The
author tells us, “If you google the name James Maxey, you'll turn
up a British attorney, a vice-president of a Missouri accounting firm,
and a geeky guy in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, whose links lead to
rants about comic books, circus freaks, and tequila.” The relevant
James Maxey is the last one. His debut novel, the superhero adventure
Nobody Gets the Girl, is available from Phobos Books. His first story
for us takes a sharp look at the future, and lends a stark
interpretation to the phrase...
To The East, A Bright Star
James
Maxey
Tony waded back to the living room. Here in the
coolest part of the house, always shaded, he kept his most valuable
possession in an ice-chest stashed beneath the stairs. He pulled away
the wooden panel and retrieved the red plastic cooler. Inside was his
cigar box, wrapped in plastic bags. He took the box, then grabbed one
of the jugs of rainwater cooling in the corner and headed up the stairs
to the bathroom. He climbed out the bathroom window onto the low
sloping roof over the back porch.
Everything was damp from yesterday's rain. He took
out the silver case with his last three cigarettes. He went through
five matches before he got one lit. He sucked down the stale smoke,
while a tiny little voice in the back of his head chided him about his
bad habits. Tony wished the tiny little voice would consult a calendar.
It was a bit late to worry about cancer.
The sky shimmered with brilliant blue, not a cloud
in it. The Wolfman had thought Tony was crazy to gamble on this day
being clear. It had rained two hundred days the previous year. A decade
ago a comet had hit Antarctica, melting half the ice cap, pumping
countless tons of water vapor into the atmosphere. Cloudless skies were
only a memory. And yet, in Tony's imagination, the sky of the last day
had always been crystal clear. It pleased him that reality and
imagination overlapped at last.
A slight breeze set waves gently lapping at the
tumbled roofs and walls that lay in all directions. This had been a
nice old neighborhood, full of Victorian houses, before the earthquakes
started. Now only a few homes stood, twisted and strangely beautiful,
half submerged in a shallow green ocean, surrounded by the
salt-poisoned skeletons of trees still stretching toward that amazing
blue sky.
"Here's to a gorgeous day,” he said, raising his
water jug toward the sun. He brought the jug to his lips and chugged
down half a gallon, quickly, in careless gulps, with water running from
the corners of his mouth, dripping down to soak his shirt. He no longer
saw any point in being careful with fresh water. It felt good to be
wasteful again.
His thirst sated, Tony capped the jug, walked to the
edge of the roof, and dropped the water into his boat. He steadied
himself, turned around, held his hands over his head, then flipped
backward. He landed on his feet in the center of the aluminum skiff,
his arms stretched for balance as the craft gently rocked.
"So what do you think, Pop?” he asked,
imagining his father had been watching.
Tony knew exactly what Pop would think.
"The bit with the boat, just a gimmick,” Tony
answered, his voice taking on a touch of an Italian accent. “And the
back flip ... sloppy. The people want form."
"Whatever,” Tony said, his voice once more his own.
The old bastard never had a kind word for him. Or even a truthful one.
Last year he'd met up with Pete Pyro the Fire King over at the Dixie.
"God Hell,” Pete had stammered when he finally
recognized him. “Rico told me you'd gone and died of AIDS, Tony."
Which had indicated to Tony that his father wasn't
open to the idea of eventual reconciliation. But what the hell. There
are only so many days in a life. You can't get around to everything.
Tony untied the rope and pushed the boat away from
the house. Taking up oars, he maneuvered through the submerged streets.
The sun beat down with a terrible force. It was two hours before
sunset. Normally, he never went out during the day. When it wasn't
raining, it could reach higher than the old dial thermometer back at
the house could measure, and it had marks to one hundred ten. But the
whole show ended only an hour after dark, and it would take a little
while to reach the old Dixie Hotel, the tallest building still standing
downtown. From its roof, he'd be maybe sixty feet higher than he would
have been back at his house. Not much, but there was something in him
which still craved heights. The higher he could get, the better the
show.
Except for the splash and creak of oars, the world
was silent. It had been almost a year since he'd seen a bird, three
weeks since he'd had to hide from a helicopter, and six days since the
Wolfman had changed his mind and headed west. He'd gone in search of
the government shelter near Black Mountain, with hydroponic gardens,
nuclear power, the works.
"I hear if you put all them tunnels end to end, they
cover four hundred miles,” the Wolfman had said. “There's room for one
more."
Tony shook his head. At best there were cold little
cages for crazy people, or cripples, or junkies. The Wolfman was a
little of all three. Tony missed him.
Ahead loomed the islands of rubble that marked the
downtown. Rusted steel beams were tangled together in great heaps, and
mirrored glass gleamed beneath the surface of the sea. The Dixie rose
above all this, six stories of old red brick that had somehow survived
the quakes, the flooding, and the terrible unending heat. A month ago,
the Dixie had been a noisy place, a Mecca for those left behind by
accident or choice. He and the Wolfman had come here often. They'd
survived the last few years by scavenging, and the Dixie had been a
place to trade canned goods and batteries for booze and fresh
vegetables. Some old geezer named Doc had filled the upper floors of
the Dixie with potted plants, and his horticultural prowess provided
garden goodies all year round. Also, Doc had rigged up a distillery for
fresh water, plus another for booze. He'd been king of his little
world, one of the last bastions of the good life, while it lasted.
A month ago the helicopters had come and taken
everyone, whether they wanted to go or not. They'd smashed the stills
and tossed plants into the ocean and Tony still couldn't see the sense
in it. He and the Wolfman had steered clear of the place since, in case
the helicopters came back. But now it would be safe. There would be no
search and rescue at this late hour.
He tied off his boat on the east side, in the shade.
A steady breeze was blowing in from the north now, taking the teeth out
of the heat. He gulped thirstily from the water jug, then poured what
was left over his face and hair. He pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt,
and tossed it into the sea. He untied the tarp, and unfolded a fresh
cotton shirt he'd saved for this occasion. He picked up his boombox,
with its missing left speaker cover, and plugged in the fresh batteries
he'd been saving. Over the years he'd traded away most of the CDs he'd
found, keeping only a copy of All Hail West Texas by the
Mountain Goats, a scratched-up double CD set of Mozart, and a K-Tel
collection of disco hits. He still hadn't made up his mind what he was
going to play.
Finally, he unwrapped the four layers of trash bags
from the humidor. The box's contents would make all of his efforts
worthwhile. He stepped through a window, into a shadowy room ankle-deep
in brine. The Dixie moaned like a giant oboe as the wind rushed through
the open windows.
The stairs creaked with each step. Emptied of its
people, the Dixie seemed haunted. A place he associated with life and
light now sat dark and dead, the air foul with rot. No doubt the place
had moaned and creaked just as loudly on his past visits, but then the
sounds were masked with laughter and talk and....
He stopped. Was the wind making that sound?
He climbed three more steps.
Crying. Someone was crying, somewhere above.
He crept up to the next landing. There was no doubt
now.
"Hello?” he called out.
The crying stopped short.
"Hello?” he called again.
A woman began shouting, in a rapid, nearly
unintelligible rush of syllables and sobs. He followed the sound,
racing up two flights of stairs. He rushed past open doors, drawing
nearer, until the woman's voice was clearly coming from a door on his
left. He almost stepped through, but caught himself, grabbing the
doorframe. The room beyond had no floor, and was only a pit dropping
all the way back down to the water.
Across the void of the floorless room was an open
door, in which Esmerelda stood, naked and filthy and thin.
He couldn't understand what she was saying. She was
spitting out words between sobs, with a little laughter mixed in.
Esmerelda was a fairly new arrival at the Dixie, having been traded to
Doc a few months ago in exchange for a case of booze. When he'd seen
her last, she'd been a shapely young thing, with sinister eyes. She'd
looked like she hated everyone on Earth, and who could blame her? Now,
she just looked terrified and hungry.
"Just hold on,” Tony said, studying the situation.
The light was nearly gone. It looked like a twenty-foot drop, maybe
more, into a real mess of jagged rubble.
"Stay calm,” he said. “I'll be back."
She screamed as he left the doorway.
He made it back to the boat in less than a minute.
The water danced with black shadows and red flames. Night was moments
away. He found his rope, and ran back up the stairs.
She waited in the far doorway, quiet now, and had
found a sheet and draped it over her body. Her eyes were wide,
glistening in the gloom.
"You're real,” she said.
"I try,” said Tony.
She pulled the sheet tighter around her shoulders.
"What happened?” he asked.
"Soldiers came,” she said. “I hid. When it got
quiet, I came out. The floor was gone."
"Jesus. You've been trapped all this time?"
She looked down into the pit. He could barely
understand her as she answered. “Doc said they would come for him. He
said they'd kill me. I wasn't important, like him. He told me he'd made
traps."
"Let's get you out of there,” Tony said. “Catch."
He tossed a coil of rope. She moved to catch it, but
pulled her arms back as her sheet slipped. Fortunately, the rope landed
in the room, and snagged on the floor's jagged edge as it slid back.
"Okay,” he said. “Are you good at knots? I need you
to tie that tightly to the sturdiest thing in the room."
She slowly knelt and grabbed the rope, looking
slightly dazed.
"Come on,” he said. “Time's wasting. You gotta trust
me."
She disappeared into the room. Tony looked at his
watch. This wasn't how he'd planned to spend the evening. He should go
on, leave her to her own devices. Except he hated people who thought
like that, and now was a bad time to turn into someone he hated.
"It's tied,” she said, reappearing.
Tony took up the slack, then yanked on the rope,
putting his full weight on it. It felt solid from her end. He tugged
the rope to a radiator pipe in the hall and tied his end, bracing his
foot against the wall to pull it as taut as possible.
Then, without stopping to think about it, he stepped
into the room, onto the rope, which sagged beneath him. He kept moving.
Five six seven steps—and he was across, stepping into her room.
Esmerelda stood there with her mouth open.
"Let's hurry this up,” Tony said with a glance at
his watch. He began to unbutton his shirt. Esmerelda backed away.
He held the shirt out to her.
"Wear this,” he said. “I don't want to trip over
that sheet when I carry you back."
"C-carry me?"
"I've walked wires with both my sisters standing on
my shoulders. We'll make it."
"You're crazy,” she said.
"Jesus,” he said. “There isn't time for
discussion. The Tony Express leaves the station in one minute.” He
placed the folded shirt on her shoulder, then turned around. “I won't
look."
He studied the room she'd been trapped in. It was
filled with flower pots and plastic tubs in which various green things
were growing, some with little yellow blossoms. The room smelled like a
sewer. There was a medicine cabinet on the wall, and pipes where the
tub and sink had been. The rope was tied to the base of a shattered
toilet, beside which sat a basin of clear water. Above this was a small
window, through which he could see the night sky. He was on the wrong
side of the building for the big show.
She touched his shoulder, lightly.
He turned. She wore his shirt now, which made her
seem smaller, and there were tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Hey,” he said. “Don't cry."
"I don't ... I don't know if this is really
happening. I've had ... I've been having dreams."
"The Wolfman used to say, ‘Some dreams you gotta
ride.'” He pointed to his back. “Hop on."
Tentatively, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
She smelled earthy, and her skin felt oily and hot against his. He
lifted her. She was light, all bones and skin.
"Don't flinch,” he said, and stepped onto the rope.
She flinched, tightening her grip on his throat, her legs clamping
around his waist. He moved cautiously, his feet listening to the
messages the rope was sending. It wasn't good. Individual strands of
the hemp were popping and snapping. The pipe he'd tied the rope to in
the hall was pulling free of its braces. Move move move move.
"Alley oop!” he cried, jumping forward.
Esmerelda shrieked. He landed in the doorway and stumbled into the
hall. He pried her arms off of his trachea. “We made it. It's okay.
It's okay."
She dropped from his back, trembling, laughing,
crying.
"G-God. Oh God,” she stammered. “I'm out. I'm out. I
can still get to safety."
"You're as safe as you're ever going to be,” he said.
"No!” she cried out. “Don't you know? Don't you
know? How can you not know? There's a comet that's going to hit near
here. A big one! We've only got until May 8 to get to—"
"That's today,” he said. “We've got fifteen minutes."
She turned pale. She placed a hand against the wall.
Tony grabbed his stuff and headed for the stairs.
"C'mon,” he said, racing up the steps two at a time.
Tony opened the door to the roof. The sky was black
and silver, with a thin sliver of moon. A dozen comets streamed from
the direction of the vanished sun. And to the east, a bright star,
brighter than the moon, with a halo filling half the sky.
"Wow,” he said.
He looked back. Esmerelda was halfway up the stairs,
looking at him.
"Come on,” he said. “You don't want to miss this, do
you? This is the kind of sky I dreamed about as a kid. A sky full of
mysteries and wonders."
Esmerelda shook her head and turned, but didn't
leave.
Tony shrugged. What did it matter if she didn't
watch? He thought it strange, but then, everybody always thought he
was strange, so who was he to judge? He'd planned to be alone anyway.
But now that he had an audience, he was overcome with the need to talk.
"When I was ten, Mom bought me a telescope to see
it,” he said. “The brown star, I mean. Way out there, beyond Pluto. It
wasn't much to look at. Scientists got all worked up, talking about how
fast it was moving, where it had come from, where it was going, and all
the damage it was doing by altering the orbits of comets. But in the
telescope, it just hung there, a boring coffee-colored dot."
Tony sat down, his back against a chimney, the
humidor in his lap.
"It's an exciting time to be alive, don't you think?"
She didn't answer.
Tony opened the humidor, revealing the syringe. He
lifted it, and looked at the sky through the fluid-filled glass. It
swirled with dreams and memories.
"You know how kids want to run away and join the
circus?"
She didn't answer. He wasn't sure she could hear him.
"It works the other way around, too. My folks, my
older sisters, they were the Flying Fiorentinos, Aerialists
Extraordinaire! Pop had big plans for me, being the first son. He had
me training for the high wire while I was still in diapers."
Tony ran his finger along the old scars on his arm.
“When I was about fifteen, the circus got a new snake lady, Satanica.
Twice my age, but open-minded. She was a junkie. Wasn't long before I
was hooked, too. You can handle snakes while you're in the haze. Hell,
the snakes like it. But junk and the high wire don't mix that well. So,
Pop got Satanica busted. I ran off that night to visit her in jail.
Never got to see her. But I never went back to the circus."
Against the bright sky, the waves of heat from the
roof shimmered and danced. Tony sighed.
"I hate my Pop. He never gave a damn about me. I was
just part of his act. A prop or something."
He looked back at the stairs. Esmerelda sat in the
doorway, her back to him. She had her face pressed against her knees,
her arms locked tightly around her shins. He readied the needle. The
star of the east blazed bright now, casting shadows. If his watch was
right, and he'd taken a lot of care over the years to see that it was,
and if the astronomers were right, and their track record through all
this had been pretty good, there were nine minutes, forty seconds left.
"Three years ago, I got off the junk,” he said,
tying the thick rubber tube around his arm. “But I made sure I'd have
one last dose. Because the best moments of my life were spent floating
on junk, curled up in the arms of my snake woman. That's what I want to
take with me. How ‘bout you? How do you want to spend the rest of your
life?"
Esmerelda spoke, her voice tense and angry. “At
least you were born before they found the rogue star. My folks knew.
And they brought me into the world anyway."
"Some people didn't believe,” said Tony, closing his
hand tightly around a wad of tissues, watching his veins rise. “And
some people hoped for the best."
"They said God would take us away,” she
murmured. She wrapped her hair around her fists as she talked. She
looked at him, her eyes flashing in sharp little slits. “I tried.
I can't believe in God. How could they? How could anyone?"
"My Mom believed,” said Tony, placing the needle
against his skin. “Probably will to the last second. If she's even
still alive."
"I killed mine,” she said.
"What?” Tony moved the needle away from his arm.
"My parents. On my thirteenth birthday. I slit their
throats as they slept. The night the comet hit the moon."
"Jesus."
"I should have killed myself."
Tony sighed, and opened his hand. “Come here."
She shook her head.
"I think you need this more than I do,” he said,
holding the syringe toward her.
Her eyes fixed on it. She wiped her cheeks.
"It will help you,” he said. “You still have a few
minutes left."
She rolled to her knees, and crawled toward him,
keeping her eyes fixed on the roof.
"Here,” he said, meeting her halfway, pushing up her
sleeve.
He'd only used a needle on another person once
before, long ago. But the skill came back easily enough. She gasped as
he pushed the plunger in.
"Now breathe deep,” he said.
It worked quickly, like he remembered. He rolled her
over onto his lap, and she opened her eyes to the dance of the comets.
He watched her as she watched the sky, for the longest time. He dared
not look at his watch. If he didn't look at the watch, time would stand
still. Eternities could be hidden between seconds. At last, she smiled.
"Mysteries,” she whispered. “And wonders."
Tony lay back, lit a cigarette on the first try, and
looked at the dark spaces between the comets. The black shapes curled
like vast snakes. He recalled the boombox. He'd forgotten to play the
music. But things don't always go as planned. A lifetime of practice
won't keep the wire from snapping. When you fall, you relax, and let
the net catch you.
Copyright (c) 2005 James Maxey