Ante Mortem by ed. Jodi Lee Page A

above her head for a fraction of a second before coming down fast, instantly crushing a tiny skull the same size as her own.
     
     
    * * * *
     
     
    Hit the Wall
    David Dunwoody
     
     
    “We’re under attack.”
    Brautigan looked up from his lap. He’d been smoothing and re-smoothing creases in search of substance, thinking about the days when there was no question about it, the days when his light-headed haze was the result of something other than lack of sleep. An uninterrupted nap would, at this point, be as good as any vacation. And he’d almost been lulled to sleep by the jostling of the airport shuttle when Pearce said those words. Then the bassist said them again. “We’re under attack.”
    Pearce was looking at his phone, reading from some news app. “Cessna flew right into downtown Shawburg. We’re like thirty minutes away, brother. We’re driving right into it.”
    “ A prop plane?” Brautigan cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes. “Could be an accident, buddy—remember that one in Manhattan, I think it was, few years back—same thing.” He glanced toward the front, at the young Middle Eastern driver, and hoped Pearce wouldn’t raise his voice in argument. Naturally, he did.
    “ It was going to happen sooner or later,” Pearce intoned, pointing the phone at Brautigan like an accusing finger. “And of course it’s gonna be a little private plane. Hell, it could be loaded up with anthrax or something.” He consulted the app and muttered, “We’re driving right into it...”
    No way the driver hadn’t overheard by now. And knowing Pearce, it was only a matter of time before he started speculating about which sand-race had carried out this supposed attack. What a fucking gig , Brautigan thought. What a rock band. A gaggle of paranoid old men, looking to blame someone for everything. They belonged on covered porches with wicker chairs and sun teas. Brautigan was pushing six-oh, and Pearce, who always lied about his age, was certainly not far behind. Same for their drummer and keyboardist, likely snoring away in the other shuttle with the rest of the gear. No roadies for these never-weres. No groupies either. While it was true that Brautigan’s silver ponytail and hawkish gaze still attracted a certain breed of young female, they all reminded him too much of his own daughter.
    And, though neither Pearce nor anyone else knew it, she was the real reason for the Shawburg bookings, for this miserable sleepless caravan. At the thought of Lacey, the first twinge of anxiety struck Brautigan, and he thought, I hope to God she was nowhere near that plane crash .
    He glanced toward the front and saw the driver eyeing them in the rearview mirror. Pearce began to speak again, and Brautigan nudged his shin with the tip of a snakeskin boot. Pearce looked from him to the driver and rolled his eyes. “Seth Brautigan, the politically-correct headbanger.”
    “ Frankly, that makes more sense than you—” Brautigan began, and then the shuttle veered sharply and crossed the expressway into the path of a bus.
     
    Maybe Pearce has a point.
    Last week, when the Iranian youths started lighting themselves on fire, we thought it was a political protest, the birth of a revolution. Then it happened in Toronto, and Mexico City—kids setting themselves aflame and others rushing into the burning pillars and embracing their own deaths. The media went nuts about the so-called mass hysteria, which they had apparently fomented by airing the Iranian suicides, which they then aired again and again.
    And now this. So maybe Pearce is right. Maybe it’s a religious thing, a network of apocalyptic extremists. Maybe that’s why the Cessna went down. Why our driver just plowed us into a bus. Why I’m upside-down and can’t feel my face or my legs.
    Brautigan slipped out of his seat belt a little. His head settled on the roof of the shuttle, tiny glass jags biting into his scalp. He fumbled across his waist and unbuckled