The Face In the Sky

“The inflatable polar bear, always waving, always greeted him happily when he drove into town. The first smile he’d see most days. He certainly didn’t get many at home . . .”

The inflatable polar bear, always waving, always greeted him happily when he drove into town. The first smile he’d see most days. He certainly didn’t get many at home.

He wondered about the small sign that used to be on this stretch of 290, the other famous landmark, one letting visitors know that their fair burg, Wormtown, The Woo, the city everyone from outside of New England called “Warchester,” was also the home of Dr. Robert Goddard, the father of modern rocketry. Goddard invented liquid rocket fuel. Now didn’t that deserve a sign about fifty by fifty that says “THE GUY THAT INVENTED GODDAMN ROCKET FUEL WAS BORN HERE.” Or at least have an inflatable rocket or something. Wasn’t Dr. Goddard’s accomplishment a bit more important than carbonated beverages, no matter how delicious they may be? Now there was no Robert Goddard sign. And humanity hadn’t gone to anywhere in space in, shoot, seventy years now? Why did he care so much though? He was a comedian, not an astrophysicist.

Anyway, he waved back at the polar bear like he always did.

Her text came up: “The kids are in rare form tonight and of COURSE you’re out.” Yes, I’m out you stupid cunt, he thought. I’m out trying to make some money for you and the kids. His gig was at the Hanover, not, like, the DCU or even anywhere prestigious in Boston, but the Hanover was nice, it was good for up-and-comers, and he was filming a special which might pan out. It had to. “You’ve been an ‘up-and-comer’ for fifteen years,” Jane said to him just the other night. “At some point, you have to realize it isn’t happening.”

Thanks, bitch, he thought. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Behind every unsuccessful man is the dagger from the back of the woman who plunged it in. No, that was a bit much. But goddamn woman, you knew what you were getting into when you married me! It’s not like he just goofed off and partied when he was on tour. He was working. This was his job. He got paid real American dollars to tell jokes. Why wouldn’t he push it as far as he could go?

He was almost there, about to pull off the exit onto Main Street when the face in the sky appeared.

It was round and blue and bald like a baby and, in the orange summer dusk with that dusty haze over the city’s skyline, translucent. The clouds were visible behind the face, bright Venus like a birthmark on its left cheek. This heavenly visage appeared so suddenly, he wasn’t paying attention and almost rammed full-speed into the Cybertruck in front of him. Reflexively, his foot slammed the brake pedal, so he hit the Cyber Truck only going about thirty, enough to jerk him painfully forward with a sickening crunch coming from his front end.

He had the wherewithal to pull into the breakdown lane, expecting a beatdown from whatever douchebag owned a fucking Cyber Truck. His neck and chest hurt, but who cared, there was a face in the sky. “Oh my God,” he said, the words unbidden, as he stepped out of his now smashed Honda and onto the highway. The cyber truck owner got out too, not the gun-toting MAGA-hat wearing Boomer he expected but a young Indian guy dressed in natty suit pants and a shirt sans tie, unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was shaggy and blowing in the warm evening breeze. “You all right?” he called to the kid, but the kid also couldn’t take his eyes off of that face.

“Yeah,” the kid said after a good ten count. “We’ll have to trade insurance info.” His voice had the flat affect of a man trying his best to maintain normalcy in a world suddenly gone mad.

“Tim Novacek,” he said. “I have, uh, Amica. You know, what the fuck is that?”

Tim was pointing at the sky, and the kid was following his finger. “What, that?” he asked.

“No, the billboard over there. Who the fuck needs a lawyer that bad, right?”

“Oh. Good. Because I thought you were asking me what that face is.” The kid was clearly not right. “I don’t know.”

Lots of people had stopped now. It was safe to use that hoary old traffic report line: “My goodness, don’t travel today! The highway is a parking lot.” Except it really was. Lots of conversations, some hysterical shouting, and no one taking their eyes off the face in the sky.

“Is it, like, an advertisement?” Tim offered. “I’ve read that they’re gonna start you know beaming ads in the sky. ‘Eat at Joe’s,’ right there near Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper.”

“What you think they’re selling with this?”

“I don’t know. Fuckin’ diapers or something.” Tim let the joke die and looked at the face. There was a neck, a hint of shoulders, but they kind faded as they approached the horizon. The eyes were just blank, no irises or pupils, and for the first time he noticed the mouth was moving, making silent utterances to all who watched. He was no lipreader, but the movement of its lips had a palpable malevolence. “Sorry about your car,” he offered.

The Indian kid said nothing. He was transfixed. Everyone was. The silence that befell that stretch of 290 chilled Tim almost as much as the face.

A piercing beep snapped the Indian kid, and everyone else, out of their reverie. The sound of an emergency broadcast coming from dozens of smartphones at once. Tim took his phone from his pocket with the mechanical movement of ingrained routine and checked the pop-up notification. Stay calm, said the United States Government, or something to that effect. Nothing to worry about. A weather anomaly. Ah yes, weather, the classic governmental fallback. Maybe they’ll try to nuke the weather, given how this President liked to handle things.

People started chattering again, and the susurrus of voices was welcome. “I guess we hop back in our cars and mosey on, because Uncle Donald said everything’s cool,” said Tim. “Seriously, I need your insurance info.”

The kid did not move. In fact, most people, after a few words, just returned their eyes to the sky. “Well, I’m moseying on, because I’ve got an appointment tonight. See you never, I guess.” He waved to the guy and started to get in his car, but realized it’d be a moot point because the off-ramp was clogged with inert cars whose drivers felt the need to rubberneck at the, ahem, weather anomaly in the sky. “Or I’ll just stay here,” he said resignedly. He snatched his pack of cigarettes from inside, leaned against the car, and lit one up. There was nothing else to do until the cars cleared out. Oh, he could text Jane. See how she’s doing. She certainly hadn’t texted him.

What kind of man am I that this matters? What about the boys? Sighing internally, both at his soon-to-be-ex-wife and his own assholeishness, Tim took out his phone.

The smoke break didn’t last long. A wild voice carried across the stillness, and it was coming closer. There, hurrying up the off-ramp and weaving in between the labyrinth of cars (a carbyrinth, thought the jocular part of Tim’s brain, the part that never fucking shut off even at the worst possible moments), was a guy who looked like he’d seen better days, one of Worcester’s finest vagrants who hung out near intersections hoping for a helping hand from those for whom the American Dream had already been priced out of existence. But Tim didn’t recognize this guy. He had dreadlocks, but he looked white, or maybe half-black. A scraggly beard covered his cheeks and chin, but strangely he had all of his teeth, and they were in good working order. He was dressed in jeans and green military style jacket over a black t-shirt; Tim felt a pang of sadness that he might be a veteran. Veterans were some of his favorite audience members.

“He is coming! He is drawing near!”

The hell was this guy talking about? Tim stood up and took his cigarette out of his mouth, stopped his text to Jane midway through. A little closer now, there was no mistaking the craziness in his sanpaku eyes. Just like lots of these people, the face in the sky had broken him. He was just a bit more vocal about it, I guess.

Selfish until the very end, Tim wondered if he’d been spared because he was such a cynical, jaded bastard who loved nothing and nobody, not even himself.

“It’s Zetronius! He is coming! He is come!”

The only thing coming is a lobotomy headed your way, Tim thought. He shook his head and resumed his lean, his cigarette, and his text . . . while keeping one eye on the homeless dude ranting about aliens or something.

“Want to let you know I’m okay,” Tim’s text went. He left off even though I’m sure you don’t care because that would be gauche at this point. “How are you and the kids?” He tapped the send button.

“Zetronius will consume all in a righteous fire! We have found the true faith! We have seen the true god, and it is him! Him! He will eat your sins and purify your souls through the all good and holy meal of your blood!”

It sounded like warmed-over Christianity to Tim. He was rolling his eyes internally, he really was. He lifted his phone and scrutinized it like he could will a reply text from Jane into existence. But he had to be fair—how’s that for personal growth?—and realize she was probably putting the boys to bed right now. Or she was freaking out. Either/or.

“Blood is the true calling and Zetronius will accept us all as we are!” the crazy went on. “We all bleed the same red and Zetronius will not discriminate! All will be equal in death and life after death and death after life!” He then started speaking in tongues, or something, and holy shit Tim knew, he just knew that the nonsensical syllables coming from this guys mouth were matching what being mouthed by the face in the sky.

He felt compelled to turn, though he didn’t want to. But the guy was coming close, so close. Still intoning those words which took on the cant of a prayer or a magic spell, the psycho bum pulled a large kitchen knife from his jacket and even though Tim pushed himself off the car fast enough that he dropped his phone and his cigarette fell from his mouth, even though he ran towards the Indian kid whose Cyber Truck he wrecked and whose name he didn’t even know, even though Tim was slender and in pretty good shape and could run quite fast, he wasn’t in time to stop the guy from sticking the knife deep into the Indian kid’s back, right between the shoulder blades.

The kid sort of twitched and then froze, fell to his knees, and the bum was in the process of twisting the knife when Tim tackled him. The three men fell to a chorus of gasps and car horns honking, like that’d solve anything. No one else left the safety of their cars to come help Tim grapple with a killer.

Said killer kept his monotone going while he struggled with Tim. It sounded like “Gorbin grimba tooahni coaliual,” really weird and unsettling, and they must’ve been a magic spell for superhuman strength, because wrestling this guy reminded Tim of fighting his older brother, who was not only three years older but about five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. The knife was once again in the bum’s hands, the point now hovering inches before Tim’s face. It was all he could do to keep it at bay while the bum chanted with a blankly ecstatic expression.

“Help! Help!” Tim screamed, his voice quavering with fear and adrenaline. He used his feet to slide back, scraping himself against the pavement. Weapon–he had nothing. No knife, no gun, no martial training. Something hard on his hip as they struggled. Keys . . .

It was a gamble, but Tim would probably be dead anyway. He took one hand off his assailant’s wrist to take his keyring out of his pocket. Too many keys. Jane would laugh at him, the big bulge in his front-right pocket. His insistence on driving used cars in the pre-fob days, his hoarder-like need to keep every single key he’d ever had since the dawn of recorded history. Keys sometimes dug into your side, because they could be sharp. Sharp enough to pierce flesh. Who’s laughing now?

Tim had the wherewithal to slide one finder into his keyring, fiddling his fingers so that a few keys stuck out between, and then punched the knife-wielding vagrant in the face.

It was horrible, and until his dying day Tim would never forget the sound his popping eyeball made, or maybe it was the new holds in the guy’s cheek. Blood and viscera didn’t spurt out like horror movies had led Tim to believe; it was more of a slow trickle of viscous goo that was somehow worse. The important thing was that the guy wouldn’t kill Tim, and that in his shock he managed to keep his grip on the knife instead of dropping it point-first into Tim’s face.

He threw his attacker off and rolled on to his front. Tim felt like he should puke, but didn’t. His stomach was fluttering, his heart felt about to burst from his chest, but he was alive and would never be the same because holy sweet Jesus Christ in heaven that he didn’t even believe in Tim Novacek a motherfucking comedian had just killed a man.

He looked around, eyes slowly starting to actually register what they saw, to take note, to observe. All was as it was before. People stared up at the face in the sky. Even the few people who’d exited their vehicles remained transfixed. And even though the guy who’d tried to murder Tim for someone or something named Zetronius—their new Sky Daddy, perhaps?—was dead, his incantation continued, muttered by the people standing there on the highway. Only the inflatable polar bear, whose name was Orson, by the way, and Tim weren’t affected.

He could deal with that later. Tim crawled towards the dead Indian kid before he remembered he could walk. He’d seemed like a nice kid. What was his name? Tim fumbled for the guy’s walled, found it, saw the ID, read Darius Javid. So he wasn’t Indian. That was, what, Persian or something?

“Hey, put that back!” some guy yelled. It was a dude who’d just hopped out of a truck. A white guy, all beer-belly and long hair.

Tim placed Darius Javid’s walled gently back into his pocket and stood up, hands raised, blood and other bodily fluids still dripping down his keys and his hand. “Hey, I just wanted to know his name.”

The trucker pulled out a pistol and now Tim thought he was done for. “I saw you kill that guy!”

It took a moment for Tim to realize he didn’t mean Darius Javid. “He killed Darius!” Tim responded. “The guy with the knife. The one I . . . the one I killed. He tried to kill me. Don’t shoot please. What the fuck is going on?”

The trucker lowered his gun and looked up at the face. “Damned if I know.”

“Does the name ‘Zetronius’ mean anything to you?”

Now the trucker looked at Tim like he was the world's stupidest man. A trucker! Could the day get any stranger?

“Like was he a Roman orator or something?” Tim went on. “I thought they usually had names like ‘Biggus Dickus,’ but history was never my strong suit.” He chuckled at the thought of an “orator” named “Biggus Dickus.” “Can I put my hands down?”

The trucker nodded. “Naw, never heard that name in my life. Why do you ask?”

Tim fell back against the nearest vehicle—wouldn't you know it, it was Darius Javid’s Cyber Truck—and sank to his knees. He closed his eyes and put his arm over his face. “Heard it somewhere . . . I just need to get out of here. See how my wife and kids are doing. I'm worried sick.” He took his arm down and looked at the guy. “I just killed a man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the Trucker. He nodded, eyes wide and lips pursed. “I saw that.” He stepped closer and took in the knife sticking out of poor Darius Javid the not-Indian's back. “God damn,” he said, and then made the sign of the cross before returning his eyes to the sky. “The fuck is that thing? The hell are they saying?”

“I don't know but it's freaking me out.” Like a moron, Tim checked his phone. Social media was usually his lifeline for news and information, along with all the other nonsense that swirled around in that toxic stew of narcissism and paranoia. There was so much. This was truly a worldwide event, which made him wonder how big that face really was anyway? Or were there multiple faces? But it looked the same in the pictures he saw, which meant nothing, really—there could be multiple faces.

Oh man . . . people were trying to explain the whole Zetronius thing. Myriad theories, a plethora of pontification, the usual bullshit with the truth sprinkled in. But there was no time for doomscrolling. How were Jane and the boys? Had they become mindless, muttering thralls of this Zetronius? Had they been beset by other mindless, muttering thralls of this Zetronius? Or was her cell battery just dead? Jane never, ever kept the fucking thing charged . . .

Tim needed to get home. He stood. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Me too man,” said the trucker. “Kinda stuck though, you know?” The way he talked, Tim expected him to end every sentence with a raspy “brother!” but he seemed like an all right guy. “I’m driving bunch of beer to New Hampshire. Sure they won't miss a few, if you wanna hop in my truck and sit a spell.”

“No offense, man, but you could be a serial killer for all I know. I'll take my chances on foot.”

If the trucker was offended, he was good at hiding it. “Where you live?” he asked.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, you being a serial killer and all, but Connecticut. Right over the border.”

“That’s a long-ass walk, brother.”

“You said it!” Tim exclaimed, pointing at the man with glee. “You said the thing!”

“Uh, okay . . .”

“I’m sorry. I'm just on edge.” And I have a chronic inability to take anything seriously. “Hey, why'd it get so quiet?”

And it was. It sounded like a hot summer night but if the chorus of crickets suddenly stopped in perfect unison. It was the chanting. It was gone, and so was the face in the sky. All around, people shook their heads and came to their senses, life returning to expressionless faces full of flushed post-orgasmic weariness. Lots of exhaled breaths and puffed cheeks, like these people had just hiked Mount Washington, but instead of the honest glow of ruddy exertion they looked animated, crazed, like missionaries knocking on doors who would not take no for an answer.

“That was so strange.”

“Wow, I feel . . . just . . .”

“We are living in the End Times.”

And on it went. The spell on these people might have been broken, but they didn’t look the same.

They looked . . . like the bum who’d straight-up murdered Darius Javid.

One woman turned to look at Tim from the rolled-down window of her sensible black SUV. She was pretty and middle-aged, slightly plump, with a mass of dyed blond hair and those ridiculously large glasses young women liked to wear. Tim imagined her as an office manager at a dental practice, or maybe the dentist herself, if white people still graduated from dental school these days. Her eyes held the fervor of a new convert, the type of eyes Tim had seen before from friends who'd gone haywire after becoming Born Again or something like that. “Did you feel it too?” she called.

“You bet your ass I did,” said Tim. He raised a hand. “Hail Zetronius!”

“Uh, hey man, I wouldn’t mess around right now,” said the trucker, who had walked up next to Tim.

“Sorry, brother,” Tim muttered. “But it’s getting dark and I don't feel like hanging around here with these people.” Also, I just killed a man so, you know, l'd like to be as far removed from the body as humanly possible before the authorities show up. “I think the best thing to do, for all of us to do, is to move along and get back home so we can praise Zetronius properly,” he told the woman. His mouth went dry as he waited to see if his gambit would work.

“Are you mocking the good, holy, and life-giving name of our lord?” the woman asked.

“Is your lord named Zetronius? If so, then no, of course not.”

The woman opened her door and walked towards Tim and his trucker friend. “You’re not one of us,” she said. “He’s not one of us!”

More people opened their doors. Here was a young Hispanic man in jeans and a Red Sox jersey, there was an elderly white gentleman in a suit. More and more regular, average, everyday Americans who had exited their vehicles to converge on two apparently non-compliant citizens of Zetronius’s green Earth.

Tim backed away and bumped into the trucker, who had his gun raised at the woman. “Look, lady, my days of hitting women are over. That was a joke, I don’t hit women and I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Don’t know what else we can do,” the trucker muttered, backing up with Tim. “Let’s get in my truck.”

“Now's not a great time for a beer, but okay,” said Tim. “We’ll be right back!” he announced. “Don't worry about us. Just waiting for the traffic to clear!”

The cars kept the advancing mass of true believers from surrounding Tim and his friend, but then someone pulled a gun and the two of them just broke for the truck.

The first shot rang out while Tim’s back was turned, close enough to make him nearly lose control of his bowels. The prospect of being killed was definitely scarier than actually killing someone, both experience Tim was finally able to cross off of his bucket list, and on the same day to boot!

Once inside the truck, the trucker fired up the engine, lowered the window, and let off a few warning shots of his own. “Fuck you can’t kill these people!” Tim yelled, like he had a leg to stand on here.

“Don't want to! Just want them to leave us alone!”

“Give me the gun,” said Tim, who had never held, nor had ever had a desire to hold, a firearm. But he'd also never had a desire to drive his keys into somebody’s eyeball, so, you know, first times for everything. “Drive.”

Bang bang. By Tim’s count, for what that was worth, this guy would run out of ammo soon.

“Where?”

“Anywhere. This is a truck, just go!”

The trucker didn’t hand over the gun, but he did start to drive. The truck lurched forward; Tim had to catch himself, but sore palms against a dashboard sure beat a sore face. The sound of metal grinding on metal was horrible, punctuated as it was with shattering glass, slowly they began to force their way down the off-ramp. But it was too slow. Soon, it halted.

“Ah, shit,” said the trucker. “Fuck it, man, we're getting nowhere.”

“No, keep driving. We just need to get downtown.” Tim pointed left. “Come on, we're almost there!”

“Look at it, brother! There’s just as many cars. More. And the road's smaller. We’re stuck.”

“So what do we do, huh? Stay in here and drink beers? I’m getting out.”

The trucker put his hand on Tim’s shoulder, which Tim found touching. “Come on, man. Look at those people out there.”

And there were more, many more, wandering the streets of Worcester, aka Boston’s sloppy but scrappy, less-successful little brother everybody loved to make fun of but that was only because they didn’t know about it. The weren’t born here. They didn’t realize that the smiling polar bear was just the tip of the iceberg. There was so much more to this city, this quirky, gritty city, and it didn’t deserve to be the butt of so many jokes, or overrun by what could only be called religious zealots.

“The hell are these people on about anyway?” Tim asked. “Is this really the Second Coming?”

“Second coming of ass,” the trucker said. It was then Tim noticed the crucifix hanging from the spot where a rear view mirror would be in a normal car.

“You seem like more of an expert than me,” said Tim. “Anyway, brother, I’m out. You sure you don't want to come with me?”

The trucker looked into the side-mirror and saw the followers of Zetronius picking their way through the cars towards them. “Yeah, probably for the best. Name’s Jeremy. Jeremy Boyd.” He pronounced it “Germy.”

“Tim.” Absurdly, they shook hands before Jeremy shut the truck and they got out and ran.

The only way that looked clear was to their right, running away from Main Street, which was for the best. It was tricky making their way through the cars up one of Worcester’s many hills, but they did their best to also look like true believers on the prowl for heretics. Where they were going, Tim couldn’t quite say. He wanted to travel south along the highway, so that would require going the other way, but he knew there was another onramp a few miles up. It was always weird walking roads one was used to driving.

For the first time since the face had appeared, Tim realized he hadn’t thought about his special that would not happen. Great comedic timing, the universe had. It mirrored his own. But this was proof of unselfishness, of personal growth, right? Isn't that what the retarded therapist he and Jane had been seeing called it?

The streetlights came on, providing moth-filled pools of illumination in the gloom. Soon Tim and Jeremy had gone as far as they could go, their way forward blocked by a mass of people looking at something hidden to by the mass of their bodies.

A sense of dread gripped Tim’s heart. He’d seen what that freak did to Darius Javid. He could only imagine what was going on now. Did they want to see? Intervene? Or just go a different way? Swept up as they were in the stream of cultists traveling their way, Tim thought it best to keep playing along, all the better to stay alive. He nodded at Jeremy who nodded back, and they made their way to the gathering.

It was worse up close. Slightly taller than average, Tim only need to push through a few layers of the crowd to see what was going on if he stood on his tiptoes. Two young-ish women of a relatively affluent bent, based on their clothing, were tearing a man apart with what looked to be a hammer and a crowbar while men held each of his limbs. One woman smashed a knee with a hammer, eliciting a howl of pain. The woman with the crowbar had already pulled out several teeth from a mouth set in a bloody pulp of a face, hamburger with eyes. She extracted a few more and flung them into the crowd like guitar picks at a rock show before sticking the business end of the crowbar into his nostrils. The crowd watched silently but gave off waves of something it took Tim a minute to pinpoint. Not malice, but hunger.

That was enough for Tim. He wrestled the gun out of a stunned Jeremy’s hand, pushed through the crowd until he was so close to the woman with the crowbar that only a total dipshit could miss, aimed, and blew her face through the back of her head.

Yeah, so there goes their cover. There goes another body to Tim Novacek’s Great Big List of Bad Deeds. Maybe he'd get torn apart now—fine. Better him than that other poor sap, which is a thought Tim never thought he’d have in his life. But such niceties like “self-preservation” had gone out the window. This was inhuman, monstrous, and if this Zetronius or whoever sent him wanted his followers to do this, well, into your hands I commend my spirit, right? But to the other guy. The one Tim didn't really believe it. It was complicated.

The silence, that abominable silence, broken only by this poor man’s cries of pain! Shouldn't these people do something, say something, react? Instead cow-like eyes in slack faces slowly turned to Tim until the bloodlust drained and they took on that same febrile cast. “Oh fuck,” he muttered to himself.

The crowd advanced. Only one thing left to do now, right? Slowly, he turned the gun on himself and put the muzzle to his head as the silent throng converged on him. “No!” Jeremy howled. “Don’t do it! Put it down!” But Tim wasn’t about to let himself get torn apart by these monsters any more than he was about to let that other guy.

That other guy . . . Tim had to put him out of his misery first. Let’s put another notch into the body count, why not? He took the gun from his temple and aimed at the other man’s head. What was worse, murder or suicide? I'll raise you a murder/suicide. Tim had to laugh at his own joke.

This was Tim’s mental state when the sound of helicopter blades drew everyone’s attention to the skies. This was a far more welcome sight than a giant face, but who was up there? It was hard to make much out in the deepening night, especially once the searchlight came on and started burning Tim's retinas.

“This is the National Guard! Remain where you are! Help is coming!”

None of the cultists heeded this; they turned tail and ran as though frightened by the whirlybird.

Only a few people, like Tim and Jeremy, stood with their eyes on the helicopter . . .

. . . although not all of Zetronius’s finest ran away. The lady with the hammer, for instance, which she smashed into the back of Tim’s head.

All sensation in his body was overcome by pain. His knees buckled and he hit the pavement, the next round of pain centered on his face. Nothing else existed save for the throbbing wound in his skull, in his brain, in his being. Murderer, meet death. Nothing funny about this one. Except he didn't lose consciousness, which was a blessing and a curse, because it turned out he really didn’t want to die, despite his sense of self-loathing that was so intense, so all-consuming, that it had driven him into a career in show biz. Truly, he was cursed above all men.

But more than anything, he really just wanted to see Jane again. Make it right with her.

He did lose consciousness then, maybe for a moment, maybe longer, because the next thing he knew, she was looking down at him.

“Jane?” he muttered. Fuck his head hurt.

But no, it wasn’t Jane. It was a woman that looked kind of like her, same reddish hair, same Cupid’s bow, same round face and same blue eyes. Except not the same. Now that his vision was coming back into focus, other than the hair color, she didn't really look like Jane at all. But she was a woman, which explained much of the confusion.

“He’s awake!” not-Jane said to someone behind her. “I’m not Jane. I’m Private first class Balducci but you can call me Jane if it makes you feel better. Sir, you’ve taken a terrible blow to the head.”

“So you noticed,” said Tim. He tried to raise himself up on one elbow, but Private Balducci held him back.

“I would advise you stay down until we get you to a medic,” she said.

“I need to get to my wife.”

“We all want to go home sir.”

“Tim. My name is Tim. Tim Novacek.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Private Balducci said.

“Nothing?” said Tim. “The name doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No sir.” Man, she was all-business.

“Is Jeremy up here?”

“You’re the only civilian aboard this vehicle. Others will be provided for.”

“Where are we going?”

“Hanscom.”

“Did you get the cunt with the crowbar? No, wait, I got the cunt with a crowbar.”

“We neutralized the harridan with the hammer, if that's what you mean.”

Tim laughed, which hurt, but he kept laughing. “I knew you had a sense of humor.”

“There's not much funny going on right now. Do you take anything seriously, sir?”

“No,” said Tim. He shut his eyes. “That’s the problem. You know, you sound just like my wife. Thing is, I’m a comedian.”

“But you’re not funny.”

He waved a hand. “Stop. I already said you sound just like my wife. Speaking of which, can you take me home?”

“We're taking you to Hanscom with the other survivors, after a quick scan for anyone else in need of medical attention.”

“What is going on, anyway, Private?”

She was silent for a few moments. Even though it hurt, Tim opened his eyes. Private Balducci was staring off into the distance, wrestling with how to answer Tim's more-than-reasonable inquiry.

God, she was young, too young to be carrying around a gun that big, certainly. “I don’t know,” she said at length.

“Anything . . . anything about someone or some thing named Zetronius?”

Another lengthy pause. “I felt . . . something try to force that name into my head, but I was able to push it out. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“Huh.” Tim had felt nothing of the sort. Maybe he was just lucky. “It’s a good thing—”

The chopper jerked. The pilot stood and walked away from the controls, turning towards Tim and Balducci. His face had the same look, that same mask of fervor as the others affected by the face in the sky. “Are you finally ready to make a sacrifice and partake in the holy mysteries?” he said.

“Get back to the controls, Stanley!” said Balducci. She stood and squared up against the pilot, holding on to the ceiling for balance. “What are you doing?”

His fist connected first with her stomach, then her jaw. She went down, then he did too as the helicopter began to fall. After all this, to die in a crash . . . life wasn’t fair but it sure was hilarious.

Nah, not today. Jane needed him. His boys needed him. And so did Private first class Balducci, with the pretty red hair and the great deadpan sense of humor. Adrenaline gave Tim the power to stand, to bum rush this Stanley fellow, and shove him up against the helicopter wall. Didn’t these things usually have open doors or whatever? Not like Tim really wanted to kill another man, but he also didn’t want to die.

Stanley put a hand on Tim’s face and pushed. Tim did likewise, using his other hand, the one still covered in blood and gore, to bash the man’s face as best he could. They were going down, down, but the movement felt a little bit different, a little bit more controlled.

“Hold on!” yelled Balducci. Tim darted a glance to his left and saw her in the pilot’s seat. She knew what she was doing, which was great.

Unfortunately, so did Stanley here. He was not only younger than Tim, but bigger and stronger. He pushed, and now Tim went flying back into a door, which of course decided at that moment to open. Maybe he’d activated some panel or lever as he struck the wall, or maybe his luck was just the worst of all time. Probably that.

But he managed to hold on to something on the interior and keep himself from falling.

But now came Stanley, his face wide-eyed and frozen in that ecstatic gaze. No matter what he did, Tim had to hold on, but he made no guarantee if Stanley did the logical thing and went for the balls.

He went for the balls. It hurt like a motherfucker, but Tim held on. Stanley reared for another kick, but the chopper landed none to gently and he fell right on his ass, giving Tim a chance to pounce and pin him down.

They struggled, but the struggle was ended as Balducci smashed the butt of her rifle into his face.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

Tim let Balducci help him up. “Just my balls,” said Tim. “And my pride. Which are kind of the same thing. Nice landing.”

“No, it really wasn’t.”

“You’re right, it sucked. Three out of ten. Back to flight school with you young lady. Fuck, I'm kidding. That was amazing. You saved our lives. My life. Again.”

“You only get one more,” she said. “Chopper’s a bit fucked but it'll fly.”

“I told you, I need to get home. Can you give me a lift to Connecticut?”

“No can do sir, I have my orders too. Hey! Hey, get back here!”

Tim walked out of the helicopter, his eyes on a different face in the sky. “No way. No fuckin' way.” He turned back to a thoroughly confused Balducci, “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

He pointed to the giant inflatable polar bear they’d landed next to. “Take me to the Polar building. Next to him.”

Balducci walked next to him and poked her head out of the chopper. “No, I can’t say that I did.”

“My pal. My good buddy here. Always has a smile and a wave for me when I drive into town. You know, this guy has a name. Orson. My oldest boy’s named Orson.”

“Fascinating.”

“My wife was so mad when she found out this big fella was named Orson too. She thought I named our son after a giant inflatable polar bear. Can you believe that?”

“Did you?”

“Of course I did. But I couldn’t tell her that.”

Finally, Balducci laughed, a quick snort, but it counted. “Sounds like a great marriage you’ve got there.”

“I was going to leave her, you know. Jane, my wife. Tonight. During my show. I’m filming a special at the Hanover. Or was. Figured I could work in some of my hurt, some of my pain, into the show. Make it raw. Real.” Tim shrugged. “That’s pretty ghoulish, isn’t it? Pretty fucked up.”

“It sure is. Now please, get back in the vehicle, Tim.”

He turned, halfway to Orson. “You called me Tim! Thank you, Private.”

“I’m serious. I need to get you out of here alive until we know what's going on.”

“I don’t know, Private. I kind of want to get home.” He saw a ladder leading down to a fire escape and then, eventually, the ground. “You can’t take me to Connecticut since your destination lay in another direction. Those are what we call ‘irreconcilable differences.’ Been thinking a lot about those lately. So I guess I’m hoofing it.”

“You got hit in the head real bad, Tim. Come on, let me take you to the base, make sure you’re okay. We’ll bring you back home as soon as we can. I promise.”

Tim noticed that, despite the intensity of her entreaty, she didn't try to stop him. “Are you married, Private?”

“No.”

“No kids?”

“I told you I’m not married.”

“So you’re a good girl too. I like that. Well, Private, when you’re married and when you have kids, you’ll understand why I have to go, terrible head wound and all.” For the first time, Tim realized his head was bandaged. He patted the white linen. “Thanks for this, by the way.”

“You’re not really going to walk,” she said.

“I will if I have to. But I figure l’ll look for a motorcycle or something. Hey, listen, before I go, I really want you to please look for a guy named Jeremy Boyd and tell him Tim Novacek says thanks. Tell him to find me online. I owe him tickets. If things, you know, ever go back to normal.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Also, I killed two people, but it was in self-defense, I swear to God.”

“There’s a lot of fucked-up shit going on today. I heard nothing.”

“That means a lot. Thank you. It's been a pleasure, Private first class Balducci. Godspeed.” He started his descent.

“You really are funny!” she called after him.

“Thanks!” Tim called back. “I’ll make sure you get free tickets too! Now, if it’s all the same, as much as I’ve enjoyed your company, if we’ve got to face the apocalypse, I want to face it with my wife.”

- Alexander

---

Thank you for reading this short story. If you would like to read more of my fiction, please check out my books on Amazon. You can also throw a few coins into the tip jar at Buy Me A Coffee. Thank you, and God bless.