Hank’s projection dissembled from the phase slug. A tiny silver marble fell to the desert hardpan. No place for a cowboy, not on this world, not in this story.
I saw Whistler swallow hard.
He had no idea, this ghost of a painter, stalked on Paris streets eons before by a woman from below, chosen for his personality and code, not knowing that he would be resurrected again and again to serve her purposes, never knowing that she loved him as a child although she was now the child, a dying child, and the mind dissembles in this, under this sky.
He was probably the best of us. At least he had created something beautiful in his life. Les soldats perdus had only destroyed, had only mindlessly spread the contagion throughout systems, following orders they were born with, living lives pre-determined by a criminal child from another galaxy.
I saw him reach inside of his cloak for his weapon. He paused, cape billowing out in the gusts, had poised, but then it fell to his side. He looked at me with tired eyes and nodded. I pulled the trigger and Whistler was no more.
Maire clapped her hands. Big smile. She was enjoying this. She’d won. She knew that I would kill her and her pain would be gone before the silver consumed her entirely.
Such peace in that moment. Six reduced to four, but not really four. Nine looked at Mother, as if he expected her to order him to kill me. I was the only one with weapon drawn. I was the only combatant in this final battle.
Such peace in that moment. I looked at Lilith and she looked at me. There was nothing more we could do. There was no reason for Mother to kill me now. She’d won. I had the gun, but she’d won. Gary’s attack had been successful. She thought she’s killed Heaven, killed God. She knew that the silver was sweeping out across everything.
Such peace in that moment, in her gaze. We were together again, no matter what. It didn’t matter how much time we had left; we were together, separated by only feet of gravel and dust and sand, not thousands of years of space. We were together, and that’s all that mattered.
Nine pulled his weapon.
No she shouted and grabbed him from behind, tiny hands latching on to black folds of cloak and
I remember Maire smiling. Knowing. You know, you do and
I remember trees and
I remember singing and
I remember
the stillness between us, that warm and best place, the moment before kissing her for the first time, the time we spent curled together, just Us, just. Us. and the laughter and how it was forbidden and We were forbidden, love growing between two kids trapped on a metal box flying off to war, and the fence that kept her safe, Mommy’s hand holding mine tightly through black glove that concealed her disease, the same plague that was now complete, and Daddy buying my Honeybear Brown, spoiling me because he knew he’d have to leave, that he’d die between stars, and Hannon, how I mourned then for that innocent, for that species, for Judith and Berlin, for the unnamed dead, trillions and the way she would hold my shaking, clumsy, rough hand in her own, kissing knuckles as I lay with eyes closed, just Us, just Us. Just. Us. and I see now the coffee house, a marble, a pack of cigarettes and i Know. I Believe.
the child begs me
there is no more resistance. no more time. it is
I don’t remember the weapon firing, but it did.
how she begs me. dying
i train the weapon on her heart
I only intended to hit Nine.
because i had to say this, because i needed you to know, because this can’t be the end, because this can’t be, not the end of Us, not now, please not now. i believe in forevers, in all of this, all of this can’t be the end, it can’t, and i know now that we are as one, one decentralized soul taken apart by time and circumstance, allowed to find itself once again even if only for a moment, and i know that we will meet again, and we will just be. just Us. please know. you know. you do. you
so many questions left unanswered, this war, this plague. i am only a lost soldier, lost because of
this war, this plague. i am only a lost soldier, lost because of
i am only a lost soldier, lost because of
lost because of
“Hunter?”
the
Nine spun around, his face a mask of horror. He clutched his chest, rapidly dissembling from the EM slug. His mouth opened to form her name, but it was too late. Nine flashed from his illusion in a burst of silver.
the stillness
Zero ran to Fleur, her crumpled form leaking a steadily-growing puddle of red onto the hardpan. “Lilith…Oh no. No. Oh god. Lilith.” The weapon dropped from his hand, clattered to the ground.
She smiled, mouth moving to speak, but there was no time. No life. The slug had passed through Nine and torn through the right side of her chest. Struggle to breathe, struggle to hold on to Hunter, Hunter, not Zero. Not that person at all anymore, or ever again.
“Lilith?” he sobbed, stroked her face, so white now. He didn’t look at the fine mist of crimson on her neck. He pushed the unruly curl back behind her ear, touched her face, the life draining from her skin, the silver crawling just underneath the surface.
the stillness lost
“Let her go.” Maire stood over them, her black robe whipping in the breeze, hair untied and dancing to the song of the wind, hands still bloody. “There’s nothing we can do now.”
Hunter reached out and grabbed the weapon before Maire could stop him, raised the barrel to target, just inches from her forehead. The child didn’t flinch.
“Do it. You know you want to.”
Lilith slumped in his arms. Silver ran from her eyes.
“You know you have to.”
Hunter cried out in frustration, in grief. He pulled Lilith’s limp form closer, keeping his weapon trained on Maire.
“If I don’t—”
“Do it.” She took a step closer to the tip of the weapon. “End it now.”
He closed his eyes, saw the image of her face burned into that perfect darkness.
“End it.”
he is knowing… and this heart i contain for You i have come again to zam zam? rupture rend rive split cleave please don’t let it—is it too late? he knew what she couldn’t believe. she knew very little, but she knew beyond a doubt that she loved chocolate milk.
it was a beautiful hand.
my lips remember the echoes of that night
and in these final moments, in this final terror, I find stillness.
“I win.”
Hunter Windham placed the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Evan Hughes is the seven-time Independent Publisher Book Award-winning writer and editor of Silverthought Press. His work includes the novels Enemy, An End, and Broken: A Plague Journal and the short fiction collection Certain Devastations. He lives in Evans Mills, NY with his wife and sons.