KGM: Johnny? All these kids are milling around. Lining up. Johnny?
JLM: It’s time. And that’s all.
KGM: [voice sounding clipped and panicked; sounds of heavy breathing] Why not just let me and Kodie go? What’s it matter?
JLM: Because we can’t.
KGM: Why? Is this the beginning?
JLM: No. You were lied to. No. This… this is the end. And that’s all.
KGM: We can do this together. Or you can let us go and we won’t bother you. We promise.
JLM: It’s not a task I want, Kevin. You must know that. I need you to know that.
[long pause]
[sounds of children humming]
[sounds of KGM’s amazement; a quick intake of breath; the ocean wind booming hard on the microphone; voices obscured]
KGM: That thing out there… it’s moving… oh, it’s… oh, Johnny what is that thing?
JLM: [whispering] Don’t look at it, Kevin.[38]
KGM: WHAT IS IT?!
JLM: It doesn’t matter.
KGM: Does it come for me?
JLM: It doesn’t matter.
KGM: [ocean wind cuts out the voice] You’re [unintelligible] Johnny. [unintelligible] just happen. You can’t [unintelligible] won’t let you [unintelligible] controls you.[39]
[sound of many many children humming, growing into a note] It needs you to [unintelligible].
KJL: [her voice far away; some of it lost in the wind] What is that? Jesus Christ, Kevin! Johnny!? What is that out there? [her voice a shriek]
JLM: It doesn’t matter. [very flangey voice now]
KGM: Kodie! I’m here! Let me see her! No! Move! They won’t let me by. [speaking into the microphone] Johnny’s eyes are fluttering, closing… he’s raising his arms like he’s done before, like, heh, his goddamned Wayne Rooney poster on his wall… the thing out there… it moves, dear reader. Mom! Dad! Martin! Mr. E!
[pause; heavy breathing]
[whispering loud and close into the microphone] Grandma Lucille—help me! It moves. No such thing as luck. Oh my God, it moves so terribly.
[the humming note rises, changes form, rises again]
It’s… coming. Close close close.
[the microphone cuts out]
[sounds of the ocean; sounds of gulls crying]
JLM: Kevin. It’s over now. Kevin, wake up.[40]
KGM: [voice groggy] What?
[long pause]
JLM: It’s time.
KGM: [pause] It’s not… Where’d it go?
JLM: It’s time.
KGM: Time? Time for what?
JLM: It’s time.
KGM: I don’t understand.
JLM: It isn’t to be understood. It just is.
KGM: What?
[the mass of children begin humming again; a different, darker note, unlike any other on this recording]
KGM: [voice cracking] Why? Oh no no no no. God, why?
[voice emotional but collected] My brother holds a plastic grocery bag. [sound of sniffing] Oh god he’s tearing it open.
[pause] [sounds of sniffing] [sounds of the ocean; sounds of gulls crying]
He holds the stone. The price sticker from the HEB…
[pause] [sounds of sniffing] [sounds of the ocean; sounds of gulls crying; children humming low and thick]
KGM: Johnny, wait. Can I… Will you let me play a song? Can someone get my trombone? It’s… I don’t know. Somewhere.
[long pause] [sounds of sniffing] [sounds of the ocean; sounds of gulls crying]
[close sounds of KGM opening the trombone case; sniffling]
JLM: [voice wet and flangey, through crying] Play, Kevin.
KGM: Where’s Kodie? [Kevin sounds strong now, resolved]
JLM: She couldn’t watch.
KGM: [big deep sigh]
[sounds of the ocean; sounds of gulls crying]
As I’m about to raise my horn to my lips I see ten thousand children step aside together to reveal many small piles of stones. They each stroll over and pick one up. Each of them with a smooth brown stone. [voice hitched, sounding surprised] Ah, oh—[breathing quickly] they snap into a line that goes down the beach. They all put their hands behind their backs. Johnny steps up to within several feet of me. I will now raise my horn to my lips, dear reader, and I will play for you “When the Saints Go Marching In”. The jazzier, snappy version Grandma Lucille really liked.
[loud and close to the microphone,[41] the song[42] plays]
[tussling sound; scratching on the microphone]
KGM: [his voice clear and loud directly into the microphone[43]] Dear reader! You! Don’t keep this between me and you! Don’t you do that! You’ve got to know what happened. You must remember. And you must fight back! This isn’t the way it has to be! It can’t be! You’ve got to remem—
[sound of a single loud thump[44]]
[sound of the recorder falling into the sand]
[sounds of less loud thudding]
[sounds of the ocean; sounds of gulls crying and the continuous sounds of stones thudding into the body of Kevin Gabriel March]
[the very last sounds of the recording are of the faraway sounds of Kodie Janine Lagenkamp, screaming]
*** END OF RECORDING ***Acknowledgments
Thank you:
Robert J. Peterson
Andrea
Stella
Elizabeth
About The Author
Mark Falkin is the author of the novels Days of Grace and Contract City. Though he remains a card-carrying member of the Texas Bar, he is a literary agent by day and oftentimes by night. He lives with his wife and daughters in Austin, Texas.
Praise for
The Late Bloomer
“I fell deep into the postapocalyptic and addictively complex world of The Late Bloomer and didn’t want it to end. Not only is it a wonderful, binge-able story, but the voice of the central character had me hooked from the beginning, and Kevin March became a person I cared about, thought about, even after the last page was finished.”
“Like a sharp, winding staircase that narrows as it turns, the claustrophobic world of The Late Bloomer hems the reader in page by page.”
“Harrowing, unsettling and exquisitely written, The Late Bloomer is part War of the Worlds, part Twilight Zone, and part Shirley Jackson. It is an unforgettable, unforgiving vision of the end of the world, of those who attempt to survive and those who wish to stop them. The images conjured here will haunt you long after putting it down. Good luck, dear reader.”
“We classify some prose as genre, some as literary, and ‘never the twain shall meet.’ The Late Bloomer is both. Falkin gives us all sorts of Stephen King (story), meets the oft-mentioned William Golding’s (character), Lord of the Flies. Experimental in its style, protagonist, writing protégé Kevin Gabriel March, possible future guide of the new world, dictates the old world’s ending into a stolen voice recorder. Establishing a Stand-like setting, The Late Bloomer morphs into full-on textbook lit, like, for the ages literature. Like man versus all seven narrative conflict themes. Like drilling deep for symbolism and allegory. Yes, literary devices and shit. This novel overflows with rich language and divine sentences. The Late Bloomer is giving me everything! After the end someone must tell the tale, dear Reader. Why not our Kevin Gabriel March?”
39
I have listened to this innumerable times and have employed different techniques to bring up the sound clarity. Knowing my brother’s voice, vocal inflections and what he was trying to say, I am confident that what he said here was: “You’re a liar, Johnny. Things don’t just happen. You can’t talk about it because it won’t let you. I know it’s not you. It’s making you do this. Just remember that. It controls you. It needs you to need it.”
42
Also known as “The Saints.” Though KGM plays an instrumental, the opening lyrics to this famous song of the old world are as follows:
44
These early days—especially once I left the late bloomers with Rebecca to be with the children—are very foggy in my memory, nearly a blackout, but the memory of that moment on that morning on the beach is sharp enough. I do know, I do remember, though it hurts my head like memories of the old world still do, that it was my stone that knocked my brother unconscious. It struck him just above his right occipital bone.