End Times

by Anna Schumacher

  A wail went up from the starting line as Trey and the bike, by then one intricately tangled object, crashed to the side of the track. There was a silent, collective moment of horror as they thundered to a stop in a pricker bush. Trey lay still, beaten and bloody with the bike on top of him, custom rims still spinning.

  Daphne had already gotten to her feet when the tangle of limbs and hot metal burst into flames.

  THE fire shot red and angry into the sky. It consumed the pricker bush in moments, filling the air with thick plumes of acrid black smoke. Crouched in the bleachers, somewhere between sitting and standing, Daphne watched the outline of Trey’s body flicker in the blistering heat, helmet melting into the flames as the bike glowed a molten crimson. He lay motionless—if the impact hadn’t killed him, it would be only minutes until the fire did.

  Up ahead on the track, Owen cut his motor abruptly. In the sudden silence, the only sounds were the dry crackling of flames engulfing the bush, the bike, and the boy. Everyone seemed frozen in disbelief, useless and immobile. A fireball rolled out from somewhere deep in the inferno and exploded into the air, obliterating the bike’s gas tank with a boom that resonated deep in Daphne’s stomach.

  Owen leapt off his bike, knocking it to the side. He took a shaky step toward Trey, then another. Silhouetted against the flames, he looked larger than life and black as oil—his skin glowed with a dark energy that seemed to rob the night of moonlight, to soak in all the heat and noise from the flames. He walked toward the fire without flinching, beyond where it seemed possible for a human to go.

  Daphne waited for him to turn or crumble, to start coughing and drop to the ground, but he stood straight and tall. Eddies of flame lapped at his boots as he reached toward the fire, his steady hand glowing with an unnatural dark light.

  Janie screamed a high, haunted note. That broke the spell. Suddenly everyone was rushing and scrambling, running in all directions and yelling and swearing. Doug led the pack, barreling onto the track with the force of a dump truck, eyes squinted against the glare in angry slits. Just as Owen’s hand started to pass through the flames, Doug tackled him, yowling with rage as they thudded to the ground in a cloud of dust. His fists were everywhere, oversize feet kicking at anything they could reach, massive knee pinning Owen to the ground.

  “Doug, stop!” Janie cried. Daphne grabbed her hand, cold sweat prickling the backs of her knees as they rushed down the incline, slipping on dirt and patchy grass.

  Doug grunted heavily as he swung at Owen, grimacing as his fists landed on leather, packed dirt, and flesh. Owen squirmed beneath him, trying to wriggle out from under his bulk, only his helmet protecting him from the force of Doug’s fists. Both of his arms were pinned, his legs flailing uselessly under Doug’s weight. As he struggled, he seemed to glow with an even darker luminosity, as if the heat from the nearby fire was inside his skin and trying to escape.

  With what little strength he had left, he jerked his body forward, his shoulder connecting with Doug’s chest. Doug’s mouth opened in a cavern of surprise as the impact shuddered through him—and then he was in the air, as high as he’d ever gotten on his bike, all six feet and 240 pounds of him cartwheeling backward. Doug’s arms and legs waved helplessly before he landed on his back several feet away, launching a cloud of dirt into the air.

  “What the—?” he bayed, clawing at the ground as he struggled to sit up. He spat dirt and glared at Owen, eyes hateful slits. “What the hell are you, man?”

  “Baby!” Janie ran to him, mud splattering the backs of her calves. She got to her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  Doug stared at her, jaw trembling, as if he’d temporarily forgotten who she was. Then he buried his head in her chest, quaking like a volcano, muffled sobs erupting from between her breasts.

  “Shhhhh,” Janie cooed, stroking his crew cut. “You’re okay, baby. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “He killed Trey!” Daphne heard him sob into her chest. A crowd gathered around them, eyes darting nervously from the couple embracing on the ground to the fire still lapping at Trey’s blackened body. She saw Hilary take out her phone and call 911, her voice detached and oddly formal as she explained that they’d need an ambulance at the motocross track.

  The air stank of burned rubber and singed hair, and Daphne had to sit down suddenly in the dirt, stomach churning. Earlier that evening, she and Trey had been drinking beers on Doug’s tailgate. Now he was dead. The image of him rolling into the pricker bush, limbs and chrome entangled in a bloody mess, played over and over in her head. She had to will herself not to be sick.

  She couldn’t escape the feeling that the whole thing was her fault. If she hadn’t rejected Trey . . . if she hadn’t turned around and gone riding with Owen . . . if she’d insisted that Trey not race . . . maybe he’d still be alive. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: You’re a murderer—you know it and I know it and the Lord knows it. Maybe Myra was right. Now she had two deaths on her hands . . . and unlike Jim, Trey had done nothing to deserve it.

  A few feet away, Owen stirred. He sat up and looked at Daphne, dazed. His skin no longer glowed in the firelight—in fact, he looked paler than ever.

  “Are you okay?” he asked groggily.

  “I don’t know.” A cold sweat had soaked through her tank top and she was shivering violently, her stomach cramping with grief. “I can’t believe he’s . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Instead she watched Owen pat his arms and legs, checking for broken bones.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What happened back there, anyway?”

  Owen shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I passed him on the jump, and next thing I knew he wasn’t behind me. I wanted to help him, but then Doug . . .” he trailed off, trying to piece together the details.

  “You threw him,” Daphne prompted. “You sent him flying. How did you even do that?” It still didn’t seem real that Owen could have tossed Doug off of him like that—he was smaller, he was pinned, and even if he was twice Doug’s size, it didn’t seem physically possible to throw a human that high and that far, with that much force.

  Owen shrugged. “Adrenaline, I guess. I’ve heard it can make you crazy strong.”

  “I guess,” Daphne said. She’d heard stories of mothers lifting cars off their children, of kidnapping victims clawing their way out of locked basements, but it was still difficult to believe.

  From off in the distance an ambulance wailed, the faint ululation growing louder and closer as red shadows began to chase each other over the low hills and across the sky. Then the Carbon County volunteer fire department was there, dousing the fire and carefully covering Trey’s charred remains with a sheet while several police cars screeched into the parking lot. The county sheriff circulated the crowd, issuing tickets for riding drunk and reckless endangerment, warning the shell-shocked crowd that if they were caught drinking and riding one more time, the track would be closed permanently.

  Up in the parking lot, engines roared to life as the crowd departed one by one. Doug sat huddled in a blanket, clutching a bottle of water and answering questions from the local sheriff, Janie still standing with a protective arm over his shoulders.

  “Hey.” Daphne looked up to see Owen standing beside her. “You want a ride home?”

  She looked over at Janie—she and Doug were still deep in conversation with the sheriff, and between the two of them she was pretty sure they could talk all night. She knew she should stay with them. But she could feel her answer forming, hurling forward with the force of a geyser.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She stood and brushed the dirt off her pants, and together they headed for the parking lot.

  HER face, reflected in the window of his truck as they drove silently through the dark night, looked like a ghost. It flickered in and out of focus as Owen navigate
d around turns and over potholes, making her feel like only half of a person, like she belonged to two worlds: the cozy daytime world of Janie and the Peytons, and a dark underworld where human life could be snuffed out as fast as a dirt bike skidding through a turn.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Owen’s voice was soft and somber in the quiet cab, but it still made her jump.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, even though she knew. He’d seen her talk to Trey before the race, and he must have guessed how responsible she felt for his death.

  “I’ve been riding motocross for most of my life,” he said. “And I’ve seen plenty of people get hurt on the track. People get stupid or careless; they don’t know their own limits. It’s never anybody’s fault but their own.”

  Daphne nodded, biting her lip. She knew, rationally, that was the case with Trey, that he’d accepted a challenge he shouldn’t have and refused to back down when he was in over his head, but she couldn’t pin the blame on him. He was dead, and she was still alive.

  Owen sighed, his hands resting loosely on the steering wheel. “I’ll just keep telling myself that,” he said softly. “I never should have gone up against him. That was one time winning wasn’t worth it.”

  In the dim glow of his headlights on the country road, Owen looked as troubled as she felt. She tore her eyes away from his profile only to catch the glow of their faces in the windshield, both pale and haunted, spectral twins in the night. Maybe it was the shared sense of guilt, their implicit roles in the evening’s horrible events, that made her feel drawn to him. It was the only explanation she could accept, the only way to make sense of whatever it was that was buzzing between them in the car: The feeling of being filled to the brim, threatening to spill over, to dislodge something inside of her that had been locked away for most of her life.

  He stopped opposite the Peytons’ trailer, his motor humming quietly.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt.

  He turned to her, his lips parting to form a question, or maybe just to wish her goodnight. She paused, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. But instead of speaking, he lunged forward, piercing that pocket of stillness and bringing his lips to hers.

  The hot print of his hand on her cheek, his mouth on hers, detonated something inside of her, igniting emotions she didn’t even know she had and sending them spiraling through her like the last embers of a firework dying in the sky. Owen’s lips were soft and warm, feathery and enticing, exactly the opposite of how she’d always expected a kiss to be. For a moment she just let it happen. The kiss set her skin aflame and plummeted through her nervous system, sparking along the way until it felt like her entire body was singing. Then reality plunged like an anvil to her stomach.

  “Stop,” she gasped, pushing him away.

  Owen sat back, breathing heavily. Longing hung like smoke between them, choking the truck’s cab.

  Her heart felt like a bird smacking against a windowpane. “This is not okay. Trey just died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Owen said. “I shouldn’t have.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have!” Her voice was sharp. She couldn’t believe she’d come so close to giving herself up, to letting Owen take what she was never willing to give. She’d spent her whole life protecting it, against Jim and the drunks who came stumbling into the 7-Eleven and jerks like Doug—and Owen had just come and practically waltzed away with it, like the piece of herself she’d guarded so fiercely for so long was just a cheap knick-knack you could pick up at the dollar store.

  He dropped a hand onto the steering wheel and laughed a soft, ironic laugh. “I’m usually pretty good with girls.”

  “I’m not like other girls.” Her voice cut through the haze that had cluttered her head.

  “So I’ve noticed.” Owen smiled a slow half smile, making her stomach twist and leap. But she forced her eyes to stay stony.

  “No, really,” she said, quiet but firm. “I don’t do this—not now, not ever.”

  He looked at her quizzically, eyes glowing softly in the dark. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

  “I have to go,” she said quickly, ignoring the question—and the way his lips looked forming it. Lips that had just been on hers. Kissing her. Making her insides bloom with fire. “I’ll see you around.”

  And before he could protest, she was scrambling out of the truck and slamming the door behind her, running across the road so fast that it felt like she’d left a part of herself on the other side.

  THE sun beat down on the funeral party like a cruel joke. It was the first truly warm day of the season, the air so clear Daphne could make out the bald-cut top of Elk Mountain from the cemetery behind the church, and rivulets of sweat trickled down her back, trapped in the black polyester dress she’d bought for her trial and hoped she’d never have to wear again.

  Pastor Ted stood at the foot of the open grave, his face pink and slick with perspiration. “The other day, our community suffered a serious loss.” His voice cracked with emotion. “Trey Stonehouse, a young man in his prime, was called home to God.”

  In the chair next to Daphne’s, Janie sniffled and swiped half-heartedly at her nose, her Kleenex already streaked with melted makeup. Doug reached for her hand, and she squeezed it tightly. He’d been quiet since Trey’s death, almost comatose, but the way his lip kept twitching back into a snarl sent an uneasy prickle up the back of Daphne’s neck. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, boiling with a quiet rage.

  Pastor Ted’s voice gained strength. “Trey was quiet and hardworking, always putting friends and family first. He was dedicated and loyal.”

  The evening of Trey’s death played miserably in Daphne’s mind, ending with the memory of Owen’s lips on hers. The whole thing sent a wrench of guilt twisting through her stomach.

  “Trey was a true child of God, a true citizen of Carbon County,” Pastor Ted continued. “He represented what’s best about this place—what we have to hold on to when things start to change.

  “Because change is coming—it’s already here. As the oil flows and our pockets bulge with riches, we may be tempted to forget the values that make us God’s chosen people. Our humility. Our community. And, above all else, our commitment to God. Do you believe?”

  “I believe,” the congregation murmured. A sob caught in Janie’s throat, and Doug squeezed her hand tighter, his face darkening.

  “Let us remember that this oil is God’s gift to the Children of God—our reward for doing His will and living His message. We can use it as a bargaining chip with the devil, making cheap deals with outside forces for our own personal gain, or we can use it for good, donating it to God and our community like Floyd Peyton has done with his generous gift to our church. We can let Trey’s death be a message and continue living as he would have wanted: as glorious beings in the eyes of the Lord.”

  Pastor Ted’s head snapped up, blue eyes bright as the sky. “What will it be, Carbon County? Will we let this boy die in vain, or will we hear God’s message? Will we make deals with the devil, or will we follow God’s plan for us? Do we still believe?”

  “We still believe!” the congregation chanted.

  “God rewarded us with this oil, but now He’s testing us.” Pastor Ted’s voice sizzled like bacon frying in a pan. “If we fail and fall to sin, you know where we’re going—straight to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But even if we pass God’s test this time, there will be more tests to come. I pray that we won’t lose any more of our own, but I also believe in my heart and soul that this is just the beginning and that someday even this pain will pass, and we will receive the greatest reward of all. Do you believe?”

  “I believe!” Daphne opened her mouth to say the words, but they still wouldn’t come. Trey was dead because he’d been reckless—because she’d driven him to be reckless. It wasn’t because of God.
It was because of her.

  Pastor Ted bent his head. “Now, let us pray.”

  Janie’s back heaved as she mouthed the prayer along with Pastor Ted, tears dripping off the tip of her nose and splattering onto the tissue forgotten in her lap.

  Doug bent his head too, but his mouth stayed shut. He trembled slightly, his massive frame shaking like an earthquake, his neck an angry red.

  “Does anyone have words to share about the departed?” Pastor Ted asked gently, bringing the prayer to an end.

  “I got something to say.” Doug jumped to his feet, toppling his chair. His neck cracked as his gaze swept the crowd.

  “Trey was a good guy,” he continued. “The best. He was my best friend. And now he’s gone.”

  He took a deep, shaky breath. Janie reached up and patted his hand encouragingly, but he yanked it away.

  “And it’s his fault!” Doug pointed a quivering finger at the back of the cemetery, to the knot of latecomers standing behind the last row of chairs.

  Daphne followed the trajectory of his finger and saw Owen at the edge of the crowd, Luna by his side. Flames of recognition leapt in her chest at the sight of him, licking with a mixture of anger and excitement as she remembered the way he’d lunged at her in the cab of his truck. Both Owen and Luna were clad in black: he in a simple button-down shirt, and she in a diaphanous dress that floated in gauzy layers around her ankles. There were dark circles under Owen’s eyes.

  “That devil you were talking about, the one from the outside world—that’s him, right there.” Doug jabbed his finger in the air. “He’s the reason Trey’s dead.”