Ante Mortem (8 page)

It was when her mother’s head was separated from her body that Rani lost consciousness and fell from the high branch directly into the mass of feasting undead below. If she awoke at all when the first set of teeth sunk into the soft flesh of her young throat, she made no sound to indicate it.

Napro, his own vision beginning to fail, finally stopped screaming, noticing for the first time how cold he’d become. He shivered against the ground and did his best to ignore the wet tearing sounds coming from the circle of zombies that enclosed the remains of his clan.

Eventually, the sounds stopped and he was grateful that it would now be his turn to die. The only thing he regretted was not knowing what had happened to his youngest daughter, little Zic, and what it was that had made the gods so angry to befall such a punishment on them.

To his astonishment, he awoke briefly to get at least one of his answers.

Perhaps the zombies had assumed he was already dead and went in search of fresh meat. All he knew was that the world was quiet for a time. He gazed up at the blue, blue sky for he didn’t know how long, until the sound of shuffling feet tore his attention away from all that gorgeous empty space.

He turned his head a fraction and saw Zic’s twin approaching him, so small and fragile looking. And so very dead. Letting out a long heavy sigh, he waited for her to reach him, giving thanks to all the gods that it would be she who finally finished him.

Barely able to hold his eyes open, he was uncertain when he saw movement behind the dead child. He blinked several times before he became convinced that what he saw was real and he knew that it would be the last thing he ever laid eyes on: tiny Zic, her own eyes dark and feral, sneaking up behind her dead twin, an impossibly huge stone clutched in her little hands and held high above her head for a fraction of a second before coming down fast, instantly crushing a tiny skull the same size as her own.

* * * *

Hit the Wall

David Dunwoody

“We’re under attack.”

Brautigan looked up from his lap. He’d been smoothing and re-smoothing creases in search of substance, thinking about the days when there was no question about it, the days when his light-headed haze was the result of something other than lack of sleep. An uninterrupted nap would, at this point, be as good as any vacation. And he’d almost been lulled to sleep by the jostling of the airport shuttle when Pearce said those words. Then the bassist said them again. “We’re under attack.”

Pearce was looking at his phone, reading from some news app. “Cessna flew right into downtown Shawburg. We’re like thirty minutes away, brother. We’re driving right into it.”

“
A prop plane?” Brautigan cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes. “Could be an accident, buddy—remember that one in Manhattan, I think it was, few years back—same thing.” He glanced toward the front, at the young Middle Eastern driver, and hoped Pearce wouldn’t raise his voice in argument. Naturally, he did.

“
It was going to happen sooner or later,” Pearce intoned, pointing the phone at Brautigan like an accusing finger. “And of course it’s gonna be a little private plane. Hell, it could be loaded up with anthrax or something.” He consulted the app and muttered, “We’re driving right into it...”

No way the driver hadn’t overheard by now. And knowing Pearce, it was only a matter of time before he started speculating about which sand-race had carried out this supposed attack.
What a fucking gig
, Brautigan thought.
What a rock band. A gaggle of paranoid old men, looking to blame someone for everything.
They belonged on covered porches with wicker chairs and sun teas. Brautigan was pushing six-oh, and Pearce, who always lied about his age, was certainly not far behind. Same for their drummer and keyboardist, likely snoring away in the other shuttle with the rest of the gear. No roadies for these never-weres. No groupies either. While it was true that Brautigan’s silver ponytail and hawkish gaze still attracted a certain breed of young female, they all reminded him too much of his own daughter.

And, though neither Pearce nor anyone else knew it, she was the real reason for the Shawburg bookings, for this miserable sleepless caravan. At the thought of Lacey, the first twinge of anxiety struck Brautigan, and he thought,
I hope to God she was nowhere near that plane crash
.

He glanced toward the front and saw the driver eyeing them in the rearview mirror. Pearce began to speak again, and Brautigan nudged his shin with the tip of a snakeskin boot. Pearce looked from him to the driver and rolled his eyes. “Seth Brautigan, the politically-correct headbanger.”

“
Frankly, that makes more sense than you—” Brautigan began, and then the shuttle veered sharply and crossed the expressway into the path of a bus.

Maybe Pearce has a point.

Last week, when the Iranian youths started lighting themselves on fire, we thought it was a political protest, the birth of a revolution. Then it happened in Toronto, and Mexico City—kids setting themselves aflame and others rushing into the burning pillars and embracing their own deaths. The media went nuts about the so-called mass hysteria, which they had apparently fomented by airing the Iranian suicides, which they then aired again and again.

And now this. So maybe Pearce is right. Maybe it’s a religious thing, a network of apocalyptic extremists. Maybe that’s why the Cessna went down. Why our driver just plowed us into a bus. Why I’m upside-down and can’t feel my face or my legs.

Brautigan slipped out of his seat belt a little. His head settled on the roof of the shuttle, tiny glass jags biting into his scalp. He fumbled across his waist and unbuckled himself, slumping down. His ears were ringing and he couldn’t see a thing. Didn’t smell smoke, or gas…
Jesus, am I blind?

“
Pearce,” he croaked. There was no reply. He lay there, upside-down and bent, while his eyes adjusted to the blackness. No, he wasn’t blind. He could clearly see his thirty-year sparring partner hanging dead from his seat, arms draped over his cruelly dented head.

Brautigan wormed his way toward the front of the vehicle. Now he could see that the shuttle was lying in the shadow of the overturned bus, and he could hear moans and cries and the tinkling of glass. He grabbed the front seats and pulled himself up beside the crumpled form of the driver. It looked as if his face had bounced off the windshield. Killed instantly, no doubt. The feeling was returning to Brautigan’s legs. He got on his elbows and knees and crawled through the shattered windshield, and then he was right up against the bus and its sideshow of broken faces within broken windows. He heard pleas for assistance. Couldn’t they see the state he was in?

He thought of Lacey again. Of course those people saw him, but they didn’t care. They had daughters they needed to reach. He understood that. He hoped they would understand as he continued on.

He moved out of the bus’ shadow and into the sunlight, facing four lanes of stalled traffic, a few bloodied passengers stumbling about, motorists rushing to their aid and screaming into phones. A chopper passed by and swung around; Brautigan felt that the camera inside was focused on him, staggering to the shoulder, ignoring the onlookers as he headed into the city.

In a new haze, he wandered into concrete canyons. He stopped at the first intersection to get his bearings. It had to be around 10 AM and traffic was surprisingly light. As he stared at the street signs and waited for his eyes to focus, he heard the first sirens. An ambulance tore past, running the red light. It was followed by a Volkswagen Beetle.
Why in the hell…?
His question was answered as the Beetle rolled up the curb, inches from his leg, and smashed into the side of the building at his back. He watched numbly as a teenage girl hurtled through the windshield and rolled down the sidewalk.

Another crash.
Brautigan turned and saw a minivan folding around a traffic pole. Most cars had come to an abrupt stop. The minivan went over on its side and came to a stop in the middle of the intersection. And then, as if in some obscene dance, a brown sedan from the east and a blue sedan from the west wove around the van and met head-on.

They’re all killing themselves. Everyone is killing themselves.

The world is ending.

Lacey!

Brautigan broke into a run, and for the first time he felt pain. It radiated through his back, thighs and ankles with every footfall, but the sensation only spurred him forth. He’d seen the dead-eyed gaze of the young man in the blue sedan. They were all young, weren’t they? Kids. He ran faster.

He knew where he was now, and knew how to get to the club where Lacey was scheduled to play that night. Neither she nor his band had known that they shared a double bill. Brautigan’s ensemble
Hell Roof
was supposed to make a surprise appearance alongside Lacey’s
Sīth
. In his mind he’d thought that maybe, at first, she’d be thrown. She’d stand silent, as she saw him for the first time in eleven years, as he walked onto the stage during her set with guitar in hand. And maybe, just maybe, instead of walking off, she’d play along for the audience and riff with him like it was a natural thing. And maybe somewhere in there, in that performance, they’d get past the awkward angry shit and then they could just talk like he always wanted. It was a mean trick, he knew, but it was the last trick he had up his sleeve.

He probably looked like a relapsed junkie as he shambled into Cori’s. Lacey’s band played there most weekends, and there was a chance she might be around this early. And she was.

Back to him, hair dyed shocking red, but undeniably his Lacey, staring intently at a TV above the bar with her knuckles pressed against her lips. He was afraid to come any closer, to make himself known. So he watched the TV with her. A passenger plane had gone down in Texas. In his last transmission, the pilot had reportedly told the tower that “kids” were trying to storm the cockpit.

Brautigan and Lacey both nearly jumped out of their snakeskin boots as two cars collided right outside. She spun, and saw him. “Dad.”

He stepped into the light separating them. She recoiled at his appearance, then said, “What happened?”

“
Fucking shuttle drove right into… Pearce is dead. I don’t even know about the others. I just came here. It’s happening everywhere, Lacey.”

“
I know.” She took a tentative step toward him, hazel eyes flashing. “Why are you here?”

“
Came to see you.”

She sighed. “Because of what’s happening?”

“
No, it was planned...”

She turned slowly to the pair behind the bar, two men with their arms linked. They looked from the television to her. “He called me last week,” one of them said to her. “It was a surprise.”

“
Surprise.” She laughed bitterly. “Dad—
Seth
—I’ve got enough to deal with right now. My best friend OD’d this morning. And don’t try to play Father Knows Best and lecture me, you know I stay away from users. She’d never touched the shit before.”

“
Young people are killing themselves,” Brautigan said.

“
It’s people between fourteen and twenty-four so far,” Lacey replied. “Like my friend. I’m twenty-six.” She said it as if he might not know.

“
So terrible,” one of the men whispered. Another breaking item appeared on the TV, this one about the streets; streets worldwide turning into a gory spectacle by suicidal drivers. A scene in Atlanta, an intersection in flames. First responders simply throwing themselves onto the pyre.