Trygve nodded. “As long as they stay in hibernation, yes. We can find a vehicle and be there in a few hours. Then we’ll climb.”
“Climb?”
“I’ve hiked in the Himalayas. I can teach you how.”
“Well, shit!” Don grinned. “Let’s go now. I’m tired of hiding out in this gift shop.”
“Sleep now,” Trygve suggested. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Find some food first, and then set out on our journey.”
Don rubbed his stomach. “Food. That would work. I miss pancakes and bacon. God, I’m hungry.”
“Yes,” Trygve agreed. “Me, too.”
They made small talk for a while longer. Trygve sharpened his knife and Don prattled about all the foods he missed. After a while, the American’s eyes grew heavy, and he stifled a yawn. Trygve smiled.
“Sleep, my friend. I’ll stand watch.”
Don didn’t argue with him, and soon, he was fast asleep, snoring softly.
Trygve waited for ten more minutes, making sure the American would not wake. Then, when the hunger pangs in his stomach grew unbearable, he slid forward, put the knife’s blade to Don’s throat, and sliced. Blood spattered across Trygve’s face. Don’s eyes flew open. He grasped at the gaping wound, his fingers coming away slick with blood. Trygve held him down, and waited for him to die. It didn’t take long.
When it was over, Trygve stripped off the man’s clothing and went to work, skinning and cleaning the body, cutting him up like a cow in a butcher’s shop…steaks, chops, thighs—meat.
He drooled through the entire grisly task. Finished, he pulled some plastic freezer bags out of his backpack, and slipped the meat inside. He left a large section of breast out, started a fire, and cooked it over the open flame.
“I’m sorry, my friend, but it is a long journey into those mountains, and I don’t know how much food I’ll be able to find.”
Whistling the tune the American had been singing, Trygve Botnen sank his teeth into the flesh, closed his eyes, and sighed with delight. He slept soundly that night, his belly full. Outside, in the night sky, a new star appeared. It grew brighter and bigger by the hour. The temperature began to rise.
TWO SUNS IN
THE SUNSET
The Rising
Day Thirty-One
Oconto, Nebraska
Big R wondered if he was the last person left alive on Earth.
He wondered a lot of things. First and foremost, was his name really Big R? Why was he here? Where the hell was everybody else?
His memories were decaying faster than the putrid corpses lying in the streets. He knew he lived in Alexandria, Virginia, yet here he was in Nebraska, with no recollection of how he’d arrived, or for how long, nor why he’d woken up in the basement of a flattened farmhouse. He didn’t know what had destroyed the house, didn’t know if he’d grown up here, didn’t know what had happened to the world. Occasionally, he got flashes of memory—fuzzy clips, coming attractions excerpted from some movie in his head. A dead man, arms pulled out of their sockets and ear dangling on a thin strand of gristle, lurching towards him, spitting curses and threats. A horse, broken ribs jutting from rancid, maggot-infested flesh, galloping along in pursuit of a terrified little girl. Trees, crushing buildings, and smashing a car open with their limbs and pulling out the occupants like candy. Poison oak vines, snaking their way into someone’s bulging throat. A swarm of red and black ants devouring each other—and everything else in their path.
The Pressey Wildlife Management Area. Big R shuddered. His memories of the wildlife area were crystal clear. He wished he could lose those, too. So many dead animals. The stench, the screams—the horror. The chewing sounds. He walked on. Sweat poured down his brow and into his eyes. He wiped his face. Though the sun was going down, it was sweltering outside—much too hot for this time of year.
He passed by the St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and had no memory of it. The building looked like something off the set of The Andy Griffith Show—a small, white, old-fashioned building with a crosstopped steeple and bell. The brown grass was dead, as were the trees. Red spray paint covered the front doors; THERE IS NO GOD BUT OB.
Big R wondered what it meant. Who was Ob?
Was this his fault?
On the sidewalk, a dead crow and the insects inside it had melted into a congealed puddle. Nose wrinkling, Big R stepped around the mess, and was reminded again of the wildlife management area. He had a sudden revelation. The Pressey Wildlife Management Area was only four miles north of Oconto, located along the South Loup River. How did he know that? It must mean he’d spent some time there, at least.
He continued along, mopping the sweat from his brow. Big R took in his surroundings, looking for something familiar, something that would break his amnesia. A Farmers Bank. Eggleston Oil Company. A blood-stained banner advertising the Annual Fireman’s Barbeque Cook-Off fluttered in the hot breeze. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry, and had no idea when he’d last eaten. A road sign stated that Lexington was twenty-five miles away. And death. Lots and lots of death: dead humans, animals, insects, and plants were everywhere. Nothing breathing. Nothing green. The air reeked of decay. Big R checked his watch, and saw that there was only a half an hour or so till sundown. He should try to find a place to sleep for the night, somewhere other than the abandoned basement. At least find a place to escape from the increasing heat. He found the local library and trudged up the steps. His heels stuck to the pavement, and he glanced at his feet, astonished. The rubber on his soles was melting. All around him, the corpses were doing the same, bubbling and hissing as they turned into toxic stew.
The library door was locked, so Big R forced it open with his pry-bar. He had no idea where he’d found the weapon, only that he’d been clutching it upon waking up. The library’s interior smelled of dust and mildew. Thankfully, he smelled no rotting corpses. His nose welcomed the relief. He made his way to a little bulletin board, labeled, FACTS ABOUT OCONTO. The town, it seemed, was a Menominee Indian word for, “place of the pickerel.” So now he knew that. Meant absolutely shit to him, but at least he knew.
Big R felt like crying, but didn’t know why. That made him want to cry even more.
He turned back to the bookshelves and was surprised by how much light there was inside the building. The power was out, the electric lights didn’t work, and the sun was going down outside. Yet the library was brightly illuminated, with no shadows between the rows of shelves. As he watched, dazzling brilliance flooded through the windows, blinding him. Shielding his eyes, he turned away.
Big R smelled smoke.
“What now?”
He went to the door, intent on discovering the source of both the light and the smoke. The ornate wood felt warm beneath his palm, and Big R hesitated. Fire? Could there be a fire outside? But he’d just been out there two minutes ago.
Pulling his sleeve down over his hand, he pushed the door open and stepped outside—
—into Hell.
There were two suns in the sunset. One of them, a hazy, reddish-orange half disc, sat in the west, slowly sinking beneath the horizon. The other one, an intense, white-with-red-tinged ball of fire, hung high in the southern sky, growing bigger by the second. Big R stared at it, couldn’t help but stare at it, mesmerized by the sight. He wondered what it was. A nuclear explosion, perhaps? A comet?
The word Teraphim ran through his mind. He wondered what it meant and how he knew it. Then Oconto began to burn. The treetops burst into flames, followed by the church steeple, and then the buildings themselves.