Bearded men rolled up in trucks loaded with heavy black metal and formed human chains in parking lots—passing armfuls of rifles from one man to another—to what end?—the trucks so heavy they bottomed out on uneven roads. In Indianapolis, a Ford Fiesta loaded with more than fifty thousand bullets caught fire in a crosswalk. The police evacuated a thirty-block radius, as round after round fired in every direction, pockmarking the buildings and shattering glass. A janitor in a law firm was killed four streets to the south, the windows of a middle school shot out in a cascade of .44-caliber munitions, children diving to the ground screaming in terror.
The next day the number of suicides in America exceeded the number of deaths from every other cause. Cemetery signs began appearing outside apartment buildings. It started in Phoenix but soon became a global phenomenon. Always the same words—Lost Souls Cemetery—mounted with brass fasteners on the brick or concrete or wood, as if to say the ten-or thirty-or eighty-story buildings were just a series of drawers in a morgue, as if to say the residents inside were already dead.
In Mumbai, the temperature reached 132 degrees. Coastal residents in Coral Gables, Florida, woke to find the ocean at their doors. Not yet, they thought, but the truth could no longer be denied. The future we dreaded was already here.
Simon
He wakes alone. Hours have passed. It’s day going on dusk. Simon’s head is throbbing. He hears the sound of engines cycling down. His body is at rest, but he is moving. Darkness pulls him under.
An hour later he wakes again. He is sitting in a soft leather recliner in the cabin of a private jet. A jet he recognizes. Warm running lights and cherry inlays. It smells of Palo Santo and perfume. His mother’s perfume. He looks out the window. The jet is parked on a runway in the bright sun. The cockpit is empty.
He hears his father’s voice behind him.
“Freud called the baby his majesty, the baby.”
Simon turns slowly. His father, Ty Oliver, is sitting across the table from him. His white collar is stiff and open under a gray suit jacket. Every follicle on his face seems to have been shaved individually. His teeth are so white they look new.
“If I said I was disappointed,” he says, “would you care?”
“Yes,” says Simon.
His father thinks about that. “I’ll say it again, God help me, but what exactly is the problem? You have everything a boy could need. You are loved. You are insulated. You literally cannot fail.”
“Why me?”
His father forms a sour-milk frown. “Because sometimes you get lucky, kid. And you got lucky. You’re my son.”
“Was Claire lucky?”
“Claire was stupid. And I know it’s hard to hear, but you’re fifteen now. It’s time for hard truth. Yes, Claire was lucky. She could have been anything, but she chose sabotage instead. This is how it is with some people—you can remove every obstacle to happiness and they’re still miserable. Do you know what that makes them? Miserable people. And those people you should run from.”
The surge of anger that Simon feels brings him the rest of the way back to consciousness.
“I’m not stupid,” he says. “You’re stupid. You think things matter that don’t matter. Money. Power. Owning shit. Don’t you get it? We’re all gonna die, and you’re focused on the wrong things.”
His father sighs. “That’s not a conversation we’re going to have. About abstraction. About what the world could be if people were different. You are a fifteen-year-old boy with top grades and a brilliant mind and you’re running around in the desert with a collection of burnouts and half-wits trying to play revolutionary. Well, congratulations. You had some fun. But playtime’s over. It’s time to get to work.”
“Don’t you get it?” Simon says. “It’s too much. The house is on fire and you’re still pouring yourself a drink.”
He rubs his face, too many thoughts in his head. Where is the Prophet? What happened to Louise and Duane? He worries that somewhere Javier is back in a cage.
“Enough,” his father says. “Grow up. Your mother and I have indulged this—you—long enough. Anxiety. Please. You think you’re the first generation to run around shouting the world is ending? The world is always ending. We had the atomic bomb when I was your age, the Soviet Union. Remember duck and cover? And then 9/11 and everything was jihad this and jihad that. You know what the common denominator is? Children. You’re all a bunch of hysterics.”