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Futuristic ᴇɢᴏ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

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  • Cyrus gave the guitar one last absent strum,
    letting the final note hum in the crisp air. Shortly after, Kurt, his wife, and son had arrived with the kids. Cyrus sent them a welcoming wave as thanks, beaming like a politician at a rally.

    But more than the sound of string instruments and youthful chatter filled the space. True to character, Angelo made a loud, swaggering approach, bottle cap in hand. Cyrus sighed, shaking his head with a lopsided smile as the cap clinked harmlessly against the stage.

    "Well, ''ey' to you, too, Angelo," Cyrus said, rising smoothly to his feet. "You must have mistaken me for a jukebox. Usually, those take quarters." The gathered children giggled at the quip, though the reference was beyond even most adults in the group.

    Cyrus had hosted countless gatherings since his group made it to the compound—book clubs and history lessons, explorations of art, music, and the finer things of a world that now only existed in discarded media. Angelo's appearances at the recitals had initially caught Cyrus off guard. But then he recalled the countless times low-fidelity audio from a CD player had been blasted over the radio channels, and it sort of started to make sense.

    He adjusted the strap of his guitar, tilting his head as he surveyed Angelo. "Tell you what," he said, giving the strings a slow, delicate strum, "If you think you’ve got the chops to impress this crowd, be my guest." He gestured toward the rowdy band of kids, then pointed with his eyes at the various instruments scattered around the stage area.

    Cyrus turned his attention back to the audience, his fingers settling instinctively over the strings as he struck a jaunty chord to raise the energy. He stepped back theatrically, holding the guitar out as if to offer it to Angelo. The children gasped and giggled in unison, their eyes darting between the men, already entertained by the prospect of inciting a showdown.

    Cyrus let his smile linger. "Well?" he prompted, holding the guitar out a little further. He glanced past Angelo to the edge of the gathering, where Fraley and Romar stood, offering a nod as one of the children bolted in their direction.










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  • “You want me to show you up at your own show, for real?”
    Angelo asked with a hearty chuckle. The liquor within him was the perfect amount to have him completely fearless and prime to embarrass himself, which Cyrus could certainly pick up on. He leaned against the piano, looking down through his eyebrows at Cyrus.

    Cyrus did a quick, showy move with the guitar, which got an excited rise from the audience. Then, what Angelo had been waiting for happened: he offered him the guitar.

    “Well?” the man asked.

    Angelo grinned over at Cyrus. “You think I can’t do it? I thought you knew my old man.”

    (If indeed Angelo was right about Cyrus knowing his old man, that knowledge would not bolster any confidence in Angelo’s playing abilities, since the only publicly seen incident of Angelo’s father interacting with a string instrument was him breaking it over his knee in anger after drunkenly failing to play some obscure folk tune.)

    Angelo grabbed the guitar with an exaggerated confidence that made the young audience before him giggle. He muttered softly to himself, fingering randomly at the fretboard to get a feel for the worn guitar in his hand. “Hell, I…let’s see…” His words were indiscernible to anyone but himself. “C Major, A minor? Or A minor, C major? F over 7…” He gave the instrument a strum, then, frowning, gave the lowest knob a twist and strummed again.

    And then, he finally began to play, and, unexpectedly, though the notes the man sang were always just slightly out of tune and the guitar had a glaringly wrong note on each strum, the haunting words of the old folk song The Unquiet Grave were clear and resonate:

    The wind doth blow today, my love,
    And a few small drops of rain;
    I never had but one true-love,
    In cold grave she was lain.    ​

    He took a few moments of creative liberty to howl, which made the kids, who had been sitting confused, burst out in a short fit of laughter.

    I’ll do as much for my true-love
    As any young man may;
    I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
    For a twelvemonth and a day.    ​

    The subject matter was in stark contrast to Angelo’s demeanor, but, strangely, the children in the audience seemed to pick up on their need to be quiet. Seemingly enchanted, they grew still and near silent as they watched Angelo strum and sway.

    The twelvemonth and a day being up,
    The dead began to speak:
    “Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
    And will not let me sleep?”    ​

    A cough, then stillness again from the audience.

    ’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
    And will not let you sleep;
    For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
    And that is all I seek.

    You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    But my breath smells earthy strong;
    If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
    Your time will not be long.

    ’T is down in yonder garden green,
    Love, where we used to walk,
    The finest flower that e’re was seen
    Is withered to a stalk.

    The stalk is withered dry, my love,
    So will our hearts decay;
    So make yourself content, my love,
    Till God calls you away…    ​

    There was a single moment of silence.

    Then, naturally, one of the children demanded, “Why do you sing like that?”

    Angelo, cocky, handed the guitar back to Cyrus. “‘Cuz I trained for it, kid.”

    “Sounded really bad,” the kid said to the child beside him, but Angelo clearly didn’t hear that.

    He looked over at Cyrus. “Bet you don’t even know the name of that one,” he said proudly.










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  • The wind was picking up,
    and with it the auburn leaves shed by their mother trees. Shiny grains of glass, shreds of splintered wood, all varieties of litter dusted the ground in a manner most would say was all they knew. Such was the way of October's breath, often too delicate to sweep the streets from flecks of ruin.

    Fabric was tied between the stakes scattered around the compound, old mailboxes and traffic posts repurposed into trail markers. Described affectionately by most survivors as exterior decor, these low-hanging ropes lined almost every path, including the less-traveled trail to Cyrus' stage. Otherwise, strangers to feng shui attributed the posts correctly as a means of shepherding children and newcomers across the settlement. Engineers, designers, and architects were scarce. The need for navigation was not.

    Deron had established governance, Eloise before him, building a sense of authority greater than community. These were the ways of the future. Not a neon, space-aged future, but one where law and order is afforded by the mercy of fortune. And so, to stay sane, survivors had to forge their own luxuries.

    But luxury, Cyrus would argue, could be found high and low. Exploring flooded libraries, dilapidated schools, and crumbling museums, he found his own purpose long before being absorbed by such a large group. There was an innate legitimacy to nostalgia, as well as the universe-multiplying freedom of discovery. As a young person, Cyrus knew this more than he knew isolation and loneliness. More than hunger, the cold, or anything fleeting in this hurting, healing world.

    The self-proclaimed historian stepped aside from the stage, watching Angelo's performance rapt with arms tucked behind his back. His one-man show, though inebriated and somewhat comical, meant everything. It was the reason Cyrus put on these events, the seminars, the book clubs, the dumpster dives behind abandoned department stores. Singing before him was the proof that humans, by nature, craved art and expression.

    When Angelo was done, Cyrus raised two hands, pounding them together with a resounding thunder. There were firecrackers alight, glittering in the eyes of the children and electrifying the atmosphere around the sparse audience.

    "That was impressive," said Cyrus, dusting off one of the fabric posts before taking the guitar back. "You should take a bow."

    He then found his place on the stage, listening to it creak under the shared weight of the piano and two men. "You're supposed to clap, even if you think it's bad," he addressed the children, hips lips meeting in a firm, dignified grin. "Can you believe that voice? Very well-done." At that, he locked eyes with Do-yun, sensing a chill in the wind carrying the scent of Angelo's late father: whiskey.

    Cyrus tapped the body of the guitar lightly, a thoughtful rhythm as he spoke. "You know, Angelo, you really ought to share more of those old songs with us sometime."

    He adjusted the strap of the guitar and leaned forward, addressing Angelo directly with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Though I have to say, I’m not sure I believe your ‘training,’ as you put it. Sounds more like you inherited your old man’s flair for improvisation. That was an inspired interpretation, no doubt."

    Cyrus faced the audience once more. "You see, what Angelo just gave us was a history lesson. That song, The Unquiet Grave, is hundreds of years old. Sung by people who lived and died long before any of us were even a thought. Imagine that—a melody that survived war, famine, and now, this. It’s still here because people like Angelo kept it alive. And that’s worth something."

    Cyrus let the guitar rest gently against the edge of the piano as he settled onto the bench, shooting an inviting glance at Angelo. He flexed his fingers dramatically, drawing a few chuckles from the children who were still squirming in their makeshift seats of overturned crates and scavenged lawn chairs.

    His fingers brushed the keys, testing their tuning with a few soft, cascading notes. The piano groaned under his touch, but the sound it produced was colorful and rich. "This one," he said, pressing the keys slowly, "is called Let Me Call You Sweetheart. My grandmother used to hum it, very long ago. Said it reminded her of the days when her world felt whole."

    Cyrus began to sing, his baritone voice steadily gaining in power and volume:

    Let me call you sweetheart
    I'm in love with you
    Let me hear you whisper
    That you love me too

    His voice carried into the area, weaving through the fabric posts like the autumn wind. Some of the children leaned forward, entranced, while others swayed in time to the music. Others yawned, tugging at the Marks' shirts to head home for breakfast.

    Keep the love light glowing
    In your eyes so true
    Let me call you sweetheart
    I'm in love with you

    Do-yun, from the outskirts of the gathering, watched the stage with something wistful and nostalgic, though his eyes remained fixed on Angelo.

    Keep the love light glowing
    In your eyes so true
    Let me call you sweetheart
    I'm in love with you

    Cyrus allowed the final chord to linger. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant creak of a swaying signpost. He stood up and faced the crowd again, his lips curling into a gentle smile. "And so, even in a world as broken as ours, love songs survive. Isn't that nice?"










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  • Inflating the ego of the egoist was a dangerous thing to do.
    At the opportunity to have a moment more of spotlight, Angelo gave a dramatic bow, then grinned over at Cyrus. “I have several I could—“

    Cyrus addressed the audience again and started to lecture, and Angelo, feeling a bit scorned by Cyrus’ stopping of the compliments, rolled his eyes and sort of walked over to the side to stand beside the Kirks for the duration of the song. Kurt spared him a sidelong glance but returned his attention back to the squirming audience before him.

    The song Cyrus began was a sappy one. Lots of pet names and the word love more times than he could count on one hand. Having gotten his taste of the spotlight and deciding that he knew how to savor it much more than the man who currently sat at the piano, Angelo gave an exaggerated yawn at the end of the first verse.

    But, in spite of himself, Angelo’s ear caught an interesting melodic line Cyrus tinkled on the piano, and he frowned slightly with interest. And the moment he inclined his head to listen closer, the next verse began.

    And, though the words were so clearly aimed at a sweetheart, a love, and the guy who Angelo had in mind was sure as hell neither of those things to him, Angelo couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Lionel. Because, ya know, it was reaching the several days past when you were supposed to be back mark, and that starts to do things to the mind of the people who…

    Keep the love light glowing​

    Angelo wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew that supplies were running low for the crew. Desperately low. But Lionel was smart. A genius. He was trusted for a reason. He could rig any invention up they needed out of whatever he saw near—leaves, sticks, concrete, metal, and shards of glass were made into freak creations like blankets, water filters, fishing traps…

    In your eyes so true​

    Lionel was crazy as hell, too. He’d be keeping the team on their toes, for sure. Though he could’a killed the guy back when he first met him for all of the crazy shit he pulled, Angelo enjoyed that fact about him now. Angelo just hoped he didn’t hit one of his spells of stripping down and trying to make a break for it on the trip. He didn’t do it super often, and Angelo never reported it to Deron when it happened, but it did happen. That, or Lionel would get this super distant look in his eyes and be really unresponsive for a day or so, not really respond to anything, just sort of look ahead and stare, like he was trapped in his own body. (Again, not important things for Angelo to report, so he never did.) When that happened, there was no way to wake him up—he just sort of would, and he would refuse to say what had happened until Angelo and him started drinking…

    Let me call you sweetheart​

    The things that Lionel admitted to Angelo at 2, 3 in the morning were things that Angelo would never repeat to another soul, living or dead. Lionel would say really psycho shit a lot—not psycho as in kill other people but psycho as in I have dreams about monsters. Shapeshifters, skin walkers, aliens, metamorphosed and deformed beasts…lots of yellow, lots of crystals, lots of death—some real psycho visions. Dreams, Lionel said they were, but Angelo almost thought that Lionel thought they were real. At first, Angelo thought Lionel was faking not remembering his past, but the more that he dug, the more Angelo discovered it to be the truth: he really couldn’t remember jack shit. But strangely, Lionel still seemed to remember scientific facts. The sun, the moon, the stars, the planets’ alignment. Drunk and laying on their backs on the grass out back of Angelo’s little hut, Angelo would ask Lionel to tell him more, and that would be the only time the curly-haired freak would smile…

    I’m in love with you​

    Who did Lionel have with him now who understood him? No one. Angelo should have insisted on going on the mission. The only missions he’d been on in the past were short-distance ones, since he needed to be around to work the radio system (which was a glorified walkie-talkie system). But he was sure he could handle it. Lionel didn’t have anyone who knew him like Angelo did…—

    Cyrus’ speaking broke Angelo’s deep thought: “And so, even in a world as broken as ours, love songs survive. Isn't that nice?"

    Drawn back to the present and his current indignation, Angelo scoffed. Brashly, he took a swagger forward, back toward where he had been. “You ever been in love, Cyrus? Or you just peddling something you don’t know to the tikes ‘cuz they don’t know any better?”










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  • For one of his concerts, this was the most noise Cyrus had heard in a long time.
    His performances usually followed a familiar rhythm: a set of songs, a heartfelt lesson, and a little Q&A for the kids. Unless it was one of the evening events, where moonshine and dancing were involved enough to rouse the adults from their incessant worrying. Jazz and swing were crowd favorites at those times, a tradition Cyrus was happy to carry on.

    Before he could move on to the next ballad, before the tambourine and the recorder and the big encore was to ensue, Angelo's idea was to twist the interactive element in his own way. He re-entered the vicinity of stage right, the scent of liquor trailing behind. Cyrus made an intrigued step toward the radio operator, pleased by his own performance. He held his thoughts behind a cool composure, awaiting his due flowers.

    Angelo faced him head-on, nothing to hold back, and he spoke:

    “You ever been in love, Cyrus? Or you just peddling something you don’t know to the tikes ‘cuz they don’t know any better?”

    All it took was a beat to gut the area's energy. It poured from Cyrus' face like a bleeding wound, a gunshot by the trigger of Angelo's glass half-empty. He faltered, only for a moment, then raised his chin upward to peer down at Angelo. He straightened, his gaze settling on Angelo, cool and cautious like a fox sizing up a threat.

    "No," was his frank answer, "I have not."

    There had always been cracks in Cyrus' armor, and while he hoped they were not so distracting, putting on a persona is a very cumbersome task. The leadership did it well, and it wasn't until the legendary Ellie Frazier's cognitive decline that anyone had any idea at all the toll it took to play the steely strategist. But Cyrus had never claimed to be a strategist.

    His expression shifted, and the muscles in his face let go.

    “But I had a family,” he continued, his voice as melodic as when he’d been at the piano. “A mom, a dad, brothers, and a sister. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Cats, dogs—even a snake.” He lowered himself to the edge of the stage, folding a knee into his arms.

    "How many of you have been in love?" Cyrus asked the audience, scanning between each and every individual, even the children. "How many of you think you've seen it? Was it your parents? Your neighbors? Your best friend and their friend and, so on..."

    Cyrus spared another glance downward. Angelo was young, he was brash, bitter in the way only youth could be, but no more hardened by unfairness than anyone else in the compound. Over the last week, it was like the beating heart of the compound had stopped completely, albeit slowly and quietly. Everyone was feeling the absences among their ranks. You could hear it in the silence, more so from those left behind than the unaccounted.

    "Have you seen what love looks like, Mr. Capelli?" he asked Angelo directly, devoid of hostility. "Your pappy sure loved a lot of ladies." Laughter rippled throughout the crowd, finding itself in Cyrus too through the form of a smirk.

    "I can share my past with you, if you wish," he said, his tone sincere. The offer was real. It was written on his face, even with the cracks and the faults and the armor intact. "Is that what counts as credentials? Knowing what it must be like to love?"










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  • Angelo did most things without thinking.
    Especially speaking. There was no reason to put thought into what he did; life tended to go fine when he went ahead and did, no thinking involved. It cut down on the time he wasted, too.

    Speaking out and asking a question that he himself couldn’t answer affirmatively to a guy who acted like he knew everything was…well, not exactly a bright thing to do. And from what it sounded like, Cyrus had experienced more love in his life than Angelo ever would in his, which didn’t help Angelo’s indignant mood.

    Cyrus had dogs and cats…a waste of good resources, and virtually an impossibility. Angelo stayed mostly on the grounds—in fact, he’d only ever been out once or twice—but he knew that there wasn’t anything good out there anymore. Rotting wood. Swamps filled with rusting cars half-sunken into foul-smelling sludge. Life that came in the gates from out there—human or otherwise—was always half-mad…or, like Lionel, full-mad: rabbits with screws loose; venomous snakes that attacked without mercy; tuberculosis-infested possums that always killed at least 5 people with their disease if they weren’t dealt with properly; raccoons with a strange human glint to their eyes that had to be killed on the spot; ticks, mites, locusts. Angelo wasn’t an imaginative guy, so, though he heard stories of nonhumans and humans living in companionship, beyond someone keeping a bird or a toad in a cage for a bit like a lot of the kids did here and there (and, admittedly, as he did sometimes, too), he couldn’t picture it being something that happened with animals like cats and dogs, whose descendants now, at least in this area, made for horror stories.

    “How many of you have been in love?” Cyrus asked the audience. “How many of you think you’ve seen it? Was it your parents? Your neighbors? Your best friend and their friend and, so on…”

    Angelo liked people a lot, sure. He enjoyed their company. But love? That really was the biggest illusion there was. Lionel was mad, but love was madder. Hysteria swept the incomers like the plague, but love was more hysterical. Angelo was too smart for something like that—and he was a (well, he’d admit it just once) dumbass, so that was saying something.

    “Have you seen what loves look like, Mr. Capelli?”

    Angelo’s eyes flicked to meet Cyrus’ and locked in on his gaze. Angelo narrowed his eyes, his brows flinching down. Had Angelo seen love? He’d seen idiocy, hell yeah. Self-sacrifice when saving your own ass would benefit everyone more. Young couples in the throes of passion making more hungry mouths and lessening everyone else’s rations—and then, one by one, dying off and pissing away so those hungry mouths became someone else’s responsibility. Things that people called love. But love?

    “Your pappy sure loved a lot of ladies,” Cyrus said, and the crowd laughed.

    Angelo’s face betrayed his irritation.

    Yeah, Angelo himself had been a hungry mouth who’d been passed around here and there. His mom had died, his dad said, but a lot of people told him that she really left—and that she left because his dad had told her to. Angelo didn’t buy the village’s stories, really; he trusted his dad more.

    But he knew his dad really did like the ladies. Angelo knew of at least two half-siblings he had in the community, but the only other people who knew about that kid’s blood-relation to him were the mothers and Lionel. His father generally had a bottle in one hand and a lady on the other arm, and that was just the truth of the matter. There were few women in the village who hadn’t been approached by his father—though most turned him away with an insult or a slap. Those who took him up…well, their reputations never quite recovered.

    But he didn’t love the ladies. Angelo’s father was his idol. Angelo knew that his father would never stoop low enough to love anyone, or anything. It just wasn’t in his nature.

    “i can share my past with you, if you wish,” Cyrus said. “Is that what counts as credentials? Knowing what it must be like to love?”

    Angelo exhaled in a sharp breath. “I’m not asking for cred. All I asked was if you’d been in love before. ’N since you ain’t, and you ain’t never…well, you don’t know jack about anything you just sang. I think I know more about it, an’ I ain’t had any dogs or cats or big happy family. But I can sing about it, ‘cuz I at least know what it’s really about.” He gestured to the kids. “And you—“

    He laughed, and then patted the piano. “You know what, sure. Tell your whole story. Mr. Dog-and-Cat. American dream in the ‘pocalypse.”










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  • Cyrus reached for the box on the far side of the stage,
    an ominous creak sounding out from the boards below. He straightened his legs, swinging them over the edge to let them dangle idly. After a moment, he gave a soft laugh. fishing out a dirty, old tambourine.

    The instrument jingled in Cyrus' grasp, acting more as an accessory to his hand movements than a real tool. It didn’t make anything resembling music, but it lifted his spirits by just a hair. Before long, he'd already forgotten he was toying with it, like it was no different than the heartbeat in his chest.

    He exhaled, evaluating the validity of everything he'd ever learned in the absence of authentic experience. In other words—books and the occasional observation. "You might," he said finally, his voice low but carrying through the crowd. "You might know more about love than me. I wouldn’t doubt that for a second." He tilted to the side toward Angelo, then looked forward. Toward the audience, toward the restless group of children, toward the wary adults with their arms crossed.

    "You want a story?" said Cyrus, happy to keep the conversation going. "Alright."

    "I was born into this world just a couple years after everything fell apart," he said. "Didn’t know anything else. But I grew up in a house that used to belong to something great. My family had this grand, old estate, passed down for generations. You should’ve seen it—white columns, a veranda, gardens that stretched on forever. We had a well, fruit trees, even a little pond where there were fish once upon a time. My uncle used to call it 'the last little kingdom standing.'"

    Cyrus’ eyes glazed over a little, like he was seeing it all again. Warm afternoons, long corridors, the smell of old books and honeysuckle on the breeze...

    "There were lots of us back then," he continued. "Like I said, Mom, Dad, brothers, sister. Aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, Nana, Pawpaw. We lived together, worked together. We were safe. Or we thought we were. People began taking off, eventually."

    Cyrus' fingers stilled, and he set the tambourine to his side with one last jingle.

    "Some went scavenging and never came back. Some got sick, and we buried them in the woods. But most... most just disappeared into the night. No sign of struggle, no goodbyes. They just vanished, one by one. And we never knew why."

    His voice was a somber sound, but it never dropped in volume or clarity.

    "By the time I was twenty, I was the only one left."

    The area around hung deathly quiet.

    Cyrus let the silence sit for a moment, then gave a small, wistful smile. "I've never minded being alone, though," he said, voice lighter now. "I had so many books. I read all day, played music all night. And the land was kind enough to me. The garden kept me fed, the well never dried, and I had enough to make do. It wasn’t bad. I didn't worry about the kinds of things our leaders do now."

    "See, love’s not always the warm thing people like to talk about. It’s not just about cats and dogs and Sunday dinners. It’s ugly. It’s selfish. It’s desperate." His eyes wandered the room, never staying too long on anyone in particular. Some, to his surprise, actually seemed interested in the dialogue. "Love is the mama who looks her baby dead in the eye," he said, a faint twang curling into his voice, "says everything’s gonna be alright, even when she knows clear as day that it ain't. It’s the brother who takes a beatin' meant for you because he knows you couldn’t win a fight against a garden snake on its last breath."

    "It’s the man who’s got nothing left in his chest but hollowed-out hurt, but still gets out of bed every odd morning to play piano for a room full of folks starin' at him like he's holding all the answers."

    Cyrus leaned forward slightly, voice low but clear as ever. "Love’s the only thing we've got that still makes us human. And I’d rather keep singing about it, even if it’s a lie, than let the truth turn me into something else."

    The words hit hard and fast, no time to brace for the impact. But Cyrus didn’t let the silence sit this time. His voice picked back up, softer, with a hint of something more reflective.

    "You spend that long alone, you start thinking a lot about the people who used to be there. About what happened to them. If they just... stopped loving you, one by one, until there was nothing left tying them to home. If love’s just a temporary thing, doomed to run out. Like fuel in a lamp, or food on the table."

    Cyrus' eyes stopped on Angelo, catching his powerful gaze.

    "If you don't sing to keep the embers warm, then what do you do?"










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III.II - Somewhere, Over the Rainbow New
  • Index



















    • The times that Cyrus spoke of, full of always-happy-always-laughing-always-full-and-satisfied-and-alive
      moms and dads and siblings and cousins and grandparents, were as far off to Angelo as the castles and ghosts of the folk song he had learned from his youth; what Cyrus spoke of next—the love of desperate mothers, blood brothers, and, finally, himself—was a fingertip away, if Angelo wanted to reach out and touch it. Were those things love, as Cyrus suggested? Angelo paused at length.

      Laughing with your family—Angelo wasn’t convinced that was love. That was drunkenness in a moment, a sudden swell in your chest, some feeling that lingered but always left—that wasn’t really love. Angelo laughed with a lot of people. He laughed with Do-yun, intoxicated and gleeful. He laughed with Fraley, with Mar—hell, sometimes with Tai, even—felt that sudden swell in his chest, that enjoyment of other people. He felt that odd, heavy, lingering feeling, sipping his liquor but not quite buzzed, laying flat on his back in the tall grass with Lionel, laughing heavy laughs that echoed through his ribcage and into the night, watching the full moon’s beams brush across Lionel’s brow, seeing Lionel smile brightly with his crooked teeth half-transparent in the white light, the freedom of a long night spent awake and alone, their voices the only noise to fill the silence in the late autumn, the cold biting at their noses, burning as the air heaved in and out… But those moments weren’t moments of love. They were moments of fun, sure. But not love.

      Love wasn’t the other things, either. The mother lying to her child—that wasn’t love. Care for the kid would’ve been to say, “Life is hell and things will never get better, kid, and you’ll be a better man once you learn.” That’s what his dad had said, and Angelo turned out better for it. A brother taking a beating for you—that was foolishness. Anyone knew the right thing to do was to let that kind of shit happen. If someone deserved something, they should get it. If you didn’t, then, hell, it wasn’t something you should get involved in. And…as for what Cyrus did…singing the love songs for everyone to hear…that was just something to pass the time, Angelo knew. That was the same reason Angelo played—to pass the time, to see how much he remembered and what was slipping from his mind. Strumming just slightly out of tune atop the roof in the quiet of the night, to the metronome of the crickets, and singing just barely out of key with Lio…it made the hours pass faster.

      “I, uh…” Angelo often found his words quickly and recklessly, and now, uncharacteristically, he waited to find the right ones. He worked his mouth, shoved his hands in his pockets, looked down to the ground, and kicked at a rock.

      He grinned, then shrugged. “Ya got me, Cy.”

      That night, when he lay down to sleep, two lines from Cyrus’ song played over and over in his mind: Keep the love light glowing…In your eyes so true…

      What do you do to keep the embers warm, A-C?

      He found himself sleepless, so he reached for his bottle. He drank himself to calmness, then lay on his side until his mind quieted.

      Then came the faces—melting, pulling, dragging.










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  • New
  • Index



















    • Min stepped out of her tent,
    the crisp air turning her nose a rosy shade of pink. Her probing eyes scanned the campsite, her lips turned down in a deep-set scowl. She, too, had been woken up by voices. Very real, very grating ones.

    When Min's gaze fell on Ethan, the corner of her lips gave a momentary twitch. As long as she looked at the boy, the arch of her brow was raised just past its usual resting state. Her posture remained straight, sharp, moving silently despite the lively conversation taking place.

    Tai was already there, his hands tucked into his pockets as a breathed out a visible puff of cold air.

    "No one's going to die," he said breezily. He offered the silent woman a half-hearted shrug, breaking the tension without even realizing it. "Well, unless someone eats the wrong thing again..."

    Min glanced at him for a moment, not exactly pleased with the comment. A quick nod, then she sighed. "You kids can joke all you want, but we need to focus today." She watched as they all slowly stopped whatever they were doing, just long enough to hear her next words. "Eat your breakfast. We’re moving soon, and we still need to find something worth our while."

    She turned to survey the rest of the camp, just as the familiar sound of a rock hitting Ethan’s back echoed.

    Lee stood at the edge of their little circle, his fist still clenched in the aftermath of the throw. "You throw like a fuckin' toddler," he sneered, flashing a grin that was more predatory than friendly. He gave Lionel a nod of respect, held it, then went back to quietly packing his and Juliet's gear.

    Juliet’s snicker came from beside the brutish man, suppressing a laugh that was equal in derision.

    "Knock it off," Min snapped, her often controlled and unemotional voice more firm than usual. "We’re here to survive, not to play games with each other. We need to move forward, and that means filling our bags, so we can go home sooner." Her eyes hardened, scanning the camp. "So get it together. Ethan, don’t start with me. If you’ve got issues, put them aside for now. We’ve bigger things to worry about."

    Juliet shot a sideways glance at Min, but the older woman’s stern gaze quieted her. Lee only shrugged, unbothered by the reprimand, and continued packing up with his usual lack of urgency.

    Despite the others' less-than-favorable reactions, the older woman's eyes instinctively settled on Lionel. She'd rarely seen him without Angelo tethered to his side, and something about that worried her more than she'd care to admit. His weird, disjointed mannerisms made her uneasy, but she had learned long ago not to show it.

    Min had never been a woman chained by fear. She had dealt with plenty rabid animals, crazed strangers, and unnatural, ear-splitting sounds out in the ruins of the world. And the number-one rule of those expeditions was that you did not start spouting off morbid, demented non sequiturs in the middle of abandoned buildings. Dark ones where, on the odd occasion, there was something twisted lurking around the corner waiting to scramble your brains into mush.

    The scavenging group was getting close to the end of their trip, and it was time to find something valuable before they headed back. Min was tired. Tired of the banter, tired of the empty streets, and tired of the ever-present danger clouding her elderly conscience. There wasn’t much time left.

    "Pack it up," she ordered, raising her voice to warn Bee against falling back asleep inside her tent. "We leave in ten."

    The rainbow of the morning sky cast strange shadows over the city’s broken buildings, and Min’s eyes flicked upward briefly before she turned her focus back on the camp, knowing the hardest part of the day had yet to come.

    With a perpetual sense of tensity, the team's leader found a spot by Lionel's side while he tidied up. "I don’t want to hear any more of your prophecies unless they’re useful," she said quietly, more of a tiredness in her delivery than any perceived bite. She forced a smile, the muscles in her face creating sharp lines like fitted bedsheets—awkward, strained, spread just barely too thin to function properly. But still, there was a softness beneath it all.

    "Are we clear, Lio?"










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    ”In Dublin's fair city,” sang Lionel, just under his breath,
    “where the girls are so pretty,” and he kept singing, even as Itai spoke, “I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone…” His wide blue eyes were alive and jubilant, but the joyous experience of being knowledgeable amongst fools was, as he had learned, an experience best had alone. It gave him a swell of pride, a rush of blood in his throat, like he were a red-throated hummingbird flitting about, and the vast expansive world was his garden, and he was surrounded by ugly, foolish yellow-eyed blackbirds…

    “Yes,” Lionel said, raising his voice to be heard, though still not turning to acknowledge the presence of the others, “you must avoid amanita phalloides, amanita muscaria, galerina marginata, and the like. Do not cook them for your soup, or you will be in tomorrow’s…” He chuckled gleefully, his face stoic, and he mumbled another line to himself: “As she wheeled her wheelbarrow through the streets, broad and narrow crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’…”

    When Min spoke, he straightened his back, paused his movement, and listened, continuing his song only in the small pauses between her sentences, in very quiet breaths, “Alive…alive, oh…alive…..alive, oh…..crying, ‘Cockles and…..mussels….alive, alive, oh…’” He inclined his head toward her direction, but he trained his eyes on the rainbow in the sky—the rare sight, the colorful, morbid omen!

    There was a thud, and Lionel turned to watch the scene: Lee, Leo, Leon facing Ethan, hand holding the ghost of a rock as the short kid faced him in deep offense. “You throw like a fuckin’ toddler,” said Lee Leo Leon, who then nodded at Lio. He likely expected some sort of acknowledgement in return; Lio grinned.

    Anger flashed across the boy’s face, then fear and worry. “I, ah...”

    “Knock it off,” Min interjected—beautiful woman, unsoft woman woman, harsh woman, woman completely. Saint, martyr, woman, woman. Lio smiled—St. Peter’s bones, relic of the past! “She was a fishmonger,” he hummed, “and sure it was no wonder for so were her father and mother before…” Inevitably at that point, Angelo would pause his playing to launch into a diatribe about his father, so he imagined that in place of Min’s scolding.

    The kid of the leader ducked his head in frustration and embarrassment and hissed something under his breath, then turned around to go back to his tent; Bee kicked him in the back of the knee as he went.

    Blackbirds.

    He did a short impression of a blackbird call, a little, Tr tr trrreet! Then he continued his song, “And they wheeled their barrow through the streets, broad and narrow
    crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’…” He laughed, brought up his voice, listened to it echo off of the walls, “Alive, alive, oh, alive, alive, oh, crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!’”

    “Pack it up,” ordered Min—older woman, beautiful woman, curious woman—“we leave in ten.” In the air there was the scent that made him think that Min didn’t quite trust him, or perhaps didn’t know what to think of him. Lio was used to that smell, but from Min, it was somewhat different—sharp, unsure, but demanding of him, not wary in the shrink-away sense.

    Then she was by him, right beside him, and he blinked his wide eyes at her like a hummingbird, like a little flitting hummingbird. “I don’t want to hear any of your prophecies unless they’re useful,” she said. When she smiled, Min—woman, woman, woman, St. Peter’s bones—took on a strange quality, something bittersweet to the tongue.

    Lionel’s prophecies were always useful. He was an augur sent from heaven—an oracle from another world entirely! How else would he have appeared, stark nude, blood-cloaked as in birth, in the center of a field, but that he were the child of the sky, the son of the Mind!

    “Are we clear, Lio?” she asked.

    Lionel stared deep into her pupils, which twitched as the sun passed over the clouds, contracted, dilated. Her eyes were a dam, holding something back—woman, something unreadable woman, St. Peter’s bones, thin woman, small nose, faces miles-long—woman, woman, woman, Palina, Palina, he could hear the dream voice calling it now, Palina…Palina…little dove, little bird, calling out to Ivan, twittering and screaming, but Ivan could never save her, he just knew what was to happen, those faces, that eating…

    “I have seen, face-to-face, Mind,” he droned, entranced, “Mind, Altogether, that weaves the world around us; the climbing yellow vines and the crystals in the dead. Don’t you see, Min Seok—Egoseed, you are here to be Enlightened. I am Enlightening you. That’s why I have come to you. Oh, see!” He smiled pleasantly, his face melting into joy. “I have seen an End, last night, realized I had received an oracle of our future: dead woman, dead men, dead us. St. Peter’s bones, see?” He approached Min without hesitation, stood just a bit too close. “We are all Fossils Going About.” His smile widened. "You, Lucky Woman, Strong Woman, Harsh Woman, Beast, Bird, Blackbird Mocking, have Seen, too, the face of Mind. Have you no appreciation for the sacred? For the crystals of the dead, blooming from their lungs. You, Lucky Blackbird, have come face-to-face with Mind's Fate, and you are spitting at it as you spit at me. Rocks on my head, on my back—stone me, oh See See See!"

    He let out another laugh, then broke into the last stanza of the song as he gathered the last of his belongings, “She died of a fever, and sure, no one could save her, and that was the end of sweet Molly Malone—now her ghost wheels, her barrow, through the streets, broad and narrow, crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’—alive, alive, oh, alive, alive, oh, crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’—alive, alive, oh, alive, alive, oh, crying, ‘Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’—“

    He stopped abruptly, dropped his belongings to the ground, his face suddenly growing devoid of emotion. He blinked, shook his head a couple of times. His eyes closed, and, for a long moment, he breathed in a choppy breath. Then, a moment later, his eyes opened and retrained, a strange, forgetful expression on his face.

    “Min…” He rubbed the underside of his chin, backing away from her, appearing all at once awkward and rehinged. “Ah…where will we go today?"










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    Min watched Lionel,
    her expression still and unchanging, aside from the subtle lowering of her brows. She had seen this before. The sudden stop, the blanking of his face, the way his pupils, unmoving, locked straight on to something that wasn't there. The man's monologues were distinctly fevered, nothing like the preachers Min was raised with in Savannah.

    St. Peter's bones.

    Fossils.

    Egoseed.

    Molly Malone?

    The yellow vines, the crystals in the dead... those were real enough. Most had seen them by now, growing like tumors out of ribcages and eye sockets, winding around old street signs and stoplights like a progressive disease. Normal, in the way only the end of the world could redefine the meaning of it. And no one, save for a few back at the base, knew any different.

    "We are all Fossils Going About," Lionel said, and Min's eye twitched at that one.

    Hell, if that isn't a little too poetic for this group of kids.

    The man, somehow seeing it fit for the occasion, broke into song...

    "She died of a fever, and sure, no one could save her…"

    ...just to quickly cut it off. His voice dropped out mid-verse like someone yanked his soul right out of his body. Min felt her stomach drop, dumbstruck. That always got to her, the way he just stopped like a broken marionette. For half a second, she wondered if this was the time he wouldn’t snap back.

    Min exhaled through her nose, glancing back at the others. Tai was lingering on the camp's edge, scarfing down a jar of pickled vegetables. Ethan had disappeared into his tent, undoubtedly nursing his bruised pride. Juliet was rummaging around in her personal bag, her harried movements filled with intent. Lee and Bee exchanged a few whispers, half-amused, half-annoyed. They were all used to Lionel’s behavior by now, as much as one could be.

    Tai had stopped eating his pickles to watch the tail end of Lionel’s episode, jar half-raised to his mouth. He blinked at Min, eyebrows raised, like, "Did we get a new Lio this time, or the same old model?"

    This is not the A-team,     Min thought grimly.

    The warm-clothed woman turned her attention back to the lunatic. He was rubbing his chin, his body language suddenly smaller, more human, more fragile. "Min… Ah… where will we go today?" he asked, a fair question.

    "Reynolds Row," she answered after a beat, adjusting the straps on her backpack. "That's where Kurt's old blazes stop. And..." Min's cheeks gained some color, a small puff of air escaping her nostrils. "City maps say there's a chocolate shop a bit toward the end." After all, the group needed something to look forward to that wasn’t Lionel’s existential prophecy hour.

    "But this isn’t a sightseeing trip," she said, her voice resounding. "For some of us, this is our first expedition. We stick to the route and we stick together, so no wandering off. You start getting weird, you let someone know, Lionel."

    "Right, so... five minutes," she repeated, a little louder this time, turning away from Lionel. "Bee, honey, would you give me a hand with the tents?"

    Really, the strangest part of this scenario was that Min expected to pack away three tents in five minutes.

    The group had set up their camp in the remains of a parking garage, half-collapsed but still standing. The upper levels had crumbled down into the lower ones, leaving jagged slabs to jut out like broken teeth. Its concrete innards lay exposed to the rainbow sky, forming a small brushstroke inside the gray-yellow-green cityscape. The group was tucked into a corner on its second level, where the ceiling seemed sturdy and resistant to the wind and rain.

    The air smelled of inorganic decay, rust, and motor oil that expired back when the traffic lights outside still switched on and off. Moss crept through the cracks, mingling with those golden vines that coiled like parasites around the rebar. A totaled sedan blocked one ramp leading down, giving them some cover, while the other ramp just barely allowed their vehicles up to the second level.

    A faded, half-ripped sign hung crookedly near the ramp leading down to the street:

    "Welcome to Haventon Promenade: $15 Parking All Day."

    Min had picked the spot because it was high enough to avoid the creeping floodwaters, but not high enough to be visible from the surrounding rooftops. Good for hiding the cars. Bad for running, if it ever came to that.

    Tai licked vinegar off his thumb, still watching the others with that half-lidded, amused stare. His body ached from sleeping on cold concrete, but it wasn’t the worst place they’d stayed. He raised his arms up and forward until his back popped, the fabric of his dusty tee stretched thin, hugging his features like cling wrap.

    "We are here to be enlightened," he mused, giving every effort to extract something personally meaningful from his comrades' conversations. Tai wasn’t sure what was sadder: that Lionel believed the shit he said, or that part of himself was starting to believe it, too. "Don’t linger on the bones too long," he added to no one in particular, falling in line to help pack the tents away.










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    • “Chocolate…how pleasant,”
      Lionel said, rubbing his head in mild confusion. Entrancement was happening more and more often these days—aligning with the omens he received in his dreams—but the exact words that tumbled from his mouth moments ago had drained from his short term memory in the few seconds he’d had his eyes closed. Sometimes, he was convinced that he, like the oracles of old, channeled the words of a god; most others, he was convinced that he himself was a god, or like a god, or half a god, but more god than any of the others around him.

      He began to rifle through the bag—rather, box with straps—that he carried along with himself, which held his various biological samples from the trip: a cluster of strange seed pods in one, a large crystal in another, the yellow tongue of a deceased opossum... He pulled out a small vial of amber liquid, popped open the lid, and drank down the contents. He felt the burn somewhere in the back of his throat—pleasant and comforting, an alcoholic reminder of his laboratory back home.

      “First expedition for some, last expedition for all,” Lionel muttered, resealing his box, drawing out his journal, and beginning to scribble down a few notes about what was to come for the day: chocolate, membranes, rust, yellow yellow…

      “Yes ma’am,” Bee said politely at Min’s request for help, putting within her pack the last of the utensils she’d used to whip up a quick breakfast of roasted greens and coming over to help the older woman. She side-eyed Lionel suspiciously, disconcertedly, clearly unsettled; his expression remained unchanged. “I got breakfast on the run for those who didn’t eat, too, Ms. Min. If today is as long as yesterday, then I know we’ll need to get as much down as our stomachs can handle.”

      Lionel breathed, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” A flickering back look from Bee said that she had caught some part of his words. He smiled widely, almost apologetically, sorry that such delicate ears had to hear such a harsh truth.

      “Ms. Min,” Bee said, bringing her voice low, but Lionel could still make out enough of each word to know what she was saying, “Lionel…is there some way you could get him to…uh…I’m sorry, I’m not trying to cause any problems, but…could you possibly get him to…?” She shook her head. “I can’t figure out what I’m asking. I just, uh, am kinda uncomfortable, that’s all.” She looked over Min’s shoulder to Lionel, who stared with wide, ghostlike eyes, and she visibly grimaced, ducked her head, and continued helping with the tents.

      The boy who’d been scorned earlier emerged from the tent with red-tinted eyes. Having a new (yet still somewhat wounded) reservation, he set his eyes straight ahead, tossed his belongings down to the ground, and started taking up his tent.

      Itai’s voice caused a flicker of a thin smile to skitter across Lionel’s face. He studied the younger man’s face, each pore, scientifically dissecting his expression; a bit of pity here, a bit of curiosity there. Lionel concluded, as he always did, that Itai, of all, was perhaps the most malleable—the closest to believing the truth, in his own mocking way. Because of this, Lionel chose to look upon him with pity—how sad it was, to be so close to the truth and yet resist it for the sake of your own “mental wellbeing!” Wellbeing was all relative, wasn’t it?

      “Itai,” Lionel said, at a volume that Itai could either deafen himself to or hone in on, with a tone that could be perceived as just wind or as a voice speaking with determination, “kid, you’re smarter than they say you are—Truth, it calls to you—I think you may answer.” He smiled. “Linger on the bones, kid. Linger on the bones. They are us; we are them!”










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