by Tony LaRocca
The vines wove and danced to form a new message: FIND CATH SAV HER. The last three letters kept changing back and forth from HER to ALL.
“All right,” he said. “Then the only way is forward.”
He reached down, picked up a decorative stone that lay alongside the wall, and smashed the painting’s protective glass.
Ralph woke amidst a coughing spell. He rolled over, and grabbed the notebook and pen that lay on his nightstand. He had been journaling his dreams ever since the age of twelve, and last night’s had been a doozy.
In his nightmare, he had been a sergeant in the marines — a stereotypical cigar–chewing, muscle–bound gorilla, with a five o’clock shadow permanently tattooed on his jowls. A stick–thin, wet–behind–the–ears private had been running towards him in the smoke and rain. Sargent Ralph had shouted at the stupid kid to get down, to seek cover, to crawl for fuck’s sake. But the kid was too scared, and blinded by panic.
A Cyleb rose from behind a rock. Sergeant Ralph lobbed a grenade at the silvery bastard, but all the Abomination had to do was glance at it, and it exploded in midair. Then the Cyleb turned his gaze upon the poor, skinny kid, and the private’s entire head exploded, probably triggered by an overload in his optical implant. Then the Cyleb had looked at Sergeant Ralph, and with a blast of light and a clap of ear–shattering thunder, he had woken, sputtering and coughing.
He remembered the dream, remembered feeling terrified and starving. Now that he had written it down, it made him laugh. He had always secretly loved having nightmares, they were scarier than anything he had ever seen in the virts or cheesy VR games.
He reread his entry, and wondered how he could make the most of it. The best comedy always came from tragedy, at least for him. Becky had understood that, when no one else had. He felt a tightening in his chest, sniffed, and wiped the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He would miss her until the day he died.
Again.
Maybe he could write an over–the–top, horror–comedy about war. He reminded himself to keep it little. Smaller was better. Keeping it low budget and fun would help him be more creative. He missed the old days of Pete, Becky, a few other friends, and himself just being silly in front of a camera. The more fun they had had while filming, the funnier the end product.
He wrote down the words “dangerous ideas.” Wasn’t that what the last war had been all about? Wasn’t that the reason behind every war throughout history: governments wanting to keep people away from “dangerous” ideas?
He imagined a scene: The word had come down from everyone in the chain of command — especially the chaplain — to stay away from dangerous ideas. Then the private gets exposed to some sort of philosophical paradox on the battlefield and BOOM, his head, made out of chop meat, would explode. Okay, it needed work, but it was a start.
But were people ready to laugh at the war?
He shrugged. Maybe it was time that they did. Some poor veteran must have actually witnessed something like what he had dreamed, at some point. Maybe he would see the virt, and realize that he was not alone. Then he’d be able to let some of his pain come out in a laugh.
Then Ralph would have done his job.
“Hurray for the little fish,” he muttered, and closed his pad.
He wondered if Pete was one of the survivors still locked away within Asher’s brain. Pete had always been able to make him laugh. They used to meet at the VFW once a week, drink, and bitch about how the world was going to hell in a handbasket. Neither of them had ever served, and they had been too old when WesMec Gov. had imposed the draft. But the other old farts liked their jokes, and remembered the way things used to be. A few had even been fans, back in the old days. Had Pete made the cut? Was he on the short list? Ralph hoped so. Otherwise, paradise was going to be lonely.
He wished that the virt player worked, or rather, that there was something to watch. Someone must have a collection of old reruns, somewhere. Hell, they might even have that episode of Snakeskin Charming when he had guest–starred as a shady used–car salesman. Maybe there were archives of Burning at the Forge as well. He’d have to ask Brother Asher if he could bring back Maxwell Forge, just so the jackass could pontificate about the world around them. Then Ralph could make fun of him again. But of course, Max had not resided in San Domenico. He must have lived in L.A., with all of the other big fish.
Ralph and Pete had liked to go to the bar on Wednesday nights, grab a few beers, and listen to Max. Max was hysterical, though he had never meant to be. He was an ideologue war hawk who had ranted and raved on his show about how WesMec should nuke NorMec before those bastards released their Shadows. A fearsome ignoramus who had spread hate during a time when the world needed peace. But boy, he had been so much fun to heckle, even if just from a bar.
Also, he had been wrong.
Ralph could remember when the Shadows had fallen. He did not think Brother Asher knew that. It was his own little secret, one that he would never share. Despite the boy’s repeated insistences of impossibility, he had a nasty suspicion that the monk could and would erase his memory if he did.
The line of blackness had crawled along the horizon at first. He had watched as moment by moment, it rippled through the sky. Then, within an instant, the boiling midnight cloud had rushed him. He remembered death. Death was cold. Death was sludge in your veins. Death was your breath frozen into tiny shards of ice that sliced at the spongy sacs of your lungs.
But that was not why he needed to keep the memory secret. He needed to keep it secret because he could remember clearly that he had been out back, misting his tomato vines. But his back yard faced west.
NorMec’s missiles had always, always come from the east.
The skinny kid seemed to mean well, but he was full of shit. So much of his story did not add up. But so what? What was the point of getting all upset over it, the way some people did? Ralph had been dead, and now he was alive. He was young and strong again, in a world that was weird, fresh and new. There were things you could change, and things you could not. He could be a little fish in the big sea again, just trying to make the tragedies bearable one joke at a time.
He got up, took a piss, and made himself a cup of coffee. Today he would sit on his front porch in his boxers, let the sun shine on his face, and figure out how to have some fun. He opened the door.
An emaciated figure staggered up the street, silhouetted by the rising sun. He took long, stumbling steps, his bare feet slapping the pavement. Ralph ran to him.
“Brother Asher?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
The boy’s eyes rolled in his head as it dipped and weaved on its scrawny neck. Ralph slipped his arm under the monk’s, and supported his weight. He felt as light as a baby. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll get you inside.”
“No,” Asher said through chattering teeth. “I can’t. I need to get her. I need to chop it down. Can you do that for me? I need you to chop her down!”
“Oh, don’t be a twat,” said Ralph. “You’re so exhausted that you’re ranting.” He led the monk inside, and lowered him onto the paisley couch. “I’m going to get you a glass of water, you’re going to drink it, and then you’re going to take a nap. And while you’re asleep, I’ll make you a turkey and dried grapefruit wrap like you wouldn’t —”
“No!” the boy shouted, lurching to his feet. He grabbed Ralph by the collar of his bathrobe. His breath stank of sulfur. “You can’t let me sleep. You have to promise that you won’t let me sleep.”
“Why?”
“Because when I sleep, my children sleep, and their work hasn’t stopped. They’re working right now. If I sleep before they’re done, I don’t know what will happen.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Ralph. “Come on, you’re delirious.” He pushed Asher back down. He felt bad for the kid, but he was starting to get scary. Crazy people could have crazy strength. He went to the bathroom, and looked through his medicine cabinet. He found a box of Fizzle–Doze
, put a tablet in a glass, filled it with water, and brought it to his guest. “Give it a minute,” he said, “just wait for the bubbles to stop.”
Asher’s eyes looked like two hard–boiled eggs tattooed with bloody road maps. They stared at the proffered glass. “What is it?” he asked.
Ralph shrugged. Sometimes you had to lie to kids to do what was best for them. “Something to help you stay awake.”
“You’re sure?”
“We used to take this stuff all the time, when we were on the road. I was worried that you might not have resurrected my stash. The way you made everything around here better, it’ll probably have you crawling on the ceiling for weeks.”
Asher took a long, uncertain look at the drink. He blinked rapidly, his eyes rolling back in his filthy head. He shook off his languor, put the glass to his lips, and drank.
Roger stretched his cheeks across the toilet seat, and breathed out a heavy sigh. It was morning, but he was not sure exactly when. Six o’clock? Seven? It did not matter, he did not have anywhere to be.
He and Helen had walked home from the hospital during the night, hand in hand. They had found the house empty. Helen had stood in the doorway with her head at a slight tilt and said that it was wrong, that their little girl should be there. But like him, she had not seemed to feel strongly about it. Tish was probably safe. She was probably playing with her friends.
But she did not have any friends.
They had gone to bed, and lain in the darkness while holding hands. He felt at home, while holding hands with her. But the thought that he needed to find Tish tickled the back of his mind. She should not be out there alone. Who cared if the people here were not violent? What if she fell and broke her neck?
Then Asher can just fix her again. You’ve seen him do it before.
He bolted up, banging the back of his head on the blue–tiled wall.
He coughed.
“Roger?”
He looked at the door. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he said. He wiped, flushed, and pulled his pants up. He walked to Tish’s bedroom. Maybe she was under the bed. She used to hide there, back when times were bad.
Back when he had been bad.
He shook the thought away. He had always done the best that he could. He was trying to be better now, that was what mattered. He coughed again. Something scratched and burned his throat. He got on his hands and knees, and looked beneath her bed’s spring box. He could make out a tiny shadow, slumped in the corner. He reached for it, ignoring the pain in his chest.
It was a plush rabbit with blue fur. A ribbed, crosshatched pattern encircled its neck, as if someone at the factory had neatly chopped its head off, and then reattached it with a sewing machine.
A memory from many years past flashed through his mind. He was supposed to have been watching Tish while she played in the front yard, but he had gone out back to sneak a smoke. She was five, and to him, that was old enough to play on her own for a few minutes. Some of the local Aryan Circle wannabes had walked by while he was gone. One of them had grabbed her stuffed rabbit and thrown it into the road, but Roger had not learned that until later. He had just heard the blaring of a horn, accompanied by the screech of tires.
He had run out front to find her standing in the street, inches from a car’s front bumper, holding the stupid thing in her hands. He had scooped her up, ignoring the screaming bitch behind the wheel, ignoring the stench of burned rubber and the skid marks that ran down the block. He had carried Tish inside, and had yelled at her until his voice was ragged and hoarse. That was the only time in his life that he had ever truly felt terrified. Life had dealt the kid enough of a bad hand. What if she had been killed or crippled, just because he was a piece of shit who had sneaked off to feed his habit?
She had just stared at him, clutching her stuffed animal, and not saying anything. He had realized that he was being a monster, but he could not help it. He had to make her understand. He grabbed the rabbit out of her hands, and ripped its head off.
That did the trick. She had shrieked at the top of her lungs, the message finally received. He threw the bunny bits into the trash, and sent her to bed.
Now he stood in her room, staring at the resurrected, perfectly decapitated and resewn stuffed animal. He coughed again. It felt as if his lungs were erupting, their tiny alveoli popping like popcorn. He doubled over and thumped his chest, the way he used to. He coughed up something into his hand, and stared at it.
It was one of Asher’s wasps.
He coughed again, dropping the bunny and the microscopic insect to the floor. Had he swallowed more than one of the little bastards? He staggered to Tish’s dresser, and looked in the mirror.
A face he had long forgotten stared back at him. It was a face with a broad nose, chestnut eyes, and leathery, freckled skin that was a cross between brown and gray.
His skin itched as if he had fleas. He raked his cheeks, lips, and chin with his fingernails as thousands of black hairs pierced through them like tiny needles.
A buzzing drone filled his skull. He coughed and coughed. It felt as if his throat were full of gravel.
He vomited a stream of smog from the pit of his stomach. It broke against the mirror, rippling out across the glass. He lifted his head, and stared again at his reflection.
His head had become a ball of smoke.
It rippled and billowed into a maelstrom of roiling ash. He gasped for breath, and sucked his own churning face into what had been his throat. He coughed it out, and then inhaled it again in a never–ending cycle of exhaust.
Though he no longer had the necessary organs, he could still see and hear. Helen’s voice rose in a sobbing wail, but he could not help her. He was a creature of fumes now, a coughing monstrosity of diseased wisps and curls. His chest was a forge of unending pain, a pit of fiery coals that incessantly ground against each other as they smoldered.
He could see the army of wasps within the billows of his brain, desperate but sluggish in their attempts to reweave him, to regain control.
His pajamas and tighty–whiteys fell to the floor. He looked down at them, and turned his smoky head. A metallic, scraping noise that repeated over and over echoed from down the hall. He followed it to the bedroom.
Helen’s cries had fallen silent. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Their sheets were soaked in scarlet. Her fingers, elongated into talons, had shredded her arms to ribbons. Each razor–sharp hand had become locked between the gap in its opposite arm’s silvery bones. They slid from shoulder to elbow and back again, like ceaseless pistons. They screeched with the sound of steel upon steel.
She turned to face him. Her head reminded him of a stop–animation clay virt, her face a canvas of constant change. One moment her features were composed of flowers, their petals folding and unfolding until they became the flipping pages of a book. The pages merged to become a cube, each side glowing with an LED numeral. The numerals divided and subdivided until they transformed into dots that rippled and undulated like waves on the ocean.
Roger stared at her ever–shifting visage. He coughed and coughed, the grating pain searing him from within. He could hear, over the sound of his hacking and the scrape of her arms, the buzzing that came from within both of their skulls. Would the boy remake them? Would he fix them? Could he, at this stage?
He looked to the window. He could hear screams echoing from down the street. Was this happening to everyone in the city? Was it happening to Tish?
Was she alone?
The thought made him angry, and the coals within his body flared. He imagined his daughter, his faultless, precious girl whom he loved with all his heart, and how she might define herself in this sunrise unmasking. He roiled and billowed down the stairs to the front door. Could he open it, or perhaps seep between its cracks? He fumbled at it with hands of churning smog, but they were useless. He heard the scraping piston noise again, and turned.
Helen stood behind him, her face a churning waterfall
of tears.
“Tish,” he tried to say, but the word was nothing but smoke and ash.
Helen stared at him. Could she comprehend? True, their heaven had become hell. But they could not leave their daughter to face it alone.
“Tish.” He managed to expel the word amidst a cough. “Tish, Tish, Tish.”
Her scraping came to a halt. With a grating flourish, she pulled her hands from the bones of her arms. She walked to him, her face a mask of maggots, which became bright and colorful jellybeans, which squared off into a cascading arc of dominoes. They clicked together, brick by brick, shrinking, melting, to form, for one stable moment, the face of the daughter that had held their lives together.
The screams from outside were louder now. Some were laments, some were curses. Some were incomprehensible, like the wails of enraged and terrified animals.
Helen reached out a razor–sharp claw to Roger, and he took it within his fingers of smoke. He gazed into her ever–changing features. They seemed to nod at him, and, although his head was a fountain of smog, he did his best to nod back.
She opened the door, and holding hands, they met the sunrise.
Matthew took The Forgotten Cathedral from its place in the surrealism wing, and brought both paintings down to the museum’s restoration workshop. He lay them side by side upon its largest table, and searched the shelves for a utility knife.
He held its scalpel–thin blade against the surface of Pulling Back the Curtain. He bit his lip. His mother would never forgive him for destroying a work of art, even if it was only a virtual copy. But without image manipulation software and a scanner, he did not see any other way. He cut through the canvas with slow, deliberate strokes. He removed all the jagged portions of the landscape, doorframe, and lion that the gaps in the torn curtain revealed, with one exception: He left the portion of doorframe with its surrounding fractured glass intact.
He placed the mutilated artwork across The Forgotten Cathedral. Their edges lined up without a millimeter of overhang, the top painting’s circular crack and wooden junction lying directly on top of the bottom one’s Celtic cross. He put the knife down, and stared at the result.