Extinction Machine

Chapter One Hundred Three

House of Jack Ledger

Near Robinwood, Maryland

Sunday, October, 20, 10:11 p.m.

I found her upstairs in a small bedroom on the third floor. It had a single bed and big windows that looked out over trees. Pale moonlight painted the room in blue-white softness. She sat on the window seat, knees pulled up against her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. I knocked gently on the door frame.

She didn’t turn to see who was there. She made no specific move and yet there was a feeling of invitation. Or, at least I seemed to sense that. I came in and stood by the window. Moonlight has a way of making everything, no matter how ordinary, seem charged with magical potential—a forest doubly so.

“I love the world,” she said, a propos of nothing.

I sat down on the edge of the window seat.

“No matter what’s happening there’s always something beautiful. I don’t know when I became aware of it, but the first time it really struck me was in Egypt, after the bomb went off. I was hurt, dazed, bleeding pretty badly, and I thought I was dying. I was on my back and all I could see was the sky above me. There was a bird up there, way high, coasting on the thermal currents, hovering almost perfectly. It looked so peaceful, so in tune with what it was and in harmony with its place in the universe. I mean, I knew that it was probably a vulture looking for a dead animal, but that’s part of life, too. Everything dies. If nothing died, then the world would never be renewed, so death is part of a continually unfolding of beauty.”

“Junie, I—”

She leaned against me. Maybe it was an unconscious act, a primal need for closeness deep in the night of an ongoing war. Or maybe it was a very conscious choice. Either way, her body was a solid warmth against mine. I knew she was dying, but the reality of her was so vital. So alive.

I put my around her and she made a small sound of acceptance, or allowing, of pleasure.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You had no reason to trust me. After all that you’ve been through, I’m kind of surprised you can trust anyone.”

We watched the moonlight.

After a long time I asked, “Are you afraid?”

“Of dying?” Her voice was a pale whisper. When I looked at her I saw tears glittering like jewels on her lovely face. “No. There’s always a light in the darkness.”

She turned to me then, and took my face in her hands and kissed my lips.

“I’m cold, Joe,” she said in that whisper of a voice. “Keep me warm.”

I stood up and drew Junie to her feet and we kissed. It was the softest, sweetest kiss I’d ever experienced. Then we undressed each other with sudden urgency, stripping away the stained and ragged clothes and all their proofs that a harsh world existed. Her body was ripe and lithe and ghostly pale. I drew her into the warm circle of my arms and we stood there and kissed by moonlight for a few scalding moments, and then we were in the small bed. Our bodies moved together with a familiarity and comfort as if we had known each other for years, yielding and receiving, offering and taking, sharing and plunging into that river of sweetness that has flowed since the dawn of time and will flow on until the stars are dark cinders. She buried her mouth against the hollow of my neck to muffle a scream of delight that was not the little death but an affirmation of life. I cried out, too, both of us wordless but articulate in the message we shared, in a statement that we are still alive. For now, in this moment, we are still alive.





Part Six

Terminal Velocity



Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.

—MARK TWAIN


Seven blunders of the world that lead to violence: wealth without work, pleasure without conscience, knowledge without character, commerce without morality, science without humanity, worship without sacrifice, politics without principle.

—MAHATMA GANDHI