CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Chaz:
Some days have no right to be beautiful. The sky shouldna€?t be blue, the birds shouldna€?t sing. There shouldna€?t be white puffy clouds sailing like catamarans across a vellum sea. The air shouldna€?t be fragrant with daphne, honeysuckle and gardenia; there shouldna€?t be a sense of magnificence in each stolen breath.
Today was that day.
I got out of the car, two bodyguards piled out behind me. Three others led the way. We pushed through angry cattle-like crowds, all poised and ready to stampede. Fortunately Fresh Start had sent a citywide Verse-warning a few hours ago, just in case anybody decided to pull another gauntlet. If there was a disturbance today, all transgressors would lose their ticket into the next life.
Just then, a herd of reporters tried to shoulder their way through the mob, media bands around their foreheads recording everything they saw and heard, as if that somehow justified their presence here.
a€?How does it feel to be responsible for the worst tragedy in the past decade?a€?
a€?Can you explain why your niece survived, when sixteen other children were brutally murdered?a€?
a€?How do you sleep at night, Mr. Domingue?a€?
I pushed my way past the reporters, wondered why the sun was shining, why ragged clumps of wildflowers dared to grow between weathered crosses and skewed headstones, why life still smells sweet in the midst of decay.
Catcalls circled in my wake and some blockhead threw a handful of rocks. One of the guards surged forward, grabbed the culprit, wrestled him to the ground, started to perform an on-the-spot, down-and-dirty extraction of the mana€?s Fresh Start chip.
a€?Let him go,a€? I mumbled.
The sky hung, a brilliant blue, above the crumbling brick wall that skirted the cemetery perimeter, all of it guarded by a quiet sentinel, a gothic stone church.
Black clouds should have been assaulting the ground, tornadoes ripping through the firmament, dirt and dust searing our skin. The heavens should have been shouting a vehement protest. Bolts of lightning should have shot down like shards of celestial glass, striking every one of us through the chest and putting an end to this charade we called life.
Instead, every nation, tribe and tongue was converging on a tiny ninteenth-century cemetery just outside Metairie, Louisiana. Modern technology was colliding with ancient ritual. Off to the side, a crew of VR event coordinators frantically pressed buttons on a massive audio/visual board, alternately waving their hands and directing the proceedings like orchestra conductors.
And then a familiar face appeared in front of mea€”my mother. I hadna€?t seen her since her transmission shorted out last night. When the liquid light rolled into our lives.
a€?Hi, sweetheart. You doina€? okay?a€? she asked.
I nodded. The crowd shambled around us, fists clenched, eyes swollen.
a€?I tried to get in to see you.a€? She coughed, then paused for a moment. She looked tired. a€?But my VR suita€?s been on the blink.a€?
a€?Are you okay?a€?
She grinned. We both knew she wasna€?t okay, and that she was never going to admit it. a€?Howa€?s Isabelle?a€?
a€?Shea€?s fine, Mom. I left her back at the hotel with Pete.a€?
a€?Yeah. Shea€?s too young for this,a€? she said. Then she coughed again. a€?All those kids were too young for this.a€?
a€?Time for you to get into position,a€? one of the ant-like VR coordinators interrupted. He pushed a remote-control button on his sleeve and she started to dissolve.
She disappeared, and at the same instant the ancient landscape around me began to magically transform as VR wizards practiced their dark technological sorcery. Row upon row of shimmering virtual patrons began to pop up in pre-paid positionsa€”Mom was probably crammed in there somewhere, but I couldna€?t tell which one was her. Meanwhile, the brick wall that surrounded the cemetery morphed, blurred and then refocused, until it finally resembled the staggered seating in the Roman Colosseum. Within a few minutes the guests were stacked in six rows, one on top of another.
Spectators were coming from all around the world to see the funeral of the century.
Just then a crowd of bodyguards drifted past. And at their center, Russ and Marguerite.
I had a feeling none of them saw me, or if they did, they were ignoring me. Either way, it helped me decide which way to go. My guards joined theirs and we followed a few steps behind, close enough for me to listen in on their conversation.
a€?This is awful,a€? my sister-in-law, Marguerite, whimpered as she held a handkerchief to her eyes. I wondered if she was crying or trying to hide from the press. Despite the heat, she wore a long-sleeved black dress. a€?I just hate this morbid fascination with death.a€?
a€?Death is part of life,a€? Russ mumbled as he shepherded her forward, threading their way through the throng of nearly five hundred people; a variegated hodgepodge of reporters, bodyguards, mugs and VR technicians mixed in with immediate family members and friends of the deceased children.
a€?Not anymore. Funerals are just outdated, superficial ceremoniesa€”a€?
He grabbed her by the arm and she almost crumpled from the pain.
a€?Show some respect,a€? he hissed as he pulled her closer. a€?They were children and they died in our house.a€?
a€?Take your hand off my arm.a€? Her voice was fading as they moved away. a€?Ia€?m sick of this marriage and Ia€?m really sick of youa€”a€?
Just then Lieutenant Skellar muscled his way through our private army until he stood between Russ and me. I gave Skellar a toothy grin, raised my left hand and waved, sporting newly grafted skin and a fresh tattoo on my palm. He pretended like I was invisible. Just the reaction I was hoping for.
Instead he focused on Marguerite, like a shark considering a between-meal snack.
a€?Trouble in paradise?a€? he asked. I had a feeling this guy planned on becoming our new best friend.
Russ swiveled around, noticed me for the first time. His eyes narrowed when they focused on Skellar. a€?This is the wrong time and the wrong place, Lieutenant.a€?
a€?Just wanted to give the a€?Mrs.a€? my card.a€? The mug slipped a thin piece of plastic into Margueritea€?s hand. a€?Thata€?s got my contact info on it, Mrs. Domingue. Call me if you remember anything else about the other night.a€?
She palmed the card silently.
a€?Wherea€?s your Newbie?a€? Skellar turned a laser-beam glare on me, then scanned the surrounding crowd. a€?Thought you two couldna€?t be parted without destroyina€? the universe.a€?
a€?We opted for a trial separation.a€?
a€?Sounds like something your brother and his wife might want to consider.a€?
a€?Shut up, Skellar,a€? Russ growled. a€?Youa€?re out of your element here.a€?
a€?Ia€?m never out of my element,a€? Skellar replied. But I noticed a tremor in his hands, just before he stuffed them back in his pockets.
a€?I heard that the latest shipment of jive-sweet was cut with strychnine,a€? I said. a€?Saw a VR report that said some of your good old boys are in the hospital, hooked up to artificial respirators. Maybe thata€?s why youa€?re cranky today.a€? I started humming a popular jive-sweet tune.
a€?Youa€?re goina€? down, Domingue. You and your whole family.a€?
a€?In your dreams, Skellar.a€?
He sauntered away, stage left, through a sea of anonymous faces, most of them watching Russ and me.
a€?Wherea€?s Isabelle?a€? Russ asked.
Good to see you too. Howa€?d your interrogation turn out? Anything you want to tell me, like what the hell is going on? a€?Shea€?s back at my place. With Angelique.a€?
a€?You left my daughter with a Newbie? Are you crazya€”a€?
a€?Guess you forgot. That Newbie saved your daughtera€?s life.a€? I could see his freak level had just about reached its limit, so I gave him a break. a€?Dona€?t worry, Petea€?s there. And a team of guards. Hey, did you see Mom? Shea€?s here somewhere.a€?
He glanced up at the surrounding VR stadium seating, then back at me. a€?I need to talk to you after this is over.a€?
a€?I think we both have some stuff to discuss.a€? I was thinking about that Newbie who downloaded on his front lawn. Her cryptic message about some dog and a girl named Ellen.
A thought burned behind guarded eyes. He lowered his voice. a€?I tried to get hold of Aditya Khan this morning, but couldna€?t get through. Indiaa€?s gone brown.a€?
The Nine-Timer scenario. My pulse ratcheted up a notch. a€?What about Saudi Arabia?a€?
a€?Not yet. But theya€?ve got a number of Five-and Six-Timer hot pockets.a€?
a€?This aina€?t good. Especially right nowa€”a€?
Just then the crowd parted like the Red Sea. A stream of pallbearers marched past, carrying tiny caskets. A river of sixteen miniature coffins, close enough to touch. All sound vanished. No one spoke or moved. Then somewhere in the distance, one bird started to sing, a surreal off-key melody, discordant and unsettling. My fingers turned numb and I realized that I had been holding my breath. There was something unholy and unnatural about all of this, like watching the world being turned upside down.
I wished God or one of his angels would step forward and ask if we wanted any do-overs. How about you, Chaz? Would you like to relive the past three days? Absolutely, Ia€?d answer. But this time, Ia€?d stop those bloodsucking monsters, Ia€?d eat that liquid light before Ia€?d let it get inside Isabellea€?s rooma€|
A ball of light rolls across the floor like a toy, then ignites and blasts, a heat so intense that it fries the kids from the inside out. Boils their blood, melts their brains, sizzles their skin.
One coffin was barely the length of my arm.
For a long moment the sky blotted out and turned dark. All I could see were cinder-black bodies, sixteen scars on the bedroom floor.
Sixteen children. Gone forever. Meanwhile, somewhere on the other side of the world, the epileptic convulsions of the Nine-Timer scenario were beginning.
The end of everything was about to begin.