What star is that?
I find Polaris, the North Star, at the tail end of Ursa Minor, orienting myself to the night sky. I move back to the star in question and even in my hazy drunken state, I know that it is not a star at all. It’s the satellite—stopped, in between the constellations Cepheus and Draco.
How does a satellite orbiting the Earth suddenly stop?
Someone is controlling it, I think. But at the speed it was moving, coming to a full stop would have taken a few revolutions around the planet. The sudden, jarring stop performed by the satellite would have torn it apart.
And then, it does the impossible again, reversing direction and accelerating. “What...the...” I gasp. The satellite disappears.
Maybe someone is controlling it, and just pushed it beyond its stress limits, breaking it into pieces?
Fat drips from the steak. Flames sizzle up. I stumble back a step, laughing as a wave of dizziness swirls through my body and dots of light swirl in my vision for a moment. I have had far too much to drink. Or not enough. I take a swig, put my arms around two imaginary chums, and sing, “I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it went right to my head!”
I bump against a chair and slump into it. “Man, I want to watch that movie.” I slowly come to the conclusion that I cannot watch Jaws. My copy is VHS, but I no longer have a VCR. Who does? Nobody, that’s who. But my neighbor, Phil, who is kind of a jackass, has a home theater and an ungodly number of DVDs and Blue Ray movies. He showed me once, the day I moved in. I haven’t been back over since. Phil is an aberration in the neighborhood. He doesn’t work at Desert. He’s not a scientist. He’s not even intelligent. He’s a local who won the lottery. A millionaire. And instead of moving someplace nice, he decided to stay in Superior and build a superior home, twice the size as the rest of the Nebula houses. He’s got a four car garage, a pool, a guest house, a maid, a gardener, my jealousy and no family to share it with. His only redeeming quality is a massive HAM radio antenna, rising up from the back of his property.
And now...he’s gone.
My drunk eyes widen in time with my slowly puckering lips. I raise the bottle of whiskey toward the three story home blocking my view of the sweeping mesa. “What’s yours is mine, buddy!”
I lean forward and half-stand three times before managing to get back to my feet. “What’s yours is mine,” I say again, trying to convince myself that the blurry plan hatching in my head is morally solid. He’s dead and gone, after all. I can stake my claim on pretty much anything, right?
“Fucking right.”
I point at the steak on the grill. “You! Keep cooking. I’ll be back.” I laugh and repeat the words with my best Schwarzenegger impression. “I’ll be back.” The trip to the backyard fence gate is just fifteen feet over a level cobblestone walkway, but it feels like an obstacle course. The gate supports my weight as I lean on it, letting it guide me around toward Phil’s backyard. I negotiate his fence’s gate and stumble toward his deck, which is big enough to land a plane on. I stagger to a stop, ten feet from the sliding doors blocking my way into the kitchen.
I look down at the nearly empty bottle in my hands and shrug. It worked before. After a quick swig, I pitch the bottle forward, nearly throwing myself to the deck. The bottle sails forward, on target despite my inebriation. And then, like some kind of supernatural being, the bottle sails straight through the window without shattering it. I reel back and gasp. Is the world still changing around me? Have the laws of physics been altered along with the human race?
Somewhere inside the house, the bottle shatters.
“I’m not cleaning it up.” The words come from some deep recess where my adolescent self still resides. The current me, who is lost in the sauce, remains focused on the window, which somehow became immaterial. I move toward the door, eyeing the clear space. There’s something odd about the glass.
There’s no reflection, I think, waving my hand. I reach out for the strange glass and pass straight through. I yank my hand back. But shock turns to uproarious laughter when the simple truth of the situation filters through the haze and reaches whatever still functional part of my mind struggles to keep me upright. The door is open. I lean on the frame, gripping it with both hands, unleashing a torrent of laughter at the floor.
I glance back at the deck, and understanding sobers me, a little. Stops me from laughing, at least. A pair of shorts and a T-shirt lie on the deck, just shy of the grill, which is twice the size of mine. The clothing is speckled in white, but the rest of Phil has been carried away by the winds. Beyond the clothing are an empty plate and a pair of tongs. There’s no meat around, but if birds survived the end, then scavengers probably stole the dead man’s meal. Phil was outside when the end came.
I give his empty clothing a two fingered salute, despite the fact that neither of us served in the military, and that no one actually salutes like that, except in movies.
Right, I think. That’s why I’m here. The movie.
Humming the Jaws theme song, I step inside the house, which is surprisingly tidy. I half expected the place to look like Phil hadn’t forgotten his trailer park roots, which I realize now is a horrible thing to think. Not all people who live in trailer parks are cocaine snorting, cheap-beer-swilling slobs. But since no one is around to judge me, I can think whatever the hell I want. So, screw Phil. The place is only clean because he had a maid.
Everything inside is as fancy as the outside, gleaming from a recent polish. Even the hardwood floors in which I can see my reflection. A clicking sound stops me in my tracks.
Something is in here with me.
Oh god, that mountain lion found a way inside!
Run, I think. Hide! But I know any sudden movement will only result in me kissing the floor. So I stand still.
The clicking grows louder and a long, gray muzzle slides into view from the foyer at the front of the house. It’s not the lion, but it’s still deadly to a pudgy, defenseless, far from sober man like myself. A coyote. It stalks toward me slowly, nose to the floor, eyes on mine. But it’s not growling. Do coyotes growl? I heard they hiss, but it’s not doing that either.
The desert predator pauses in the hallway, sniffing the wet floor and the shards of glass where the bottle landed. It takes a single lick, does the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a canine wincing and continues forward, straight toward me.
It stops beside me, but looks away, raises his nose to the air and sniffs. Once. Twice. And then, without so much as a look back, it strides out the door and down the steps.
“Thanks, Wile E,” I call out, and I close the slider while my racing heart slows.
Hand on the wall for balance, I move down the hall to the front of the house, where the basement stairs are located. Most homes in Arizona don’t have basements, simply because they’re not required. There’s no frost line to worry about. But the subterranean level is naturally cool, and gives Phil an extra thousand square feet for his hobbies, including the home theater, and the HAM radio setup. It’s not a traditional basement, hidden behind a rarely opened door. The staircase leading down is as grand as the one leading up, carpeted in noble maroon runners. With a firm grip on the railing, I descend into the basement hallway. Framed movie posters line the walls, mostly 80s comedies, and not the good ones. The theater is at the far end, so I open the first room, flick on the light and find a storage room, full of well-organized accumulation. I move to the next room and find the HAM radio. I point at it, squinting, trying to think something.
“I’ll come back to you,” I say, and I continue down the hall, focused on my mission like James Bond. I raise my fingers into a pretend gun, sliding against the wall while I walk, aiming and shooting at imaginary enemies. I’m a badass. A drunk badass.
I run into the door at the end of the hall and nearly sprawl to the floor. The doorknob clutched in my hand, holds me upright. I twist the handle and bumble into the room. The home theater has six leather recliners with cup holders on three levels. Genuine st
adium seating. The far wall is white and fifteen feet across, ready to receive the projected image. But my destination is the back wall, where, on either side of the door, Phil’s collection of DVDs awaits.
The lines of colorful text are a blurry mess. I lean closer to read them and fail to stop, mashing my face against the collection. I close my eyes, take two weary breaths and lift my head. Directly in front of me is a great white shark, rising through the water toward a swimming woman.
“Thank you, God,” I say. First, I survive the apocalypse and now I find Jaws without having to read a thousand different titles. Someone is looking out for me. I pluck the case from the wall, kiss it and head for the door.
I slide against the wall again, this time just trying to stay vertical. When I reach the HAM radio room, I lean in the door and take another look. Knowledge finds its way through the fog of my mind. HAM radios use long radio waves, bouncing them off the ionosphere, then back to the ground and back up again, ping-ponging the signal around the world. Hard core HAM radio operators can even do a moon bounce, using the celestial object to ricochet signals to various locations around the globe.
The chair by the radio looks comfortable and more used than the theater seats. The boxy transceiver sitting atop the desk is sleek, black and very expensive looking. It’s surrounded by sticky notes and photographs. Intrigued, I flop down into the chair and look at the detritus. The sticky notes have names, callsigns, frequencies and locations. Beneath each is a photo. All women. All lookers. Phil was using his expensive HAM radio to pick up women around the world? I start to chuckle when the realization finally dawns on me that this device can contact people, and emergency services, around the globe.
I turn it on, and a pair of table top speakers crackle to life. He’s got an old school desktop microphone on a stand. I pick it up, hold down the call button and say, “Uhh, hello? Is anyone there?”
I release the button and listen to dead air.
My understanding of how HAM radios work is spot on. Unfortunately, my practical experience with operating one is absolute zero. And while I’m confident I could figure it out in less than five minutes—while sober—in my current state, luck will play a part.
I turn the knob, switching frequencies. “Hellooooo. Yoohoo. Anyone there?”
I listen to more dead air. I could do this all night. And for what? Further confirmation that to survive the mystery event that wiped out humanity you either had to be a desert scavenger or more than a mile below ground? No thanks. Instead, how about some fun? I hold down the call button, clear my throat and belt out the first song that comes to mind.
“Gina works the diner all day!”
By the time I get to the chorus, I’m lost in alcoholic bliss, my own voice sounding like the siren song of Jon Bon Jovi himself. “Whoaaa, we’re half way they-ah...” I stand to my feet, victoriously pumping my fist in the air. “Whoa-ahh!” My head spins from the sudden change in thin blood flow. I spill backward, landing in the chair, which leans back to cradle me and then keeps going. When the wheels roll out, I’m propelled to the floor like a returning space capsule, except my head doesn’t land in the water, it slams into concrete. I see the ceiling above me shrink and fade to black like an old cartoon. Then I giggle my way into unconsciousness.
14
POE
Luke and I limp inside the house and collapse in the living room. The dog, usually a blur of motion, matches my bone tired state. I lay on my back on the braided rug, wet dog curled up beside me. I think about the shimmering object. Object? Being? Energy? I remember Luke’s terror. Dogs peeing in fear always seem so pitiful. Not that it wasn’t justified. Whatever that was, it felt...wrong. Unnatural. And I’m pretty sure it had something to do with the extermination of humanity. What else could it be?
I should have killed it, I think, and then I realize that attacking something so unknown and potentially dangerous wouldn’t have been much different from taking a bottle of Ambien. Staying alive is going to mean staying smart. Or at least not stupid.
I sniff and realize I stink. Sweat mixed with dried ice cream on my pants, and the debris of the dead. Fish water, soaked in, frozen and now thawing. Even in crises, bodies need care. But I can’t move.
Entropy continues. It’s so quiet.
Did I imagine the shimmer?
My parents’ old farmhouse wraps me up, a womb. I let myself feel safe, even if just for a few minutes. I am too tired to do otherwise, to fight and panic nonstop. With a smooth gradient I fail to notice, my thoughts become dreams.
I wake up feeling stiff. My short black and blue hair has dried in crazy spikes, which cheers me a bit. The room is darker than when I got home. How long did I sleep? I get to my feet and look at Luke. His eyes are half open, looking at me, eyebrows twitching with indecision, asking if we’re staying or going. “Stay,” I say, and lean on a window sill, watching the orange streaked sky turn red through the endless pine woods. I lean my forehead against the icy glass, roll it back and forth, my skin burning, nose tip grazing the glass. My breath fogs the surface.
The cold numbs my skin, but can’t work its way any deeper, no matter how much I want it to.
I am trying to decide what to do with my parents’ remains.
I straighten, then trace a spiral with my fingertip on the fogged glass. They’re dead, Poe. What would you do if they had died of more natural causes? Like a heart attack while asleep in bed, or a long illness? You would honor them somehow. You would bury them, scatter their ashes someplace lovely. There would be services, people who loved them. Things would be said.
I realize at that moment that my parents had actually requested at one point to be cremated upon their deaths. We had never quite gotten to the discussion of what to do after that. I walk into the kitchen and stand at the top of the cellar stairs. It feels like all of this happened years ago, or just a minute ago, but not yesterday. Everything seems warped. Out of body.
They’re down there.
If I bend a bit and crane my neck from the top stair, I can see the piles of powder and their clothing on the cement floor. Luke, back on his feet, tries to push past me and investigate the basement, but I block him with my leg, step down and close the door behind me.
I have to do this alone.
Alone forever.
My heart plunks heavy and rapid. Chills run through me and my intestines rumble uncomfortably. I leave the cellar, closing the door behind me, and let Luke follow me into the bathroom.
I’m breathing heavily, near hyperventilating.
I can’t do this.
I am all alone.
My hands wrap around my belly. Not completely alone. In time, there will be another voice. A friend for Luke. A companion that I will one day leave alone, too. Will the baby be strong enough to survive on her own? Will I?
I sense a new darkness lurking on the outskirts of my thoughts. I imagine a paper thin wall, a dam, holding back the murkiness like tons of gallons of water. My drowning inevitable, and soon. Tiny leaks spring from cracks in the wall. I need to stop thinking like an artist. Stop imagining.
Back to the cellar.
I can’t just leave them there.
I find myself standing next to the piles on the concrete floor without remembering walking down the stairs. My mere presence stirs up the light powder. My body starts to shake when I realize that no matter how I deal with their remains, I’m going to get some of the powder on me.
First, their clothing. Leaning over, I gently lift my father’s flannel shirt with just my thumb and forefinger. My body quivers with shock and anxiety. A cloud of powder puffs out from his shirt as I dangle it from one sleeve, at arm’s length. Tears stream down my cheeks. My nose is running.
I need some kind of receptacle. Like an urn. I look around. The only thing I see is a bright orange five gallon bucket in which my father keeps their pipe snake for unclogging the toilet. No fucking way.
The depth of my loneliness crashes over me again, threatening. I can give
up. I can just give it all up. I don’t need to do this. I picture Squirt, and I almost don’t care.
I need help.
With that thought, standing in my stocking feet on the cold cement floor, desperation a musty pit opening up in my brain, my dead parents all around me, I suddenly feel like I can breathe a bit. The shaking slows.
I gently place his shirt back down, and walk around the chilly basement, looking at the shelves, trying to figure out what can hold their remains. I find a small broom and dustpan near the washing machine and return to the piles. I can collect them now, and find something after.
No matter how gently I sweep, the brushing motion causes the powder to fluff into the air, near my face, repelling me. “Damnit!” I shout. Luke whines and paws at the door.
Driven by anger at my parents’ remains, as stubborn in death as they could be in life, I make a decision. I head back up to the kitchen utility closet and roll out the vacuum cleaner, the comforting bump of its old wheels like company. I realize that the bag is probably full, or at least soiled, with everyday detritus, dust, farm soil, spilled things. Considering what I’m about to do, this seems at the very least indecent, and at the worst, profane and sacrilegious. After replacing the HEPA filter bag, I put on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, from beneath the sink, and pick up a black trash bag.
Back in the basement, I try again to lift my dad’s shirt but the powder poofs out once more. Vacuum first, I decide, and I attach the soft brush to the hose end. I flick the switch to on. Gently, like bathing an infant, I pick up my father’s shirt for the third time and cradle it in my left arm. I’m not shaking anymore. It’s difficult to squat with my strained ankle, so I sit right down on the hard, cold floor. My father’s signature sawdust and hay scent lingers along with that stale vacuum smell, which this time includes balsam needles from their Christmas tree, still nestled somewhere in the hose. Before I realize it, a twist of anticipation burbles through my belly, Christmas! Memories have a mind of their own, residing in our cells, beckoned to the present through the weirdest means. The powder smells of pennies. Copper, iron?
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