“Can it go into space?”
“I wish.”
“But it’s the Space Needle.”
“Sorry, Addy.”
He frowns at the ground.
“But space ships don’t have food. Restaurants do.”
He raises his eyes, hopeful again. “Can we get up there?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go see if the power’s still on.”
• • •
It’s more eerie to be alone in a city that’s lit up and functioning than one that’s a tomb. If everything were silent, one could almost pretend to be in nature. A forest. A meadow. Crickets and birdsong. But the corpse of civilization is as restless as the creatures that now roam the graveyards. It flickers and blinks. It buzzes to life.
When the first signs of the end came—a riot here, a secession there, a few too many wars to shrug off with “boys will be boys”—people started to prepare. Every major business installed generators, and when the oil derricks started pumping mud and the strategic reserves burned up on a doomsday cult’s altar, solar power suddenly didn’t seem so whimsical. Even the brashest believers in America’s invincibility shut their mouths and gazed at the horizon with a wide-eyed oh shit stare. Solar panels appeared everywhere, glittering blue on highrise roofs and suburban lawns, nailed haphazardly onto billboards, blocking out the faces of grinning models like censorship bars.
By then it was too late for such baby steps, of course. But at least this last desperate effort will provide a few extra years of light for the next generation, before it too flickers out.
Nora gives her brother’s hand a squeeze as they make their way toward the Space Needle. The sun is setting and the monument’s lights are coming on one by one. The tip of the needle blinks steadily, a beacon for planes that will never leave the ground.
In a remote stretch of land that has never known human footprints, nature is witnessing a strange sight. A dead thing is moving. Crows circle it uncertainly. Rats sniff the air wafting from it, trying to settle the disagreement between their eyes and noses. But the tall man is unaware of his effect on the surrounding wildlife. He is busy learning how to walk.
This is a complex procedure, and the man is proud of his progress. His gait is far from graceful, but he has put appreciable distance between himself and the grisly scene of his birth. The black smoke is a far off smudge, and he can no longer smell any trace of the blonde woman’s rotting body.
Left leg up, forward, down. Body forward, right leg up, right leg forward, left leg back.
Repeat.
He knows he should be doing something with his arms as well but hasn’t yet deduced what it could be. Waving? Flapp heing? He raises them straight ahead just to get them out of his way while he concentrates on the ancient art of ambulation. One step at a time.
A few other things have come back to him. Words for common objects—grass, trees, sky—and a general overview of reality. He knows what a planet is and that he is on one and that its name is Earth. He is not sure what a country is, but he thinks this one is called America. He knows the strip of cloth around his neck is a tie, and that it’s the same color as the blood oozing from the bite on his leg, although that is rapidly darkening. The vacuum in his head is not as painful as it was, but there is another emptiness building in him. A hollow sensation that begins in his belly and creeps up into his mouth, pulling him forward like a horse’s bit. Where are we going? he asks the emptiness. Are you taking us to people?
There is no answer.
As far as the tall man can tell, Earth is a world of grass and trees and water. He feels like it should be more beautiful than it is. The river is a sickly greenish brown. The sky is blue but not pretty. Too pale, almost gray. He remembers a sky that looked different—sitting on the roof under noonday sun, sipping a beer and listening to his father yell—and rivers that were clean—sinking to the bottom and holding his breath, wishing he never had to come up—but the hollowness yanks him out of his reverie. He keeps walking.
The trees reach closer to the river until there is no more room to skirt around them, so he stops and regards the dark area where there are a lot of them together—forest. A smell of mildew and earthy rot emanates from it, stirring inexplicable terror in him—Hole. Worms. Darkness. Sleep. Vast mouth and endless throat, down, down, down—but he has no choice. He enters the forest.
Julie watches the backs of her parents’ heads, looming like stone idols in the front seats. No one has spoken in two hours. She watches the trees and empty fields become buildings, gas stations, college campuses. Welcome to Bellingham, an overpass mural declares, or used to declare before some cheery vandal sprayed the B into an H and crossed out ingham.
A spark of recognition goes off in her head and she lurches toward the front seats. “Hey! This is where Nikki lives!”
Her father glances at her in the mirror. “Who?”
“My pen-pal? The mailman’s niece?”
“The girl who sent you Vicodin.”
“Yes, Dad, that one. We have to stop!”
“Bellingham is exed. Nothing there to stop for.”
“But I got a letter from her like three months ago.”
“It was exed last month.”
“She could still be there.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Can we please check?” She tries to catch her father’s eyes. “She’s my friend.”
He doesn’t answer. She waits, preparing herself to digest yet another wish denied. Then to her surprise, and without comment, her father swerves onto the exit ramp.