Authors: Daniel G. Keohane
She walked towards him. It was then, in the last five seconds of her life that Neha knew what she had to do. Kill Suresh; stop the madness. Kill the prophet and his delusions.
How
didn't matter. People were starting to scream behind her, but the reasons for their renewed outbursts didn't concern her. All she could see, all she could focus upon, was the man hanging over the edge of the dock.
Suresh watched Neha watching him. He wondered if she noticed the vomit on his shirt. His wife's face twitched with an effort to appear emotionless. He had seen her do this many times before. Now, though, a thin line of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth, falling across the dark skin of her perfect chin. When Neha began walking, her gaze never wavered from his own. Suresh's hands ached. He slipped past the edge of the dock, keeping his head above the wood as if treading water. He wondered what he must look like. The cowering husband flinching away from his wife, a dog fearing the rap on its nose.
The mud at the bottom sucked at his ankles.
“I'm sorry,” he said. Like Linda Meyers' smoke, Suresh's voice tore away behind him. Neha must have seen his lips move for she spoke in reply. He was grateful not to hear. When she reached the end of the dock Suresh released his grip. He sank to his knees, wondering if he would continue sinking, away from the woman leaning over him. The trees and cottage, the very earth holding them all in place erupted behind her. Neha never looked back. The world was suspended in that final moment as she reached towards her devoted husband, the destruction only a quickly descending backdrop. Then the Pacific Ocean passed overhead, carrying them all away.
* * *
The first major crest rolled over the valleys between the mountain ranges. In a mad game of leap frog, the next wave tumbled overhead, rose back up. Torn between gravity and momentum it found its mark further east. In this manner the water moved from town to town and state to state. Each cresting wave surged lower than its predecessor until the sea, its initial enthusiasm spent, rolled across the Plains.
Miles later, it settled, finally spread as a level of rising salt water that broke and fell back against the first significant obstacle in its path.
At its furthest point, thirty-five miles east of the now-refilled Mississippi basin, the flood became a playground for children who understood little its source. They danced in the salty puddles; scooped mud into red plastic buckets, the nightmare of being pressed to the ground only an hour earlier forgotten with this new distraction. Trembling on porches, mothers and fathers stared westward and wondered why they had been spared. They leaned against poles, sat in folding chairs, watching the increasing number of olive green helicopters thumping with an angry urgency westward.
Epilogue
The sail flapped uncertainly in the wind. Carl leaned forward on his knees against the portside railing and stared out to sea. Now and then the sleek body of a dolphin broke the surface as it swam westward, following the receding tide. Not for the first time, he wondered why he searched for Margaret among the waves, rather than his own family. He tried to imagine what his parents went through in those final moments, but all he could summon was a still image of his front yard. The only reality he could envision at the moment was Margaret Carboneau, and she was gone forever. He thought about his discussion with the priest, if the man believed in the Rapture, God taking his chosen ones to heaven before the world came to an end.
Carl wondered about this now. Milling around the ship with unsteady feet, the passengers gazed across the water in every direction. These people had become his family over the past two months as they built the ark, yet most seemed strangers to him and each other now. Al stood at the bow, taking his shift with the binoculars, keeping tabs on the horizons. So far today they'd seen two other ships, drifting across the water, not trusting their navigational skills to draw too close to one another. When they'd emerged with a heaving flourish into a tempestuous sea six days ago Carl had been unconscious. Only yesterday did the waves calm enough to risk going above deck.
Tony and Jennifer Donato (though technically they still weren't married, she'd finally taken his last name) played dual roles of social chairmen, going from person to person to maintain morale, and surrogate parents to little Connor. They worked out a rationing schedule with the parents of the other baby, and were doing their awkward best to wean Connor onto regular (though evaporated) milk. Everyone had a role to play, mostly to keep the ark aimed eastward as much as possible. Carl, Al, the Donatos and Estelle had, willingly or not, taken up the leadership vacancy left behind by Margaret Carboneau.
No one prayed, at least not openly. No one seemed to know what they should be doing most of the time. Every morning Carl insisted on reading a passage from Margaret’s Bible as an impromptu worship service. Everyone had a role, and he wondered if this would become his. He didn’t feel qualified, but then there were too few on board to be choosy. At that last moment, before he dropped the ramp, Carl remembered looking at Margaret sitting on the grass and thinking,
She's the only one who deserves to be on this ship and she's sitting on the ground waiting to die
. Now she was gone, leaving the survivors to sort things out for themselves.
Maybe the Rapture had come after all.
Carl couldn't help noticing how many of the crew looked at baby Connor like it was his fault for losing Margaret to the wave. Sometimes they even looked at Carl the same way. Even now, Katie Carboneau was sitting back in the stern reading
Horton Hears a Who
for the tenth time to Robin. Fae sat a respectable distance away, keeping an eye on the two of them. For the most part, Katie ignored everyone but her sister, as if the responsibility for caring for Robin had fallen on her. Occasionally, she would stare silently at Carl, accusing without actually saying,
You let my mother die.
It made him sick to think he'd lost not only Margaret, but her daughters, too.
He looked over the railing to the sea. The sun was sinking lower in the eastern horizon, a bizarre twist in nature no one realized had happened until Al checked the ship’s compass. The chill of early evening was beginning to creep over the deck. Carl saw another ship far off, the barest glinting of a light on deck. “I wonder where we are,” he thought aloud.
“You should sleep for a while,” Estelle said, ignoring his statement. “If there's anyone out there they can get you to a hospital and set this arm right.” She didn't say the implied
if there are any hospitals left
. Carl felt a familiar pang in his stomach. This was the second time Estelle had made that comment about his arm. He should ask her what was wrong. The splint and makeshift cast used a considerable portion of the medical supplies onboard, and already had to be changed twice. For some reason, Estelle kept sniffing it. It was probably best not to ask if she had any real medical knowledge. The arm hurt like hell. Every time it ached too much, he made himself remember how bad it was when they tried to set the bone. Then, Carl had screamed so loudly his throat hurt for hours.
“Would you mind getting someone to help me back into my chair?”
“Sure.” Carl turned away from the railing and motioned for his schoolmate Andy. The kid stumbled across the deck towards them. Carl figured if any of them would fall overboard, Andy would be first. Ignoring Estelle's protests, Carl used his good arm to help lift her into the wheelchair which had been locked in position to prevent it from rolling off the deck.
“Thank you again,” Carl whispered into her ear. She patted his good arm. Her grip on him during the flood never loosened. Who knew how bad his arm would have been if he was allowed to flail about, let alone what damage he'd have done to other passengers? If anyone could have held him that long, though, it was Estelle with her over-developed arm muscles. The bruises on his back constantly reminded him of that, and was one more bit of proof that God might still be hanging around somewhere, keeping an eye on them.
He used the railing for support and swung his backpack over his shoulder, then moved cautiously towards the back of the boat. Katie stopped reading, but did not look up. When little Robin saw him she smiled and waved.
She
held no grudge.
Mommy's with Daddy now
, she'd said to Fae on their second day out. Carl waved back and forced himself to smile.
Katie finally looked up. Carl wanted to leave, go below deck, out of sight. But he waited. The ship rocked, forcing him to lean hard against the railing.
Katie looked back down, sniffed, and flipped the book back to the beginning, started to read again. Halfway through the first sentence, she hesitated and bit her lip. She lifted the book slightly. Without glancing up, gave it a little shake. Carl knew he was probably misreading the gesture, but his arm hurt, he was tired, and at the moment he no longer cared. Besides, he was certain Robin wanted him there.
He pushed himself off the railing and walked towards the girls. Robin scooted sideways, making room between them. Carl was slow to sit, expecting Katie to smack him with her book. She didn't. He laid his backpack under his knee and waited until Robin clambered onto his lap and leaned into him, before he dared lower his bandaged left arm to the deck. Katie remained sitting, stiffly, on his right. He opened his other hand. At first nothing happened; then the older girl put the closed book into his palm.
She whispered, “We already read this a hundred times...” letting the sentence drift away. Carl thought he understood. He considered calling Andy over, asking him to go below for another picture book, but remembered his backpack.
He put down the Horton book, cleared his throat, whispered, “In the pack, the front section.”
After a short hesitation, Katie leaned forward and unzipped the pack. She reached in, her hand emerging with Margaret’s tattered Bible. She stared at it, not handing the book over.
Carl said, “It was your mother’s. She’d want you to have it now.”
Katie’s hand shook. She pulled the book against her chest, and the three sat without speaking. Robin and Carl waited. Keeping her gaze to the deck, Katie handed the book to Carl.
“We’ll share it,” she said.
To Carl, those three words were the most powerful sentence he’d ever heard. He bit his lip, wanting to cry but knowing instinctively he should not. Not now. This moment was Katie’s. He held the book in his good hand, flipped random pages with his thumb.
As he began to read, Katie Carboneau slowly turned her face against his shoulder and cried.
Carl kept on reading.
###
About the Author
Dan Keohane’s debut novel,
Solomon’s Grave
, was a finalist for the 2009 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel. His short fiction has been published in a variety of professional magazines including
Cemetery Dance
,
Shroud Magazine
,
Apex Digest, Coach’s Midnight Diner
and many more. Many of his stories have been collected in
Christmas Trees & Monkeys, Collected Horror Stories Volume 1
. Many have received Honorable Mention in the
Year’s Best Horror
anthologies. He’s an active member of the Horror Writers Association and founding member of the New England Horror Writers. You can learn more about his work at his website:
http://www.dankeohane.com
, and whatever social network happens to be the rage at the moment. He’s afraid of clowns, but pretends he’s not, because that would be weird.
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