Bad Glass

solution. You don’t want it to make sense.” She smiled sadly and met my eyes. “You want the end of the world.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then quickly pulled it shut. “No,” I finally managed. “No, I don’t.” I’m not a monster.

“Then take the fucking pills, Dean,” she said. “And hope he’s right. Okay? You don’t have to believe—you don’t have to believe in any of this—but you can hope. You can hope we can end this without the fucking death of the universe!”

I met her eyes for a half dozen heartbeats. Then I nodded.

I downed the pills with a swallow of gin.

I had too much shit in my system. My blood was thick with it, a sludge of Vicodin and Zoloft and alcohol. And hallucinogenic spores, I thought. I can’t forget about those.

This struck me as funny. As I said, I had too much shit in my system.

After he finished telling us about the army’s mushroom-eradication offensive—men in full-body containment suits wielding bulldozers and blowtorches—Taylor grabbed Danny’s arm and pulled him out into the entryway. They talked. Her voice started out soft, inaudible, but it grew louder as the conversation progressed.

“—following me?” she said. Her face was animated. I could see her profile—mouth pulled wide, showing off her teeth—as she confronted Danny. “And telling Dean?” She glanced my way, saw me watching, and pulled Danny out of sight. Her voice fell back into an inaudible whisper.

I crossed to the fireplace, where Floyd was arranging kindling into a neat tepee. He took time out to pass me the bottle of bourbon. I hesitated for a moment—I couldn’t be too far from sloppy drunk—then took a swallow.

“This does feel a bit like an acid trip,” Floyd said. His voice sounded calm, thoughtful. He struck a long match and held it to the kindling. In a matter of seconds, he had the whole thing burning. “Usually, back when I did acid, I could feel it in my balls. It was almost a pain, but not quite—like someone was giving me a bit of a squeeze. I’m not getting that now. This is mellower. I wonder if we could find this shit, bag it up, and sell it. We could probably make a killing.”

“So you believe?” I asked. “You believe it’s mushrooms?”

“If that’s what they say.” He nodded toward the entryway. Danny was still partially visible, shoulder and buttock and leg poking out from behind the entryway wall. “I don’t think they’d lie about this. Not after so long.”

“But they could be wrong. They’re desperate for an answer. They want an answer just as much as we do.”

He gave me a skeptical look. I’m sure he was remembering Taylor’s words, her harsh assessment of me and my motives. Maybe I didn’t want to believe. Maybe I didn’t want to believe just as much as he wanted to believe. And in that case, whose judgment could we trust?

“We can wait. We can wait and see,” he said.

I gave him a nod and retreated back to the sofa. Charlie was back in the dining room, sitting in front of his computer. I had no idea how he was taking Danny’s news.

He probably saw it as a good thing, these mushrooms. It proved Devon a liar.

If any of that was real, I thought. If any of it actually happened. Maybe that building down there, south of I-90, is completely empty. Maybe we built the whole thing—the laser, Devon, Charlie’s parents’ hypothesis—all on our own, out of whole cloth and spit and words. Some type of mass delusion, built on suggestion and reformed, restitched memory.

Did I actually see that man dangling from the ceiling on my first day in the city? Did I see the spiders and the face in the wall? Did I see Taylor’s father and Weasel’s fingers? Or is it all just hallucination, my own inner warped mind projected out into the world? Was I complicit? Was I responsible?

And those photographs. Did I do that in Photoshop?

I was scared to look. I was scared to open the images and study them pixel by pixel, looking for cut-and- paste seams, strange gradients, and out-of-place elements.

If I found it, if I found proof that those images had been altered, what would that say? About the situation? About me?

Do I really want to kill the world?

“Just stay the fuck away!” Taylor growled out in the entryway. Danny stumbled back as she pushed her way past. She darted through the living room and up the stairs. She had a hand up over her face, covering her eyes and nose and cheeks, and she bumped into the sofa and bounced off without losing a single step. I heard her door slam shut as soon as she got upstairs.

“Women,” Danny said as he collapsed into the sofa next to me. “Fucking hell.”

“What did you see at her house?” I asked. “You followed her, right? That’s what you were talking about? What did you see?”

“I didn’t see shit. I followed her a couple of weeks ago, saw her mom through the window, and I left. I was just fucking curious, man. I didn’t mean her any harm.”

He grabbed the bottle of gin from where it sat at his feet. I let him take a drink before I continued my line of questioning. “Why’d you tell me about it, about her house? Why’d you send me there?”

“Because she likes you … and I thought it would help. Her. You. Whatever.” He shook his head and took another swig. “I guess I was wrong.” And then, exasperated: “My fucking bad!”

He offered me the bottle, and I studied it for a moment before taking a drink. The label was blurry. I was losing focus.

“I can’t wait for this shit to be over,” Danny said. “I can’t wait for the mushroom to burn and the air to clear. I don’t do well with chaos. I prefer things in their place. God in His house and man on his horse. Starbucks and movies and reliable heating. And booze on every street corner.” He gestured for the bottle, and I handed it back. My aim was off, and he had to grab for it a couple of times.

“Yeah,” I grunted. “Traffic and homework. Part-time jobs and cell phones on the bus.”

“And Internet porn,” Danny added.

“And commercials on TV.”

“Fuck it,” Danny said. He took another drink and lowered his head to the sofa’s armrest. He handed me the bottle and shut his eyes for a handful of seconds. “If you want, if you hate modern life so much, you can start a motherfucking commune when we get out of here. I’ll visit. I’ll help you weed the corn and milk the cows. Or milk the corn and weed the cows … or milk the bulls and fuck the corn.”

I was drinking when he said this, and I sputtered a laugh around the mouth of the bottle, getting the burn of gin up my nose. “Jesus Christ,” I sighed in mock exasperation. “It doesn’t even exist yet, and you’re already ruining my commune.”

“That’s what you get for being a good person, Dean,” he said, the words making their way out around a loud yawn. “Next time, try being a complete fucking asshole.”

I woke to a loud thunk.

I opened my eyes and saw Mac standing over Danny’s unconscious body. He had a splintered, weather- stained plank of wood in his hands. Danny’s head lay still against the sofa’s armrest. Blood seeped from a wound on his brow, and his eyes twitched beneath shut lids.

The room was dark. The fire had burned down to embers.

It was just the three of us here now: Mac, unconscious Danny, and me. There was no sign of Floyd or Charlie or Taylor.

In the dim light, Mac looked crazy. Absolutely insane. His hair and beard had grown wild in the days since we’d last seen him, and it looked like a dirty red corona around his face. He was absolutely caked in mud, head to foot. I couldn’t tell what color his sweatshirt and pants had originally been. His eyes were wide, and his lips were pulled back away from his teeth.

He stood there for a second, staring down at me. There was a bright glimmer in the shadow of his face: reflected light in his eyes. Then a hissing sound escaped from his mouth, and he started to swing the plank.

I tried to scramble back, tried to push my way onto the floor, but I was too late. Mac, wielding that giant