It's Not the End

by Matt Moore

  —also undeserving of a name—

  —giggles.

  Dry, sweet smell of baby powder, formula, wet wipes—overpowering. Stomach clenches and does a slow roll. Should run to bathroom, but can barely move my feet.

  “So that’s that” is Mom’s conclusion to a topic I don’t remember. Phone’s heavy as a brick. Struggle to keep it to my ear. She asks, “And how’s my granddaughter?”

  Look at the baby. Needle twists harder. Hope to keep pain from voice. “Fine,” I lie. Baby is fine, but don’t have the heart to tell Mom she isn’t her granddaughter.

  “I do hope you and”—my wife’s name—“can bring her up and visit some time soon. I can’t wait to meet her.”

  There is power in what Mom didn’t say: bring her up and visit some time soon while I still have time.

  “Sure, some time soon.”

  My wife pulls a blanket over the baby, shushing her to sleep. Sings a lullaby.

  Needle punctures something. Fury sprays hot like arterial blood.

  Should smash her head with the phone. So tiny, so small. Rage-fuelled strength to crush, to pound . . .

  To . . .

  Pray: Please God, tell me I don’t need to do this. . . .

  —not darkness. darkness is the absence of light. no concept of light here. a realm god passed over. heaven and earth, light and life, created elsewhere—

  Outside on balcony. Wind has picked up, cold against face and arms. Smells clean. Mom is talking about visiting Dad this afternoon.

  Turn, see wife bent over baby, smiling.

  Safe.

  Needle now an ice pick, jabbing inside skull.

  Phone bad idea, anyway. Just shattering plastic, a welt, some blood. Then cops. Cuffs. Comments about what kind of monster could do that. And Mom wondering why the phone cut out.

  “Be nice if you could make it out to see your father,” Mom hints.

  Look down at street, nine storeys below. “I know. But it’s hard with the baby.” Jump would kill me, but my priest said I’d go straight to Hell. No chance to tell God what He will not hear in prayer: that my wife and mother and father need His strength and grace. He may not act, but He must hear.

  And I will not escape the pain of my wife’s betrayal through death. Not if she’s still alive.

  But after . . .

  Barely lift feet to step back into living room. Like moving through syrup. Pain quivers with each footfall, wringing the back of my neck.

  “Sound good?” Mom wants to know.

  No idea what she said. “Yup.”

  She might hear indifference in my voice. Might ask: “What’s wrong, dear?”

  How to respond? “Not really, Mom,” I could say. “I got the results this morning. Amazing what technology can do. Swab my cheek, then the baby’s, and mail them off. A week later, some lab tells you your wife got knocked up by some other guy and didn’t even tell you.”

  “That’s horrible, dear,” she might reply.

  “Did I mention she tried to make it out like it was my fault? When I asked her about the credit card charges at lingerie and ‘adult toy’ stores, she doesn’t deny it. Like she wasn’t trying to hide it. She tells me I’m boring and shallow and she’d hoped she could change me, but it never happened. So she sought out other men.”

  And Mom might say “No, dear, you never mentioned that” but instead says: “You sound tired, sweetie.”

  Soft footsteps. Small, bare feet on hardwood. I turn. “I am.” Truth for once.

  “You should—”

  Lose the rest. My wife is saying something.

  Hear neither of them.

  Ice pick scraping inside my skull, scoring jagged grooves.

  “Hold on, Mom.” Hand over mouthpiece. Look down at my wife. So tiny. Not even five feet tall. I played fullback in college. Making love, I had to be careful. Could have crushed her.

  Maybe that is how I could do it. Make it look like an accident.

  But thought of my hands on her repulses me, like handling human filth. Only way I would touch her is hands around throat.

  “Sorry?”

  She rolls her eyes, looks back up. “What I said was ‘I’m going to take a nap. Make sure the baby doesn’t cry.’” She motions to the door of the bedroom we made the nursery—

  —No, not “we” made—she picked everything, I did the work—paint, assemble furniture, hang pictures. Barely had the strength for it. My wife’s role was to find the flaws, tell me our child deserves the best.

  Envy Dad. Unable to remember anything—his name, where he is, who Mom is. “I’ll try.”

  “Do more than try. I did the work for nine months. Least you can do is keep her quiet for an hour.” She turns, heads for our bedroom.

  Wish phone wasn’t cordless. Phone cord looped over her head, pulled tight around throat until she stops moving.

  What would Mom hear? Gasping, struggling, cartilage cracking.

  My wife shuts bedroom door and for a moment I can believe she’s gone for good.

  —never here in the first place—

  —never met her, fell in love, confronted her about the credit card charges.

  She confessed and vowed she was done. Stopped trips, late nights. But resisted counselling.

  Six months passed. Started getting home an hour later than normal. Then two. Sometimes not home until midnight. Wondered if cheating again. Prayed she would remain strong and faithful, but felt nothing. Only darkness. Darkness that filled me. Headaches clouded thoughts. Unfocused at work. Tired all day, but could not sleep at night. Strength gone. Trouble making love.

  Told me she was pregnant. Should have been happy—a baby would bring us together—but suspicions remained. We had not been together often and sometimes I could not finish.

  Was baby mine?

  Ice pick pries something lose. Thick as my pinky finger, it squirms deep in my skull.

  Break into a sweat. “Sorry, Mom. What were you saying?”

  “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “Far from it,” I could answer. “Do you remember teaching me to pray, Mom? How to clear my mind and open myself? You used to tell me God cannot answer all prayers, but He hears them. So praying brought me peace, Mom, because I knew God heard me. But I don’t think God hears me anymore. Everything’s dark when I pray.”

  “That’s terrible, sweetie,” she might say.

  “It’s worse than that,” I’d continue. “I could kill her. But my priest said God does not hear prayers of sinners unless they repent and ask forgiveness. I do not know what sin I committed so God will not hear me, so how can I ask forgiveness? And I would never be sorry for killing her. But I think I have found a way.”

  Talked to another priest on other side of city. Lied and said infant son had heart defect. No hope. I asked: Can he hear me and understand when gone? Priest said while alive, infant cannot understand, but can as spirit.

  Had found way for God to hear me. Tell baby my prayers—my wife needs God’s strength to remain faithful. And my mother needs strength in the face of the illness that will take her life. And my father needs God’s grace while his mind slips away.

  “And then if I kill the baby,” I might tell Mom, “she goes to heaven as my messenger.”

  “Sweetie?” Mom asks, waiting for answer.

  “Just tired, Mom.” Thing in my head wriggles, borrowing deep. Hold back a gasp of slashing pain.

  “That lasts another ten years, dear.” Trying to be funny.

  Look back toward bedroom door. How would it feel to put hand over her mouth and pinch her nose? Imagine her struggling—surprisingly strong—arching her back and awkwardly kicking and punching, pivoting her head, desperate for breath? Would I have the strength and resolve to hold my hand in place until she stops fighting?

  For that, I do. If I have sinned so that God does not hear me, I am lost. What is one more sin? Or two?

  Approach the door. Soft, gentle sounds of sleep. “Gotta go, Mom.”

  “You take ca
re now.”

  “I will.”

  “Kiss”—the baby—“for me and tell”—my wife—“I said ‘hello.’”

  Open door. See her sleeping. The serpent in my mind stills, waiting. “Okay.”

  Open myself again, searching.

  Pray: Show me a sign I am heard. . . .

  —cold, boundless nothing. not indifference. indifference would mean something was there. here is the void—

  Wind carries sirens through open patio door. Living room is cold, clean-smelling. Phone on floor by bedroom doors, both of them open.

  Tires squeal to stop outside.

  Mind is free. Twisting, wriggling thing is gone.

  Pick up phone. Feels light, like it should. Strength in my hands and arms. I can move. I could run if I wanted. Rapid beeping from earpiece like forgot to hang it up. Voicemail light blinking. Dial in code. Mom’s voice: “What was that?! What just happened?! Is everyone okay? It sounded like . . . sweetie, I’m . . . I’m calling 911.” Message ends.

  Pounding on front door. “Police. Can you open the door, please?”

  Drop phone and step through patio door. Cool breeze on skin. Inhale. Look down at street. Crowd has gathered around something.

  Pray: Forgive me. . . .

  Touch the Sky, They Say

  Four steps up onto the observation platform and the sky is barely a foot above my head. Featureless, grey—a morning headache after a bad night’s sleep. Same as it looks from the street, forty-one floors down.

  Up here, the wind is July-hot and attic-dry, switching directions, rippling our clothes. The group is a mix. A couple of business types on lunch. There’s a middle-aged guy in black jeans and a sleeveless Harley Davidson shirt. A teenager with spiked hair despite his school blazer and tie.

  The last one up is a girl in her twenties with peroxide-blonde hair and a Ramones T-shirt. She doesn’t hesitate—fingertips stroke the sky. I see my own uncertainty mirrored in her expression. Once in a while, the stories go, someone collapses to the planks of the platform, sobbing.

  Not her.

  She lowers her hand and descends the wooden steps to the elevator, heavy boots clopping all the way. A pudgy man with crescents of sweat in the armpits of his suit presses his palm against the sky for an instant, then follows the blonde.

  There’s six of us left, trying not to make it too obvious we’re all waiting to see who will go next. The Harley shirt turns and leans against the wooden railing. We’re at the highest point in the city; you can see for kilometres. See straight across to where the sky cuts through the CN Tower and the truncated columns we used to call skyscrapers. Maybe he’s just here for the view. I join him at the railing and look south. The lake’s calm today, reflecting the sky’s perpetual flat, grey light. I jam my hands in my pockets, fingering the folded-up rejection letters.

  Far below, a car horn sounds, echoes, fades. The familiar quiet resumes. Since the sky fell, we’re all so polite. A quick toot of the horn used for caution, not a weapon, not a complaint. Years ago, waiting for one tutor or another in a music room lit pure-gold by the afternoon sun, I used to focus on the constant blare of rush hour, picking out horns not tuned to F major.

  The kid with the spiky hair appears next to me, hands on the railing. He leans far over and, for a second, I think he’s going to jump. But he rocks back, curls his hands into fists and drums them on the railing. A complex beat in 3/4 time.

  The man in the Harley shirt straightens up and shoots a fist against the sky. His knuckles crack and he grimaces. The stillness broken, two others reach up. A moment later they’re down the stairs.

  The kid watches them go, then moves to the other side of the platform.

  Wiping sweat from my forehead, I check the clock above the elevator doors. I’ve been here for eleven of the fifteen minutes my ticket allows.

  The career woman in her expensive pantsuit and hairdo raises her hand, eyes shut. On contact, she shudders and lets out a small sob. But that’s it and she’s gone, high heels clicking down the steps.

  Just me and the kid, now. I wonder what his story is. Maybe he wonders about mine. We probably both wonder if it’s true what they say. That when you touch the sky you accept it’s all real. That no one is climbing Everest or Logan again. That Calgary, Mexico City, and Madrid are just gone. That whoever was in a plane or penthouse when the sky fell is never coming down. That no more planes are ever going up. No more sunsets or starry nights or full moons. No more night or day. No more summer-fall-winter-spring.

  Touch the sky, they say—the people who have—and you can let it all go. Let go of twenty years of daily piano and violin and clarinet practice. Let go of that desperate dream of making a living in the arts. Let go of any hope of attending one of the last remaining Fine Arts schools. Any hope of one day having your own orchestra.

  Just touch it. Accept it. Accept there’s no longer a place for passion or grief or heartache or joy. The world is what it is. There’s no need any more for creation. The sky fell and we survived the year of panic and wasted effort and now we know better. We know there’s nothing we can do or control and we know that nothing means a goddamn thing anymore.

  I reach in my pockets for the letters, hold them out before me and open my fingers. The hot wind catches the pages, spreading them across the wooden deck, to the edge, over it.

  The teenager watches them go and then yanks loose his tie. “Fuck this,” he tells no one. He balls up the tie and pitches it over the railing. Without once looking skyward, he stomps down the steps.

  The staffer who escorted us up appears at the steps, her uniform as grey as the sky. “Time is up,” she announces flatly and motions for me to come down. I obey. She takes a place by the elevator doors, hands clasped before her, impassive. The others wait—calm, docile.

  I begin to whistle low, a composition of my own in E flat. The kid nods along, tapping his legs with his palms. He follows the rhythm through its asymmetric 5/4 metre, his beats growing increasingly complex. I have a moment to admire his talent before I catch the glare of the man in the Harley shirt, the irritated shuffle of the business types, the frown of the peroxide blonde.

  My instinct is to stop out of politeness. I look away and force myself to keep whistling.

  The elevator pings, ready to take us back down to the street.

  Publication History

  Δπ (“Delta Pi”) first appeared in Torn Realities, Post Mortem Press, 2012

  “Ascension” first appeared in AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, 2011

  “The Machinery of Government” first appeared in Tesseracts Fourteen, Edge Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing, 2010

  “Full Moon Hill” first appeared in On Spec, 2007

  “Silverman’s Game” was published by Damnation Books, 2010

  “They Told Me to Shuffle Off This Mortal, Infinite Loop” first appeared in Title Goes Here #12, 2012

  “That Which Does Not Kill You” first appeared in Fear the Abyss, Post Mortem Press, 2012

  “In the Shadow of Scythe” first appeared in Leading Edge Magazine #62, 2012

  “Balance” first appeared in Postscripts to Darkness. Vol. 5, 2014

  “But It’s Not the End” first appeared in Undead Tales 2, Rymfire Books, 2012

  “Only at the End Do You See What Follows” is original to this collection

  “The Wall of Gloves” first appeared on The Drabblecast #162, 2010

  “Of the Endangered” first appeared in Leading Edge Magazine #65, 2014

  “Brief Candles” is original to this collection

  “The Pack” first appeared in AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, 2012

  “The Thing That Killed Her” is original to this collection

  “The Leaving” first appeared in Blood Rites: An Invitation to Horror, Blood Bound Books, 2013

  “You’re a Winner!” first appeared in Night Terrors III, Blood Bound Books, 2014

  “The Weak Son” first appeared in Tesseracts Thirteen, Edg
e Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing, 2009

  “While Gabriel Slept” first appeared in Night Terrors, Blood Bound Books, 2010

  “Touch the Sky, They Say” first appeared in AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review, 2010

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks must first go to my wife, Kate. Sharing your spouse with his make-believe friends, fiends, and foes requires an extraordinary level of patience, understanding, and love. If you’re reading this, my love, thank you. But it’s not going to stop anytime soon.

  My undying gratitude and love to Sandra Kasturi and Brett Savory at ChiZine Publications (CZP). When they first started CZP, they took a chance on handing me—a new writer whom Brett had met at Ad Astra (a Toronto SF convention)—the responsibility of marketing their new publishing house. Through them, I not only learned about writing, but the business of publishing. I’ve had the chance to work on so many amazing projects, meet extraordinary people, and gain insights into this business that have been invaluable in navigating some complex waters. While other demands have taken me away from my role as CZP staff, it’s a thrill to be joining their ranks as an author. I’m eternally grateful to count Brett and Sandra as such dear friends.

  Of course, hats off to everyone at CZP, including the incredibly talented Erik Mohr, whose cover adorns this book. Honestly, when Sandra told me they wanted to publish my collection, my first thought was: “I get an Erik Mohr cover!”

  As to the stories in this collection, thanks must go to my writing group, the East Block Irregulars: Derek Künsken, Peter Atwood, Marie Bilodeau, Hayden Trenholm, Liz Westbrook-Trenholm, Geoff Gander, Kate Heartfield (who has also joined the CZP family with Armed in Her Fashion), and Agnes Sobiesiak. All of these talented authors have made these stories better through careful analysis, helpful suggestions and unflinching criticism.

  Speaking of authors, there is not enough room to thank every author who has influenced and inspired my writing as an art, but I would like to thank those who have influenced my identity as a writer. These are friends I have made over my ten-year journey from newly published author up to this book’s publication. I’ve learned how to do readings, conduct panels, interact with fans, juggle projects, and handle praise, pressure, and rejection. Even though many of them had established careers when we first met, none of them ever treated me as below their notice since I was a new author. I’d like to thank, in no particular order, the following for sharing friendship, wisdom, advice, taxi rides, reading slots, panels, bar bills, and random stories late into the night: Bob Boyczuk, Brent Hayward, Gemma Files, Claude Lalumière, Helen Marshall, Robert J. Sawyer, Sèphera Girón, Michael Kelly, Suzanne Church, Madeline Ashby, Liz Strange, Craig Davidson (and his punk-ass doppelgänger Nick Cutter), Samantha Beiko, Tony Burgess, Peter Halasz, Ian Rogers, Charles de Lint, Michael Rowe, Ellen Datlow, Matthew Johnson, Lydia Peever, and Douglas Smith.