by Zachariah Claypole White

Tape #1

Hi, Aide. It’s me.

Wow. What a stupid way to start. Not like you’re going to hear this.

•

Listen. It’s all coming to an end—everything. I’ll try to get as far as the mountains, assuming the gas holds out. That seems as good a place as any. I mean, some of those caves run miles deep. Maybe I could …

•

What am I saying? Nature was your thing, Aide. Not mine. I just sit around writing ghost stories and reading Heidegger. Oh—by the way: ontology seems even more pointless during the apocalypse.

And there’s that word.

•

I’ll get to the mountains, okay? And then—well, one crisis at a time, right? I guess you taught me something after all.

•

I’m sorry, babe. I know this doesn’t make much sense, but I’m doing my best, okay? Trying to explain how it’s all unraveling. Trying to be honest. Like I promised you I would. I guess even then it was too late.

•

The world ended three days ago, and I’ve been driving ever since. I know. I should be out of gas by now. Sometimes nothing changes for hours. The trees are scorched bare; there’s no wind anymore. Maybe all that’s left are photos of the dead earth, tossed up against the windshield. Sometimes I check the speedometer just to prove the car’s actually moving. Sometimes the horizon bulges and twists like cling film wrapped across a hurricane.

Hearing myself say that … Maybe I’m losing my mind. Ya think so?

•

But I’ve seen Them, Aide. Not sure how to make you understand. They don’t move right. You ever see a centipede cut in half? That frenzy of legs? Each one squirming in its own direction? They move like that, the things that ate the sky. They move like they’re going through the world. Not touching it but pushing us, and everything else, out the way.

•

Wait, did I say three days? No, it’s only been one. One day since the world ended. One. Details matter, right? The sun has come up twice though. Of course, that might not be the sun.

•

I wish I could hear you laugh again, Aide. I know that sounds stupid. Especially when I’m driving through a literal hell, but you had the best laugh—especially your giggle. It was the first thing I loved about you. Did I ever tell you that? Aide?

Tape #2

Should have mentioned it sooner, but it’s only me in this cramped Subaru. Mel got out when we hit the state line—what was left of it anyway. The tarmac had blistered and split open like a cicada shell. Leaves melted down from the branches. And across the highway… I can’t think about it, Aide. Just can’t.

•

Okay, fine. I did say I’d try. Didn’t I? You can’t look at Them for too long. But you get these glimpses: angles that can’t exist; something like an eel or angler fish, bigger than any ocean; translucent clouds—all veins and tendons—watching you with your mother’s eyes.

•

Wait, was I telling you about Mel? Since we left the city it’s been harder to think straight. But Mel—who laughed at every stupid pun, who slept on my floor for three days after you died—she’s gone now.

She was singing before she left.

It started after we crossed into Virginia, a kind of whining hum. I thought it was the muffler. Then I saw her staring at me, mouth pressed shut, trying to hold back that noise. But she couldn’t. Her lips burst open and the song poured out. I’ve never heard anything like it, Aide. Imagine a forest’s worth of spring peepers, mid-tune, shoved through a meat grinder.

I pulled over, begged her to stop, even tried to force her jaw shut, but every muscle in her body was locked in place. Except for her tongue. The way it kept moving, Aide—oh God—like a horse caught in barbed wire.

Then I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember was Mel closing the passenger door. And the noise had stopped. She seemed back to her old self. I begged her not to leave; told her we’d be safer together. She shook her head, said something about going home. I tried to explain we were hours from her folks’ house; that we’d agreed the mountains would be our best—and only—shot. But she’d already turned away. The singing started again.

•

I should have called you sooner, babe. Even after the fight. I should have known to check in. I should have noticed. I should have, should have, should …

Tape #3

Mel left her tape recorder behind: the vintage one she got with a box of cassettes at some flea market outside the city. You know how Mel loved her old-timey shit. Fuck. No. I meant, how she loves. Loves. She may be the world’s worst singer, but she’s not dead. I didn’t mean to say that.

Anyway, that’s what I’m leaving these messages on. Jazz mixtapes from the eighties! Can you believe it? I think she knew what I’d use them for … that I’d want to talk to you, in whatever way I could.

•

There’s not much left, Aide. Of the sky, I mean. That first night, it just fell away. Like skin from an open wrist. And behind it—that’s where They come from. The place we’ll all end up. Bulbous, scuttling towers, like anemones. Or deep-sea vents. Or maggots on roadkill. You don’t want to look, you try not to, but Christ, it’s beautiful. Beautiful in a way that makes you want to open up your veins—just to see that impossible place reflected in some small, leaking part of you.

•

Did you see it before the rest of us, Aide? All those months ago? Maybe you caught a glimpse and decided to beat the rush.

•

Mel kept asking, why now? Why us? Hell, They could have been chewing away at existence for decades—centuries. Or maybe They figured the stars had aligned. Oh, the stars have gone too, if you’re interested.

I’ve had a lot of time to think it over. Not much else to do sitting in this goddamn car. Know what I realized? You know what genius, apocalypse-solving conclusion I reached? It doesn’t fucking matter. Trying to understand why or what They are would be like a gnat trying to make sense of a mushroom cloud.

Tape #4

Aidan, I don’t want to talk about the fight …

Mel told me you would have done it regardless. Even if I hadn’t been such an asshole. I never believed her. Now though—at the end—I think I do.

But I keep wondering—after you made the cuts—did you replay that stupid, fucking fight? Was that your last thought of me? Or worse, what if you didn’t think of me at all?

•

See? You were right. Even now I’m a selfish bastard.

•

Hey. You remember the storm door at your mom’s place? How one day her lawnmower shot a rock right through it, but the glass still hung there, waiting for someone to touch the handle and bring it all crashing down? That’s the world now, Aide. The rock’s been thrown, and I’m waiting to see who finally opens the door.

•

They’re getting closer. And bringing that other place with Them. Look how the towers move—like swarms of jellyfish.

•

It’s an awful thing to say, but I wish you were here. Yep. Still selfish.

Tape #5

And you are! Here I mean—in the car. I know you can’t be, but you’re with me. Were you always so thin? I can hear you laughing. Laughing over the radio, laughing through the new dark. Laughing through my own mouth.

We could stay like this. Wait for it all to end. Even if you aren’t really you, it would be enough.

•

Oh, Christ. Your wrists. Why is there so much blood? Please. Let me help. Why won’t it stop, Aide? Why won’t the bleeding stop?

Tape #6

Hey, at least the gas is holding out. And the radio works again. Want to hear? Of course you do.

•

No, Aide. You have to listen, really listen, damnit. That’s your problem—you never fucking listen. Not to Mel, not to your mom, and God forbid, certainly not to me. No, never me. You’d rather get intimate with a kitchen knife than ask for my help. Isn’t that right, you selfish piece of shit?

•

I’m going to dig you up and kill you again, Aidan. I’ll hollow out your bones with that same knife and let the new world pour in. I’ll cut away those tidy little stiches till your hands come off easy as a lizard’s tail. I’m going to curl up nice and warm inside your beautiful chest. Pour myself a glass of Bulleit and watch this whole fucking world come apart.

•

Can you hear it now?

•

Are you listening?

•

Aidan?

Tape #7

Babe, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t remember saying any of that. The car’s idling on the shoulder and the parking brake’s on. I must have passed out again. That wasn’t me. I swear.

•

I tried to erase the tape. The one where I went batshit with a capital B. But there’s a noise on it, a melody—the one Mel was singing. As soon as I reached for the cassette, I heard it. Just listening to the tape rewind made me puke my guts out. If I hear it again, I think I’ll stop being me. I’ll walk out of this car and keep going till I’m somewhere else. Like Mel.

•

Oh yeah, and the Subaru smells of the world’s worst hangover. So far, the apocalypse is going just great, thanks for asking.

•

Aide, where’d you go? It’s dark now; all the light has slipped beyond.

•

Please come back. I don’t want to die alone.

Tape #8

Well, that’s it. Out of gas. I had a full tank when Mel and I left, but that was seven days ago. Yeah, I know—even your hybrid couldn’t run for a week straight, but time doesn’t hold much weight anymore. This happened yesterday; it’ll also happen tomorrow.

•

It’s weird, kinda funny almost, but I haven’t been this calm since you died. Everything’s gone still, you know? You’d probably say I’m in shock. Then you’d quote some study about trauma response in nurses and then you’d say… you’d say…

You’ve probably figured it out by now, but I’m not going to reach the mountains. Even if I could it wouldn’t make a difference. I can see flashes of Them, crawling across the peaks.

It’s alright though. I’m alright.

I’m going to keep talking. Okay? At least for a while. Until I get there, wherever it is you went, wherever it is we’re all going. Maybe I’ll see you.

•

Just once more.

Tape #9

The sky’s finally gone. All of it. Everything’s brighter, though. Don’t even need the headlights. I was right, it is beautiful. Writhing towers of coral and bone twitch in the dead air, waiting for new tenants. Some of the monoliths reach for one another, desperate for touch. I can hear Them. Like insects covering a window pane. All those legs clicking and clicking and clicking …

There are people around the base of each tower. It’s hard to tell from here, but something—a vine, a spiderweb—is sprouting out of them. Out of their ears and throats. They’re gagging and screaming and sobbing and everyone is singing.

•

It’s almost time to leave, Aide. Mel’s walking down the road toward me. I know it’s not really her. Maybe she’s one last gift from my exhausted sanity. But when she gets here, I’ll have to follow. I hope you understand.

•

There’s someone with her—someone so familiar.

•

I love you, Aide. Even now that has to mean something. It might make me a shit person, but I miss you so much more than the world.