Descended from Darkness: Vol II Read online

  The earth snapped once from side to side, like a wet dog shaking off the rain, and my car flew into the rock face sideways because the road had spat it out.

  (I was lucky. The others must have been spat out the other side, down the rock face.)

  When I finally came around, I broke out of the car and limped back onto the road, and I couldn't even recognize where I was; the mountain had crumbled to dust around me, and I was standing in the center of a world I didn't know. It was like a pile of puzzle pieces snapped together by a careless kid; everything looked unfinished, forced together with gaps between them, so two halves of a tree were suddenly standing a mile apart.

  Everything was colorless and dim, so I thought it must have been almost night, and I dragged my way back to the car to sleep until it was morning. (I didn't know yet that there were no more mornings.)

  I go ahead of her with a walking stick, in case of animals or sinkholes. Whenever I look back, she's frowning off to one side, making notes on her cheap road map (my cheap road map, the most useful thing I'd offered).

  Finally she says, "We should go back to the cave tonight. The ground is too soft here to sleep on."

  Her profile is sharp and bright against the grimy day, and I feel like I've faded to nothing, like she's the only living thing left.

  I watched her fall asleep near the cave mouth (where there was still enough light to see). She had her book tented on her chest, her head turned away.

  I slid the book out of her fingers (her fingers were cold, she was too close to the cave mouth), and tucked it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

  (She trusted me only because she had to, because otherwise there was nothing left. Let her ask for it back; find out what it's worth.)

  After the manifesto came out, the Ames was publicly cleared out; the governor insisted it was for the safety of employees, not as a concession to Point Zero.

  The Nobel Mathematics Committee issued a statement disowning the "Point Zero extremists, who turn a legitimate standpoint into a terrorist platform."

  The board members of the mainstream Point Zero held a vote and had a very long discussion. Zeropointzero.org went offline.

  Reset13.org popped up the next day, its homepage dotted with strings of 13s and 0s and a palatable explanation of b'ak'tuns and k'atuns. It had a comic strip featuring a pair of sarcastic Mayans who cracked jokes about resetting a long-form clock.

  Their members list grew.

  A week after the taking of Sequoia, there were only those twelve members of Point Zero left, and they were surrounded by police, locked into a little operating room with a world at their fingertips.

  She doesn't mention the book. All day I walk in front of her, tense and waiting, ready for a fight that never comes.

  I had figured she'd be better than this, somehow. (Better than what? My mind is muddy; I breathe through the coat of grime on my lungs, put one foot in front of the other, grind my walking stick into the ground so I don't fall through.)

  Behind me she breathes a steady in-and-out, like she's drilling slowly through my skull.

  We don't start fires at night. You find cover and you huddle in and hope not to freeze. At first it was awful, but now I don't really even shiver anymore; my body's bracing itself for a very long winter.

  She hunkers down into her coat, and I try to make out the line of her profile against the crawling night, until it gets too dark and I give up. I can't see a thing at night since the fires stopped.

  (Strange, the things you miss.)

  "Why were you sky watching, before? What were you looking for?"

  After too long she says, "What makes you think I was looking for something?"

  Bullshit. She'd been looking for something since the day I staggered through the woods delirious from hunger and half-sick from my own smell, and she appeared out of nowhere to take me back to the hollow trunk where she had made shelter from the grimy light.

  "Don't lie to me," I say. I hardly recognize my own voice, like the dark distorted it.

  But I had listened to the news back when Point Zero was protesting. I knew that if you looked up at the night sky you saw Xibalba Be, the Dark Road that the Mayans had seen, the biggest clock humanity could set by. Someone from the think tank had gone on the news and explained the galactic alignment with a computer graphic. The planets had already lined up like a string of beads; nobody knew if anything would happen before they split, but you had to think that something could.

  I wait for her to call me a liar; to ask about her book. I count to ten. To ten. To ten. She's so quiet I can hardly hear her breathing.

  I keep my eyes squeezed shut (you get vertigo at night trying to look around with no light anywhere), but there are little white flecks in my vision, a tiny constellation of angry stars.

  It's the dark that does you in. It's the dark that slides over you worse than the ash or the wind, because you know that all the ways to keep back the dark are gone, that when your lighter is gone there will be no more fire without flint and sticks and admitting that there's no hope for anything better.

  The dark swallows up the new geography that's been shaken out over the old one, swallows up everything but you (she's sleeping next to you, propped up against the cave wall, but the cave is so small you could reach out and slide your hand into her pocket), and you wake from nothing and know that the dark has pooled like oil in your ears and your nostrils, and even with your eyes squeezed shut you know it's stained your vision until you can't see, that you're walking in circles as the ground under you is crumbling, that with the next step you're going to fall, and then you wake and open your eyes, gasping, your hands scraping at the roof of your mouth to claw the darkness out, and she's leaning over you, marking on your body with pencil where she'll carve away the good meat, and when you scream at her the darkness slides into your stomach, and you wake to the sooty sky and her silhouette already standing outside the cave, untouched and impenetrable, and as you sit up something coils around your lungs and squeezes tight.

  Point Zero knew they had been abandoned; they knew that whatever happened, their lives were over, and it was only left to decide how they would go out.

  They didn't want to damage the seed vault, no matter what. They never had. Of all the doomsday propositions Point Zero dismissed, the swift extinction of nature was not one. (They cheered when they heard that the animals were being evacuated from Svalbard.)

  Resolute, they wrote a new broadcast, where they would announce additional targets; they'd force oil fields to stop production, they'd frighten the world into a worldwide cease-fire. They would sit in the Ops Room with Sequoia and slowly starve out, to buy enough time for the world to come to its senses.

  "These wondrous days you're waiting for don't come from prayer, but from deed," they wrote. "They are the provenance of those who care enough to make sacrifices for a better world. We are your caretakers; we will craft these days for all of you."

  (Hunger was setting in; they were getting evangelical.)

  They didn't know about the room in the basement of the Ames with maps tacked to it, with pinpoints and predictions from the Darkroad Project about how a new world could be carved from the old one.

  Point Zero didn't know there were plans that had already been made.

  The next day is dark and heavy, heavier than yesterday; I can't breathe (she had stuffed soot down my lungs overnight) and with every step I can feel her staring at my back like she knows something I don't---

  I turn on her.

  "Is this about your fucking book?"

  She doesn't say anything, just gives me that hard, closed-off look I'm getting pretty sick of.

  "If you want it back," I snap, "you can ask for it."

  "Why did you take it?" she asks, like there's an answer, and all I can think of is, "It's a stupid thing to carry," I say, which is the truth but it isn't an answer.

  But she doesn't question me, just says, "You can't do that," so calm it stings, and I sink an inch into the mud an
d I hate her for pushing me like this I hate her and my hand flies at her and as she ducks I scream, "I'll do what the fuck I want to you!"

  She staggers a few paces back. Then she looks at me for a long time, and I feel like I've sunk into the ground up to my knees. I make fists at my sides.

  Finally she says, "I'd like it back."

  The last fucking thing I need from her is that tone, that tone like she's disappointed in me, like I'm the one who's not making sense.

  I yank the book out of my jacket and throw it on the ground at my feet. It hits the mud with a wet thwack, hovers for a second before it starts to sink.

  She never looks at the book; never looks away from me.

  I step on it as I turn around, just for the satisfaction of forcing it down, and then I keep walking.

  Eventually, I hear her footsteps behind me. When I look back at her later, there's no mud on her; she's finally wised up about that worthless thing.

  There's no need for it. Not like the past is going to change.

  After the second broadcast from Point Zero that stated their intentions and put a dozen cities under the gun, there were stampedes from the cities into the countryside. There were cease-fires in war zones as countries pulled their troops back to handle the home fronts. Churches were overrun with congregations hoping to make amends before Point Zero pushed the button.

  No one was thinking any more about an empty Research Center; it was nominally under guard, but since Point Zero had ignored it, so had the police. All five members of the Darkroad Project slipped in through a side door without even being seen.

  As world governments argued about how to protect against the threat posed by Sequoia's nuclear grid, as Point Zero's broadcast was picked up by news stations with panicking anchors, as people rioted over canned food in grocery stores, the Darkroad Project stood at the control console of Pleiades and executed the program they had been working on for two years.

  Xibalba.exe ran flawlessly; they knew as soon as the earthquake hit and the room buckled.

  (They were too close to a fault line to expect to survive; but a true scientist must accept the risks of the experiment.)

  We walk for hours. We walk until the dark is almost on us; I want to see how long she'll keep up. (Every step; I have to stop myself from looking over my shoulder.)

  The dark rolls in from all around us (the dust hides everything), but she doesn't stop, and I can't---I can't show any weakness, not after all this. I keep walking. Soot has coated my nostrils, and the whole world smells like char, and the darkness is sliding over me.

  "It's getting dark," I say, "we should stop," and my voice is small in the dark.

  She says, "If you're tired."

  Fuck her. I keep walking.

  My legs are numb; I feel like I can hardly walk, like I'm falling asleep from the bottom up, and my walking stick isn't helping. I let it fall; I need my hands for balance, and I swing them out a little away from my sides, my hands fisted. I won't stop until she stops.

  Behind me, she says, "I voted yes, you know."

  Her voice is far away, and it pushes me deeper into the ground. I turn---I try to turn, but I'm thigh-deep in mud, and I realize her voice is far away because she hasn't followed me. She's been paying attention to the lay of the land.

  "Get me out of here," I say.

  She says, "I voted yes. It was a two-two split until I voted. I thought it would be worth it to suffer for a while, until everything could be set right. We thought it would be worth it, to start over."

  The mud is slimy against my stomach.

  "I was willing to die," she said. "Then I made it out, and I was willing to help anyone I found. I helped you."

  I realize she's speaking in past tense; that she's done helping me.

  I try to step back out of the sinkhole, but the mud is slick and heavy, and it pulls me off-balance, and I sink deeper. I take a breath, trying to calm down. You can't fight sinkholes, you have to spread your arms or something to slow yourself down; I remember this from a movie, I can get out of here.

  "Point Zero was right," she says, and her voice is angled toward the sky. "The threat would have been better. We gave too much credit to people."

  I choke out, "Fuck, I'm sorry," in a tone that cuts the roof of my mouth.

  It falls quiet. The inky dark has made my other senses sharper; I can hear the mud sucking at my clothes, my pulse pounding in my ears. Far off, I hear an owl.

  "I'm sorry, too," she says, and I hear leaves crunching under her feet as she steps back.

  I scream; I kick wildly, I dig into the mud to try to swim out, but it's too slick and I'm in too deep and the oily blackness swallows me; when I scream, I choke on it.

  "The new world has to be better than the old one," she says. "That's my project now."

  I can hardly hear her. The darkness has slid into my nose and my ears, leaking past my squeezed-shut eyes, and I know the next time I open my mouth I'll swallow clay and it will be over.

  "Next time," she says, not unkindly, "I'll know better what kind of person to look for," and there are two footsteps before the mud closes over me.

  (Strange what you're good for, when circumstances change.)

  White Christmas

  James F. Reilly

  1

  "We should probably stop, no?" Margot pointed at the glowing sign of a general store up ahead. "I feel funny just showing up empty handed."

  Billy shook his head and squinted into the swirling snow. "It's only another couple of miles, babe. I just want to get the hell out of this shit. Besides, we're not showing up empty handed. We come bearing the gift of booze, remember?"

  Margot laughed. "I meant food, dummy. I don't want to look like a freeloader."

  "If I know my sister-in-law, dinner's already on the table waiting for us." Billy rolled his head from side to side, eliciting a few audible snaps and pops from his neck, and then let out a deep sigh. "And, if I know my brother, he's probably bitching about how I'm always late." Billy placed a hand on her knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. "We'll come back out in the morning and get some stuff. You can cook dinner tomorrow night."

  "Oh, I can, huh?" Margot punched him in the arm. "You are such a man."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," Billy said, craning his neck over the steering wheel. "Christ, it's really coming down."

  "Maybe just milk and eggs," Margot said softly. Billy said nothing. He just stared ahead into the churning white vortex, his face illuminated by the red taillights of the truck in front of them.

  Margot stared into the windswept parking lot of the store as they passed. There were at least a dozen cars in front of the building, and six more at the gas pumps. A few of them had Christmas trees tied to their roofs, crushed under the weight of several inches of snow. Margot had a tingling feeling in her stomach as she watched the store slowly recede behind a glowing veil of white.

  "Is it always like this?" she asked.

  "What, the snow?" Billy shrugged. "Sure. Sometimes, I guess." He took his eyes off the road for a second and smiled reassuringly. "Trust me, you're gonna love it. Skiing, sledding, roasting chestnuts---all that good shit. This is a New England Christmas...a real Christmas."

  "What? You don't think we have real Christmases in Georgia?"

  "No offense," Billy said, "but backyard barbecues and pool parties aren't my idea of a real Christmas. It's like those people who go to the fucking Bahamas for the holidays. To me, that's like celebrating the fourth of July in Antarctica. It's...it's sacrilege! You can't have a real Christmas without snow. Period."

  "Jesus was born in a desert."

  "Yeah, and how did that work out for him?" Billy replied.

  "Okay. First, you're going to hell for that, and, second, I disagree." Margot crossed her arms in front of her and leaned her head against the cold glass of the passenger window. "I happen to think Christmas is about surrounding yourself with the people you love, whether it be in the mountains or under a palm tree."


  "And that's why you're with me." Billy squeezed her knee again and Margot pushed his hand away. "Oh, come on, babe. You know I'm just playing. This is our first Christmas together. I just want it to be special, you know?"

  "I know. And I appreciate it."

  "And I'll tell you what. Next year we'll go down to Georgia and have a lame-ass southern fried Christmas with your family."

  Margot grabbed Billy's earlobe and crushed it between her thumb and index finger.

  "Owww! Fuck! Owww!" Billy whined. "Truce, truce!"

  "Not until you admit you're a dick," Margot said, squeezing harder.

  "Fine! I'm a dick, I'm a dick! Jeeeesus! You're gonna get us killed!"

  Margot jerked her hand away and retreated back to her side of the car. She milked the silence between them until the crunch of the snow beneath the wheels and the monotonous swipe-and-thud of the windshield wipers was more than she could bear. Finally she sighed, "Mind if I turn on the radio?"

  "Knock yourself out," Billy said with a laugh. "I gotta warn you, though; once you get past Bretton Woods the pickin's are pretty slim."

  Margot hit the auto-tune button on the radio. John Cougar Mellencamp's "Hurt So Good" gave way to Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" and then Young MC's "Bust a Move."

  "Christ, what decade are these people living in?" she asked.

  "I told you," Billy said. "Slim pickin's. Just put in a CD."

  Margot opened the glove box and groaned. "Ewww. All of your CD's suck."

  "So now I'm a dick with bad taste in music? Why is it you're with me, again?"

  "Apparently so you can show me the true meaning of Christmas," Margot quipped. "Otherwise, I can't think of a single reason."

  "Okay, well, so long as we're clear on that."

  The radio jumped through a couple of channels of static, a warbling old country song, and a Spanish talk show before Margot turned it off and fell back into her seat. "Okay, New Hampshire radio officially sucks," she proclaimed.