New Decameron Seventy-One: Daryl Gregory

A Thousand Gomorrahs

By Daryl Gregory

“We lost Jerusalem,” Louis says. 

The regulars take this news in silence. Eventually I remember the drinks on my tray and set them out: an extra sugar, dark roast Chemex pour-over for Warren; an Australian-style long black for Edgar; and a nonfat latte for Louis. Louis, scanning the screen of his laptop, says an automatic, “Thanks, Mina,” and doesn’t notice the design I’ve poured onto his cappuccino. A rose blooms in white and brown, but he has no time to stop and smell the foam. He has eyes only for data. 

There was a time just a few months ago, when the cities began to go silent—first Oslo, then Copenhagen, and then a wave of blackouts across Europe—that Edgar and Warren would have said, Are you sure? Are these just internet rumors? But Louis, though he’s younger than the other men by thirty years, doesn’t speak unless he’s sure. He spends his nights watching his laptop and listening to shortwave radio. He says he no longer has time to date. Which is crazy—if not now, when?  

I hover by the patio door, unwilling to go inside. There’s no one else in the place anyway. 

After a while Edgar pushes back his fisherman’s cap, signaling that he is about to make a Pronouncement. Then he sets about lighting his cigar, puffing and playing the flame over the tip, nursing it to life. When he exhales we watch the smoke curl into the lights. Even now, smoking is only allowed out here on the patio, and the other regulars put up with the October chill for Edgar’s sake.

“So,” Edgar says at last. “We’re it.”

“I really thought it would be Jerusalem,” Warren says wistfully. He stirs another sugar packet into his latte.

“Not Megiddo?” Edgar asks. “If you’re going for mythological resonance, the jellyfish should have taken Megiddo last.” 

“Megiddo’s not a city, it’s a kibbutz,” Louis says. 

“Really?” Warren asks.

“There’s, like, five hundred people there,” Louis says. “The invaders haven’t hit anything with a population less than two hundred K.” The invaders, who more resemble (in my opinion) gigantic manta rays than jelly fish, first appeared near the arctic, then drifted south and east. They swarm our cities, feed until the streets are empty, and move on, multiplying as they go. Louis has maps of the migration in his bedroom.

“I’d even take Mecca,” Warren says. Warren’s a formerly devout Christian whose faith has been severely tested these days. Nevertheless he keeps his eye out for clues that the apocalypse is following a Revelations-style game plan. So far, not much luck. The invaders refuse to follow any storyline. We’re not even sure what they are: space aliens, creatures from another dimension, manifestations of our collective guilt. All we know is that nothing can stop them.

“But here?” Warren asks. “It just seems so… arbitrary.”

Edgar lifts his cup. “To Calgary,” he says. “The last city in the world.” 

#

I would have thought people would be panicking by now, looting and pillaging. Instead, neighbors help each other pack up, then hug goodbye, and make their way out to the prairies and into the foothills. The city empties like a bathtub; at first imperceptibly, then all at once. 

But the regulars keep showing up to the café. “What, should we live out in the wilderness like primitives?” Edgar says. “This is all I want. To sit with friends, talk about the world, and drink a little coffee. If the future cannot provide that minimum requirement of civilization, then I don’t want to be a part of it.”

I haven’t told them that we’re down to the final half-gallon of milk. The owners of the café tried to persuade me to flee with them—they were heading north, to a small village they hoped was beneath the notice of the invaders—and couldn’t understand why I was staying. My little joke—“If I go, who’s going to serve the regulars?”—didn’t convince them. Finally they kissed me on both cheeks, handed me the keys, and said, “It’s all yours now. Good luck.”

And I have been lucky. Four days after Jerusalem fell, the invaders still have not arrived. The café hasn’t been broken into, the power is still on, and the water is potable. My espresso machine, a huge Gaggia Milano I call the Red Beast, hisses and roars with gusto.

Louis says that the internet is still working, too, at least in part. “We lost some Tier Twos,” he says, and Edgar nods as if he knows what those are. “But messages are still getting through.” The invaders have not yet begun to feed on the smaller towns. They’re hovering over the biggest cities—Cairo, Chicago, Peking, Mumbai—massing like storm clouds. 

“Maybe they’ve stopped,” Edgar says. “Maybe Calgary’s not important enough for them, and now that they’ve taken all the other cities, they’ll leave the rest of us alone.” 

“Why would they stop?” Louis asks.

Edgar considers his cigar. “Perhaps they’re done punishing us.”

“That would explain the pattern,” Warren says. He’s a big man, almost a hundred and fifty kilos, and as he nods his jowls bounce. “Cities are the greatest concentration of evil. All those scheming, sinful souls.” 

“I don’t agree,” I say. Edgar and Warren turn to look at me. When Louis looks up from his laptop, I flush with embarrassment. I don’t usually speak. 

“Go on, Mina,” Edgar says. 

“It could be love,” I say. “All these people, falling in love, living together, taking care of each other. They can’t stand it.” 

Edgar looks at me, then glances sideways at Louis. His eyes narrow in contemplation, and I feel the heat rise in my face a second time. I grab the nearest empty cup and carry it inside. 

#

Louis is the first to arrive the next morning. His eyes are puffy from lack of sleep, but he’s full of manic energy. I don’t need him to speak to know what’s the matter. 

“How soon?” I ask. 

He shakes his head. “They’re moving. Tomorrow. Maybe tonight.” 

“Did you tell Edgar or Warren?” I ask.

“The cell network’s down. I wanted to tell you in—tell you all at once.” Suddenly he can’t look me in the eye. 

“They’ll be here soon,” I say. “At least Edgar. He’s usually here as soon as I open.”

But Edgar and Warren don’t appear by nine or even ten. Louis sits in his usual chair, glancing up at the gray sky. He doesn’t want to order until the others get here. Finally I bring him his usual. “On the house,” I say. “Besides, it’s the last of the milk.” 

“It’s pretty,” he says.

“What?”

He’s looking at the foam of the cappuccino, where I’ve poured a four-leaf clover. “Hate to wreck it by drinking it.”

“You have to,” I say. “It’s good luck.”

“Do you want to sit down?” he asks. 

There’s no one else here, and no one likely to come. “Why not?”

Our street is empty of traffic. Across from us, the three arched doorways of the RBC building regard us like solemn monks. Dark, fat-bellied clouds churn over the rooftops. Every shadow makes me catch my breath. 

Louis says, “It was nice, that dinner we had in Chinatown.”

“We should go back sometime,” I say. Louis looks at me, then we burst into laughter.  

A horn sounds. A white panel truck rolls toward us, headlights flashing. The vehicle stops in front of the café, and Warren leans out the driver’s side window. “We stole a truck!” he says proudly. 

Edgar hops down from the passenger side and says, “That’s not all.” The back of the truck is loaded with supplies. Boxes of canned food, plastic bladders full of water, cans of gas… and building materials: drywall mix, plywood, two-by-fours. “Those were already in there,” he says. “Still, who knows what we might need to build?”

“We?” Louis asks. 

“I thought you’d rather not live in a future without coffee,” I say. 

Edgar shrugs. “I talk a lot.” 

I think this over for a moment. “I’ll go with you,” I say. “On one condition.” 

#

There’s really not room for four people in the front of the truck, especially when one of them is Warren, so I sit by the window on Louis’ lap. His arm is around my stomach. 

We head north on Highway 2, the afternoon sun sinking into the mountains. There are many cars headed in the same direction, and none going the other way. In the bed of the truck behind us is the Red Beast, as big as a Ford engine block. Louis and I took nearly an hour to disconnect the machine from the plumbing, and then all four of us were needed to carry it out of the store. We loaded the truck with enough beans to keep Edgar in long blacks for a year. 

“Oh no,” Warren says. I look in the side view mirror. The sky above Calgary has gone dark with thousands of rag-winged shapes. A sob escapes me, and I realize I’m crying. Louis presses his cheek against my bare forearm.

No one speaks for a while.  

Edgar tips back his cap. “Not to worry,” he says at last. “We are carrying civilization with us.”

*************************************

"Plenty of coffee for you in that one," Maya says, then as she glances over she sees that his chair is empty. The cat jiups off her lap, walks over to the empty chair, sniffs, then looks around inquiringly at Maya. "I don't know, cat," she says, and her voice sounds too loud, the emptiness of the library seeming emptier without him. She gets up and feels the seat of his chair. It's warm, and there's a dent in the cushion, but that doesn't prove he was there, was real. The cat could have done it. She looks at the table. There's a pile of books, a small currant cake, an egg sandwich, curling slightly, a fig, an empty coffee cup at his place and an empty water glass at hers. She walks around the table. She can't call him, she doesn't know his name. He said he didn't have a name. The brindled cat follows her around the table. "Where could he have gone?" she asks the cat. The cat sits down and starts to lick his leg, furiously. "What should I do?" The cat doesn't reply.

Maya eats the last sandwich, as it's obviously not going to keep, and then the fig. She keeps glancing over at his chair, expecting him to reappear at any moment. On the other hand, she's not sure whether he was ever there, ever real. She doesn't know how long she's been in the library, just sitting here reading, She's not sure of anything.

She takes the empty water glass and refills it at the fountain, washes her hands, and goes back to the table. They she wonders if he could have gone downstairs, though it is only morning, to the table where they read at night. She goes down, the cat following along and occasionally slipping ahead. The table is empty except for a forgotten pomegranate shell, which she picks up and takes to dispose of. She then systematically searches everywhere in the library, looking high and low. She stares out of the window at the courtyard. He isn't anywhere. She ends up back at the table. The cat is lashing his tail. Maya wishes she could do the same.

She picks up Daryl Gregory's A Thousand Gomorrahs again, and opens it. She re-reads the first few lines. It's a terrific story, she thinks, and it's good to be with friends at the end of the world. She picks up the cat, who reluctantly settles on her lap. "Is it a sign I should leave?" she asks. "Go home? Is this over? Is the world all right again?" But even if the plague is over she doesn't want to go home. She never has wanted that. She looks at the next book on the stack. She puts it down and reads A Thousand Gomorrah's again, appreciating it even more. But when she closes the book and puts it down, he still isn't there. She feels as if she wants to cry, and strokes the cat gently behind the ears.

At last she picks up his book from the bottom of the stack, the orange book Or What You Will by Jo Walton. This is the book he came out of. Has he gone back in? Can she get him out again by reading more of it. Unlike all the other books she's read, this one wasn't just the first chapter but the whole book. She stopped reading it and read other things, but therw was more to read. She read chapter one before, and when she finished it he was there. She turns now to chapter two, and looks at the chapter title. "Her dead horse book," she reads.

"I knew you'd figure it out," he says, and she looks back at his chair and he is there, as if he'd never been away. He looks smug.

"You went back into your book!" Maya says, accusingly. The cat jumps down and goes to sniff at him.

"Yes, well, that coffee machine was too good to waste, and all those sacks of beans, wow," he says. "I needed it there. I've got it all set up. You'll be glad of it later."

'But I hate coffee!" Maya still wants to cry. The cat comes back and curls up on her lap, ignoring him.

"You'll like it when you're older. And I have a plan. Everything will be all right."

"You're not going to disappear again?" she asks.

"Well, I might. If there's something I need. But you know where to find me," he says. "I brought pear cake, and an omelette. The omelette is a bit cold, I'm afraid. But it will be much more convenient if I can pop back from time to time."

Maya takes the omelette and eats is. It's not just cold but a bit leathery. He sets the cake down on the table beside the little rock cake, then gives the cat a piece of oily fish. "Her dead horse book?" Maya asks.

"Yes, but I mostly fixed that." 

Maya snorts. She still feels unsettled and a little afraid. She keeps sneaking glances at him as she eats.

"I won't go anywhere until we can both go," he says, and sighs. "Now let's read something else."

"I need to wash my hands again," she says.

When they come back from the bathroom, he picks the top book up from the pile. "Brian Slattery. Clouds," he says.

Maya takes the book. "Promise you'll still be here when we finish it?" she asks, sounding much younger in her own ears.

"I'll be here." he says. The cat, full of fish, settles down, purring.

And they read.