This is the Way the World Ends

by James Morrow

  “Why Antarctica?”

  “A big chunk of real estate, right? Hence, a high warhead-exhaustion factor. Excellent place for a command-and-control center. Looks like the Joint Chiefs thought of everything—I’m a good man with an ICBM, Wengernook knows what we should commit to the European theater, Randstable can probably maintain a decent R and D effort throughout, and Reverend Sparrow will do wonders for our morale. All right, all right, I’ll admit it. We should all just admit it, right? We’re scared. We’ve never done this before. The cheerleader and the quarterback. You must be dousing your drawers, what with your MARCH Plan on the line and everything. I’m a big supporter of MARCH, you know. Over at SAC they called me the MARCH Hare.”

  “My plan? I don’t have anything to do with the MARCH Plan, General Tarmac. I’d never heard of it until Professor Carter—”

  “Modulated Attacks in Response to Counterforce Hostilities—that’s not your baby?”

  “No.”

  “The SPASM, then. You’re one of the geniuses behind the SPASM.”

  “The SPASM?”

  “Single Plan for Aligning the Services of the Mili…er, what exactly are you doing on this team, Paxton?”

  “Wish I knew. Two weeks ago I signed a really strange scopas suit contract.”

  “Scopas suits? Hell, they don’t work. We ran tests.”

  “I have one that works. In my closet. It didn’t get…where it was supposed to go.”

  “You aren’t in the defense community? You aren’t at Sugar Brook or Lumen or anything?”

  “I inscribe tombstones.”

  “Tombstones?”

  “Lately I’ve been writing the epitaphs.”

  “Epitaphs? I hate to say this, Paxton, but they sure made a mistake evacuating you.”

  “I don’t want to be on the team. I just want to be dead.”

  The MARCH Hare could think of no adequate response to this. “Dead?” he said. He rubbed his hand across his hair, each strand of which was as straight and rigid as a sewing needle.

  “Dead?” he said again. His waist was encircled by a utility belt from which hung an object that looked like a skyrocket. “Nice cabin you got here. Mine’s not bad, either. But then, the Navy always did have a sweet tooth, eh? I understand this boat hauls thirty-six E4 Multiprongs, all gassed up and loaded for Russian bear.”

  George looked at the sea horse tank, studied the antics of Jennifer, Suzy, Jeremiah, Alfred, and Margaret. The previous day some babies had appeared. He could imagine Holly discovering them. The hallucinated sound of her oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s was like a jagged bronze bell implanted in his skull.

  Brat got himself a second cup of coffee, drained it instantly, went for a third. “Epitaphs, you said? Hmmm, maybe they expect this fight to last so long we’ll all be needing a few well-chosen words over our heads. In any event, welcome to the show. We’ve got some tough decisions to make. Started your therapy?”

  “No. You?”

  “I suppose so. Mostly we just sit in Dr. Valcourt’s cabin and palaver, for which the Navy evidently pays her the going rate. I tell her the main guilt I’ve got comes from not being at SAC when we retaliated.” He grinned, forced a laugh. “Don’t let anybody kid you—our air-launched Javelin missiles are the finest a federal deficit can buy.” His grin suddenly degenerated. He grabbed his mouth as if to forestall vomit. “Hell, I’m scared, Paxton.”

  “I don’t like Dr. Valcourt.”

  Brat took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know, kind of an ice cube, but I do enjoy our sessions. Maybe I’ll end up on the fun side of her pants some day.” He crushed his Styrofoam cup. Coffee erupted over his fist. “Shit, wouldn’t you think they’d give us a few scenarios to mull over? You can be sure the Cossack generals aren’t sitting around in some goddamn submarine.”

  Jeremiah Sea Horse and Margaret Sea Horse were kissing. “Have you ever noticed that when a four-year-old draws a human face, it’s always smiling?” George asked. “At least, my four-year-old’s faces were always smiling. Her name was Holly.”

  “I’m sorry. War is hell, huh?” Brat removed the skyrocket from its holster. “Jesus Christ—it’s really happening! Just about the most tragical thing a person can conceive of, and it’s…happening! The point is, after you get into one of these failed-deterrence situations, you can’t let the enemy call the shots. In quite a few scenarios—more than you’d think—the victor is the guy who gets off the last strike.” Brat waved his weapon. “It’s small, but it packs a wallop. David and Goliath.”

  “A hand grenade?”

  “Nah, come on, we’re in the age of microtech, Paxton. The Navy may get to piss in gold cups, but turn to your Air Force for the state of the art. This is a one-kiloton man-portable thermonuclear device complete with delivery system. Looks just like—”

  “A toy,” said George, edging toward the back of his cabin. Indeed, the missile was so toylike that, had Holly been there, she would have used it to send a teddy bear to the moon. “I would like you to leave now,” he said. “I feel an attack of survivor’s guilt coming on.”

  George spent the next four days in his canopied bed, under silk sheets, wishing for death. He cursed God, but he did not die. His mind wanted no dealings with whatever remained of the world, but his body declined to cooperate. His heart, unmindful of Justine’s fate, kept beating. His kidneys, indifferent to Holly’s absence, continued to filter. His mouth got dry, and he drank. His stomach growled, and was fed. George Paxton cursed God, and he cursed the false adage that time heals all wounds.

  The only exercise he got that week came from walking in his sleep.

  “Well, well, who have we here?”

  He was being shaken so vigorously that all his bones seemed about to disconnect. He opened his eyes. Six ensigns filled his field of vision. They became four. The vibrations stopped. Two ensigns—moon-faced, pudgy, not notably distinguishable from each other.

  “To begin with, you should salute us,” said the first ensign.

  “Quite so,” said the second.

  “Salute who?”

  “Ensign Cobb,” said the first.

  “And his cousin, Ensign Peach,” said the second.

  “Mister Peach, I do believe we are in the presence of George Paxton,” said Ensign Cobb.

  “Do tell, Mister Cobb. Are you referring to George Paxton of the McMurdo Sound Agreement?” said Ensign Peach.

  “One and the same,” said Ensign Cobb.

  Ensign Peach lifted a stray thread from the Navy insignia on George’s silk pajamas. “Some say we should build slow, inaccurate, invulnerable missiles,” he said with a sly grin.

  “Thereby allaying Soviet fears that we intend to strike first,” continued Ensign Cobb.

  “Whereas others say that a force of fast and accurate missiles—”

  “Is a more credible deterrent,” said Ensign Cobb.

  “Because it does not imply mutual suicide,” said Ensign Peach.

  “Contrariwise, some say the enemy command-and-control structure must be spared.”

  “So that the war can be brought to a negotiated end.”

  “Whereas others say you must hit command-and-control right away—”

  “So that the enemy will be decapitated and unable to retaliate.”

  “Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be.”

  “And if it were so, it would be.”

  “But as it isn’t, it ain’t.”

  “That’s strategic doctrine.”

  “Salute us, Mister Paxton.”

  George fired off an uncertain salute.

  “Sorry,” said Ensign Peach. “Not good enough.”

  George saluted again.

  “Still not right,” said Ensign Cobb. “Looks like we’ll have to put you in a torpedo tube after all.”

  “In what?” asked George.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be there for long,” said Ensign Peach.

  “A minute at most,” said Ensign Cobb.

  “And then—zowee,
powee—off you go into the wild blue Atlantic!”

  “That’s the one with all the salt in it.”

  “Can you swim?”

  “Can you breathe water?”

  Two facts entered George’s disorganized brain. He was afraid of these cousins. And they were dragging him down a corridor. He struggled. His muscles pulled in contradictory directions. Steam ducts and neon lights bounced by. He tried telling his captors they had no right to treat an Erebus evacuee this way, whereupon he discovered that Ensign Cobb’s sweaty hand was sealing his mouth.

  The torpedo room was green and pocked with rivets. Muzak oozed through the air, countless strings performing “Anchors Aweigh.” The ensigns hauled him up to Tube One, opened the little door. The chamber beyond, which reeked of brine and motor oil, suggested a womb in which man-portable thermonuclear devices were gestated.

  Ensign Cobb held a copy of the McMurdo Sound Agreement before George’s uncoordinated eyes. It was a document of several hundred pages, bound with a spiral of barbed wire. He opened it and thrust Appendix C toward George. Appendix C was headed Scopas Suit Sales Contract.

  “That’s your signature, isn’t it?” said Ensign Cobb.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Look, Mister Peach, he signed it!”

  “And with his own name, too!”

  “I’m a friend of General Tarmac’s,” asserted George.

  “The MARCH Hare?” said Ensign Cobb.

  “Right.”

  “Any friend of General Tarmac’s is an enemy of mine,” said Ensign Peach.

  “Don’t forget to close your mouth,” said Ensign Cobb.

  “Don’t forget to hold your nose.”

  “Don’t forget to write.”

  “We have always been with you—”

  “Waiting to get in.”

  George swung at Cobb’s jaw. The connection was firm and noisy. Peach retaliated, planting a fist in the tomb inscriber’s stomach, thus awakening the dormant agony of his bullet wound.

  I can take this, George said to himself after they had shoved him into Tube One and closed the door. I will not scream, Oblivion is what I wanted all along, and now here it is, oblivion, my good Unitarian friend.

  The chill seeped into his flesh. His breaths echoed off the cylindrical walls. He decided that this was how his customers felt, snug in their caskets. Were they soothed knowing that a seven hundred and fifty dollar chunk of bonded granite sat overhead? He screamed. The reverberations knifed his eardrums.

  He thought of the damage he had just inflicted on Peach. Had he seen correctly? Could it be? When he split the ensign’s lip, had black blood rushed out?

  George wet his pajamas. The warmth was at once terrible and comforting. They had said this would take only a minute. Black blood. Just like Mrs. Covington. An effect of the radiation? No, her visit to the Crippen Monument Works was before the war, wasn’t it? His wet pajamas grew cold.

  Movies had always been fun, especially with Justine. Post-marital dates were the best kind. You could relax, and if there was no butter for the popcorn the world did not end. You sat there, bathed in conditioned air, waiting for the movie to start—any movie, it didn’t matter—like an astronaut in zero gravity, nothing pulling at you, no obligations…

  The tube door opened. Someone grabbed his ankles and yanked him backward. The torpedo room smelled like burning hair, something he had not noticed before. The syrupy strings were now playing “Over There.” George flexed his knees and stood up. Pain screwed through his shoulder bones.

  A thirtyish man, handsome and stocky, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, grinned at him with what seemed like a surplus of teeth. His hair was auburn and abundant, like a well-nourished orangutan’s coat.

  “What happened to those ensigns?” George asked. He stepped forward, scissoring his legs so as to hide his soggy crotch.

  “They had to go off watch, George,” said his rescuer amiably. “I believe they just wanted to scare you.”

  “Whatever made them think that threatening to launch me into the ocean would scare me?” The tomb inscriber laughed. His rescuer did not. George had never before met such a clean-shaven individual. It was as if all the man’s whisker follicles had been cauterized.

  “My grandfather was in the Navy,” said the rescuer. His voice was like gourmet coffee, silky, layered. “Evidently it’s changed a lot since those days. These sailors have not received the Holy Spirit.”

  George looked at his knuckles. They were speckled with a substance resembling tar. “Their blood is black.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said the rescuer.

  “You in the Navy, too?”

  “Ever watch Christian television?”

  “Not a great deal.”

  “Last year Countdown to God’s Wrath—you’ve never caught it?—we had a consistently better rating than Gospel Sing-Along. We get two and a half tons of mail a week. The Lord is doing so many wonderful things.”

  “My wife always wanted to be on television.”

  The evangelist extended a soft, pliant hand. “Reverend Peter Sparrow,” he said. Taking Sparrow’s hand, George felt sustenance and comfort radiate from each finger. This was a very fine evacuee indeed.

  “Television is becoming God’s chosen medium these days, just the way Gutenberg’s press used to be,” said the evangelist. “We’ve been running a lot of old movies on Countdown lately, to build up our audience, follow what I’m saying? You’ve got to start where people are at. Sure, maybe Ben-Hur isn’t such a great picture—I mean, leprosy doesn’t really look like that, it’s quite a bit worse—but then you can move them toward the better stuff, The Robe and Quo Vadis and so on.”

  George coughed. The torpedo tube had probably contained several infectious diseases. “So we’re all going to Antarctica.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful how nuclear exchanges cannot touch Christians?” said Sparrow. “I knew the Perfect Exile would be a time of joy, but I hadn’t realized how rapturous the joy would be. I’m about to see my family.”

  “They’re in Antarctica?”

  “They’re in the sky with Jesus.”

  George glanced up.

  “May I ask you something?” The evangelist touched George’s spotted knuckles. “Are you saved?”

  “Yes, you just saved me. I’m most grateful to you. If your program was still on, I’d watch it.”

  “I’m talking about your relationship with—”

  “My family died when the Russians blew up Wildgrove. Or so I’m told.”

  Reverend Sparrow frowned. “The Hebrew prophets—Ezekiel, Jeremiah—they’re all batting a thousand, understand? The Perfect Exile, the Terrible Trial, the destruction of the temple at Jerusalem—they saw everything, right? You’re saved, George, or you wouldn’t be on this trip.”

  “I’m a Unitarian.”

  “I’m going to pray for you,” said Reverend Sparrow firmly.

  “I appreciate it,” said George, and he did.

  CHAPTER 7

  In Which Our Hero Makes a Strategic Decision and Acquires a Reason Not to Curse God and Die

  In the days that followed, George’s grief took on a New England quality, becoming not so much an emotion as a job to do.

  He tried to remember all those times when fatherhood had seemed a crushing burden. Moments when Holly’s screeching or stubbornness had brought him to the brink of child beating, moments when he felt as if his life had been stolen and replaced by a talkative iron ball chained to his ankle. But only cloying memories came. Holly putting her dollies to bed. Trying to feed the sick cat before it died. Singing to herself. Struggling to grasp the point of a knock-knock joke. She had never understood that proper knock-knock jokes are puns. Knock-knock, she would say. Who’s there? a four-year-old friend would ask. Jennifer (or Suzy or Jeremiah or Alfred or Margaret), Holly would reply.

  Jennifer who?

  Jennifer Poopie Diapers Stupid Dumb Face!

  And then she and her friend would dissolve
in giggles, overwhelmed by preschool social satire.

  Knock-knock.

  “Who’s there?” George didn’t really need to ask. The knock was as characteristic as a fingerprint. “It’s open, Brat.”

  The MARCH Hare pushed boisterously into the cabin—a one-man infantry charge. Accompanying him was a fiftyish man with a dark razoring stare and a marionette’s gangly frame.

  “Meet Dr. William Randstable,” said Brat. “The whiz kid of Sugar Brook Lab and, it is rumored, a certifiable genius.” The general had lost some weight, and the bags under his eyes looked like change purses. “William, this is George Paxton—the poet laureate of Wildgrove, Massachusetts.”

  “I’m not really a whiz kid any more,” said Randstable. His suit was several sizes too large. “More of a whiz middle-aged man.”

  “I hear you once beat the Russian chess champion,” said George.

  “I made the next-to-the-last mistake,” said Randstable modestly.

  Brat patted his man-portable thermonuclear device. “Well, men, looks as if some more fat is about to enter the fire.” His words fought past a trembling throat and clenched teeth. “They’re planning to knock over the remaining enemy missile fields at fourteen hundred hours. If we hurry to the launch control room, we can catch thirty-six Multiprongs go galloping off like Grant took Richmond.”

  “Sugar Brook did the technical support for Multiprong guidance and control,” said Randstable with a quick chuckle. He removed his horn-rimmed eyeglasses and began chewing on the ear piece. “I always wondered how I’d feel on the day they actually left the nest.”

  “Pretty upset, I guess,” said George. An understatement, he concluded from what came out of Randstable’s chest, a conglomeration of sighs and uncontrolled wheezing.

  After moving down a narrow passageway crowded with pipes, ducts, ladders, and stopcocks, the three evacuees came upon a hatch labeled RECREATION AREA: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Brat decided they were authorized personnel. Crossing over, they entered a throbbing undersea metropolis, each facility scaled to the constraints of submarine space. They started along a corridor named Entertainment Lane. George noted a compact skating rink, a slightly abbreviated bowling alley, a miniature golf course where every hazard entailed placing the ball in one orifice or other of a plaster mermaid, and a pair of succinct indoor swimming pools. The enlisted men’s pool was eight feet deep, the officers’ ten. A waking nightmare seized George—Peach and Cobb wrapping his body in chains and throwing him into the officers’ pool. Or perhaps they would favor the bowling alley. They would tie him up and leave him behind the pins.