The Cabin at the End of the World(75)
“And then all those planes just happened to crash when Leonard died.”
“They didn’t crash when—”
“Andrew!”
“Yes, fine, a coincidence, but not an outlandish one. Maybe the planes were a preplanned part of their narrative, too. It’s possible the others were aware of reports, government warnings about terrorists or—what did they say?—cyberattacks on planes and we didn’t hear anything because we were up here and hadn’t watched TV or been on the internet for days. Even if that isn’t the case, all they had to do was make us watch cable news where it’s bad news all the time. Turn it on and within minutes you’re bombarded with breaking news of wars, suicide bombings, mass shootings, trains-planes-and-automobiles crashes . . .”
“It doesn’t work that way. They can’t get that lucky with guesses and maybes and turn on the TV and hope for something random to fit. Not like this.”
“Think about the psychological stress and state they put us in. They break in, terrorize us, tie us up, and you seriously injure your head. Then they tell us pseudo-Christian-biblical-end-of-times vagaries knowing that at any moment they can turn on the news and in our fried and frazzled brains something will very likely stick.”
“So I believe them because I’m Catholic, right? That’s so unfair and—”
“No, Eric, no, I’m not saying that, not trying to make you feel bad, I’m trying—”
“And they aren’t vagaries—drowned cities, plague, sky falling into pieces. Those things happened. I know you want me to hear how preposterous it all sounds, but you should listen to yourself. You’re bending yourself into a pretzel rationalizing the impossibilities.”
“That’s just it. I’m telling you it’s not—” Andrew cuts himself off and starts over. “Eric, I’m going to ask you straight out: Do you think one of us has to be killed by the other to keep the world from ending?”
“Why would those four make it all up and make us go through this?”
“You didn’t answer my—”
“Answer mine.”
“Jesus, Eric, the fucking guy who hate-crimed me broke into our cabin. O’Bannon and the others came here with a plan to terrorize the queers. There’s your why.”
“If it was him.”
“Eric—”
“I know, I’m sorry, but I’m not as sure as you are that it’s the same guy. He—he looks different to me, but even if it is him, is that enough of a why? I mean, why go through everything else? If it was only about us, they wouldn’t have been killing each other, would they?”
“They’re cultists. That’s what they are. Homophobic, doomsday cultists. They take meaning, identity, and purpose from believing they know the end is coming. Not only that, these pious soldiers of their god believe they have the power to stop the apocalypse if they can manipulate the gays into hurting each other. If that fails, then they get to start the end of the world themselves. They’re broken and delusional and everything they’ve done and everything they do serves to keep their delusion intact, to keep it alive. Think about it, it’s a no-lose for them, as far as their delusion goes. If one of us kills the other and then the world doesn’t end—because it’s not ending, not right now, anyway—then they were right, yeah? And if they all kill themselves instead, it doesn’t matter that the apocalypse won’t then happen, because they won’t be around to see the world going on without them.”
“I know but—that makes sense, and it sounds right. But it isn’t. Maybe all the stuff we saw and if Redmond is really O’Bannon, it’s all proof God is really testing—”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“What question?”
“The one you haven’t answered. Do you think one of us has to kill the other in order to—?”
“Not yet.”
Andrew isn’t sure what Eric means by that two-word answer. Does the “not yet” mean he’s not ready to answer the question, or does it mean we do have to make the sacrifice, just not now, not yet?
We are finally on pause. Our manic, rapid-fire quid pro quo leaves us breathing heavily and as skittish as rabbits in an open field. Our minds replay everything we said and didn’t say. We don’t look at each other. Sabrina remains silent, a few paces ahead of us, plodding along with her head down. We keep our eyes on the road veined with ruts, pitted with sunken holes and loose stones, and flanked by a forest that will one day reclaim it. We can no longer imagine the road’s end. Our eyes float upward trying to escape.
Andrew sees darker, threatening storm clouds. He tastes and smells rain in the air. His ears pop with the decreasing atmospheric pressure and temperature. The low rumble of thunder announces itself in the distance.
Eric sees an alien sky gone more purple than black, like a bruise. Its color changes the longer he watches; the sky becomes more gray than purple, and then more black than gray, and another change to more purple than both colors, then a color he’s never seen before and could only describe as being more purple than purple. The sky is so low and looks like a painted ceiling. The thunder rolling into the valley isn’t thunder; it’s the sound of the avalanching sky. Eric’s head throbs, sending hot stinging waves to the backs of his believing eyes.