It seemed strange that he would only notice the world’s intense beauty on this final day of his life.
But beauty it was—a delirious, sharp-as-cracked-glass beauty that he’d never been aware of until now. It’s easy to take things for granted until you know you’re about to lose them . . .
The Sterno can was lasting longer than he’d expected. He dropped the trap for another haul—why not?
I’m not exactly in a rush, am I?
He leaned back in his safety chair, half dozing and half staring at dusk’s shifting cornucopia of light playing on the lake’s mirror-still surface . . .
When will I do it? The question kept popping up in the back of his head. I really AM going to kill myself, right? But he knew that he was, he was positive. Even now, with the beautiful evening, the gorgeous lake, the delectable food, and the utter peace and quiet—he still wanted to do it. He yearned for it.
For some reason, he was suddenly thinking about that guy he talked to at the church. What did he say his name was? Hudson? He’d read Gerold like a book—He KNEW I wanted to kill myself. What was it like to be a guy like that, Gerold wondered. The center of his life was his faith—he was even going to become a priest. That was some sacrifice.
And, shit, I promised the guy I’d be in church Sunday, he recalled. Looks like I’ll be breaking that one.
But what Hudson didn’t understand was that things worked different for different people, and so did the world. Gerold wasn’t a bad guy, so would he really go to Hell for offing himself? If there really was a God, Gerold felt sure he would understand.
Life just isn’t for me. It’s that simple. No sour grapes, no regrets. It was great while it lasted but now it’s time for it to end. Period.
He lounged back and smiled.
He looked at his watch. Midnight seemed as good a time as any. I’ll fling myself over the side at a couple minutes of and who knows? Maybe I’ll die exactly when the clock strikes twelve . . .
The idea seemed kind of . . . neat.
Every so often, a fish would break the surface and flip. Schools of smaller fish seemed to spiral into one another and form fascinating shapes. When Gerold stared up at the coming twilight, birds roved silently across the water. Not once today had another boat come near him. Just after the sun sank, crickets began to throb en masse.
What a PERFECT day to die . . .
Gerold drifted in and out of sleep.
He dreamed of walking, of being with women, of pursuing his goals and succeeding. He dreamed of all the things he’d lost . . .
Something like a grating sound in his head dragged him awake. His eyes fluttered open, and what he noticed first was how the pulsing cricket sounds had ceased, leaving the lake completely absent of all noise. It was full dark now . . .
What was that grating sound? he wondered, leaning up, but then it came again—
A hard crackle, like static.
Then a voice: “Hon? You there? Aw, jeez—”
The walkie-talkie, he realized. It was the woman from the dock with the outstanding implants. “Hi, I’m here,” he answered into the device, imagining her sitting on the pier just as topless as before.
Her Florida drawl crackled over the line. “Oh, gracious, thank God. I thought . . . well, you didn’t answer so’s I thought somethin’ happened, hon.”
“Sorry. I fell asleep. But I’ve had great luck catching crayfish,” Gerold said. “They’re delicious—” Something cut off the rest of his words. He sniffed.
“Is everything . . . all right out there? You notice anything . . . out of kilter?” the woman asked next.
Out of kilter . . . Gerold noticed something not right about her voice, even over the static. Did she sound distressed? But then he sniffed again, flinched, and also realized his ears felt funny, like when flying on an airplane while descending.
“Now that you mention it . . . My ears are clogged up, and . . . I smell something.” The faintly metallic odor seemed just as faintly familiar.
“Like an electric motor sort’a thing?” she asked.
“Yeah! That’s it. Ozone, I think it is. Like before an electrical storm—”
A long pause drew over the line.
“Hey, are you okay?” Gerold asked.
“Well, hon, I feel like a horse’s heiny but, well, I’m kind of . . . scared.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I ain’t sure but—and this’ll sound nutty—but all my hair’s standin’ right on end, like it’s floatin’ up off my head—”
Well. That DOES sound nutty, Gerold reflected but at the same moment he saw that the hairs on his forearm—
What the hell?
—were standing on end. Then he slowly raised his hand and discovered that all the hair on his head was sticking up, too.
“This is weird but the same thing’s happening to me,” he told her.
“Must be a ’lectrical storm comin’—”
“But that’s impossible,” he replied. Overhead stretched a cloudless expanse of flickering stars, deep twilight, and a radiant white sickle moon. “The sky’s clear.”
The woman’s voice quavered nervously. “Then it’s heat lighting or somethin’, hon—I don’t know! Somethin’ don’t feel right in my gut. I’d feel a whole lot better if ya’d come in—”
I can’t come in! he could’ve shouted. I’m gonna KILL MYSELF in a little while! But then the woman actually croaked a tiny sob over the line.
Wow, she really is scared, Gerold realized. He sighed. Fuck. What difference did it make, though? I’ll kill myself tomorrow. “Look, don’t be afraid, I’ll row myself in right now—”
“Oh, thank you, sweetie! Somethin’ just don’t feel right, and I am beside myself with the jitters.”
“Just hang tight, I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Gerold said. He signed off, then pulled the crayfish trap again and found it empty. Well that’s strange. First empty pull all day. And nighttime was the best time to trap.
No matter.
Gerold grabbed the oars and began to row. It felt good being needed, though. Paralysis notwithstanding, the woman was scared and didn’t want to be alone. This can be my last good deed, and who knows? Maybe I’ll get to see her boobs again . . .
He estimated that it would take him about twenty minutes to row back in to the dock, but what he didn’t estimate—what would’ve been impossible to estimate—was that he would never get there.
(II)
Krilid glided the Nectoport high over the green-black clouds. Watching the immense Sputum Storm had been something. All that hock raining down on the evil bastards. He’d seen them over urban areas where the winds had toppled skyscrapers and the mucoid rain had caused flash floods. Good for them, Krilid thought.
But the storm’s moving off made his own job easier.
A moment of directional thought in his warped head collapsed the distance of over a thousand miles and—
Sssssssssssssssss-ONK!
—in an indivisible sliver of a second, he’d relocated the Nectoport high over the Pol Pot District. This second part of his mission, he knew, would be much more difficult to pull off, if indeed it could even be pulled off. I’ve got no choice but to trust Ezoriel, and if his intel turns out to be bad?