liquidated hair. He’d grown accustomed after years of inhale, but this, much closer, made him choke.
At his side, hunched on the tricycle, the girl pulled the neckline of her dress over her mouth, her eyes already bloodshot, the veins blistering to knots.
From the top ridge of the chasm lip, they saw together down into the gorge.
At the bottom, piled among the trash, sat the grand finale of the Governor’s parade. The crepe left crashed and punctured. Bloating bodies squashed around old coupes, their metal crumpled, battered, caved. Whole truckbeds full of people toppled—people other people’d loved. Women Randall had ogled with gross wanting. The men he’d spent endless nights with pounding shots with, fly-licked blood now flooding from their mouths. Even the mammoth Governor replica whipped to pieces, its neck snapped and elbows bent. Not far, the Governor himself lay ripped, his new woman jackknifed at his side. Randall could not quit his brain from seeing each body somersaulting one after another. Their last air coming out or stuck inside them, hung.
Overhead the birds still hovered, half a billion screeching, shitting, hiding light.
The girl stood beside him mouth half open. He couldn’t even find the nerve to turn her head.
In his mind: The birds. The birds.
A funny feeling came over him then—a tingle ripping through his fat. Looking down onto the wreckage, Randall felt the sudden impulse to go on and jump off, to throw himself into the chasm with the wind of the birds’ wings riffling his hair. He kicked a rock and watched it topple, pocking some ex-neighbor’s exposed skull between the eyes. It was only by some scummy nod of knowing that he didn’t just go on.
Above, the legions watched, clocked in his ears. The black abrasion of the sky behind them now, made of all color, was on the verge of waking, breach.
Randall put a hand against his heavy skull and lard-rung forehead, the last door against the noise—the same fat fucking head he’d almost scratched off a hundred times. He could feel those goddamn questions for which again he had no answer, his brain into a lock they had the key to, so much scrape—
WHO WAS COMING
WHAT COULD ANYBODY WANT
Muffled as they were, he could not quit it. Scrims of new night flushed his numb. His son’s head in the heavens, begging. His father behind, eyes brightened, wide. Randall covered at his holes. He turned toward the girl. Her eyes were wetter now, her skin pulled taut, showing their veins. The birds weren’t inside her, Randall could see that, though he could not name what it was that kept them out.
The girl pointed past him in the gorge rip, somehow aimed at one man bloated on top of several others, his black hair thick the way the girl’s was, his lips stretched and pleased, wide beyond their size. She nodded, blinking, forced her eyes closed, pulled her arms into her dress. She got off the trike, the cushion sticking. She wheeled the wheels to Randall and fixed his hand around the metal. So much rust. The once white grips now gray. He nudged the frame once with his right foot, again, again, until it tottered off the gorge edge. Below, it made no sound.
He turned back toward the girl, his whipped eyes brimming in the treble. He couldn’t move yet. He tried to see her. She nodded once and stepped toward. The birds lurched with her movement. Screeching. She didn’t blink. She reached.
This time when her hand hit his, he held it. It felt like his son’s once, during those few months he’d had a chance to feel—the palm pudgy and dampened, the fingers fragile, warm.
With the child, he turned around to face the forest, from the bird sound, from the sun.
They’d been walking for a week then. When the girl felt faint or winded, Randall would hoist her up. He didn’t like to stop for very long for any reason. He didn’t know where they were going, though he knew there had to be somewhere else from where they were—miles from any other
At his side, hunched on the tricycle, the girl pulled the neckline of her dress over her mouth, her eyes already bloodshot, the veins blistering to knots.
From the top ridge of the chasm lip, they saw together down into the gorge.
At the bottom, piled among the trash, sat the grand finale of the Governor’s parade. The crepe left crashed and punctured. Bloating bodies squashed around old coupes, their metal crumpled, battered, caved. Whole truckbeds full of people toppled—people other people’d loved. Women Randall had ogled with gross wanting. The men he’d spent endless nights with pounding shots with, fly-licked blood now flooding from their mouths. Even the mammoth Governor replica whipped to pieces, its neck snapped and elbows bent. Not far, the Governor himself lay ripped, his new woman jackknifed at his side. Randall could not quit his brain from seeing each body somersaulting one after another. Their last air coming out or stuck inside them, hung.
Overhead the birds still hovered, half a billion screeching, shitting, hiding light.
The girl stood beside him mouth half open. He couldn’t even find the nerve to turn her head.
In his mind: The birds. The birds.
A funny feeling came over him then—a tingle ripping through his fat. Looking down onto the wreckage, Randall felt the sudden impulse to go on and jump off, to throw himself into the chasm with the wind of the birds’ wings riffling his hair. He kicked a rock and watched it topple, pocking some ex-neighbor’s exposed skull between the eyes. It was only by some scummy nod of knowing that he didn’t just go on.
Above, the legions watched, clocked in his ears. The black abrasion of the sky behind them now, made of all color, was on the verge of waking, breach.
Randall put a hand against his heavy skull and lard-rung forehead, the last door against the noise—the same fat fucking head he’d almost scratched off a hundred times. He could feel those goddamn questions for which again he had no answer, his brain into a lock they had the key to, so much scrape—
WHO WAS COMING
WHAT COULD ANYBODY WANT
Muffled as they were, he could not quit it. Scrims of new night flushed his numb. His son’s head in the heavens, begging. His father behind, eyes brightened, wide. Randall covered at his holes. He turned toward the girl. Her eyes were wetter now, her skin pulled taut, showing their veins. The birds weren’t inside her, Randall could see that, though he could not name what it was that kept them out.
The girl pointed past him in the gorge rip, somehow aimed at one man bloated on top of several others, his black hair thick the way the girl’s was, his lips stretched and pleased, wide beyond their size. She nodded, blinking, forced her eyes closed, pulled her arms into her dress. She got off the trike, the cushion sticking. She wheeled the wheels to Randall and fixed his hand around the metal. So much rust. The once white grips now gray. He nudged the frame once with his right foot, again, again, until it tottered off the gorge edge. Below, it made no sound.
He turned back toward the girl, his whipped eyes brimming in the treble. He couldn’t move yet. He tried to see her. She nodded once and stepped toward. The birds lurched with her movement. Screeching. She didn’t blink. She reached.
This time when her hand hit his, he held it. It felt like his son’s once, during those few months he’d had a chance to feel—the palm pudgy and dampened, the fingers fragile, warm.
With the child, he turned around to face the forest, from the bird sound, from the sun.
They’d been walking for a week then. When the girl felt faint or winded, Randall would hoist her up. He didn’t like to stop for very long for any reason. He didn’t know where they were going, though he knew there had to be somewhere else from where they were—miles from any other
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