by Owen Egerton
Pick scrambled after him. It was a tight squeeze. Just enough room to crawl. It was dark in the cave. He could see nothing ahead of him, but he could hear Jesus whistling. After a bit of time, he could make out an opening.
Pick emerged into a well-lit hallway running perpendicular to the hole. No grass, no trees, no sky. Just fluorescent lights and hospital-white tiles that seemed to stretch in either direction for miles and miles. It was cold enough for Pick to see his breath. Jesus was already walking down the hall and Pick hurried after him, his bare soles slapping against the floor. Chilled gusts of air cut through his thin robe.
Up ahead Jesus had stopped and was facing the outer wall of the hallway. Wind was blowing his hair back and flakes of white were flurrying around him and sticking to his beard.
“Jesus?” Pick yelled.
Jesus stepped forward and out of sight. Pick sprinted and found an open door. Outside snow and wind whipped through the dusk half-light. Jesus walked into the wind.
“Jesus!” Pick yelled and stepped outside—the outside of an outside. Pick was dizzy and disorientated. The snow felt like broken glass to his feet, but Pick walked on after Jesus. He stepped on something metal and bent to pick it up. It was a crushed aluminum can. The label read MOLSON ICE CANADA’S FINEST.
Pick knew this feeling. Standing on the edge of a canyon, the fall a step away, toes over the lip, the world swaying with horrible possibility. He looked to his left. Stretching out into the distance stood a dozen or more huge gray domes, each larger than any building he had ever seen. Like the Superdome but expanded three times. He looked to his right and saw even more domes. He turned all the way around to see the massive dome he had stepped from. Pick’s blood was ice, his heart seizing up like a broken blender.
“Wait, Jesus!” he yelled, and ran a few steps toward him. Past Jesus, Pick could see faint headlights on a distant highway. “Jesus!”
Jesus stopped and turned. With slow steps he walked back to Pick.
“Thank you, thank you,” Pick whispered.
Jesus stood before him, spit already freezing into icicles on his mustache and beard. He placed a warm hand on Pick’s shivering arm.
“Please,” Pick said, “let’s go back in. This isn’t real. Go back in and I’ll follow you.”
Jesus smiled and looked down at Pick’s shoeless feet. Jesus shook his head and said something quiet and sad.
Pick shook his head, he didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand.
Jesus looked smaller in the outer world, almost frail, the wind whipping his robe like a broken kite. Pick had the strange thought that he could knock Jesus down if he wanted to. Jesus knelt down before Pick, and now Pick’s confusion was complete. Every knee shall bow . . . every knee but his. Never his. Jesus touched Pick’s bare feet. He then removed his own sandals and placed them, one by one, on Pick’s numb feet. He stood straight and smiled. Pick said nothing. The sandals were too small for his feet. Jesus again began walking to the far lights of the road.
Pick found his voice. “Wait. The ice . . . this is crazy. You can’t leave your kingdom.” Pick glanced back at the open door behind him and again to Jesus. He watched as the figure blended into the skyline. He could still catch up. He could still follow. He took a step. A gust of frozen air pushed past and stung his eyes. He squinted. It was almost dark now. Jesus was less than a shadow. He could only see the headlights slowly moving miles away. Pick filled his lungs with the cold air.
“Wait,” he said softly.
Pick turned and walked back to the door of the dome. He stepped through, immediately thankful for the warmth. Using both arms, Pick pushed the door closed. Even the sound of the wind was gone.
2
DAYS
Kindness
VOLUMES COULD BE filled on the Floaters. References to them are found throughout human history. The Muses from Greek mythology. The angels who visited Sodom before its destruction. Mayan gods, shadow people, forest fairies, aliens, demons, and sprites. All simply Floaters keeping tabs on the sick souls of Earth.
Mainly, the Floaters watched. They watched souls from every race in the universe swimming within human identities.
Symptoms of an insane soul: jealousy, belief in privilege, uncompromising ideals.
Evidence of a sane soul: kindness.
Most of the souls were considered lost causes. Every once in a while there was a cure, and it kept hope going. But overall Earth was seen as an asylum of inmates more than a hospital of patients. It hadn’t always been that way.
Life was just wiggling awake on Earth when the Floaters chose it as their prime facility. One by one, they transported the sick souls of the galaxies to the small planet. At first the Floaters developed mitochondria as holding cells for the souls. It relaxed the souls. Being one-celled was very calming. But there was no hope for cures. Mitochondria had few opportunities to be kind.
So Floaters transported the souls from the mitochondria to the more complicated eukaryotes, but the extra cells didn’t help. They thought that perhaps sexual reproduction would help the cause and there was great hope in the development of dinoflagellates—but souls squirmed and mated with little progress.
So it continued for millions of years. Floaters tried something a little larger, a little more complicated, a little more brain, some feet. But each try wasn’t quite right. Eventually Floaters created dinosaurs to hold the souls. It was fun to watch, but not much of an improvement. So they once again removed the souls and abandoned the species to their own evolutionary path. In this way, Floaters played an indispensable role in the early development of the planet’s biological systems. It could be said their intelligence helped design much of what we know of life on Earth.
The problem with all these bodies, from mitochondria to mammoths, was contentment. Once the souls were placed in trilobites, raccoons, or narwhals, they were happy to be just where they were. They were still insane, but they had no desire to heal. An injured bird will never flap its wings without an opportunity to fly.
What the Floaters needed was not so much a locked cell as a tether. Giving the souls a better view but not enough mobility to wander and cause damage. A short leash so the soul could glimpse freedom and hopefully desire a cure.
So the Floaters developed a body and mind from which a soul can taste, but not quite touch, the marvels of all that is. Thus was born humanity. A frustrated breed by design. Souls that sample the sky but cannot freely fly.
At first it seemed a perfect solution. The tension of these hobbled beings led them to create and craft. Some souls made music. Others made pictures. Cave drawings and myths about the stars. The Floaters were fascinated.
There were early signs of kindness as well. Mother to child. Brother to brother. Though the Floaters understood that this was only necessary kindness, one that served the giver and the receiver, one reserved for a soul’s immediate circle. It was little more than an extension of self-love and self-protection. A good beginning, but that kindness needed to mature.
Instead that seedling kindness became the very excuse for every shade of horror and violence. In the name of family, tribe, and culture, the souls crafted weapons and hunted down other families, tribes, and cultures. So human history is a record of patients ganging up on other patients, enslaving some, murdering others, all fighting and slaughtering for an extra inch of the madhouse.
Every tool of healing the Floaters provided, every health-inspiring aspect of the planet they had chosen, was twisted by the souls to create more madness. Souls saw the beauty of trees and uses of wood, then destroyed miles of forest. They discovered art, and made advertisements. They were given lovemaking and almost immediately invented rape. They named God, then declared God as vengeful and full of wrath.
The Floaters floated about the world whispering the secrets of the universe to the humans. Hardly a soul listened. Instead the sad mad creatures babbled about the price of grain, who owns what, which sports team will win which game, and what’s on television.
There were some success stories. Some salvation. Mostly people no one has heard of. Some were wise, some were half-wits, some were religious hermits, some atheistic capitalists. They were souls who had grown through several lifetimes to be kind and were allowed to rejoin the greater universe. Some successes, but not nearly enough to justify an entire planet. In the history of Earth there have been a total of 807 cures.
Dick-mobile
“THAT’S IT FOR the Lexus,” Hayden said, examining the crumpled hood and green puddle forming under the front bumper. Dawn was edging away the dark. Flies were gathering around the deer carcass.
“The car is fine,” Jim said from beside the deer. “Just needs some tinkering. I’ll get my tools.” He hobbled over to the car, his bowlegs popping.
“Jim, the car is dead. I’ll call a tow truck.”
“Bastards, every one of them. I’ll fix your dick-mobile.”
“Jim, if you can fix this, it’s yours.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
Jim Edwards opened his black trash bag and pulled out a dented red toolbox. He used a hammer to pry open the hood and peered in.
“You know, Hay, you’re soft,” he said with his head buried in the mangled innards of the engine.
Hayden crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m soft?”
“Yep. All soft. You haven’t done anything with your life.”
“I’ve won two Emmys.”
“Not a thing.” Jim bent down to the toolbox, grabbed some chicken wire and a pair of pliers, and returned to the engine. “You want to be a saint, huh? You should try being a man.”
“Now you’re just being rude.”
“Yeah, I am. Go ahead and turn the key,” Jim said.
Hayden dropped into the driver’s seat and, leaving the door open, turned the ignition. The engine turned over but immediately died.
“Okay, hold it.” Jim stared at the engine and rubbed the back of his neck. “Now, Hay, I’m not a religious man, but I’d say killing that deer was the most holy thing you’ve done.”
“How’s that?” Hayden leaned out of the car.
“Because,” Jim said, burying his head under the hood. “You didn’t want to do it, didn’t get any kind of reward, and you weren’t even sure it was the right thing to do. But it was kind. As close as I can tell, that’s holy.”
“You did threaten to shoot me in the knee.”
“Ah, I was just giving you a friendly push. Try it now.”
Hayden turned the key and the engine hummed to life. Jim slammed the hood down.
“Fixed. You owe me one fancy, deer-stained dick-mobile.”
The edges of the world exploded
CLICK NUZZLED INTO Suga Seal. The point of light shone down on them again. The puffs, now adopted by the couple as children, cuddled near. This was all he knew. Any other life was forgotten. Seal, sweet smells, loving puffs. Click was home, happy. He would live and die here with love and family. This was the world. But the world ended.
The world’s very foundations shook, the sky ripped open, and a cruel white light shot through the puffs.
“Pass me a bowl.” A growling sound thundered from past the world. Click dug his claws into Suga Seal as the world twisted and every piece of matter tumbled toward the sky. For a brief second Click watched the puffs, their children, fly to what had been up, then he and Seal were falling up as well. Click looked to Seal. Her face was calm. Click, gaining courage from her strength, held her tighter. They fell from the world into the light and space, horrible space. Splash! Into a white, wet swamp. Puffs drowning all around them. With his free claw, Click tried to gather the puffs to him. From above him maddening screams scorched the air. “Holy crap. A crab!” He tried to look up but the unimaginable colors—so different than the black, white, gray, and wheat brown of the world before—were moving. And in the unbelievably high sky above them four blades spun in a slow circle. The swamp was moving, bouncing, and the screaming continued. He peeked over the edge of the swamp and saw the boundaries of the world approaching. Errrk. And the boundary swung open! Had it not been for Suga Seal beside him, Click would have fainted. The swamp moved past the boundary and the edges of the world exploded outward once again. Above him was no sky, only forever blue. And a fierce light-point that looked like all the world, and hundreds more, burning.
Click chattered. He still had his claw latched onto the Seal’s flipper. He could now see even her stoic face betraying hints of fear. Why hadn’t he protected her? Why hadn’t he kept the world small, seeable, believable? A force hurtled them from the white swamp and into the space. Click snapped both claws into Seal as they rolled with white and puffs in the open air. He locked her eyes in a fierce stare. Everything, everything was unknown except for her. Click and Seal. A world of two even if all worlds end. Splash! Wet, brown, earthy water. Click and Seal sunk down. Something in Click knew this wet brown, knew it to be sanctuary. He tried to tell Suga Seal as much as they sank down. But Seal slowed her sink and began pulling up. Click tried to crawl up with her, but the pull down was too great. There was a moment of floating balance, Click pulling down, Seal pulling up, the two bobbing in one place. It did not last. The two lovers were being pulled in opposite directions by forces they didn’t understand. Was he leaving her or was she leaving him? One of Click’s claws slipped from Seal’s flipper. Her free flipper reached up, pointing to the place she must go. Click knew she was right. Knew she had to move on. But how could he let go? She was always the stronger one. With a tiny crab nod he opened his other claw’s hold. Click sunk down. Suga Seal floated up. Click watched her, keeping his eyes on her sweet face for as long as possible. She slowly left his view, her body blending into the brown, her white eyes disappearing behind the murk, soon it was just her silhouette against the rippling surface, and then she was gone completely.
Click landed in the soft muck. He wished with all his heart that the mud would swallow him whole.
My wife wouldn’t kill a roach
THE THREE HAD listened to “Who’s Gonna Park the Car” fourteen times before clicking the radio off and driving in silence. Milton sat on the mattress, his legs crossed, his back against the driver’s side of the bus. Roy bent over his wheel, wordless and worried.
The one gas station they had passed was in flames and surrounded by fire trucks.
“At least the firefighters are still on duty,” Roy had said. “The system hasn’t broken down yet.”
“It won’t take long,” Milton said.
“We’re going to need gas at some point.”
The VW rumbled out of the hills and into the flat of the West Texas desert. A new sun crested to the east, casting a stubby shadow on the road before them.
“There’s nothing out here,” Roy said. “We’re almost dry.”
Miles later, Rica spotted a grungy sign reading GAS standing alone in the barren landscape.
“Oh thank God!” Roy exhaled. He steered the bus off the exit. He turned into a small gas station and came to a rattling stop in front of a pump. “We were running on less than fumes.”
“Is this place even open?” Rica asked.
“I’ll open them myself if I have to.” Roy climbed from the bus and headed to the station.
Rica slid open the back door and stepped out. The morning air was cool and dry. She stretched and looked back at Milton, his eyes open but his expression blank. “Milton,” she said. “Do you want anything?” He didn’t answer.
She slid the door closed behind her and moved to the pump. A large padlock kept a steel rope looped around the handle.
Roy walked out of the store, fast steps, nearly running. “Let’s go.”
“The pump’s locked.”
“Forget it. We need to go. Now. Please.”
“But we’re out of gas. There’s nothing for miles,” Rica said. “Roy, are you okay? What happened.”
“Fine! Fine—”
A yell rang out from behind the gas station. Rica s
wung her head around. Coming from the side of the station was a middle-aged man in mechanic’s overalls carrying a shotgun. “Get the hell away from my gas!”
“We’ll pay, sir, we only—” Roy started to say.
“Only the damned are left. Only the damned,” the man yelled.
“Sir,” Rica said, stepping forward with her palms facing out.
“Goddamn!” He stumbled and leaned against the side of the building.
“Sir,” Rica said again. “It’s going to be okay. We can help—”
He fired. Rica screamed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Roy’s head whip back, saw him fall against the VW.
“Roy!” Rica screamed. Roy had his palm pushed against the side of his face. His back to the VW, Roy slid down to the asphalt. A second shot exploded, hitting the ground between Rica and Roy and sending up a cloud of dirt.
On instinct, Rica ran. She sprinted toward the station office and pushed against the glass door. The door swung open and Rica fell forward. She pushed her arms out, doing her best to break her fall before her belly absorbed her weight. She hit hard. Immediately the muscles in her stomach clenched.
Catching her breath, Rica rolled onto her back. There was blood everywhere, on the ground, on her arms, her hands. “Oh God, oh God.” Rica examined herself, checking her belly and underwear. Dry. She searched for a wound, but found nothing. Blood was covering the floor. But it was not her blood. She pushed her back against the counter and looked out the dusty glass door. The man was walking to the VW bus, reloading his shotgun. Roy was still on the ground, pushing himself back behind the bus.
“My wife wouldn’t kill a roach,” the man was yelling outside. “She’d catch ’em and let ’em go. Shit, even Billy Graham killed roaches.”