The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  “Aw, fuck that!” shouts a rough voice in the crowd. “It’s the Reds who’re responsible! This whole time we’ve been expecting ’em to drop nukes, they’ve been studying how to alter our air supply. And we’re the first experiment, because no one cares about a town like Slater. We’re the first to go, but mark my words: Next comes Chicago and Los Angeles and New York City!”

  “That’s enough now,” Mayor Branum begins, when an awful blare of feedback shoots through the room, temporarily silencing him.

  “It’s aliens!” screams a woman behind me. Her face is gaunt and bright scarlet from exertion. “We’ve disturbed their space with our rockets, and now they’ve come for retribution. They’re coming for us!”

  This is enough to send the crowd into an uproar. People start shouting for the woman to sit down and stop with the conspiracy theories, while others yell in agreement, claiming to have seen strange lights in the sky this month. Others call out about their dogs acting funny and sensing ghostly presences at night and how the government must be conducting experiments at the Slater Creek plant.

  Mayor Branum keeps slamming his fists on the lectern, for lack of a gavel. Sheriff Allen runs onstage and grabs the microphone, yelling for everyone to calm down, and they will listen to everyone’s concerns and proposals one at a time. It is clear, however, that this crowd is beyond calming.

  What happens next is difficult to explain. It isn’t that everything goes dark, more that everything goes dim. The overhead lights remain on, but the daylight that’s been spilling through the auditorium windows suddenly vanishes. The glass panes turn black, as though it is three o’clock in the morning, not six o’clock on a summer night.

  The sudden change turns everyone silent for one solitary moment.

  Then a man screams, “It’s happening! They’re here!”

  He does not specify who “they” are—aliens or Soviets or punishing angels or government agents or some other, unnameable monster. In the end it does not matter. What matters is that whoever “they” are, they are real and present, and they are sending the crowd into a frenzy.

  Everyone around us is on their feet, pushing and jostling. Immediately I grab Jill’s hand, and she grabs my father’s, and we share a breathless, panicked look.

  “Come on.” Dad draws us both behind him. “Hang on to me, both of you.”

  He begins to push through the crowd, shouting above even the loudest shouts, “Get out of the way! Get out of our way!”

  His voice cuts through my skin, down to my bone. I did not know my father could speak that loud, or with such confidence, and I wonder, even as I am fighting to stay upright and protect my sister from trampling feet and jabbing elbows, if he has picked up some of that confidence from Gayle.

  There’s a painful tug on my hand. Jill has stumbled and is trying to right herself. A man in overalls shoves into her, knocking her off balance again. The tension between my other hand and my father’s grows taut. Then Jill is fully on her feet again and back in my keeping, and I see the reason why: Galliard stands beside her, a hand on her elbow, to be sure she is stable. His eyes catch mine.

  “You okay?” he shouts.

  Then Dad is at my side, asking me and Jill the same question, and it is more pushing and jostling and stumbling until we burst out of town hall’s doors and into fresh air.

  Though I cannot be sure it is fresh air. I cannot be sure of anything out here, because the sun, which should be out for another two hours, has vanished. The sky is tar black. There is no moon; there are no stars. Vine Street’s lamps are on, shedding light on the shouting, running masses. Car engines rev to life, and headlights spill across the street. There are frantic footsteps all around us, beating into the pavement.

  My father leads us toward the station wagon, parked farther down Vine, in front of the salon. He says nothing, only walks forward in determined strides. I look around for Galliard, but he’s disappeared. Then a hand slips from mine.

  “Jill!” I shout.

  She’s stopped in place and is pointing at the storefront of Belmont Electronics. The display televisions are broadcasting the news, live. A woman is interviewing people congregated outside Graceland, in mourning for Elvis Presley. They are not cast in darkness. The sun shines bright over Memphis, Tennessee.

  I’ve been expecting this, I think. I already know there is no other town in the country under this cloud of darkness—only Slater. Still, the sight holds me in place. Even my father is motionless, eyes fixed on the screens.

  The sound of shattering glass breaks our trance. I grip Jill’s shoulder, and we watch as two men, no younger than my father, break through the door of Mike’s Hardware.

  “Come on, girls.” My father tugs on Jill’s hand. “Quickly.”

  When we reach the car, he opens the door and motions us inside in jerky waves. I’m pushing Jill ahead of me, into the back seat, when I hear my name.

  “Stella!”

  It’s Galliard, emerged from the crowd. Lamplight hits his face in a hard-shadowed glow. Archer is right behind him, and they both look as scared as I feel.

  “What’re you—” I begin, as Galliard says, “I had to—” and both of us fall into silence.

  Dad is in the driver’s seat and shouts through his open window. “Stell, get in this car, damn it!”

  “I’m sorry.” Galliard looks suddenly resigned. He takes a step away from me and motions limply toward the idling car. “Sorry, I—”

  “Shut up. Shut up—you’re coming home with us. Both of you, get in.” I turn to my father. I do not ask a question. I say, “They’re coming home with us.”

  Whatever his response, it’s lost in what happens next.

  “You!”

  Pastor Barkley is lumbering toward us, a finger flung at me in accusation. Only, I realize, it is not me he is yelling at, but Galliard and Archer.

  “Get out of here! Get out! How dare you set foot in our town!”

  “What the hell?” mutters Archer, shuffling away from the pastor’s approach.

  Pastor Barkley is close enough that I can see the spittle fly from his lips as he shouts, “Get back to your people, boy. Get back to where you belong. It’s because of you degenerates—”

  “Hey, I don’t even know you, man!” Galliard shouts over him.

  Pastor Barkley’s eyes widen with outrage. He’s clearly not a man used to interruption.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I shout, drawing his irate gaze to me. “Really, what is wrong with you? What kind of person yells at him”—I throw a finger toward Galliard—“and him”—another at Archer—“when they’re as scared as you are? This isn’t their fault. This is no one’s fault.”

  I don’t wait for Pastor Barkley’s response. I grab Galliard by the elbow and drag him to the station wagon, bringing him into the back seat after me. Archer throws open the passenger door, but before he can shut it behind him, Pastor Barkley grabs the handle and rips it back open.

  “Expel the immoral man from among you!” he yells, then slams the door, knocking Archer in the knee.

  “Fucking fuck!” howls Archer, as Dad hits the gas and drives us out of there, into the growing traffic on Vine Street.

  “Girls,” he says, “lock the doors back there.”

  “What’s ‘fuck’?” asks Jill.

  Archer grimaces apologetically.

  “No, it’s okay,” says Jill. “I’ve heard it before. I just want to know what it means.”

  “It means ‘ow.’ ”

  Jill frowns. She knows Archer isn’t telling the truth. Crossing her arms, she presses her feet into the back of his seat.

  “Who are these people?” she asks, throwing Galliard a sour look.

  Galliard is jerking his jaw in a sharp, convulsive way that can only mean it’s a tic.

  “This is Galliard,” I say. “And that’s Archer. They’re members of Red Sun. They’re out for Crossing.”

  “Well,” says Archer, “technically we’re breakouts.”

&nb
sp; “What?”

  “They stopped Crossing,” says Galliard. “They said it was too dangerous.”

  “You should’ve listened to them.” My father is gripping the steering wheel so tight I think it will shatter. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead as he makes the turn from Vine onto Lucille Street.

  “I know, sir,” Galliard says.

  “But you were worried about my daughter?”

  I sink deep into the middle seat. I close my eyes, and all I see is Pastor Barkley’s rabid face.

  “I—I was, sir.”

  “I wasn’t,” offers Archer.

  My father drives on. Houses fly past. He must be going at least fifty miles per hour.

  “Uh,” said Archer. “We left our bikes back there. On Vine Street?”

  “Did you chain them up?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you can pray they won’t be stolen. But we’re not going back for them now.”

  “Why was Pastor Barkley yelling?” Jill asks me. “He looked crazy.”

  “He is.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I say, after some more thought. “No, Jill. He isn’t crazy; he’s scared. He’s a scared man.”

  Jill shoves her heels harder into Archer’s back. He shifts to the seat’s front edge, one hand on the dash to balance himself, but that doesn’t do much good when Dad swings into our driveway, sending all of us in the back seat toppling onto one another. When I right myself, Dad is already out of the car and opening Jill’s door.

  “Out,” he commands. “Into the house.”

  When I crawl out after Jill, starting to speak, my father shakes his head.

  “Explain later. For now, I’m not leaving anyone out in . . . this.”

  I lead Galliard and Archer up the porch steps and into the house, where Jill has already turned on 580 AM. She sits on the den floor, legs crossed under the coffee table, listening in the dark. She shushes us when we enter the room, despite the fact that none of us are talking.

  I switch on the floor lamp and sit beside her. Galliard and Archer take cautious seats on the sofa.

  “. . . reports of two vehicular accidents, one involving a tractor out on Old Pike Road. Again, if you’re just now tuning in, this is Jim Goddard at 580 KZM, and we’re using the station as a temporary emergency bulletin for the little town of Slater. That’s right, city dwellers, you probably hadn’t even heard of this blip of Kansan farmland until recently, when the town made local news after experiencing mysterious red rain showers. That’s right, red rain. There have also been reports of unusual thunderstorms, and last night a tornado ripped through town, causing crop damage. Well, ladies and gentlemen, that’s not all. We’re getting reports there’s been some kind of blackout in town. What? What’s that? Sorry, I’m being told it’s not your average blackout. It’s—sorry, I’m being told that the electricity’s working; it’s the sky that’s—what? Joe, the hell I will. This some kind of joke?”

  “No!” Jill shouts at the radio. “It’s not a joke!”

  My father comes in from the garage, crank lantern in hand.

  “Just in case,” he says, setting it beside the sofa. “Did you lock up the front?”

  I nod, but he’s already left to double-check.

  The skeptical Jim Goddard talks on. “We’re being told that a kind of . . . uh, black sky has fallen over Slater. No reports yet as to how far this perpetual night has reached, but hey, folks, why don’t you take off those sunglasses. Might not need ’em much longer. And for all you sci-fi freaks, you might wanna hitch a ride down to Slater, as there are some eyewitness accounts of UFOs. Beam me up, Scotty! What? Yes, I know what an emergency bulletin is, you bastard. I’m working with what I’ve got typed in front of me. If I find out you’ve been pranking me on air, I . . . fine, I’ll read the damn thing. Yeah, if you’re just now tuning in, this is Jim Goddard at 580 KZM, and we’re using the station as a—”

  “Some bulletin,” says Jill. “How is that helpful? We know it’s dark.”

  “Keep it on,” I tell her. “They may get some useful information.”

  Jill turns down the volume until Jim Goddard’s voice is a dull drone.

  I look at Galliard. Only now am I feeling the weight of his presence here.

  Galliard is sitting in my house. The last time I saw him, we were kissing. Only that doesn’t matter much anymore. That memory seems so faint and silly compared to what is happening now.

  His eyes catch mine, shining dark in the lamplight. Night surrounds us, but the crickets do not chirp outside. Everything is serene, a calm before a storm. I know it is cliché to think this way. It’s trite and highly irrational. Still, I cannot help believing that for all the bad luck that has befallen this town, we are lucky to be in this room together, safe with each other, even if we’re hurtling toward danger.

  The phone rings. Jill hops up and races toward the kitchen. I hurry in after her.

  “Mercer residence! Yes? Oh. Oh, okay, here she is.”

  Jill thrusts the phone into my stomach and runs back to the den. My heart’s beating fast. Who would be calling me now?

  “Hello?”

  “Stella? Stella, hello! This is Mr. Cavallo. Mr. Cavallo from the Dreamlight.”

  “Uh . . . Hi, Mr. Cavallo. Is everything okay?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Sure, things are fine. Who turned out the lights, though?” Mr. Cavallo laughs here, like he is talking about an episode of The Carol Burnett Show and not the fate of Slater, Kansas. “Listen, kid, you may have seen my posters around town. Meant to call you about it earlier.”

  “Sorry, no. What posters?”

  “About my end-of-the-world showing!” Mr. Cavallo laughs again, and I am starting to worry. “If those numbers over town hall are to be believed, we don’t have much time left. That’s why I’m planning a little shindig at the Dreamlight for zero hour. A last midnight showing of Star Wars tomorrow night. Was planning on it before this confounded blackout, but the show must go on, huh? At least we’ve got our electricity.”

  “Mr. Cavallo, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. . . .”

  “What? No, no, it’s the best idea I’ve had in my life, kid! See, if it isn’t the end of the world, then I’ve got to recoup some money from these rainy-night losses. And if it is the end of the world, isn’t it best to go out in style?”

  I don’t have an answer for that.

  Mr. Cavallo goes on. “I need some folks to help out, though, as always. Wondered if you’d be willing to run concessions.”

  “I . . . Mr. Cavallo, it’s nice of you to ask, but I don’t think I can.”

  Mr. Cavallo sighs heavily into the receiver. “Well. Well. I figured you might say that. Parents concerned about safety and all. Rather be with the family. Thought I’d at least ask.”

  “I hope it goes well,” I say, unsure of what else would be appropriate.

  “It promises to be! I tell you what, Stella, we’re living in a B movie here in Slater. It’s something else.”

  “It sure is, Mr. Cavallo. It’s something else.”

  • • •

  “What did he want?” asks Jill, when I return to the den.

  I tell them about Mr. Cavallo and the midnight showing. Jill says, “But that sounds fun! Why won’t you go?”

  “Because Dad wouldn’t approve. And because I can’t leave you, and I definitely wouldn’t take you with me. It’s not safe.”

  Jill grumbles and turns up Jim Goddard on the radio.

  It is that little thing—Jill ticking up the radio volume—that stirs something inside me. I recognize the feeling. I know what it is: an inspiration.

  I slip out of the den and into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Then I pull out the wicker bin from beneath my bed. It is a wreckage site—fragments of plastic and now-useless batteries, circuit boards exposed. Jill was thorough in her damage, taking care to smash the body of each walkie-talkie. Only maybe, possibly, she wasn’t thorough enough.

  I s
et the bin on my desk, turn on the lamp, and take a seat. It may not work. It’s only an idea, and sometimes ideas don’t get you anywhere. Even so, this is something to do. A way to be useful with my hands and mind alike. I pull out the parts and begin to work.

  June 5, 1977

  Craig,

  I've graduated high school. I didn't go to the ceremony, so I suppose that's something you and I have in common. If I had gone, I would've had to give a salutatorian speech. Nothing long-less than a minute's worth of inspiration. Even though I knew I wouldn't give it, I wrote one anyway:

  Let every one of us stay curious and ask questions, even now that school is over. Because scientists are curious, always asking questions, and we are all scientists at heart.

  It's mawkish. I'm sure you hate it. Let me put it this way, though: You've written before that not everyone can be an artist; some people simply have an artistic gift. I suppose that's true, in the same way professional scientists must have a gift with numbers and facts and figures. But don't you think that, deep down, we're all born artists and scientists? When we're children, we are curious, and we see the beauty in the world around us, and we laugh about it and clap our hands, and we toddle off to find more of it. Then somewhere, somehow that gets stomped out. People tell us no, stop gawking, stop asking your questions. So most of us stop.

  We just stop.

  I hope Jill never does. She is always on the search for something. She drinks in her mystery books like water. I love that about her. She asks questions, and she has no shame. I hope that stays with her, don't you?

  Now I have to ask you something. I'll understand if you say no. It's been two years, though, and I miss you the same as ever. I know you want to stay in there, but can't we at least meet? I only want to see you face-to-face. I want to remind myself you're real. I want to know how you look and how your voice sounds, and how you're getting on. You never write about that. Nothing about your daily life. I want to know those things, because you're my brother, and