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Isaac Marion

THE LIVING

Author’s Note

This book is being published in 2018, but I finished writing it in 2015. There are elements that I wrote as morbid fantasy that have edged uncomfortably close to fact, to the point of feeling obvious or even exploitative. This was never meant to be a “political book. ” I wasn’t commenting on specific public figures or current events—those events hadn’t happened yet. I was observing the patterns around me and speculating on where we might end up if we keep following them. But fact is catching up to fiction with alarming speed. I can only hope that the dark parts of this imaginary future aren’t the only ones that come true.

WE

WE ARE NOT BOUND by our bodies. Flesh is an experience we choose to have. From the bright cloud of our vastness we grow fingers to dip in cool water, to run through soft grass, to touch our skin and fur and feathers and somehow, from the sum of our myriad bodies, begin to understand what we are.

We are not bound by time, but we choose to live in it. We evolved consciousness to learn and to know, and for that we must focus. So we sit patiently in the vehicle of the present, traveling toward some unguessable tomorrow.

And we carry the past with us. It trails behind us like bubbles as we rise through the depths of time. It gathers in the books in our Library; it builds like magma beneath our mountain. We read our own books and learn from ourselves. We wait for our moment to erupt.

Paul Bark is sixteen. His face is pimpled, his mustache is thin, and he and his friend are about to burn down Denver.

“Are you ready?” he asks his friend.

His voice is high, but he has been working on deepening it, and he likes how rich it sounds in this cavernous space—“Hall B,” according to the tattered banner hanging above the stage. The logo on it is illegible, some kind of old-world fan convention, its superhero mascot faded to a gray ghost. The building was gutted long ago, all its windows broken or stolen, its hallways now filling with sand dunes as the wind sweeps the desert inside. It’s hard to picture this place roaring with exuberant life, joyful crowds cheering for imaginary heroes and fictional battles while the real battle raged all around them. Paul can hardly fathom such frivolity. So much passion wasted on made-up nonsense. Civilization deserved its end.

“Everyone’s in position,” he tells his friend, and he likes how serious he sounds, like a grizzled commando in the army of God. “Have you prepared your sermon?”

Brother Atvist doesn’t answer. The pale, lanky teenager sits cross-legged on a pile of broken ceiling tiles, staring down at the walkie in his hand. “Did they listen to yesterday’s?”

“Most of them. We’ve counted sixty-eight trucks heading out of town. ”

“That can’t be more than half. ” His shaggy dark hair hides his eyes. His flat tone hides his thoughts.

“We’re giving them too much time,” Paul mutters, and spits a wad of phlegm for emphasis. “Once the panic cools off, they remember they have a government and a fire department and they think that makes them safe. They think it can’t happen because it’s never happened before. ”