“My family.”
“They’re… family?”
“Yes. They are.”
“If I come with you… will I be with you?”
“No, Clyde. It won’t be like that.”
“We’ll be family, though?”
“Eventually.”
“But you’re already my Godmother. You can send me to Heaven or Hell. Remember? Remember you killed your teenage boyfriend to save me when I was just a baby?”
“No. That didn’t happen.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re the mother of my child, though. We’re already family. We’re family already. You can’t deny that.”
“It takes more than that, Clyde. I don’t know how to explain it to you. I know you couldn’t possibly understand, given…. But, that’s just not enough.”
“You’re my Godmother. Will you grab me by the toe?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head, bemused.
“But you still want me to come with you?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think I’m a… monster?”
“I think you can be a monster. I think this place has done terrible things to you.”
“This… place…”
“Besides, they have dogs at the main camp, somewhere out there,” she says, motioning in no direction in particular. “If you freak out, we’ll sic them on ya.” She snickers, reaches into the car and tries to give me a playful flick but I flinch from her and she misses. The playfulness drains from her face, replaced by hurt, and I feel bad about that for a few seconds.
“If I’m not a monster… if I’m not a king… what am I?”
“You’re Clyde. Just Clyde.”
“I’m trash. I belong in the junkyard.”
“Come on. Come on out of there. We probably have some meds somewhere that can fix that brain of yours.”
“I’m staying.”
“Come on. You’re coming with us.”
“No, the captain goes down with his ship.”
“Clyde, I won’t take no for an answer,” she tells me, leaning against the car, shaking her head. She smiles. It’s a warm smile. It’s a true smile.
“You don’t want me with you.”
“We do. Ever since the first day we found you—Sam, Terrance, and me. You know all we’ve ever done is try to help you. Though I admit we all went a little crazy ourselves over these past few years.”
“No. You really don’t want me with you. So go. Get out of here.”
“We’re not going anywhere without you, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“I know. You’re a big strong man now. Even still, you’re coming with us.”
“I killed Grace.”
“What?”
“It was me.”
“No. Clyde, please don’t start this aga—”
“She was wearing a blue dress with sunflowers on it. She was holding a dandelion.”
“Clyde…”
“She was still holding the flower when I ate her face off. When I dug my teeth into the marrow of her bones.”
“Clyde.”
“It was a monster that got your girl. Just like you thought. It was me.”
“This isn’t funny. This is just sick.”
“We’re all monsters. No one deserves to live.”
“That’s not true.”
“I killed Grace.”
“Just…. Just stop it.”
“I killed Grace!” I shout, rattling the dead hotrod. Joyce flinches away from the window.
“I killed Grace!” I scream and Joyce just stares. Spit drips from my fangs.
“I KILLED GRACE I KILLED GRACE I KILLED GRACE I KILLED GRACE I KILLED GRACE I KILLED GRACE I KILLED GRACE!” I keep screaming, shrieking like a monster, the rusty car vibrating with my boiling fervor.
Unimpressed, Joyce sighs and walks away.
Once Joyce had walked the hundred yards or so out of The Used Car Lot and was at the trash mountains again, I quickly slipped through the car window and followed her.
Now I’m hiding in the trash, watching them. Joyce was telling the truth. They’re really leaving. They’re leaving this very moment. The large muscular women and men of their group gather up satchels, boxes, medical equipment, and their tents. They’re taking everything out through that hole in the wall Sam made bigger.
Kenneth walks into The Kingdom (or what used to be The Kingdom), spots Joyce and hurries toward her. He puts a hand on her shoulder and nods then pulls her in close and embraces her. For a second I think Joyce might be crying, but she’s not crying. I’m the only baby around here. Well, except for the baby. Where’s the baby? Where’s Gracey, the child I couldn’t name?
I scan the group, coming and going, gathering and packing, and spot the child in the arms of a man sitting just outside my old shack. He’s rocking Gracey, holding a bottle to his mouth. Gracey is going to have lots of Papas. And lots of Mommas. God help him.
Then a deep rumbling roar rattles the ground and shakes the trash mountain I’m standing on. I fear an avalanche, but the trash beneath me calms and halts its shivers. The source of the roar is not a dog or a monster or an angry god. No, it’s a big old truck that just rolled up alongside the wall. It doesn’t look anything like the hotrods in The Used Car Lot. It’s all thick steel bars with a big old battery-looking thing stuck in its front grill. It’s dragging a flatbed behind it where the Out-of-Towners load their gear then hop aboard.
The sun sets behind The Swill Alps and the light grows soft, dreamy. A gentle breeze tickles the trash mountains and they twinkle with laughter.
I put my hands together and pray that the sun comes up another day, but for entirely different reasons this time.
When Joyce and her people left a few days ago, she did turn just before walking through the breech. She turned and scanned the trash mountains, but couldn’t see me. As trash, myself, I blend in with the landscape. I was thrown out many years ago. I’ve just been playing pretend my whole life. Like I’ve said, I’ve got quite the imagination.
But Joyce did turn, one last time. She even parted her lips, ready to call out to me, I imagined. But nothing slipped off her tongue. She just went through the wall and out into The Great Beyond. The truck rumbled and jostled away from The Kingdom. I watched it grow hazy on the horizon in the dying light. I watched it fall into God’s Open Mouth.
I’ve spent the last few days not eating or drinking any boiled water. I’m trying to speed up the process. I’ve been expecting Dylan or Momma or Papa to join me at some point, but they’ve kept their distance. Sometimes I think I see something scurrying over a distant garbage heap, but it’s probably just the trash calling out to me.
It’s been five days and I haven’t eaten a single Protein Bean or leg of rat. I couldn’t help but take a sip from the well, I admit. The dryness in my whole body was crying out for water, and before I knew it, I was sipping water straight from the well. Perhaps that’ll do the trick. Perhaps the acid water will tear apart my insides and transform my whole body into a messy puddle of melted flesh for the earth to soak up.
Then another five days passed. And another. My ribs press against the skin, and my cheekbones are more visible than ever. I’m not even hungry anymore. The idea of eating already sounds foreign, and something too rich for me, anyway.
Last night, under a giant orange harvest moon hovering over the horizon, I prayed. I prayed to Mother Moon, that cold rock. I asked it to take me. I asked it to gobble me up, though I’m not very appetizing. I told Mother Moon to destroy King Clyde The Destroyer, because God could not be bothered to fling me into the sun.
Mother Moon heard my cries with cold indifference.
That’s when I knew what I had to do.
41
It’s getting hot. It’s getting hotter the higher I go. And that’s a good sign.
I’m doing what I was meant to do. I’m fulfilling my fate. I’m shoveling garbage. Just shoveling garbage.
I’m piling garbage on top of garbage, building Judgement Mountain. The last thing I’ll dare to name. I’ve been doing this for three weeks now, and the sun’s getting closer. I’ve piled garbage on top of garbage and now I’m standing atop the highest peak in all of the land. My view is panoramic. My view of trash is complete. Along the edges, out there in The Great Beyond, lightning strikes and blisters God’s Open Mouth.
I’ve made quick progress because I’ve had help. See, down there, at the foot of Judgement Mountain? Do you see him? He’s just a speck, and that speck grows smaller. But you see him. It’s Dylan, doing his duty. He’s bringing wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow and shopping cart after shopping cart of trash to the foot of Judgment Mountain and dumping it there. All day long I scale this mountain, up and down, up and down, carrying shovelful after shovelful to the top, just so I can make Judgment Mountain the largest, tallest, biggest and meanest old mountain that has ever been.
When Dylan arrived with the first wheelbarrow of garbage for me, he didn’t say a thing, and I didn’t say anything to him. There’s no reason. There’s no words left to give meaning to.
It’s hot up here, atop the world, getting ever closer to that big ball of flame. I sleep up here at night and in the morning have to wait quite a while for the sun to rise to my heights.
Now, look! Here comes Momma. In the distance, winding her way through the paths between the smaller trash mountains of what used to be The Kingdom. And next to her, yes, that’s Papa! They’re pushing shopping carts of trash toward me. They’re bringing me more of what I need and they wave up at me. And I’m grateful.
This is hard work.
Every once in a while, those fucking birds circle overhead, mocking me. They know I threw my trusty slingshot into this here garbage heap, Judgement Mountain. I threw it in right after I tossed in that photo album, my penny collection, and Momma’s lock of hair. Those fucking birds know I won’t be eating any more of their little brothers and sisters. They know this and they swoop down on me, from time to time, and squawk like crazy, flapping about me, pecking at me, and knocking me from the peak. I’ve fallen down the mountain several times and each time I fear I’ll snap my neck and be unable to fulfill my destiny. But each time I suffer only bruises and abrasions. My body’s blossoming all over with sores, just like I knew it always would. It’s something I can live with. So, whenever those birds send me tumbling, I just get back up the mountain so I can pile more garbage on top of garbage.
The hours pass like minutes and soon it’s night again and the cold of Mother Moon watches over me. I work under her watch as long as I can, but often drop off into sleep, unintentionally. I have only so much energy, but my strength comes from my resolve to do something God won’t do for me. To do something God hesitates to do, herself.
Thankfully, her resolve to cease God’s Breath remains true. Each day I build this mountain, a mountain of anxiety grows within me as I fear God’s Breath will blow over The Kingdom and knock Judgement Mountain down, erasing all progress. Even still, if God’s Breath knocks my mountain down, I will not be deterred. I’d just start all over again. Again and again. However many times and however long it takes.
This morning I was surprised to see Terrance, that rat-faced fucker. Even he’s here to help me. Look at him down there, that twerpy little shit. He’s moving faster than the others, though, happy to help, dropping wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow at the foot of Judgement Mountain. Back and forth, back and forth they all go—Dylan, Momma, Papa, and Terrance.
And who’s that there? There’s someone else down there. The tiniest speck of them all. A tiny blue speck with a head on fire. It’s Grace! Oh, Grace. Grace has returned. She’ll help as much as she can before finally being allowed to leave my Kingdom, find her Momma, and slip quietly into her soul.
For now, they’ll all bring me a world of trash and I’ll keep piling it atop Judgment Mountain. I’ll keep building this steeple. No matter how many times the birds peck at my eyes and even try to bite my pecker off—no matter how many times they knock me from my mountain, I’ll just get right back up it and keep at it. I may even halt my hunger strike, brain one of those fucking birds, and feast on its beak. Anything to make sure I can complete my task. Anything to keep up my energy until that final shovelful. And though I may be immortal after all, I’ll take care of that someday. Someday. In the meantime, I’m gonna keep piling garbage on top of garbage until I’ve finally made Judgment Mountain whole. A mountain entirely of trash, with me a part of it. A mountain so big—a mountain so remarkably massive, its peak touches the sun. A mountain so king-sized I can toss myself straight into Hell, even if God won’t, herself.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Logan Ryan Smith is author of four other books of fiction: ENJOY ME, WESTERN PALACES, MY EYES ARE BLACK HOLES, and Y IS FOR FIDELITY. He’s also written a few poetry books before turning to fiction full time. They are HUMANS & HORSES, BUG HOUSE, and THE SINGERS & THE NOTES. His favorite author is J.D. Salinger. His favorite color is hot pink. His favorite band is Nine Inch Nails. And his favorite food is cake. Or donuts. He’s had work published in Hobart Journal, New American Writing, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review, Bay Poetics, and Great Lakes Review, which nominated his story, “Bret Easton Ellis,” for a Pushcart Prize. He’s lived in San Francisco, Chicago, and Boulder, and now lives in Sacramento. But he can always be found on Twitter and various other places.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank Melanie Walker for her careful reading, insights, and edits of this book in manuscript form. I’d also like to thank my longtime, underpaid, and relentless publicist, Alison Hamm. On top of that, thanks to everyone who has left ratings and/or a few words about my books on Amazon, Goodreads, blogs, and elsewhere online and in print. Word-of-mouth and luck is the only way anyone finds my books. Anyway, thanks.
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