Blaze of Glory

CHAPTER 23

Five minutes later they came to a secluded corner. They'd left the caddies far behind. Only the occasional crunch reminded them that the beasts still existed, and during the intervening silence one could be lulled into the belief that the world hadn't ended. Looking around at the burned out hulks of cars, shattered windows and the debris-strewn streets, Buckley could almost convince himself that they'd just survived another hurricane. Such meteorological confluences were so common in Wilmington that nary a year went by without some sort of storm that ripped away roofs, blew out windows and created devastation of Irwin Allen proportions.

"Let's stop here." Buckley sagged to a curb and leaned back so the feet of the chair rested evenly on the sidewalk. He was beat. Too tired even to loosen his load, he sagged, his lids barely open, his breathing lost in an avalanche of gasps.

MacHenry and Gert bent at the waist, holding each other and gasping.

Sissy knelt where she stopped, her head down, shoulders shaking with small sobs.

Little Rashad stared into the night, wide-eyed.

MacHenry stood and looked back the way they'd come. "One by one. Just like in the movies."

Gert joined him. "First Lashawna, then Bennie, and now Samuel."

"Don’t forget Sally," Little Rashad added.

MacHenry reached over and ruffled the boy’s head. "That’s right. And good old Sally, too." MacHenry stared behind him a moment longer, then turned towards Sissy, Grandma and Buckley. "And then there were six."

Gert frowned. "Morbid."

"That’s me. Morbid MacHenry."

The old whore leaned into the used car salesman and they held each other in the middle of the empty street. A breeze stirred the detritus, swirling papers like they were leaves on a cool fall day in a place where hope still existed and love had a future. They closed their eyes. Gert's face pressed against MacHenry's chest. His chin rested on her head.

Minutes passed until Little Rashad broke the silence. "Where'd everybody go?"

"Eaten, most likely," MacHenry said without opening his eyes.

"Or worse," Gert said, her eyes flashing momentarily to Buckley.

"What could possibly be more worse than being eaten?" MacHenry asked.

"I'm not the one you should-"

Sissy shot straight up and chopped the air with both hands. She screamed, her voice cracking as it journeyed the unknown roads of anger and despair. "Shut up! Just shut up, will you?" Sissy slammed her hands to her head and leaned back against a light pole. Her arms wrapped her body as she fought to control the shaking. "How can you joke about this?" she sobbed.

Buckley roused himself from his half slumber, witnessing the girl's breakdown.

MacHenry seemed as if he was going to say something, but decided against it.

Grandma Riggs stirred. Buckley felt her movement on his back as if it were his own. The old woman held out her arms for Sissy. "Come here, baby."

Seeing this grandmotherly motion, Sissy stumbled into the old woman's embrace, shaking her head, tears flinging. Buckley groaned with the added weight, but said nothing. He tried to look back and see, but his neck wouldn't twist that far.

"Easy girl. Easy now. We talked about this."

"I know, but…"

"But what, baby."

"I don’t wanna die."

Grandma Riggs laughed low. "That decision’s been taken out of your hands. Jesus up and changed everything and didn’t think to ask our opinions. I told you, it’s up to us."

"But it’s so unfair."

"I suppose it is. I suppose it is. But, then now your challenge is to die right."

Sissy lifted her head from Grandma Riggs’ shoulder and stared with incomprehension into the old woman’s face. She searched the old eyes for awhile, then shook her head. "But I thought you said-"

"I know." Grandma Riggs petted Sissy's hair, smoothing the tangles with her crooked arthritic fingers. I know. Hell, I don’t even know why you’re listening to this crack-addled old broad."

"But-"

"But what?" She shook the girl and pushed her at arm’s length. "You want the secret? You want the knowledge of the pharaohs? You want to know what every man, woman and child has begged to know since time first started its infernal ticking? Okay, then try this on for size. You're gonna die. That's it. There's nothing you or I can do about it. So deal with it girl. Plan on dying, so if you live it’ll be a surprise."

Sissy stared as if struck.

Buckley closed his eyes, afraid to move.

MacHenry was the first to speak. "She’s right. Plan the way you’re gonna die. You don’t want to die afraid…" He glanced at Gert who was staring over his shoulder into the past. "Hell, we got enough time to prepare, you know? It shouldn't come as much of a surprise."

Grandma Riggs nodded. "Ask Mr. Adamski. He knows."

When Buckley didn't say anything, the old woman spoke for him, her old voice lending authority to the words. "Do not go gently into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Sissy lowered her head to the old woman's shoulder as she listened.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Gert began to cry as the poem continued, her soft keen enough to break Buckley's heart. Yet the old woman's gravel voice held them in thrall as the poem moved towards its climax

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The silence that followed was filled with everyone's thoughts of mortality. Buckley wondered how Dylan Thomas could have said things so perfectly. What had occurred in his life that he'd understood the hopelessness and need to fight the unfightable so well? Certainly not the end of the world, but something so personally devastating that a slim white man dipped in Welsh beer and kidney pudding could say it better than anyone else left alive.

"So there’s no chance," Sissy whispered.

Not even a wisp of a hope, thought Buckley.

He watched as MacHenry and Gert shook their heads in silent acknowledgment of the truth.

"Exactly. So concern yourself with death now, not with life."

"But-"

"But nothing. See? This is quite an opportunity. You get to decide how you’re gonna die. Sometimes that's more important than anything else."

"You’re not making this up?"

Grandma Riggs lifted her head and looked to where MacHenry stood. Their eyes met. "Mr. MacHenry, tell Sissy your philosophy."

"Mine?" MacHenry looked to Buckley who shook his head.

"Yours," Grandma replied.

"Flame on," he grinned.

"What?" Sissy's forehead crinkled.

"Flame on. Live fast. Die on my own terms. Johnny Storm." He shrugged. "It’s a comic book thing."

"Mr. Adamski? What do you say to Sissy?" Grandma prodded.

"Do not go gently. Flame on. It’s all the same thing," he said.

"Gertrude?"

"Flame on, honey. Flame on."

"What about me?" Little Rashad asked, stepping forward with his trumpet in his hands.

Grandma Riggs appraised him with blind eyes. "What about you?"

"Am I gonna die too?"

Grandma Riggs grinned. "Probably. Maybe. You scared?"

"Not as much as I used to be."

"There you go. Maybe you can talk to Sissy," Grandma Riggs said.

Little Rashad examined the young blonde woman with surprisingly old eyes. Dropping his trumpet to dangle at the end of a rope tied around his neck, he offered Sissy his hand. "Mr. Adamski taught me about ‘awakes.’ He said it was important to celebrate the life, not the death."

"It’s a wake, son."

The boy frowned and glared at Buckley. "That’s what I said." To Sissy he added, "You tell me what you liked about Samuel and I’ll tell you what I liked about Sally."

Sissy stared at the boy, then wiped the tears from her eyes. She managed a weak smile and allowed the boy to lead her to the curb a ways down, where they both sat.

From this distance, Buckley couldn't hear more than their muffled words, but it was clear that the boy had made some kind of connection with the young woman. "You aren’t as crazy as you seem," he murmured to Grandma Riggs.

"Yes I am."

"I bet you were a great teacher."

"I was the best."

"You still are."

With his neck craned, Buckley waited for a reply, but there wasn't any. Instead, he heard the cackle of laughter and the sound of a lighter followed by the harsh whisper of a crack pipe.