Tony Burgess - The n-Body Problem

We eat oil and vitamin D. Drink water. Sit in the white darkness.

If the cloud clears, we’ll ride. If not, we’ll still ride.

There is ash drifting across Airport Road. The road dips and banks like a mad ribbon. Entire forests spring from rearing walls then fall as if dropped by a hand into bottomless valleys. It used to be beautiful. Now it looks slick with black rot. The colour is uniform. The forests are drowning in unbreathable light. The ash forms zebra marks in fallow fields. At least the cloud is thinner, higher. A light mist has turned to glue on our windshield and we have to stop to pull it back.

Y turns off this road onto a county road before we get to Avening. That’s where he is.

“This where you tracked him?”

Y nods. I grant him the get. School board said he had been using the meadows behind the community hall to gather folks. I pat the scar underneath my navel. There is new muscle there. I am in old body and it has changed. I wonder if Y is. Has he been sneaking SSRIs? He seems more animated, more focused than ever. Pre-syndrome. New body. Won’t last long. He appears to be much older. Deformed by this. His brow is pointed. His shoulders out-size him.

“There’s an off-road lane through the woods up here. Farmers used it to access the back of fields. Let’s see what we can see if we crawl in close.”

Y’s driving too fast. I keep forgetting he’s a kid. So does he.

“Ok, pull over. I drive from here.”

He stops short. Can’t tell if that’s just inexperience. The smell outside the car is distinct. I smell maple salmon. Clearly just that. Maple salmon. I have to stand still for a full minute before I climb into the driver’s seat.

“So what’s the plan? Are we going to war with a whole town?”

The maple salmon smell is in the cab now. The smell of bodies falling from the sky.

“Nope. We let them do most of the work.”

The way I figure it, if the school board thinks this town is already dangerous, already lost, then I’ll let Dixon strike his set before I kill him. I don’t want the blood of everybody on my hands.

We see fires burning through the trees ahead. I stop the truck.

“Okay. We don’t shoot anybody. Not unless they come after us.”

Y nods. I’m not sure if he’s relieved or dis-appointed. I know for a fact he is prepared to kill people. Can’t tell if he’s itching to.

We advance to about fifty metres of the perimeter of the field. I place Y behind a large fallen willow and I move up into the thinner trees. There are three fire pits. About four or five hundred men, women, and children gathered. They are all wearing pyjamas. Some have old-fashioned night caps on their heads. Some carry candles. There is soft singing from different groups. The sound overlaps. It is a sombre but light celebration. Kids carry stuffed toys. The flash of cameras. Strollers. A few wheelchairs.

I see no sign of Dixon, but I’m pretty sure we’ve crept up on the last night on earth. I fall back to the truck and wave Y over. It’s three in the afternoon but it’s been twilight all day. The monotonous scale of things is giving me a bit of vertigo. Lead sky, lead ground, lead light, lead morning, lead day. It was looking at my watch that made me swoon. Lead time. The trees are crudely drawn and heavily filled in. A rude hand has crushed a pencil into the heart of everything out here.

“Are we just gonna let them all die?”

Y has moved from would-be mass killer to would-be saviour in a matter of minutes. He just wants to know which one so he can finally be it and it alone. I don’t answer his question. It’s a good one. Am I a killer or a saviour? I know better than that.

“Do you think he’s come here? Is he gonna do his thing tonight?”

The thrum of song hangs in the forest. It’s hard not to feel awe.

“I think there’s a good chance.”

“You wanna let them die or do you wanna kill them?”

A grackle shoots through the trees and beheads itself on a branch. There are bats out. Middle of the day. They tend to hit the ground then rise a foot or two and whoomp back down. Over and over again until they die. Now I can smell the smoke from the fires. It consumes the sickening maple salmon odour.

“They sing.”

Y nods. Then looks to me. Does that mean we should let them die? Are they ready?

There he is. I can hear him. I step out of the truck and hold a hand out to Y. Stay.

I move closer but still can’t hear what he’s saying. Just the tone. A preacher’s tone. Lifting and dropping then lifting higher. I can see him now. He’s in an orange t-shirt. White hair. Thin. Can’t see his face from here. But that’s Dixon alright. People are sitting, listening. The occasional murmur of assent. Infant crying. There is someone beside Dixon. A woman in a brown dress. She’s with him. Not town. Dixon stops talking then the woman breaks out into song. An ancient church song. Her voice is clear and loud. Strange to hear something so clean cut through the forest. Dixon is leading a steady clap. I think things are gonna start soon. I turn to the truck, Y sits in the dark cab. I can hardly see him. I wave him out.

Y brings the guns with him. I walk back to grab mine. He is ready. His eyes are cold. I feel a need to temper this.

“This is a terrible day, Y.”

Y looks frustrated.

“We are going to be part of a massacre.”

Y swallows. He is sweating.

“Are we doing this?”

“You’ll do what I tell you to do, but remember this: we—you and me—we didn’t ask for this. We do this for a bigger reason than any we may harbour.”

Y is flustered by this. It feels grey.

“We are the good part here.”

Y lowers his head. That’s what I wanted. Lower your head, pal. This is where we need to come from. I hook my hand around the back of his neck and give him a quick shake.

“We’re gonna come out the other side of this different than we are now.”

Y takes a deep breath.

“So let’s respect these lives that are about to end.”

Y looks up. His cold eyes are wet. Don’t quite need that, actually.

“Let’s know that we are cruel and that God will abandon us.”

I lift his gun to his chest and bang it into him.

“It’s His bad world, son.”

This works. He knows what this means. He’s ready again. I take him to a sheltered spot just inside the tree line. We crouch. The singing has stopped. Four men are unravelling a long cable, rolling it down the centre of the field. Several woman are positioning people along the cable. People are finding their place and holding on. Some children will not give up their stuffed toys and hang on to the cable with one hand.

“We’re going to let them finish.”

Y doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

“I don’t want to run in there shooting at women and children.”

Y clenches his teeth.

“Do you?”

“No, sir.”

The massive crack of electricity takes me by surprise. White spittle flies up and through the line of people. No screams. Just a horrible snapping. It doesn’t stop. For a full ten minutes. Then it stops. It’s darker now and hard to see the bodies. You can smell them, though. Skin scorched into flannel. Bang! I can make out the woman walking up one side of the line. Bang! The muzzle flare. She’s putting down survivors. I can hear them now. Moans. Bang! She shoots another five or six times and the moaning stops.