Sun-Dogs

Chapter 7

Or maybe it was something else entirely; the fact that I’d been so focused on grieving Cynthia (and, paradoxically, perhaps, boning Mollie) that I’d lost track of who I was. It’s possible even that, as I raced through Wilber’s house armed to the teeth and—having heard something shatter in his bedroom—paused outside his door, I just felt like myself again.

All I know is that all of that went out the window the moment I stepped out and levelled the shotgun—which also happened to be the moment that anything that wasn’t, well, whatever that was (although, I confess, having seen Jurassic Park, I had a pretty good idea), simply ceased to exist. Rather, it seemed as though something else took over: something primitive, even primal, something deep within my mammalian DNA. A holdover from when we were frightened, possum-like creatures hiding in the trees, perhaps—an ancestral memory. Wilber, for his part, just slept like the dead.

The thing is that I completely froze as it turned; froze to the extent that I saw every detail of its skin even as I glimpsed Bennet aiming his pistol outside and dove for the floor. As he opened fire and the thing began bouncing off the walls and smashing bookcases, as it thrashed about like a deer I saw on the internet once (which had crashed through the window of a city bus and then proceeded to destroy everything in its path) and basically went insane—reminding me of the crazed deer and yet not, for it was—in the end—a thing utterly without comparison in this world.

A thing which nonetheless wound up in my sights and got blown away—even as Wilber yelped and clasped his ears and Bennet hit the dirt. Which, in the end, only impacted against the wall and collapsed, twitching and convulsing, as I looked outside with my ears still ringing, and, despite the fact that we were on an evergreen peninsula in western Washington State, saw the tops of palm trees swaying in the wind.

That’s when I saw them: the people who were left—the shell-shocked survivors of the Flashback (or whatever they call it where you are). That’s when I knew that their friends and loved ones had simply vanished—simply ceased to exist—no less than Cecilia’s baby—or Cynthia’s grave marker; no less than Mollie—who I would come to learn had disappeared during the interview. That’s when I knew that Time had melted and that we (and maybe a few others) were all that were and had ever been; that, indeed, the world had been (at least partially) reset to primordia; and that most of those who’d existed, existed no more.

In short, it was when they looked at me and I looked back, knowing my purpose, knowing my role. And finally it was when I patted Wilber on the shoulder and went out—feeling oddly invigorated, oddly at peace. Feeling as though I might yet make a difference—even as I sucked in the post-storm air.

FLASHBACK (1993)

I | Flight

“We know now there can be no justice,” the preacher’s soulful voice boomed over the pickup’s radio, and a chorus of devotees chanted “Amen” over the airwaves.

“And we know now there can be no compromise.” Shattered glass sounded in the background, as though raining down on a dais.

“Amen.”

“But let us not eat of our own limb, brothers and sisters! Let us not become like those outside our windows, throwing stones at their own temple. For I have seen a light in the sky, and we must ready our souls!”

“Amen!”

“The day of reckoning is come, brothers and sisters. The wicked among us shall be devoured—”

More glass shattered and it sounded as though a bottle rolled across the dais. A woman’s scream rang out. A skeleton chorus cried, “Amen!”

“We stand ready to be cleansed, oh Lord! Let flow the flood! Throw wide the gates of hell, and let loose the beasts of prey!”

And then there was an explosion which caused the pickup’s speakers to rattle, and people were screaming over the airwaves.

Static rose up like flames, filling the cab with noise, and Savanna Aldiss looked to her husband. Roger only shook his head. “Never know what’s gonna go the distance, do you?” he said.

She twisted the knobless tuner with the vice grips, renewing her search for a weather report, and said nothing. There wasn’t much to say; they’d gotten out of town because they were contentedly poor people, and when there were riots such as those following the Harper verdict, it was the contented poor who always paid first.

That was part of the reason, anyway. But they were also going to see Savanna’s mother in Spokane, a four-hour drive Roger had hoped to enjoy very much. They’d notified their employers—a nursing home and a mall security agency, respectively—that their house had been mistaken for a pawn shop and put to the flaming torch of protest, and that they would be indisposed for an undetermined length of time. Like everyone else, they’d used the occasion to do something they’d wanted to do for a long time.

Roger stared out his open window, yawning. Not because the panorama rushing past was devoid of any interest; actually, it was quite refreshing after the flames and chaos of riot-torn Seattle. But it was all the same after crossing the Columbia River: mile after mile after mile of channeled scablands and various basalt formations—what had Savanna called it? The Lost Bonanza Backdrop. The sight would have put him to sleep at the wheel if not for the strange behavior of the weather.

The weather ...

Since leaving Seattle, he’d spurred the Toyota 4x4 through a mild rainstorm, a brief flurry of snow, a stretch of sunny nirvana, a burst of hailstones, another rainstorm ...