Free This is the Way the World Ends by James Morrow Page B

Humpty-Dumpty helmet. He negotiated the rubble methodically. Now and then he would kneel down, unzip a corpse’s suit, and study with scientific intensity the dead flesh beneath. Approaching, George recognized the survivor, who was examining the corpse of a child.
    ‘Tsk, tsk,’ the survivor muttered. ‘Tsk, tsk, tsk.’
    The attack had wrecked John Frostig’s good looks. Much of his nose was gone, and all of one ear. His brow was a swamp of blood and perspiration.
    ‘John?’
    ‘Afternoon, buddy-buddy.’ The blaze in John’s eyes, the cackle in his voice, would have made Theophilus Carter seem by comparison as rational as a grammarian. ‘Looks like we’ve got a failure-to-meet-specifications problem here, eh? Of course, with the fallout still trickling down, it’s too early to say how they’ll handle the cumulative doses, but obviously we should beef up thermal shielding and overpressure protection by at least twenty percent, at least twenty percent, wouldn’t you say? All these holes in the fabric – shoddy workmanship, plain and simple. Those jackasses in quality control are going to hear from me, you’d better believe it, they’re going to hear from John Frostig. They’re going to hear from Alice and Lance and Gary – shit, George, have you ever seen so many dead people? Gives me the berries, I don’t mind telling you. They’re going to hear from Gary, too. And Lance and Gary and . . . and—’ The scopas suit salesman, who had probably not wept since the doctor swatted his rump to prime his lungs, was weeping now, torrents of stored tears.
    George said, ‘Your showroom used to be around here, didn’t it?’
    ‘Fucking Cossacks!’
    ‘It’s amazing you aren’t dead.’
    ‘I was at the Lizard . . . a quick drink, that’s all, and a minute of talk with . . . a lady, nothing wrong with that, two minutes of talk, because my boy . . . Nickie – you just asked about him, didn’t you? – well, he’s off sledding at the Barlows with this nice old person we use for a baby-sitter, the Covington lady, though I can’t even find the Barlows, which is where my boy is, with Mrs Covington, who’s a good baby-sitter, we can definitely recommend her, so I’m sure he’s alive, I mean, the units can’t all have been defective, just the Palo Alto line, probably – the Osaka ones must be okay, especially Nickie’s, who was sledding at the Barlows – right? – broken suit or no.’ The salesman groaned, and a viscous mix of water and pink solids poured from his mouth. ‘The point is, I’m not having my company associated with a cheapjack product, people will lose faith. The customer is always right – you probably learned that at the tomb works, eh, buddy-buddy? If we don’t get a better performance out of these units next time, why, the whole industry will go down the toilet. What’s that gold thing?’
    ‘Scopas suit.’
    ‘Never saw a gold one before.’
    ‘It’s special. Custom-made.’
    ‘Kind of small.’
    ‘It’s for Holly – her Christmas present. She’s going to get this and a Mary Merlin doll.’
    ‘You’re mistaken,’ said John, who had drawn the Colt .45 from his utility belt and was now aiming it at George. ‘It’s for Nickie. He’s sledding with Mrs Covington. Damn good baby-sitter.’
    George vomited. ‘Forget it, John,’ he said, wiping his mouth.
    The pistol was ugly. It did not waver. Is this where the bomb had come from? No, too small. An airplane had brought it, or a missile. Was there any hope? Yes, there was, lying in the holster of Holly’s suit . . .
    ‘I’ll bet it doesn’t even work ,’ said the salesman. ‘It’s not an Eschatological.’
    George made a swift, calculated grab toward the utility belt. He heard a sound like a firecracker exploding.
    The bullet rammed through the left glove of Holly’s suit and entered his stomach, throwing him to the ground. The suit embraced him. He felt nauseated, terrified. A burning poker had spitted him,