Lightspeed: Year One

We got the cucumbers neatly buried, one to a grave, and Humphreys said a little prayer over each one, and then we got back into the truck to go back into the house. I was worried. I had to figure out what to do about him, and it would have been easier if he’d been easier to hate. “Reverend,” I said, “you were right before. I’m scared about what will happen if people find out about what’s been going on out here.”

“I’m not going to tell them,” he said. “This is under the seal of clerical confidentiality, Welly. I take that very seriously.”

I didn’t know if I could believe him or not. I wanted to, but that’s not the same thing. “I just hope I can trust you, Reverend.”

“I hope you’ll learn that you can. I can’t expect you to, yet. You’ve only known me a few hours. Earning trust takes longer than that.”

I grunted. That was a better answer than a lot of other people would have given. “Well, listen, you let me know when Sam dies.”

“He may not die, not for a long time. We have to hope the chemo will work. We have to hope he’ll be healed. But if he dies, certainly, I’ll call you.” Humphreys smiled. “He’ll be having a church service, I have to warn you.”

“Call me anyway.” We were back at the house. I stopped the truck and said, “You left that bag inside, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Wait here. I’ll get it for you. I’ll be right back out.”

The paper lunch sack was still sitting in the hallway, next to where Humphreys had gotten sick. It was wet from the soapy water he’d used. I threw the old sack away and got a fresh one, and then for good measure I threw another eighth into the plastic bag. I knew Sam would notice, and that kind of gesture’s good for business, if you don’t do it very often. I guess it was my way of gambling that he’d stay alive. And if he mentioned it to Humphreys, maybe the Reverend would be more likely to keep his mouth shut.

I took the sack back out and handed it to Humphreys. “I have something for you, too,” he said, and gave me his business card. “Call me if you ever want to talk, about anything at all. You can call me any time. Both my home number and the church number are on there.”

“Kind of you,” I said, although I was thinking, when hell freezes over. ”Thank you, Reverend.”

“You’re welcome, Welly.” He held out his hand, and I shook it, and then he got back into his car and drove away. I watched his car until it disappeared, and then I went back into the house. I almost threw the business card away, but something made me toss it into one of my kitchen drawers instead. Don’t ask me what. It wasn’t like I planned on calling him. It was just a superstitious thing, maybe like what he’d said about the emergency baptisms. Having his business card probably wasn’t going to help me, but it couldn’t hurt, either.

I was hot, from all that digging. I opened the fridge and got out a beer and drank it down in one gulp. Then I got my cell phone and took it into the living room, and sat back in my recliner and started dialing the phone company.

BLACK FIRE Tanith Lee

Witness A (One)

I first see it as I’m driving back that night up the road—you can bet I pulled over. I thought it was a fucking plane coming down. Like a plunge of flames right through the sky, as if the sky was tearing open from the top to the bottom. The car slams to a halt and I jump out—and I’m below the top of the hill, so I run the rest of the way and just as I get there, this . . . thing, whatever it was, it lands in the woods. Well, our house is around there, me and hers. Only a mouse-house—what she said—mid-terrace in the last street winds out the village.

I stand on the hill sort of frozen, sort of turned to stone, and I hold my breath, the way like you do, not knowing you’re not breathing.

So while I watch, all this fire-thing just storms into and through the trees and down and it hits the ground, and I think something’s crazy then, because there should be a God-awful great bang, yeah? And great columns of fire and crap. But there ain’t a sound. Not a bloody whisper.

And then I remember and I take that missing breath. But it’s so quiet. I think that’s what struck me anyhow, even while I run up the hill. There’s always some kind of noise out here; I mean, we’re not that far from the town. And there’s animals, too, foxes and things snuffling and screeching. And cars.

Only there isn’t a single sound now.

I don’t never drink when I drive. Not no more. I got pulled over a couple years ago, random check, and I was just over the limit: half a glass—well, a pint—of beer. But I won’t take any chance now. So nobody can say I imagined what I seen. Go on, you can test me, if you like. No. I see it. And I see what come after too.

Witness E (One)

He was late. He’s always late.

That’s what they says about dead people, don’t they? Well then he must be dead.

Oh, he’s got some bint where he works. Says he hasn’t. He’s got some—