The blast shook the lake and sent birds sprinting to the air. When it was done, and the land where the church had stood was just a smoking, crumbling crater in the ground, Garza went walking through the tall grass near the rim.
He walked until he saw a dead coyote, its legs bent under its body, the head twisted against the ground. Its eyes were open, bulging, and though no life lit them, they were still powerfully blue.
He stared into those eyes and thought of the thing he’d just faced. A great power had lurked beneath that church, something dark and ancient and evil beyond the narrow limits through which most men understood those words. Maybe it was still down there, waiting for another man like Resendez to open its way through the depths of rock and earth.
One thing eluded him though. The eyes of the coyote seemed hauntingly familiar. Other eyes that same color blue had stared at him from the ghost world Resendez had opened up, but he wouldn’t believe—indeed, couldn’t believe, if he had any prayer of holding on to the tattered remnants of his sanity—that they were the eyes of the Kretschmer family.
Still, there was no way to be sure.
DESCENT
William F. Nolan
William F. Nolan writes mostly in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. Though best known for coauthoring the acclaimed dystopian science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan is the author of more than 2000 pieces (fiction, nonfiction, articles, and books), and has edited twenty-six anthologies in his fifty-plus year career.
Of his numerous awards, there are a few of which he is most proud: being voted a Living Legend in Dark Fantasy by the International Horror Guild in 2002; twice winning the Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America; being awarded the honorary title of Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2006, and receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association in 2010. Nolan resides in Vancouver, WA.
It all concluded in amazing slow motion, but that was yet to come:
For now, he was sitting at his desk, hunched over the computer, fingers dancing at the keys; he had to complete the Tuesday report before the weekly ten o’clock staff meeting.
He was fifty-six and balding, taking prescription drugs for an enlarged prostate. He’d been working for Statler & Sons for two full decades and knew everyone by their first names. As a youngster, he’d earned straight A’s in Calculus and Physics. He had been no good at sports—self-conscious about his gawky, overweight frame and bad eyes—but had always been a real demon with numbers, calculations and theorems. The algebra of human interactions, however, had always been harder for him to grasp.
He was a widower, and had been for just over five years. His wife, Sally, had contracted breast cancer at fifty years of age, which eventually metastasized. Though she had both breasts removed, it wasn’t enough to stop the disease. She died a year after the operation. Luckily, his health insurance had covered all costs. They had no children. In retrospect, he estimated that that was a blessing, though sometimes he wondered. While he was not a religious man in any conventional sense, he did believe in God—he just wasn’t sure Who (or What) God was (or wasn’t). For that matter, he wasn’t exactly sure where Heaven was (or wasn’t) located.
He was a zealous worker, very loyal to the firm. No one had kept the books of Statler & Sons the way he kept them; everything was neat, every penny duly noted and accounted for; in all this time, he’d never made an error. In his dedication, he’d neglected his own enrichment: he’d never been much of anywhere, having grown up in the City. After Sally’s death, he had leased a small one-bedroom apartment, usually walking to work. He’d never been to Europe, nor had he seen any of the other States. They had planned to, of course, but plans sometimes are derailed; out of the clear blue, some other forces can totally change your own destiny, it seems.
Someday, he promised himself, I’ll take that long vacation and “see the world”, just like we always planned. That was the phrase he used around his co-workers: “see the world.” Secretly, he couldn’t imagine just how he would be able to pay for such a vacation. There was no chance of familial assistance: his in-laws had never liked him, blaming him for Sally’s decision not to pursue her legal career, and his parents—blue collar factory folk—had never had any money to spare.
Actually, the idea of travel frightened him: strange places, foods, smells, a different language to comprehend. He had long ago established his own restricted comfort zone, and was loath to step beyond its boundaries. Foreign travel was merely a self-indulged fantasy. He believed in following a familiar routine; there was security in known ritual. No risks. He had never been a risk taker.
Recently, during his coffee breaks (although he never drank coffee), he found himself chatting more and more often with Betty, the newly hired secretary. She’d been with Statler & Sons for just three months, a cute, pale-cheeked, mousey girl with a flat chest and watery gray eyes. When she smiled her eyes turned into slits, which he had to admit he found rather fascinating; she was mysterious.
“How do you like working for the firm?” he asked.
“Oh, I like it just fine. Mr. Statler is such a nice man!”
“He’s very fair to his employees,” he replied, nodding his head. “A nice man.”
“Yes, he is,” she agreed.” He’s very nice.” Their conversation drifted into silence. She shifted in her chair, toying with her necklace. She smiled that smile. He blushed.
“Well, time for work,” he said.
Back at his desk, he adjusted his bifocals and leaned forward, fingers poised over the computer keys as he tried to suppress his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Damn, I have to remember to vote today on my lunch hour . . .
That was when he felt the concussion. The building shuddered and very soon streamers of dark smoke began to seep into the office.
“What was that?” the girl asked, rushing into his workspace.
“Some sort of explosion, sounded like; they were supposed to do some HVAC work on the other side of the building, maybe something happened . . . ”
“Oh, dear; I hope no one’s hurt . . . ” she said, brow knit in concern.
“No way of telling,” he said, “but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. This is a very safe building. I doubt if anyone’s been injured.”
“But the smoke . . . it’s getting thicker!”
Other workers in the room outside his office were muttering amongst themselves.
Betty glanced toward the exit door. “Maybe we should leave . . . ”
“No, no . . . ” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever the problem is, Maintenance will deal with it.”
“But the smoke . . . it just keeps coming.” Her concern was justified. The smoke was now billowing up from below in oily clouds, like a dark wash of ocean fog. She began to cough.
“Here, I’ll get you some water; just have a seat and calm down, everything will be fine,” he said, heading for the office cooler.
Upon his return, he noticed that it was getting hot inside the room. She gulped down the water as he removed his coat and loosened his tie. “Becoming quite warm in here,” he observed.
“It’s a fire!” she exclaimed, eyes panicked. “Things are burning: I can smell it!”
“Nothing serious,” he assured her again. “They’ll have it out in no time. You’ll see.”
The heat was increasing by the minute. Smoke was rapidly filling the office.
A kerchief to her mouth, the young woman was coughing violently. Her face was flushed, her eyes watering.
“Lie down,” he advised, helping her. “Smoke rises. You’ll be able to breathe better.”
“Why doesn’t it stop?” she gasped. “Why aren’t they stopping it?”
He had no answer as he joined her on the floor. The acrid smoke fumes had turned his throat raw. It was difficult to swallow. The other employees were equally distressed. People were crying and screaming; a group of men
huddled together in the middle of the office outside his door, gesticulating as they deliberated over what to do next.
He pulled the phone down from the desk above him. Holding the phone to his ear, he detected no dial tone; the line was dead. Instinctively, he drew the girl’s shivering frame next to his: she was crying now.
“I’m going for the elevator!” She screamed, jumping up and running for the exit before he could reason with her. A few remaining employees quickly followed her: he never saw them again.
He recalled the red-lettered warning posted above the elevator: USE STAIRS IN CASE OF FIRE. DO NOT USE ELEVATORS.
Surely they would heed this warning and take the stairs down? Perhaps I’d better join them . . . A shame, though, to leave the office deserted . . . Important papers here. Yet, given the circumstances, Mr. Statler would understand . . . Mr. Statler was a very nice man . . .
His hesitation proved to be a grave mistake: the only exit suddenly bloomed into a wall of roaring flame.
Dear God, the fire’s right here!
The cooler was behind him, so he used the water to soak his coat which he then wrapped around his head: it didn’t help much.
Christ, I’m going to be burned alive!
He was forced to retreat to his office window as the furnace-hot flames rapidly advanced, eating their way across the office floor, devouring wood, plastic and paper. The flames had nearly reached him, the heat searing his skin. In desperation, he grabbed an office chair to smash out the glass pane, but it just bounced off the reinforced glass laminate. He tried again, and again, and a third time, to no avail. Summoning one last burst of adrenaline, he hammered the window a final time and the glass relented in a cyclone of air swooshing from the shattered portal.
He leaned out of the jagged window opening, squinting through the sooty fumes and waving his coat.
Someone will see me . . . Someone will come to save me . . .
But no one came for him; he was alone.
The fire was licking at his shoes now; his feet were blistering inside the leather.
He looked down for the first time, cringing at the sudden vertigo he experienced.
The flames were all around him. Black smoke choked his lungs. Tongues of fire began to devour his clothing. The left sleeve of his shirt was ablaze. The heat was unbearable, and he screamed in agony.
Then, he was aloft . . . How can I survive a fall from this height? This was a question that he refused to consider further.
He’d seen films of skydivers on television, how they seemed to float, effortlessly gliding on currents of air. That was how it seemed now, to him—that he was floating, feather-light, that it would take forever to reach the street so far below . . .
He had all the time in the world to think about his life, about all the magic places he’d never visited, never seen: Rome, with it’s great Colosseum; London and Big Ben; Paris and the Eiffel Tower . . . the many states he’d read about—the Big Sky country of Montana; the flat wheat fields of Kansas; the Loop in Chicago; the high hills of San Francisco . . .
He was a virgin when he’d married Sally . . . God he missed her! He was ashamed of some things: she would gently chide him about his lack of sexual experience . . . Sex with his wife had been something less than successful . . . The Church had ruined him. He was tentative and afraid to let himself go, to lose himself in the sexual act . . . He had been a poor lover, but a good husband.
He wondered, now, falling past floor after floor, what sex would have been like with other women. Perhaps he could have functioned better with other women. Perhaps.
Down and down . . . the windows of the other floors were blurred together, the screams of others barely audible over the incredible wind generated by his own clumsy flight . . . the street scene below was becoming clearer: he could see the crowds clustered like a colony of ants around the building. Lots of activity.
Fire trucks. Ambulances. Police cars. All for me . . .
Down and down . . . He could taste the fire wind, with the sweltering scent of flames burning his nostrils.
He discovered that he was suddenly not afraid to die. Everyone dies. I might have lived to be a stoop-backed old man with gout and rheumatism and failing eyesight. Full of pain, unable to walk. This is better. Quick, decisive, painless . . .
He thought about his father, who had suffered a stroke at seventy-nine: Whole left side of his body useless. Blind in one eye. Unable to speak.
And his mother: Dead at sixty after suffering for ten years with rheumatoid arthritis. Life was a daily torture. She’d been forced to quit her factory job at fifty because of health problems. But she never showed her pain; she was one tough lady . . .
No brothers or sisters. An only child. Spoiled and fussed over like a baby well into adulthood . . .
Down and down . . . Just like the poor stewardess in Dickey’s ‘Falling’ . . .
Now the street below was coming up at him fast. That was how it seemed. He was floating, free and easy, but the street was coming up fast to meet him as he approached terminal velocity.
Fast . . .
The street coming up . . .
Me, waiting for it: suspended in Time and Space . . . Still, permanent, unchanging, unmoving . . . the only known exception to Newton’s Second Law of Motion . . . He smiled, tears evaporating instantly as he plummeted.
He was unexpectedly sorry to have failed Mr. Statler. I’m in charge of keeping the books, of making sure that they are in perfect order . . . Then he smiled; there were no books. Not now. The fire gobbled them up like a Polar Bear gulps down fish.
No books. All gone . . . He laughed, but the incredible wind stole the breath from his lungs.
He thought about God: Is God watching me fall? If God wanted to, then (He or She) could just reach down from Heaven and catch me, like catching a baseball . . . But maybe God was too busy to notice my descent. Too busy with all the other billions of people that needed special care . . . Perhaps it slipped his notice, just this once . . . Does God sleep? Maybe he was napping now, or during the Great War, or the Holocaust . . . Perhaps an instant’s shuteye for God is an eon for us . . . Bound to miss things, especially if you’re tired . . . Maybe God was tired; of me; of the Creation; of everything . . . Well, that was okay. He was not angry at God. Frustrated, but not angry: he understood God’s position.
Falling . . . like a giant leaf on this beautiful, late summer morning . . .
Faces took on resemblances now. Some old lady was screaming, pointing up at him. All the people around her were watching him fall, but she was the only one screaming.
He didn’t have all the time in the world after all: He’d been mistaken about that.
The comforting pavement met Roger Ames . . . and all was as it should be.
FIVE LITTLE TIPS
an essay by Kristin Bryant
Kristin Bryant graduated from Brigham Young University with a degree in Education and obtained her Masters of Education from California State University, Fullerton. She lives in Orange County, California with her husband and two sons. Kristin was diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer in February of 2013. She is continuing her fight and looks forward to the completion of treatment at the end of the year. Her first novel, The Others, was released August, 2013. Visit her at kristinbryant.com.
Cancer isn’t easy. It isn’t fun. And the whole process certainly isn’t fair. I’m pausing momentarily so we take a second to kick and scream about this bad hand that we have been dealt.
There, I feel better.
Now, with those inalienable and unalterable truths stated, I’m lending you my five little tips to get through this tough process. They are listed from least to most important, so if you are in a hurry, just skip to number five.
1. Pick your least favorite restaurant:
Note—this is an important tip because I love food dearly and chemo has had the audacity to disrupt this epic relationship.
There is one restaurant within walkable distance of my infusion
floor where my mom gets lunch for us as I’m getting my four-hour rounds of chemo. I’ve never been partial to this restaurant, and at first I was a little bummed that I would have to eat from this place each time chemo rolled around. But now I’m glad. After my six rounds of chemo are done, I never, ever, have to walk into this place again. I can concentrate all of my drug-induced-everything-makes-me-nauseated-food intolerance onto this one restaurant.
Chemo will most likely make you feel terrible and make food much less fun. If you have to eat when you feel awful, or are having awful things done to you, do it from a place you aren’t going to miss when it is all over.
Bonus tip: NEVER eat anything you love while there’s a possibility you may feel nauseated. My relationship with grilled panini sandwiches has been forever ruined and I am truly sad about that.
2. Stock up on cow socks:
Aside from the incessant beeping of the pumps, the infusion floor is a pretty quiet, serious place. What I WANT to do: Each round I get closer to finishing chemotherapy, I WANT to wear increasingly irreverent t-shirts and ten-gallon cowboy hats, both advertising how many rounds of chemo I’ve conquered like David defeating Goliath. But I’ve reined myself in and tried to keep the professional tone of the floor—muted colors, tasteful non-gallon hats covering my bald head, the usual. During one of my rounds, my mom noticed something that started her giggling. She pointed to the older man in the chair next to mine. He was dressed normally enough, except for the fact that he was wearing calf-high white socks with large Holstein cow spots all over them. It was so unexpected, it was so fun, it was so “hey, I can’t take everything seriously all the time and even if I have to be here, I’m wearing these awesome socks”. I just fell in love with his irreverence . . . and his fashion sense.
You have to have fun. You have to be you. And you have to celebrate life every single chance you get. Cancer is a life-changing situation. Take this opportunity to love the heck out of everyone and everything around you. And sometimes, that means wearing cow socks and neon green cowboy hats, whatever makes you happy.
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