Todd

by Nicolai, Adam J

  "You're really good at this," he tells Todd that afternoon. "I mean, gods, if I'd—"

  If I'd known how good you were at this, I would've had you downstairs with me the whole time. The words leave a hollow in his heart, and he doesn't speak them. They lead to a place full of pain, a place he doesn't want to visit.

  We're here now, he thinks. We have it right now.

  Todd smiles at him. "It's a really cool game. I can't believe my dad made it."

  I didn't, Alan thinks. I screwed it up. I never finished. I was too pathetic. My dad was right about me. But the praise from his son is the simplest, most honest kind; too pure to be undone by these old defenses. Alan blinks, his heart quickening. "Thanks, Todd." He coughs, glances away. "That, uh... that means a lot to me."

  "You're welcome." Todd sighs. "I'm just sad, you know—that no one's gonna get to play it."

  If this had been Alan's thought, it would've hurt him. But this is Todd's pain, and Alan refutes it at once. "What? What do you mean? We're gonna play it." He pauses, thinking. "That means everyone's gonna play it."

  97

  Days pass, then weeks. Todd's ankle heals, and the frostbite on both of their faces improves. Using colored pencils and a blank notebook he packed, Todd writes up the instructions for Chaos Vector.

  They start to run low on food, though. One morning they pile into the Ford and risk a trip up the road to look for supplies.

  In daylight, with a solid base of operations behind them, the experience is far less frightening. Alan still keeps his speed down, but within half an hour they find a farmhouse. The rolling yard is dotted with pines and sycamores, and there is a small playground—a slide, a swing, and a sandbox—in the back.

  But the barn walls are covered in blue moss, and the stuff streaks the side of the house. There are patches of it in the field, too, showing through the snow like spots of leprosy, and a few of the trees are completely coated.

  Obviously a sky worm hasn't been through here. This is more like the organic stuff Alan saw at Crown Foods. In its way, though, it's just as disheartening.

  They climb out of the truck, and Todd exclaims as he sees the little playground. "Oh! A park!" He starts to run that way, but Alan grabs him.

  "Let's make sure it's safe first. All right?"

  They hit the jackpot with the farm pantry: canned goods, oatmeal, vacuum-sealed jerky. Alan scoops it all into bags, then indulges himself with some soap and shampoo, even some triple-ply toilet paper.

  In the bathroom medicine cabinet, he finds a bottle of sleeping pills.

  He hesitates, old instincts warring in his head. Then he grabs them.

  "All right. I think that's enough for now. You find anything good?"

  "No video games," Todd says with a touch of regret. "Found some books though, and some games. Can we go to the park now?"

  But the snow is starting again as they step outside. The playground, meager as it is, will have to wait. As Alan ushers Todd back toward the truck, he notices one of the sycamores—the one with the most blue moss—drooping toward the ground. After shutting Todd in the truck, he approaches the tree to get a better look.

  The moss has obviously been here a long time. It's less fuzzy than he's ever seen it, more like a fine coating of dust. The sycamore's slouching trunk is almost completely stained with it.

  When Alan uses a long stick to poke the trunk, the bark offers all the resistance of a bowl of porridge. With a wet squelch and a stink like rotting grass, the wood gives way and the tree starts to topple.

  Alan jumps out of the way, his heart pounding, and the dead sycamore crashes through the farmhouse window. Where the walls are streaked blue, they, too, give out—not with a crash, but with the moist sucking sound of a boot pulling out of the mud. The house slumps toward the road, then halts: a man on his knees, gasping for breath as he dies.

  98

  "Which Realm is that, now?" The table is littered with empty candy wrappers and Mountain Dew cans. Rather than clean it up, they're playing on the floor this time. Alan nods at the cards on his son's side. "Your fifth?"

  "Sixth." The word is a jumbled mouthful, a chunky assortment of sibilants. Todd flips on to his back and scoots toward the wall as he waits for Alan's play.

  "I'll play a Realm." Alan slides a card onto the carpet. "No fork. Go ahead."

  No fork means there's no opportunity for Todd to make a decision on the card Alan just played. It's part of the lingo they've developed over the last couple weeks. Every game, given time and a dedicated following, eventually grows a kind of comfortable lexicon that makes sense only to its players. Now, Chaos Vector has one.

  "Devilspar Godling," Todd drawls. "No fork." He has scooted his butt several inches up the wall, and is now playing more-or-less upside down. His hands grope for the right card, and eventually manage to flip it face-up.

  "All right. Don't forget to draw."

  "Oh, yeah." The words have taken on a nasally tone; Todd's face is slowly turning red. Alan watches the boy struggle to draw his top card, then draws his own. He's learned better than to try and get the kid to sit still.

  "Ooh." Alan throws down the card he just drew. "Bam. Divine Ordinance."

  Todd snorts a complaint. "Aw, man. Devour the Godling."

  "You sure? It's not a devour. It's an annihilate."

  "What?" He flips back to his knees and reads the card Alan just played, then shrugs. "All right." He fakes a scream as he removes his own card from the play area. "Aaaaaah! Why would you do that to meeeeee?"

  "Because you are ruuuuude," Alan fake-screams back, "and always eating my Reaaaaaaalms!"

  Todd snickers and draws. "Ah!" he cries in the same tone, and turns over another Devilspar Godling. "But I have many frieeeeends!"

  "You little bastard!"

  "Hee-hee-hee!" Todd twists onto his back again, grunting as his feet crab-walk back up the wall.

  Alan shakes his head and draws. The situation is getting dire. He stares at his hand, at the cards in play, at his son.

  "Well?" Todd's shoulders are bunched up around his neck, his upside-down eyes crawling over the ceiling. "What are you gonna do?"

  Alan clears his throat dramatically. "I'm gonna blast your ass," he declares as Todd's eyes widen, "to kingdom come!" He throws down a card named Godbomb.

  "What?" Todd shouts, but then goes on: "The fuck?"

  Silence strikes like lightning. Todd's face goes long and pensive, his eyes glued to his father's face.

  "What the fuck?" Alan returns. "Did you just say, 'What the fuck?'" And he pounces on his son, and tickles him until neither of them can breathe.

  99

  A nameless nightmare wakes him. His eyes slide open to the brilliant light of the living room, and the darkness beyond the windows.

  It's been weeks since he last saw the blue star, when it already loomed so large that he thought it might crush them that night. He needs to see it again. He needs to know.

  He leaves a quick note—I'm just outside. Be right back.—and steps into the cold.

  Without a flashlight the darkness is so total, so suffocating, that he almost goes back in immediately. The RV, that place of heat and light and comfort, is just a speck against the awesome blackness of the sky.

  No Blurs, he realizes. What happened to the Blurs? In darkness this complete, they should be everywhere.

  The question doesn't give him courage, but curiosity is enough. He puts a hand to the side of the RV just to remind himself it's there. Then, thinking maybe the vehicle is blocking his view of the sky, he skirts around it.

  No luck. On the other side, the clouds still obscure the stars. He turns back, unsure if he's more relieved or disappointed.

  Then, as if heralding the arrival of a god to its temple, the snow ignites with ghostly blue. The air starts to hum, like a plucked violin string. Alan's eyes are drawn upwards, not of his own will, but not against it either; it's more the way an ant might look up, in the instant a foot darkens the sky.

&nb
sp; The blue star hangs in the gap between the clouds, fat and ripe, bigger than a harvest moon. He remembers hearing about comets that looked like rubber ducks and asteroids pocked with craters like the surface of the moon. This is nothing like that. Its surface is pitted, but too smooth to be rock. And the gash across its middle has thickened, spraying blue light into the atmosphere like a rabid dog's slaver.

  He is assailed with a primal need to worship, to beg; he leans against the RV, struggling not to sink to his knees. The vibration in the air quickens, becoming a steady thrum. As if the thing's gravity is too great to be ignored, the hair on his head drifts upward. He feels lighter, like he's on the moon. Nausea thrashes in his stomach.

  The clouds drift together again, slowly. Wisps and strings drape the star, obscuring it but not hiding it completely.

  That is death, he realizes, rearing behind the clouds. It's nearly here. Their story—the one that started when everyone vanished—will not end well. But then, does any story actually end well? Even the happy endings are just early ones. They never show the part where the characters die and turn to worm food.

  We are going to die.

  He feels an instant of paralyzing terror. His heart screams in his chest.

  —and leaves a sense of calm, as powerful as a freefall.

  Of course they're going to die. They were always going to die. He's always known it; every human being on Earth has always known it. He has spent his entire life running from it, denying it, craving it. Now that it's here—

  The star glares down from the heavens, a towering prophecy of annihilation.

  Now that it's here...

  He turns his back to the sky, and goes inside.

  100

  Morning dawns warm. The snow is melting.

  "Go outside while I make breakfast," Alan says.

  "Why?"

  "Just... do it. You were literally climbing the walls last night. It's nice out, for some reason. Just five minutes."

  "But what am I gonna do?"

  Alan takes his hand, leads him outside, and points to the end of the parking lot. "Run."

  Todd has never been able to resist this command before, and he can't resist it today. He takes off through the slush of melting snow, legs pumping awkwardly. He's no athlete—he's Alan's son—but he still loves to run; Alan sees it in the surprised grin he gives just before he takes off, and the abandon in his flailing arms.

  "Is it spring?" he asks when he comes back inside, color bright in his forehead and his healing cheeks.

  "No. Indian summer, I think. Might last a couple days."

  "'Indian summer'?"

  "It means, like, a little bit of summer that happens in the fall. Or even the winter."

  "Oh. Weird."

  "Not as weird as it used to be," Alan muses.

  They have French toast (but without eggs or butter, it's more like toast with syrup that they eat with a fork), along with fried Spam, and bottled juice.

  "Can we play C.V.?" Todd asks when they're done. "I had this idea for a new card that—"

  "In a little bit. I need to talk to you about something. Come sit down."

  "What is it?" Todd plops on to the bed.

  Alan looks at him, trying to figure out where to start, whether he's even doing the right thing. Finally, he draws a deep breath and says, "I am going to ask you something, and it's something a kid your age should never have to answer. But I can't change what's happening, and you should have a say in this."

  "What is it?" Todd says again. His hands tug at the blankets, his pants, his shirt sleeves.

  "You remember the blue star we saw the other night, when we slept in the truck?"

  Todd blanches and looks at his hands.

  "I... I went outside last night to check on it, and it's even closer. It looked twice as big as it did the other night. I think it..." He takes another shuddering breath, hating what he's about to say. "I think it's almost here. I think it'll be here any day."

  Todd snaps his head up, his eyes bright with fear. "Can we get away? Can we drive south?" He clutches Alan's hands. "What if we drive south?"

  "We can't get away from it." The whisper has the weight of a sledgehammer. "There's just... there's no way." Ah, God. His voice breaks as he says, "But we do have a choice."

  The sudden hope in his son's eyes nearly destroys him. He gasps, fighting to hold himself together. "We can..."

  Ah, God.

  Ah, fuck you, God.

  "We can go to sleep tonight, and—"

  Fighting to breathe, to speak.

  "And not wake up."

  Todd looks confused. "You mean, like, sleep through it?"

  "No. I mean—" His throat closes, his body revolting to keep him from saying the words.

  But understanding comes over Todd anyway. His eyes widen, then settle again. When he speaks, his voice is flat. "You mean kill ourselves."

  Alan nods. "I would never make you do it. Never, ever, ever. But I can't force you to see—whatever—that thing is, either." I don't want your last moments to be terror. "And if you do decide to... to sleep, we'll go together.

  "Whatever you choose, we'll go together."

  Todd nods, but his face is breaking. He buries himself in his father's chest, his shoulders heaving. "I don't want—" he murmurs. "I don't want—" He can't finish the sentence. "Why did this have to happen?"

  Alan is holding him, rocking. "I don't know."

  "I don't want—to kill us."

  Alan slumps with relief. The sudden decision gleams like a knife in his mind, like a purpose. "You don't want to go to sleep?"

  "No, 'cause what if we're wrong? Or what if we're early? We can still play C.V. tonight otherwise, or maybe tomorrow, too."

  "Yeah, we can."

  "Or what if the star misses us? Or something like that? Or even if it comes maybe it won't be as bad as it seems." His voice quavers, giving the lie to this statement. "Maybe it's just coming to take the Blurs away. Maybe that's the whole reason this happened."

  "Yeah," Alan says, "or maybe it will be as bad as it seems, but... you know, at least we'll get to see it. We'll get to know." He smoothes his son's hair. "If it just smashes into us, it'll be over before we know it anyway. If it does something else, then that'll be scary, but... it'll be incredible, too. And just think, we're the only ones who will get to see it. A whole star show, just for us."

  Todd falls silent. Slowly, his breathing evens. Alan holds his son until his arms start to cramp and his back is aching.

  Finally, Todd says, "Do you think Mommy and Allie will get to see, too?"

  Alan kisses his head. He remembers, a lifetime ago, worrying about what to tell Todd about the afterlife.

  "Yeah," he promises. "I'm sure of it."

  101

  That night, Alan goes out alone to check the sky. Despite the cloudless night, the blue star has vanished, and the Blurs are still gone. He keeps this information to himself. He doesn't see it as a reason for hope; he sees it as an omen.

  They spend the night gorging on candy and games and movies and music; they turn on all the lights and play fight in the living room. Their revelry carries into the night, a trembling cacophony that pricks the perfect silence. Maybe it can even be seen from space: a single, defiant point of light.

  The next morning is beautiful and warm. It feels like spring. The asphalt of the parking lot is showing through the melting snow, and the road is clearer than it's been in weeks. Around noon Todd asks if they can go back to "the park"—that smattering of playground equipment they found at the farmhouse—and Alan drives him there.

  The house remains slumped halfway into the front yard, the moss and the years bearing it down. Alan steers Todd wide, toward the playground in the back.

  The swing and the slide are creaky and rundown; the sandbox is littered with broken toys and has grass growing in it. When he was young, Alan would've aped his father and scorned the whole place as worthless. But Todd jumps into the sandbox with a whoop and grabs one of th
e broken tractor toys.

  How old is too old to play in a sandbox? Alan briefly wonders, and then realizes no question has ever mattered less.

  After awhile, Todd hauls himself onto the swing. "Can you push me?" He doesn't need a push—he hasn't needed one in years—but Alan agrees, relishing the feel of the boy's warm back against his hands, of the gentle breeze against his face. The boy's feet kick against the sky, reaching ever higher. Beyond them, the horizon becomes a monstrous shadow that begins to creep toward the sun.

  The wind swirls, kicking sand and dead leaves against Alan's back. The air starts to thrum; he catches a whiff of mildew and rich, dying earth.

  "Daddy?"

  "Yeah." His voice is steady.

  "Is it happening?"

  "I think so, pal."

  Alan stops the swing and they stare into the distance, at that rising tide of blackness. Already, it is halfway to the sun. As it ascends, a blue aura crackles up around it, igniting its silhouette like a solar eclipse. The wind picks up as Todd jumps to the ground, whipping the swing wildly into the air, transforming its clanking chains to wind chimes.

  Then that scar—the massive crack that splits the asteroid's middle—crests the horizon, blaring blue light. Alan starts to flinch, but refuses; he forces himself to watch, even if that radiance scours him blind. A cloud of blue lightning bolts and a swirling mess of smoke churn at the base of the thing, tearing themselves from the horizon and hurling themselves into the light.

  Into the mouth.

  Of course, he thinks through a mind numb with awe. Of course.

  It continues to rise. The blue flames at its apex brush the sun. The smoke it's inhaling is earth and trees and cars, the blue lightning bolts are streaks of Blurs and moss torn from beneath the ground.

  The shivering air starts to scream, a howl like a tornado.

  He sees a distant squiggle in the sky, fighting to escape the vacuum, and realizes it's a sky worm; an instant later, he spies several of them, all being pulled in. A distant rain shadow flows upward into that ravenous blue light, because the monster is drinking a lake. Giant boxes lurch into the air mere miles away and shatter against each other in the swirling sky; his mind tells him they were houses.