End Times

by Anna Schumacher

  Hilary shrugged and picked up her beer. “It is weird; I’ll give you that. Especially with all the other stuff that’s been happening around here.” She turned to Daphne. “What do you think it says?”

  “I think we should wait and see what the experts say,” she replied coolly. It was her standard answer, the one she’d given to her coworkers, Uncle Floyd, and just about everyone else who asked. She wasn’t ready to admit that she could read the tablet, or to share its strange and disturbing message.

  A roar came from the track, and the girls leaned forward, watching a rider below emerge from the knot of color and noise. He coasted off the jump with air to spare and kicked his legs out behind him, grabbing the back of the seat so he looked like Superman flying through the night. A cheer floated up through the dust as he landed smoothly back in the saddle, wheels as straight as if he’d never left the ground.

  Hilary let out a long wolf whistle. “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Owen,” Daphne replied automatically. She’d been following his red bike frame and glossy black helmet, marveling at the fluid way he took each turn and jump, like a fish darting effortlessly through water. It was clear to her that even with the influx of newcomers, he was still the best rider on the track—and equally clear that he wasn’t doing a great job of not showing off in front of Doug and his friends.

  “Oooooh!” Hilary nudged her in the ribs. “Look who’s been checking out the new guy.”

  Daphne blushed. “We’re just friends,” she insisted.

  “That’s not what it looked like at the wedding,” Hilary teased. “Before . . . I mean, never mind. Crap.” She snuck a sidelong glance at Janie, who had drawn the fleece up over her chin like a turtle retreating into its shell. Talk of the wedding still made her eyes go dark with terror, and despite the Varleys’ prompting she still refused to open her gifts or look at any pictures from the day, insisting they all reminded her of God’s terrible sign.

  From the top of the bleachers, a voice like tarnished silver bells called Daphne’s name. She turned to see Luna descending the bleacher stairs like mist, trailing the jagged ends of a moss-colored robe. Beneath it she wore skintight leather shorts and a cropped macramé top, revealing a glowing moonstone that seemed magically embedded in her bellybutton. She carried a hula hoop over one arm, wrapped in blue and silver tape that was worn away in places.

  “How’s it going?” Luna flopped down next to Daphne, swinging the hoop around to rest on her knees. Daphne felt every pair of eyes on the bleachers clinging to Luna’s back, could almost taste the prospectors’ longing through the dusty night.

  “Fine,” Daphne croaked. Luna must have been aware of their gazes, but she ignored them and turned to the cluster of girls, fixing them with her sea-green stare.

  “I’m Luna,” she said.

  “Of course you are,” Hilary muttered, loud enough for Luna to hear. But instead of shrinking into herself or finding an excuse to leave like Daphne would have, Luna opened her mouth wide and laughed like a pocketful of change falling to the floor, her teeth sharp and white.

  “You got me,” she admitted. “Hippie chick, hippie name. Who’s winning?” She squinted at the riders zooming around the track.

  “It’s just a meet,” Janie explained. There was something hard in her eyes that Daphne had never seen before, a new line of distrust across her forehead. Daphne wondered if it was simply that her cousin didn’t like having another girl on her turf, or if there was something else about Luna that made her uneasy, some quality radiating off of her that made her normally bubbly cousin cagey and territorial. “They’re just messing around and stuff—it’s not a competition.”

  “Gotcha.” Luna leaned forward, eyes sparkling with interest. “Which one is Owen?”

  Daphne pointed him out, amazed that Luna had never bothered to watch him ride. They’d arrived in town together, were sharing an apartment, but beyond that their relationship was as inscrutable as frosted glass.

  Janie reached over and gripped Daphne’s knee hard. “He’s going for it,” she said through clenched teeth. An engine thundered below, accompanied by encouraging bellows from the crowd, and a rider in a green helmet approached the high jump.

  “Doug?” Daphne asked.

  Janie’s head bobbed. “That trick Owen did earlier—he’s going to try it. I can just tell.”

  Doug yanked hard on his throttle, sending a cloud of exhaust billowing behind him as he gathered speed and roared toward the jump, gunning over the lip. At the height of the ascent, he launched his body behind the bike, kicking his legs like a novice swimmer trying to make it back to shore, determined to emulate Owen’s Superman move.

  But his weight and inexperience made the bike wobble dangerously, dragging the rear wheel down. He’d waited a moment too long—gravity was already pulling him back down to earth.

  Doug realized his mistake in midair and flopped frantically, trying to flail his way back into the saddle. Both he and the bike tumbled to the ground, rolling in opposite directions until they came to a stop in two identical mounds of dirt.

  Doug was on his feet in an instant, brushing billows of dust from his jacket and staggering to his bike. Janie’s hand still gripped Daphne’s knee, fingernails dug in like a claw. She made a small mew of distress, and Daphne put her own hand over her cousin’s in a belated gesture of comfort.

  “It looks like he’s okay,” she ventured.

  “I hope so,” Janie said, shaken.

  Doug righted his bike and scrambled into the saddle, crossing the track in a plume of dirt and injured pride.

  “He the one who did that to you?” Luna asked Janie, pointing at her stomach.

  Janie gave her a look that suggested the question wasn’t worth her time and turned to Daphne. “Should I go see if he’s all right?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t,” Daphne replied. The riders were already back in action, swerving around corners and jiggling over the whoop, engines whining like a pack of wolves. “I doubt going down there would be good for the baby,” she added.

  “I guess you’re right.” Janie pouted. She cupped her chin in her hands, her lower lip drooping. “I just hope he gets over it quick.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Daphne said, not sure at all.

  They watched the rest of the meet in relative silence, interrupted only by Hilary’s sarcastic asides and Luna’s gleeful exhalations. As the moon crawled higher in the sky, the guys tired and dropped off the track one by one. Bryce swung by the bleachers to grab Hilary, and eventually Doug, red-faced and scowling, appeared for Janie. Luna went off to find a beer and never came back, and before long Daphne found herself alone in the bleachers, watching the final rider swing around the track in dazzling circles.

  It was Owen, of course. Alone on the track, he rode like a dark horseman on the wind, whipping through the curves and flying over jumps. He torqued and spun, levitated off the seat and gripped the handlebars with his toes, guided the bike in swoops and swirls until it seemed like he’d be airborne forever, like his wheels would never touch the ground. Back in the parking lot the party blossomed, squeals and laughter underscoring a driving rock song, the bonfire twisting knotted columns of flame into the sky. But Daphne barely registered any of it. Alone and unwatched, she no longer had to stop herself from staring at Owen. She could bask in his untamed energy and let her imagination roam as freely as his bike on the track, to a place where she didn’t have to keep pushing him away.

  Eventually someone turned off the floodlights, plunging the track into a silky darkness punctured only by Owen’s headlight and the silver sparkle of the stars. Owen turned his bike toward the trail, and Daphne listened to his motor putter up the hill and disappear into the party’s cacophony. She stood, surprised at the stiffness in her knees, and headed toward the party. She’d been watching him for longer than she realized.

  • • •
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br />   THE party filled the parking lot and spilled out into the scrubby trees beyond. Smoke from the bonfire mingled with the tattered vapors floating from dozens of cigarettes, and the night was ripe with cheap beer and liquid courage, electrified by the influx of prospectors and rig workers who liked to play as hard as they worked.

  Daphne noticed Janie and Doug clustered by the tailgate of Doug’s truck in a tight knot of Carbon County locals. They were outnumbered, she realized, surrounded by prospectors and guys from the rig. It was true that the track was no longer just “their” place, and the harder she looked the more she could see the sadness and confusion hovering in a cloud over their group.

  The newcomers, on the other hand, seemed pumped with energy, larger than life. They’d formed a loose semicircle around the bonfire and were greedily watching Luna dance with her hoop, sliding it across her chest and undulating her hips to meet it, rolling it over her shoulders and around her waist, her lips parted and glistening. Her robe lay in a heap on the ground, and firelight danced on her skin, giving her a molten quality that burned lava red from deep within. Her eyes flickered over the crowd, and she flashed a wicked smile.

  “Is she for real?” Daphne overheard one of the floorhands ask another.

  “I dunno,” his friend grunted. “But if she’s not, I sure as hell don’t want to wake up.”

  Even the Carbon County locals were entranced. Still huddled together, they crept closer to the fire, a cluster of cautious curiosity clutching sweating beers. Doug had his arm around Janie, but Daphne could sense him straining toward Luna, his desire permeating the air like cheap cologne. Janie nestled herself closer to him, reaching up to twist his wedding ring, reminding him of where he belonged. The line of distrust ran even deeper in her forehead, and her eyes were narrowed as if Luna was a too-bright light that she couldn’t bear to face head-on.

  Daphne felt a dark presence moving through the crowd. Her skin tingled as Owen appeared on the other side of the circle, arms crossed over his chest and a bemused half smile on his lips. His eyes weren’t fixed on Luna and his mouth wasn’t hanging open like the rest of the men around him. He seemed to be scanning the crowd, looking for something—or someone. For her.

  The song drew to a pounding crescendo, and Luna flung her hoop high in the air. It formed a silhouette against the starry blanket of sky and seemed to hang for just a moment from the tip of the moon. Then the song was over and the hoop plunged back to earth, where Luna caught it neatly around her shoulders, arms outstretched as she dropped a falsely innocent curtsy amid applause and catcalls. Guys surrounded her the moment she threw her hoop aside, and she tossed offhanded commands that sent them scurrying to pick up her robe, fetch her a beer, build up the fire, and get her a nice place to sit. The hardened prospectors tripped over themselves like puppies as they hurried to fulfill her demands, their eyes never leaving her body.

  Luna’s silvery laugh rang out above it all, inviting and taunting and teasing. She sought Owen in the crowd and curled her finger, beckoning him.

  “What do you want?” He was still high from his long solo ride on the track, the adrenaline buzzing through his veins. He wanted to take Daphne aside, to finally finish what he’d tried so many times to start. But Luna was between them.

  Luna accepted a beer from a prospector with a deep scar along his cheek. “Are you ready?” she addressed Owen. “To do your part?”

  He shook his head, irritated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You always talk in riddles.”

  She shrugged her robe over her shoulders, the ends swirling around her feet. “And you always take things too literally. The rest of us are almost here. I know you know it. You’ve seen them in your dreams. You have to welcome them, to help them learn the truth.”

  Across the bonfire he saw Daphne back away, fading into the shadows. He didn’t want to let her slip through his fingers yet again.

  Luna followed his eyes. “You really want her, don’t you?” She raised an eyebrow.

  He kicked at the ground, frustration rising in his chest. “It’s more than just a want.”

  Luna’s smile was slow and thick. “So take her,” she said. “Take her for us. We can use her.”

  “For what?” Owen exploded. He could see Daphne moving in the shadows beyond the flames, talking to some of the guys from the rig.

  “For the battle, of course.” Luna shook her head gently, the charms in her dreadlocks clinking. “For the God of the Earth.”

  Owen paused, staring through slit lids at the girl who may or may not have been his half sister. The firelight reflected in her eyes, giving the green irises a mad, red gleam, and her teeth were sharp behind an off-kilter smile. She looked spookily beautiful, like an inmate in a Victorian asylum. She looked insane.

  He reminded himself that this was a girl who’d been raised on a commune and grown up believing its lies, who had created a twisted fantasy world out of a few bad dreams. Now she was drunk with her power over the prospectors, delusional for seeing the attention from a few sex-starved men as something more than it was.

  “You’re letting a few dreams drive you crazy,” he hissed, his face close to Luna’s. “There is no God of the Earth, and you know it. You’re just trying to make yourself feel better because your dad was a piece-of-shit hippie who abandoned you, and you grew up not knowing shame.”

  Luna’s face hardened, the fire smoldering in her eyes. She laughed bitterly. “You’ll see,” she began. “You’ll see how wrong you are.”

  But Owen had already turned from her and was half-striding, half-running through the crowd. Between the carousing clusters of prospectors and the glowing yellow tips of their cigarettes, he caught fleeting glimpses of Daphne, her long dark hair and narrow limbs, the cautious purse of her lips that always made it look like she was guarding something.

  He cut around someone’s parked Jeep Cherokee and caught her, his hands brushing the butterfly softness of her wrist.

  “There you are,” he said.

  She turned, eyes liquid.

  But Doug stepped between them.

  He towered over Owen, a thick-necked mountain, face dark with rage and broken blood vessels snaking red across the whites of his eyes. Janie cowered behind him, surrounded by their friends—none of whom looked like they wanted to be there.

  “I thought I told you not to come around here anymore,” Doug snarled.

  “Do you own this track?” Owen tilted his head so he could look Doug in the eye.

  Doug sputtered, his neck turning a deep scarlet.

  “Listen, I just want to ride,” Owen continued. “I didn’t come here to steal your thunder or your friends or any of that, and I’m happy to stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. But I live here now, and since this is the only track in town, how about we learn to share it like gentlemen?”

  “You’re no gentleman,” Doug spat.

  “Maybe not.” Owen’s smile was calm and measured. “But I’ll agree to act like one if you do, too.”

  Doug continued hovering, conflicting emotions crossing his face like cars zooming through a busy intersection. Daphne sensed that he knew he was pushing his luck: A few of the rig workers had already drifted toward the confrontation, and now they flanked Owen, forming a larger and tougher-looking crew than Doug’s small group of nonplussed locals. Owen was popular on the rig, a steady worker who never copped an attitude or turned down extra tasks, and it looked like it had paid off. When it came down to it, his friends had his back.

  “I don’t like your attitude . . .” Doug started to say. But Daphne was tired of Doug’s bullying. Janie may have been afraid of him, but she wasn’t. She knew that beneath the bluster and bravado, he was just a sad, spoiled child. She stepped forward.

  “Hey, this is a party, right?” she asked, addressing the crowd.

  Heads around her nodded, and there were several enthusia
stic yeahs.

  “So let’s act like it,” she urged. “Can we get some music going here? Maybe we can all just chill out and have a fun Friday night.”

  The crowd murmured their assent. Someone went to the speakers, and soon the familiar chords of that summer’s top pop anthem blared out, the singer urging everyone to have a drink, or two, or three, or four, then drop it low so it hits the floor.

  The music cut through the thick tension, dissipating it like a bad smell, and Janie took advantage of the break to grab Doug by the hand. “C’mon, baby, let’s go get you another beer,” she cooed. “I’ve got a nice six-pack cooling in the truck.”

  “Okay,” Doug relented. But as Janie led him away, he glanced back at Owen one last time. Hatred blazed in his eyes.

  “Doug’s got issues, huh?” Owen asked, his voice mild with amusement.

  “That’s one excuse,” Daphne agreed grimly. She could still feel Doug’s eyes on them, dark and accusing, from the tailgate of his truck.

  “You want to go somewhere else?” Owen asked.

  She could hear the subtext in his voice: somewhere else meant somewhere away from the rest of the crowd, somewhere they could be alone. She knew she shouldn’t go with him; she was getting worse at saying no to him, at ignoring the heat that spread through her body whenever he was close.

  But she was tired of fighting, exhausted from building walls only to have him tear them down like they were made of paper with a single look. “Okay,” she agreed. They turned and began walking toward the track, away from the fire and the noise and the people.

  “You want a beer or anything?” he asked before they left the party behind.

  Daphne declined. Already, her head buzzed with something clearer and stronger than any intoxicant, and a buoyant, fizzy sensation had begun to rush through her veins.

  They left the parking area and started down the trail in the darkness, their eyes slowly adjusting to the dim moonlight. He felt for her hand and grasped it, guiding her over roots and rocks. She could feel the strength in his wiry muscles, and smell the metallic mixture of motor oil and leather on his skin.