chin, tears clearing lines through the caked mud and soot.

  For a fleeting moment, she wondered what might happen if the wind were to shift, blowing the flames onto the barn to eventually spread to the house. If they were well insured, that could solve a lot of problems… Even if they were, she could only imagine her father’s torment having to walk through the charred remains of his dream. The dream he had shared with her mother.

  Evelyn couldn’t see the coyotes anymore, but that certainly didn’t mean they weren’t still out there, undoubtedly circling wide around their land, preparing to converge on what must have smelled like an open invitation to a barbecue to them. An occasional howl interrupted the constant crackling of boiling blood cracking through bones in the blaze.

  The smoke rose into the sky like a mighty fist preparing to smite their house.

  Maybe that would just be for the be—

  The ground shook beneath her with a sound like thunder.

  “Daddy!” she shouted, leaping to her feet. Her first thought was to stop beneath the doorframe leading into the kitchen and ride out the quake, but she couldn’t just leave her father lying in the middle of his bed to be crushed if the roof came down.

  The ground steadied beneath her as she raced through the living room and into the hallway, only to begin shaking again when she grabbed the knob and threw open his bedroom door. She could hear all of the framed pictures falling from the walls and shattering behind her.

  Her father was already on the floor, having pulled himself off the bed out of instinct, but he’d been unable to balance on his weak legs with the ground rising and falling beneath.

  Evelyn dove beside him, wrapping her arms around his chest from behind and dragging him toward the doorway. He cried out with the pain in his hips, but right now, she knew her only priority was to get him to safety. Then she could worry about medicating him and getting him back in—

  The ground stilled.

  Evelyn’s eyes met her father’s.

  That hadn’t felt like an earthquake, not like any she’d ever experienced anyway. Usually, the shaking would go on much longer, varying in intensity. Nearing the end of a normal quake, you could almost feel the pressure abating, like an echo diss
ipating to nothingness. That one had gone from rumbling to stillness far too abruptly.

  “Turn on the TV,” her father said through gritted teeth.

  “We should wait out the aftershocks before—”

  “That wasn’t an earthquake.”

  “What are you talking about? What else could it possibly—?”

  “Turn on the TV, honey.”

  She propped him against the dresser and crawled from behind him. His face was drained of all color, making his eyes appear sunken, his cheekbones bruised. His hands shook with the pain, forcing him to finally close his eyes as she rose to her feet and crossed the room for the remote control on the nightstand.

  She pressed the power switch.

  There was nothing but static.

  She switched channels.

  Static.

  She switched it again and again, unable to produce anything but black and white snow.

  “My God,” he gasped. “Try the radio.”

  Evelyn tossed the remote onto the bed, leaving the TV blaring white noise. Flipping the power on the flashing clock, she sat on the edge of the bed, her finger poised on the dial. Static hissed in stereo now.

  Slowly, she combed through the stations.

  Nothing but fuzz.

  Cranking up the volume, she went back to the beginning, this time going even slower and listening for the slightest sound. Peeling apart the multiple layers of static, intently focused on gleaning even the faintest whisper from beneath.

  “There,” she whispered, holding her breath as she wiggled the dial ever so slightly, then blasted the sound.

  “…electrostatic discharge affecting signals…several hundred miles from…of detonation.”

  “Jesus,” her father moaned.

  “…satellite images confirm…atomic bomb, destroying more…city blocks…no way to even begin estimating the…casualties. Again, no contact…established with anyone… Los Angeles…”

  Evelyn gasped, clapping her hands to her agape mouth.

  A loud hiss of static.

  “…Christ!” the announcer screamed. “Did you feel…? What in the name of God…earthquake in New Yor—?”

  Static.

  Evelyn cranked up the volume to the point that it was deafening, standing there before it holding her breath.

  Nothing.

  She released her breath in nervous jerks through her fingers.

  The hiss of static.

  Evelyn turned, hurdling her father’s legs as she sprinted out of the bedroom, tears streaming down her cheeks. She blew through the living room and into the kitchen. A fine layer of dust covered the linoleum. Swirling sand tapped at the window over the sink. Bursting through the back door, sending it pounding against the side of the house with a sound like a gunshot, Evelyn leapt from the top stair and dashed to the middle of the drive. A monstrous cloud of smoke rose over the distant mountains beyond the barn. It expanded to the sides, the bottom portion curling back under.

  The air was thick with dirt like a sandstorm on the torturous easterly gale, the grimy texture covering her skin.

  Dust devils arose from the desert all around her, swirling angrily.

  “What’s happening?” she screamed, dropping to her knees.

  The already dark sky clogged with dirt and dust, slowly cresting the mountains like a wave and thundering toward her.

  All around her she could smell it: the reek of burnt timber, the bitter tang of melted glass and plastic, cooked flesh.

  Death.

  V

  Bethlehem, Pennsylvania

  PHOENIX SAT UP IN THE DARKNESS WHEN THE CEMENT FLOOR SHIVERED beneath him. Concrete dust powdered from the walls and rust flaked from the rattling old pipes. The air grew heavy, pressing in on him from all sides, squeezing his body until it felt as though his flesh might burst, his bones grind to grains. Millions of screams erupted in his head as one, rising to a pitch that cut through his skull like a circular saw. Blood drained in rivulets from his ears, welling in the meatus before seething out and dripping from his lobes, running down his neck. He slapped both hands over his ears, spattering fresh blood onto his cheeks.

  As quickly as they had erupted, the voices ceased.

  Phoenix opened his eyes, having not even realized he had pinched them tightly against the pain. A sonic thunder echoed in his mind like a concussive blow.

  What had just happened?

  He tried to stand up, but there was no strength in his legs. It was as though every ounce of energy had been drained from his useless form, leaving him flopped across the straw like a rag doll. Pins and needles assaulted every inch of him, a tingling beneath his skin as though his entire body was going to sleep. But it wasn’t. He could feel it.

  His body was becoming aware.

  He didn’t feel pain, but a passage, as though an ethereal wind were blowing straight through him. He could feel every cell in his body like he was composed of sentient glitter, each atom resonating with an intense sorrow that overwhelmed him, bringing a rush of tears and an expulsion of sobs. His shoulders shuddered convulsively, forcing out a long moan that took hold of his guts and threatened to turn him inside out on its way.

  He’d never experienced a feeling even remotely like it before: such intense pain and sadness. Millions of lives reaching out to him before being quickly ripped away. Their scents were all around him, lingering in the room like he imagined it must be like in a subway station. So many people trying to touch him, filled with fear, confusion, and rage, buffeting him in the confines of his cell. None of their touches felt familiar, none of their smells recognizable.

  With a great inhalation, he breathed them in, taking in everything around him like the swelling of a great bellows. The tingling sensation, the electric prodding…all of it disappeared as though it had never been. Normal sensation resumed, and he was again alone in the cellar. Alone in the darkness.

  Alone.

  He rose effortlessly to his feet, aware of the sensation of straw between his toes, the dust shaken loose from the foundation and the metallic tinge of rust forming an invisible mist. Slowly, he walked toward the lone door. A fresh crack had opened in the cement against the soles of his feet like a wound inflicted upon the earth itself. Pressing his hands on the door, feeling the subtle textures in the wood, he brought himself against it, the cool wood prickling the flesh on his chest. He leaned his cheek on the door, mashing his ear into the unforgiving slab of wood and held his breath to listen.

  All was quiet beyond. There were no footsteps on the stairs, no hushed voices. He had never heard The Swarm leave: easily identifiable by the pounding of herded clomping through the door above. They always moved together, in unison, like an enormous centipede. He was completely unaccustomed to this kind of absolute silence. Usually, floorboards creaked above or someone crept down to his door, either just listening to him breathe or trying to plot a way to have him all for themselves.

  It was too quiet. The world around him had taken in a deep anticipatory breath, waiting…waiting for something…though what he couldn’t imagine.

  “Is anyone out there?” he whispered, though from the chill of the door he was certain that no one was.

  He tested the lock, but the door didn’t budge, hardly groaning in its wooden frame.

  There was a small creak of transferred weight on the floor above, followed by daintily placed footsteps.

  Phoenix took a small step back from the door. Even in the darkness, he could sense the exact location of his pike buried beneath the straw. Perhaps this was his chance.

  The footsteps descended the stairs, slowly, gracefully, though from their sound he could tell that such large weight was unaccustomed to being borne in such a manner. Whoever was coming wanted no one else to know.

  He leaned against the door again, his ear to the firm wood.

  The footsteps stopped just beyond.

  Phoenix looked back to his bed, debating how quickly he could make the sprint. Just because he couldn’t hear the rest of
The Swarm didn’t mean they weren’t up there. He had to plan this perfectly, for he may never get the chance again. They’d take the shiv and that would be the end of it.

  “Who’s there?” he whispered.

  “Why didn’t you stop it?” a weak voice whispered from the other side, a million miles away.

  “Stop what?”

  A hand settled gently on the knob outside.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  It was the woman. He could feel her body heat through the door, hear her rasping breaths. There was something else in her voice, something he’d never heard there before.

  Fear.

  “Why did they all have to die?”

  Silence, broken only by a slight squeak of the doorknob.

  “Are you still there?” she whispered.

  Phoenix didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known at the time, but that feeling he’d had…that feeling of passage through him. He’d felt them die.

  “Who were they?” he whispered.

  “Everyone.”

  She opened the door a crack, the salt from her tears creeping through on her foul breath.

  “You could have stopped it,” she said. “You could have saved them.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, taking a small step away.