The Apocalypse Reader by Justin Taylor (Editor)
Authors: Justin Taylor (Editor)
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Science-Fiction, Short Stories, Anthologies, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), End of the world, Short Stories; American
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couple of us heaving a body over the edge, the thing landing with a splash in the shallows, perhaps a foot sticking up out of the muck. So we built a long plastic slide that would slip the body out into the middle of the river and we dressed Sven Ronsen in a fine Italian suit from one of the designer shops on the rue du Fauborg Saint-Honoré. We looped diamond necklaces around him so that he shone like a giant brooch. Sven Ronsen's body slipped like a frozen turkey down the slide and shot into the air. It hit the river dead center and vanished.
I realized any one of us could be next. Lionel's cheeks were sinking into his face, slowly revealing the shape of his skull. My pants had long ceased to fit and yet I insisted on wearing them, cinching my belt tighter and tighter, finally punching new holes into the leather so that the extra length hung off my hip, long and ridiculous, like a brown snake. It could have been any one of us. It could have been Claudia, though she seemed to be in good health. One night she grabbed me by the hand and took me to a balcony and ran her fingers over my bony body. She kissed me lightly on the neck and cried above me, our noses touching, so that her brilliant tears dripped into my dull pupils.
Among the items we scavenged when Claudia began to swoon: Spray adhesive, sapphires, safari outfits, and a jumbo pack of disposable razors. Lionel and I had never been fans of sculpted facial hair, but the demands of our production asked that we rise above our bias.
AU REVOIR, CLAUDIA
THE SCENE:
Sun rises. A jungle. An impeccably dressed explorer (Lionel) is shining his boots. His sideburns extend to his jaw line. He whistles a light-hearted tune. His camp is clean. On a spit above an expired fire, the carcass of last night's meal, a wild boar. A few feet away lies the explorer's stunning wife (Claudia). She is weak, stricken with some deadly, yet beautiful, jungle disease. Her left arm has already succumbed, covered from elbow to fingertips in glimmering sapphires. Soon she will be nothing but shining stone.
EXPLORER
Worry not, sweet wife, the cure is on the way.
WIFE
I'm unsure that I will last.
EXPLORER
Look yonder, our scout approaches.
Tucker (Me) arrives with a vial of butterscotch-colored liquid. He kneels beside the explorer's wife.
EXPLORER
Ah, just in time. Apply the remedy. We must prepare for a feast with the natives this evening. We are the guests of honor, in recognition of my wife's fine aim with a rifle. She was able to eliminate a tiger that had menaced the tribe for many years and-
TUCKER
She's fucking dead, Lionel.
EXPLORER
Don't break character.
END.
Lionel woke up one morning with Harriet looming over him, zipping up his pants, her breath hot and seedy. They exchanged a look but nothing more. Later that afternoon Lionel had a flash memory of his uncle's house in the country and of the vintage fruit preserves collection his uncle kept in a vast cellar.
On a dewy morning Lionel and I left for St. Germain-en-Laye. We arrived, much later, at a quaint country house. Lionel's uncle sat dead on a kitchen chair. His arms were crossed, his milky eyes stared at us in disappointment, it seemed. Lionel did not cry. We were beyond such things.
In the basement we found the preserves collection: rows of rough-hewn wooden shelves that held thousands of jars of jam. Some were petite vessels with barely an ounce inside; others were as large as footballs, made of heavy green glass. Each batch was labeled in a careful hand: Cassis 1990; Fraises et Framboises 1965; Griotte 1981. We ate three jars each. The sugar exploded in my mouth. It made my fillings tingle.
"We will not tell Harriet," said Lionel, licking his teeth. "She would have us launched off the death chute by now. Our supplies are running low and soon she will starve. We must be strong and show no mercy."
We shook hands. We agreed to take only a duffel bag of jam back to Paris. We would hide it in a secret location and eat
I realized any one of us could be next. Lionel's cheeks were sinking into his face, slowly revealing the shape of his skull. My pants had long ceased to fit and yet I insisted on wearing them, cinching my belt tighter and tighter, finally punching new holes into the leather so that the extra length hung off my hip, long and ridiculous, like a brown snake. It could have been any one of us. It could have been Claudia, though she seemed to be in good health. One night she grabbed me by the hand and took me to a balcony and ran her fingers over my bony body. She kissed me lightly on the neck and cried above me, our noses touching, so that her brilliant tears dripped into my dull pupils.
Among the items we scavenged when Claudia began to swoon: Spray adhesive, sapphires, safari outfits, and a jumbo pack of disposable razors. Lionel and I had never been fans of sculpted facial hair, but the demands of our production asked that we rise above our bias.
AU REVOIR, CLAUDIA
THE SCENE:
Sun rises. A jungle. An impeccably dressed explorer (Lionel) is shining his boots. His sideburns extend to his jaw line. He whistles a light-hearted tune. His camp is clean. On a spit above an expired fire, the carcass of last night's meal, a wild boar. A few feet away lies the explorer's stunning wife (Claudia). She is weak, stricken with some deadly, yet beautiful, jungle disease. Her left arm has already succumbed, covered from elbow to fingertips in glimmering sapphires. Soon she will be nothing but shining stone.
EXPLORER
Worry not, sweet wife, the cure is on the way.
WIFE
I'm unsure that I will last.
EXPLORER
Look yonder, our scout approaches.
Tucker (Me) arrives with a vial of butterscotch-colored liquid. He kneels beside the explorer's wife.
EXPLORER
Ah, just in time. Apply the remedy. We must prepare for a feast with the natives this evening. We are the guests of honor, in recognition of my wife's fine aim with a rifle. She was able to eliminate a tiger that had menaced the tribe for many years and-
TUCKER
She's fucking dead, Lionel.
EXPLORER
Don't break character.
END.
Lionel woke up one morning with Harriet looming over him, zipping up his pants, her breath hot and seedy. They exchanged a look but nothing more. Later that afternoon Lionel had a flash memory of his uncle's house in the country and of the vintage fruit preserves collection his uncle kept in a vast cellar.
On a dewy morning Lionel and I left for St. Germain-en-Laye. We arrived, much later, at a quaint country house. Lionel's uncle sat dead on a kitchen chair. His arms were crossed, his milky eyes stared at us in disappointment, it seemed. Lionel did not cry. We were beyond such things.
In the basement we found the preserves collection: rows of rough-hewn wooden shelves that held thousands of jars of jam. Some were petite vessels with barely an ounce inside; others were as large as footballs, made of heavy green glass. Each batch was labeled in a careful hand: Cassis 1990; Fraises et Framboises 1965; Griotte 1981. We ate three jars each. The sugar exploded in my mouth. It made my fillings tingle.
"We will not tell Harriet," said Lionel, licking his teeth. "She would have us launched off the death chute by now. Our supplies are running low and soon she will starve. We must be strong and show no mercy."
We shook hands. We agreed to take only a duffel bag of jam back to Paris. We would hide it in a secret location and eat
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