The Apocalypse Reader

by Justin Taylor (Editor)

  That material injury to our globe or to its inhabitants would result from the apprehended contact, was an opinion which hourly lost ground among the wise; and the wise were now freely permitted to rule the reason and the fancy of the crowd. It was demonstrated, that the density of the comet's nucleus was far less than that of our rarest gas; and the harmless passage of a similar visitor among the satellites of Jupiter was a point strongly insisted upon, and which served greatly to allay terror. Theologists, with an earnestness fear-enkindled, dwelt upon the biblical prophecies, and expounded them to the people with a directness and simplicity of which no previous instance had been known. That the final destruction of the earth must be brought about by the agency of fire, was urged with a spirit that enforced everywhere conviction; and that the comets were of no fiery nature (as all men now knew) was a truth which relieved all, in a great measure, from the apprehension of the great calamity foretold. It is noticeable that the popular prejudices and vulgar errors in regard to pestilences and wars-errors which were wont to prevail upon every appearance of a comet-were now altogether unknown. As if by some sudden convulsive exertion, reason had at once hurled superstition from her throne. The feeblest intellect had derived vigor from excessive interest.

  What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended. There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms. A very few days sufficed, however, to merge even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange orb any accustomed thoughts. Its historical attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous novelty of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts, and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with inconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon.

  Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every vegetable thing.

  Yet another day-and the evil was not altogether upon us. It was now evident that its nucleus would first reach us. A wild change had come over all men; and the first sense of pain was the wild signal for general lamentation and horror. This first sense of pain lay in a rigorous constriction of the breast and lungs, and an insufferable dryness of the skin. It could not be denied that our atmosphere was radically affected; the conformation of this atmosphere and the possible modifications to which it might be subjected, were now the topics of discussion. The result of investigation sent an electric thrill of the intensest terror through the universal heart of man.

  It had been long known that the air which encircled us was a compound of oxygen and nitrogen gases, in the proportion of twenty-one measures of oxygen, and seventy-nine of nitrogen, in every one hundred of the atmosphere. Oxygen, which was the principle of combustion, and the vehicle of heat, was absolutely necessary to the support of animal life, and was the most powerful and energetic agent in nature. Nitrogen, on the contrary, was incapable of supporting either animal life or flame. An unnatural excess of oxygen would result, it had been ascertained, in just such an elevation of the animal spirits as we had latterly experienced. It was the pursuit, the extension of the idea, which had engendered awe. What would be the result of a total extraction of the nitrogen? A combustion irresistible, all-devouring, omni-prevalent, immediate; the entire fulfillment, in all their minute and terrible details, of the fiery and horror-inspiring denunciations of the prophecies of the Holy Book.

  Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed, bearing away with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched toward the threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer was now upon us; even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I speak. Let me be brief-brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating all things. Then-let us bow down, Charmion, before the excessive majesty of the great God!-then, there came a shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.

  APOCACALYPSE:

  A DIPTYCH

  Joyce Carol Oates

  Identifying dismembered body parts is particularly difficult when the parts have been scattered. This is often the result of animal activity over a period of time. Of course, it sometimes happens that the perpetrator of the crime, having dismembered the body, will scatter the parts himself. Where decomposition is rapid, owing to warm weather, moist earth and other physical conditions, the identification of such parts poses a challenge to forensic scientists.

  I could not move my leg! I could "feel" my leg attached to my body yet I could not move my leg. When I commanded my leg to move, by an exertion of will, there was a sympathetic twitch of nerves as if an electric current had shot through the tissue; a tightening, an expectation of movement; yet finally there was no movement. And I saw that I'd been mistaken, that is my eyes had been mistaken seeing what they had been conditioned to see. The fact was, my leg was no longer attached to my body.

  Let me demonstrate: this action of a paring knife against bone. (In fact this is an actual human bone, a femur. Lent by the dissection lab downstairs.) When you scrape the blade against bone, the thinness (of the blade) causes it to "chatter"; that is, to scrape unevenly, jumping just perceptibly and irregularly, as you can see. This will leave identifiable marks so that you can determine that a paring knife was used to dismember.

  The horror of this realization filled me slowly ... as a sponge slowly absorbs water by a curious action of its multiple cells. (Is the sponge a "single" organism? If "dismembered," am I, or was I, a "single" organism?)

  My leg would not move. It would not move because it was no longer attached physically to my body. The leg would not move because it was no longer "my" leg. It was merely "the" leg. It was ... “a” leg.

  By contrast, this hunting knife with the heavier blade. When you scrape it against bone, it moves smoothly, producing a different effect on the bone. The distinction between paring knife and hunting knife can be crucial.

  As with my leg, so with my arms. And my hands. And my torso. And my pelvic region. And my head .. , This head no longer attached to a body, nor even to the hacked remains of a body, but kicked approximately four feet away where, rolling like a malformed soccer ball, it came to rest in marshy soil buzzing with bright-winged insects. You
might envision the blank-eyed dignity of a Roman bust except the head was not sculpted from inviolate marble but was comprised of mere organic matter. I could not move my eyes! I could not blink, I could not cease seeing. Where in life I had towered over such wildflowers as loosestrife (that erect, vertical spiky purple flower that grows in profusion in wet meadows and roadside ditches) now in this new state (which I am reluctant to call "death") this wildflower towers over me. Bees cluster close by. Gnats, mosquitoes. Dragonflies, horseflies. And butterflies--so many!

  The language of bones. For bones speak. Types of sprains, fractures, breaks . Clean breaks and not-so clean. Splintered bone. The shearing of joints by the action of an ax. A bone can become porous with time. A bone can decay. Only slowly, relative to flesh. You must put your faith in bones, of which teeth may be said to be a type. Identification through dental records is very helpful. A filling may outlive a tooth. A ring may outlive the finger it has adorned. Baling wire wound tight around wrists and ankles of the victim may outlive the victim.

  God erupted in a swarm of iridescent-glinting wings. Never had I gazed upon such Beauty. Amid the tall marsh grasses and loosestrife dreamy clouds of wings. Cobalt-blue, red-orange, sandy-brown, pale golde, deep crimson, luminous twilit ivory. God in a swarm of butterflies ... I opened my mouth to scream and I could not.

  A confession in itself is not sufficient. Confessions must be corroborated with evidence. To prove murder, you must have a corpse and evidence linking the corpse to the suspect. Even then, you may not be able to prove murder.

  And in that instant my terror became ecstasy. I was transformed in beauty as the butterflies--dozens, hundreds-eagerly covered my eyes, and penetrated my mouth, nose and ears and covered my head. A seething roiling ball of butterflies--So many in me, so transformed, you smile; for beauty alone redeems us.

  The Salvation of the Grass

  A Parable

  IN THE DISTANCE, viewed through a telescope, the D_ family was sitting down to supper. You could see them clearly through the window of their one-storey woodframe ranch house at 33 Sycamore Lane. You would guess it's a fairly ordinary weekday supper and you'd be correct. The D_ family of four seated at the Maplewood table in the dining room, a rectangular table that can open up to seat as many as ten for such special occasions as Thanksgiving and Christmas. But this evening in midsummer is just an ordinary evening. We sit down for supper at 6 o'clock sharp when it's still bright as noon. There are pink plastic placemats beneath our plates, the kind that can be sponged off easily, and paper napkins, Mom's meatloaf baked with a thick catsup crust. Mashed potatoes are being passed in a heavy bowl. Dad at the head of the table smiling. Big Sis to Dad's right and Toby to Dad's left. The chairs are positioned just so. And Mom facing Dad across the table.

  No one is speaking. There's just silence. It isn't an easy, relaxed silence. Like if you struck it with a fork, the silence would shatter and fall into pieces.

  At this short distance, our family features are obvious! They would cause you to smile. It isn't just that Big Sis and I resemble our Dad and Mom, as if we'd been shaken up into a molecular mix and poured out into molds to bake, but Dad and Mom resemble each other, too. Our eyes shifting in their deep sockets, our naked ears that look as if they'd been pinched to sharp points, the oily glisten of our skins and the pale-waxy parts in our hair that look like cracks in a shellacked surface. Our smiles are identical smiles though Dad's and Mom's teeth are larger than Big Sis's and Toby's.

  Big Sis is eleven years old and she is big for her age. I am seven years old and a runt. I am watching Dad out of the corner of my eye. Dad is watching me directly, smiling. And Mom is watching Dad watching me. No one has spoken. Yet the bowl of potatoes is being passed. Mom won't pass it to me but will spoon a serving onto my plate. As she has positioned a piece of meatloaf on my plate.

  I remember Toby. I don't remember being Toby.

  At this moment, viewed through the telescope, there is silence as Toby reaches for his milk glass. The glass is a former jam glass, three-quarters filled with very white milk. Homogenized vitamin-fortified whole milk. As Toby reaches for the glass, Dad watches. For Toby always spills his milk-or almost always. Poor Toby! It isn't clear whether Toby is sub-normal in intelligence or possibly he's dyslexic or has some motor coordination problem that may erupt one day into multiple sclerosis or paranoid schizophrenia. Mom is anxiously watching Dad who's smiling grimly and Big Sis is watching, too, biting her lower lip in anticipation of the usual milk-spill and Dad's fury which will explode in a nimble backhanded blow propelling Toby backward in his chair and his pugnose blossoming in blood. Except-

  A sound in the street. Voices, a truck's engine. A police siren. "What the hell-?" Dad exclaims, throwing down his napkin.

  Up from the table! Dad in the lead! The D_ family runs out onto the asphalt driveway to see what's going on.

  In Sycamore Street, a narrow suburban street, grass is growing!

  A sprinkler is lazily sending arcs of sparkling water onto the vivid green tufted grass!

  Our neighbors Edith and Ed Covenski are standing in their driveway, too. Looking puzzled, but smiling. Edith in baggy white shorts and Ed in khakis and a striped sports shirt swelling at his gut. Earlier we'd heard them shouting at each other but now you'd never know it, Edith has twined her fattish arm through Ed's.

  There's Mr. McMichael two doors down, standing by his mailbox. A little suspicious, that's McMichael's way, already he's had two heart attacks in his early fifties but he's intrigued, he's smiling. And his daughter Junie the cheerleader at Eastern High, in tight-tight jeans and T-shirt and her red hair in a bouncy ponytail. Next door there's Bob Smith, a lanky kid of eighteen dropped out of school to work with his dad at Brewster's, staring and grinning, scratching his chest.

  Myra Flynn across the street who's been sick, coming down the front steps with her aluminum walker. She sees Mom, and they wave to each other. Mom's a good neighbor.

  Up and down Sycamore, our neighbors came out. We were all staring at the lush, new grass. We seemed not to see that it was a "sod carpet" laid on the pavement, approximately two inches deep. Stretching maybe fifty yards along the street. Who had placed the grass there, and why, we would not know and would not wish to know.

  It's enough to know your life has been saved. Not once but many times.

  AFTER ALL

  Carol Emshwiller

  IT'S ONE OF those days, rainy and dull, when you remember all the times you said or did the wrong thing, or somebody else said the wrong thing to you, or insulted you, or you insulted them, or they forgot you altogether, or you forgot them when you should have remembered. One of those days when everything you say is misunderstood. Everything you pick up you drop. You knock things over. You slip and fall. And your nose is running, your throat is sore. And it's your birthday. You're a whole 'pother year older. At your age, one more year makes a big difference.

  At least I'm alone. No need to bother anyone else with myself, and my temper, my moods, my dithering and doubts, my yackety-yacking when others want to keep quiet.

  And my voice is too loud. I laugh when nothing's funny.

  Having had a night of nightmares about what might have happened if this or if that bad thing had come about. (Good no one's here, because I would be telling them the whole dream detail by detail.) Stop me if I go nattering on. I talk and talk even when I mean to keep quiet. Especially when I mean to be quiet.

  There ought to be something else to talk about that wouldn't be my long, long dream or the weather, where the sunshine, gruesome and garish, causes spots before my eyes.

  It's time to go somewhere. Anyplace else is better than here. It will be a makeshift journey. No purpose except to get away. I didn't pack. I didn't plan. I won't bring a map. I can't depend on strangers because of my beady eyes. I have a mean smile.

  You SEE, THIS evening I was sitting in the window of my cottage looking out at my piece of desert with squawking quail in it. (Tobacco! Tobacco!) I was think
ing to write a story about somebody who needs to change (the best sort of character to write about), and all of a sudden I knew it was me who had to change. Always had been, and I didn't realize it until that very minute. So I have to be the one to go on a journey, either of discovery or in order to avoid myself.

  I won't pack a lunch. I won't bring a bottle of water. I know I don't look my best but I don't even want to. My hair ... I don't want to think about it.