You can’t make an omelette, he reminded himself stoically, without breaking a few eggs. He was the egg, in this scenario. He broke himself time after time, and charted the damage with precision. The encephalometer became his map, and his holy writ. He squinted at its endless printouts with his head tilted back almost to the horizontal, the angle that seemed optimal for what was left of his erratic vision.
The dividing line, he finally decided, was three minutes and fifteen seconds at an eight percent oxygen saturation. The encephalometer’s readout showed a progressive simplification of neuronal activity from two minutes and forty seconds onward. He had ventured as far as three minutes and five seconds and come back—but only just.
He had actually felt the change. The replacement of his brain’s complex staging of past, present, and future, real and counterfactual, felt and believed, with a single bellowing hunger. But he had still been himself. The bellowing was a din through which he could still hear, a splash of hypersaturated red through which he could see. And think. And be.
Ten more seconds, then, to take him up onto that knife-edge, but not over it.
The lab had a van with a portable generator. Cadbury ventured out and requisitioned it. He saw Theaker watching from one of the upstairs windows. The man did not look well. He waved frantically at Cadbury and tried to get the window open to shout down to him, but by the time he had done so Cadbury was inside the van and driving away. He had nothing to say to Theaker, and no interest in hearing what Theaker had to say to him.
The generator was not at maximum charge, but it would be more than adequate for his purposes. Cadbury loaded the van with his suffocation device, as well as a shovel, a screwdriver, a crowbar, and a double-barreled shotgun. He hoped he would not have to use either of these last two, but it was as well to be prepared.
He drove to the cemetery. There was a parking area just inside the open gates but he ignored it, taking the van up over the cement shoulder and in among the graves. It was difficult to navigate here, the way very narrow, but he needed to have the generator close at hand for what came next.
The lurchers were an additional hazard. They were very numerous here, for whatever reason, and they did not move as the van bore down on them. He felt their bodies crunching under the wheels, the van rising and falling as it rode on over them.
He pulled in at last, right beside the familiar headstone. LORRAINE MARGARET CADBURY, it read, followed by two dates and a platitude. SHE IS BUT SLEEPING. He hoped with all his heart that was a lie. That Lorraine was wide awake, and waiting for him.
He opened the door and stepped out. All the lurchers in the vicinity immediately swiveled and headed in his direction. He took out as many as he could. A head shot was required to dispatch them, and a head shot could not always be managed. Before the vanguard got close enough to be a threat he got back into the van and decamped to another spot, a hundred yards away.
The lurchers followed, and Cadbury saw off another half dozen as they lumbered toward him. Again he got back into the van before any of them were close enough to be a danger, and again he relocated. He repeated the maneuver seven more times before he had finally cleared the area.
He returned to Lorraine’s grave and set himself to dig.
This physical labor was the hardest part of the whole procedure. He was unused to using his hands to manipulate anything heavier than a pipette, and the effort told on him. Before long he was panting and sweating, his hands trembling and his shoulders aching from the unaccustomed effort.
Did the lurchers hunt by scent? He did not believe so, but it was an unnerving thought. He might be taken as he toiled in the deepening hole, unable to escape to the van before he was overrun.
But his luck held. By five in the afternoon or so he had completely uncovered the coffin. Moreover, he discovered to his intense relief that the screws were largely pristine. If they had rusted he would have been forced to resort to the crowbar, prizing the casket open by main strength and damaging it in the process.
As it was, a few minutes sufficed to remove all six screws. Long before he had finished he could hear the faint scrabbling from inside the coffin. He threw open the lid and beheld her, his lost love.
Cadbury was a realist when it came to physical processes, and he was not squeamish. He had prepared himself mentally for what he was about to see. There was therefore no moment of shock or resistance. If anything he was amazed at how recognizable Lorraine still was. Wasted, of course, and decayed, with her face sunken in and more of her hair lying on the white silk behind her head than on her scalp. A gray fungal growth on the left side of her chin made her look, strangely, as though she had decided in death to sport a beard but had trimmed it too recklessly.
Her upper body squirmed as she tried unsuccessfully to raise herself. Nine months dead, her muscles were too atrophied and eaten away to support and animate her frame, meager and hollowed out though it was. Her eyelids fluttered but could not close over the dry, sunken pits of her eyes.
“Lorraine,” he said. “It’s me, Richard.” He did not know if she could understand him. He presumed not. But he did not wish to intrude on her privacy without announcing himself.
He set the dials. Eight percent. Three minutes and fifteen seconds. He slid the bucket over his head and pressed the switch. The van’s generator chugged and the pump hummed, industriously extracting oxygen from the air circulating around his mouth.
The descent seemed to take much longer than it had the other times. Perhaps, though, that was merely because this time he had an actual destination. His head began to pound around the end of the second minute. His lungs sucked helplessly for sustenance that would not come. A wave of dizziness compelled him to sit down, and then to lie full length on the ground.
The third minute was an eternity; the final fifteen seconds longer still. His last, failed breath was drawn out unfeasibly, his chest taut and quivering, until the muffled ding of the bell announced that his time was up.
He struggled out of the helmet. It took a long time: he could barely remember where the fastenings were, or how they worked. His thoughts passed through his brain like flotsam bobbing on a sluggish tide.
But Cadbury had measured the time and the saturation to a nicety. He had dosed himself with death, as a man might dose himself with penicillin. He was one of the reanimated now, yes, but he was still himself. His descent into death had been a series of progressively longer immersions, all of them under his own control. His resurrection was the same.
Piecemeal.
Fragmented.
Mediated.
He felt the stirrings of the all-consuming hunger that defined the rest of the risen, but it did not overwhelm him. He could think through it, though it took a vast effort and a vast time. He remembered himself, and his purpose.
Slowly he stood. He advanced to the lip of the grave and lowered himself into it, taking care not to step on Lorraine in the narrow, confined space.
He squeezed in beside her, gradually and gently.
As he had hoped, she did not respond to him as food now. He was of the dead, as she was—at least to the point where his proximity did not stir her appetites.
He tried to speak to her, to tell her not to be afraid, but speech was no longer available to him. Though he could form the words, he had no breath to push them out into the world. They lay on his tongue, which vibrated with stillborn syllables.
He lowered the lid of the casket.
He settled himself into as commodious a position as he could find, on his side so that he took up less space and did not press against Lorraine in a way that might be constraining. Her body stirred softly against his. Perhaps she was still trying to raise herself up, but he thought not. The movement had nothing of urgency about it. Rather it seemed that, like him, she was making herself comfortable.
Goodnight, my love, he said. There was no sound, only the flexing of his throat and the rise and fall of his tongue against his palate.
He found her hand, an
d held it. He closed his eyes.
Eternity passed, on the whole, very pleasantly.
JIMMY JAY BAXTER’S LAST, BEST DAY ON EARTH
by John Skipp
I just gotta say: the end of the world is what you make it. It all depends on your attitude and perspective.
For me? Once I figured out what was what, it was all hog heaven.
Right up till the very end, at least.
* * *
The first one was rough, I will grant you that. Was just washing my truck, minding my own business. Saw Wendell wandering up the street in a T-shirt and shabby pajama bottoms, looking drunk and disheveled as usual. Was surprised to see him without Rascal yanking on the leash at this time in the morning, but didn’t think much of it.
“Where’s your dog?” I said, and he didn’t say. His hearing ain’t great, so I gave it a pass, went back to scrubbing birdshit off my windshield, big old sponge in one hand, hose nozzle in the other.
When he came straight up to me, I was like, “What the fuck?” And began to tell him so, when he straight-armed me back into the driver’s side door, bringing his face right up at mine, growling and making like he wanted to bite.
Call it impulse, but I shoved the sponge square in his face with my left, pushing back, soap suds gushing down my wrist and his neck. I thought it would chill him out, make him choke, bring him back to his senses. But he just kept pushing, and I swear to God I could feel his mouth trying to chew his way through it.
“Wendell! Jesus Christ!” I hollered, but he didn’t seem to care. Just kept pushing forward, and chomping at the sponge.
So I whacked him upside the head with the hard plastic nozzle, once, twice, till he staggered back a bit. It didn’t stop him like it should. So I did it again, till he dropped to his knees, scraps of shattered plastic hitting the pavement between us.
Then he tried to take a bite at my knees, and I kicked him hard. Knocked him back on his ass. Kicked him again, for good measure.
When he grabbed my leg on the way back, tugging forward, I gotta admit to a moment of panic. I dropped the sponge and the busted-up nozzle, grabbed him by the scalp, and yanked his head back.
It was right then, staring eye to eye, when I realized he wasn’t Wendell no more.
Lemme be clear. I never much cottoned to Wendell. He was queer as a three-dollar bill. But friendly enough, in a neighborly way. Not all faggy about it. Could pass for normal. And I always liked his dog. Since he never ever tried to get all grab-ass on me, I was just kinda live and let live, you know? Like, “Oh, there’s old Wendell. What a character. Takes all kinds, I guess.”
But once I saw the lights were off in his eyes, a terrible truth rolled through me.
No, make that a beautiful truth.
I no longer had to even pretend like I cared.
He still had ahold of my leg, so I dragged him toward the back door of my truck, threw it open with my free hand. I knew where my bat was without looking. The vintage Mickey Mantle Louisville Slugger my grandpa gave me when I was a kid was right where I always kept it, just in case. Strapped in a sling on the back of my driver’s seat, ready for action.
In the second it took me to grab hold of the handle, he got close enough to nip at my thigh. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to freak me out. I said, “Whoa!” and fell back on the seat, letting loose of his hair, kicking him hard in the face with my free sneaker. His teeth tugged at my jeans as he fell back. I kicked him again. He flew back and let go.
I heave-hoed off the backseat, bat in tow. He lurched toward me. I popped him in the forehead with the butt end, brought the pay end up as he began to rise again.
Then I beat his fucking head in. Beat it till it cracked and caved in, squirted brain all over the pavement. Till he finally stopped twitching.
“You done?” I yelled. And yes, he was.
Right about that time, a car screeched to a halt in front of us, yanking me out of my buzz. I felt a moment of embarrassment and fear, like your old lady walking in on you banging the waitress.
But it wasn’t my old lady. And I didn’t feel guilty. So instead of apologies and shame, I just stared through the windshield at the nigger behind the wheel and yelled, “You want some of this?”
She backed right the hell off, screeching into reverse fast as she could. And God help me, I could not stop laughing.
She knew in a second what I had just realized.
As of that moment, all bets were off.
I left Wendell where he lay, like a sloppy speed bump in the middle of the road. Let somebody else clean him up. Wasn’t my job. I’d done enough here. With a whole lot more to do.
It was time to make use of my God-given Open Carry privileges.
And finally do what was right.
Didn’t take but ten minutes to load up the cream of my armory. That’s what trucks are for. I had more weapons and ammo in my basement alone than Venezuela and Vermont combined. More than I could probably ever personally deploy. But damned if we wasn’t about to find out.
Sent a couple text messages to buds that might heed the call. Had a couple dozen extra semiautomatics handy for the under-gunned.
Meet me at the mosque downtown, I said. Let’s make this happen.
Then off I went, rolling over Wendell twice just for kicks before heading into the greatest fucking day of my life.
Halfway down Creston to El Dorado Boulevard, I saw a skinny chingado stagger into my path. The only other car on the road swerved around him, but he didn’t even seem to notice. Doing the same sleepwalker shuffle as Wendell. Didn’t need to see his eyes to strongly suspect he was part of whatever the hell was happening.
I always wanted to hit somebody with this truck. Thought about it all the time. Some asshole just wanders into your right-of-way, and you’re supposed to stop? How about they just wait, or speed their lazy ass up a trifle?
I didn’t speed up, but I didn’t slow down, neither. Even at 37 mph, he came up quick.
At the very last second, he looked at me.
And there was nobody home.
So I stomped on the gas, and bam! He took the hit and disappeared under my hood. I saw it just before the impact shot my forehead half an inch from the dashboard. (I don’t give a shit about the law, but thank you, seat belt!)
My tires missed him to either side. But as I passed over and past him, he didn’t look like he was getting back up. I screeched to a halt. Yelled, “Wooooo!” real loud. Took a second to rejoice in this Bucket List moment.
Then jumped out of the cab. Unhooked my vintage ’45 authenticated World War II German Luger from its holster on my hip. Strode up to the Mexican mess on Creston Drive. And confirmed all of my suspicions.
The fact that he was still trying to twitch, with his spine snapped in half, was one thing. The fact that he wasn’t screaming in pain was another. He didn’t look like he was in shock. He didn’t look sad. He didn’t look scared. He barely even looked like a human being.
By some trick of fate, his head was twisted half around and toward me. And all I saw in his eyes was the same thing I saw in Wendell’s. A naked hunger, with nothing behind it. Busted to fuck. Way past dead. But not done yet.
Even now, all he wanted to do was eat me.
“That’s all you ever wanted, cabron,” I said. “Am I right? Eat my job. Eat my life. Take me down. Take the whole sovereign white race down.”
He tried to bite me from ten feet and closing.
“Straight down to the bottom is where you want us,” I said. “Till America’s not ours no more. Till it’s all mud races, and we’re your slaves. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
I shot him in one of his broken legs. He didn’t even seem to notice.
“You think it’s payback. You think we owe you. But, fucker, we don’t owe you shit. You’re taking more from me right now than I ever took from you.”
He didn’t understand a word I said. And I could not have cared less. Blowing a hole in his shoulder, then another in his h
eart, made about as much difference to him as it did to me.
“Right?” I said, aiming the barrel at his braincase, just above them empty eyes. “You want me. But you know what I want?
“I just want you gone.”
I pulled the trigger. And he was.
Next, I checked my front bumper. It took a little ding; but once I wiped the blood off, you’d barely even notice. I might be able to do this a couple more times before taking on serious damage. Something to think about, on the way downtown.
Round the corner at El Dorado was my local liquor store. And right away, I saw how shit was escalating.
As I pulled up to the curb, a little Mexican girl was being eaten by some homeless piece of trash. A degraded white man, I’m ashamed to say. Three other people were on the sidewalk, screaming. And one black dude—I gotta give him credit—was trying to peel that fucker off, pull him back off the chunk of cheek he’d just ripped from that pretty little dead girl’s face.
I came out locked and loaded, right up on the derelict with the mouth full of meat. At close range, I don’t miss. His shit-for-brains chased the bullet that raced toward the brick of the twenty-dollar Thai massage parlor wall behind him. The bullet won. And over he went.
Next thing I knew, a big-tittied mamacita was hugging me from behind, saying, “Gracias! Gracias!” and weeping as that white trash hit the concrete and stayed there. The black dude turned to look at me.
We locked eyes together.
And jigaboo or not, the one thing for certain was that he was one hundred percent alive. Brave, angry, and scared. Looking at me, and my gun, still aimed in the neighborhood of his skull.
And the question in his eyes was, are you gonna kill me, too?
Then I thought about that little girl, who didn’t do nothing but get born the wrong color. Gave the black dude a nod of respect for his courage. Put the gun back in my holster. Saw him sigh with relief. Shook the mamacita loose as she kissed me on the chin.
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