“No.”
“I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“Is that what you told Paul?” he asked, and hung up.
At least Jack was still single. I didn’t have to worry about a wife, kids. When I entered his house, I found him sitting in an easy chair, a bowl of apples on his lap. He’d taken a bite from each one, and it was hard for me not to look at them, as they beat red and bloody like tiny hearts.
“I hear them sometimes,” he said as I emerged from the shadows dressed in black. “I hear them whispering to me.”
I waved my gun at him. “You want to talk about this?”
He set the bowl down. Lifted his own gun from his lap. “I knew you’d come,” he said. “I know you killed Paul.”
I kept my eyes on his weapon. “Is this how it’s going to be?” I asked. “A shoot-off between two old friends?”
He smiled. A sad smile. Tears in his eyes dripped down his cheeks, and met beneath his chin. “No,” he said. He lifted the gun. Pressed the nozzle to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Within the echo of the shot, I heard the bowl of apples at his feet laughing.
At least Jack had a proper funeral. I left him there like that. The only thing I didn’t leave alone were the apples. I picked up the bowl, holding them away from my body as they continued their wretched laugh, and put them down his garbage disposal one by one.
XII.
Spence. Two days ago.
I didn’t think he’d break. Of all of us, I was sure he’d be the one to keep it together.
I invited him out to my house. Sent the wife and kid away. I didn’t bother trying to talk him out of anything. He was my brother, and I loved him.
Best, I thought, just to get it over with.
XIII.
I pull Spencer out of the trunk of my car wrapped up in dark blue flannel bed sheets and hoist him over my shoulder. It’s a struggle getting him over the fence, but I manage.
I drag him to the grave. Lay him on top of Paul. Cover him with dirt and sod. Spread the dead fallen apples over it all.
One last apple high in the tree.
I hoist myself up into the branches, grab it, and twist it off its stem. I drop down beside the grave. Snuff out the remainder of my cigar. Polish the apple on my sleeve.
I’m able to look at it this time. Able to see it for what it really is.
The apple tree man doesn’t seem so old any more. He’s gotten younger as I’ve gotten older.
I bite into the last apple of the season.
Guilt is a monster that never goes away. Maybe it will catch up to me. Perhaps the need to tell someone might infest my soul like it had with Paul, Jack, and Spencer. I’m prepared for that. There’s a bullet left for me in case the need ever arises, and I’m ready to use it.
The bare branches of the apple tree are stark against the bright silver moon.
The apple tastes good. I take another bite.
BEDTIME STORIES FOR THE APOCALYPSE
Bedtime Stories for the Apocalypse was originally published in print by the wonderful Sam’s Dot Publishing. Please visit them at www.samsdotpublishing.com and support the small press.
Shiners
Even over the acrid odor of an old school bus’s burning tires, a woman dressed in rags smelled coffee. Her mouth watered.
“Care for a cup?” A young man sat by a small fire of burning detritus, a dented tin pail resting on the glowing coals.
“Is it real?” The woman stepped carefully over a path of broken glass and sharp stones. A smile fluttered across her lips.
The man held a cup out to her. Steam danced off the top. Her hand trembled as she took the cup and drank. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, savoring the bitter taste.
“Good, eh?”
The woman dressed in rags nodded.
“You’ve got family left?”
She didn’t answer, taking another quick sip.
“It’s okay. I’d love the company,” the man said.
The woman handed back the cup. She looked back over her shoulder and whistled; two sharp blasts, followed by a long, high trill.
Two men emerged from behind the twisted bus, followed by another woman. They held makeshift weapons; a charred two-by-four, a piece of twisted rebar, a sharp-edged rock.
The young man bowed. “Welcome.” He stood and handed the single cup to one of the men, who took it and sipped slowly.
“Beautiful day,” the young man said.
“Yep.” The man holding the coffee swished the liquid around in his mouth and handed the cup to the other woman.
Their host looked at the sky. He smiled widely.
The smile grew. His head tilted back further, as if searching for the sky’s zenith.
His mouth opened. His jaw unhinged like a snake’s.
One of the men yelled, “Shiner!”
The woman holding the coffee threw it at the young man, but his jaw opened wider.
The four ran in separate directions, while the young man remained. His skin glowed and pulsed with an unnatural light, until a thick beam of it shot skyward. It was met by another beam of light that shot down from the
