by Dave Ring
She stands and approaches the living room. She considers the film of red over their face when they arrived. “Hey, sweetheart?”
Kean practically jumps. “Oh! When did you get home?” They have the tired, wild-eyed face of someone close to a breakthrough. Shanna remembers it from their days at work, the care they took with their experiments.
“Could you…” She hesitates, looking at them. They could belong, couldn’t they? If they tried? But there would always be the doubt. And she’s holding their wallet in her hand. She has already accepted. “Say my name.”
“What?” They laugh. When she doesn’t, they laugh louder. “Come on. What’s this about?”
“I miss hearing it from you.” She doesn’t move. “It’s been...A long time.”
“Well that’s—Oh.” They’ve seen their wallet. “What were you doing in my things?”
“Do you know my name? Do I know yours?”
“My name can be whatever you want when we get where we need to go.” The edge to their voice startles her. They have already turned back to the machine.
Her stomach knots in a hot ball, her legs weak. She watches new Kean, their broad shoulders and wide back straining their shirt, hunched over a machine that looks like it might kill everyone in the Quartz Quarter, and tries to map their face to her Kean’s. She cannot imagine what they look like now, sealed in their lab with Liu and Retta and the intern. Are they decayed? Are they part, now, of a body of fungi that used to give them what they needed? Is the fate of all desire to be consumed by it?
Her stomach aches as she asks, “What are the parameters?”
“What?” They turn around. The device in their hands is glowing. The crystal in the center shakes. “What are you talking about?”
She grips the wallet tightly, holds it up for them to see. “What happened to me in these worlds? What happened to you?”
They look her dead in the eyes, lit by the glow of the crystal. She thinks of the thin red film on them when they arrived, her decision not to ask. She wishes she had, now. Would they have told her the truth? Who had to die for them to arrive here? She knows how her Kean died in this world, how did they go in the others?
“Do you want to go or don’t you?” Their voice is low, like they’ve already accepted her no. Like it wasn’t a surprise. Have they made this offer to her before? Has she declined? “If you don’t want to go…” They fall silent, holding their breath.
“Where am I, in these other worlds?”
“You died, all right?” they yell. She wants to say she understands, that the pain is immense enough that she, too, would have bent the world for them. That the world bent on its own, became small, and only has recently begun to unfold. They continue, “You died in the best world and I keep trying to bring you home. But you won’t go. Why won’t you go?” Their voice breaks, the question a high note, their face furious, tears in their eyes.
She lowers her hand. She wants to embrace them, there, with their dangerous little device and their heartache that she knows lives under their skin. “Because I don’t love you. I love a version of you, the version of you that’s special to this world. And some other version of me loves a version of you that is special to your world. Because each world is its own.”
Their face distorts. Their mouth opens and then closes, the muscle of their jaw strains against their skin. “A version of me? I’m me. I’m the only version of me. I’m the only version of me in the universe for you. Do you know how many extraneous duplicates of myself I’ve had to get rid of, trying to get you back? I’m me wherever I go, and I love you. And in every world you say you love me but you won’t go with me.” They raise the device in one hand over their head, hold their other hand out. “Either trust me, because I love you, or give me my wallet back and I’ll find the version of you that does.”
The feeling of their skin against hers in the transfer is enough to bring tears to her eyes. She wants to convince them to put the machine down. Instead, she says, “My name is Shanna.”
“Shanna.” Their accent mars her name.
She can imagine Kean, a body made of mushrooms, without wishing she could join them. New Kean stands before her with their glowing machine that will rip the world apart. She says, “Again.”
“Shanna.” They are half-smiling, now. She wants to say that she is, despite everything, grateful to have held them one more time, that she’s sorry for them across those worlds. But they give her no time to say anything else before they close the lotus bloom of the machine, activating it. It ruptures.
The air around them both becomes hot, reeks of lightning. The room flickers, warps. Everything shakes, and Shanna’s skin seems eager to leap through the rip in space without her. She watches in dull shock as the flesh of her fingertips peels away into the portal where Kean stands. Behind them, a world is forming. Dark forest, ancient growth. The air is burning and Shanna flinches, trying to pull away. She has survived worse, she tells herself. She got out of that room, she made it down the hall, she escaped to the safe zone during the quake. She has survived the world ripping apart before.
Kean’s eyes are closed, their face a grim smile that shows all their teeth. They take two steps backwards and raise their arms. The world behind them emits a smell of wet leaves, the reek of a compost pile. For a second, the portal is stabilized. Kean opens their eyes, their feet are on grass. “You had your chance.”
The machine begins to emit a higher whine. The crystal shivers furiously. Shanna takes one last long look at Kean, now in this other world. Kean, who is not Kean, who is someone willing to do things that Kean would never do to get to some version of her that loves them. She may never be able to stop them but she can slow them.
They begin to reach through the portal for the machine. Shanna rushes forward, plunges her hands into the cold air of the other world. Her fingers burning, she pushes Kean backwards. They grunt, stumble, fall back onto the grass. There is no time for them to cry out before Shanna’s hands are around the crystal, before they’re back in her world, before they’re burning and cramped and then—
Shanna comes to in the hospital. Her hands wrapped in bandages, a bedside table full of flowers. At the foot of the bed, Roye and Jal are reading the newspaper together. The air is dry and cool, smells of lavender and vinegar. Above her, the stone ceiling is intact. Splitting the world has incurred no damage to New Peace Valley, at least not here. “How,” she manages, her throat dry. “How is everyone?”
Jal and Roye spring to attention, immediately at her side. “Everyone’s fine,” Jal assures her. “You’re all right, nobody got hurt.”
“Your apartment is a bit...singed?” Roye looks for the right word, holds her injured arm gently. “Your bot malfunctioned pretty badly. I don’t know if it can be salvaged.”
Blessings upon us, she thinks, nodding slowly. “That’s...That’s okay. I don’t think it was the right hobby for me, anyway.” Jal brings her a glass of water and she drinks it through the metal straw. Her mouth less dry, her chest less tight, Shanna looks at the curtains that separate her from fellow patients. All divides can be overcome, she thinks, and then looks at Roye and Jal. There is only one of her now, in this world. And only one Jal, one Roye, one opportunity in this moment to reach out. She asks, “Would you two like to come with me, sometime soon, to gather mushrooms?”
First, grieve. Mourn the loss of the past and of the future. Grieve for months, years if you must.
Then, remember what you’re good at, and go pull those old garlands out of storage. It’s time to plan a party.
Call it Apocalypse Day, or Survival Day, whichever suits your mood. Your new holiday will join a long tradition of defiant celebration. Besides, your people have survived crueler things than this twist of nature. Even if you skipped temple more often than not, you know how the old saying goes: they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat.
Send out the invitations, by way of bike messengers and posters tacked on crumbling black-ash trees. Invite a
nyone and everyone. All survivors welcome. If they made it this far, they deserve a dinner party.
Set the table for twelve, as many as can fit. Pull your greying hair back into a neat bun and head for the kitchen. Your wife can make her world-famous brisket, which might actually be world-famous now that the world is much smaller. Do your best to help and you will eventually be relegated to mashing potatoes, which is the only way you won’t set the stove on fire.
Wait for the guests to arrive, in ones and twos, by bike and by foot. Help them hang their respirators on the coat rack and set aside a table for their piles of dark sunglasses. Welcome them with light and laughter and the rich smell of good food, no matter how hard it was to find.
Don’t be surprised when friends and even strangers bring gifts of their own. From glass ornaments to fresh marigolds, they will help bring the old to the new. There hasn’t been much celebration since the end of times. It’s time to change that. They will help you, given the opportunity.
Keep them from the food for now. It will be difficult, but they will not listen once they have started eating. Seat them around your carefully fortified living room and ask them to tell their stories. You will have to go first. Be brave.
Once the ice is broken, your guests will speak. They will share tales of unimaginable loss and suffering, but also of joy and laughter. They will tell you about finding the perfect cloth for hair ribbons in the attic of a half-burnt house, about falling in love with the shoemaker who fixed their worn-down sole. They will tell you about living, not just surviving.
After you have listened, then you may return to the kitchen. The brisket is ready. Dish out the potatoes and pour the last of the wine to those who need it most. Sit next to your wife and hold her hand beneath the table. Look around the room and see the people you have brought close, the lives you have made warm. Know that you have done a good thing today, and every guest in attendance will remember it in a year’s time, even if they are far from this happy home. Eat. Drink. Be merry.
If, in the ebb and flow of dinnertime conversation, Danny from down by the riverbank tells his son that your wife is your sister, don’t let it slide. This is your world now. No quarter for bigots. Don’t worry: everyone will have your back, even his son. It is your choice whether or not to let him stay.
Clear the table and leave the dishes in the sink. Take the fresh apples that Hunter has brought from their orchard and cut them with knives that will see no more violence. Serve the slices with honey for a sweet future ahead.
Before you move on, look again to the past. Light a yahrzeit candle, found half-forgotten in a back closet, for those lost in the ash and dust. Keep it with the marigolds. Let it burn until the next sundown, when it will sputter out as you put away washed dishes and take down the tattered garlands.
But right now, in the final rays of fading sunlight, tune in to the synth pop of the last remaining radio station. Clear the living room floor. Pull your wife close to your still-beating heart, and party like it’s the end of the world.
At night, the colorful marks of endings were dark as dried blood, and the ghosts shifted and moaned in hidden places. Char slipped through the gloom with a practiced ease, stepping over spalls of concrete as if they’d memorized their places. Their size had once made them careful around people who elbowed and scowled, and those skills had gone on being useful long after all the people had gone.
Well, not all of them. Char had met a few dozen people who hadn’t popped, including Maya, who lived in an old Victorian that made for a welcome pit stop during scavenging runs. Nobody was a better scavenger than Char, but they had a tendency to lose track of time. Staying with Maya would mean that they wouldn’t have to risk going all the way back home in the dark, when thieves and worse came out of the splattered buildings and looked for people heading home with their hauls.
At this time of night three years ago, the crows would have been gathering in this part of the city, settling down to roost, but crows were smarter than Char was. They had moved on to places where no one lurked in the darkness, and eventually all the other birds had followed. Char missed the sounds of sparrows and finches, and wished they knew where all the birds had gone. Perhaps they’d gone through the splashes of color, which looked in places like human-shaped holes to colorful new landscapes.
Music and light poured out of Maya’s place. The hum of diesel generators backed the thudding beats with their low voices, and filled Char’s skull with their fumes. Char’s head ached as they went past the bouncer, Kody, who let them pass with a friendly nod. Char had known Maya since the beginning, Kody almost as long.
Despite the loud music, the mood inside was subdued. People stood in tight knots or sat elbow to elbow on plush, aged velvet couches. Chipped cups of moonshine were clutched in unsteady hands. Few people spoke, and nobody danced. The place had the atmosphere of a funeral. Char passed through quickly, not wanting to listen to the latest sad story of someone disappearing into the growing forest outside town. They just wanted to rest.
Maya usually held court over a small group of her favorites in the big bedroom upstairs, but Char found her alone, looking into a cup of whiskey that smelled like paint thinner.
“Maya?” Only one thing could dampen the nightly party at Maya’s.
“Leon went Chromate yesterday.” Maya’s voice was barely audible over the noise from below. Leon had been one of her favorites, a skinny little man who could pick any lock. “They tried to get him out of the city, but it was too late. He started popping people and they had to put him down.”
“Oh, Maya.” Char dropped her heavy sack of parts by the door.
“At least, if he’d gotten out of the city, he might have lived. They say Oracles live out there. That it’s the city that makes them dangerous.” Maya didn’t look up, lost in whiskey and what could have been.
“I know.” Char wanted to believe it. Believing that meant that maybe there was some hope that people who had gone Chromate could recover, or that those who had vanished were still alive. But there was no proof, and false hope seemed worse than none.
“I’m tired, Char. I try not to show it, because people come here to forget their troubles. But I’m tired.”
Char knew. They could tell by her eyes, which looked through people before looking at them. They could tell by her voice, growing quieter every day. They could tell by her body, once lush as Char’s own, which had eaten away at its own curves and curled inward like a pillbug trying to save itself from a bird’s beak.
This new world swallowed people whole.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Maya said. She put her cup down, the fringe on her leather jacket dipping in the amber liquor.
“That’s okay.” Char crossed to her, helped her take off the old jacket, buttery soft from years of wear. It smelled like smoke. “You don’t have to.”
“Where will everyone go?” Maya asked. “Where will people sleep if not here?”
“You can think about that later, all right? Other people can help. You know I will.” They fixed Maya’s long, dark hair, which was caught in her earrings, twin waterfalls of silver leaves that tinkled when she moved. People always brought her earrings in exchange for shelter and sweet forgetfulness. “Do you want to rest for a while? You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’ve been awake since I heard about Leon. I tried to sleep, but I had nightmares. I used to dream in black and white, but now I dream in color. Only bad dreams, though. It seems like all I have now are nightmares.” Maya rubbed her eyes wearily.
“Come on. Put some other music on and I’ll rub your back.”
“But everyone—”
“Everyone is standing around feeling sad about Leon. They’ll like something quieter, too.” Char said.
Maya fiddled with her computer, ancient and held together with electrical tape, and the thudding drum kick stopped. Something atmospheric took its place, and a tightness Char hadn’t noticed forming in their chest faded out, returned as
she listened for the sound of ghosts, faded again. The generators and music were still too loud to hear the spirits.
They followed Maya into her bedroom, which she usually shared with more than one of her favorites. The antique four-poster was empty and unmade, the mismatched dressers open, Maya’s clothes hanging out everywhere. While Maya changed into pajamas, Char straightened up, afraid the highboy would tip over with its top drawer open.
Maya’s shoulders were knotted tight, unwilling to give an inch against Char’s kneading fingers. Slowly, so slowly, Maya relaxed, and Char felt her breathing slow. They took their hands away as gently as they could, not wanting to wake her. She stirred, rolling onto her side, and Char’s breath snagged in the back of her throat. A green smear of color gleamed on Maya’s lips.
Char hurried to the bathroom to wash their hands, heart throwing itself at their sternum. Their own terrified face looked back at them in the mirror for thirty seconds as they counted down a long enough handwashing. What were they supposed to do? Someone had to get Maya’s guests out before her visions started. The worse a Chromate’s visions were, the more dangerous. How long had Leon been an Oracle before he’d killed fifty? How long ago had Maya been exposed?
Maya didn’t move when Char crept past her bed, down the stairs. Their stomach churned, every muscle in their body aching from trying not to run. The night air burned their lungs when they stepped outside, and they realized they’d been holding their breath. They leaned against the doorjamb, trying to breathe deep.
