The first page showed an old printed picture, ink faded with time. Sasha, a beautiful, vibrant woman, a mirror of their mother, leaning against a man as she cradled an infant, so tiny, too tiny, his head bulging over his right eye, his left drooping too low. A sad smile blossomed on her loving face. Underneath, it said, “Sasha, Bob, and Little Barry.”
He read. With fertility drugs she'd conceived, birthing Barry during C-section at twenty-three weeks. He'd lived three days. Their next lived a week. The one after that miscarried fourteen weeks in, the next bled down her leg after only ten.
Through blurred eyes he found the nurse. “Where is she? Can I see her?”
The nurse nodded toward the desk, where a small purple vase rested against the wall. It had shattered and been repaired with gold, an old Japanese trick their father had loved, the beauty that came from broken things. Barry remembered it from Sasha's room, after their father had passed—she'd taken it as a memory of him, and kept flowers in it when she could find them. Now, a crude engraving near the bottom said SME, dated thirty years earlier. He ran his fingers down the smooth pottery, traced the letters.
“She's gone.” Like everyone else. “So you put her on a desk?”
“I'm sorry,” Annie said. “She wanted to rest with her children.”
He swallowed. “What happened?”
“She carried her fifth to twenty-five weeks. We pulled her out, but your sister didn't survive. The baby made it nine days. We named her Ruth.”
“Sasha was, what? Fifty-one years old?”
“About that.”
“What was she doing having children?”
The nurse stepped back—he still didn't know her name—and gestured at the beds. “Do you see anyone here of childbearing age? Thousands of women have lain in these beds. Tens of thousands. We do what we can: fertility drugs, different donors, in vitro stabilization techniques, genetic engineering. We've had children survive ten days, even two weeks, with so few deformities, hell, you could almost think them normal. It's… progress.”
“Have any lived? Beyond… beyond—”
“No. And it only gets worse as their mothers get older. But one of these days we might get lucky.”
“Then why?”
She kneeled next to him and whispered into his ear. “What else are we to do?”
A noise escaped his lips that might have been a laugh, might have been a cry of despair.
Barry couldn't breathe.
He stumbled out of the chair, dizzy, chest squeezed by a sudden panic. The world hazed from red to black. Voices, stern and sharp, called out behind him. A door slammed, a bookcase creaked shut.
He came to at his father's desk, the wood pale and cracked after so many years of neglect. Sasha sat in front of him with her children, the purple and gold vase encasing all that remained of hope or joy, a beautiful lie that things can be repaired, made more beautiful. A million white lines crackled through the glaze, the truth of entropy made manifest on the vessel that contained the ashes of hope. His father's revolver rested cold in his hand, black metal marred with flecks of rust where pieces meshed, the faintest smell of gunpowder still lingering in the drawer that lay open at his knee.
He raised it, turned it over, ran his fingers down the dark curves. He cocked the hammer, and it slid back with little difficulty, latching into place with a faint click.
Outside, a wolf howled. Another answered, then another.
Tears melded the urn into the gun, the gun into the urn. Sasha had always liked wolves.
THERE IS NO… GOD
Lance Taubold
“Are we all in agreement, then?” the one called Adam asked.
“I am,” the one called Cain said.
“I am as well,” the one called Abel said.
“The final, corrupt world leader has taken control of the greatest of Earth’s nations. It is only a matter of months, or perhaps hours, until the fatal decision is made setting earth on a disastrous course to perdition,” Adam said.
“It has not all been bad,” Eve said. “There have been many shining and glorious moments over the centuries.”
“True,” Adam readily agreed. “We can all recollect many fine civilizations and individuals. Some remarkable accomplishments and discoveries. Surprises and disappointments.”
“But always two steps forward—”
“And one step back,” Cain finished for Abel.
Adam added, “Even though we created them in our own image, then gave them the ability for diversification, evolution, the power of choice and reasoning, the corruptive—dare I say—evilness has won out in the end.”
“It is a pity, as the majority of humans desire happiness and contentment,” Eve said, shaking her head in regret.
“Then that is what they should have fought for,” Cain rejoined.
“I agree with you, Cain. But happiness was not enough for everyone. Some strove for more.” Adam walked around the large room, taking in the floating screens surrounding it. “The past century had the most advances in so many ways. Technology alone advanced tenfold. But not humanity, or goodness, generosity, altruism, love of fellow man or woman.” He looked to Eve, sadness in his golden eyes.
Eve gave him a sad smile. “Yes, these past decades have shown us how selfish humans can be, how disconnected everyone has become with the advanced technology, each generation becoming more insular and uncaring. For so many, the Bible that we gave them has been forgotten or discounted.”
“They will remember it now,” Cain said, sad bitterness evident in his tone, hinting at the impending doom. “The Book of Revelation may have been somewhat hyperbolic, but its overall intent is true.”
“Armageddon, the end of days, the Apocalypse,” Abel muttered.
“It has finally come to this. Even your return, Cain, as the Christ, would not have enough of an effect. We have been given no choice.” Adam’s voice carried the solemnity of its meaning.
“But,” Eve said, “we have agreed to uphold the final chapters of Revelation and to begin anew.”
Adam nodded. “We have.” Abel and Cain gave their silent assent.
Abel stood. “Yet we have not decided who the two will be—the next ‘Adam and Eve.’”
“It will become apparent, I trust,” Adam said. “Each of us has his tasks as the four horsemen.”
They looked at one another. Determination came into each of their eyes.
Adam turned to Abel. “The Black Horse first. Pestilence.”
“Let the Apocalypse begin.”
***
Curtis Ralyea stared at the General Assembly and could not believe the words he had just heard. As ambassador to France, he had recently been having a difficult time—and that was putting it mildly. The Charlie Hebdo massacre had started the reign of terror in the country. And terrorist attacks had escalated from there. More and more fatalities each time. As ambassador, he had tried to reassure the French President that the new American president would be much more protective and offensive toward terrorists than the one from the former regime. And he had hoped it would be so.
But it hadn’t been so. The new president was offensive all right. He had offended nearly every nation in the world—at least all but those who wanted something from him or could benefit in some way.
As a child, Curtis had always tried to do the right thing, help people. When he got older, he saw the situation of the planet and wanted to help bring about peace. He had no delusions that he could do it alone, but he wanted to be part of the effort to make it happen.
He had studied hard: world history, politics, socioeconomics, languages. He spoke seven languages fluently: Mandarin, Arabic and Swahili, and had a command of four others. He had met all the right people, and all of that combined with his blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw, and a fit, but not overly muscular, physique had helped to make him the youngest US ambassador ever (at twenty-four and by three months) over Edward Rumsey Wing, the 1869 Minister to Ecuador. Now, at thirty-two, it had come t
o an end.
His ambition and hard work had paid off professionally, but personally, he was less than successful. He knew a multitude of people, but as for friends—let alone a girlfriend or boyfriend (he hadn’t felt a strong inclination either way)—he had none. Yes, he could say it unequivocally: he had no friends. He liked people, but they usually disappointed him—make that they always disappointed him. He could always read the lust in men’s and women’s eyes: for his looks, his position. Just once, he wanted someone to see past the exterior, the superficial, to see him for who he was.
Perhaps he expected too much. The world had gotten too fast, too impersonal. It was all about immediate self-gratification. Thanks to technology, that had become simple.
Was he becoming cynical? He hoped not. He didn’t want to be. He did believe in the essential goodness of man. His parents had been good people. He was sure there were others out there as well. His parents’ generation had been more considerate, more patient, more optimistic. His generation, less so. And the one after—the millennials—the less said, the better.
Still, he would not give up hope, even if sometimes he felt like Diogenes looking for an honest man.
He listened to the Secretary General, try to quell the outrage in the vast hall—the protestations, the outright yelling. He noticed the quiet acceptance of some, and the smug, almost victorious countenances of the knowing few. He took it all in. His stomach lurched. He fought to keep the bile down. Could this really be happening?
The United Nations was no longer?
Was this the beginning of the End of Days?
***
Gatsby Langdon was Australian by birth, American by choice, cynical by nature. At 6’4” and weighing a solid 250 pounds, with dark hair and almost coal-black eyes, he was an imposing figure. He had invested wisely in real estate, and had seen the handwriting on the wall several years ago, in time to sell—and sell big. For all intents and purposes, at thirty-five, he was retired in his semi-opulent apartment overlooking Central Park and the Upper West Side. He could live well and do as he pleased, go where he wanted, be with most anyone he wanted. But in spite of all his ostensible cynicism, he held on to the smallest sort of optimism.
He’d come from a well-to-do family, never wanting for anything. He’d come to America when he was four. He had no “Strail” accent—unless he wanted one. Sometimes it was fun to turn it on, and men thought it was sexy… women too, but he didn’t care. What he did care about was finding someone to love and love him in return. Clichéd, but true. But where? Granted he wasn’t a barfly or a party-type guy, but he would have thought that in his business transactions and meetings over the years he would have found someone… but he hadn’t even come close. Except for… except for the fact that he was a priest! Father Gordon. Father Rick, really. That’s what Gatsby had called him. Father Rick had taught him about goodness, and faith, and hope. And if he really had to admit it, he wasn’t a cynic by nature. Rick had taught him that too. Also, the belief that man is inherently good, and to believe in himself. And it had rung true to him.
After Father Rick had moved on, hopefully to greener pastures than the craziness of New York, Gatsby began to champion worthwhile causes and campaign for equal rights.
He stopped his woolgathering and his eyes focused on his wall screen in front of him: CNN BREAKING NEWS. He turned up the volume.
“By a two-thirds vote, the United Nations has been abolished.” The commentator paused, as if not believing what his monitor was revealing.
“What?” Gatsby yelled aloud. “This is insanity!”
He sat in front of the television for the next couple of hours, listening, uncomprehending… crying.
“Father Rick, where are you now? Where is God now? Is this the beginning of the end?” Gatsby asked to the heavens.
There was no response.
***
Anna Wycoff awoke and stretched. This is going to be a good day, she thought, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
She could not have been more wrong.
Anna left her apartment building and stepped out onto West 30th Street.
It was May 1. The sun was shining, and she was starting her new job at the United Nations. Well, not actually at the UN, but working as personal assistant to Curtis Ralyea, the incredibly handsome ambassador to France.
Her job would require her to travel with him, and she loved to travel. There was an important meeting today at the UN of the General Assembly. All were required to attend, as an impending announcement was to be made. She was still trying to remember the pronunciation of the Secretary General’s name. For some reason, she kept reversing letters. Maybe she could call him by his first name. She smiled to herself. And maybe she’d never even get to meet him. Ah well, the important name to her was Curtis Ralyea, her boss.
Her father, being very well connected, had gotten her the interview. She had studied hard and had graduated top of her class from Vassar. She spoke fluent French and had studied abroad for a year and a half. She had the knowledge and the skills, now she needed to put them into practice.
She approached the magnificent on East 42nd Street and First Avenue. God, she loved New York, and this awe-inspiring building especially. She never tired of looking up and seeing all the flags waving in the breeze: Europe, Asia, South America, Africa… the whole world unified… joined together in one place.
She let out a deep sigh of pleasure.
And now she was part of it. Making the world a better and more peaceful place. She knew if she said her thoughts aloud they would come off as grandiose or pompous, or deluded, but it was how she felt. World peace was her goal.
She wasn’t sure how long the meeting was to last today, but she didn’t care. She would spend her time walking around, exploring, admiring, getting accustomed to the place, and thanking God that she was now a part of this world.
She had gotten her clearance, credentials, and badge and was free to “explore.” Curtis had told her she was welcome to sit at the back of the Assembly and could listen to what the various world ambassadors had to say. There were earbuds available so that she could listen, and the different languages would be translated for her.
With earbuds firmly in place, she entered the massive hall.
From the back of the hall, she looked around, trying to spot her boss. She scanned the ambassadors, some dressed in their native garb, all seeming to be slightly energized. Had she missed something? Most were engaged in animated conversations with one or more of their fellow ambassadors. Then the Secretary General arrived at the podium. Everyone took their seats and an eerie hush came over the Assembly. Yet the electricity in the air remained.
The Secretary General began to speak in his accented English. His tone was the most solemn she had ever heard.
Anna listened, stupefied. She heard the words issue forth, her ears hearing, her mind unbelieving.
It couldn’t be!
Her life. The UN. The world. The future. Was it all over?
***
Curtis filed out of the Assembly. Numb. His fellow ambassadors—well, not anymore—they were all just men and women now. No more ambassadors. No more embassies. What would he do now? Oh, my God! What would the world do now? There were too many despots and oligarchs in power, each wanting to be its own entity, thinking they could fight terrorism on their own and be independent from the rest of the world. That they didn’t need the help and support of other nations. What were they thinking? Delusional. This was more than a disaster. It was a global catastrophe!
He heard a faint voice. “Mr. Ralyea? Mr. Ralyea!” He looked to the left. Up against the wall, through the crowd, he could see her. The face familiar. He tried to recall… Anna! His new assistant. He remembered; he was to meet her after the assembly. She looked… forlorn. Lost.
He worked his way through the sea of people. “Anna.”
She threw herself into his arms. His natural instinct was to embrace her. He did. He felt her body trembling, shoulders heaving
.
“Mr. Ralyea… Curtis… what’s happening?” she mumbled into his chest between sobs.
“I’m not sure, Anna. Everything will be all right.”
All right? Who was he kidding? Everything would never be all right again.
He had to get them out of the melee. “Come with me.” He took her hand and led her forcefully through the crowd. He could hear the multitude now, the cacophony deafening. Shouts. Crying. It was chaos.
Chaos.
The world was chaos.
***
Gatsby walked into the small innocuous bar on Second Avenue. It was dark. A handful of people was all he could see. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. It shouldn’t be packed. He went to the bar.
“Hey, Gatsby, how ya been? Haven’t seen you for a while. Lookin’ good, as always.”
“Busy. How’ve you been, Cory? Double Johnny Black and soda, please.”
“You know me. Work. Gym. I might compete.” Cory brought his arms up and posed, flexing his over-large biceps in his one-size-too-small T-shirt.
“You’ve got the guns. Good luck.” Gatsby grabbed his drink from the bar, handed Cory a credit card. “Run a tab.”
“You got it, my man. Any time you wanna hit the gym with me, or whatever… You still got my number, right?”
“I do.”
“Sweet.” He leaned over the bar. “Love to see ya again.”
One drunken night.
“Me too. I’ve got to do a little work now,” Gatsby said. He pulled out his phone, indicating working on it, and wandered off to the far corner of the bar where he saw a vacant booth with no one else around. He needed to think.
“Gotcha, Gatsby. I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.”
Gatsby noticed the other four male patrons were all at the bar. Two of them were enrapt in the BREAKING NEWS about the UN folding displayed on the television behind the bar. The other two were enrapt in each other.
As Gatsby sat, he heard the door open. He turned and saw a pretty woman and a very good-looking man walk in. He took in the fit form of the man and wondered if they were a couple. It seemed a little odd for them to be here—in the middle of the afternoon—like he was. Both were well-dressed. A business lunch? In a gay bar? He turned back in his booth and slid all the way in, his back to the room. The tall, wooden booths were just high enough to hide him from view.
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