AFTER

by Kelly, Ronald

  Sometimes Jubal would come home toting something he had stalked and hunted down… a grossly-mutated possum or ground hog. He'd sit at the eating table, peeling its hide away and devouring it raw, without a thought of cooking it. He offered Cassie none of the game that he bagged. She would have refused, even if he had made the offer. She required little sustenance during those days.

  She ate like a bird.

  Cassie awoke one night in mid-October to the pale glow of candlelight.

  She did not open her eyes, but lay there in the big brass bed, staring through the clenched slits of her lids, the way one did when they wanted to appear to be asleep to those around them, but wasn't.

  Jubal sat on the mattress of Seth's bed, dressed only in thread-bare long johns. The sleeve of one arm was rolled up and he idly scratched at the dead skin of his exposed forearm. It curled up and fell to the floor, giving way to the new flesh that laid dormant underneath. Cassie couldn't make it out very well in the pale light of the candle, but it looked dark and purple, almost patterned in some disturbing way.

  As he sat there, Jubal stared at her. His yellow eyes seemed to sparkle in the pale light. They regarded her almost hungrily. Cassie watched as Jubal's tongue emerged, running slowly along his blue lips. It was gray and forked at the end.

  Cassie lay there beneath the patchwork quilt for a long time; silently, expectantly, waiting for her husband to act on the dark thoughts that were obviously running through his mind.

  But he didn't. He stared at her longingly for a few moments, then extinguished the candle and crawled back into bed.

  Cassie huddled in the darkness, like a frightened critter, for what seemed like hours. But Jubal returned to his slumber, oblivious to her concerns. She lay there and listened to the sound of his breathing. It hissed through this throat, bringing back unpleasant memories of the winged serpents that had attacked them several weeks before.

  When Cassie awoke the next morning, she found the wooden beam cast aside and the cabin door standing open.

  She crept cautiously from beneath the covers and looked around. Jubal was gone. His long-handle underwear was folded neatly and laid across the foot of his bed.

  Cassie found the shotgun leaning against the wall. She cracked the breech and found two loads of double-aught in the twin chambers. On the other side of the doorway a heavy fog hovered, covering Hayes Ridge in a misty blanket. Holding the scattergun ahead of her, Cassie left the cabin and stepped down off the porch into the front yard.

  As she walked past the outbuildings of the mountain farmstead, she was aware of the total absence of sound. It was oppressively silent, as though all living things in the surrounding forest had been frightened into immobility.

  Cassie peered through the mist and saw something lying, crumpled and discarded, in front of the charred ruins of the smokehouse. At first it looked like Jubal's long johns… but, no, they had been left upon the bed. She approached the pale object and prodded at it with the muzzles of the shotgun.

  It was a suit of Jubal's skin. The hide, flaky and dry, had been abandoned. She recognized the landmarks of her husband's body. Moles, scars, and such still decorated the translucent flesh. Cassie stared at the sunken bud of his penis. It was shriveled and useless, left there with everything else that was remotely human about the man she had once pledged her heart and soul to.

  Cassie found tracks in the dust of the pathway that led into the woods, toward the outhouse. They were not the tracks of a man, but of something that had dragged itself along the ground upon its belly. Taking a deep breath of cool, mountain air, Cassie started down the pathway to the narrow building that stood alone in a grove of black walnut trees.

  She paused when she came within eight feet of the structure. Another wad of pale skin had been shed upon the pathway. It was the discarded face of Jubal Hayes, the gray-streaked mustache and beard still intact. Cassie shuddered. He was all gone now. Whatever remained was no longer anything that the good Lord had breathed life into.

  The door of the outhouse was partially open.

  "Cassie," called something from the darkness within.

  The woman paused, her pale hands clutching the steel and wood of the shotgun.

  "Casssssssie," it hissed in sinister invitation.

  She used the muzzles of the gun to swing the graywood door wide. The structure was empty. At least the upper portion was.

  "Casssssssie," the voice called again. "I'm down here, Casssssssie."

  She took a couple of steps forward, until she stood almost directly over the single, oval hole of the outhouse's seat. Grimly, she stared into the blackness beyond.

  Just within, something moved. Then a horrible, reptilian face appeared. It was partly of snake, partly of Jubal. Those terrible yellow eyes with their vertical pupils blazed up at her. The tongue lashed out, long and serpentine, flickering like a fleshen flame.

  "Join me, Casssssssie," it requested. "Down here. In the dampness. In the darkness. Join me."

  Before she could retreat, a long, clawed arm shot out and grasped the material of her nightgown. The length of it was tattooed with the same blue-and-purple diamondback pattern that had graced those winged devils. The ones who had flown upon the air like birds. Pounding at the tin roof of the cabin. Slithering up through the cracks of the floor…

  "Remember your Bible, Casssssssie," the thing said with a rasping chuckle. "Man and woman should cleave one unto another."

  Cassie stared at him without emotion. Her horror had been a passing thing. "But we are no longer man and woman. Only mankind's sorry creations."

  The serpent's grasp tightened on her garment, pulling her forward. "You are mine, woman."

  Calmly, Cassie lowered the muzzles of the shotgun until they rested against the scaly plates between his eyes. "And God said unto the serpent, I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel."

  The fiend glared at her from down in the darkness. "You and your damned scripture."

  Cassie uttered nary another word. She squeezed the double triggers, unleashing both loads. The unholy face dispersed in a hail of buckshot. She was nearly pulled off balance as the awful hand tightened its hold on her gown. Then the muscles relaxed in death and the snaky arm slithered backward into the oval hole.

  With the thunder of death still ringing in her ears, Cassie left the outhouse. She cast the gun aside and went back up the pathway to the barn. She found the five-gallon can and used the rest of its contents to douse the base of the chicken coop, barn, cabin, and privy. She set the structures on fire, then walked into the woods.

  Cassie did not walk without purpose. She knew where she was going. Toward the uppermost point of Hayes Ridge she traveled, to where the vegetation gave way to raw stone, pointing like a granite finger skyward toward heaven.

  Skylark Point.

  It had been a favorite spot of Cassie's when she was a young girl, although her mother would have tanned her hide if she'd known she had chosen such a dangerous place at which to play. Cassie recalled sitting on the very point of the ledge, bare feet dangling into open air, watching cardinals and starlings wing their way in the air beneath her. More than once, she had nearly been overcome with the urge to simply push away from her rocky perch. To take flight and join her free-flying friends. But she knew that to do so would be foolish… that the restraints of her humanity made that simple desire impossible.

  But times had changed. And with it, all her childhood dreams.

  Cassie had been to the Point several weeks before, while Jubal was in the foothills looking for Lenora. Sitting in the cabin with her comatose son, a wave of dark depression had overcome her. Feeling alone and forsaken, she had abandoned her motherly duties and walked through the woods, heading to the spot where she had been the happiest as a small child.

  She had reached the very pinnacle of Skylark Point, unsure of her motive for going there. Part of her had gone there looking for a si
gn from God, a single glimmer of hope amid the shadow of despair that engulfed her.

  Another part had fully intended to commit suicide. Simply step off the precipice into open space and end it all.

  As Cassie had stood there, torn between solid ground and air, she had looked across the golden haze and saw something fly up out of the mist, heading toward her.

  It was a dove.

  "God be praised!" she had cried out in joy. A sign. He had sent her a sign.

  But as the bird flew closer, she found that it was indeed a dove, but altered in that terrible way the Burn had brought about. It was as large as an eagle, its talons sharp and its crooked beak razor sharp. Its eyes stood out in fiery relief against its pale, white feathers… bright pink nearly to point of blood red.

  Suddenly it was upon her. Its talons clamped upon her shoulders, anchoring deeply. They sank past clothing and skin, invading her muscle. Savagely, its beak flayed the flesh of her scalp, pecking, attempting to gain entrance to her skull. Its eyes shone feverishly, ravenous for the tender meat of her brain.

  Cassie's hope had turned into horror. As she grappled with the monstrous dove, she pulled Lenora's butcher knife from her apron pocket and drove it through its breast. It spasmed on the blade of the knife for several frantic moments. Then its talons withdrew from her shoulders and it fell. She watched, stunned, as it dropped into the mist that settled just beneath the treetops. Its reddish-pink eyes glared accusingly at her as it disappeared from view.

  Drenched in blood, she had fled Skylark Point. She returned home, bathed, and tended to her wounds. The lacerations on her scalp were painful, but she managed to arrange her hair in a way that hid them. She had scarcely completed the concealment of her encounter, when Jubal had shown up with the bad news about Lenora.

  Now as she walked through the forest, the crackling of spreading fire following close behind, Cassie no longer wondered if the dove's attack had been orchestrated by the forces of good or evil. She now knew that it had surely been a gift from God.

  As she made her way up the steep face of the mountain, she shed her clothing. First the flannel nightgown, then her undergarments. Soon, she was naked. Cassie no longer felt the shame or inhibition that once plagued her. The coolness of the autumn air against her skin felt fresh and cleansing. For the first time in a very long time, she felt a sense of peace and purpose.

  She reached the diagonal pinnacle of Skylark Point. The stone felt warm beneath the soles of her feet as she mounted the ledge and started upward. She could smell the acrid stench of smoke and the heat of fire against her back. Behind her stretched a fiery Hell. Ahead, the vastness of Heaven.

  As Cassie reached the edge of the Point, she looked down at the soft, white pin-feathers that covered her arms and legs, as well as her breasts and belly. It was like the cottony down of a newly hatched chick. The fleshy sack that stretched down her back, from shoulders to tailbone, fluttered and throbbed, almost in anticipation of what was to come.

  She knelt on the stone and arched her back. The sack ruptured. Cassie screamed with an agony a dozen times worse than childbirth. A pair of long, slender wings unfolded from their cocoon and flexed in the morning air. Their white feathers were tinted red with the blood of their violent birth.

  Cassie stood erect and walked to the very end of the ledge. Her toenails – yellowed and curved like the talons of a bird – clutched at the smooth stone, holding her in place as a strong gust of wind pushed against her and her new appendages.

  She closed her eyes, amazed. I am an angel, she thought to herself.

  Behind her, plant and animal alike shrieked amid the devouring flame.

  Cassie took a step forward. Currents of air pushed up from the basin of the valley below. The flats of her wings held her aloft for a breathtaking moment and she actually soared, high above the treetops, like the creature who had violently blessed her.

  Then her weak and malformed wings could take no more. They cracked and crumpled beneath the weight of her body. With a lurch, she fought to attain her lofty position, but found that she could not. Swiftly, she began to lose altitude and plummet downward.

  As she gained momentum, Cassie folded her arms across her chest and smiled.

  "It is finished," she softly whispered.

  Then she entered the golden mist and surrendered to the crushing embrace of Mother Earth.

  TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

  They really didn't know why they went there.

  Rumor had it that a lot of the survivors were doing the same thing… journeying to the old landmarks and tourist attractions. The Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore, the Golden Gate Bridge. Who knew for what reason? Maybe to relive some picture-perfect vacation from years past. Or maybe it was simply to see if they were still there after the chaos of the Burn.

  It was that same desperate curiosity that had brought them there… to the south side of Memphis.

  They had met in Louisville, Kentucky at one of the better refugee camps; one where the guards didn't bust in and rape you in the middle of the night. Roy was an Elvis impersonator from Atlantic City. Darlene was a housewife from Chicago. Two people from entirely different worlds. Neither seemed to have anything in common… except for him.

  It was late evening when they finally reached their destination. The main complex across the street was deserted… trashed and burnt out. The glass had been shattered out of the shops and exhibits, and everything had been looted… all the memorabilia, all the gaudy, overpriced souvenirs.

  They were surprised to find the house standing intact behind its brick wall and its decorative gate; the one with the music notes and the guitar-playing icon on the ironwork. The wall was covered with graffiti, but most of it had been placed there – out of love, respect, or obsession – long before the world had done a fiery pirouette down the toilet.

  But it wasn't entirely untouched. Someone had skinned several beagles and wired their hides to the front gate for some sort of perverted joke.

  Hound dogs.

  Darlene shuddered. "That's sick."

  Roy's eyes smoldered angrily. "Blasphemy," he muttered. After all, it was said that the place had once been a church in a former life.

  He shouldered his twelve-gauge and tried the gate. It was chained and padlocked. "We'll have to climb over," he said. From somewhere down the street, they heard a volley of automatic gunfire, followed by the roaring of an engine. "But let's hurry."

  Carefully, Darlene began to scale the gate with Roy's help. She wasn't in as prime shape as she had once been. In fact, she was more than a little overweight. She supposed she could blame that on too many afternoons on the couch in front of the soap operas, when she had been at home washing clothes and taking care of the kids. But then she didn't want to think about that right now. Not about her dead husband, her dead children, or the pretty two-story house that had been her haven for thirteen years. That was ancient history.

  Finally, she made it over. They heard the vehicle coming, heading in the direction of downtown. Quickly, Roy pulled himself up and over. They crouched behind the wall and waited. It was a Hummer, jet black with piano keys crudely painted down the side and a death's head emblazoned across the hood. Its occupant laughed and released another burst of gunfire as he drove past.

  After making sure that the marauder was long gone, Roy and Darlene turned toward the house. It stood, tall and shadowy, across a lawn of dead brown grass littered with empty beer cans and discarded garbage. Slowly, they trudged up the driveway, on the last leg of their long pilgrimage.

  In awe, they walked between the tall, white pillars of the mansion. The front door was gone. Inside it was gloomy and stank of cigarette smoke and piss.

  They had both been there before; Darlene during a vacation with Stan and the kids, Roy during an impersonator convention back in '98. They looked into the living room and their hearts sank. The peacock mirrors had been shattered, the long white couch smeared with shit, and the grand piano had been busted up and used for
firewood.

  Tears bloomed in Darlene's eyes. "It's so… sad."

  Roy nodded. Although they had only served as traveling companions the entire time they had been on the road, just standing in this place, finally, after miles of ducking and hiding, traveling at night and sleeping in drainage pipes in the daytime, seemed to bring them together in a way they had purposely avoided. Roy took Darlene in his arms and held her. He felt her shiver against his chest. He sighed and looked at the carnage and the disrespect around him. To tell the truth, he felt like crying himself.

  They stood like that for awhile. Roy nuzzled her curly blond hair, then moved his lips down the side of her neck.

  "Roy…" she muttered, but didn't pull away. "I thought we said we weren't going to…"

  "Things have changed," he whispered. "Don't you feel it? We're finally here… for what it's worth. We should celebrate… if you want to."

  It had been so long since she had been with a man and, despite those torturous thoughts of Stan and the kids, she felt herself responding. "I… I do," she moaned. "Where?"

  "Why don't we go to the Jungle Room," he said. "That was his favorite place in the house." He pulled back a bit and Darlene could see his face in the gloom. Roy curled his lip. "You can pretend I'm him, if you want to. It won't hurt my feelings any."

  "Well, you do look like him a lot," she said. Darlene stretched up and covered his mouth with her own. Then she pulled away and took his hand. "Okay, let's go."

  A few minutes later, they reached the Jungle Room. The place still looked like they last remembered. The furniture had been destroyed and someone had blown holes in the paneling with a sawed-off shotgun, but the stone wall with its built-in fountain was still there, as well as the bright green shag carpeting, although it was matted and mildewed in places. A scattering of discarded condoms revealed that the room had been used for the same sleazy reason by countless other horny visitors.