Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything

by Richard Langridge

  ‘Dan?’

  Abby was looking at me strangely.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I’m fine. Think I’m just gonna go get some fresh air.’

  I let myself out and quietly made my way up to the roof.

  It was a place I’d started coming a lot, recently. In the evenings, mostly, watching the sun sink into the horizon, how it would make the sky bleed, right before it dipped out of view. I’m not sure what it was about the roof that appealed to me. The quiet, sure—but if I’m honest it was really the solitude I sought. You don’t have to pretend like you’re not scared to death when there’s nobody around to witness you shitting your pants.

  I stared out at the horizon, the sun slowly making its way down into the Earth—

  ‘Not enjoying the party?’ said a voice suddenly from behind me, scaring me half to death.

  I recognised it at once.

  Mr G.

  He was standing propped against the wall by the exit, one foot resting on it like he wasn’t even trying to be cool. I saw he’d gone and gotten himself a new trench coat—this one a fancy dark number, instead of the simple beige I’d grown accustomed to. I had to admit, it looked good on him. But then, what clothing didn’t when you looked the equivalent of this generation’s James Dean.

  ‘How long have you been standing there?’ I said.

  ‘Long enough to know that something is bothering you, Kingslayer.’ He pushed himself off the wall and stepped towards me. ‘Speak. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  I thought it over a moment, before finally letting out a long sigh.

  ‘Back at Devil’s Spire,’ I said. ‘When Boot pushed my head through the Doorway. I saw... things.’

  Fierce frown from G-man. Like his eyebrows were waging war on his nose. ‘What did you see?’

  What did I see, you ask? How about cars on fire? Buildings turned to rubble. Literal mountains of human bones and skeletons. So high. So terribly, terribly high. And monsters, big ones and little ones, scurrying about and being monster-like, all whilst a choir of agonised screams played in the background.

  And above it all, tall as a skyscraper and blotting out the sun, “She” had loomed.

  And in that brief moment as our eyes had met, I’d heard a voice in my head—a voice like glass breaking, brakes grinding, children screaming.

  SOON.

  I shuddered at the memory. ‘I’m not sure, exactly. But... I think it was the future.’

  This seemed to concern Mr G very much.

  He frowned. ‘The Neverwas is still very much a place of mystery—even to those of us that are from there.’

  ‘That’s not very helpful.’

  ‘I know—I was just saying.’

  We watched the sunset a moment.

  I turned back to him. ‘So—you’re a Phony, huh?’

  He nodded. ‘Last time I checked.’

  ‘How’s that work, exactly? Shouldn’t you be off pillaging people’s bodies or whatever?’ Not that I was complaining or anything. I’m just saying, I was curious.

  He scoffed. ‘Whilst A’doy may indeed be a devious little cocksucker, he is right about some things. There are those of us who wish nothing more than to coexist with humans. For O’tsaris like myself, for instance, we are forbidden from taking a host without that host’s full consent—usually via written agreement.’

  ‘An agreement?’ I said. ‘You mean like a prenuptial?’

  ‘Don’t make this weird.’

  ‘Oh—sorry.’ I looked out at the horizon again, that endless procession of lights. ‘So what will you do now? What’s next for you?’

  He shrugged. ‘A lot of things came spilling out of that doorway. They’ll need someone out there looking for them. Guess I’m as good a guy for the job as any.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Well good luck with that.

  He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘Listen, I know you feel the hand you’ve been dealt is a harsh one—and it is. No denying it. And I don’t know whether you’re really the chosen one or not. But if you ever need me, I’ll be there.’

  For a moment I thought he was gonna give me a special phone or radio or something, like the one that goes directly to the president’s office—which would have been freaking cool, but he didn’t.

  ‘But how will I know how to find—?’ I began, but paused when, turning around, I saw the guy was nowhere to be seen.

  I scoffed.

  That is one mysterious motherfucker.

  Just then, the door to the roof went again.

  ‘All right,’ said Abby, marching across the roof towards me. ‘That’s it. You better tell me what’s up with you before I start punching dicks. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

  ‘No, Dan, you’re not. You’ve been acting weird since... well, since all that weird stuff happened.’ She thought about it. ‘That other weird stuff, I mean. Spill.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Just feeling a little nauseous from all that grinding going on downstairs. I mean, Christ, did you see Doug?’

  By the look of pure horror that flashed over her face, I could tell that she had.

  Now, I know it might seem like kind of a dick move on my part, lying to Abby like that. But it was for her own protection. Even if she was both smarter and braver than I was, unburdening all of my problems on her just wasn’t cool. You didn’t do that to the people you loved. Even if not doing so made you fucking miserable. They say love is sacrifice, and never had that been more true than in my current situation.

  But I had made my decision.

  She sighed. ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re okay—’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m drowning here, Abby. It’s like I can’t breathe. Like there’s a pillow over my face, one made of shit—

  A shit-pillow!

  —and every snatched gasp of air I manage is slowly poisoning me because of the sheer volume of shit-covered shitting shit in it.’

  I took a deep breath.

  Of course, on the other hand, nobody likes a martyr...

  She pointed a threatening finger at me. ‘Talk.’

  I did.

  When I was finished, a heavy silence descended upon us—which, if I’m honest, did nothing to lessen my sense of dread. Christ, I was fucking doomed.

  ‘Well?’ I said, after a moment. ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ Not to be an ass or anything, but if she’d come here to comfort me, she was doing a pretty piss-poor job. She was being kind of a dick, frankly.

  She thought it over. ‘Look, I’m not going to say that what you saw was... wrong... that it wasn’t the “future”. I have no idea what waits in store for us.’ She took my face in her hands, turned me to face her. ‘But whatever it is—we’ll face it together. Do you hear me? You’re not alone, Dan. Even if it sometimes feels like you are.’

  And suddenly, just like that, I did feel better.

  Because Abby was right. So maybe we couldn’t see the future. So what? We’d stopped invasion attempts before. We could do it again—which was aiming pretty fucking high, true, but at least it was better than the doom-themed spiral of futility I’d been stuck in these past few weeks.

  I began to tell Abby this—

  I looked down.

  ‘What are you doing...?!’ I said.

  She was on her knees—one knee, to be exact. In her hand was a box, its lid open.

  I gasped.

  ‘OH NO YOU DIDN’T. YOU DID NOT JUST STEAL MY THUNDER LIKE THAT.’

  She smirked. ‘Shouldn’t have taken so long then, should you?’

  Some stuff happened after that. Things were said. Declarations of some variety or another were made. There might have been tears—but then again, maybe there weren’t. Guess we’ll just have to leave that part to your imagination.

  We stood there holding each other, snow falling lightly down around us, watching as the sun finally started to dip itself behind the horizon.

  No, we couldn’t know what kinds of awful thi
ngs might be waiting for us further on down the line.

  But one thing was for sure, whatever it was, we would face it together.

  ‘Dan?’ said Abby, tilting her head to look up at me, eyes bright and staring in the dimming light.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Langridge is a novelist, musician, and notorious cheese lover. He currently lives in the United Kingdom with his fiancée Victoria, and their son Harry. He once rescued a litter of puppies from a burning building and is prone to telling outrageous lies. He also likes to refer to himself in third person. He does not know why.

  When not writing about nonsense, you can usually find him over at his blog, richardlangridgeauthor.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A book is like a baby.

  They’re both tiny—that’s the first thing. You can put them in a bag, tuck them under your armpit or maybe in a pocket, providing you’re wearing balloon pants, and you’re a crazy person. Getting them from one place to another is always a breeze. Logistically speaking, they’re pretty much even.

  They have similar gestation periods—that’s the other thing. Getting them out into the world is always a bloody and traumatic experience, regardless of what the other mothers might have told you beforehand, or how many drugs you’re on.

  And, just as with labour, getting this book out into the world simply would not have been possible without the help and support from several lovely people gently coaxing it out of my metaphorical vagina—all of whom I’d like to thank now.

  Firstly, to Charli Vince, for once again knocking it out of the park with this cover. I mean, seriously, just look at it. Holy crap.

  If the “marketing folk” are correct, covers play a huge role in whether or not a person decides to pick up a book. In a lot of ways, covers are the candy we authors use to lure all you unwitting fools into the back of our blacked-out panel vans—which I guess technically makes her kind of my accomplice. I dunno. Either way, you can find more of her work here.

  To my good friend and fellow author Sam Cox, for being my writing buddy on this adventure, and for pretending not to question our friendship all those times I overused nipple metaphors. You’re a terrible liar.

  To all my many, many beta readers, of whom there are simply too many to mention, and whose cookies I swear I will one day get to them. No, I swear. For really realsies this time. Promise.

  To my parents, for not acting too disappointed in my life choices, even though we all know better, and for never stopping me from watching all those ridiculous movies as a kid—which in hindsight probably makes you terrible parents. I mean, holy crap, Jaws? Really? I WAS FOUR, MUM.

  A wet, slippery thank you to the ’ol ball-and-chain; my beautiful little Jasmine flower, Victoria, for her love and support, and for continuing to put up with my crap even though let’s face it we both know you can do way better.

  And finally, to my special little guy, Harry, for filling my days with joy/misery, and for being literally the coolest person I’ve ever met, little or otherwise.

  You get it from me.