Speculative Fiction Centre

Personal Armageddon

He needed to prepare, needed to be ready.  Just in case, he told himself.  Just in case.  People ignored the tabloids all the time.  People thought them fiction, but he knew the truth.  His father even had pictures of the elusive Big Foot.  Some of the best times he and his father had together were their escapades through Ripley's Believe It or Not museum.  The items from this place, like the mini mermaid skeleton, were straight from the tabloids, but the proof was there.  One summer, he and his father went to the cave where They (whoever "they" were) found Bat Boy living off mice and berries.  So, if the tabloid said they had proof of something, they probably did.  It was always better to be prepared for nothing than to be unprepared for something.

            Ian Meyers, Lord Serpenthelm to his best buddies, stood in line at the grocery store, two cases of grape soda moving up the conveyor belt in a slow, jerky rush.  He couldn't wait for his Dungeons and Dragons gathering tonight.  Goober, Danger, and Clark would listen in awe as he narrated the game in his unique, booming voice.  They would drink all the soda and eat several bags of Pork Rinds.  Drowning in sweet, salty goodness, they would play the game dressed in the finest cloaks and costumes they could piece together themselves.  The basement became his dungeon, complete with black lights and fake torches.  He and his buddies hid the torch wires behind gray wallpaper, completing the illusion, working hard to stay indoors.

            A tabloid heading caught his eye: Armageddon is at Hand; Are You Prepared? 

He'd never given a thought to Armageddon, never considered the possibility that the world may end during his lifetime.  Hell, he was only sixteen and had just gotten his driver's license two weeks ago.  Life was good.  So the definitive answer was no; for once, the great Lord Serpenthelm was not at all prepared

            "Oh my God," he whispered, right hand cupped over his mouth.  He bounced on his toes, looking like a child doing the pee-pee dance.  "Omagod, omagod, omagod," he chanted, mind racing in fitful spasms, oscillating between images of things he had done versus things he hadn't, reality versus fantasy, and was shocked to discover he'd spent most of his time locked in a make-believe world.

            The old bat with the cotton-swab hair purchasing what seemed to be an entire month's worth of groceries at this crucial moment watched him with unguarded leeriness.  Her clown-like make-up—thick blue eye shadow, eyebrows drawn too high and uneven, bright red blush, and bright red pucker of a mouth—made the leeriness into something akin to a troll's grimace.

            "What?" he hollered at her.

            She jumped, hunching like a swatted puppy.

            He grabbed hold of her, feeling her bird-like bones, hearing her cry out, and yelled into her face, his nose a mere inch from hers, "The world's gonna end, lady!"  He bounded away.  The grape soda advanced to the cashier, forgotten. 

While he grabbed random canned goods from the shelves, he thought of his life.  Images of feverish masturbation sessions echoed through his head, intense pleasure mingled with dense shame, heavy like a stone in his belly.  He'd never even kissed a girl before, had never experienced the tantalizing feel of a hard nipple surrounded by soft flesh—other than his own, that is.  It was all fantasy, voyeurism mingled with imagination, gripping himself to pictures, videos, images in his own head. 

            But the question remained.  Who was he?  He was Lord Serpenthelm.  The black shirt he always wore proudly alerted everyone to his Dungeon Master status.

            But, again, his life was still illusion.  What had he actually done?

            He was average in school, hardly knew his parents, dabbled in creating comic strips which Goober especially thought would make him famous.  His only friends were those in his D&D group, but there was nothing miraculous about his life.

            Hell, he hadn't even….

            No, he had.

            He had loved once.  It had been intense and simple.  Locked in his dungeon, he watched her mow the lawn across the street in her shorts and blinding white t-shirts through the window, having full conversations with her in his head.  He never even knew her name.

            But what would she want with a toad like him?

            That's what she said the day he actually combed his hair and put on his best cloak adorned with a golden serpent brooch.  She watched him approach with blunt bemusement.

            "Greetings, Lady," he boomed in his most regal voice.

            She laughed out of ridicule, but in his love-struck nervousness he took it as encouragement.

            "I have come from far away on an errand of the King, but you, my dear lady, have captivated my heart with your beauty."

            She laughed even harder.

            He plunged on, a brave lord to the last.  "I've come to seek your favor." Then, with a bow, "May I court you, for I cannot live without your beauty." 

A year had not been enough to heal this wound.  If anything, the wound became deeper, exacerbated by the fact that the world would end and he would die alone.  His hand trembled around the can of chili he clutched as he recalled her response, full of venom.

            Wiping tears from her eyes, she said, "Stop," more giggles, tapering off.  Shaking her head, she added, "I just can't take it anymore."

            But Lord Serpenthelm continued, undaunted.  "I am pleased that I amuse you, Lady, but I must press you for an answer."  He continued, each word as crisp as if he truly were a lord.  "My heart is on the…"

            "Oh, God." Spoken with true disgust.  "You're that geeky Dungeons and Dragons kid from across the street, aren't you?"  She spat the question in his face.

            For the first time in this encounter, he fell silent, yet remained hopeful.  Maybe she loved geeks.

            "I see you watching me."

            His chin dropped.

            "I see your ugly, pimply, pasty white face staring at me from your creepy basement window." She looked him up and down.

            He stood there, too hurt to remain hopeful, too shocked to move.  He wanted to sink into the earth with every poisoned word dripping from her lips.

            "Do you jack off when you watch me?" Her hands were planted on her hips, ponytail swishing.

            No, he didn't.  Would never dream of tainting this illusion in that way.

            "You do, don't you?"

            Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision, but he still couldn't run home to hide his burning face in a pillow.

            "You're so gross," she said, crossing her arms over breasts he longed to touch.  Then she said what enabled him to flee, black velvet cloak billowing behind him.  "What makes you think I would ever be with a toad like you?"  Her face morphed into a mask of revulsion that still haunted his dreams.

            The memory passed in a matter of seconds.  He let go the chili.  Who was Ian Meyers?  Someone who hadn't really lived.  Someone who had experienced one shining moment of happiness before the illusion shattered.

            All at once, preparing for the end seemed unimportant.  Let the world end.

As he shuffled through the grocery store, unaware of other shoppers smiling, scowling, and living, his heart beat with heavy slowness.  Once at his car, he reflected that his entire life had been wasted.  Nothing but a sham.  And the worst of it was he had only been fooling himself.  Pulling out of the parking lot, ignoring his seat belt—who cares anymore—he realized his parents had tried to warn him, at least on some level, had tried to get him outside into the light of the real world.  Even his father disapproved of his favorite game and his friends.  His father often noted there were more interesting things going on in the world around him—didn't Ian see that?

            Driving up the onramp, he thought about his buddies.  Goober really digging his comic strips; Danger always cracking jokes, making them laugh all night; Clark, the reserved one, always taking the game a little too seriously, even for their group.  A good gang.  He had started his day in anticipation of this weekend's meet.  An entire weekend of goofing off and playing their favorite game, enjoying themselves the best way they knew how.

            And wasn't that what it was all about, anyway?  So it was all fantasy.  Big deal.  They had a damned good time.

            Up to speed and starting to merge, a smile spread across Lord Serpenthelm's face as he realized he was proud to be a geek, proud to have buddies like Goober, Danger, and Clark.  Dammit, he was proud to be Dungeon Master.  He had earned that right.

            As his wheels contacted freeway, a Whole Foods sixteen wheeler blasted its horn, drawing Ian's attention to the simple fact that he hadn't been minding the road.  His car collided with the semi.

            Lord Serpenthelm's body flew from his seat.  His face made a surprised "O" as his head smashed through the windshield.  Though he only remained airborne for a second, the feeling of flight flooded him, and he smiled.  With his head twisted so he could see his back, the only pain felt was in his face as his body hit then slid over the graveled shoulder.  Rocks bit into his flesh and tore his cheek from bone.  Gravel filled his mouth, shattering his teeth as he now grinned through the side of his face. 

            When his body stopped, he gazed up at the sky.  Fire flitted from the corner of his eye.  Armageddon.  It arrived, as the tabloid said it would.  And he was prepared.  His leg jutted out with a new joint, the bone poking through his jeans like a horrible joke, the meat from his arm like hamburger.  His breath whistled in his throat, and he felt like he was drowning.  People screamed around him.  Tires screeched.  In the distance, he heard metal crunching with metal again and again. 

            "Call an ambulance," a man yelled.  Someone knelt beside him.  A cool hand rested on his forehead.  "It's going to be okay," the man said in a choked voice.

            He tried to turn his head to see the man, and couldn’t.  That explained the lack of pain.  He’d busted his neck.

            His eyes widened—he remembered something he forgot to buy.  His mind circled this one thing as his eyes rolled to the left and right, only seeing blue and fire.
            The man kept chanting that, “It would be okay”.He wished the man would shut up, because he only wanted one thing. "I 'eed…" he grunted, gasping for more air to finish saying what he needed.  He licked his teeth with a stub of tongue smearing more blood where his lips should be.  "…gake so-ah."   Rocks choked him, as he as he struggled to articulate his desire for grape soda with his last, harsh whisper. The bright blue faded to black.  The heat from the flames cooled, and then he was gone. 

ANGEL

Shelly ate lunch alone, staring out the restaurant window next to her table, slurping minestrone soup.  A bang on the window at her elbow pulled her out of translucent memories, making her drop her spoon with a clatter.  Soup splashed her sleeve.  She looked to see what made the noise, fingers tented on her chest.

            A little girl stared in at her, grubby hands and face pressed against the glass, blond hair hanging in greasy curls around her face. 

"She looks just like my Angel," Shelly said.  But it couldn't be her Angel.  All that happened long ago. 

            The girl's pale and bruised face looked sad, thoughtful.  Watery eyes shone from hollowed sockets.
            "Oh, the poor thing," Shelly whispered.
            Ten years ago, her daughter Angel had looked just like that after….
            But Shelly wouldn't permit herself to think about that.  These memories were dangerous.

            "Where are her parents?" She said to no one in particular.  Shelly leaned over and looked out the window up and down the street.  Wind blew matted hair into the girl's face.  Holes in her dress revealed patches of dirty skin.  Cold skin, Shelly thought.  Shelly tapped the window, smiled, waved.  The girl's blue eyes sparkled.  She could look like a princess if she were cleaned up.  She remembered Angel liked to dress up like a princess.  Shelly imagined the girl's blond hair in ringlets around her face, soft and clean with a bright red bow, a lacy dress with white gloves to match.  She'd be too cute.  Like a little doll, Shelly thought.  Just like her Angel.

            After wrapping her bread rolls in a napkin, she paid and left the restaurant.  Outside, the traffic wailed around her, drivers honking, tires squealing, bass pumping from several speakers at different rhythms.  Shelly felt her teeth rattle and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.  But she needed to remain clear-headed if she was to go through with this, so she shook herself, opened her eyes, and painted a smile on her face she hoped would please the girl.  Angel's gone, she reminded herself, then approached the forlorn child.

            "What's your name, little girl?" She knelt down to the girl's level and reached out her hand the way she would to a stray dog.  Something dark and dangerous lurked behind the girls eyes, swam in her pupils. Shelly almost pulled away, felt she should run, wanted to scream, but the impulse passed leaving her calm again.  She maintained her smile, waiting, her hand still reaching.

            Instead of taking Shelly's hand, the child wrapped her arms around Shelly's neck and squeezed, clinging like a parasite.  Knocked off balance, Shelly's mouth dropped open and squealed a sharp laugh. She smelled rot and dust, but didn't pull away, though her stomach turned and she breathed through her mouth.

            "Are you hungry?"

            The girl stepped back and nodded, but her face didn't change. 

            "Where are your parents?"

            The girl took Shelly's hand and looked up at her, not moving.  Shelly almost pulled away from the slimy grip.  The girl had gotten into something nasty; that was all.  There wasn't anything creepy about a lost and disheveled girl.  Just sad.

            "Can't you speak?"

            The girl shook her head.

            "I'll call you Angel, then, if that's okay."  She resembled her so much.

            The girl nodded, but didn't smile. 

In the car, Shelly called in sick for the rest of the day.  She stole glances at the strange child while navigating the road.  She offered Angel one of the bread rolls filling her purse with a savory fragrance.  Yellow cheese and green herbs dotted the treat.  Angel turned her head and looked out the window.  The food sat, unacknowledged on the center console.

She gave Angel privacy while she bathed.  In a chest upstairs, Shelly took out a white dress, the same dress Angel wore during Easter, once upon a time.  Maybe this time, she could protect her.  It had been an accident.  That was all.  For ten years, she suffered the guilt, thinking if she had only come out from the store sooner, Angel might have been saved.  Fingering the lacy dress, Shelly's eyes glazed over as she remembered that day, her daughter gasping for breath on the hot asphalt, her midsection squished flat where the car had gone over her.  Shelly remembered there had been rocks in her hair and blood in her eyes.  The man who'd been driving screamed and tore his hair as he stared at Angel dying in the parking lot.  The crowd.  The heat.
            A stuttered sigh startled her out of her contemplation.  Her new Angel stood behind her, wrapped in a towel.

"Here," Shelly thrust the dress at her, "something clean for you to wear."
            The girl took it, expressionless, and Shelly went downstairs.  After a few minutes, she joined Shelly in the kitchen.  She looked every bit the doll Shelly imagined, though her hair dripped, making puddles around her naked toes. Shelly made it a point to make Angel a proper meal.  Angel didn't touch the sandwich, however, and only looked at the glass of water set beside her plate.  She still hadn't said a word.

            "It's good.  Try it." 

            When Angel still made no attempt to eat the sandwich, Shelly picked up a wedge and took a bite to show her it was okay.  Angel watched as she chewed and swallowed, then she sighed through her nose and looked back at the sandwich, still not reaching for it.  Shelly picked up the wedge and put it to Angel's lips.  Angel looked at her, blue eyes wide and watery again.  Her Angel's eyes watered that day, too.  Her Angel had stared at nothing, not aware of her mother's screams mingling with the strangers screams, not aware of anything but her fading life if she'd been aware of anything at all.  Shelly pushed the thoughts away.

            "Aren't you hungry?"  This was a chance to do it right.  She knew it.  This time, she would never let the child out of her sight.  Safe.  Angel would be safe from everything.

            Angel nodded and attempted a smile.  Shelly leaned over and kissed her new Angel's forehead, still detecting the stench of rot beneath the citrus soap smell of the shampoo she used. 

            They shared a still moment, gazing into each other's eyes.  The sunshine shone through the kitchen window, the refracted light creating a rainbow over Angel's face.  The warm smell of peanut butter and the clean smell of soap filled Shelly with nostalgia so deep she couldn't breathe.  Hitching her breath, forcing her tears back, she smiled at Angel.

            "You don't have to eat," she said.  "It's just good that you're here, that you came back."  A strange look crossed the girl's face then.  She looked around the kitchen, the still moment lost.  She seemed to be searching for something, eyes wide, breath coming fast in and out of her nose.  Shelly couldn't remember ever seeing such clear fear imprinted on a child's features before.  She stood and began looking around, too, expecting to see something.  There was nothing.

            Then, without warning, a loud voice boomed through her kitchen.  Shelly flinched, knocking the water glass to the floor where it shattered, sending shards of sparkles flying in all directions.

            The voice said, "You thought you got away, didn't you, bitch!"  A large shadow melted down the wall like tar and slid toward Angel.  The vague shape of head and shoulders emerged from the black.  Shelly watched the shape come closer.  She scooped Angel in her arms, backing away.

            Angel thrashed and screamed, but there was something wrong with the sounds.  They were muffled, as if coming from behind someone's hand.  Shelly looked to see why she was screaming like that.  Angel's lips stretched and puckered as her jaw dropped in a scream, but thick black thread held her lips together from the inside.  Shelly almost dropped Angel when Angel's top lip tore, letting out more sound in a spray of blood.  Her crystalline eyes pleaded with Shelly to save her as her head thrashed from side to side, her gaze ever fixed on Shelly's face.  She clawed at Shelly's back, trying to scurry further away from the shadow.

            "You'll never get away from me.  You've always been my girl," the dark figure bellowed, the noise pressing on Shelly's head until she thought her ear drums would pop.  Wind gusted, blowing her hair back.  She gripped Angel tighter.

            The shadow enclosed the two of them ripping Angel's dress off as it tore her from Shelly.
            Shelly reached for Angel, surrounded by darkness and was afforded one last glimpse at the child she still couldn't save.  Shelly screamed when she glimpsed the mangled hole in Angel's belly and the intestines hanging to her knees.  And then Angel and the shadow vanished.  Angel's screams faded from the kitchen, but forever echoed through Shelly's mind.