It was around five that he began to give in to the crushing weight. The skies beyond the atrium windows were beginning to clog with clouds. Michael still felt pretty good, if somewhat tired—but his resistance was low, and he wasn’t expecting a “customer.” At least not one like this man.
“It never rains in southern California,” the man whispered to him over the counter of the Dog Kabob. Michael nodded in understanding. This was one of his real customers.
Michael wasn’t sure how it all got started. Perhaps it had been that suicidal housewife he had hugged in the supermarket once, completely reversing her depressive nature—or maybe word got out when he shook the hand of the guy who smacked his kids around, permanently melting his angry temperament into a cool, even disposition. Or maybe it was his father, who kept bringing Michael into his sales office, knowing that Michael could, with a single grin, woo people into feeling it was a pleasure to buy anything. In any case, a few months after moving to California, troubled people began to secretly seek Michael out, and ask for favors.
“How can I help you?” Michael asked the man at the Dog Kabob counter.
“It’s not me,” the man said. He looked around to make sure no one else was nearby, then he leaned in closer. “It’s my son who needs your help.”
The man looked to be fairly well off. A tailored suit, Armani tie. Michael wondered how much he’d be willing to pay for Michael’s services. Sometimes his customers paid very well. Well enough for Michael and his father to buy the beach house, and the sports car, and all the other trappings that made Newport Beach what it is. His father, having glimpsed Michael’s special talent, decided not to ask too many questions when money seemed to appear in the bank account. Besides, Michael had tweaked his father’s nature, turning the man into an incurable optimist, so how could he be anything but thrilled?
Usually people would show up at the Dog Kabob with melancholy tales of disappointment, depression, or despair. Some requests were heartbreaking; others were merely self-indulgent. “Make me feel better,” was always the bottom line, and Michael delivered. By now he was single-handedly putting the local shrinks out of business.
“Go on, I’m listening,” said Michael.
“My son’s a good kid,” the man whispered. “He does well in school—a shoe-in for the Ivy League . . .”
“So what’s the problem?” Michael asked, a bit impatiently.
“He’s got a problem with the girls.”
Michael felt his own toes start to get cold. A wind began to buffet the windows of the food court.
“What kind of problem?”
“Well, you see—it’s like this...” The man stammered, and gestured with his hands, fumbling to spit out what he was trying to say. “My son . . . he doesn’t entirely appreciate them—girls, that is. He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t have the requisite feelings for them, so to speak,” whispered the man desperately. “In fact his feelings are decidedly . . . off. Do you see what I’m saying?”
Michael cut him off curtly. “I’m sorry, sir, all we sell here are lemonade and hot dogs.”
The man reeled, confused. “But . . . but I was told—"
“You were told wrong.” Michael handed him a corn dog. “Take it. It’s on the house. May I help the next in line, please?”
The man, corn dog in hand, gazed at Michael despondently, then turned to leave. But even after he was gone, Michael couldn’t relax.
There had been others like this man. Too many. People who came in wanting to change their own natures, or the nature of someone they loved.
Michael knew it was in his power to do it, but a cold front always seemed to blow in whenever he considered it. Switching winds and easing depression was one thing—but altering a person’s sexual desire? His thoughts would instantly fill with the memory of the libidinous parasite that had violated his soul. The thing was a succubus, thriving on his member, driving him mad with desire for every woman around him, and filling those girls and women with the same desire.
But it had been dead for a year—and since it was gone, he no longer remembered how that felt. There was no one who aroused him anymore; his sense of passion—his sense of love—was stripped from him entirely, leaving him emotionally castrated. Yes, it might have been in his power to alter a person’s nature—but how dare he change the shape of someone else’s desire, when he felt no desire of his own?
It was easy to ignore when the world was a sunny day, and no one asked him questions . . . but a wind was blowing now, and stormclouds flowed in from all directions.
***
He was drenched by a relentless downpour on his way home, and when he got there, Drew was sprawled on the sofa, freeloading leftover Chinese food.
“What are you doing here?”
“Political asylum,” said Drew. “My parents go ballistic at least once a month, and today they took it out on me. So I launched a major counteroffensive.”
“You had a blowout?”
“We’re talking megatons. I doubt we’ll be able to resume diplomatic relations anytime soon.” Drew held out the leftovers to Michael. “Kung pao?”
Michael shook his head and deposited himself like a bag of laundry on the plush leather sofa.
“C’mon, Michael,” Drew taunted. “Hot and sizzling, fresh out of the microwave—I know it’s your favorite.”
Michael ignored him, trying to sink into the sofa as far as he could go. He wanted to disappear—not think, not feel—and he didn’t care if his mood brought in a season of monsoons.
Drew finished off the last few chunks of kung pao chicken, as he watched Michael.
“Tough day at the Dog?” he asked.
“Not in the mood,” Michael answered.
Drew picked up the remote, muting the annoying blasts of laughter from the sitcom he was watching, and Michael closed his eyes, listening to the rain on the skylight.
“You know, you oughta quit the Dog,” suggested Drew, “and spend some time out, you know? I hear Wendy Holt’s got it bad for you. Hey, if you ask her out, I’ll ask her friend, what’s-her-name. Sound like a plan?”
“No.” Michael closed his eyes tighter and tried to sink farther into the sofa. The rain was sliced by a crosswind, and its tattered edges pummeled the window.
“C’mon, what’s wrong with you anyway? You’re starting to make me feel depressed.”
Michael still had nothing to say.
“Hey, talk or I walk,” said Drew, "’Cause I’m not hanging unless I know why you’re pissed.”
Michael turned to Drew. Although he never had had a brother, he suspected Drew was what a brother might be like on a good day. Michael wasn’t gifted with words, but he didn’t want his silent storming to send Drew packing.
“My brain got a little fried before I moved here,” Michael began. “And now I don’t . . . feel things the way I’m supposed to. Certain things I can feel so intensely, you can’t imagine, but the things I want to feel—the things I need to feel—I get nothing but dead air.”
Drew shook his head sadly. “Drugs’ll do that to you, man. Saute your brain, and leave you impotent to boot.”
Michael dug his fingertips into the arm of the sofa, pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t talk to you. You have no clue what I mean.”
Michael propelled himself gut the back door, into the downpour, but Drew followed, and although Michael tried to run, Drew was faster. They were both drenched by the time Drew caught up with him and grabbed his arm, angrily forcing him to turn around.
“I don’t know what bolt you busted in your head,” shouted Drew, “but whatever it is, it’s not worth getting struck by lightning.”
Michael laughed ruefully. “Trust me, I won’t,” he said, and then added, “You might, though.”
“Yeah, well, screw you too.”
“Listen, you don’t know enough about me to help me with this.”
“I know enough,” said Drew. “I know about baseball. Y’ever play
baseball?”
“Huh?” It was a non sequitur so far out of. . . well, left field, that it caught Michael off guard. “What are your lips flapping about?”
“You heard me,” said Drew. “Baseball. Did you ever play?”
The rain suddenly stopped, leaving the wet beach in a low-pressure silence.
“Once in a while.”
“Yeah, well, my grandfather played baseball,” continued Drew. “So did my father: Now my brother plays in college, my sister’s captain of her goddamn T-ball league, and for all I know, my mother was a slow-pitch softball star. So all my life, baseball oozes out of my parents’ ears like friggin’ earwax, but the thing is, I don’t feel the game. Sure, I played Little League. I’ve sat and watched it on TV. We’ve got season tickets at Edison Field for God’s sake! But I still don’t feel what my family feels. No matter how much I want to, no matter how much I kick my ass to enjoy it, all I can feel is bored. When my friends talk baseball, I pretend like I care, all the time smelling my own bullshit.”
Drew stared Michael in the eye, determined to hammer his point home.
Michael shook his head. “Drew, that’s really pathetic.”
“All I’m saying is that you don’t have a monopoly on feeling disconnected.”
Michael looked down. The rain had left pockmarks on the sand like the face of the moon.
“So how about you?” asked Drew. “What’s your pathetic story?”
Michael considered it, and realized that letting Drew in on the Big Picture was something he had to do; something he needed to do, because he couldn’t bear being alone with it anymore.
“Maybe it’s better if I just show you,” answered Michael.
Michael turned his eyes to the thick clouds that hid the evening stars, and prepared for a demonstration.
There were no good feelings left in him just then, so instead he let the faces’ of the shards fill his mind. One by one he opened his memory to the terrible beasts they had harbored, turning each of them into untouchables in their own way. He imagined himself as he had been then: lascivious and lecherous; consumed by lust. As he thought about it, fear filled him and became an icy wind. Up above, the clouds began to boil, and in an instant the wind shredded them apart, dividing the clouds north and south. They peeled back like a curtain until they were gone, and all that was left were the stars, the moon, and the cold.
When it was done, Michael turned to Drew. Even in the dim moonlight, he could see Drew’s eyes wide with disbelief.
“Sorry. I guess I should have prepared you for it.”
But Drew wasn’t looking at him. Drew was looking past him, to the sea, where the pounding waves had suddenly taken on a new, furious sound. “Michael,” he said pointing toward the ocean, “MICHAEL!” he screamed.
Michael spun to see a gaping mouth bearing down on him, teeth sharp as daggers, as if some new beast were leaping up from the depths to devour him.
***
Lourdes saw it more clearly. Drenched from the downpour but undeterred, she had spent over an hour searching for Michael’s home in Newport Beach. The streets were confusingly arranged, and although people were happy to give directions, Lourdes found herself wandering up and down one blind alley after another.
Finally she had resorted to walking along the beach, for she knew from the single letter Michael had sent her that he had a beachfront home. She put her trust in her own ability to feel his presence.
In the aftermath of the storm, the moon made an appearance, and the waves gleamed its blue light. Lourdes imagined she saw shapes in the foam, like huge sleek serpents. But there was nothing imaginary about it. The shapes hurled themselves from the water, skidding on the sands. Huge things with shiny black eyes. Lourdes backed away from the edge of the surf, then screamed as a shark lunged at her from the surf, mouth open, gills flaring. It hit her like a car skidding to a stop, and she fell over its slick body, a dorsal fin digging into her side. Suddenly there was another, and another. She scrambled to her feet, and ran from the beached sharks as their jaws gnashed futilely at the sand. Only when she got far enough away from shore and her own screaming stopped, did she hear two other voices screaming: two boys far off, running from the writhing frenzy of beached beasts. She had heard enough of Michael’s screams before, to recognize them now, and she ran across the beach toward him.
***
Michael and Drew dragged themselves away from the waterline and watched the sharks die.
“Did you do this, too?” Drew asked weakly.
“No!” said Michael. “I couldn’t have!”
They stood up to look at the shoreline. “Tiger sharks,” said Drew. “I think this one’s a great white.”
But it wasn’t only sharks. There were swordfish, and marlins, deep-sea groupers . . .
“Man,” said Drew. “It’s like mass aquacide.” ,
And he was right—it was as if a conglomerate of great fish had chosen to end their lives in a single chaotic lunge. But it isn’t chaotic at all, is it? thought Michael. The way they’re lined up, it’s almost orderly.
Orderly?. . .
“Michael!” It took a moment for him to recognize her voice. It no longer seemed wrapped in cotton, the way it had sounded when she was fat. “Michael, it’s me.”
She ran to him and pulled him close in her strong arms, planting a kiss on his cold lips.
“Lourdes?”
“Who’s she?” asked Drew.
People were starting to flood onto the beach. In the moonlight, they had spotted the freakish beaching from their homes.
“I knew you wouldn’t have left yet!” said Lourdes. “I knew you wouldn’t leave without me!”
“Huh? What?” Michael had yet to get over the sight of the sharks, and the sudden appearance of Lourdes. She might as well have been speaking Swahili.
Michael turned his attention back to the death scene by the shore. It was all beginning to fall into place for him. The way these creatures had beached themselves wasn’t haphazard, it was meticulous. They were lined up and spaced in precise intervals. In a perfect pattern. There was only one shard who could bring such order out of chaos.
“Dillon!” he shouted. “Dillon did this!”
“Who?” asked Drew.
“He called out for help the other day. You heard it, didn’t you?” said Lourdes. “Something’s gone wrong.”
Michael nodded. He couldn’t deny it anymore. He couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter. Yes, he had heard Dillon’s scream. It had echoed through his sleep for three days now. Running from Dillon’s call was no longer an option, and now he realized it never had been. The five of them were too tightly bound to ever escape one another.
“How will we find him?” wondered Michael.
“The same way we did before,” answered Lourdes. She gently took his hand, and started leading him away. “We’ll find him together.”
But Drew grabbed Michael’s other arm firmly. “What is this? You part the sky, and you think you can just leave?”
Lourdes turned to him. “Whoever you are, this doesn’t concern you!”
“Like hell it doesn’t. I’m coming with you!”
“You can’t,” snapped Lourdes. Then Drew went pale, and fell to his knees, gripping his chest.
“Who says he can’t?” asked Michael. “Let go of him!”
Lourdes turned to Michael, embarrassed. Clearly it had been a knee-jerk reaction to take hold of his heart with her mind. She let the blood return to Drew’s head, before he could faint out cold. Drew stayed down on his knees, as he caught his breath.
“Sorry,” said Lourdes.
“Lourdes, meet Drew. Drew, meet Lourdes,” said Michael, hoping to get them to shake hands, which they didn’t.
Drew stood up, still trying to shake off his dizziness. “Michael . . . who are you? What are you?”
“Well, it’s like this,” said Michael. “Our souls are the shattered fragments of the star Mentarsus-H, which went supernova, at the mo
ment each of us was conceived. That makes us pretty damn impressive, if you haven’t already guessed.”
Drew stared at him completely baffled.
“It’ll make more sense in the morning,” Lourdes told him.
“No it won’t,” Drew answered. But he went with them anyway.
***
Life slipped from the sea creatures that had cast themselves on the shore, their last breaths gurgling out through their gills in unison, just as the birds came. Dozens upon dozens of them. Not nearly as many as there were sea creatures on the shore, but enough to pick hundreds of holes in the softer parts of the carcasses. The birds drifted in randomly, over a period of hours, yet left as a single flock at dawn, well fed for a long, long flight.
They took to the air, flying in a single perfect wedge; cutting through the sky and heading east. It was a living vector, propelling itself on five hundred wings flapping up and down in perfect order.
Above the coastal ranges, over the dry hot sands of the California desert, the birds traveled without rest. They were long beyond their endurance by the time they crossed into Arizona airspace, but something beyond mere muscle pushed them forward.
A faint awareness propelled them now. Faint, but growing, like a mind sliding out of sleep. As the flock followed the path of the Colorado River, the angle of their wedge narrowed from thirty degrees, to twenty, to ten, until they were a slim arrow of movement across the sky. Moving directly toward a bird much larger than themselves.
The thing before them roared dangerous and loud, but still the flock willed itself forward . . . until it was devoured by the spinning mouth of a jet engine.
The 767, outbound from Phoenix, was filled with thrill-seekers, on their way to win and lose fortunes in the smoke-filled casinos of Las Vegas—but they had not bet on this particular thrill. Although the plane’s engines often inhaled stray birds that got in their way, the plane wasn’t designed to withstand an entire flock ramming down the throat of a single engine.
The right engine, fouled by the remains of the birds, blew out with such force that the wing caught fire. Inside the cabin, there were a few brief minutes of panic as the plane slipped out of the pilot’s control and plummeted into the jagged depths of the Grand Canyon.
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