Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

“Security,” says Garnett, with a look at Elvis. “I don’t want all of us trapped in there at once.”

“I get that,” says Davis. “We all do, don’t we?” The others nod. Davis turns back to Garnett and Elvis. “But we’ve got another idea. The heavy stuff is all outside the hotel, right? No sense in lethal countermeasures in the interior, with the tourists.”

“That’s so,” Elvis says. “We got some fierce stuff on the periphery, but inside it’s all five-star resort.”

“Five star,” mutters another of the men. “Hot showers?”

“Our own water supply,” Elvis says. “Hot as you can stand it.”

Garnett glares. “What’s your idea?”

“Easy enough,” says Davis. “We all go in together. But after, only half goes out at a time. Once they’re clear of the peripheral defenses, they signal to the other half. That way everybody gets to see the show, and everybody’s still safe. What do you think?”

Elvis watches Garnett. The colonel feels around in his jacket where he pulled out his other cigar. Elvis smiles, and offers up a vintage Cuban in its sealed tube. “Here y’are, Colonel. Take it easy. Probably been a while since you had one of these.”

Garnett’s eyes widen. “Just the once, then,” he says. “I mean I guess it’ll never happen again. Just this one time. Everybody oughta take in the show.”

First the cleanup. Showers and shaves, the little hotel toiletries still in perfect condition after decades in storage. Then it’s tuxedos for everyone.

“We got all sizes,” Elvis says. “Daylewhite planned they’d rent with the rooms, see. But seeing as you’re our first guests, consider these compliments of the house.”

The rough, sunburned men are awed by their own transformation. Fitted perfectly in their new evening suits, hair styled and slicked, faces clean.

“Looka me!” says Davis, spinning on his heel. “I’m a fuckin’ movie star! ”

“Language, boy,” Elvis says. “That ain’t how we talk around here.”

“Sorry, sir,” says Davis, crestfallen.

Elvis claps him on the shoulder. “Come on son,” he says. “There’s a show to catch.”

And what a show it is.

Frank nails his cue as they file into the ballroom, belting out the opening lines of New York, New York as only he can, the band sizzling behind him. The whole crowd is waiting, applauding as the tuxedo-clad soldiers enter blinking, starry-eyed, amazed in the huge, elegant space. Then the ladies push forward, and Garnett’s men can only gape, and blush. Audrey tips Elvis a wink, then dimples, extends an elegantly gloved hand to Garnett, and bobs just a hint of a curtsy.

The colonel is speechless. He shoots a wide-eyed look at Elvis, but Audrey threads her slender arm through his and whisks him off to the dance floor, Frank and the band giving it their all. Then it’s Bobby Darin doing Mack the Knife , and Dean Martin follows with Volare , and the big room is alive like it’s never been before.

Dylan sidles up next to Elvis. “Fuckin’ beautiful, man,” he says. “Look at ’em! They’re starved for this. They’ve never seen the like!”

“That’s because there ain’t nothing left like this outside anymore,” Elvis says. “All they got left now is survival. The world’s too hot. The weather’s gone mean. The water ain’t where it’s meant to be, and where it is, it ain’t doing no good. Ain’t nobody left got tuxedos and big bands. Not even rock ‘n roll.”

Dylan cocks his head. “What they hell they got to live for?”

“Beats me,” murmurs Elvis.

Marilyn takes the stage, and Garnett’s men forget their decorum, cheering and screaming for Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend . Tears glisten on her cheeks as she takes a bow and even if they’re only glycerine, they’re perfect, perfect, and the screaming and the cheering redoubles.

Roundabout midnight, Elvis gets his turn on stage. With Bogart in his white tux handling an open bar things have turned lively, so he jumps straight into Hound Dog and then Blue Suede Shoes . He duets with Jim doing Riders On The Storm , then gives way to Booker T Washington, and Diana Ross and the Godfather of Soul, James Brown. Yow!

Garnett’s men are dazzled, delighted, bewitched, bewildered. Clumsy, untried caterpillars, they stretch and reach until elegant, astonishing women touch their new wings, caress them, shape them, make of each young roughneck a butterfly, pulling them into a world like it never was, like it should be, like it could be if people cared enough for the right things. Wake up, boys! This is who you really are! Music and singing, dancing and stories and laughter…

Somewhere around dawn, the gradual, deliberate increase of carbon monoxide in the recirculated air system puts even the tireless Davis gently to sleep. Marilyn watches sadly as the young man settles back in one of the booths with his head on Dusty Springfield’s lap, and his eyes flicker closed for the last time.

“Hardly more than a boy,” she says.

Elvis puts an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into him. “At least they got one good night,” he says. “Best show we ever did.”

“Will they be back?”

Elvis shrugs. “Garnett was a cowboy. Indira touched his records back east for us. He pulled a lot of favors to set this up. Burned a few bridges. I’ll use his transmitters, send back a message like they got trouble with the Pacific Coast bunch. Can’t guarantee nothing, but I don’t reckon we’re likely to hear much more from Garnett’s people.”

“Best audience we ever had,” says Marilyn. “It’ll be hard to go back to performing for ourselves.”

“Better than decontaminating waste dumps,” Elvis says.

Marilyn shakes her head sadly. “Don’t they know they need us?”

Elvis looks across at Garnett, lying on a couch. Audrey sits on the floor next to him, holding his hand but the colonel’s not moving, nor like to move ever again. Audrey smiles a sad little smile, and folds his two hands onto his chest, together.

“They need us,” Elvis says, “but they don’t know they need us. They got caught up in making money and fighting over money and they wrecked the whole damn’ world, and now they’re too busy staying alive to know what they lost. But we’re still here.” He takes Marilyn’s little hand in his, holds it tight.

“I suppose.” She squeezes his hand. “The show must go on, huh?”

“That’s right,” Elvis says. “And hey. Long as we’re still here, maybe someday they’ll figure it out. And then they can make a comeback.”

Marilyn smiles, and somewhere outside, dawn breaks over a city of dust and ruins.

Five Miles Outside London, 1817

I drew my gig up to the gate of the Royal Celestial Port, my horse shifting at the squawk of the communication box set into the wall of the guardhouse. The very young RCP soldier eyed me through the glass then bent to his transmittere.

“Name, please? Who are you here to see?” The words were barely audible through the battered box.

I gathered the reins in my hands and leaned closer. “Lady Grayle to see Lady Carnford.”

It had been two years since my sister-in-law, Isabel, had last contacted me. Now this abrupt summons to Grayle Celestial Transport company headquarters. It could only mean one thing: my husband was dead. Or at least dying.

“Weapons, please,” the box crackled. A drawer slid open with a tinny clank. “They will be returned upon exit.”