Age of Aquarius

by Tawdra Kandle

  Donald’s head bobbed as though his neck couldn’t manage to support it, and a breath gurgled in his throat.

  “You’re wondering why I’m here tonight, after all these years. Oh, I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Donald. I saw how everything fell apart in the wake of your failure to open the door to peace. I saw how the community splintered, how you ran away and hid. I saw how you couldn’t convince your rich family to bail you out or help you anymore. I saw the insanity slowly take you over. And I was watching the day that stroke nearly killed you.” He leaned down, putting his mouth near Donald’s ear. “And my secret is this: it was me who kept you alive that day. When the blood clot might have been mercifully fatal, I made sure it wasn’t. I gave you these extra years of life . . . the ones you spent in this pathetic place, drooling like a pitiful half-man.”

  Donald keened, his eyes rolling back in his head. The man sitting next to him ignored the sound.

  “But there’s no need for despair, Donald. Don’t worry. I haven’t left you or forgotten you here. I’ve been busy, and can you guess why?” He paused, as though waiting for an answer, continuing when none was forthcoming. “The time is coming, Donald. That miscalculation you and the others made back in sixty-seven is about to be rectified, and the door you could only force open a crack is about to fling wide.”

  Donald’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish flopping on the riverbank.

  “But that peace you and your friends wanted so badly . . . that peace is going to come at a cost. Back then, you thought you were willing to pay it. You were ready to let in the, uh, ‘aliens’, weren’t you?” The man shifted, smirking. “I’m going to be honest with you, Donald. Finally, I’m going to tell you the whole story. You see, none of this was really your idea. You were a convenient conduit, you and your earnest band of followers. You served your purpose. But now, my friend, your purpose and your usefulness have both come to an end.”

  Donald moaned, his eyes shutting.

  “But before you . . . go, Donald, do tell me this: have you had any unusual visitors lately?”

  The old man’s eyes opened to slits, hate seething through his gaze. He clamped his lips together, a last bit of defiance that made his companion laugh.

  “Oh, Donald. Don’t you know by now that your refusal to tell me means nothing? I can get the information out of the bored nurse at the front desk. Or I can snap her neck and go through the logs of incoming visitors. It doesn’t matter much to me.” One side of his mouth twisted up. “And probably doesn’t bother you, either. As I recall, you didn’t shrink at the need for sacrifice back in the day.” He tapped one finger on his chin. “Whatever happened to the little sister who hitchhiked her way west, disobeying her parents just to get to her beloved big brother? Where is she today, Donald? Where is Paige now?”

  A single tear leaked from the old man’s eye, and his chest convulsed.

  “It’s too late to cry now, Donald. What’s done is done, and you, my friend, did a lot. You had the vision then. You saw that real change could only come as a result of true sacrifice and blood and pain. That’s part of history that the world wants to forget. You humans love to remember the victory celebrations without dwelling on the horrors that brought them about.”

  Choking, Donald pushed down on the mattress, as though he were attempting to sit up more. His visitor pushed him back.

  “Calm down.” He was silent for a minute, his eyes narrowing. “You know, Donald, I think I’m going to give you a great gift. You’ve been mute for . . . over five years now? Wouldn’t you like the chance to speak once more before it all ends?”

  Before Donald could respond, the younger man fastened one hand around the elderly man’s throat, leaning hard for a solid moment. When he loosened his grip and straightened, Donald began to cough.

  “Now, if I were you, my first words in five years might be something along the lines of thank you.”

  “You son of a bitch—” The old man’s voice was hoarse from lack of use.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” The visitor sat down again. “Let’s show some decorum, Donald. Play nice.”

  Breathing hard, Donald shook his head. “Why? Why did you . . . why did you do this to me? And who the hell are you, really?”

  “Very complicated questions.” He nodded. “All right. Well, I supposed I owe you that much. However, there’s not a lot of time tonight, so you’ll have to accept the condensed version.” He settled himself back and drew in a deep breath. “Once upon a time, humans were not the majority race on this fine planet of yours. It was populated more heavily with angelic beings—from both ends of the spectrum. There were the good guys, the heavenly host, if you will, and then there were those who had followed the morning star into perdition. They were the Nephilim.

  “Over time, as Nephilim mingled their blood with that of the humans, a new race arose that was a diluted version of dark angels. We called them demons. When the Deluge happened, most of that hybrid race died in it . . . but some survived, saved by the Nephilim. They were cast into a dimension into which they were trapped, imprisoned for their own safety. Meanwhile, all of the Nephilim went into hiding for a long time, waiting until the time was right to bring back our offspring.”

  Donald’s eyelids fluttered. “And that was what you tricked us into doing. You wanted us to let them back into our world.”

  The man shrugged. “We Nephilim have been patient for a long, long time. But bringing back our children has always been our plan.” His face darkened. “But we couldn’t be sure about the timing. Some of the old words were lost, so we were looking for the signs, waiting for everything to be right. In 1967, we thought everything was aligned perfectly. Of course, it turned out that we were wrong.”

  “You used us. You used me. You knew what we wanted, and you took advantage of it.”

  “Of course, we did.” He rolled his eyes. “We’re fallen angels. Not fully evil, perhaps, but still—it’s in our nature. And you were all so wonderfully gullible. Peace songs, flower power, free love . . . that’s what you saw as the future of your world. As if this world was ever meant for peace. It’s been a violent, war-ravaged rock since day one.” He smiled, his lips thinning. “Now we’re ready to claim it again.”

  “Someone . . . someone is going to stop you,” Donald whispered. “You’re not going to succeed this time any more than you did fifty years ago.”

  “Ahhh . . . so you have had visitors. Were they from that lovely Carruthers family, Donald? Who might have made the trip west to check on a withered old meat bag like yourself? Not Cathryn Whitmore. We’ve been tracking her, and she’s been overseas. Most of her favorite agents have stuck close to home in Florida, too. So . . . who might have snuck across the country to see you? And did that person mention anything about . . . the vessel?”

  Donald turned his head away.

  “Oh, that’s fine. You don’t need to tell me. I have my ways.” Still, despite his denial, his face twitched, and his fingers curled into fists. “This time, Donald, everything is going to happen our way. We haven’t been idle these last five decades. The one demon you did let through has been quite busy, and we’ve been helping him. When he merges with me, we’re nearly indestructible. We’ve assembled a team—well, you might even call us an army.” He stood up and leaned in, hissing into Donald’s ear. “We are many. We are legion. We are strong. We are invincible. We shall not be stopped or defeated. And when we’ve won, this world you humans built is going to burn. We’re poised for it. Everything you know will be cinders.”

  “No.” Donald found the strength to sit up, his hands clinging to the side rails of the bed. “No. They will stop you. You won’t take our world. Never.”

  “Oh, Donald. Your optimism in the face of incredible odds is . . . well, it’s rather sweet. Or maybe the word I’m looking for is pathetic. You don’t have to worry, though, because you won’t be around to see it all happen. Isn’t that magnanimous of me? I’m ending your journey now to spare you the pain of experiencing the f
allout of your mistakes.”

  Once again, the man spread his fingers over Donald’s windpipe. But this time, he didn’t stop. He didn’t move his hand even when Donald’s body thrashed, when his eyes began to bug out, or when his voice was a gurgle deep in his throat.

  When it was over, the visitor pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands.

  “Such a shame, Donald. Once, I thought you were the key to the door we’d been waiting to open. Now look at you. Nothing but worm food. It’s sad, really. Tragic.”

  Without another backward glance, the man opened the door and left the room, walking briskly down the hall. When he reached the front desk, he paused, gazing down at Lydia, who’d finally succumbed to sleep. Her head lay flat on the desk, her mouth slightly open and her back rising and falling with comforting regularity.

  He reached around her, careful not to disturb her slumber, and retrieved a manila folder. Flipping through the white lined paper within the folder, he frowned.

  “Now this is a shame. Twenty-two patients on this ward, and look at how few visitors. It’s tragic how people in this country treat their elders.” He ran a finger down the lines, scanning the names. “And poor Donald hasn’t had even . . . hmmm. What’s this now? Someone did take the time to check on the old man. But who might this Asher Warren be?”

  Folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket, the man closed the folder again and replaced it on the desk before he wheeled around to walk away.

  “Hey—you. Mister! What’re you doing here?” Lydia had awakened, and blinking furiously, she frowned at the visitor. “You can’t be in this unit. Visiting hours are over.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. The attendant at the main entrance said I could come back, as I’m only in town tonight. You were sleeping, so I just slipped back to see Uncle Donald. I didn’t want to bother you.” He raised one eyebrow, challenging her to contradict his story.

  “I was asleep? Didn’t you . . .” Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t remember. Okay, well . . . I guess since you already went back, there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

  “Not unless you can travel through time.” He smiled and winked at her, and then turned his back once again.

  “Hey, wait a minute.”

  The man stopped for the second time and looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  Lydia lifted the opened notebook on the top of the desk. “You have to sign in here. It’s the rule.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” Returning to the desk, he lifted the pen and scrawled on the bottom line. “There we go. All perfectly legal, right?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She turned the notebook toward her and examined the signature. “You have a good night, Mr.—is that Ryan? Ben Ryan?”

  The smile he tossed Lydia sent a shiver down her spine. It reminded her of the way the tiger at the zoo had looked at her one day years ago, when she’d been a little girl on a school field trip. There was something both predatory and contemptuous in his eyes.

  “Yes, that’s me. Ben Ryan.” He pointed his finger at her as though it were a gun, cocking his thumb. “You should remember that name. One day soon, it’ll be on the lips of every human in this world.” Just before he rounded the corner of the hall, disappearing from her view, he murmured one more time.

  “As they all die.”

  Brookfield, Wisconsin

  February, 2017

  Joy

  “Fudge. Dang. Shit.”

  I ground my teeth, screwing shut my eyes and sucking in a breath through my clenched jaw. Under my elbows, the seat of the toilet was cool, and I tried to focus on that as another vicious wave of nausea rolled over me. Morning sickness sucked. I’d never felt this bad in my whole life, and I hated it.

  “You okay in there, Joy?” Curiosity tinged my roommate’s voice, muffled through the bathroom door.

  I schooled myself to sound normal. “Sure! Be out in a second. I dropped an earring down behind the sink.”

  I held my breath until I heard the sound of her walking away, but when I inhaled again, the smell of Norrie’s perfume, still sitting on the counter, pushed me over the edge, and I heaved up the rest of my poor beleaguered stomach’s contents.

  “Dang. Dang. Dang.” What made morning sickness even more frustrating—the whole deal of not being able to move too fast or smell anything too strong in the mornings anymore—was the fact that I couldn’t even cuss out my misery. It was the legacy of being raised by a foster mom who thought that anything stronger than a sharp darn was a no-go. If I’d even muttered a quiet damn, she’d fixed me with a steely glare that made me quake in my boots, which was really saying something, since the rest of the time, she was the most laid-back, loving woman I’d ever known.

  And even though I’d been living on my own for almost seven years now, that old habit died hard. I had to be really good and drunk before I could let out with satisfying curses. And even then, I felt guilty.

  The idea of alcohol made me gag again. Happily, there was nothing left to throw up, and once the spasms had passed, I rose shakily to my feet.

  It was official. I’d been in deep and serious denial for exactly three weeks now, ever since the day I’d realized I was two weeks late and forced myself to spend some of my very small paycheck on a pregnancy test. When it came back positive, I hadn’t panicked; instead, I’d carefully wrapped the nasty stick in a tissue and then in a plastic bag, tucked it into my handbag and tossed it away at the dumpster down the street. I didn’t want to chance Norrie finding it, because then she’d want to know how it happened and who the father was, which would have led to a really awkward conversation.

  As if acknowledging the pregnancy made it real, morning sickness had kicked in the very next day. I’d been able to dodge my roommate and best friend, since she left for work early every day but one. I’d also learned that running the bathtub tap at full blast hid the worse of the noise.

  But I knew my time was running out. Pretty soon, Norrie would get suspicious . . . or more suspicious, and then I’d have to tell her the truth: I’d slept with her younger brother and gotten knocked up.

  I hadn’t meant for it to happen. I’d known Tom for almost ten years, since I was sixteen and he was fourteen. He’d been my new friend’s annoying kid brother back then; he and Norrie had moved in next door to my foster family’s house, and I’d been thrilled that Norrie was in my class. We’d stuck together through high school, and after graduation, when I’d moved out of my foster mother Sheila’s house, Norrie and I had found an apartment to share. She’d gone to a local college, while I worked my butt off to afford the basics of life and a few classes here and there.

  Now, Norrie was an elementary school teacher, and I was still a waitress. But I’d scrimped and saved enough that I was in college full-time now, too, and I was only a few credits away from my bachelors.

  Or I had been, before I got stupid drunk one night when Tom had stopped by. He lived a few minutes away, and since he was still close to his sister, sometimes we all hung out together. We were buddies. He’d even introduced me to a few of his friends, whom I’d dated casually, but nothing had ever come of it. I was still a perpetually single girl, and I was okay with that.

  Norrie, on the other hand, was crazy in love with Joey, her high school boyfriend. They were engaged, and on that fateful night, the two of them had gone out to register for wedding gifts. Tom had forgotten that his sister had plans, and when he’d stopped by with a bottle of Jack and the suggestion that we have a drunk movie night, I hadn’t had the heart to tell him no, even though I was supposed to be studying for a huge exam in macroeconomics.

  The two of us had sprawled on the worn-out couch that Norrie and I had rescued from her parents’ basement, sharing sips of whiskey and making fun of the movie, a sappy, sentimental, tear-jerker romance. When I’d shifted to get more comfortable, I’d bumped my head on the arm of the sofa and let out a good solid dang, cursing in my own special way the lack of padding.

  “Hey, hey, be kind to th
is piece of furniture. It’s got history. I made out with more girls than I can remember right on these cushions.” He’d smiled fondly.

  “Ewww. Tom, that’s gross.” I’d pretended to gag, and then he’d pounced on me, tickling me in retribution, and before either of us had known it, Tom was on top of me, and neither of us were laughing anymore.

  What had followed was not the best sex I’d ever known, but it sure wasn’t the worse, either. It had progressed thereafter to my bedroom, which was more comfortable and more private, where we’d had two more rounds of accidental sex.

  In the morning, I’d hurried Tom out the door before Norrie could come home from her fiancé’s house. Before he’d stumbled out the door, his face rough with an early-morning beard, he’d turned back to me.

  “Joy, I know we didn’t plan that, and I’m not going to lie—it’s not like I’m in love with you or anything. I mean, I do love you and all,” he’d rushed to add. “Like my friend. But you know, we both have, uh, needs, and as long as you’re cool with it, I’m okay if we’re friends with benefits.”

  Standing in my bedroom door, nursing a wicked hangover and dealing with the regret of having screwed my best friend’s baby brother, I could only shake my head.