Summary: By George R. Galuschak Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared on Strange Horizons All stories by George R. Galuschak All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 15 and up for language Counting Cracks By George R. Galuschak Four of us, jammed into my sister’s Ford Festiva, going to kill the monster. Sylvia drives. The Hum has left her untouched, so she’s the only one left in town who can drive. My sister licks the palm of her hand, touches it to her nose and bumps her forehead against the steering wheel. Then she does it again. “Today would be nice, sis.” I say. I’m in the back seat with June, a twelve-year old girl clutching a teddy bear to her chest. “I’m going as fast as I can,” she tells me. “It’s bad today.” “The Shop-Rite has three hundred and fifty-seven ceiling tiles,” Michael tells me. He’s a little kid, nine years old, sitting up front with Sylvia. “I counted them.” “Inpatient oranges creep handsome banisters,” June says, rolling her eyes. “Good for you,” I say. My left leg hurts, which I guess is a good sign. My left arm feels like dead weight except for the tips of my fingers, which are tingly. “Do you count tiles, Mr. Bruschi?” Michael asks. “No. I counted cracks on the sidewalk. When I was a kid.” A sparrow collides with the windshield. It bounces off and skitters to the pavement, where it thrashes. I haven’t seen a living bird in days. It must have flown into the Hum. “Swill,” June says, pointing at the bird. “Maraschino cherries. Skittles. Cocktail weenies.” “All right. I’m ready.” Sylvia twists the key, and the car starts. We back out of the driveway. “The streets are so empty,” she says. “That’s because everyone is dead,” Michael tells her. “They listened to the Hum and went into their houses and pulled the covers over their heads and died. I had a hamster that died, once. It got real old, so it made a little nest, and then it laid down in it and died.” “We’re not dead,” I say. “Not yet,” Michael corrects me. “Give it time.” # It started a week ago. Tuesday morning, hot day, storm clouds gathering like bad thoughts. I walked out to my car. I was going to work, the way normal people do. I’m not normal, but I’ve gotten good at pretending. I saw a robin fluttering its wings on the sidewalk. At first I thought its back was broken, but when I came closer it squawked and ran onto the lawn. It gave a little hop, flapping its wings, and then hopped again. I put my hands to my temples. My head hurt. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and I could feel the beginnings of a migraine forming. I looked at the robin, hopping and flapping its wings on my lawn. It didn’t look injured; it looked like it had forgotten how to fly. I shrugged and walked away. The bird’s behavior was strange, but I needed to get to work. So I went. When I drove home that evening the sidewalks and streets were covered with birds, all squawking and flapping their wings. The bird story made the nightly news. The newswoman stood in Buehler Park surrounded by a flock of distressed pigeons. She talked too loud and stumbled over her words. Her voice sounded a bit slurred, like she was drunk. “Put something else on,” my wife said. We were eating dinner in front of the TV, the way we did when things were good between us. “All right.” I shrugged and switched the channel. We watched a movie, and I forgot all about the birds. The next morning my wife went blind. # We pull into Shop-Rite’s parking lot. Normally it’s jam-packed. They average three fender-benders a week, because the designers of the lot made the lanes too small, the spaces too tight. But today we drive right in. “This is far enough[...]
