by Eric Barnes
Praise for Eric Barnes and The City Where We Once Lived
“Barnes’s new novel is a rare and truly original work: a hard-edged fable, tender and unflinching, in which a man’s descent and renewal is mirrored by his city. An eerie, beautifully written, and profoundly humane book.”
—Emily St. John Mandel, author of National Book Award finalist Station Eleven
“A stunningly written tale of loss and grief. The stark beauty of Barnes’s prose will pull you into a post-apocalyptic wasteland that is at once utterly foreign and hauntingly familiar. The City Where We Once Lived is a riveting journey through devastation, but one that delivers a world where seeds of hope emerge in the unlikeliest of places.”
—Lindsay Moran, national bestselling author of Blowing My Cover
“Barnes has constructed an intricate apocalyptic world that frighteningly mirrors present-day reality.”
—Shelf Awareness, starred review
“In bare-bones prose that is subtly affecting, the novel is a haunting portrait of why people form bonds and the many ways those bonds can be torn apart…. A story of adaption and the power of the human spirit.”
—Foreword
“Exceptional … From the first pages all the way to the last, I was drawn in. I have read some dystopian future books in the past, but The City Where We Once Lived stands out among them.”
—Seattle Book Review
“An all too realistic novel that could easily be ripped from future newspaper headlines, The City Where We Once Lived is a compelling read from first page to last and reveals author Eric Barnes to have a genuine flair for narrative driven storytelling…. Very highly recommended.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Barnes’s violent, haunted, and creepy novel about failing societies will attract readers of dark, postapocalyptic fiction.”
—Library Journal
“Barnes has constructed an intricate apocalyptic world that frighteningly mirrors present-day reality. Through stark yet intimate prose, Barnes explores themes of separatism and displacement and how the lenses we look through are often distorted by lack of connection and empathy. He offers a cautionary tale about a world that feels a hair’s-breadth away.”
—Malcolm Avenue Review
“Taut with timely themes of climate change, waning empathy, and lack of community, the story hits scarily close to home.”
—Pop Culture Nerd
“A highly recommended look at a dying city that is part dystopian and part premonition.”
—She Treads Softly
“Written in a gorgeously spare language that perfectly reflects the dystopic future this novel depicts, The City Where We Once Lived kept me enthralled throughout. At the core is a deep and admirable compassion for humanity.”
—Chris Offutt, author of Country Dark
“An intensely envisioned work of dystopian realism and American desolation, beautifully drawn from the slow-motion apocalypse of everyday life.”
—Christopher Brown, author of Tropic of Kansas
“A most original novel, surprising and fierce—a dazzling puzzle of grief and utopia, dystopia, and hope.”
—Minna Zallman Proctor, author of Landslide
“Spare and elegant, this novel brings into breathtaking relief a frighteningly recognizable future. Eric Barnes shows us what it means to inhabit—a building, a city, a life. And also what it means to be inhabited—by memories, by ghosts, and maybe, just maybe, by hope.”
—Elise Blackwell, author of The Lower Quarter and Hunger
“A controlled burn of a book, full of horror and sadness and, once the fire dies down, the beauty of new growth. In the tradition of J. G. Ballard and Margaret Atwood, Eric Barnes gives us a dying neighborhood of outcasts who save the world that has cast them out. Just the book we need in these dystopian times.”
—John Feffer, author of Splinterlands
“With deft prose and a discerning voice, The City Where We Once Lived is a taut examination of the archetypes and rituals that form the landscape of community.”
—Courtney Miller Santo, author of Three Story House and The Roots of the Olive Tree
“This novel stuck with me. The voice is appealingly quiet, the atmosphere dreamlike, but the premise of poisoned ground, weather gone haywire, and a government that has thrown up its hands, is frighteningly real. The most remarkable thing is that even after hope is gone, kindness survives.”
—James Whorton, author of Approximately Heaven and Angela Sloan
Also by Eric Barnes
Shimmer
Something Pretty, Something Beautiful
The City Where We Once Lived
Copyright © 2019 by Eric Barnes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].
Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.
Visit the author’s site at ericbarnes.net.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Barnes, Eric (Newspaper publisher), author.
Title: Above the ether: a novel / Eric Barnes.
Description: First edition. | New York: Arcade, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019004265 (print) | LCCN 2019008239 (ebook) | ISBN 9781628729993 (ebook) | ISBN 9781628729986 (hardcover: alk. paper)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Science Fiction / Adventure. | FICTION / Literary. | GSAFD: Dystopias. | Science Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.A8338 (ebook) | LCC PS3602.A8338 A63 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019004265
Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt
Cover photos: iStockphoto
Printed in the United States of America
For Reed and Mackenzie
And with more appreciation than can ever properly be expressed for the music of A Silver Mt. Zion
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1: All That They Can See
CHAPTER 1: The Father
CHAPTER 2: The Investor
CHAPTER 3: The Stranger
CHAPTER 4: The Father
CHAPTER 5: The Investor
CHAPTER 6: The Stranger
PART 2: A Stranger Even to Himself
CHAPTER 7: The Carousel Operator
CHAPTER 8: The Doctor
CHAPTER 9: The Restaurant Manager
CHAPTER 10: The Carousel Operator
CHAPTER 11: The Doctor
CHAPTER 12: The Restaurant Manager
CHAPTER 13: The Carousel Operator
CHAPTER 14: The Doctor
CHAPTER 15: The Restaurant Manager
PART 3: Permanent Dusk
CHAPTER 16: Arrival
CHAPTER 17: Crossing
CHAPTER 18: The Highway
CHAPTER 19: Storm
CHAPTER 20: Ladders
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In some moments, the car will seem to fly. Floating, really, across the surface of the rainwater spread thick across the eight lanes of this highway, the cars around him so fast and the rain so heavy that he drives into white clouds formed from the ground, the mist and spray now rising up against the rain.
But still he drives faster.
His daughter speaks from the backseat. “Daddy,” she asks, “where’s Mom?”
The farmland is flat all around them, the water collecting in massive pools in the muddy and abandoned fields, so that the highway soaked with rain seems to fade into the landscape, the cars and trucks all speeding north, all the lanes, everyone heads north across the delta.
Nothing grows here, though. It’s been that way for years.
On the radio, he hears the warnings.
But he doesn’t want to look back.
His son speaks now. “Daddy?”
He moves the car left, into a gap between two trucks.
Keep moving. Keep moving faster.
He looks into the mirror. His daughter and son stare up at him. He shakes his head, saying, in a moment, “I still don’t know.”
In the bathroom, she pulls the sleeves of her blouse onto her arms, then puts her necklace around her throat. Watching herself in the hotel mirror.
She is beautiful.
Not as a girl she wasn’t. Not as a teen. But, in her thirties, that changed.
He still sleeps in the bed. She can see him, behind her, in the mirror.
She isn’t married. She has no children. She has never had a boyfriend. She thinks, if she thinks about it, that’s how it will always be.
She begins to button the blouse, in the mirror now watching the sunrise in the tall windows behind her, floor to ceiling, a wall of windows that holds a sky turning pink behind the rows and rows of buildings. Fifty stories. Sixty.
This room is on floor seventy.
A minute later, she stands near the bed. Looking down at him. On the floor, she sees the money, hundred dollar bills, halfway out of the pocket of his jeans.
He’s new to this.
She puts her suit jacket on. Sits down on the bed next to him, pulling back the sheets, and he wakes now, naked, looking at her.
She moves her hand along his thigh and across his belly, and she touches his chest, smooth, her fingers gliding along one of his nipples, then the other.
He stares. Thinking, probably, that she wants to start again.
Her hand touches the hair near his eyes. Feels it. Sliding the smooth, long strands between her thumb and finger.
Then she leaves.
She’s in her office soon, a few blocks away, watching that same sunrise turn to daylight. Hot already, she can feel it, another day in the rising hundreds.
He was a young one, she thinks, for only a moment. Younger than he said he was. Younger than ever before.
The hillside just a mile away burns bright, the flames moving steadily toward a row of homes.
She watches from her front porch. The yard is massive. The house is too. A modern mansion, on a lot stretched across four acres of what was once forest.
The haze in the sky above their neighborhood colors the landscape in a permanent dusk.
The air smells like smoke. But she doesn’t notice. The fires come so often that, now, what she’d notice is the absence of smoke. Clear air, that would wake her. Worry her. Confuse her senses and her mind.
Her husband watches her from the other side of the porch.
In truth, she died many years ago. To him. To herself. Her mind is frozen in the place where everything went wrong.
She’ll stand watching the fires for hours. A glass of gin. Then another.
Eventually, he’ll have gone to bed.
But still she watches the fires.
The two children in the backseat are quiet. Silenced by the spray of water rushing toward the car or by the speed of all the vehicles around them. Or, simply, they are quiet because of what they’ve left behind.
Home. Friends. Pets. Their rooms filled with the collected memories of childhood.
Cars wobble as they speed through the pools of water on the highway. A pickup truck nearby begins to veer, then spin, and it shoots off into the mud of former farmland along the highway.
It creates an opening and he quickly pushes the car into it. Moving faster.
This has gone on for half an hour.
Her office door is closed. She stands at her desk, the keyboard and three monitors elevated on steel arms, raised to meet her hands and eyes. Outside her door, she can barely hear the heavily muffled din of the company around her. People moving and conference calls and bullpens of young people joking into their phones, yelling at a coworker nearby, and laughing as they stare into their screens, as if their jobs are part of some sort of game.
She moves through numbers in the silence of her office.
Linking calculations, one embedded in another. Crossing companies and crossing countries and crossing financial instruments of all kinds. Building models of exceptional gains.
Her models always produce. Every one of them. Every time.
Heat presses against the windows, the glass stretching floor to ceiling. The windows are tinted, reflective, but if she touches the glass, she’s sure her fingers might soon start to burn.
She doesn’t once think about the boy.
Her sadness, her trauma, it constantly reoccurs. Every morning, sometimes every hour.
There is no release. Only moments of distraction.
She can see no fires near her home today. Just smoldering trees and the blackened shells of homes along the distant hillsides all around her. The trees and homes stand smoking among the curving roads built so unnaturally across this landscape, roads that once led people to their subdivisions filled with houses that were spread like a pox across these hillsides stripped of trees.
Mudslides in the winter. Fires in the spring.
“We could move,” she hears her husband say.
“And do what with this house?” she says quickly.
“Leave it,” he says. “Eventually, it’s going to burn.”
“We’ll lose all our money,” she says. “We’ll go bankrupt.”
It sounds to her like he’s walking as he speaks. His voice shifting. Volume rising and falling with his movements. “Yes,” she hears him say. “You’re probably right.”
“Then it’s a stupid thing to have brought up,” she says. “Or to even think.”
He speaks after a while. “Okay.”
“I can’t imagine,” she is saying, “why you’d bring that up.”
He doesn’t speak again. He may have gone inside.
“I can’t imagine,” she is saying, “why you’d think there’s any way out of this.”
His son asks from the backseat, “Have you checked the phone?”
“Yes,” his father says, eyes forward, looking for gaps in the traffic. “I checked. There’s still no signal.”
“When did you check?”
“A few minutes ago.”
He can see that the creeks and rivers they pass are rising too. Fed already by the swell of water from the Gulf behind them. Levees have broken, the radio says. Lakes have let loose their water. The massive river overflows, the radio says, the walls that held its course in place for decades have begun to crumble along many miles.
On the highway, the traffic has begun to slow slightly. The radio, the volume low, continues to warn about the danger behind them. The damage. And chaos.
His son leans forward from the backseat. Touches his father’s shoulder.
“Check again.”
Outside her wall of silent windows, the city seems to burn. Or to simply melt. The heat is obvious. Physical. A weight in the air.
In her office, she makes more money. Derivatives based on hundreds and thousands of other trades. She bets against some, and others she bets for, and all of them are linked together, here in her office, in the model on he
r computer.
It’s very quiet here.
She sips from her water.
She opens her spreadsheet to another set of countries far away. Moving through scenarios. Methodically adding instruments to her plan.
But she’ll go to the website soon. An order. An arrangement for later tonight.
“Homes should have never been built here,” she says.
He nods.
“We should move,” she says. “We should just leave.”
He watches her. She’s not looking at him. He says soon, “Okay. Let’s move.”
“Why didn’t we move?” she says. “What were you thinking?”
He says in a moment, “I’m not sure.”
“Always,” she says, “always the same answer. ‘I’m not sure.’”
He says in a moment, “I’m sorry.”
“And always,” she says, “always you’re sorry.”
He says in a moment, “Okay.”
She’s standing at the window now. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry.”
He checks the radio. Sets it to the emergency frequency. In case the fires start to come their way.
“Sorry,” she says, “sorry.”
He turns off the light in the kitchen. He heads upstairs to the room where he now sleeps.
“Sorry,” she says, “sorry.”
The cars on the highway flee water just three feet high. Not a wall. Were this the ocean, it’d be barely a wave. But it’s the leading edge of a flood that will reach more than a hundred miles north and west. And it’s no longer just water. It’s a force of liquid earth, filled with objects from the ground and from homes and from buildings and from cars, the molten water turning in upon itself, branches and tires and animals and shingles, fed by rivers and lakes whose banks it destroys, pushing over everything it touches, pressing down on the earth, eating it alive, finding more water to help it grow stronger every mile.
The traffic has slowed. Almost stopped. The highway has narrowed down to two lanes. Cars use the medians, so still it’s like there are four lanes going north. But the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. They barely crawl forward.
Without the motion of the cars, the rain no longer turns to clouds. Now, the water just falls, pelting the car, loudly, and the wipers can’t possibly keep the windshield clear.