Love in the Age of Reptiles

The Big Empty-1

The Big Empty

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Photographers call it the golden hour, that period of time right before sunset when the sky glows orange and the shadows lose their edges, and the world becomes, for the space of about 20 minutes, something elevated and painterly—ephemeral, even sublime. Add to that the ocean breaking over the rocks and the black and white 19th century lighthouse, and, well, you have some idea of how seeing Granite Point that first time affected us (when we were taking it all in by Jeep, whose top we’d removed in spite of the pterodactyls swarming the beach). So, too, were there the strange lights in the sky, which peered down, relentlessly, disapprovingly, as though we had no right to even celebrate (by going on what Amelia had called our “post-apocalyptic honeymoon”), nor to end our crushing isolation.

Beyond that, though, beyond the fact that it was the golden hour and the waves were crashing and that one side of the lighthouse gleamed like polished brass (or that we were still euphoric over having encountered each other less than 24 hours before), beyond all that was our shared epiphany; which was that the lantern, far from being illuminated from without, was, now that we’d had a chance to observe it up close, shining from within. That it had somehow been kept on—either by electricity or gas or the burning of oil or kerosene—and that it would have had to have been carefully maintained. Which meant that someone, somehow, someone just like us, perhaps, had managed to survive.

“It’s beautiful,” said Amelia—and swallowed, batting away the tears. “My God, Francis. Look at it. I never thought—”

“That you’d see a light again, I know.” I peered at the house attached to the tower’s base and the old truck parked in its drive—which looked to be in surprisingly good shape. “Nor did I.” I looked at her sidelong and gave her a little wink. “But then, I didn’t expect you, either.”

She didn’t notice, only continued staring at the lantern house, as if she were in a daze. “It shifts ... the light. First white, then blue, then purple. And then a color—sort of like bottle green, only iridescent. Like a mallard’s neck. And yet shot through with ...”

She looked at me as if for help.

“Beats me,” I said. “I’m color blind. Red-green color deficiency. Either way, I suggest we make contact—if we’re going to. It’ll be too dangerous after dark.”

She seemed to come out of it, whatever it was. “Is that a good idea? I mean, with just our knives?”

“No,” I said, studying the darkened house. “But—whoever they are—they’re using something for power.” I lifted my gaze to the rotating lamp. “Enough to turn and illuminate that thing. And I’d like to know what it is.” I looked at her across the cab, which was bathed in golden light. “Wouldn’t you?”

And we just stared at each other: there by the lighthouse at Granite Point on the Oregon coast, after the time-storm—the Flashback, as someone had called it at the beginning—the dinosaur apocalypse. After everyone had vanished and the entire world had become a landscape of cycads and ruins, a place inhabited by winds and the souls of winds, a lost country.

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“Jesus. Just—Jesus,” said Amelia, staring at the decomposing body. “How long do you think it’s been here?”

I examined it where it was sprawled on the back porch, facing the ocean, its skin blackened and clinging to the bones—like it had been vacuum sealed—its wispy hair fluttering. "Hard to say. Few weeks. Maybe a month.” I batted away the flies. “Long enough for the organs to liquify.”

“How—how do you know?”

I studied the holes in its head, a smaller one which was about the size of a dime and a larger, more cavernous one—the exit wound. “Because, otherwise, there’d be brains all over.” I stepped over it and picked up the gun, checked its chamber. “There’s still bullets in it.”

She stared at me tentatively as I closed the chamber and gripped the weapon in both hands—neither of us saying anything. At last I nodded to the back door—the screen of which banged back and forth in the wind—and tried to brace myself. “You ready?”

She shook her head.

“Let’s go,” I said.

And then she was holding the screen as I inched forward and gripped the knob—turning it slowly, carefully, easing the door open. Stepping into a room which was dark as pitch; which reeked of cat piss and despair.

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