AFTERLIFE

by Marcus Sakey

  Simon Tucks took his neck in both hands and lifted him into the air, choking off his breath at the same time. Brody kicked, punched, flailed, the blows powerful enough to dent metal.

  Below him, unfazed by a lethal cut to his neck or the effort of holding two hundred pounds of flailing man in the air, Tucks smiled. “I told you. You cannot fight god.”

  Brody lashed out with a focused kick that snapped the man’s head sidewise but didn’t change his grin.

  “Before you die again, know something.” The pressure was hydraulic, unstoppable, like the blade of a garbage truck. “Your woman is in me now. I took her story. I understand her in ways you never could.” That insane smile danced in the air. “How does it feel to know that?”

  Brody wound his arms up around Simon’s and pushed the elbows between them and flexed, but he couldn’t bring enough force to bear. His head throbbed in frantic waves of pain, the world fading and flickering. Claire was dead, killed by the same man who had killed them both before, and he was about to follow her, and for a moment he dared to wonder if there was something else, some next step, some new valley, and if there was, he swore that he would find her there, he would chase her across the whole spectrum of existence if he had to. Again he kicked the sniper in the chin. He cupped his hands and smashed them on the ears to pop the drums, agony and disorientation, but Tucks just stood there and took it, took the pain and the damage like they were happening to someone else and Brody was getting wobbly, he was losing it, couldn’t see, couldn’t think, his hands finding the man’s face and scratching, clawing, digging, everything spots and sparkles, thinking that if he could get to the eyes, maybe there was still hope, and he pressed forward, but Tucks just shook him like a rug, and Brody panic-grabbed with his hands, his fingers touching hair and skin and clothing, catching on something that snapped with a tug—

  The sniper dropped him. Just opened his grip and let him fall.

  Brody hit and crumpled in a pile, gasping, rubbing at his throat. The indrawn breath and rush of blood hurt even more than the denial of them had. Worse, he knew what came next. He was being toyed with. Soon came the duct tape, and the long, terrified wait, and the fire. At least Claire would be spared that.

  It took all his strength to make himself sit up. He’d run, he’d regroup with the others—

  Something was happening to Simon Tucks.

  Brody squinted, not sure what he was seeing, not believing. The man was . . . melting.

  There was no other word for it. The flesh of his face ran like warm wax. The sharp cheekbones slid away, forming into jowls. A second chin formed beneath the first. The blazing eyes faded. His body was shifting too, shrinking and swelling at the same time, losing height in trade for pudgy weight. The wound at his neck sprayed blood. Not the faint trickle that had been there before. Gushes. Geysers.

  It was only then that Brody remembered the feeling of something tearing in his grasp. He still clutched it, something light and jagged with a hank of softness. Slowly, he opened his hand.

  In the center of his palm lay the sniper’s necklace. Three dirty lengths of finger bone held together by copper wire and suspended from leather.

  Brody looked at it, then at Tucks, on his knees, shaking and sobbing and melting away. He was no longer the gladiator of a dark god. Now he was a pale man, droopy faced and weak chinned. His hands clenched the spurting wound at his neck, blood pulsing through the fingers.

  What had happened, what protection or power the necklace had held, Brody didn’t waste time considering. He just tucked the bones in his pocket and dragged himself to his feet. The hammer lay a few steps away, and he limped to it. Scooped it up.

  He did not look at Claire’s body. Not now.

  On the ground, Simon was whimpering. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It wasn’t me, you know that.”

  “Yeah,” Brody said. “I guess I do.”

  Then he raised the hammer above his head and brought it down with all his strength.

  THIRTY-NINE

  And found himself lying on the faded rug with its cracker crumbs and soda stains and dog hairs. GI Joe on TV, and next would come Voltron, then Scooby-Doo, then Jem which kinda sucked but made him feel funny, then the game shows. Mom was in the kitchen, smoking and talking on the phone, and by the time the game shows were over she’d be putting on bloody lipstick and telling him there were TV dinners in the freezer, and telling him not to watch too much tube as she walked out—

  He’d built walls out of stones and tree bark and set good guys to defend them, Luke and Batman and Buck Rogers and Snake Eyes, who was supposed to be a bad guy but looked too cool in his ninja outfit. But the enemy had them surrounded, a troop of army men set atop a hill of sand, and a bunch of stones he pretended were Decepticons, and Monster Barbie, whom he’d found in the alley, the doll naked and chewed by something. The battle was about to begin when he heard laughter, and looked up to see Tommy and Eric and Paul not quite looking at him, and saying “baby” and “loser” and “fag.” He hunched his shoulders and didn’t listen, didn’t listen, if you don’t hear them maybe you aren’t here—

  Mom’s bathroom is off-limits, but she’s gone, and Brody sat naked and cross-legged on the floor, hand wrapped around a pair of her pantyhose, pantyhose wrapped around himself, as he stared at underwear ladies in her fashion magazines, not sure what he wanted but wanting it so badly, a yearning in his chest so powerful he can’t believe they don’t hear it, that the women don’t crawl out of the magazine and wrap their arms around him and tell him—

  Price gun in his hand, he applied stickers to can after can, ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk, the fluorescents of the supermarket not quite flickering, headache behind his eyes. In the next aisle two kids from school were talking about college, how big the parties would be and where they’d live and how many girls they’d screw, and he tried to imagine himself doing that, going off to college, going off to life, moving forward. Tried to imagine himself like the people on TV, in a glamorous office or wearing a white hospital coat, and ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk—

  The sound of the house, the slump of the furniture and all the mirrors whispering. Still wearing the suit he bought yesterday, stiff and too short as he sat on the couch that was now his in the house that was now his and thought about how everyone had said Mom looked peaceful. But she hadn’t, she’d looked like a mannequin, and he’d always thought mannequins look like they’re trying to scream, and he imagined her in the box under all that dirt trying to scream—

  Google had taught him to tie the noose. It was just for fun, something to do, not real. The soft double-braided rope felt good in his hands as he looped it, wound around and around. Comforting somehow, like his old Garfield stuffed animal, the orange and black faded to the same muddy brown, one eye lost. He’d loved that thing, slept with it every night until it vanished when he was ten. Mom said robbers must have broken in and stolen it but he knew she’d just taken it because she thought he was too old, and so he’d lay there at night feeling the hollow in the crook of his arm where Garfield used to be and not crying. Now he fell asleep with the soft rope of the noose in the same place, and dreamt of an angel. A radiant angel with the face of a boy, who sat on the bed beside him and whispered to him. Telling him stories. Telling him there was a plan. That he was important. He mattered. Together they would do wonderful things, and he would never be alone again—

  The pudgy woman in blue scrubs is staring at her cell phone, unaware of the red crosshairs centered on the back of her head. The angel riding him, guiding him, telling him how to brace the rifle, how to breathe, how to squeeze the trigger. The blast so loud he jumped, and the nurse jumps too, before she falls over—

  The FBI woman at his door is pretty, but she looks so tired, he wants to hold her and stroke her hair and tell her it will be okay. And then maybe tell her everything else. He wants to ask her to help him, to stop him. He thought she would be kind. She was asking about neighbors, but when he answered her, somethin
g changed in her face, the kindness blown out like a candle flame. Brody slammed the door and ran, whipped by fear, past all the wires the angel has taught him to string, trying to make it out the back. But she’s fast, and the gun in her hand is pointed at him as she orders him to the ground, and it’s clear she wants to hurt him. And then his angel is there, whispering that it’s time to become an angel himself, and he reached for the detonator—

  He stood on the sidewalk, a medium-busy stretch of the South Loop. Cars hummed by in both directions. A college kid with a preposterous beard eyed him. A pretty executive in high heels cut a wide berth. The coffee shop behind him smells amazing, rich and full. The street is loud, the hum of heating and electricity, the rattle of the distant El, the city’s buzz. He wobbles, unsure on his feet.

  “Hey.” The man stood a careful distance away, but his eyes were kind. “Are you okay?”

  Brody waited for the sniper to respond, for the memory to unfurl.

  “Hey. Can you hear me?”

  A moment passed.

  “Buddy? Do you need help?”

  Out of habit, Brody tried to shake his head.

  His head shook.

  Huh?

  “Are you okay?”

  The question was horrible and hilarious on about five different levels, but Brody didn’t care. Testing, he tried to raise his hand. It moved reluctantly. He looked down, realized he still held the sledgehammer. It was heavy. Funny, it hadn’t been heavy before. He opened his fingers and let it drop. The head knocked a divot out of the concrete.

  The kind man stepped back nervously. He looked eerily normal: blazer and open-collared shirt, bifocals with wooden stems, a crisp shave.

  “You . . .” Brody’s voice came out rough, and he stopped, coughed. “You can hear me?”

  “You’re bleeding.” The man raised his phone. “Do you need help?”

  Brody looked down. Wet crimson was sprayed across his sweatshirt. He remembered the way Simon’s throat had begun to spurt as he changed, remembered the impact that had rung up his arms when hammer met skull. Simon, who had said it wasn’t his fault, and might have been telling the truth. Who was the boy angel, and how much influence had he exercised? Was it just whispers and promises, or had he actually controlled the man? If that was the case, Simon was a victim too. “It’s not my blood.”

  A taxi leaned on the horn. In the distance, he could hear the bing-bong of the El, and the recorded voice saying, “Doors closing. 35th is next. Doors open on the . . .”

  “Okay,” the kind man said. He took several steps back, then turned around and hurried away. Brody ignored him.

  He’d experienced Simon’s original death. He’d seen Claire arrive, been chased by her, reached for the detonator that ultimately ended her life—just after she ended his. So why was he still in Simon’s memory? It was like a buggy video game, and he was caught on a loading screen. The next level was supposed to start, but nothing did.

  Then maybe you’re not playing.

  While he’d been living the sniper’s story, he’d had no agency, no control. Just like with Raquel Adams, he had been Simon Tucks. He’d been able to experience only what Simon had as he played out a miserable hand from fate’s tarot deck, a sad boy becoming a sad man.

  But now he could move. He could speak and think. He could turn and see the coffee shop, and the people inside of it, the lights in the display cases, the smile of the barista as she passed a steaming cup. The building opposite, where he and Claire had waited on the roof, had been empty and dark. Now every window glowed with light. People in business casual moved down the hall, sat in cubicles typing at computers, stared out at the sky.

  The sky. The clear blue sky.

  Holy shit.

  Brody stared at the sun until his eyes watered and his pupils burned. When he turned away, the afterimage of a perfect circle overlaid everything he saw.

  Sounds. Car engines, humming power lines, distant sirens, cell phones, an airplane gaining altitude, the burble of conversation, a snatch of music from a passing Honda.

  Smells of exhaust and cigarettes and fried food.

  This wasn’t the echo, and it wasn’t Simon’s memory. Nor was it a flash like he’d had in the park.

  He was alive.

  Brody buried his face in his hands and started laughing, a strange manic sound. Feeling scraped thin, like foil separated from the paper on a stick of gum. Delicate and very nearly torn. Was it just this morning that he’d told Claire he’d hit his limit of strange? What a difference a couple of hours—

  Claire.

  The memory ripped through him like lightning. Her eyes widening as the hatchet hurtled toward her with the force of a bullet. The wet crack of the blade shattering her skull. The slip-slide feeling of the world shifting as she—

  Died.

  Claire was dead. He’d lost her again.

  Brody sunk to his knees. Some part of him seemed to be floating above, tethered like a balloon on a string. He watched himself hit the ground, heard his moan more than felt it. She was gone.

  It seemed a desperately cruel joke. First he’d been dead and she was alive. Now it was reversed. The time they’d had together had been an illusion. Like heavenly bodies slingshotting around each other, drawing close only briefly before being hurled off into separate darknesses.

  If he couldn’t be with her, then what did it matter if he was alive?

  The metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils. Gravel bit his knees. People walked by. Aware of him but choosing not to see. All of them hurrying to somewhere, from somewhere. Thinking of arguments and meetings, of things they should have said and things they wished they had done. Unaware of the invisible world stacked on this one. Clueless that they paced a battlefield.

  He slumped in the middle of the sidewalk. Returned to a living world he had given up hope of. Separated from the woman he loved by ten feet and infinity.

  Knowing that if he were to raise his head and look, he’d see only a bare patch of sidewalk where Claire McCoy’s body lay.

  FORTY

  Brody didn’t know how long he lay there with his cheek against the dirty concrete and the feet of living people stepping around him. Just another madman, he thought to himself. Like all the ones you’ve walked by.

  The blue light caught his attention first. A familiar hue, strobing off the ground.

  The police were in a Chevy Tahoe, the light bar atop flashing. Both doors opened at the same time, and two uniformed cops clambered out. No doubt someone had called about the drunk in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Sir,” the taller cop said, “are you okay?”

  Before Brody could respond, the officer noticed something on the ground. The sledgehammer. Its head coated in gore.

  Uh-oh.

  The police looked at each other, then drew their weapons and spread apart, maintaining two direct lines of fire. The taller one said, “Sir, put your hands on your head. Do it now.”

  “Officers.” He started to rise.

  “Don’t you move! Put your hands on your head. Do it now!”

  Brody almost laughed. He entertained a brief fantasy of standing up and charging them, letting them gun him down.

  That won’t get you to her. It’ll just put you back in the echo.

  He did as they asked. Laced his hands and looked away as the cops moved to take him, one of them flanking and keeping his gun aimed while the other went behind him, pulled first one arm and then the other back, snapped cold metal cuffs around them.

  The shorter cop said, “Look at his shirt.”

  “Jesus. Alright, on your feet. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t resist as they marched him to the Tahoe, opened the door, and guided him in. He didn’t even try the inner handle. Out the window, one of the cops spoke into his radio while the other squatted to look at the hammer.

  Ten minutes later, there were three more cars. Cops taping off the street. Evidence techs bagging the hammer. Searching for a blood trail. Noting the position
of closed-circuit cameras.

  All the things he’d once done.

  The officers climbed in the squad car without a word. Brody stared out the window as the city scrolled past. Thronging with people hurrying to work, snapping pictures, hailing taxis, pushing strollers. His city, no longer gone strange, except to him. A bike messenger with a chain around her waist balanced on her pedals. Under the thousand bulbs of the Chicago Theatre marquee, a homeless man shook a Dunkin’ Donuts cup.

  None of them had any idea.

  They took him to the 18th District. Patted him down, processed him, printed him, swabbed blood from his hands, bagged his sweatshirt. Marched him to an interview room, pushed him into the chair, cuffed him to the rail, and left. Idly, and without much interest, Brody noted they didn’t take his personal effects or strip him; likely the detective wanted to play friendly at first.

  He sat in the hum of fluorescents. His emotions were too big to fit mere words. Grief wasn’t a big enough term. Neither was frustration, or rage. Numb sounded pleasant, but he couldn’t get there.

  She was dead.

  When he’d arrived in the echo, all he’d wanted was a second chance. He’d gotten it. And lost, again.

  He’d thought theirs was a love story. Turned out, it was a tragedy.

  A tragedy with a dark sense of humor. How was he alive again? Claire had told him about standing over his corpse. She said the bomb had shredded him, made him very definitely closed-casket material. Yet here he sat without a scratch.

  The notion of being whole in the echo hadn’t bothered him—that was the afterlife, he didn’t expect the rules to apply. But how did it work when he returned to life? Had his original body knit itself back together and magically teleported to the street corner? Perhaps he was a duplicate. He imagined exhuming himself, looking down at his own ruined self.

  He wondered what the word “self” even meant, given the things he knew now. It was like that old riddle about replacing the handle of an axe, and later the head—when you were done, was it a new axe or the old one?