Grief: Five Stories of Apocalyptic Loss Read Online Free
Author: Michael Coorlim
themselves get swept up, mob mentality replacing a superior's orders, giving them a new routine. He'd taken to it easily, because the alternative was...
What was the alternative? The old man. Whatever the old man was doing.
Briar didn't seem upset. He didn't seem lost. Carson was willing to bet that he wasn't having regular anxiety attacks, not even when he was sitting in the living room, weighing the pros and cons of putting that revolver to his temple and joining his wife in death. What was his secret? What did he know?
Would he share that secret?
Carson thought that he might.
He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the bags under his eyes, noting the bloodshot nature of his sclera. He couldn't remember when the last time he slept was. Before the riots, certainly. His nervous system seemed jacked, hyperactive, hyper-aware, as if his body knew the fate that awaited it, as if it was trying to maximize what remained of its time.
But for what? That's what Briar had asked. That's the question Carson had run into the bathroom to avoid.
What was the point? Even if the representative had some answers, so what?
The world was ending, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Nobody was, as far as Carson knew, even making an attempt to divert the stellar death even now hurtling towards the planet at sixty-thousand miles an hour.
So what did it matter if he spent his last weeks trying to keep himself busy? Too busy to think about it? Too busy to freak out? If he could just keep himself distracted for a few more days...
Except he couldn't. Except the anxiety attacks were coming more and more frequently. Except he was too introspective. He wasn't like Blake. He couldn't just shut down that part of his brain that worried, that knew it was going to die. He didn't want to spend his last moments a panicked animal, a savage beast hunting and scavenging until the moment when the atmosphere burned away and he was flash fried with the rest of the human race.
He wanted to face the end with dignity. Like a man. Like the man he'd never been in life.
Maybe that was it. He'd always done "the right thing." He'd gone to a good school. He'd played by the rules. He'd lived a sterile and unsatisfying life, prosperous, but devoid of meaning. Even if his life was meaningless, he could at least die well.
The old man -- Representative Briar -- could teach him how.
The gunshot broke through his introspective reverie.
***
Blake stood over Briar's corpse, smoking revolver in hand, calmly regarding the man he'd killed.
"It wasn't what I expected at all." He didn't look up as Carson ran in. "I don't feel anything at all."
Carson was on him in an instant, the anxiety that had been building combusting into a fine red rage. The fury seemed to erupt from his gut and flow like lava into his fists as they pummeled his partner, knocking him down. His fingers wrapped themselves around Blake's throat, grabbing, squeezing.
"Fuck you!" Carson screamed as he choked. "He knew! He knew! He was going to tell me! Fuck you!"
Carson's blood pounded in his temples. He throttled Blake, impervious to the hands clawing at his face, barely registering the scratches on his neck, on his lip. Rage fueled his strength as he slammed the other man's head against the hardwood floor once, twice, three times.
Many times. He didn't count.
It was fast. Whatever he did, it was fast. And Blake was right. It wasn't what he expected.
***
The power had, at some point, shut off. The diligent employees at the power companies either realizing their folly, falling to the riots rocking the city, or routing what energy they had to more vital systems.
It was the lights shutting off that brought Carson back to his senses. It had been days. A week? He'd eaten most of what food the old man had left without realizing it, handfuls of cereal out of boxes, water from the faucet, cold hot-dogs. Some presence of mind had lead him to putting the corpses -- Blake, Briar,
What was the alternative? The old man. Whatever the old man was doing.
Briar didn't seem upset. He didn't seem lost. Carson was willing to bet that he wasn't having regular anxiety attacks, not even when he was sitting in the living room, weighing the pros and cons of putting that revolver to his temple and joining his wife in death. What was his secret? What did he know?
Would he share that secret?
Carson thought that he might.
He stared at himself in the mirror, noting the bags under his eyes, noting the bloodshot nature of his sclera. He couldn't remember when the last time he slept was. Before the riots, certainly. His nervous system seemed jacked, hyperactive, hyper-aware, as if his body knew the fate that awaited it, as if it was trying to maximize what remained of its time.
But for what? That's what Briar had asked. That's the question Carson had run into the bathroom to avoid.
What was the point? Even if the representative had some answers, so what?
The world was ending, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Nobody was, as far as Carson knew, even making an attempt to divert the stellar death even now hurtling towards the planet at sixty-thousand miles an hour.
So what did it matter if he spent his last weeks trying to keep himself busy? Too busy to think about it? Too busy to freak out? If he could just keep himself distracted for a few more days...
Except he couldn't. Except the anxiety attacks were coming more and more frequently. Except he was too introspective. He wasn't like Blake. He couldn't just shut down that part of his brain that worried, that knew it was going to die. He didn't want to spend his last moments a panicked animal, a savage beast hunting and scavenging until the moment when the atmosphere burned away and he was flash fried with the rest of the human race.
He wanted to face the end with dignity. Like a man. Like the man he'd never been in life.
Maybe that was it. He'd always done "the right thing." He'd gone to a good school. He'd played by the rules. He'd lived a sterile and unsatisfying life, prosperous, but devoid of meaning. Even if his life was meaningless, he could at least die well.
The old man -- Representative Briar -- could teach him how.
The gunshot broke through his introspective reverie.
***
Blake stood over Briar's corpse, smoking revolver in hand, calmly regarding the man he'd killed.
"It wasn't what I expected at all." He didn't look up as Carson ran in. "I don't feel anything at all."
Carson was on him in an instant, the anxiety that had been building combusting into a fine red rage. The fury seemed to erupt from his gut and flow like lava into his fists as they pummeled his partner, knocking him down. His fingers wrapped themselves around Blake's throat, grabbing, squeezing.
"Fuck you!" Carson screamed as he choked. "He knew! He knew! He was going to tell me! Fuck you!"
Carson's blood pounded in his temples. He throttled Blake, impervious to the hands clawing at his face, barely registering the scratches on his neck, on his lip. Rage fueled his strength as he slammed the other man's head against the hardwood floor once, twice, three times.
Many times. He didn't count.
It was fast. Whatever he did, it was fast. And Blake was right. It wasn't what he expected.
***
The power had, at some point, shut off. The diligent employees at the power companies either realizing their folly, falling to the riots rocking the city, or routing what energy they had to more vital systems.
It was the lights shutting off that brought Carson back to his senses. It had been days. A week? He'd eaten most of what food the old man had left without realizing it, handfuls of cereal out of boxes, water from the faucet, cold hot-dogs. Some presence of mind had lead him to putting the corpses -- Blake, Briar,
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