by Terri Reid
“So am I.”
They watched the deathly still cityscape for a while longer.
“It’s a shame they won’t let anyone try to place some more cameras, deeper in,” Phil said. “Just imagine what’s going on in there. It’s where most of them are sleeping, living, building, now.”
“Be glad we’re even still here at the observation post. Julia wanted us to close it down two days ago. Crane and Hill still haven’t shown up. Not even a signal from their transponders. I would be surprised if anyone was willing to go out to put out more cameras now. The kids had been so docile up till now, but those last radio transmissions from Crane and Hill are still haunting my dreams.”
“Pfft. Hill. I bet Hill did something to piss them off. Always poking what shouldn’t be poked. If someone else went, discreetly, I bet we could get at least one cam—”
“Phil. You’ve been on about seeing their new camp for days. What help do you think it would be? A decade of research hasn’t yielded anything, and we’re even fewer now, besides.”
“It would give us something to occupy our time, for one thing. And besides—isn’t it human nature, wanting to see the eye of the storm that’s about to swallow you?”
*
“I have a theory,” Phil said.
Bob was lying on the couch in his quarters, staring at the ceiling. He said nothing.
“Okay, I’ll just continue. Rachel, she—she progressed rather fast, didn’t she?”
“Mm,” Bob said.
“I know she was working on her vocabulary, right? Always rolling some new word around in her mouth. And, you told her a lot about the kids, right? Probably had more concrete details than most of the other children or teens here.”
Bob mumbled something.
“So, a thought occurred to me: what if it works on some kind of souped-up memetics? The idea of the kids—the gibberish, all of it—spreads through communication. When it finds a mind with fertile ground—a brain full of a variety of words—it grows.”
Bob sat up. “That—that’s something. We could…we could slow it down. Couldn’t we?”
“That was my thought. Stop talking about the kids outside of those of us studying them, stop it from spreading.”
“Could it be that simple?”
“Well, we’d have to cut back on advanced English for anyone under the threshold age.”
Bob paused. “Those are vital years,” he said. “What would it do to their overall mental acuity? Could they make up for lost time after they’ve cleared the danger?”
“Does it really matter? If there’s a chance of it working, it must be done.”
Bob took a deep breath. Let it out. “Yeah. You’re right.”
*
The bulkhead was unlocked and ready to open. Bob stood before it dressed for his hike: down jacket, boots, backpack with supplies, including a field camera.
Phil had his hand on the release lever. “I feel like I should try to talk you out of it,” he said. “But mostly I’m trying to figure out why I don’t want to go with you.”
Bob adjusted the shoulder straps of his backpack. “There’s still work to be done here. Even if we’re the last watch for this place.”
“Yeah.” Phil drummed his fingers on the lever. “They haven’t all gone,” he added quickly. “Maybe some of the children will…stay. There’s still Paul, Edie, Quincy, Michael…Dirk and Melinda’s daughter…um….” He looked off to the side, thinking. “That can’t…that can’t be all of them, can it?”
Bob just looked at him with a half-smile devoid of all mirth.
They stood in silence, not sure what else to say.
“Do you think it’ll ever take us?” Phil asked. “You know. The ‘old’ people.”
Bob looked up the ceiling, tapping his thigh. “No,” he said, finally. “There’s always a husk that’s left over. Inedible.”
Phil nodded. He pulled the lever, and the bulkhead groaned open on its old hinges.
Bob took a single step over the threshold. “I’ll do my best to get the camera up,” he said. “Before I try to find her.”
“It’s appreciated, Bob.” He smiled. “You’re giving me an all access pass to the strange new world. Try to make it back. So you can help me tend to the old one while its light sputters out.” He waved, as did Bob.
Bob turned away and the door shuddered shut behind him. He heard the locks thud and grind as they engaged.
He walked until sunset, then set up a simple camp; nothing more than a fire and his bedroll. Looking up at the stars, he felt a strange peace. There were any number of things out there, old and new, that could prematurely end his trip while he lay there in the dark, alone. But still, he felt more content than he had in months.
He reached the edge of the city just before midday. There was no rush, so he took his time, enjoying the hike. It felt like an age since he had been here last.
As he got closer to the familiar ruined intersection, he started to see small sculptures. Placed in empty window frames, on mail boxes, perched on long-defunct fire hydrants, seemingly no more thought put into placement than where they could sit without falling over.
And something new: graffiti. Simple, like the kids’ earlier sculptures, but still something. Mostly hand-prints and wiggly shapes. A few scribbles and possible attempts at representation here and there. Bob took some time to appreciate them.
He started to hear them when he got to the intersection.
RococorococorococorococoRococo! Rhythmic, and harmonized. One voice. Sometimes it would seem to come from ahead, sometimes behind, sometimes the right or left. Mostly it seemed to float around the buildings, to circle around Bob like some kind of aural predator.
Rococorococorococorococo!
He headed out from the intersection in the direction they had guessed the new camp was. As he went he began to see larger sculptures lining the streets, most the kind of abstract nonsense that become so familiar. But a few of them, a few, started to show legitimate form. Something spider-like with a body and spindly legs. Something like a disembodied arm: a main trunk ending in a slab, with a number of finger-like appendages branching off. Something with four legs. A smattering of humanoid shapes.
Rococorococorococo!
He used the sculptures as a guide, following wherever they got bigger or more complex. Left, right, right, left. He noticed he was headed in the direction of the downtown plaza and veered off the path of trash figures to find his own way there. There was a building on the plaza that was still sound as high as the third floor.
Rocococorocoroco!
As stealthily as he could, he found his way to the back of the building and up to the third floor. He walked over to a smashed out window and he saw it.
In the center of the plaza there had been a statue of a man riding an elephant. A silly looking thing, but it didn’t matter now because even if it was still there it was no longer visible. In its place was a massive…mouth. Rising from the floor of the plaza, sheet metal, plywood, roof tiles, floor tiles, street signs, aluminum foil, anything flat that could be nailed or wrapped around it made up its skin. Jagged window panes and polished triangles of metal were its teeth. It might have had eyes, but he couldn’t see them from his vantage point.
“Leviathan,” he whispered. He shook himself out of his trance and set up the camera, making sure to find a proper place for the antenna and solar panel. He made his way back down and walked out onto the plaza.
Rococo!
They seemed not to notice him at first. The song still continued, although not all the kids at the plaza were participating. Even at the center of everything it still seemed to come from all around him, deep from within the recesses of the city. He moved closer to the center, near the Mouth, hoping to draw attention.
A boy materialized in front of him. “Ro,” he said. “Roco co rocoro coro.”
“Rococo,” said a girl a few steps away.
The boy pushed Bob. “Ro!”
The girl and ano
ther boy pushed him again, and this time he lost his balance, hitting the ground rather hard. “Rachel!” he said. “I’m looking for Rachel.”
More kids had gathered, but didn’t make any indication of understanding him. They started to kick him, aiming for his stomach, his head, his groin, anything soft. He tried to protect his head, but it proved almost useless.
Suddenly they stopped. Bob looked up, pain in his sides and skull. It was Rachel.
“Ro ro ro co,” she said.
He pulled himself up onto his knees and pulled her into an embrace. He squeezed long and tight. Pulling back to look her in the face, he thought he saw a flicker of her old self in her eyes. Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant.
“I don’t know if you can understand me,” he said. “And I know there’s no chance of you suddenly being able to communicate.” He wiped some blood from his mouth. “But I needed to see you, see you face. Once more.” He spat out a tooth. “And I thought I might—”
She pushed him back onto the ground.
“—might as well ask, and see what happens. What does it mean? At least give me that. Why that word?”
She leaned down. Close, close to his face. She put her mouth right to his ear and whispered.
“Rococo.”
The Devil Went Down
to Georgia, Again
by
Ann Fields
In a half-formed state, the Devil partially reclined, partially hovered upon Its golden throne, and with one simple command, a command thought not spoken, conjured a screen made of smoke. Immediately, the screen began flickering with images, showing snippets of billions of lives as it searched for one specific life, a boy. While patiently waiting for the screen to settle on that one life, the Devil disparaged those who used crystal balls, prayer, tarot cards, divining rods, amulets, meditation, chants and such to tap into knowledge. It didn’t need any of that, just a smoke screen, if It felt like it, and thoughts, if It felt like it. But then again, It was the Devil, a being greater in strength, wisdom and knowledge than the lower life forms who relied on those other tools; a being with enormous power. But not enormous enough, the Devil thought with contained anger as It peered at the screen on which appeared the boy, Johnny, a grown man now. The Devil stared at Johnny thinking, such a common name for a boy with exceptional talent. A talent so big that had It won their bet all those many years ago, It could have used the boy’s gift to match the power and might of God. No more fallen angel status but a God to God.
Deeper into the screen of the material world It stared and well, well, well, what do you know? The Devil’s smile, slicker than oil, spread across Its half-formed face. Its anger wiped clean. It knew that look on Johnny’s face. It recognized that posture, that aura. The boy, Johnny wasn’t happy. In fact, it looked like Johnny would never be happy again. Pleased, very pleased, the Devil banished the screen and with Its smile growing more calculating than devious thought, Finally, all these years tracking that boy and now, it’s time.
Wasting not one moment, the Devil transformed wholly into a see-through gray energy. It sifted through the heavy, red atmosphere, shimmied through cracks in Earth’s solid layers, slid past its fiery core, upward through giant-sized boulders, streams of water and steam, tangled roots, malleable clay, and finely minted dirt to filter through a split in Mother Earth. The wisp of energy shaped Itself immediately into a form that humankind approved of. The Devil hated to do it; hated shedding Its natural form to accommodate lower beings, but this mission was too important not to.
With the transformation into a tall, good-looking, well-preserved human man completed, the Devil scanned the area. Nothing had changed in this rural part of Georgia. Strips of wild grass still bordered cultivated rows of sprouting vegetables; rugged wood fences still marked boundaries that didn’t even matter out here. And that ole hickory stump. It, no, he frowned in remembrance as he approached that stump. It still sat stubbornly in the middle of a generous intersection from which sprung roads leading everywhere but here. He kicked at it, still solid and wide enough to hold three oversized grown men. He sat upon that ole stump and with nothing but thoughts, formed a fiddle made of gold. The Devil held the instrument in his hands. Inspected it, admired it, deemed it excellent bait. Then out of the air, he plucked a bow and without even rosining it or tuning up, he played a song so magnificent, so sweetly endearing that the birds hushed their singing to listen. As the final note died, the Devil thought about playing another song but no, this was no pleasure trip. He had business here; a soul to win.
The Devil stood and with one hand stuffed in a pocket and the other carelessly holding the fiddle by its neck, he took off down the lightly traveled road, heading to the other place he knew well. He was early but he could wait. For an opportunity such as this, he had nothing but patience.
*
The black luxury tour bus, with cursive gold lettering on each side proudly proclaiming “Johnny, the Fiddler,” swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic. If any cars had been in that lane or the other for that matter, the drivers of those cars would have assumed quite correctly that this was an unplanned move, an impulse action that could end with deadly results. It did not thanks to the driving skills and calm demeanor of the doughy man behind the wheel. With one hand, he pushed the angry man off him and away from the wheel. Then with both hands again on the wheel, he steered the hulking bus back into the proper lane, then onto the soft shoulder, then onto the grassy patch of land that separated state from private property. All the while ignoring the two men arguing in the aisle behind him.
The bus driver brought the bus to a smooth stop, idled the motor, applied the emergency brakes then pulled the lever to open the doors. Only then did he slump over the wheel and expel a long, thanksgiving breath.
The doors had not completely swished open before a lanky, dark man slip-sloshed his way down the three steep stairs. Anger, disappointment, frustration, and desperation mixed in him to keep him moving, out the bus, over the recently mowed grass to the rugged wood fence. There he paced, failure oozing out of him unseen except by those who had the gift of spiritual sight.
“All I’m saying is you didn’t hafta…”
“GOD DAMN, CHUCK!” The angry man spun around hard, his dark face darker with fury. “That bitch don’t know shit. And you don’t either for booking me on her show.” Johnny, the Fiddler, resumed his hard pacing, supremely pissed at even having to have this conversation with Charles “Chuck” Goddard, his business manager/childhood friend/music promoter/cousin/music producer. Muttering viciously, more anger escaped through words. “Comparing me to Thomas King. Got her damn nerves. King ain’t shit. Can’t play worth a damn!”
“Johnny, you losin’ it. You on edge, man. How ’bout we take a little time off?” Chuck moved a little closer, hand outstretched as if trying to measure Johnny’s anger through the air between them. “Head to Florida, to the beach. Watch the girls walk by. Gain a little perspective.”
“You take some time off.” Johnny turned sharply to face Chuck again, dark eyes glaring. “As a matter of fact, take off permanently.” Suddenly, it clicked. Hearing those words out loud, feeling the truth of them in his soul, Johnny instantly knew why he didn’t have the recognition, the fame, the success that Thomas King, a lesser musician, had. It was Chuck. All Chuck’s fault. “You’re fired. FIRED!”
“Mannnnn…”
“Did you hear me?” Johnny stomped to his longtime friend. Long fingers, perfect for playing the fiddle, shot out, poking Chuck in his chest. “I done wasted enough time with you. You holdin’ me back. You the reason I ain’t nobody. I’m done with you, man.” Johnny gave Chuck one last poke. His eyes, his posture dared Chuck to push back, to fight. But in the logical part of his mind Johnny knew Chuck wouldn’t. Chuck was a talking man, a thinking man. He wasn’t the type to get physical. Oh, he could out talk, out think, out figure any man, but to get down with it? Naw…that was Johnny’s thing. A holdover no doubt from his childhood where “a beat
ing a day” had been his father’s motto.
The two men stood there in the bright sunshine, eye to eye, chest to chest. Each one waiting, hoping for the one thing the other would never do: Push back. Quit anger.
One beat. Two beats. Three beats. Nothing. Then Johnny saw the shift in Chuck’s eyes, the capitulation, the “I give.”
“Okay, man,” Chuck said in a low voice that cracked. He nodded his head, looked down at the ground, looked at the trees beyond the fence, looked anywhere but at Johnny. His face reflected what Johnny had seen in his eyes—resignation. “Okay, man,” he said again, this time with less hurt in his voice. “You’re right.” Chuck swallowed hard, straightened his backbone, and finally met Johnny’s eyes. “It’s time to part ways. I’ve taken you as far as I can.” He held out his hand for his cousin to shake.
Johnny didn’t reach for it. He stared down at it, stalled by the magnitude of the moment. For twenty years, it had been him and Chuck. Johnny and Chuck in Memphis at the Blue Note. Johnny and Chuck in Los Angeles at JR’s Blues Tunes. Johnny and Chuck at the Imperial Room in New York City. Johnny and Chuck in Paris at LaFontaine. At the Caribbean Jazz Fest, the Montreal Blues and Jazz Festival, the Oak Cliff Revue in Texas. All over the world and country they had traveled, forsaking all others for the love of entertaining music lovers with the gift of Johnny’s fiddle playing. One hand shake would end it all. Well, not all. Johnny would continue to rosin his bow. Johnny would continue to delight audiences. His name would continue to blink in neon red, blue, orange and white outside of clubs and performance halls. He would continue to headline concerts and festivals all over the world.
Johnny smiled, envisioning the new levels he would reach without his cousin holding him down. He would hire a new manager; one with influence and deep, broad connections in the industry. Heck, he might even call Curtis Barnes, Thomas King’s manager and let him know he was available. Hell, if Barnes could get King TV music specials, gigs playing for kings and statesmen, Billboard features and crossover record deals, Johnny couldn’t even imagine what he could do for him, the better fiddler. No, the best fiddler on the planet.
