Bad Glass

The bedroom is lit in candlelight—a warm yellow, burning out of frame, somewhere to the woman’s left. Her clothing is disheveled; the shoulder of her hoodie has slipped down, exposing pale skin at her neck, between strands of wild black hair. Her hands and forearms are extended out in front of her body, bound together with loops of gray duct tape. There is tape across her mouth, too, stretching from ear to ear.

The woman’s eyes are wide, lashes and brow raised in fright. She is looking right back at the camera. Her entire world is focused on that one point in space and time—laser sharp and terrified. Her right cheek is lost in shadow; her left is glistening with tears.

We had red beans and rice for dinner. It was an instant mix that Taylor had found in the pantry. I didn’t have much of an appetite—my head was swimming, and the Vicodin made my arms and face feel heavy—but I ate anyway, trying to keep up appearances.

I didn’t say anything about Sabine. I wanted someone else to find her emptied room.

Now that the sky was once again normal—five o’clock and already pitch black, still raining hard—Floyd seemed calmer. He was still casting nervous glances toward the windows, but he was talking now and eating. It was probably just the oxycodone, but there were bursts of bubbly delirium mixed in with his chattering nerves.

“So, now that the world is over,” he asked, “what do you do?” He was addressing all of us at the table. His fork moved aimlessly through his food. “What’s your final meal? Your last words?”

“The world isn’t over,” Charlie replied, glancing up from his computer. His voice was subdued, but there was a hint of anger there, tamped down and carefully locked away. “Devon was lying. It was complete bullshit.”

“And the speed of light? The machine? The laser?”

“It was a fake. A hoax.” Charlie paused, and as I watched, something inside him changed. Slowly, his eyes went wide and his back straightened in his chair. “Or maybe, maybe what’s happening here affects perception. Maybe it just seems like the speed of light is changing, but really, really, it’s just an inability to measure things. Maybe there is something wrong with physics, but local and not at all catastrophic.” Charlie’s voice gathered speed as he went along. He was getting excited. “I bet my parents figured it out. I bet they’re out there right now, hunting down the source.”

Taylor shot me a concerned look. Her expression was grave, and there was a question in her eyes: What do we do? What do we do about Charlie?

“We don’t know anything,” I said, feeling an edge of annoyance starting to slip through my numb Vicodin shield. I turned toward Floyd and continued: “And as far as planning our last words, what’s the point? If it’s over, it’s over … There won’t be anyone left to hear. Or care. Or remember. Just words, floating through space.”

Taylor fixed me with a disapproving glare, and for a brief, surprisingly liberating moment I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself. But I stayed silent. I think I was pretty high by then.

That’s when Danny showed up.

“Hello?” the soldier called as he came in through the front door. I heard him shed his rain-drenched coat onto the entryway floor. Then he stuck his head into the dining room. He was wearing a ridiculously out-of-place fishing hat, and there was water dripping from its brim.

When he saw us there, sitting at the table, he flashed a broad smile. “If you’ve got the food, I brought the drinks,” he said, pulling a couple of bottles from a rainproof utility bag.

He glanced around the table and saw the serious expressions on our faces. His smile faltered briefly, quivering in confusion. Then it strengthened once again.

“C’mon, guys. It’s time to cheer the fuck up,” he said. “It’s time to celebrate!” He let out a brief laugh. “We figured it out. The military—your loyal military—we finally know what’s going on.”

We retired to the living room, and Danny ate while the rest of us passed around his booze. One of the bottles was amber bourbon, the other a brilliant, sky-blue bottle of gin. Leftovers from the other night, remnants of his clandestine booty. I took a long draw on the gin as soon as it got within reach.

“They found spores in the air,” Danny said between forkfuls of food. “It’s not a very high concentration—I don’t remember, something like one part in a million—but they found it. They finally found it! We’ve been unlucky up until now. We’ve been running air samples since day one, but—you see—it moves. In clouds, or waves, or something. It’s only around at certain times, and you’ve got to catch it just right.”