The Only Ones

by Aaron Starmer

  “Some of them, I think,” Martin said. “A bit old, of course.”

  “Well done anyways, Maple.” Darla smiled. “And what’s behind your back?”

  It was something Lane had told him to do: hide the flowers behind your back, then pull them out as a surprise. Surefire way to melt a silly girl’s heart. He wasn’t so sure about that now, though. He had managed to find only three wilted daisies, tucked away as keepsakes in a book. When he showed the sad little things to Darla, he saw her face drop; then what he thought was a frown took hold of her lips.

  “That’s so sweet,” Darla said softly. She hugged Martin. He hesitated, but it was impossible not to give in. Her body was much softer than he had imagined. He put his arms around her.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Our chariot awaits,” Darla whispered into his ear.

  Kid Godzilla pulled up to Darla’s house on cue, and Martin and Darla climbed aboard. Martin was happy to see Felix at the wheel. Felix wore a black hat, which he tipped, revealing his trademark headband underneath. “Mr. Maple,” he said with almost no enthusiasm. “Ms. Barnes.”

  “Greetings, Felix,” Darla said. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “Felix can drive?” Martin asked suspiciously.

  “Don’t worry,” Darla said, patting Martin on the shoulder. “Straight shot. Not far to go.”

  She wasn’t kidding either. They drove approximately one hundred yards and stopped in front of the town’s bowling alley.

  Every light in the place was on. A catchy melody played over the loudspeaker. It was one that Darla knew well, and she lip-synched and did a little dance as they walked over to a counter where two pairs of shoes were laid out and waiting for them.

  “Size eight, if I’m not mistaken,” Darla said, handing Martin the larger pair.

  Sigrid, wearing a turquoise-and-white waitress’s dress, wobbled over to them on a pair of roller skates. “May I take your order for beverages?” she asked.

  “How ’bout a beer?” Darla asked. “Might loosen you up.”

  “No thank you,” Martin replied. “I think I’m already plenty loose.”

  “Come on, Maple,” Darla teased. “It’s the apocalypse, no one’s checking IDs.”

  “I prefer ginger ale,” Martin said. If it got the machine working, he was willing to play along with Darla on most things, but he was also determined to keep his wits about him.

  Darla shrugged. “You sure know how to class an evening up, don’t you?” she said. Then she pointed at Sigrid. “You heard the man. Dos ginger ales. And make them extra gingery.”

  The table next to their lane was set with candles, lace, china, and crystal. Darla helped Martin off with his sports jacket and she placed it on the back of his chair.

  “Beef isn’t easy to come by,” she explained. “Coyotes took most of the cows two years ago. So I hope you’re okay with venison burgers. Dale and Hannah will be the chefs tonight. While they’re not as good as me, they aren’t half bad.”

  “Do you have everyone in town helping out?” Martin asked.

  “Most,” she said. “Not Henry. He’s on his evening guard duty, patrolling for chipmunks and all that. But most everyone else is helping out. A good date takes a village, you know?”

  “Is that a saying?”

  “Could be,” Darla said with a smirk. Then she walked over to the rack of bowling balls. She lifted a neon-green one, cupped it in her hands, and centered herself in front of the lane. She took three steps, swung her arm and twirled her wrist, and let the ball loose. It slid along the wood, gently hugging the gutter. Then it changed direction, spinning back toward the center. Darla didn’t even bother to watch. She turned back to Martin, held her fist in the air, then gave it a celebratory pump. The ball struck the ten pins, and a satisfying racket erupted and echoed through the alley.

  All ten pins lay defeated. From the dark space behind the lane, three sets of hands popped out and began setting the pins back up.

  “Two hundred twelve to forty-two,” Darla announced as she tallied the final scores.

  “So much for beginner’s luck,” Martin said. Admittedly, as frustrated as he was by his first attempt at bowling, he was beginning to enjoy it a little. It didn’t hurt that Darla was actually entertaining. Hooting and dancing while she plowed down the pins, she was the perfect ambassador for the activity.

  Sigrid arrived shakily on skates, fumbling a tray of burgers, fries, and pickles onto their table.

  “Careful there, Pippi Longstocking,” Darla teased.

  “I do not really know how to roller-skate,” Sigrid explained.

  “Sure you do,” Darla said, laughing. “You’re Swedish or whatever. Probably ice-skate to school. Same idea.”

  Sigrid shook her head but didn’t say anything. She wobbled away while Martin and Darla took their seats and dug in. While never wanting for food, the kids of Xibalba were rarely treated to such a bounty, and the temptation to overindulge was hard to avoid.

  Three whole pickles, two burgers, and a mound of fries later, Martin waved the white flag. He placed his hands down on the table. Gorging had made him slightly dizzy, so he closed his eyes as he methodically chewed his last mouthful. When that made things worse, he chose to focus on something—the cloudy and effervescent soda in Darla’s wineglass.

  Darla lifted the glass and hid the bottom half of her face behind it and her hand. Peering over the edge, she gave her eyelashes a flutter.

  “Tell me about your island,” she said.

  “Hmmm …” He didn’t know where to start.

  “Actually, scratch that. I don’t care about your island. Tell me about your dad.”

  Martin finally swallowed and then he licked the burger juice from his hand. “He was my father. What do you want to know?”

  “Was he a good person?”

  The question was harder to answer than Martin might have anticipated. “He was good to me,” he said after some consideration.

  “What did he like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Golf? Cooking? That sort of thing.”

  “I’m not sure if he liked anything, really,” Martin said. He paused, surprised he would say such a thing.

  Darla jumped in. “My dad liked bowling. He took me on most weekends. He got me my own ball.”

  “Must be why you’re so good.”

  “He got me braces too.” Darla lowered her glass, bit down on her bottom lip, and displayed her front teeth, which shimmered in the candlelight. “But I’ve forgiven him for that. Everyone else cut their braces off years ago. I kept mine.”

  “They suit you,” Martin said, and he wasn’t lying exactly. Darla and sparkly things did tend to go together.

  “They do, don’t they?” Darla laughed. “I loathed them at first. And Daddy bought me Dr. Fuzzbucket because he felt so bad about torturing me with them.”

  “That’s your dog?”

  “You remembered,” Darla gushed. “Most people don’t. Fuzzy B died almost as soon as I got here. Nigel took him from me. He said that all the animals had to live together or some silliness. A few days later, that stupid Komodo dragon took a bite outta my pooch. Poor guy died with poison racing through his blood.”

  “I’m sorry, Darla,” Martin said. Having never owned a pet, he didn’t know what it was like to lose one. But he could imagine.

  “This is a weird place,” she said with a hint of sadness. “I don’t know if a guy like you can realize how weird it is here. You do what you have to do to get by.”

  In his head, Martin ran through all the strange and unpleasant things Darla had done since he’d arrived in Xibalba. He wasn’t sure he could understand her, but he couldn’t deny that there were things about Darla he liked. He liked her energy. He liked her ambition. And he liked this date. It was a pleasant and relaxing respite from everything that had complicated his life thus far. He would see it through to the end.

  They sat in the middle of a movie theater. A tub of popc
orn was resting in Darla’s lap. She tilted it toward Martin. He felt bloated, but the dizziness was gone, and he was willing to find room in his belly for more. Dinner had been the most spectacular meal of his life, and he wanted to keep the glory coming. Half a handful to start. As his teeth crunched into the popcorn, the butter and salt attacked his boggy mouth. He needed more.

  “Are you in love with Lane?” Darla asked him matter-of-factly.

  Martin’s hand returned to the tub. “I don’t think so. I mean … I don’t know what love is.”

  “Come on, Maple. You have an idea.”

  Martin thought it over for a moment. Sure, almost every book he knew talked about love and what it meant to different people. And yes, there were times when he looked at Lane and felt his lungs clench into fists, but he wasn’t sure that love was a physical thing like that.

  “My father told me once that love is something you plant,” he finally said. “Like a … tree, or something, I guess.”

  “Sounds kinda … perverse,” Darla said, taking some popcorn.

  “Not really,” Martin went on. He tried to channel his father’s exact words. “He said … he said that someone can give you something that seems so insignificant at first. Then you plant it, and it takes in the water, and it takes in the light, and soon it’s so big and so important that you can’t imagine life without it. And it doesn’t go anywhere. It stays there for you.”

  “Well, then that sounds like something in a picture book.” Darla laughed.

  Her flippant attitude annoyed him, but she had a point. After saying it out loud, he did realize it sounded a bit childish. “What’s your definition of love?” he asked.

  Darla smiled, then pointed up to the screen. “Movies.”

  The theater went dark, as if she had planned the timing. There was a flickering sound behind them. Martin turned and looked up. Two muddy silhouettes moved behind a thick pane of glass. A bloom of white light burst through and splashed color all over the screen.

  The movie was transcendent. For two hours, men and women talked fast and drove fast and jumped out of helicopters only to land on other helicopters. They shot machine guns and rolled around on beds and strapped skis to their feet and raced down mountains as grenades blew snow into geysers. They drank cocktails while swimming, threw their bodies through stained-glass windows, and flicked cigarette butts at crocodiles. There was Tunisia, with its sandstorms and camels. There was the Great Barrier Reef, with its bejeweled aquatic wonders. There was Florence, pulsing and crumbling and chattering. All at once, the world was laid out before Martin’s eyes and he understood what Darla meant.

  Near the end, when he turned to look at her, he noticed that she wasn’t watching the movie at all. She was watching him watch the movie. She lifted a finger up, reached forward, and placed it on the patch of hair just above Martin’s temple. Then she twirled it in a tight circle. It felt good, so Martin didn’t stop her.

  With two fingers from her other hand, she reached across and stroked his knuckles. Martin wasn’t completely clueless. The signal was obvious. He turned his hand over so that she could grab hold of it.

  But Darla didn’t grab hold. Instead, she dropped something into his palm.

  Martin looked down. Green. Glass. About the size of a grape. He closed his hand and held the marble tight.

  —— 22 ——

  The Dragon

  They watched through the closing credits, until the projector spit the film out and the screen was a bright blob of white. Taking his hand, Darla led Martin to the lobby. There was really no need to ask if he liked it. The answer was obvious, painted in the stunned elation of his face.

  “Right?” Darla said with a knowing nod.

  “Uh-huh,” Martin said breathlessly. Remembering to be a gentleman, he stepped forward and put his hand on the door. He pushed it open, letting a ripe winter breeze in and letting Darla duck under his arm to get out.

  Felix was supposed to be waiting. Kid Godzilla was supposed to be running, heat pumping. But they weren’t. Outside the movie theater, the town was empty except for the Christmas lights, strung like colorful musical scores above the streets.

  “Is that him?” Martin asked, pointing up the hill to Nigel’s house. On the snow-crusted lawn was a shadowy mass that could only be Kid Godzilla.

  Darla hustled closer to get a better look. “What the heck’s he doing up there? He wasn’t supposed to move! He knew when the movie ended!”

  Martin dropped the marble into the interior pocket of his jacket and followed her along the waffle tracks of Kid Godzilla. As they were nearing Nigel’s yard, the door to the house opened, and Felix stepped outside carrying a lantern. He set it down and yelled something back toward the door.

  From a distance, the only words Martin could make out were “Never again!”

  Felix spun around and marched toward Kid Godzilla. His lantern lit the entrance to the house, and Martin expected to see Nigel step outside or at least close the door. Instead, a small serpentine head inched into the light.

  Darla spotted it first. “Felix!” she yelled. “Run!”

  Looking back over his shoulder, Felix saw what she saw. Nigel’s Komodo dragon, squat and long but fierce and fast, bolted at him. It was unlikely that Felix could make it to the door and open it before the lizard had his leg in its jaws, and Felix seemed to sense this. He made a beeline for the front of the truck, latched a hand on the toothy front grill, and hoisted himself onto the hood.

  Undeterred, the dragon reared back on its hind legs and flopped its body against the grill. Felix moved fast, wiggling like a seal up the windshield until he was on the roof.

  Martin started forward to help him, but Darla grabbed his shoulder. “Poison saliva. Razor teeth. That thing will kill you.”

  The dragon wasn’t quite long enough to make it onto the hood, but it also wasn’t about to give up. Back on all fours, it scampered to the driver’s side of the truck, where it latched its front claws onto the door handle.

  Felix looked down from above. He was at a safe distance for now, but to get inside, he would need to think fast. He reached into his headband, grabbed a handful of his firefly lightbulbs, and threw them into the dragon’s face. The little pops of light and glass put it onto its back. As the lizard struggled to regain its footing, Felix wielded a tiny screwdriver and frantically pecked the driver’s-side window until the glass cracked. Then he hammered it with his fist until it shattered.

  “Oh, come on, Fee,” Darla cried. “I’m gonna need that window this winter!”

  The dragon was back in action just as Felix was pulling himself through the broken window into the front cab of the truck. It leapt, jaws snapping, barely missing Felix’s calves.

  As he got behind the wheel and started the engine, Felix screamed out, “Reverse?”

  “First there’s a lever—”

  Fire belched forth from the nostrils on Kid Godzilla’s hood. It licked the wooden posts at the entryway to the house and set them ablaze. The dragon waddled backward, clearly taken by surprise.

  “No, the other—”

  The wheels began to spin in place, spitting snow into the air. Then the truck itself began to spin, doing tight doughnuts. The flames were still pouring from the front, birthing rings of light and melting the snow.

  It was hard to say exactly what Felix was doing. Because all of a sudden, the truck stopped its spin and lurched forward. As the hood dipped, the flames blasted the dragon full force. It shrieked in pain. Then, as if shot from a cannon, the truck flew backward over the snow.

  It struck the giant ice cream cone, which toppled over and opened up. Into the snow, it coughed out its contents—a bounty of dead rabbits and raccoons, ears of corn and bags of sugar, even strange little offerings like glass statues and teddy bears.

  The truck plowed through it all as it cut a swerving backward path. When it reached the hill, it skipped down, like a bird landing on water, hit a telephone pole, spun, rolled onto its roof, and slid acros
s the snowy street. The spinning wheels filled the night air with a tinny whine.

  Charred and hacking, the dragon walked a few paces and then collapsed. The fire had quickly moved from the front entrance and was now tearing into Nigel’s house. Howls and hisses dove from the windows. But Martin and Darla were much more concerned with Felix. They sprinted to the crash site.

  Felix crawled through the shattered window. Blood found a path in the part of his hair and was soaked up by his headband. He plunged his face into the snow. When his face emerged, it possessed a look of cautious relief, but as he climbed to his feet, the relief shifted to dread.

  “Hey,” Darla said as she and Martin stopped a few yards away. “You’re okay, right?”

  He didn’t respond. He just ran away from them. Darla and Martin would have run too had they seen what Felix now saw.

  Nigel’s tiger had escaped from the burning house and was galloping after Felix.

  The tiger might have been small, but it was unquestionably dedicated. The tip of its tail was on fire and resembled a torn orange flag, flapping violently in the wind. It didn’t slow the tiger down at all, and had the situation not been so dire, it might have been beautiful. The beast. The flaming tail. The Christmas lights. The starry sky. The dunelike drifts of snow.

  But beauty was the last thing on Felix’s mind as he struggled to make it back to his house. Every few yards, his foot would sink in the snow and he would fall forward onto his chest. The tiger continued to gain ground. When Felix finally made it to his front door, he bulldozed inside, but the tiger was too quick and too close. It followed him through before Felix had a chance to slam the door.

  A few seconds later, the sound of gunshots pierced the heart of the night.

  —— 23 ——

  The Rifle

  In the largest room of Felix’s house, Martin and Darla were confronted with the following scene:

  Fire, slowly eating up the thousands of Internet strings as if they were dynamite wicks.

  Henry, hanging upside down in a snare, a handful of paper in one fist, his rifle in the other.