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The Disease was too far away for seventeen-year-olds to really understand or fear. Youth has always been a haven for invincibility, and this was no different. The papers from the draft board went out, scooping up boys and girls in its bloody hands. And one after another they went, they died, and the world grew a little lonelier.
Though it all felt far away from me and Tommy, I knew, of course, that it couldn’t last.
Our parents had been dreamers. Our mother was a teacher and believer in things magical, like newspaper horoscopes and the ability of whispered fears to manifest in a person’s life. Our father believed in magic of a different kind. He was a writer and, sometimes, amateur astronomer. His magic was a distant moon named Europa.
He fell in love with it at an early age and then passed that love on to my brother and me. He could never know where his obsession with a small ice rock located over three hundred million miles away would lead his children. Like the stars led our father, the memory of our father led my brother and me.
For me, our journey started before I was even born, in letters my father wrote to me and my brother. For Tommy, it all started with a letter from the Draft Board.
For three hard days my brother failed to find the words to explain his impending death to me. With furrowed brow and taut jaw he tried to find a way that, when he laid the news out in front of me, its hardness would be sanded off like a pebble rubbed smooth and glossy over the life of an old river. We were all each other had. Brother and sister. Twins, seventeen years from the womb. How I’d get on without him once he was dead, he didn’t know.
In the end, because he had never been any good with words, my brother never did find out the right way to say it. After failing to come up with an alternative he only handed me the brown envelope, with his head hung like a penitent child—even shuffling his feet a little, suddenly making himself smaller than he had been in years—and he said in a low voice, “I won the lottery, Virginia.” Then he smiled, as though a smile meant a person was actually happy.
I took the envelope, knowing immediately what it was. Everyone knew what the draft notices looked like. They were a spreading plague, a dark shadow that came for friends and loved ones, took them away and never brought them back. The war was going from bad to worse. As if war had ever done anything else.
I only looked at the letter that would eventually take my brother to his death. I pointed to the awkward font that printed his name in that excited, prize-winner’s way, clucked a stiff laugh and said, with no small amount of derision: “Terrible. Just terrible.”
ESCAPE VELOCITIES (#u1a514c9e-e573-5827-9d52-3a19530cf496)
ONE (#u1a514c9e-e573-5827-9d52-3a19530cf496)
In the middle of a pockmarked crossroads someone had painted the word PEACE in six-foot-tall white letters on the edge of a crater. The night was late and the road black, but the word—what was left of it—caught the starlight and glowed. The lettering was sharp and formal, placed by a steady hand. Someone had cared. About the letters. Maybe even about the word. So I couldn’t quite understand how PEACE had met such a bad end out here in the middle of nowhere.
And it truly was nowhere.
If you’ve never been to Oklahoma, you should go. It’s a beautiful place, a place where everything seems to stand alone. Lone trees strike out of the distant horizon, so far away from anything it makes you wonder how a lone seed could ever have gotten there in the first place. In Oklahoma, far houses stand and watch over grassland oceans that shimmer in the dim moonlight. In Oklahoma, the wind has long legs that carry rain clouds on stalks of gray. In Oklahoma, the sun rises far, reigns high, and then comes close in the evening and sits beside you until you doze off on the front porch.
Oklahoma is a place where loners have formed a community. It’s a place where people are both alone and together at the same time, like Tommy and I always were. It’s a special thing: always having someone with you. It gives you legs to stand on.
I was seventeen when Tommy and I ran away from the war and started on what would come to be our last trip together. Seventeen’s an odd age. Too old for dreams, too young for reality.
It was a hard January when this all happened. Any promise of spring was far off as I walked the frozen highway. The ground was still locked from cold and every particle of snow had been swept away so that there was only brown, barren earth. The cold swelled up around me like static on an old television. Now and again the starlight seemed to exhale and the wind raced over the empty winter fields and passed through me hard enough and frigid enough that it frightened me.
To keep my hands from trembling, I turned them to fists buried inside my pockets. To keep my teeth from chattering, my jaw was locked. The muscles ached from holding station. I stomped my feet to keep my toes connected to my body. Now and again they drifted off on their own accord. I was never quite sure if they would return.
But even with all of this, there was beauty. Several hours before, I watched as the failing light went dark and a fistful of bare winter trees jutting up from the sides of the road swung from being thick gray arteries to thin purple veins to black silhouettes that might have been calligraphy of some exotic language, punctuating the black cursive of the small highway scrawling through the countryside. Then the last of the light went away and all the ways the trees had looked became just another memory I would always carry in me.
I was alone that night...sort of. I hadn’t seen a house since passing through a small, sleepy town before sunset, where the one stoplight on Main Street flashed off and on. Yellow in one direction, red in the other. Even though lights sometimes burned inside the bowels of the homes—a mixture of trailers and two-story farmhouses with clapboard siding and old paint peeling like psoriasis—the town looked left behind, a city desiccated by plague. Everything was weathered and empty, ready to be filled by story and myth. I could imagine dragon eggs hidden in storm shelters, elder gods tucked away in attics. I’ve always had a tendency to drift off into imagination.
In the window of a darkened diner a sign—lit garish red by the town’s single stoplight—declared God Blesses the War. Directly across the street, almost like a bookend, another sign hung in the window of a home and alleged God Left. So The Disease Came. I still don’t know exactly who was right.
At one point I almost knocked on the door of one of the houses. A large gray-and-white affair with a tire swing dangling from an evergreen in the backyard and a late-model car parked in the front. I thought I saw someone in one of the upstairs windows. I stared up at them and they stared back down at me. It wasn’t until my eyes adjusted that I realized it was only a teddy bear placed in the window, looking out, keeping diligent watch the way only loyal stuffed animals can.
For a moment the feeling of being watched caused me to think it was him. He was coming for me and he wouldn’t stop. That’s just who he was.
My palms were sweating and my heart was a frightened bird beating against my rib cage. All because of a teddy bear standing watch.
I waved at the guardian, laughed at myself and walked on until the houses stopped appearing and the town sank into the earth behind me. The moment was relegated to history and memory, which, for me, have always been one and the same.
Tommy and I called it “The Memory Gospel.”
The Memory Gospel was simple, really: I remember everything. Truly and honestly everything. Every second of every day. Every conversation. Every place I’ve ever been. Every person I’ve ever met. Every word I’ve ever said. Every news report I’ve ever seen. Every letter of every sentence of every page of every book I’ve ever read. Every shaggy tree that slanted at an odd angle and was dappled by the dying sunlight in a way that might never again repeat and made a person say to themselves “I hope I never forget this. Never ever.”
I don’t forget any of it. Not a single moment. I carry all of it inside me.
Every laugh. Every schoolyard bully. Every foster parent who tried. Every social worker who failed. Every time I’ve stood outside and looked up into the sky and counted the stars until there were tears at the corners of my eyes because I remembered—as if I could ever forget—that my parents were still dead and would never be able to come and stand beside me and take my hand and point up to the night sky and say to me, the way people did in movies, “It makes you feel so small, doesn’t it?”
My memory was, is, and always will be, immutable.
The Memory Gospel is the one thing in my life that I can believe in. It’s always with me, filling me up and hollowing me out all at the same time, like the way a person can stand before a mountain in the winter and see the light spilling over its craggy shoulders and understand, in that brief instant, that life comes and goes and one day we all will. Like you’re part of something and a part of nothing all at once. The Memory Gospel is all-encompassing and inescapable. A forest I can neither get lost in nor find my way out of.
And so I’ve come to consider myself the chronicler of the last days of the world.
I kept walking with my head down and my shoulders up and the past swirling above my head. I wished for a peaceful, silent cold—the way it sometimes happened in the nights when the snow fell like dust and you woke in the morning to a world you knew but didn’t recognize, like a childhood friend you haven’t seen in decades. But the wind stayed hard and unreasonable. It swept down off the mountains in a roar that shoved me forward and almost put me on my face a few times. I always managed to catch myself just before I fell. Eventually I decided to let the wind help. It was heading in the same direction I was, after all. Why not let it push me along? Why not let it carry me off into The Memory Gospel...
...I’m five years old and hanging upside down in a crashed car. The seat belt holds me tight across the waist and my ears are ringing and there is the sound of water falling outside and Tommy is on the ceiling of the overturned car crying and looking around. “It’s going to be okay,” my mother says, and suddenly I’m standing in the middle of the road staring down at the word PEACE and I’m terrified and hanging upside down again and I’m in a foster home and I’m attending the funeral of my parents and the social worker is saying, “It’s going to be okay,” and I’m squeezing Tommy’s hand and staring up at a black, starry sky and staring up at the ceiling of the overturned car and Tommy is still crying and there is blood trickling from his head and our father is dead and our mother is saying, over and over again, “It’s going to be okay... It’s going to be okay...” and her voice is softening with each recitation and I’m standing alone in the world and the wind is cold and I am seventeen and still trapped in my five-year-old self watching my parents die and I don’t want to see it so I close my eyes...
...like fists and pushed the memories away.
It’s like I told you: I have a tendency to drift.
I stopped walking. When I had finally clawed my way out of what was and into what is, I opened my eyes and looked up at the stars.
Andromeda was brighter than usual that night. One trillion stars burning, raging. Reduced by time and distance to little more than a pinprick of noiseless light. That’s how memory was supposed to work. A narrowing down. A softening that made it possible to let go of unwanted or painful memories. Maybe that was why I liked astronomy as much as I did—and still do. It proved that with enough time, even the brightest stars burned out. Everything faded away eventually.
But I understood that, because of distance and time, when you saw a star you only ever saw the way it used to be. Even the sun was eight minutes in the past by the time you saw it.
“Andromeda,” I began, smothering the memory of the car crash with bare, calm facts. “Officially designated as NGC 224. Coordinates: RA 0° 42m 44s | Dec 41° 16.152' 9". 2.537 million light-years away. Two hundred twenty thousand light-years across. 1.5 × 1012 solar masses—estimated. Apparent magnitude of 3.4.” On and on I continued. Definitions of mass, luminosity. It was a spiral galaxy and I quoted the composition of each of the spiral’s arms. Fact after fact after fact, pulled perfect and undiminished from memory.
I built a levee with each fact, and the recollected dead receded back into their holding places.
“Ten more miles,” I said, looking off down the cold, empty, dark road ahead. “Seventeen thousand six hundred yards. Fifty-two thousand eight hundred feet. Six hundred thirty-three thousand six hundred inches...and a partridge in a pear tree.” I sang the last part. Badly. But the starlight didn’t seem to mind.
I took one final look up at the sky. I found Jupiter. I found its moon Europa—nothing more than a whisper of light so difficult to see it made my eyes hurt and I wondered if what I saw was real. But whether I actually saw Europa or only imagined seeing it didn’t seem to matter. To some extent, we are all solipsists. I started walking again, heading toward Florida and the last shuttle launch of human history.
* * *
I had just passed the crossroads where PEACE was written when the headlights rose out of the far darkness behind me. It had only ever been a matter of time. So I stopped and waited for what was coming.
The headlights approached in cold silence, then the silence shifted into what was almost the sound of applause as tires sizzled over the cold pavement. A chill raced down my spine as the blue lights atop the car flashed into existence.
The police car stopped in front of me. The headlights glared bright enough that I had to shield my eyes. The car shifted into Park and sat idling for a moment. A small plume of steam rose from the exhaust, effervescing into the darkness. The door opened. Booted feet thumped onto the pavement like punctuation at the end of a grim declaration about life. The lights still shone too brightly for me to see who had stepped out of the car, but I didn’t need to see in order to know that it was him.
“Got pretty far,” he said finally. “I’ll give you that much.” His voice was as hard as steel, like always. Because of the headlights, he was only a deep shadow and a deeper voice, like thunder come to visit in the late hours of the night. His breath steamed from his lips and expanded into a small anvil head cloud above him.
“I could explain to you why it’s important, but you wouldn’t understand.” There was arrogance in my voice and I knew it, but I didn’t try to curb it. At this point, there was no turning back, nothing to be said that would undo what was already done. I knew, better than most, that time’s arrow only moves forward. “I’m going to be there to see it,” I said. “And I’m never coming back.”
He stepped away from the car door and walked out in front of the headlights. I counted each one of my heartbeats, if only to keep myself calm. He was tall and broad as he had always been. His hair cropped close as a harvested field. The backlight of the car’s high beams turned him into a monolith, eternal and omnipotent. Something to be worshipped, if only for its cruel disinterest.
He looked around, scanning the open field of darkness surrounding us. Then he sighed. “You Embers are something else,” he said. Then he spat. “You’ve had your fun. Now, where is he?”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the blow landed against the back of his head. A tremble went through his body and he slumped to his knees with a pained groan. Then Tommy was there, standing behind him, his fist trembling.
“Run,” Tommy said, as our foster father fell unconscious at his feet.
ELSEWHERE (#u1a514c9e-e573-5827-9d52-3a19530cf496)
The hardest thing was convincing herself not to be afraid of falling asleep. Each and every evening she watched the news and watched talk of The Disease. Her friend over in Alamance County had come down with it. Fell asleep on the sofa one night and then, when morning came, nobody heard from her until her children found her. And this was back near the beginning. Her friend was eighty-seven years old, but spry for her age. Still, spryness doesn’t do anything to repel the unexpected. But wasn’t that the way it had always been?
And now nearly ten years had passed and The Disease was creeping ever closer to people her age. So, like many people of a certain age in this world, she figured that the best thing she could do was to get herself away from everybody. She went down to the store and bought herself as much food as her dead husband’s pickup truck could carry and she came home and loaded up the house and then went back and filled the truck up again and, this time, she also picked up as many sheets of plastic as she could. And duct tape and disinfectant and even a gas mask—which were slowly becoming all the rage even though nobody knew whether or not they would do any good.
When all was said and done she had everything she needed to live for at least a year. Yeah, it might be a year of eating potted meat and crackers until she was blue in the face, but Lord knows there were worse things in this world.
She lived far enough outside of town that she could live the type of life she wanted. The farm was big and old and her dead husband’s pride right up until the day he dropped dead, still sitting atop the same tractor he’d bought when they first got the farm. He’d been dead for nearly twenty years and she was glad that he didn’t live to see the world get to where it was: the killing, the dying, the slow fading away of everything that the whole damn species had spent thousands of years building.
No. He was always too softhearted to be able to stand for such a thing. If that heart attack hadn’t done him the pitiful kindness of taking him when it did, he would have turned on the news in the world today and died from a plain old broken heart.
She thought about her husband a lot in those first few months of living alone, isolated from the rest of the world. Mostly she thought about him as a way to keep from thinking about everything else that was going on around her. She stopped turning on the news in the mornings because it did nothing but let in the worst parts of the world. Nobody said anything good anymore.
And so she would get up at the crack of dawn—always thankful and amazed and terrified to have woken up at all—and piddle about the house before time came to go out and tend to the garden and she would think about her husband and maybe she would hum some song that he used to love—he’d always been partial to Frank Sinatra—and, as the weeks stretched out into months, maybe she would even talk to her dead husband even though she knew good and hell well that he was dead and she wasn’t the type to believe that the dead could hear the breath of the living. But she did it anyway.
Some mornings she talked to him about the past. She told him about the children they’d never had and how she, finally, after all these years, could say that she was glad that they’d never come along. “I just couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch those pretty blue eyes worry over this world,” she said. The only answer the house gave back to her was the gentle clunk-clunk-clunk of the grandfather clock in the living room that never kept the right time but that she wound up anyway because, even if it wasn’t doing a good job, it was important for everything in this world to have a purpose.
That old clock made her think about her own purpose. What was it? Her purpose?
What was a woman without purpose?
What was anyone without purpose?
She asked her dead husband that one night when she woke up from a bad dream—a dream that she’d fallen asleep and been unable to wake up from it. Her palms were sweaty and her long hair matted to her brow and her cheeks were slick with tears, and the words trembled out of her lips like a newborn foal. “What’s my purpose?” she asked.
And her dead husband did not answer her back, even though she sat and waited to hear his heavy, soft voice for over an hour with the darkness and the clunking of that clock down below counting off its irregular and inconstant seconds.
That was the night that she made a promise never to go to sleep again. She’d stay up for as long as she had to, until The Disease came and went and burned away the rest of humanity and all that was left was her and then, by God, she’d know what her purpose was. She’d have the answer she’d been waiting for and she wouldn’t wake up at night sweating and calling out for her husband because, in the end, she couldn’t go on like this: afraid of sleep and afraid of life both at the same time.
She didn’t make it a full two days before falling asleep again.
She tried everything to stop it from happening. She drank coffee until it made her head hurt and her chest tight. She went back to watching the news, hoping that the fear the news gave would make her more able to sit up in the late hours and not fall asleep. The news told her about seventeen new cases of The Disease that had been found around the county and that did give her just the right amount of terror that she needed to stay awake for a little while longer.
But she was an old woman and, try as she might, she could feel the sleep walking her down, as steady as that old clock in the living room and, just before she finally fell asleep—a sleep that she would never wake from, something she knew in the pit of her stomach—she thought she heard her husband’s voice one more time. He said a single word: “Love.”
And her final thought before she fell into the deep, timeless slumber of The Disease was that her question had finally been answered.
TWO (#u1a514c9e-e573-5827-9d52-3a19530cf496)
For what felt like an eternity, I was unable to breathe. Seeing Jim Gannon at Tommy’s feet, I realized I hadn’t really expected for it to work. Gannon was six-foot-two and built like a bad dream. All angles and muscle. More animal than man. And that was before you took into account the police uniform that filled him out with cold authority and made you nervous about crimes you hadn’t committed.
When I finally did breathe again the air rushed into my lungs, air so thick you could drink it, choke on it if you weren’t careful. I felt light-headed and gritted my teeth until the feeling went away.
Standing there in the cold darkness with our foster father lying at Tommy’s feet, I thought of all the ways it could have gone wrong:
Tommy could have stumbled on the uneven earth as he climbed up out of the darkness along the edge of the road, stumbled just loud enough for Gannon to hear him and turn and draw his pistol and squeeze the trigger and put an end to everything. It wouldn’t have been anything other than a reflex action for Gannon. Law enforcement training taking over. But it still would have ended Tommy’s life. Just a sudden flash like a lightbulb bursting, then the long darkness.
Or he could have gotten caught in the headlights of Gannon’s car long before he noticed them. It had been my idea that Tommy follow along at a distance, away from the road, buried in the outer dark, orbiting like some phantom planet. “It won’t be long before he catches up,” I had said. “Do what I tell you and we’ll be okay.” And so he did.
Only now that Gannon was unconscious on the cold, deserted road did Tommy and I laugh.
The laughter was fleeting, but wonderful, like a meteor slashing across the night sky.
“We’ve got to get him out of the road,” I said.
Tommy flinched. He looked up to see me still standing there in front of the car. “I told you to run,” Tommy said, his voice steady and even.
“We’ve got to get him off the road,” I repeated. I was already jogging around and opening the rear door of the police car.
Tommy reached down and took the pistol from Gannon’s holster.
“Take the bullets out of it and throw that away,” I said.
He placed the gun on the highway. He fumbled through the pockets on Gannon’s belt. “Hold these,” he said, handing me the man’s handcuffs. “Hurry up,” he barked.
I took the cuffs. “You don’t need these,” I said.
Tommy rolled Gannon over and, after a few awkward moments, managed to pull him up off the ground and lift him over his back in a fireman’s carry. He’d wrestled off and on growing up. Most of the schools in most of the foster homes he and I had been shuffled through over the years had wrestling programs in some form or other. He’d actually managed to get pretty good at it. The physical side of it—all of the strength and muscles required—were just a matter of deciding to do it. The mental aspect required a lot of thought and Tommy wasn’t much of a thinker, but he had gotten pretty good at that too. He could always tell what his opponent was planning. He always knew, milliseconds before it happened, when someone was going to shoot their hips forward or try to spin out or go for an underhook. And his mind reacted to it all on its own. He didn’t have to think about it. It was one of the few things in his life, maybe even the only thing, that had come naturally to him. If he’d ever stayed in a single school for more than a season, maybe he would have gotten recruited by some college. Maybe in one of those places where wrestling was a pastime and boys like him could be someone people admired.
But he never did stay anywhere longer than a season and so he never had gotten really good and there were no college recruiters looking for him. The only person looking for him was the unconscious foster father he carried on his back.
Just as Tommy got Gannon to the car, I opened the door and there, sitting in the back seat and as quiet as a corpse, was the Old Man, Jim Gannon’s father himself. He’d had a stroke years ago and been confined to his body ever since. The doctors said that he was aware, but paralyzed and unable to speak. The most he ever did was blink, and even that came only on rare occasions.
Gannon had dressed him in khaki work pants and a flannel shirt and a pair of soft-soled nurse’s shoes. The Old Man didn’t seem to register me as I opened the door and took a moment to stare at him.
“What is it?” Tommy asked.
“It’s the Old Man.”
“What?” Tommy looked past me. “Is he sick?” Tommy asked. “The Disease?”
“No,” I said.
Gannon groaned a little, in the early stages of coming around.
“Give me the handcuffs,” Tommy said.
“You don’t need to handcuff him,” I replied. “Just shut the door. It can only be opened from the outside. He won’t be able to get out.”
“Give me the handcuffs, Virginia!”
“You. Don’t. Need. Them,” I said, laying each word out like a brick. Then I turned and tossed the handcuffs out into the darkness. “Don’t be so simple.”
