The Last Tomorrow Read Online Free PDF Page B

roof, sits their car, a 1948
Chevrolet Fleetmaster. The driver’s-side door hangs open. Key’s probably still jutting from the ignition as well. It wouldn’t be the first time. Lucky the car wasn’t stolen
by some leather-jacketed hoodlum looking to joyride.
    Sometimes she could just—
    Her thought is cut off by the sight of something on the asphalt beside the car, something about the size of a man. Not only the size of a man but the shape. A man on his back with his head
tilted to the right, toward the parked car.
    Whatever it is, the sound of the approaching vehicle doesn’t cause it to stir. It simply lies there, still as a mountain.
    ‘Oh my God,’ she says.
    ‘Maybe he’s just passed out.’
    Candice doesn’t respond. As the car slows down she pushes open the door and steps out into the chill April air. She walks toward the sedan, moonlight reflecting off the chrome grille.
Looks down at the man lying on the asphalt beside it. Looks at his left hand. The fingers are curled and dirt is crusted under the nails, black crescents lining the tip of each one. She looks at
his face, looks into his eyes. He doesn’t look back. He’s incapable of looking back. He’s incapable of anything. The left side of his face is covered in blood. There’s a
black dot like a wormhole in his temple. A five-pointed star carved into his forehead. The gashes deep and red, white bone visible beneath them.
    She steps back. She puts her hands over her mouth. Her face feels numb. Her legs feel numb. She can’t feel her legs at all, and no wonder, they must have disappeared, they must have simply
vanished out from under her, because now she’s sitting on the cold asphalt in the middle of the street, and the only way that could have happened is if her legs vanished. A second ago they
were holding her up.
    Why is Neil outside? Why is Neil lying in the street? That’s such a silly, stupid thing for him to be doing.
    ‘Neil,’ she says, ‘we have to go inside. It’s late.’
    2
    Sandy stands looking through the dirty glass of his bedroom window. He watches his mother push her way out the passenger’s-side door of Vivian’s car. He watches her
walk toward the place where Neil lies. He watches her face contort. Watches the eyes go glossy, and the mouth open and close, open and close, like a goldfish that’s just been fed. He watches
her put her hands to her mouth and collapse to the asphalt. Under normal circumstances it would make him sad to see his mother in such a state – he loves her and doesn’t like to see her
hurt – but right now all he can think about is getting caught. And getting locked up.
    He tried to make it look like his stepfather was murdered by a serial killer. He read a story about a serial killer not too long ago and tried to make it look like that, like one of those
killings, and if he did, if he was successful, maybe he won’t get caught. But he isn’t sure. He did it in a panic. He didn’t think about how to cover up his crime until it was
committed, and he might have done a poor job of it. All he knows is he did the best he could. In a panic, his mind spinning, his heart racing, he did the best he could. If he’d planned
he’d have done better, but he didn’t plan. He didn’t really believe he was going to do it. Even while he did it he didn’t really believe it was happening. It was as if the
part of his brain that could tell fantasy from reality went black in those moments, just turned off completely. I’m tired, good night. If he’d believed it was real he would have
planned.
    But right after the second shot, the shot that sent his stepfather slumping to the floor in a strange motion that seemed somehow deliberate, as if he’d simply decided to lean forward and
rest on his head with his behind in the air, reality came back to Sandy and he panicked. He paced the floor. He prayed to God to let him take it back. He promised he’d never hurt anyone ever
again if only God would