James Morrow - This Is the Way the World Ends

George said, ‘Your showroom used to be around here, didn’t it?’

‘Fucking Cossacks!’

‘It’s amazing you aren’t dead.’

‘I was at the Lizard… a quick drink, that’s all, and a minute of talk with… a lady, nothing wrong with that, two minutes of talk, because my boy… Nickie – you just asked about him, didn’t you? – well, he’s off sledding at the Barlows with this nice old person we use for a baby-sitter, the Covington lady, though I can’t even find the Barlows, which is where my boy is, with Mrs Covington, who’s a good baby-sitter, we can definitely recommend her, so I’m sure he’s alive, I mean, the units can’t all have been defective, just the Palo Alto line, probably – the Osaka ones must be okay, especially Nickie’s, who was sledding at the Barlows – right? – broken suit or no.’ The salesman groaned, and a viscous mix of water and pink solids poured from his mouth. ‘The point is, I’m not having my company associated with a cheapjack product, people will lose faith. The customer is always right – you probably learned that at the tomb works, eh, buddy-buddy? If we don’t get a better performance out of these units next time, why, the whole industry will go down the toilet. What’s that gold thing?’

‘Scopas suit.’

‘Never saw a gold one before.’

‘It’s special. Custom-made.’

‘Kind of small.’

‘It’s for Holly – her Christmas present. She’s going to get this and a Mary Merlin doll.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ said John, who had drawn the Colt .45 from his utility belt and was now aiming it at George. ‘It’s for Nickie. He’s sledding with Mrs Covington. Damn good baby-sitter.’

George vomited. ‘Forget it, John,’ he said, wiping his mouth.

The pistol was ugly. It did not waver. Is this where the bomb had come from? No, too small. An airplane had brought it, or a missile. Was there any hope? Yes, there was, lying in the holster of Holly’s suit…

‘I’ll bet it doesn’t even work ,’ said the salesman. ‘It’s not an Eschatological.’

George made a swift, calculated grab toward the utility belt. He heard a sound like a firecracker exploding.

The bullet rammed through the left glove of Holly’s suit and entered his stomach, throwing him to the ground. The suit embraced him. He felt nauseated, terrified. A burning poker had spitted him, drilling his bowels. It hurt more than anything possibly could, and yet it did not hurt enough, did not punish him sufficiently for failing to bring her salvation home.

‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t even want that stupid suit. You shouldn’t have moved. I hope I haven’t killed you. Nickie’s off sledding. Jesus, what a horrible day this has been. Have I killed you? I told you not to move!’

John slid the Colt .45 muzzle between his lips. He moved it back and forth as if operating a bicycle pump, licked the metal, pushed it tight against the roof of his mouth. Odd behavior, George thought, for a man who has just survived a thermonuclear war. There was a pop. Something coral-colored and soggy flew out of the back of John’s head, and he fell.

George looked heavenward. A bloated, bellied shape wheeled across the scorched sky. It had a scraggy neck and a beak like the jaws of a steam shovel. Its eyes were yellow, glowing, crosshatched by veins. The beating of its wings, loud and violent as a stampede, raised a wind that stirred the ashes in the pit and heaped them on George’s body.

He named the creature. Vulture. The mightiest vulture in the world, big as a pterodactyl. It had come to pick his bones.

Lieutenant Commander Olaf Sverre, who could see beyond the horizon, stood in the periscope room of his strategic submarine, watching the Commonwealth of Massachusetts burn down.

‘God help them,’ he mumbled, pressing his good eye against Periscope Number One. Each town’s flames had a distinctive tint. Stockbridge burned orange, Worcester violet, Wellesley gold, Newton vermillion.

The periscope was a wondrous blend of mysticism and know-how. Its lenses were made of beryl, the very substance from which Roger Bacon, the thirteenth-century wizard, had fashioned a looking glass that enabled him to observe events occurring a hundred miles away. When Sugar Brook National Laboratory, working under a cost-plus contract from the United States Department of Defense, had aligned these fabulous glass disks according to doodles found in the notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci and then linked them to an array of geostationary satellites, the result was a periscope of infinite range. The US Congress had recently bought the American people forty-two such devices, one for every Philadelphia -class fleet ballistic missile submarine in the Navy. The people were for the most part surprised and delighted by these gifts, and pleased to learn that the people of the Soviet Union did not have any yet.

Sverre narrowed the focal length, bringing the glowing mass of Boston into view. Confused sea gulls soared through the skies above the harbor. They were on fire. He closed his right eye and opened his left, which was made of gutta-percha. There, that was better, no burning gulls. Each evening Sverre would remove his rubber eye, soak it in gin, and replace it, whereupon the alcohol would seep into his brain, giving him a unique and copacetic high. In these troubled times, it was the only way he could get to sleep.

Although Sverre could monitor places as remote as India and Argentina, he could not see what was happening on his own ship. For this he relied on his executive officer. ‘Mister Grass,’ he growled into the intercom, ‘bring me a status report.’

It would take Lieutenant Grass several minutes to reach the periscope room. Time for a drink. Time for two. Sverre yanked a bottle from his claw-hammer coat, poured gin into a Styrofoam cup. Black fur thrived on the sides of his stovepipe hat. Dark, silky hairs sprouted along his cheeks, rushing down his jaw and coming together in great torrents of beard.

A stanza of poetry jumped spontaneously into his mind. Grabbing a booklet called The MK-49 Torpedo: Repairs and Servicing , he turned it over and scribbled:

Lieutenant Grass came in, brass buttons sparkling, white uniform croaking softly with starch. His freckles looked newly polished. He loved the Navy.

Sverre crossed out the stanza. ‘Can we leave this ghastly place?’

‘They pulled the man free an hour ago,’ said the exec. ‘He’s in surgery.’

‘Surgery? Hell. I’m not delivering any corpses, that’s not how my orders read. Prognosis?’

‘Fair. The bullet probably would have finished him, but it went through some kid’s scopas suit first. He’s a strong fellow – carved tombstones for a living.’

‘Tombstones?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What do they want with him ?’

‘Beats me, Captain.’

‘Contaminated?’

‘Over two hundred and fifty rads, the needle said.’

‘Got any more bad news, as long as you’re here? Tell me the ward can’t handle another case.’

‘Well, they’re still treating Wengernook and Tarmac, but even after Paxton’s admitted they won’t be near capacity. This is a fine boat they gave you, sir.’

Sverre contacted the control room and ordered the diving officer to bring them around. ‘Take her down, Mister Sparks. Two hundred feet.’