have been a relic from a lost civilization. The last chance to play with
it had flashed past, and they hadn't even known.
Everything tilted sideways. What
the hell were they doing? What was the point of this—of any of this? Freezing bread? Why? So they could live in agonizing loneliness, without their family or their
friends or even any other members of their species? What was the point of that?
It's not forever. It's just
until—
The voice that trampled that
thought was his own, dripping with scorn. Until what? Until rescue? You
know goddamned well there's no rescue. You tell Todd that to keep him
from going crazy. You tell yourself that to fucking coddle yourself. But it's a
lie. Everyone is gone. Everyone in the U.S., everyone on the continent,
everyone overseas.
He recognized that bleakness. It
had the power to shut him down. It had done it before, for weeks and months on
end: that stark realization that nothing mattered. He'd fought it the best he
could, by focusing on the things that mattered to him, by trying to live in the present instead of the terrifying possibilities, but the present was
pretty shitty now, wasn't it? The things that had anchored him—his daughter,
his friends, his wife (oh, gods, his wife )—were gone now. He was
standing in an abandoned grocery store, in an empty city, in an empty country,
on an empty planet, spinning through blackness with no end. He could scream,
and no one would hear him. He could kill himself, and no one would know.
The darkness was so deep, so
sudden, that it stole his breath.
Todd had dug a couple quarters out
of his pocket.
"That..." Alan started,
fighting a sudden clench of anxiety in his chest. "That's not gonna work,
pal."
"I know. But I just want to
try it." Todd hurried to get the coins in before Alan stopped him. The
quarters thunked , and nothing happened, because the machine was dead.
Todd was going to learn this
lesson. Eventually he would realize there's no point in trying the coins if the
machine is dead. That just because you're optimistic, or have a wild hope,
doesn't mean anything good will happen. He'd realize that all hope did was
delude you long enough to make it to the next day.
That vapid grin, that stupid,
pointless pride, would turn to ash and blow away.
In other words, he'll become
like me.
The thought seized him like a
heart attack. He fought it by saying, "Which one did you want?"
Todd glanced back at him, already
flinching, bracing for Alan's wrath. "That one." He pointed at a pink
pony with wings, its eyes taking up half its head and its snout sparkling.
"It reminds me of Allie."
"Back up." Alan grabbed
his arm and pulled him back.
"Sorry." He thought Alan
was berating him for not listening. Of course he did. That was their normal
mode of interaction: he tried to be vivacious and alive, and Alan tried to
grind him down. "I knew it wouldn't work, but—"
Alan smashed the glass open with a
grocery basket. Todd gave a shout of surprise, recoiling.
"Here." Alan shook the
broken glass off the pony, then ran his fingers over it to make sure it was
safe. "It reminds me of her, too. Take good care of it, okay? For all you
know, she's part of it now. Maybe she wanted us to find it."
Mumbo jumbo. Supernatural
hocus-pocus.
"But... how could she—?"
"I don't know, Todd. How
could everyone just disappear? Where did she go? We don't know. We know things
never really go away—remember I told you that?—so where did she go? Where did
they all go?" He was waving a torch, screaming at that darkness, beating
it back with sheer willpower. It was working for now, but it never worked for
long. "When you don't have any answers, sometimes you have to make some
up." Alan grabbed his son's shoulders. "And sometimes the only
meaning things have is the meaning we give them."
Todd didn't understand; Alan could
tell. That was all right. The boy had his pony.
Maybe the speech had been more for
himself.
27
That night Alan turned both
lanterns and
it had flashed past, and they hadn't even known.
Everything tilted sideways. What
the hell were they doing? What was the point of this—of any of this? Freezing bread? Why? So they could live in agonizing loneliness, without their family or their
friends or even any other members of their species? What was the point of that?
It's not forever. It's just
until—
The voice that trampled that
thought was his own, dripping with scorn. Until what? Until rescue? You
know goddamned well there's no rescue. You tell Todd that to keep him
from going crazy. You tell yourself that to fucking coddle yourself. But it's a
lie. Everyone is gone. Everyone in the U.S., everyone on the continent,
everyone overseas.
He recognized that bleakness. It
had the power to shut him down. It had done it before, for weeks and months on
end: that stark realization that nothing mattered. He'd fought it the best he
could, by focusing on the things that mattered to him, by trying to live in the present instead of the terrifying possibilities, but the present was
pretty shitty now, wasn't it? The things that had anchored him—his daughter,
his friends, his wife (oh, gods, his wife )—were gone now. He was
standing in an abandoned grocery store, in an empty city, in an empty country,
on an empty planet, spinning through blackness with no end. He could scream,
and no one would hear him. He could kill himself, and no one would know.
The darkness was so deep, so
sudden, that it stole his breath.
Todd had dug a couple quarters out
of his pocket.
"That..." Alan started,
fighting a sudden clench of anxiety in his chest. "That's not gonna work,
pal."
"I know. But I just want to
try it." Todd hurried to get the coins in before Alan stopped him. The
quarters thunked , and nothing happened, because the machine was dead.
Todd was going to learn this
lesson. Eventually he would realize there's no point in trying the coins if the
machine is dead. That just because you're optimistic, or have a wild hope,
doesn't mean anything good will happen. He'd realize that all hope did was
delude you long enough to make it to the next day.
That vapid grin, that stupid,
pointless pride, would turn to ash and blow away.
In other words, he'll become
like me.
The thought seized him like a
heart attack. He fought it by saying, "Which one did you want?"
Todd glanced back at him, already
flinching, bracing for Alan's wrath. "That one." He pointed at a pink
pony with wings, its eyes taking up half its head and its snout sparkling.
"It reminds me of Allie."
"Back up." Alan grabbed
his arm and pulled him back.
"Sorry." He thought Alan
was berating him for not listening. Of course he did. That was their normal
mode of interaction: he tried to be vivacious and alive, and Alan tried to
grind him down. "I knew it wouldn't work, but—"
Alan smashed the glass open with a
grocery basket. Todd gave a shout of surprise, recoiling.
"Here." Alan shook the
broken glass off the pony, then ran his fingers over it to make sure it was
safe. "It reminds me of her, too. Take good care of it, okay? For all you
know, she's part of it now. Maybe she wanted us to find it."
Mumbo jumbo. Supernatural
hocus-pocus.
"But... how could she—?"
"I don't know, Todd. How
could everyone just disappear? Where did she go? We don't know. We know things
never really go away—remember I told you that?—so where did she go? Where did
they all go?" He was waving a torch, screaming at that darkness, beating
it back with sheer willpower. It was working for now, but it never worked for
long. "When you don't have any answers, sometimes you have to make some
up." Alan grabbed his son's shoulders. "And sometimes the only
meaning things have is the meaning we give them."
Todd didn't understand; Alan could
tell. That was all right. The boy had his pony.
Maybe the speech had been more for
himself.
27
That night Alan turned both
lanterns and
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