Obsidian Worlds

by Jason Werbeloff

  His knees shook at the thought. No, Harold wasn’t that sort of man.

  There was only one other place to go. Outside.

  He faced the revolving door. Giuseppe, the doorman, was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he left after they announced the asteroid. Like all the others. They’d all fled in one way or another. Harold’s neighbors – Cyril and his wife – had fucked off to Hawaii. Hawaii, Jamaica, Mauritius. “If not now, when? Eh, Harold?” Cyril had said, smug bastard standing in a vomitous floral shirt in Harold’s doorway. “We just thought we’d say goodbye before we leave.”

  Harold harrumphed at the memory. Shuffled toward the (un)revolving door. Peered into the street through the cloudy glass. Joe’s burrito stand lay on its side, basting in a massacre of decapitated hot dogs and ketchup.

  Harold was hit by two things when he pushed through the revolving door: the indubitable stench of death, and a falling body.

  He just had time to sniff the air – had time to notice the miasma of decay (it had just registered in his mind that the ketchup marinating the burrito stand was not ketchup) – when he felt a glancing blow to his shoulder. A fantastic SPLOTCH erupted behind him.

  He whirled on his heels to find the spot over which he’d just walked … bleeding. Bone and brain and some organ he couldn’t identify had splattered – everywhere. All over the sidewalk. All over his pajama pants. And his green slippers? They weren’t green any longer.

  “Dammit Hell,” he yelled at the body. He kicked it. Felt a protruding bone through the slipper. “Blood stains,” he muttered, repeating Fanny’s mantra whenever he cut himself shaving. “Nightmare to wash ‘em out.”

  He kicked the body one more time. “Selfish.” He shook his head at the mess on the pavement. At the throbbing pain in his right shoulder. He should’ve expected it, he supposed. After the exodus to the tropical islands had come the suicides. He’d heard about them on the radio, before that too went dead. “Three-deep,” the newsreader had said. “Sidewalks have bodies lying three-deep against the buildings. Jumpers.” The newsreader had coughed. Swallowed. “Best not to walk on the sidewalks.”

  Could’ve been worse, he reasoned. The body barely glanced him on its way down. A few inches different, and Harold might have lost his arm. Or worse.

  Don’t get distracted, Harold. Flowers. You’ve come downstairs for flowers.

  He remembered there was another florist two blocks from here. He used to pass it daily on his way to work. Back before he was retired. “Eighty-four,” they’d told him, “is too old to appear in court. We’re sorry. It’s unavoidable.” He hadn’t fallen asleep during summation. Really he hadn’t. But those executives in their flashy suits and greasy hair hadn’t seen things his way. That was two years ago.

  He farted at the memory.

  Harold reached the end of the block. Peered left, down Main Street. Looked right, up to the Old Bank. Nothing. Well, nothing but dead jumpers on the pavements. He learned to walk around the puddles.

  And … here was the florist. Closed. It was fucking closed. Door bolted shut. He rang the bell. Knocked on the glass.

  Nothing.

  He looked up to the heavens. “Geez Louise,” he yelled.

  He flinched as someone tapped his shoulder. His injured shoulder. “Mista … ’ed for thirty, Mista.”

  Harold turned to see two naked arms. White as sleet. Slivers of snowy skin. And attached was a boy. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. Pupils big as planets stared out from behind a curtain of dirty blonde hair.

  “What did you say?”

  “Head for thirty, Mista.” The boy glanced down at Harold’s crotch. He tried to hide a shiver, but it blossomed over his naked shoulders.

  Harold lifted his hand to his ear. “I don’t hear so well. Not since the grenade in ’71. Almost lost my left testi–”

  “Okay, okay. Ass for forty.”

  “Boy, what do you want? Where your parents?”

  “Please, Mista. I’ll do it for twenty. Ass for twenty. Even let you finish inside.”

  “Where your parents, boy?”

  Those huge eyes dropped to the floor.

  “Boy, I’m talking to you.”

  “Ain’t got no parents.” A fresh shudder racked the boy’s folded arms. Harold’s eyes weren’t as sharp as they’d been forty years ago, but even he could see the goosebumps snaking across his skin.

  “Come with me,” sighed Harold. “I’ve got a spare jacket.”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Do you a flip-flop for the jacket. Full monty?”

  Harold glared at the little twerp. He wasn’t sure whether it was a new pidgin the kids were speaking these days, or whether his hearing had deteriorated further since he’d last left the apartment. “Whatever,” muttered Harold. “Come back to my apartment. I’m cold just looking at you.”

  *

  “Mista, you don’t look so good.”

  “Fuck off. I … I’ll be –” Harold doubled over as the coughing fit assailed him. Jesus Hell. He despised his lungs. Felt like wet pillows in his chest. No air in his feathers. He hacked … hacked until the sputum left his lungs.

  “I’ll be fine,” he finished. But he didn’t swat away the boy’s shoulder under his arm this time, as they climbed the stairs.

  “Used … to run up … these stairs … in the afternoons.” He panted. “Had the lowest … resting … heart-rate in … in my unit.”

  “You were the shit,” said the boy, and pecked the old man on the cheek.

  Harold was too tired to glare at him. “Just give me a minute.” He clung to the railing. Wheezed until his pulse settled to something approaching normal.

  “This the floor?”

  December seared Harold’s trachea as he slurped the glacial air. Three doors down. Just had to make another twenty-three paces down the passage.

  He unlocked the first lock. Dropped the keys before he could get to the second.

  “There you go, Mista.”

  “Don’t need a boy picking up after me,” growled Harold. He seized the keys.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get your hemorrhoids in a knot.”

  Harold unlocked the second and third bolts.

  “Whewee! Ain’t this the shit!”

  “Sit at the table. I’ll go find the jacket.”

  “Man, you got more crap in this place than a sewerage plant.”

  Harold’s leaden hand gestured toward the dining table. “Sit,” he said, and shuffled to the spare room.

  “Woah!” cried the boy from the lounge. “You wadn’t lyin’, Mista. You was hot as fuck.”

  Harold ruffled through the cupboard. Too thin. Too nice. Too old. Too new. Ah, the Cubs jacket. Damned team hadn’t won a series in forever.

  “Mmmmhmmm,” said the boy, when Harold returned. “Can see your package in this pic. I love me a man in uniform.” Harold blushed at the attention his old war photos were receiving. Fanny had liked that picture too.

  He felt a sting behind his eyes at the thought of her.

  “Here.” He thrust the Cubs jacket at the boy. Sniffed.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Dem usually pay me only after the fun. You wanna go to the bedroom? Or you could do me on the table?”

  And then it all clicked into place. “You … you’re a … boy whore?” Harold started to laugh. Raised his eyes to the ceiling, and guffawed until his lungs collapsed under another coughing fit.

  The boy stood very still.

  “The jacket’s yours,” said Harold eventually. “You’re not my type.” Bloody hell, Fanny would’ve laughed at this.

  The boy scowled. “I ain’t want no charity. I grind for my gravy.”

  Harold dried the tears from his smile. “It’s no matter. Enjoy it.” He trundled to the door. The winter wind ruffled his bloodstained flannel pants. “Good luck, boy,” said Harold, as he shoved his guest into the corridor.

  Harold walked over to the picture of Fanny on the sideboard. Stroked her hair and carefree smile thr
ough the dead glass. “What a day,” he said. “Jesus Hell. You would’ve laughed.”

  And she had. She was laughing in that picture. It was his favorite. She’d almost never smiled for snaps. As if she were afraid of them. He’d taken that Polaroid when she wasn’t looking. She’d been playing with Jesse. He’d been a beautiful child. Blonde hair. Dark eyes. Made everyone laugh.

  Then he’d grown up.

  Harold replaced the frame on its spot. Massaged his shoulder where the falling body had glanced him on its way down. “Too much fun for this old man. Need a bath. Maybe a TV dinner, and off to bed,” he said to the image of Fanny.

  This was enough. He’d had his adventure. Seen what the outside had to offer. Now he could wait out the next nineteen days. Till the end.

  *

  It wasn’t like any grass Harold had seen. It writhed in the wind. Fresh tendrils erupted from the ground as he watched.

  “It’s your glasses,” said Jesse.

  The trees. They glowered at him, leaves shimmering like emeralds.

  “Check your glasses, dad.”

  And the ground. Hot. Seething under his slippers. They were green again – the bloodstains from the jumper were gone. Clean. The slippers were so clean.

  “Dad, your glasses are green.”

  Harold turned to look at his son. He appeared just a few years younger than before he’d left. “What is it boy?”

  Jesse reached over. Unhooked Harold’s glasses from his ears.

  Fire. He saw it now. The world was alight. Everything was a shade of devilish red. The grass simmered. The trees danced in flame. And his slippers.

  He screamed.

  “It’s coming,” whispered Jesse. Behind him, the sky faded to crimson. A ball of flame descended from the heavens. Jesse’s hair flashed into a halo of fire.

  “It’s coming.”

  Breath. He couldn’t catch his breath.

  Harold threw off the duvet, pulled himself upright, and hacked. Coughed up the guts of him. Until the phlegm came up. Until the crackling in his lungs subsided, and there was air. Precious air found its way inside him.

  He peeled the nightshirt from his back. Inhaled.

  Bzzzzzz

  Harold swallowed. Exhaled.

  Bzzzzzz

  “Com-” He coughed up the last of the phlegm. “Coming,” he rasped.

  Bzzz-Bzzzzzz

  “Jesus fuck! Wait a second.”

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  The handle was cold in Harold’s hand as he opened the door.

  It was Jesse.

  He blinked. Shook his sleepy brain. No, not Jesse. It was the boy he’d met earlier outside the florist. Given the boy his Cubs jacket.

  “He’sfrozensolidMista. Blanket. Needsablanket.”

  “Alright. Alright. Bring him in, boy.”

  “Found him on the corner of Main and Industria. Used to do that corner ma’self once.”

  “Lay him there by the fireplace. That’s right. Take his clothes off.”

  The boy eyed Harold. “Normally have to pay for dat.”

  “Get those wet clothes off him,” said Harold. He threw fresh logs in the fireplace.

  The boy shrugged, but did as he was told. Placed his shaking friend before the hearth. Spasms pulsed through the pitiful creature. But as the minutes passed, the shudders became tremors. His blue lips turned pink. Until by degrees, the thawing boy’s eyes opened.

  “What’re your names?” asked Harold.

  The boy he’d met first, who still wore his jacket, spoke. “Nicholas,” he said.

  “Jason,” said the other. He wrapped the blanket around his bare shoulders, and stared into the fireplace.

  “Thanks, Mista. Jason wouldn’t’a lasted the night out there. Colder than a whore’s tit.”

  Jason leaned back against the foot of a couch. Closed his eyes.

  “What you boys doing out so late?”

  “Grinding,” said Nicholas. He lowered his voice so as not to wake his friend. “Men hear it’s the end of the world, and all they want is ass.”

  Jason snored.

  “Money’s no good,” whispered Harold. “All the stores looked closed.”

  “Yeah,” said Nicholas. “Money ain’t what it was. But a gurl has her pride.” He lifted the back of his hand to his forehead, and faux-sighed.

  Harold’s heart knotted. He’d seen that gesture before. Nicholas followed Harold’s eyes as they drifted to the mantel above the fireplace.

  “What’s that?” asked Nicholas. He examined the downturned photo.

  “That’s nobody,” said Harold, and snatched away the picture.

  “Don’t sound like nobody to me. The woman’s pretty. And the boy … cute. Hotter ‘an you in that uniform. And your outfit was tight. Yessir.”

  “He left a long time ago,” said Harold. “Haven’t seen him since he was just a little older than you are now.”

  Nicholas tugged gently at the frame. Harold sighed. Gave up the picture to the boy.

  “Looks like you,” said Nicholas. “Ah … I see. Your boy?”

  Harold took a breath – crushed glass in his lungs. “That’s my late wife, Fanny. And our … Jesse … I didn’t understand him. He was … he was like you.”

  “A whore?” asked Nicholas. Ire flashed in his dark eyes.

  “A …”

  “Ah,” said Nicholas, “a fag.”

  “A homosexual,” said Harold.

  Nicholas fell silent. Jason let out another snore.

  “You boys sleep here tonight.”

  “We ain’t no charity cases,” said Nicholas. But the fight wasn’t in his voice.

  “You’re sleeping here tonight,” repeated Harold. “I’ll get you some blankets. That couch folds out.”

  Nicholas eyeballed the old man. “You still want that flip-flop? Could wake Jason and have yo’self a two-in-one?”

  Harold cleared his throat. Shook his head.

  “We’re working gurls. Gots nothing else to give. Whataya want from us, Mista?”

  “Wish I knew,” said Harold.

  *

  Waffles. He could swear he smelt waffles.

  A cloud of cinnamon and baking flour carried Harold to the kitchen in the morning.

  “We wanted to say thank you, Mista.”

  Last time he tasted waffles was a month before Fanny died. Butterscotch.

  “There you go,” said Jason. He sashayed through the kitchen, wearing nothing but briefs and a muslin blanket.

  “Jesus on a plate,” said Harold chewing on a forkful, “that’s not bad.”

  “Jason cooks good, Mista.”

  The chef curtseyed.

  Harold took another bite. It was so sweet, he nearly choked. For the last four months, he’d lived on Tasty Cubes for breakfast. He’d tried making eggs once, but almost burned down the building.

  “So … we was thinking …”

  Harold sighed. “Yes?”

  “We needs a place to grind with our johns.”

  “Colder outside than a father’s heart,” said Jason.

  “You have dat other room,” said Nicholas, gesturing toward the closed door.

  “Please,” said Jason. “We’ll give you a cut. Forty percent.”

  “You boys do know the world is ending in eighteen days?”

  A cloud passed over Jason’s face. Nicholas put a hand around his friend’s shoulder.

  “A gurl’s gotta grind, Mista. Eighteen days or a thousand. Work is work.”

  Harold lowered his fork. He’d always been a ‘no-man’. Replied ‘no’ to almost everything ever asked of him. Jesse had learned to go to his mother for anything of significance. Until one day Jesse had asked his father for something big. Big, but something no father should’ve refused.

  “Bloody Hell. Alright,” Harold heard himself say.

  “Yay!” Nicholas clapped his hands together. “Mista, you won’t regret.”

  “We’ll take care,” said Jason.

  “We’s clean whores.
”

  “Really we are, sir.”

  Harold hacked at his lungs – as one does in the mornings – while he tossed the apartment looking for the spare key.

  “Nobody after midnight,” he said as he handed the key to Nicholas. “You keep the closet in the spare room locked. And you sleep here every night. Can’t have you freezing to death on the street.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jason. “We appreciate this.”

  Nicholas beamed. “Mista, you da shit.” He embraced the old man.

  Something far away, something almost lost, kindled inside Harold’s heart.

  “Alright boy,” he said. “It’s alright.”

  *

  Almost nothing surprised Harold Humphrey, doomsday prepper and sceptic extraordinaire. But Harold was awed by the sheer number of men who traipsed through his front door over the days that followed. Young and old (more old than young), many with wedding bands and some without, they arrived in their droves.

  A week later, Harold sat upon a growing throne of car-keys, cellphones, jewelry, and cash of ever-diminishing value.

  “Can’t buy nothin’ no more with that,” said Nicholas, depositing another wad of greasy notes into Harold’s hand, as the last john for the day made a hasty exit.

  “But it’s good to look at,” said Jason.

  “Bloody damned nuisance is what it is,” said Harold throwing the money in a sack on the floor.

  There was a rap at the front door. Quick. Nervous.

  “Lookin’ for …” The man’s eyes slid past Harold. Rubbed Nicholas up and down. “… for …”

  “We closed for the day,” said Harold.

  Nicholas took the man’s hand. “I think we could do one more. Want some sugar, honey?”

  The man’s eyes darted from Nicholas to Harold. Down to the open sack of cash on the floor. Back to Nicholas. “Uh, yes. Yes.”

  “Come,” said the boy. He pulled the man into Jesse’s bedroom and shut the door.

  Jason minced in from the kitchen with a mug of coffee.

  “Put it on the table. Need to count it and get it in the safe,” said Harold.

  Jason lifted the sack. “Whew! No idea money could be so heavy.”

  “It stinks,” said Harold. He leafed through a bundle of notes. “Filthy too.”

  A muffled cry penetrated the wall. “Hey! I don’t do dat. Get off!”