End of Days (Penryn and the End of Day #3) (31 page)

And now there’s this. A talent show. Silly and nonsensical. Stupid and fun. Together. Laughing. Being part of the human race. Knowing about the horrors that have happened and will happen but choosing to
live
anyway. Maybe there’s an art to being human.

Sometimes I feel like a Martian in the middle of all this humanity.

‘Or,’ says Dum, ‘maybe they’re here because they’re all lusting after the’ – he turns on his mic – ‘
amazing
, magical
recreational vehicle!
’ He sweeps his arm to the stage backdrop.

There’s still enough light to make the projection behind him dim, but it’s a picture of a scratched-up RV.

‘Yes, you can believe your eyes, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Dee. ‘This is an unbelievably high-end recreational vehicle. In the old days, a beauty like this would run you – what – a hundred thousand dollars?’

‘Or a million,’ says Dum.

‘Or ten million, depending on what you want to do with it,’ says Dee.

‘This sweet baby is completely bulletproof,’ says Dum.

The crowd goes quiet.

‘Yes, you heard that right,’ says Dee.

‘Bulletproof,’ says Dum.

‘Shatterproof,’ says Dee.

‘And zombie-proof windows grace this beauty of a moving home,’ says Dum.

‘It comes complete with an early intruder system, three-sixty-degree video capability for watching your surroundings at all times, remote motion sensors so you’ll know if someone or something is near. And best of all . . .’ The photo projected behind them changes to the interior of the RV.

‘Absolute luxury of the World Before,’ says Dee. ‘Leather seats, luxury beds, a dining table, TV, washing machine, and its own bathroom complete with shower,’ says Dum.

‘For those of you wondering what the TV is for, why, we’ve made sure it comes with its own enormous movie collection. Who needs broadcast or streaming when you have a generator built in to your home?’

‘It took us a week to get the paint to look as dirty and grimy as possible. And believe me, it broke my heart to have to dirty this beauty up, but it’s a huge advantage not to look like a rich kid on wheels.’

‘Speaking of wheels,’ says Dee. ‘It can go twenty miles on four flat tires. It can climb up hills and over other cars if need be. This is an all-terrain vehicle of the wet dream kind, ladies and gentlemen. If we ever loved anything more than this, we must have called her Mommy.’

‘Hang on tight to your raffle tickets,’ says Dum. ‘They could be worth more than your life.’

Now it makes more sense. I’m sure some people came to stand by other humans in a final fight for survival, but I’m equally sure that some came for a shot at winning the World After RV.

The RV projection turns off. Huge spotlights turn on that make the stage glow. I cringe at the beacon, then remember that it’s supposed to be showy.

The speakers crank up with a whine that turns into a piercing shrill as the feedback blasts throughout the broken bridge.

I scan the dusky skies and see nothing but the beautiful sunset coloring the wispy mist. The peekaboo sky is a magical backdrop for the show, which seems miraculous in itself.

Dee and Dum dance a jig onstage, then bow as if they’re expecting a Broadway-show response. At first, the applause is muffled and scattered, timid and afraid.

‘Whooo-wheee!’ Dee shouts into his microphone. It reverberates through the whole crowd. ‘Damn, it feels good to make noise. Let’s all get it out of our system, people.’

‘If we’re going to rebel, we might as well rebel with noise and gusto!’ says Dum.

‘Everybody, let’s take a moment of joy by screaming out whatever you’ve been feeling all these weeks. Ready? Go!’

The twins let out a holler through their microphones that releases all kinds of stored up energy ranging from excitement to anger, aggression to joy.

At first, only one or two echo the twins’ yells. Then more people join in. Then more. Until the whole crowd is screaming and yelling at the top of its lungs.

This may be the first time anyone has spoken loudly since the Great Attack. A wave of both fear and cheer is released into the crowd. Some begin crying. Some begin laughing.

‘Wow,’ says Dum. ‘That’s a big ol’ mess of humanness right there.’

‘Respect!’ Dum thumps his fist to his chest and bows down to the audience.

The noise goes on a little longer, then settles down. People are jittery and anxious, but excited too. Some have smiles on their faces, others have frowns. But they’re all here – alert and alive.

I settle into my spot at the corner of the stage and look around. I’m on the ground crew, which means I’m one of the lookouts for tonight until there’s action on the ground. I scan the horizon. It’s getting harder to see in the thickening mist, but I don’t notice any hordes of angels.

On the water, two boats are throwing buckets of chopped fish and venison innards into the water all around our chunk of the bridge. A pool of blood spreads behind the boats.

Onstage, the twins stand tall with goofy smiles on their faces. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and the rest of you who fit into neither of those categories, I am your master of ceremonies, Tweedledee.’ He bows. ‘And here’s my co-MC, my brother and my bane, Tweedledum!’

The crowd whoops and hollers. Either the twins are extremely popular or people really like being able to make noise again. The twins take deep bows with a matching flourish of their hands.

‘Tonight, we have the show of a lifetime for you. It is unfiltered, unmanaged, and certainly undeniably awesome!’

‘We take no responsibility for any of the bad things that might happen tonight,’ says Dum.

‘And take all the credit for the fabulous, fantastic, and fun-filled things that will definitely happen tonight,’ says Dee.

‘And without further ado,’ says Dum, ‘let me introduce our First Annual World After Talent Show contestant. The San Francisco Ballet!’

There’s a stunned silence as everyone takes a moment to make sure they heard right.

‘Yup, you heard that right, folks,’ says Dee. ‘The San Francisco Ballet is here to perform for you tonight, you lucky dogs.’

‘I
told
you we had talent on the streets,’ says Dum.

Three women in ballet tutus and four men in matching pink tights come out onstage. They walk with the grace of professional ballet dancers. One of the ballerinas walks up to Dee as the others get into their ready stances. She takes the mic and stands in the center of the stage until everyone quiets down.

‘We are what’s left of the San Francisco Ballet. A couple of months ago, there were over seventy of us. When the world collapsed, many of us didn’t know what to do. Like you, we stayed with our families and tried to find the ones we loved.

‘But for us dancers, the ballet company is our family, and so we searched among the rubble of our theater and dance studio for those of us who fell. In the end, twelve of us found each other, but not all of us made it this far.

‘This dance is the one we were practicing on the day the world ended. This one is dedicated to the members of our family who are not here today.’ Her voice is clear and strong. It carries through the crowd like the wind caressing our necks.

The ballerina gives the mic back to Dee and steps into position. The dancers take what looks like random places in a line. I can almost fill in the rest of the line in my mind with the other dancers who are not here tonight.

The music begins, and the lights follow the dancers as they leap and pirouette across the stage. It’s a strange yet graceful postmodern kind of a dance with most of the performers missing.

There’s a move where a pair of dancers – a man and a woman – come up to center stage and dance together while the rest stand back and float in the air on their toes. Their motions are graceful and romantic.

Then a dancer comes forward to replace the pair. It’s clear by the empty air between the dancer’s arms and the sad line of his body that his partner is missing. He dances his part of the duet with empty arms.

After him, the remaining dancers come up to dance – one by one, dancing with a ghost partner.

They caress the air where the face of their partner would have been. They spin and land on the floor with their arms stretched out in longing.

Alone in a world of misery.

I watch the beautiful performance with an ache in my chest.

Then, just when I can’t stand the sadness anymore, a dancer floats out from the side of the stage. A dancer in ragged clothes, filthy and half starved. He’s not even in ballet shoes. He’s just barefoot as he glides out to take his place in the dance.

The other dancers turn to him, and it’s clear that he is one of them. One of the lost ones. By the look on their faces, they weren’t expecting him. This is not part of the practiced show. He must have seen them onstage and joined in.

Amazingly, the dance continues without a missed beat. The newcomer simply glides into place, and the final dancer who should have danced solo with her missing partner dances with the newcomer.

It is full of joy, and the ballerina actually laughs. Her voice is clear and high, and it lifts us all.

58

When the performance is done, the crowd goes wild with their cheers. There is total abandon with their clapping, whistling, and shouts of bravos.

It’s amazing.

I’ve never felt so moved by a performance before. It’s not like I’ve been to a lot of ballets or any other live performance at all. But the sense of camaraderie here tonight leaves me breathless.

Like true professionals, the dance troupe takes its bow first before the dancers converge on the newcomer onstage. The hugs, the tears, the cries of joy are a wonder to see.

Then they spread out into a line, hold hands, and bow again. Everyone is up on their feet, and none of us worry about the noise we’re making or what we might bring upon ourselves.

The twins are right. This is
life
.

No one can really top that ballet performance, and I assume no one will try. Everyone seems happy to have been a part of it.

The twins get up onstage to clown around and entertain people. I’m guessing they’re giving people time to absorb what they just saw so that someone else can get up the nerve to perform. They do a magic act that’s almost professional. They fumble a few times, but I know they’re doing that for comedic effect, because I’ve seen their work and it’s amazing, as good as any professional stage magician.

After that, a young guy walks up onstage carrying a battered guitar. He looks like he hasn’t had a shower in days, his face is covered in scruff, and his shirt has a splatter of dried blood.

‘This is a song sung by the late, great Jeff Buckley called “Hallelujah.
”
’ He begins strumming his guitar, and he quietly transforms into someone who I’m sure would have been a celebrity at any other time.

The bittersweet chords ring over the bay as his voice softly builds momentum. People begin singing along with his mournful crooning. Some of us have tears drying on our faces in the cold wind as we sing ‘Hallelujah’ in broken voices.

When it’s over, there’s a moment of quiet. We’re left wondering about life and love and other things that are messed up and broken, yet somehow still a triumph.

The clapping is subdued at first but quickly builds into a wild cheer.

After that, the singer strums his guitar aimlessly until he hits on a familiar tune. He begins to sing a pop song that’s light and fluffy and upbeat. Everyone sways and hops and bursts out in song.

We’re nowhere near as good as the angels I heard singing at the aerie. There are enough of us singing off-key that we could never be considered good, much less perfect like the angels. But all of us singing together – the cults with their greasy amnesty marks, the rival gangs on the suspension cables, the angry freedom fighters, the parents with their kids on their shoulders – that’s a feeling I’ll never forget for as long as I live. However long that will be.

I hold on to the feeling and try to lock it in the vault in my head where I know it’ll be safe and with me forever. I’ve never put anything good in there before, but I want to make sure it doesn’t get lost. Just in case this is the last big human show of any kind, ever again.

And then, I hear it.

The thing I dread. The thing I’ve been expecting.

There’s a low buzz. And the air begins to stir.

Far too close to us, the mist boils.

They’re coming.

The sky blacks out with their bodies, and the mist swirls with the wind of a thousand wings. Either no one spotted them coming in the gathering fog, or we were all too mesmerized by the show.

A voice over the speaker starts a countdown. That’s supposed to be a signal for the audience to run and for everyone to get into position.

‘Five . . .’

Five? It’s supposed to start at twenty-five.

Everyone wastes a precious second realizing that we’re already out of time.