Gary Braunbeck - Keepers

Across the room, another window exploded in a shower of glass and wood. One of them was throwing rocks through all the downstairs windows in order to let in the mist. The mist swallowed sound. The mist obscured perspective. The mist had terrible faces in it, both animal and human, and they wanted to talk to me, make me listen, make me understand that it had to be this way and I really had no choice in the matter, it was an ancient thing when you got right down to it, a way for nature to make perpetual use of its organic systems, hadn’t I figured that out yet?

I stepped over the broiled mass on the floor and made my way into the kitchen, grabbing the step stool and putting it to good use. Then I started back toward the guest bedroom. Underneath the house, the dog’s shrieks of fury had become something so loud and primal and frenzied they sounded like the screams of a waking dragon. I knew there was a chance she might come after me once I was down there but I had to risk it. She’d come here for a reason; even if she wasn’t completely aware of it, I was.

A flash of movement as one of the Bowlers darted across the hall. I lifted the shotgun and pulled the trigger; there was only an impotent click!

So be it.

I used the dagger to cut away the duct tape and let the shotgun drop to the floor, then removed the pistol from the back of my pants and clicked off the safety before transferring it to my ruined hand and using the remaining duct tape to hold it in place.

Then I just stood there.

I could hear them coming in through the back door, through the shattered windows, pounding their way through weak spots in the roof. Two loud thumps from behind the door to the upstairs let me know that at least one of them had made it through the flames and was heading down.

Still, I just stood there.

I wanted them to see that I was still on my feet, that I was still fighting, that I was not going to go gently into that empty lonely, miserable, and not-so-good fucking night. They weren’t going to win, and before I died I wanted to make sure they knew it.

Beneath the porch, the dog’s cry became a high, clear song of triumph.

I smiled. I had long ago learned the words with which to name my own secret losses and shames, and the old man on the highway had whispered some of them to me as he turned his head so I could see the small plastic blue tag attached to the back of his ear.

I thought he was dead. No one could have survived being hit and dragged like that, but as I knelt down beside him his eyes opened.

“This is the way it’s supposed to be,” he’d said to me as his bloodied hand grabbed my shirt. “We can only wait for so long after… after, you know. I’m… I’m sorry. Will you forgive me? I just couldn’t finish it. It doesn’t seem right to do it like this. Can you… you… forgive me?” ”

“Of course,” I’d whispered, brushing his blue tag with the back of my thumb. “Of course I forgive you.”

“I just wanted to look like a human being when this time came.”

I offered him the derby. “I understand.”

“They know,” he said. “They’ve always known. Be careful.” Then he whispered my name. And died.

I knew then he’d been following me-had probably been watching me for a long while (isn’t that what they did with a candidate?)-but in the end found some reserve of compassion that stopped him from going through with what he’d been sent to do. Knowing what they’d do to him because of his failure, he’d chosen to die, dressed in his snappy suit with a dapper bowler hat upon his head.

I’d pulled the tag from his ear before the police arrived, then tossed it out the window as I drove home. By the time I pulled into my driveway his words were white noise in my memory. Then I found a dog on my lawn. A package arrived. Visitors came.

In the living room I opened the bottle of Johnny Walker I’d taken from its hiding place, lifted it in the air, and toasted the old man on the highway before drinking deeply. The liquor sliding so smoothly down, my throat felt like a dead limb suddenly tingling back to life. I made it a long, slow, deep drink, the only one I would take: I pulled the bottle away, wiped the back of my arm across my mouth, and shouted, “Come join the party. It’s gonna be a real barn-burner, motherfuckers!” I threw the bottle across the room and pulled out the second lighter. End of tough-guy action-film moment.

A few seconds later Magritte-Man stepped into the hallway, dashing and stylish as ever. The mist was rolling in, covering the floor, creeping up the walls. In a few moments it would engulf the room and he wouldn’t be able to hear me.

“I appreciate this chance alone with you,” I said.

He reached up and gave me a respectful tip of his hat; as he did this, the mist began to twist and spread farther across the floor, swirling to our ankles. It felt like lead shackles, weighing down my feet. It was cold, so very cold, yet I could feel something like a damp pulse in its tendrils, one that was firm and strong.

“You put on a good show.”

He spread his arms before him and gave a very theatrical bow. At my feet I could hear the reverberating echoes of the screams and gunfire the mist had swallowed, but more than that, I could hear voices, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, whispering in rapid, anxious tones of course I understand dear I don’t want to be a burden I’ll be fine here Jesus Christ who’s idea was it to have your mother move in my God will you look at that child I wonder what happened to make it look like that did the mother do drugs you suppose Daddy will you play with me I don’t have anyone to play with why does that kid cry all the time don’t you know I need my sleep it’s not our fault he was born looking like that who didn’t feed the fucking dog the litter box hasn’t been changed can’t walk can’t go to the bathroom by himself can’t understand what he says half the time if we had money for the surgery don’t you think we’d I wish I’d miscarried anything’s better than this so why don’t you call me anymore you put me here and say you’ll visit but now the goddamn thing’s barking all night and I’m gonna shoot it I swear to God as the churning carpet of silver rose higher-almost to my knees now-and once again unveiled the bas-relief Magic Zoo: birds, cats, tigers, horses, dogs, sea creatures whose tentacles blossomed from the tendrils, bears, deer, elk, snakes, all of their faces and forms pressing outward, then came the faces of the chimera, the manticora, the gryphon and Minotaur and harpy and other creatures of myth.

Long-Lost’s children.

From a world that was supposed to be but got fucked up.

When God blinked.

The creatures looked unafraid.

They seemed to recognize me.

I stared for a moment at the Minotaur, his hooves and horns-I knew something like this from somewhere-then was snapped back as the coldness of the rising mist touched my elbows; the room was nearly full. “I need to ask you a question.”

Magritte-Man gestured for me to continue as other forms took shape, hybrids and monstrosities and faces of the malformed whispering I want to, I want to, I want to, please…

“We really weren’t supposed to be the dominant species on this planet, were we? That’s why there were more animals than humans on the Ark, right?”

He pointed toward my feet to where a section of mist was pulling back to reveal something. I didn’t want to look away from him, didn’t want to chance being taken by surprise, but there was a stillness between us that seemed far removed from everything that had happened or was about to happen, as if, just for this moment, I was protected, safe from harm. I stared at him for a second longer, then looked down.

There at my feet lay a small gray cat, eyes opened wide in anguish and fear, its neck broken, legs kicking out and back as its body twitched and spasmed. It was just as horrible to watch now as it had been that day nearly three decades ago behind Beckman’s Market. The silver tag on its collar was still covered in blood. It jerked to the side, looking at me, accusing me. I felt my legs begin to give out, and knelt down to touch it, whispering now, as I did then, “I’m sorry, kitty, I’m sorry…”