Love in the Age of Reptiles

The Big Empty-4

“What, you’ve never wondered if you dreamt something or actually experienced it? Happens to me. And you said it yourself: you were s**t-canned off that—what was it?”

“Jeppson’s Malört,” I said—still tasting it in my mouth, smelling it on my sweat. Still feeling as though it had been poured over my brain like bile. “Look, it wasn’t a dream, okay?”

I stopped walking and stared at her—to emphasize my point—as seabirds swirled (there were no pterodactyls today) and the waves crashed. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m telling you: Someone is on the air.” I gripped her shoulders—harder than I’d intended. “Radio Free Montana—that’s what they call themselves. Broadcasting out of a place called Barley Hot Springs. Jesus, Amelia. Don’t you see what that means?”

She placed her hands on her hips. “Have you listened to yourself?” She briefly put her face in her palm. “How would a signal even get from there to here, without—I don’t know, a relay of some kind. What you’re saying is crazy, Francis—can’t you see that?” She shook her head as if in pity. “I mean, can’t you?”

“I’m not crazy,” I said, and took my hands off her. “I heard what I heard. And we’ve got to go there—like, now, today. While the sun is shining. I swear, I’ll—” I looked back at the lighthouse and the old truck parked near our Jeep. “I’ll go alone if I have to.”

She picked up a couple pieces of driftwood, first one, then the other, looking exasperated. “Then why aren’t they broadcasting anymore? Riddle me that, Francis. And why aren’t you gathering wood for the fire? For that matter; why aren’t you burying our friend?”

“There’s maggots,” I said—and started walking, finding it strange she hadn’t mentioned the key. “I’m working up to it. And to hell with the fire. You’re just trying to change the subject.”

“Oh, I see. Well—isn’t that what we came out here for? To gather wood?” She hurried to catch up with me. “Or would you prefer to freeze again tonight? You know: and to pickle yourself in Jeppson’s Merlot, like—”

“Malört,” I said, increasing my pace. “Besides, I don’t plan on being here. And neither should you.”

She stopped abruptly and called after me, “Then where are you going?”

I took a few more steps and then paused—but didn’t turn around. “I was just walking—if you want to know the truth. Figured it would do us some good. But now—now I want to look at that.” And I pointed.

At the beach grasses which had been singed and lain down nearly flat—as if a burning helicopter had set down directly in their midst—and the saltbushes twisted into an insidious vortex. At the mounds and mounds of sand and other sediment which had been dredged up and redeposited—in an approximate circle—by some presently unseen force (a bulldozer, perhaps); or an object from space having made sudden, violent impact.

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