The Last Song

Static crackled from an old dusty radio. It whistled and whined briefly, then a female voice could be heard - “refugees escaping the blockade of Paris…” static again. *Click* the radio cut out. He thumped it, releasing a plume of yellow dust. The ancient armoire below it creaked in protest.

He caressed the old device and twisted the volume dial. A few more whistles and static, then “...controlled incineration of the countryside…” it died again.

The air smells burnt, the very essence of it scraped and grated against the skin, seeking to erode, to bring all back to dust.

A group of men were approaching in the distance. Their clothes contrasted sharply against the pale city skyline. How many? Three, four - six? Their footsteps fell against the background of sirens, dull bangs, and the sputtering static from the radio. He imagined the skyline, the Empire State was his favourite building. Not the tallest anymore, but it has style, he thought.

The footsteps stopped. The men were upon him. Their leader stepped forward, sporting a fetching industrial air respirator. His blue hair stood up unnaturally, held by wax or gel, no doubt. The others weren’t given the honor, their hair lay flat upon their heads. That’s how everyone knew who the leader was.

“Lucy?” he said in a hoarse voice, “is your name actually Lucy?” he glanced back at his cronies and snickered. The old man gazed up, a little too high and off to the right, his milky eyes equally insensitive to all around him. Stubbly lower lip agape and quivering.

“Hey, what kind’a name is that for an old man? Huh?” someone from behind piped in. Snickering and chortling broke out. One of them took too long to quiet down, he must have lung disease.

“Quiet back there,” the leader barked. “You need to come back to the shelter, it’s time,” he said.

The old man coughed violently. A wet, rolling, almost bark-like sound. He wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve, and smiled. “It’s a nickname,” he said.

“A nickname,” the leader chuckled, “did you hear me?” he said, “we need to go, get on your feet!”

“Old nickname from my father, I was his favourite you know.”

“Good for you, now get up and let’s move!”

“He loves everyone, my father, but he loved me most,” the old man paused and gazed at the men with his milky eyes “once, long ago…”

“Jesus Christ,” the leader said. “Hey, Bobby, Charlie, can you come and get him?”

“Until you lot came,” Lucy growled, a fire blazed in his pale eyes. The two men recoiled and stopped dead in their tracks.

“What are you waiting for? Get the old bastard, we don’t have time!”

“Choices, choices,” the old man whispered, “I wanted to make choices too!” His cracked old lips split into what should have been a smile, uneven tinged teeth sparsely populated the dark cavity.

“But choices are only for men, Lucy!” he mocked, and then cackled.

The men raised their arms to their faces. The leader took a step back too. “Damn man!”, and “what the hell is that smell?” came from behind.

Lucy took out an old locket. It hung upon a grotesque chain of shriveled flesh which disappeared into his shirt. He patted it lovingly with two fingers, tracing it’s heart shaped outline.

“What’s that in his hand?” Bobby asked.

“I don’t know, go and bloody grab him, Jesus!”

“Looks like gold, maybe we keep it, eh boss?”

“Figure it out later - hey, Charlie, what are you doing over there, go get the old man!”

“But boss!”

“Cover your damn face, Jesus, how many times do I need to order you! Do it now!” he barked.

The radio whistled and bristled with static, “- thirtieth anniversary of the first contamination event, vast swaths of the Midwest remain inaccessible due to radiation - “ the female voice said. More static, then it cut out again.

The old man tapped it with his hand. Nothing. He sighed, and his attention returned to the locket.

“Hey, get up before my boys have to drag you,” the leader barked, Lucy ignored him. The leader glanced at the locket - it did seem shiny and golden, valuable. What did the old man need it for? “Hey, I’m talking to you!” he bellowed, “you old rotting stump...” the leader muttered.

He stepped forward and nudged the old man with his boot. Lucy’s knee gave out and he slumped down, frantically clawing for support. He landed on an old chair, but the rotting wood of its legs was no match for the old man’s mass. Man and furniture tumbled in a dusty heap. Laughter exploded.

“Hey Boss’ I think him’s blind or somethin - look at those weird eyes!”

“Hey, you blind, Lucy?” the leader nudged him once more with a dirty black boot. He’ll take the locket for himself once they brought the old fool back to the shelter.

Lucy chuckled, a hoarse, sputtering sound which grew in intensity, then cut off abruptly. He rolled over to his back, the grey rags he used as clothes stuck to him like a second skin. Stained and dirtied in places. He graced them with a loving smile, befitting one who finally met long expected guests.

All but the blue haired leader took a step back. You can’t help it, can you? Lucy thought, “come, sing for me”, he whispered to them.

“What are you smiling at?” their leader cried, fists clenched, arms tense.

A siren blew in the distance, it was getting late. Lucy’s gnarled fingers dug into the ground, the old man pushed himself onto one arm.

“Ave Maria,” he sang softly, holding the last note for a beat, closed his milky eyes then continued “gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena -” his song was cut off by a furious fit of coughing from a kick to the stomach. Lucy spat blood, his smile remained. “Maria,” he sang again, repeating his earlier performance, “gratia plena.” He stopped then, all sound stopped for a period of ten heartbeats. Fists tightened, boots dug into the dry dirt. Then, louder, he continued “Ave, ave dominus, dominus tecum - “

“Shut Up! Shut the hell up!” the leader yelled. He prepared a kick, but hesitated.

“You like my singing?” Lucy asked. “Music comes from the soul, you see. it is the soul - oh how I wish to hear yours, to feel it, to taste it…” the old man finished, sightless eyes wistfully gazing towards a desolate sky, enraptured smile plastered on his bloody lips.

The leader furrowed his eyebrows. He took a step back, a knife flashed in his hand. One of those shiny butterfly knives. His crew stepped closer behind him, ready with more weapons.

“A choir!” Lucy exclaimed, “divine melody, father’s gift, oh how we shall sing!”

“Shut up!” the leader yelled. His hands shook, rattling the knife.

Lucy held up the locket, its fleshy chain strained and green liquid dripped from the cracks. He kissed it, leaving a bloody smear on the golden surface. “Oh look now, you’ve made me soil it!” he roared, eyes filled with rage, their milky surface ablaze once more. Lucy turned away and wiped the metal with his rags. He twisted it in front of himself. “Clean and beautiful,” he cooed.

“See, father,” he whispered to the locket. “See, I’m not doing - I’m being good, as I promised.” The gang stood frozen. Some second guessed their courage. “I wish only to hear their song, which you had given them - if only, if I could still…” he paused. “They misbehave, you see? It isn’t my fault, they choose it, as you wished of them. yes? They made me soil your beautiful gift...” he started crying.

“What the hell?” one of the guys whispered. Their nerves shook, demanding a decision.

Static, whistling, then the female voice returned to the radio “- specimens from the contaminated zone displayed severe and unexpected mutations…” the radio died.

“It isn’t fair, father.” Lucy continued between sobs. “I’ll make them sing, I’m famished, I’ll have them sing, I’ll have them hear it!”

The leader’s chest rose faster. His breathing accelerated. The decision he held for them all was finally made, and his lackeys took heart from the relief. No more dawdling and thinking, a purpose was given, an aim, a path for them all to follow.

“Hey, what kind of a name is Lucy for an old man?!” he yelled. “Why - what kind,” he said. Audible breaths escaping his respirator. “Give me that damned locket!”

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good…after this time, just one last taste of their sweet song, I wish to feel your love, l need it...”

“Shhh...Shut up!” Spittle flew out but only hit the man’s respirator.

Lucy curled into a ball, locket in hand. “Ave Maria, Gratia plena…” he held the last note once more. A silence. Hearts beating in unified fervor.

They descended upon him. The old man’s blood splattered each of the men. They didn’t stop until their job was well and truly done, purpose fulfilled, their leader’s ambitions satiated. Lucy’s broken corpse lay before them.

“Ave Maria…” the leader then heard. He glanced at the grotesque mess by his feet. “Gratia plena…” the song continued. He threw down the knife, blade shiny and unsoiled. Wisps of green vapor swirled about his feet and clawed at his legs. It rose and twisted around him, it reached for all of them. It consumed the fabric of their jeans, and grated against their bare skin.

“What in God’s name…” he whispered, eyes darting all around him - the song continued. A beautiful male voice, deep from within his own mind, deeper even than that.

Thick green plumes rose from Lucy’s broken body. They billowed and twisted, and spread out with countless tendrils. The old man was nearly gone, his flesh and bones consumed and transformed.

“Maria, gratia plena…” the leader beat his ears with bloodied fists, and through the pain and ringing the song came clear and ever louder. He fell to the ground, the vapour pouring into him, eroding his flesh and thoughts until the song alone remained. “One last taste, father, I promise…” Lucy’s voice whispered.

Then Silence.