Read Online The Apocalypse Reader by Justin Taylor (Editor) - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Justin Taylor (Editor)
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Science-Fiction, Short Stories, Anthologies, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), End of the world, Short Stories; American
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say back at base camp. You certainly had a lot to say during that impromptu session of baccarat. Remember the fleecing you gave me? Remember the noogie? I do. It's still right here, pulsing at the back of my head. Just like you were giving it to me still."
Toshikazu turned around abruptly. "Simmer down."
"What? What was that? Could you repeat yourself? I could hardly understand what you were saying-you know why? Maybe because you were actually using language."
Toshikazu launched a stare, something hard and remote, so that Burtson wished he hadn't said anything. "You want to know why I don't talk to you out here? You're an embarrassment."
"No disrespect? I know a certain ball team, a well known team of young black men, a team of men that I own, all of whom would disagree with you."
Toshikazu paused by a felled, half-submerged tree and climbed silently onto the warped trunk. "Look there."
Up ahead they saw a tiny square of light flickering in the dark humidity.
"That's it? That's the stronghold?"
"No. That's a trap."
"How can you tell?"
Toshikazu hefted a small rocket launcher to his shoulder, aimed, and fired a purplish, whiffled sphere, which made a bright howling noise as it tore through the black shrubs. The house from which the light emanated lit up for a moment from the incandescent spray of the rocket-it was a boxy, pitched-beam hut, nailed in with tin sheets and old traffic signs. Then it exploded in a wild, thudding ring of gas and wood chips.
Burtson fell back without realizing and got a mouthful of swamp. The inside of his skull went green and bright.
He floated in place on his back, his jacket snagged on a broken branch. Toshikazu crouched at a distance, poking carefully at the rubble with a twig. Burtson struggled briefly to uncouple himself from the branch but he couldn't reach far enough behind him to unhook his collar.
"Please don't do that again," he said when Toshikazu finally waded back to release him. "Please don't blow anything up. That's not necessary."
"There were bodies in the rubble."
"Come again?"
"Neither of them were your son. Let's keep going."
Burtson crawled up the outcropping and poked at the charred hunks of wood with a long branch. "Hey could you-I mean, I'm just wondering you said there were bodies? In that rubble? The rubble that you, essentially, well, caused?"
Toshikazu was off already, his arms lifted above his chest as he sank deeper into the swamp. Burtson tugged at the cord-his desk was wedged between two half-submerged root balls. He quietly conjured a plume of regret for having overpacked.
It was dark, so dark that even the still things seemed to heave and quake, their outlines no longer registering-the border between the objects and the indefinable world beyond hopelessly blurred and blackened. The night always made him think of Alan, of the terror the moon brought. Marion insisted Alan sleep in their bed as a baby instead of in a crib, so that when he grew too big to fit, he was incapable of sleeping on his own. In order to wean Alan from the master bedroom, Burtson stayed awake night after night, escorting the boy through the nameless hours as they advanced and ebbed with monolithic fury. He read the boy to sleep, literally bludgeoning Alan with language until the words took him out of commission. He burned through all of the books on the boy's shelf, and when he'd read them again, and through a third time, he began to read from his own collection, books about power and influence, how to broker a deal, books on military strategy, books on the construction of factories, of networked enterprise systems, of team leadership and supply chain management, of ancient battleships and the gray'd, stoic men at their helm. He read until his voice went flat and wisped, until the thought of words was so unbearable he couldn't read any more-like there was a man standing behind him, stuffing his mouth with dry paper towels each time he flexed his jaw. He'd gag and spit; unable,
Toshikazu turned around abruptly. "Simmer down."
"What? What was that? Could you repeat yourself? I could hardly understand what you were saying-you know why? Maybe because you were actually using language."
Toshikazu launched a stare, something hard and remote, so that Burtson wished he hadn't said anything. "You want to know why I don't talk to you out here? You're an embarrassment."
"No disrespect? I know a certain ball team, a well known team of young black men, a team of men that I own, all of whom would disagree with you."
Toshikazu paused by a felled, half-submerged tree and climbed silently onto the warped trunk. "Look there."
Up ahead they saw a tiny square of light flickering in the dark humidity.
"That's it? That's the stronghold?"
"No. That's a trap."
"How can you tell?"
Toshikazu hefted a small rocket launcher to his shoulder, aimed, and fired a purplish, whiffled sphere, which made a bright howling noise as it tore through the black shrubs. The house from which the light emanated lit up for a moment from the incandescent spray of the rocket-it was a boxy, pitched-beam hut, nailed in with tin sheets and old traffic signs. Then it exploded in a wild, thudding ring of gas and wood chips.
Burtson fell back without realizing and got a mouthful of swamp. The inside of his skull went green and bright.
He floated in place on his back, his jacket snagged on a broken branch. Toshikazu crouched at a distance, poking carefully at the rubble with a twig. Burtson struggled briefly to uncouple himself from the branch but he couldn't reach far enough behind him to unhook his collar.
"Please don't do that again," he said when Toshikazu finally waded back to release him. "Please don't blow anything up. That's not necessary."
"There were bodies in the rubble."
"Come again?"
"Neither of them were your son. Let's keep going."
Burtson crawled up the outcropping and poked at the charred hunks of wood with a long branch. "Hey could you-I mean, I'm just wondering you said there were bodies? In that rubble? The rubble that you, essentially, well, caused?"
Toshikazu was off already, his arms lifted above his chest as he sank deeper into the swamp. Burtson tugged at the cord-his desk was wedged between two half-submerged root balls. He quietly conjured a plume of regret for having overpacked.
It was dark, so dark that even the still things seemed to heave and quake, their outlines no longer registering-the border between the objects and the indefinable world beyond hopelessly blurred and blackened. The night always made him think of Alan, of the terror the moon brought. Marion insisted Alan sleep in their bed as a baby instead of in a crib, so that when he grew too big to fit, he was incapable of sleeping on his own. In order to wean Alan from the master bedroom, Burtson stayed awake night after night, escorting the boy through the nameless hours as they advanced and ebbed with monolithic fury. He read the boy to sleep, literally bludgeoning Alan with language until the words took him out of commission. He burned through all of the books on the boy's shelf, and when he'd read them again, and through a third time, he began to read from his own collection, books about power and influence, how to broker a deal, books on military strategy, books on the construction of factories, of networked enterprise systems, of team leadership and supply chain management, of ancient battleships and the gray'd, stoic men at their helm. He read until his voice went flat and wisped, until the thought of words was so unbearable he couldn't read any more-like there was a man standing behind him, stuffing his mouth with dry paper towels each time he flexed his jaw. He'd gag and spit; unable,
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