The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [110]
She said, "Even if Connie shows up and changes her mind?"
I smiled. "Especially then."
That still, solemn look. "And what about the other one?"
I took a deep breath. "When Lara took that razor to her wrist, she knew who would find her in the morning. I've had twenty years to think on that."
A slow nod. "I've got a past of my own. You never asked."
"If it matters, you'll let me know. Until then ... look!" A gesture with my free arm, downslope towards the deepening mist. "Everybody and everything that ever was is here in this valley. We..."
The fat guy came out of the trees stumbling, still looking back, though the elephant seemed to have given up, stuck in a tangle of fallen trees, confused. I waved my arm. "Paulie! This way!"
Maryanne nuzzled close to my ear and whispered, "Shut up! Maybe he won't see us."
He ran straight across the sloping ground towards the hill, tripping again, running slower, then slower still. Just before he got to the steeper part, leading up to where the four of us stood, he turned away, running parallel to the base, then turning at an angle away from us again.
Gasping. Gasping for breath.
Suddenly, he screamed, "Julia\ Julia, wait!"
I turned and looked. There. Naked, long hair streaming out behind her, running away, toward another patch of dark, piny woods. Running along, holding hands with another fat man. Gary, of course, healed from the bullets and the cold.
Paulie fell down, got up, shouted, "Julia! For God's sake! Please! I love you!" Ran on, stumbling, following them into the trees.
Eventually, the rainout reached the point where even the spacesuits were useless, trapping us in the shelter. One night, we all pitched in and put together one of best dinners I ever had. Cornish hens. Brussels sprouts. Baked potato. Cornbread stuffing. Salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing. We were all crowded into the Staff Quarters kitchen, working on our favorite things, bumping into each other, laughing about silly little shit, like old times, like we were, somehow, having the life we'd always wanted, maybe even the life we deserved. There was chicken giblet gravy. Real butter. Sour cream.
Everybody had their own favorite wine, from Julia's snobby chicken-appropriate dry white whatever, to my own beer stein full of tawny port. I lifted it now and looked at them. Silence? Not quite. In the background, you could hear a soft drumming sound, rather a slow drum right now, the dull, intermittent thud of exploding oxygen rain.
"Here's to us," I said, "here and now."
Paul picked up a champagne flute of Black Opal something or other. "Not the things that were. Not the things that might have been. Just us."
Julia looked at him, seeming surprised.
"Good one, Paulie." Wish you'd been thinking that way back when life was real and there were things we were maybe going to do and be. We ate quietly for a while, most of the noise coming from Paul, who'd never learned to chew with his mouth shut. Hell. It's just defiance. Somewhere, his dead parents are still looking over his shoulder, yelling at him, wringing their hands in despair because he won't do what they want.
Overhead, the sound of the rain grew louder for a moment, then softened again. Like someone far above had dumped an extra-big bucket of droplets on us, just for fun. Connie put down her fork and looked up at the ceiling, as if inspecting it for water stains.
Conniekins, if this roof starts leaking, we are fucked.
She said, "Is it going to stay like this?"
"We don't know."
Paul grimaced. "Yeah we do. In a few days it'll be like real rain, a downpour."
"Well, we only imagine that, Paulie. And we've been wrong about a lot. Remember?"
"Look. Right now, it's just getting started. The droplets are coming down slow because they're low density and falling through gaseous air. But it's the air that's falling! The atmospheric pressure will start to drop, more oxygen will condense