There are so many cars out front and all around. Has something happened to Mother? Where is she? In her room? Can I go right on up?

Does anyone have change? Can someone loan me twenty dollars for the taxi? I have only credit cards, and he won't take them. Oh, thank you Roger. You're a dear.

I would have gotten here sooner, but you wouldn't believe how it's been at the office. I have so many responsibilities, and there were so many people out sick when you called, Aunt Frances. You all know how it is. I know I should have come sooner, but I just couldn't get away. Too many people depend on me.

​Well, yes, I know, Jordan. I ought to have come to check on Mother oftener, but there just never seemed to be the time. And of course you were all here. I never doubted she was in good hands. Great doctors and dozens of relatives nearby, and me in the city, so far away.

I loved her. You all know that. I sent presents for Christmas, her birthday, on Mother's Day. We talked, sometimes, by phone. I know I should have called more often, I suppose; but she seemed content the way things are between us.

But this is silly. I want to go up and see her now. I want to talk with her, and tell her how I missed her. Or is she conscious? She must have taken another turn for the worse; when I talked with you yesterday, Anna, you said she was in serious condition, but holding her own. She wasn't in the hospital, and still isn't, if she is here.

Let me through, all of you. Stand aside, please. Let me go up and see Mother. There is so much I want to tell her. Get out of my way!

Don't you dare say that. Stop whispering and muttering behind my back. What are you doing? What are you saying? An hour late? An hour late for what?

No! Get away from me. You shan't hold me back. I don't want any of that damned brandy. Just leave me alone. Let me go upstairs. I just want to see my mother, and tell her how much I love her, and how that I am going to stay with her until I have found a way to make her all better--!

Kniver stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it and took several nervous puffs. "You sure it's the 12:42?"


Broley bit his lower lip and scowled at his partner. "Yeah, yeah. That's what Big George said. Here's the phone. You want to call him, maybe wake him up, and ask him yourself?"


"Naw, naw, I wouldn't do that. I believe you. Only, we haven't seen him get off yet, and just about everyone's out of the train."


"Well, come on, let's go around over there and get a good look. We don't want to mess this up. Big George would mess us up, if we did."

The two hustled from post to post, jostled by all the passengers coming from the train. They peered anxiously into the long, wide windows, but could see no one else in any of the passenger cars.

"He must have not come,"Kniver said, patting his shoulder holster. "Either that, or he got off earlier. I don't see him in there. What're we gonna do?"

"Not much we can do if he's not on the train. Big George can't blame us if the guy is a no show."

They came to the end of the train. Their man just wasn't there. Big George wasn't going to like this. He wasn't going to like it at all. He'd find a way to blame them, even if it wasn't their fault!

Suddenly a short, thin man in a sporty suit jumped from the open doorway of the last car, grinning from ear to ear. "You two dopes waiting for me? You're dressed like porters, but I haven't seen you handle a single piece of luggage. Big George must be hiring total idiots these days."

​A snub-nosed .38 equipped with a silencer appeared as if by magic in the man's hand. Two all but silent pffts of sound from the weapon, and Kniver and Broley fell to the ground. The short man quickly pocketed his gun, then joined the other passengers who were making their way toward the waiting line of cabs.

There it is, still setting where he last used it, on his desk. No one's been in to clean up yet, not since he died. The police were here, going over everything, wearing white gloves, dusting all the furniture, even the cup. Of course they tested the cup, or whatever it is they do with items at a death scene. They didn't call it a murder investigation, because there was nothing to make them believe it was murder. Tom, they concluded, just had a heart attack and slumped forward across his desk. Dead of natural causes.

I should get the insurance money in a week or so, the insurance man said. I'll be happy. Then Randal and I can go away, like we planned a long time ago. South America, I think, although we haven't made the final decision. With ten million dollars we can go just about anyplace we chose.

They said I could go ahead and clean the room now. Or have it cleaned, which I am going to do. I'll have the whole house cleaned, then we'll lock it up till we get back from our trip. The only thing I want is the cup. To carry with me. The poison Randal found was a really good one. We put a few drops around the rim of the cup before I carried it up to Tom that morning. After a few minutes, it evaporated and was undetectable. Undetectable in his system, too.

​Yes, I'm going to take this cup with me wherever I go. For sentimental reasons.

She sat at the old piano in Flattery's Place, her fingers resting lightly on the ivories. I walked up, lit a cigarette and smiled. "Play my song, Pam."

She looked up and grinned. Two of her front teeth were missing, but she had a beautiful face. My suit was shabby and thirty years old. Who was I to find fault? She played one mean piano, and I really appreciated her talent, and that's what mattered.

She began plunking the keys, and I hummed along. I stood swaying beside the rickety old piano; she rocked back and forth to the tune. Man oh man, I was in heaven.

When she finished, I plunked my last five bucks on the keyboard, and she snapped it up. "That's kind of pretty," she said. "But you know, I can never remember the name of that song."

​"Me neither," I said. "But I sure do like it. Play it again, Pam."

In his attempts to rest his eyes, he soon became distracted by the gentle susurrus of her breath as she slept beside him. Each breath became more shallow as she began to stir; she never did sleep well – especially these days. The news of her mother tainted mundane everyday things; her smile had faded, focus and concentration reduced, emotions bleaker and deepened disruption as she attempted to sleep. He held her hand as he moved closer to her and kissed her shoulder gently, she stopped moving and settled.

It was as though the seasons lost track of time, we hoped for a nice summer, yet May came and went with rain and snow, with the odd teasing of sun once or twice. Perhaps this pathetic fallacy was intentional for her, perhaps it gave her comfort – that something, or someone, also felt this pain as much as she did. Although, she tried to say she felt nothing – neutral, not warm or cold, sad or happy, just minimal reactions to further news. It couldn’t get much worse, she explained: either the end will come or not, until then – there is nothing.

He prayed for her.

He never considered himself much of a religious man, but he did have faith. As did she, despite not having worn a cross in years. Whilst his faith had potential to be misguided, his heart was always in the right place. He wanted the best for her; for her sorrows to be lifted. He prayed for her.

He did wonder, if his prayers reached someone. He wondered if they fell onto deaf ears as he never received a response – she, too, didn’t seem to change, her moods remained stable. He just wanted her to smile again. Perhaps his words became caught in the wind? Perhaps his words were lost in the music that the wind carried throughout the towns and cities. Distorted by the radio waves? Warped by the muffled sirens tearing the silence late at night?
​
He did also wonder… what if no one was listening?

Parchy and I woke up about the same time. It was warm and oppressive and earlier we'd been drinking some really potent stuff, so we went outside and squatted on the doorstep to get some fresh air. You know how you sometimes sense there's something really heavy coming down, but you can't figure out what? That's how I felt.

"Wish I had an airline ticket," Parchy said. "I'd take off for parts unknown, and don't know as I'd ever come back. I got a bad feeling."

"About what?"

He looked up and the sky was growing darker though it was only three-thirty or so, and he said, "I don't know what. But something. Can't you feel it?"

I surely could.

A middle-aged couple came by, and they were looking up, too, and all quiet. You could just tell they felt something was going to happen. A few cars came along, but they were going super slow, and that looked strange, compared to the way people usually drove.

I lit a cigarette, even though I was trying to stop, and I puffed and I puffed, till that calmed me down some. But Parchy jumped up and began walking to and fro in front of me. He muttered something about "It's getting closer." I threw away my half-finished cigarette and said, "What's getting closer? If you got any idea what's going on, spit it out!"

He pointed up, and there it was. The sky was turning a skuzzy looking grey; looked like a ten year old blanket that had been on a flophouse bed and never washed.

The cloud, or whatever it was, settled over the streets. It was like being in a cold, clammy, really smelly fog; one that had been blown across an endless desert of dead, rotting fish. Made me want to throw up. And it was so dense you could hold your arm straight out but couldn't see past your elbow.

It was that way for quite a while. Parchy stumbled over and put his arms around me, trembling with fear. Then he said, "I think we're gonna be all right, Natty. Not the others, though."

He was right. Not long ago the dirty fog lifted, the fresh air came back, but everything had a lifeless feeling. We looked around and we saw people lying on the sidewalks, and in cars, even hanging out windows. And everywhere was covered with dead birds, animals, insects--anything and everything that used to be alive.

"We could look," Parchy said. "But I'll bet we wouldn't find another living person in the whole world."

I think he's right. We're it. We're the last. We're the Inheritors. the whole wide world and everything in it is ours for the taking.

​But what the hell are we going to do with it?

Bobby has cheated here – this total story is over 500 words. We'll let him off this time.

Part I

Damn, I hate it out here. Hot and dry in the daytime; colder than a block of ice at night. But I guess it won't be long before Mitch and I say adios to this lovely hellhole on Earth.
We kneel in the sandy ground and I am watching a sliver of pink-red slash across the horizon; the last dying glow of day. Nine o'clock is the magic hour, or so said the old man up in the mountains when he said we have to go. We killed his old lady and his grown son, so I guess he had the right. We didn't know it was his land; he showed us the paper afterwards. It was deeded to him in 1879, all legal like, by the good old U. S. Government. And we didn't know we were digging up his ancestors; we thought we were just doing survey work for the new rail spur. The old woman and her son attacked us with an axe and an old Army saber. We had to shoot them, or they would have killed us for sure.

A few minutes later the old man came upon us from the rear and stuck a rifle in my back.
Gave us a parting drink, the old fellow did. With hate in his eyes and a knowing grin. The stuff tasted like melted shoe polish, and it did something to us, inside, and in our heads. But we had to drink it. He pointed his rifle at our crotches and said, "Drink all or I take your manhood." We drank. Then he sent us on our way, on foot, telling us what we had to do come sunset, and after. We couldn't help but obey him.


Part II
​
Now it's cooling off a bit. We've turned the pointed edges of the knives he gave us inward, toward our naked bellies.

"Can you fight off the urge to do this?" I asked Mitch, who knelt facing me.

"Don't think I'm not trying. But no can do."

"Me, either."

"It's the drink he gave us that's making us do this," Mitch said. "That and the old man's curse. I'm scared, Jack. Never thought I'd be afraid of dying when the time came. But I am. Oh God, oh Jesus, I am so afraid I can't stand it."

******************************************************************************

The slashing pink-red glow of day winks out, and the darkness falls. We look up at the cold, frozen faces of the stars, and shiver. We can almost hear the old man's voice again:

"When the hawk flies over, you will fall forward onto the knives."

There it is, up against the stars. The hawk is coming; it must be near nine o'clock.
Mitch is crying, sobbing, begging for help, saying his mother's name. So am I. I'm struggling against the damn knife, but my hands, my arms are rigid and refuse to obey. I don't so much fear dying; it's the fear of knowing that I am going to die in the next moment or two that scares hell out of me . . .
The hawk is soaring downward, falling toward the earth. And now Mitch and I are falling too, toward the knives . . .

Our first year anniversary was fast approaching. I had the idea that possibly Glen was ready to move to the next step in our relationship. Yes, I was fairly certain he was right for me. He was gentle, kind, handsome, well-established, and came from an old moneyed family. I was hoping that a marriage proposal was imminent. I decided that I would buy a pretty piece of lingerie to please my man and hopefully jolt him into the next phase.

The next morning, a Saturday, I told Glen that we were going to the nearby shopping mall, the Harbour. Decked in my Jimmy Choo pumps, my hair beautifully washed, conditioned and flat ironed, and my nails newly manicured with the latest gel, we were off to the mall.

‘Sweetie I’m going to La Sexy. Please go and sit at the coffee shop over there. I will ask the attendant to call you when I am ready.’ Glen meekly did as he was told.

I worked my way quickly through the racks of designer lingerie. Lace, silk, velvet - I piled my arms high with erotically textured garments, and made my way sexily towards the changing cubicles. Once inside I began to furiously try on one item after another, flinging the ensembles haphazardly to the floor in my quest to find the piece that would enchant and please my lover. Finally I decided on a slinky Victoria’s Secret number in black lycra and sequins that hugged my contours and praised my curves. ‘This will make Glen want me, desire me and ask me to be his wife,’ I thought.

In a high, querulous voice I called the attendant, ‘Can you please call my boyfriend, he is sitting over there in the coffee shop. He is wearing a black leather jacket’.

While waiting, I quickly reapplied my glossy lipstick and sprayed myself with the perfume wand that I always carried in my bag. I leaned alluringly by the door as I heard footsteps.

‘Hello darling what do you think of this?’ I called. The next minute the door opened and to my shame and embarrassment, I looked straight into the horrified eyes of an extremely obese man with a bulbous nose, a perfect stranger in a black leather jacket. This was not my Glenny. The silly attendant had called the wrong man.
​
‘Uh nice choice’, the man muttered, his face a deep shade of pink as he slunk away.