by Glen Krisch
Quinn grabbed the book he'd found hidden under the creaky floorboard and slid it inside his coat. He slipped out the front door before the dreadful news could sweep through the house.
Quinn read Grandmother's diary for an hour before he couldn't take any more. A chronicle of all those years Before, her diary revealed the real world. People working in office buildings and typing on computers. People listening to the radio as they drove their cars. The most mundane details she described became exotic and fantastical. It was like opening your eyes and seeing the world's every nuance as a perpetuated fiction. He closed the book and returned it to the inner pocket of his coat.
Stale gray clouds descended over Martha's Gale. He sat high atop the Jabberwocky River bridge, dangling his legs over the edge. Sooty wisps fell, a ruffled curtain touching first the branches of the autumn-bare trees, then the bowed rooftops of the discarded homes of the recently dead. He wondered if those clouds were God's malevolent hand choking those lone survivors cobbling together their pathetic, blind existences. Few patches of untainted civility remained. A freshly whitewashed fence here, a new blacktop drive there. All a facade. A fakery. The dreary landscape extended to the curve of the earth, further still, more likely than not. He didn't move, afraid he might miss the town's last collective gasp. His eyes were open for the first time.
"You going to do it?" a voice called out behind him. Quinn shook his head at the interruption.
"Yeah... no... I don't know." Was he? What, jump like so many other disillusioned? After reading the diary, he considered the jumpers in a new light, because now, Quinn saw the world in a new light. Everything had changed in the last hour. Maybe the jumpers weren't disillusioned; maybe they were clear-eyed and righteous. "Leave me alone."
A young couple stood looking down at him. Their emaciated arms curled around each other like creeping vines. He couldn't tell which one had voiced the question. It had an asexual quality to it. He glanced from the boy to the girl, then back again. Still couldn't decide. The boy ended his speculation by speaking.
"If you are, can you, like, leave your wallet?" The girl fawned over her lover, her hand pawing inside the ass pocket of his jeans. She seemed unaware of Quinn, or that she was even standing in public. Her tongue traced the whorls of the boy's ear as she hummed along to some discordant tune blaring from her discrete iBud. She was standing on the bridge but was in an entirely different reality. She moaned, ran her hand over his stomach. When she reached for his crotch, the boy swatted her away, annoyed.
"Those almighty dollars don't transfer where you're going," the boy said, laughing.
"Fuck off."
"You know, you should keep them in circulation. It's good for the economy."
"I said, fuck off!"
"Fine, fine. Fuck you, too."
The pair turned to leave. They would most likely venture to the rock-strewn railway below, waiting like vultures for him to smash his mortal remains across an oncoming coal train. Then they could pillage his remains, taking his bloodied money. Perhaps use it to purchase an ice cream or entry to the newest Hollywood blockbuster. It wouldn't be unheard of, taking from the remains of those survivors who shirked their place in the world. The disillusioned. Quinn watched them go. He started to follow them before they reached the end of the bridge.
"You," he called out, but the pair didn't seem to hear him. "Fuck wad!" He trotted to catch up and grabbed the boy's shoulder.
"Dude."
"You said 'almighty dollars.'"
"So the fuck what?"
"It's Euros, fuck wad. And this isn't heaven, no matter what they say on the news."
"Euros, dollars, same thing. Sorry I asked. Just seems selfish, fucking off and killing yourself, selfish as all get out when you're already walking heaven-on-fucking-earth."
"It makes a big difference. We used to have dollars, you know, before the war."
The girl slipped from the boy's grip and began to wander. She waited for a horse-drawn wagon to pass in front of her, then continued on. The boy watched her walking away, staring at her lithesome form.
"That's ancient history. 'Solidarity, Singularity and Pride,' brother."
"'Solidarity?' That's why we attacked them?"
"It doesn't matter. We've never lost. That's why there's still a government. We're the 'Chosen,' brother."
Quinn knew he treaded perilous ground, but he couldn't help himself. Empowered by his grandmother's written words, he pressed on.
"Yeah, I've heard that."
"'We are the immortal few Chosen to rebuild the world in His image.'" The boy expected a response, an exact word for word auto-response. Quinn said nothing.
The boy looked over, saw that his girlfriend had her nose pressed against a bakery window. When he faced Quinn again, his expression had become both hard-edged and infused with energy.
"What's your name?" The boy was staring, as if trying to remember Quinn's features for posterity.
"Okay. I'll let it drop."
"You know..." The boy fumbled inside his pocket for his cell. "I think you need help. I can call someone."
Quinn turned away before the boy could snap his picture.
"There's help. With Solidarity and Democracy, we can get you help!"
Quinn stepped up his pace.
"There's no reason you should have to think that way! Fuck wad, wait up!"
Quinn started running, Grandmother's diary jostling inside his pocket. He heard a distant siren and wondered if it was for him.
The blocks surrounding Grandmother's house were sooty black from persistent coal burning. Most buildings stood empty; the rapidly eroding population had long ago spurned the city for sprawling exurban estates. Anyone still lingering would note his passing. Eyes were everywhere, organic and electronic, all surveilling even here in the nearly desolate neighborhood. He cursed himself for opening his mouth in the first place. He shouldn't have mentioned anything that he'd learned in Grandmother's diary. The information seemed so real, so harsh and still somehow delicate, and so alive! He felt alive.
The sirens squalled louder and seemed to be following him. He rushed to Grandmother's front door and stepped inside.
"Don't look at me, son." One man, wearing a nondescript woolen suit, had his father face down on the kitchen table. Another in a matching suit pulled his arms back, snapping handcuffs over his wrists.
"Just look away." The men stood him up and marched him to the door.
"Dad?"
"Quinn, stay put. Everything's going to be fine."
"Your father is under arrest."
"Stay here. Clean up the mess. Don't do anything stupid."
"Mess? Dad?"
The men closed the door behind them. Quinn went to the window and watched them usher his father into the back of a car parked on the street. His father was turning back toward the house, perhaps trying to see his son one last time, but the car pulled away and disappeared around the corner. Quinn was certain he would never see him again.
Clean up the mess.
Quinn was afraid to find out what his father had meant. They kept a tidy house. The kitchen, living room and bathroom were as clean as when Quinn left this morning, as was his bedroom. He stepped softly down the short hall to Grandmother's room. A bloody handprint was smeared across the white four-panel door.
He stepped closer, close enough to touch the tacky red stain.
God, Dad, what did you do?
He shoved the door and it creaked wide. If he squinted, it would appear that Grandmother had flipped forward in her sleep and was sleeping at the foot of the bed. Unfortunately, Quinn wasn't squinting; he wasn't blinking either. Grandmother had no head. The decades of Grandmother's talcum powder couldn't mask the overwhelming stench of death. He stumbled away from the doorway, feeling gut-punched and short of breath.
Dad, what did you do?
He wanted to cry but if he should succumb to the emotion, he would deny what he already knew. Dad was no monster; he had discovered Grandmother's
bloody tears. He had known that she was changing. The last of their family to turn. Mom and Nicky had become disillusioned when they discovered their own bloody tears. The virus moved swiftly. Within thirty-six hours, when the tears stopped, you were either dead, or in a short minority of people who survived the plague that destroyed the world.
Quinn cried blood three years ago, a month after his mom and sister committed suicide. Dad caught the virus in the weeks after Quinn's recovery. When Dad caught sick, Grandmother sat at his bedside, praying for him to die. At the time, Quinn didn't understand. How could her prayers be the proper action? In retrospect, her prayers had their place. Who would want their loved ones to carry on in this blighted world of illusion, false memories, rewritten histories?
Despite his best efforts, Quinn felt a tear fall from his cheek. He wiped it away, ashamed; his shame stemming from the compulsion to check the wetness for traces of red. He gathered his thoughts and took a deep breath.
Someone knocked frantically on the front door.
They've found me. I shouldn't have said anything to that boy.
He left Grandmother's room, understanding what Dad meant. Clean up the mess. How could he follow through on his father's last wish if they took him away, too? If they were going to take him, he wondered if he should barricade the door. Buy time to do as Dad asked.
"Quinn, it's Gillian. Open up." The voice from the other side of the door was frightened and small. He hadn't seen his friend in a long time. Not since he revealed his true feelings for her. The doorknob was in his hand when he stopped himself.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, of course. That's why I'm here. Please, just let me in."
Gillian and Quinn had attended the same school. When there had been a school. Although two years his junior, she'd eventually advanced to his grade level when the student population decreased to the point where the halls echoed with harried teachers' voices and no joyful teenaged laughter simmered below the surface. Quinn hadn't noticed the diminishing student population. Not after Gillian entered his classroom and took the vacant seat next to him when she could've chosen any of the two dozen empties.
Standing there, with his hand paused over the doorknob, he closed his eyes and saw that first nervous smile as she sat next to him.
"Quinn. Please. I know I blew you off, and I was mean. I was a bitch. But... it's not safe. People threw rocks at the store window. They... they're acting crazy."
He could imagine her lips against the crease of the door, wary of people passing on the street, taking note of her presence. Hearing her voice ripped open the wound that had healed over his feelings for her. He heard her voice and for an instance, he wanted her noticed. Wanted his stray neighbors to report the presence of a girl acting peculiar, on the verge of tears.
He flung open the door, startling them both. She had a cut on her temple. Still bleeding. A long trail of red disappeared into her brown hair. He reached for her, running his fingers through her hair, divining the nature of her injuries through his fingertips. She seemed startled again and when her lips broke into a smile, he knew he could kiss her and she wouldn't push away this time.
"You're bleeding."
"Really? I thought I felt something."
"Come in. We'll clean you up."
Quinn checked the surrounding buildings, but saw nothing incriminating. Knowing her way around from so many study sessions after school, Gillian eased back on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table. Quinn went to the medicine cabinet.
"I've never seen it so bad. Dozens of people. They broke the window and just started grabbing things. Morris pulled out his shotgun and fired into the ceiling. When that didn't stop them, he told me to duck out the back while I still could."
"That Morris, he's a good guy," Quinn said as he brought in his supplies. Gillian had started working at Morris's shop once their school closed for good a year ago. He was a well-respected old man. In the time Before, he was considered eccentric and aloof. Now, he was a bit of a renaissance man. A tanner and cobbler, mostly, he also did some small smithy work.
Quinn dabbed the cut with a wet washcloth. She winced, and he pulled away, but then she smiled to let him know everything was okay. He cleared away the blood and applied disinfectant.
"Where's everyone?"
He shook his head and kept his eyes lowered, tending her wound. She said nothing, and when he didn't either after a minute or more, she put her arms around his neck.
"I'm so sorry. When... did it happen?"
"Grandmother cried blood this morning."
"Can I... is she okay? Can I talk to her?"
"Dad killed her."
Gillian was about to say something more, but her voice caught in her throat.
"She wanted him to. He wouldn't have if she didn't. She knew the world had gone bad, that there's no hope."
"Is he still here?" She looked around nervously. "If he is, maybe I should leave."
"He's gone. After I saw Grandmother's tears, I went for a walk. When I got back the cops were here."
"They found out?"
"No idea. I can't imagine they would've known. Someone must've called him in on something else. Probably our garden. It's ten square feet illegal."
"What are you going to do now?"
"Gillian... I have no idea. I just don't know."
She wrapped her arms around him. He inhaled the fresh smell of her hair and felt her warmth pressed against him. She began to quake with tears and tried to pull away but he wouldn't let her. Not while he drew strength from her touch. Not when he couldn't look into her eyes and not feel shame for verifying that it was tears, not blood, falling down her cheeks.
A Prodigal Apocalypse
Story Notes
Bring back my son… the memory of their mother's unnerving plea accompanied his return to consciousness. Bring back Marcus, before it's too late…
Jason's eyes were sealed shut, crusted with a coating of blood that had streamed down his forehead before drying under the unseasonably warm November sun.
Crisp wind buffeted his face and grit pressed against his cheek as he lay splayed out on his stomach. His legs scissored higher on the incline than his head, and his blood flowed against gravity's pull, multiplying the mounting pressure in his head. He tried to move, for all intent and purpose a blind man, but the pain in his skull sent him back to his stomach. The pain was so agonizing that he knew if he tried to move again, his head would surely split apart like a halved walnut.
But he had to risk the pain. He had to get out of here. Adrenaline dumped into his system at the thought. He had to get out of here because Marcus…
What about Marcus?
He couldn't remember. Much.
The pain sent Jason's mind reeling through the confounding nexus of memory…
He did find his younger brother, having tracked down a new address through a man who had shared Marcus's therapy circle at the Montgomery Treatment Center. It was surprising to learn that Marcus was living a mere hour away in the tiny hamlet of Concord, Missouri. Jason had heard of the town, but had never had the pleasure of taking in the sights. That was, until yesterday and his arrival… or had it been the day before?
How long was I unconscious?
Finding Marcus in good health was a pleasant surprise. During the drive to Concord, Jason had been expecting the worst. But Marcus had looked fit, well rested and no longer heroin-thin. His right forearm was a tattooed black sleeve. While not entirely happy to see his blacked-out skin, it was better than what came before. The sleeve covered over his Klan ink—his numerous swastikas and all of the other hateful drivel written into his skin before he had even earned his driver's license. Now it was just one of Marcus's many buried layers, his many tossed away incarnations. He'd taken out his piercings, also. A loose flap of skin hung from his ear cartilage where once a bear's tooth speared the lobe. Marcus had once professed to twenty-two piercings. Now he seemed ashamed of his defiled flesh…
…And the
n they were standing near the Concord River Dam, overlooking the century-old valley town. A dozen milling people faced the river, heads bowed in reverence. A preacher was giving a blessing, praising the water for being so still for so long. For its patience. The old man assured the great buildup of water that it would soon flow freely, flow as God intended. Let loose to nourish the river valley, brightening its shores with wild flowers. He was blessing it before its journey, as a priest would a ship before its maiden voyage. Instead of smashing a champagne bottle against the mighty bulk of the ship, they had battened the dam's concrete wall with explosives. Placing a simple call from a cheap cell phone would set free the pent up kinetic energy of the sluicing waves.
The phone was in his brother's hand. Marcus was so happy. Even with his swelling, bleeding lip…
…I'm begging you, Jason. He was never as strong as you… their mother's voice, again. Fragments from their argument. An argument he staunched by giving in to her.
Fine. I'll find Marcus, but it'll have to wait until after Tuesday, he said.
By then it might be too late.
Tuesday's Election Day. Whatever trouble Marcus has gotten himself into this time, it can wait three days so I can cast my vote. It's too important. The last two elections were so close, and this one is even more important with everything going on in the world.
But…
No, Mother. Three days…
She was so quiet he thought he could hear something breaking within her. When he looked up from his shoes, her hands were trembling as she blotted her eyes with a tissue…
Marcus happy. Reconciling this simple concept with his first twenty-five years of life—Jason couldn't remember a time when he'd seen him happier.