It has to be done one fang at a time, with plastic collection vials no larger than a thumb. It takes about half a minute to drain each side, uncomfortable but intimate, and pleasurable in that subdued way left to us after we squeezed fierce joy out of our mouths and poured it down the sink. We are pleasantly anhedonic. It aches a little.
At first we were surprised that the glands and the fangs had gone unnoticed for so many centuries, but then we milked ourselves dry of surprise, too. Everything seems normal now. We take the world in stride.
The primary duct transports toxins to the accessory gland, where forgetfulness is secreted into the mix before it is allowed into the secondary duct, which exits into the hollow solenoglyphous fang. The fang lies flat and hidden when not in use; the human fang is unique in that we use it to bite not only one another but ourselves. We forget bites instantly, losing seconds each time. Our mouths ache for no reason. We think we must have bitten our tongues. The bite may be unconscious or willed: forgetfulness means we can’t tell after the fact. It is now believed that historically elevated suicide rates for dentists are due to their being unknowingly bitten too often.
Still, relatively little is known about the nature and mechanism of the glands. The pace of research is slow since we milked ourselves free of burning curiosity and ambition and most of what once constituted individuality, but so is the pace of apocalypse. The discovery of the glands comes too late to save the world, but we are free of grieving. We decide to go gentle into that good night.
We are in no hurry to live or die. We won’t have any more children, that’s all.
We bow our heads to sea and storm, to the unforgiving sun, the choking air. We have achieved equanimity. We are neither overly excited nor despairing to be the last of our kind.
After each daily milking, we dispose of the collection vials full of clear and dangerous liquid. Most are poured out and the vials recycled. Some are kept for manufacturing antivenom—it’s still needed on the front lines, in those few remaining places where deniers hold out against detoxification.
There’s a denier enclave near us, too.
Some days we volunteer to fight on the barricades. Some days we picnic by the river. Some days we die, run through by denier bayonets as we try to overwhelm their defenses through sheer numbers. Some days we make love on the riverbank under the beating sun, naked and free. Fear and shame are gone from us.
We have mostly freed ourselves from hope, but we retain enough of it—a little residual pooling in the glands, we think—to believe that the biosphere will thrive once humans are gone. We think it could still be beautiful.
We have no rage, but we have made our decision. The deniers may not be allowed to rebuild the old world, because if let loose again, they will scour the earth to a dry bone.
We still have love, you see—without jealousy or ego. We love the world so much and want it to be well when we’re gone. But we know it needs us to be gone.
If the deniers persist in their sorties and their missions and their quests, we will continue to swarm their barricades in our millions.
If the deniers keep sending us courage-crazed heroes, we will hold them down with a hundred hands and milk them free. So many of us started out that way. We remember the moments our hearts cleared and we looked up at the sea of calm faces above us, the gentle hands deep in our unhinged mouths.
We will never stop coming. We know they think of us as the monsters.
Visiting Hours
LILLIAM RIVERA
Right before the nurse wheels her man in to surgery, Vilma’s stomach growls loudly. She rests her hand on her extended belly as if she can comfort the growing baby inside. The gesture does nothing. Instead, her stomach barks back. Nothing can ever quell this hunger no matter how hard she tries to stay atop it.
“Shut up,” Vilma mutters under her breath.
The anesthetician gives her a condescending look, the look she’s been receiving ever since she arrived at the hospital at the crack of dawn to check him in.
“We’ll take good care of him,” the anesthetician says, although Vilma hadn’t asked a question. Isn’t it their job to take care of him?
Vilma’s boyfriend, Rogelio, stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t look at Vilma, as if by doing so the hard exterior he’s spent years cultivating will break down. The man who has it all under control. The one who whispered, “I’ll take care of you,” when he found out Vilma was pregnant. Even back then she thought of leaving his ass and still wishes she had but now it’s too late. She’s stuck with Rogelio, his clogged-up arteries, and this hungry beast inside her for who knows how long.
“We have your phone number. We’ll call you when we’re done,” the nurse says. She hands Vilma saltine crackers and motions for her to go. “Don’t forget to drink water.”
The baby in her belly kicks as if the nurse is talking to him. Vilma doesn’t say bye to Rogelio. He wouldn’t respond to her even if she did. He’s too busy trying not to freak out. She should at least offer him a prayer. Something. Instead she walks to the waiting room.
The room is filled with people. Families jostle to find an outlet to charge their phones. The television is tuned to the morning show, where everyone is way too chatty and happy.
“Here, please sit down.”
