Gemstone 03/29/2007 (Thursday) 18:23:07 #27532767

The Bible Belt is a region of thirteen states and a large portion of eight more (although the exact dimensions of it vary depending on who you ask). Composed of the majority of the southeastern United States, this region is known for Christianity's extreme presence, mainly right leaning and Protestant. I'm not sure about the exact numbers, but as there are 700 churches in Nashville alone, there are bound to be hundreds of thousands of churches throughout this region, and millions of people going to them. There are some exceptions though, and I'd like to talk about one that stuck out to me.

It wasn't too long ago that I learned about Piety, Tennessee. Thinking about it now, I'm not sure how I did, because there was barely any info about it online. I just heard offhand from my sister that a town in Tennessee was celebrating halloween for the first time, due to a large shift in the population from predominantly Christian to a separate, really vague religion. I looked it up later, and there were only a few articles about it. Starting a few months ago, a guy named Jude Vieux-Pont founded a temple somewhere in the city.

Membership grew slowly at first, but it was exponential, until about 24,000 out of the 30,000 people in the town joined the new temple. This left a bit over 4,000 people going to churches, and maybe 2,000 people going to neither. The numbers for the temple are still going up though. Harassment towards non-christians quickly dipped as this new religion became the majority.

What struck me as odd was the lack of details about this new religion. Naturally, you'd think it was just another well known religion, but it was so vague. They never said the name of it, and the title of the building was a temple, which is a very all encompassing term for religious buildings. I thought it had to be something familiar, like Islam or Judaism or Buddhism or Sikhism or something, but then why not just say it? Were these articles hiding something, or were they just reporting as a sort of "What do you know?" type article? I decided I would find out.

I took a road trip all the way down to Piety. I'm not really religious at all, but this was such an intriguing story that I had to check it out. I'd interview a few people on the streets, ask around the biggest Christian church still there, and then check out this new religion and learn from them. Did I expect this to really accomplish anything? No. Did I know that it was probably just something normal and there was nothing to it? Yes. Did I still want to try to get to the bottom of this, in case it was something? Yes.

Funnily enough, I arrived the day of Hallows Eve itself. So that was fun. As soon as I got there, I noticed all the churches. When I was doing my research, it said this place had about 40 churches, give or take. Standing tall, they looked as if they had been here for a hundred years or more. As I began driving through, I noticed something else. They were empty. There were many there, but they were all completely silent. Some had a few priests and other workers, some had a few people attending, but for so many large churches, they were just husks. This would be weird enough anywhere else, but in the big bible belt of the US? This was impossible.

There was also an abundance of halloween decorations. Most of the houses around were decorated to the max, with every possible halloween decoration you could think of, and shops selling halloween stuff were packed. This town was originally composed of a variety of christian sects, the majority of which were against celebrating holidays such as birthdays and halloween. Whatever this new religion was, it seemed way more relaxed when it came to celebrations, enough so that people who were originally in strict christian sects were free to celebrate and were interested in doing so.

I checked myself into the hotel, dropped off my stuff, and then left with my interviewing equipment. I went out and began asking the people on the streets what they had to say about it all. The few christians I talked with said that it was disheartening how everyone abandoned the church, and the more aggressive ones described it as satanic in nature.

The minority that still participated in neither was a bit more varied, as it included Atheists and religious minorities alike. They seemed as confused as I was about it, describing how vehemently non-religious or otherwise religious people so quickly and confidently joined this religion. A lot of their friends cited proof/evidence of a higher power that they were looking for in Atheism or that they allegedly lacked in previous religions. It wasn't just former christians converting, it was everyone.

Among them was a woman named Rachel, who told me about hate crimes and aggression between groups in Piety. For centuries, non-christians were often harassed for not being a part of the christian majority. Once the town mainly converted to this new religion, this harassment almost vanished completely. When the new religion was still small and young, a lot of Christians were very aggressive towards members, but retaliation from the Temple quickly led to the end of the attacks. Now, in a bible belt town of all places, Christianity is no longer the dominant religious group.

The main group of people I encountered were members of this new religion. Like the other groups said, these people claimed that this religion gave them irrefutable proof of god. Talking with these people, I was finally able to put a name to the religion: Ivhesionism. It sounded like a cult, but out of context any religion is a cult, so I suspended my disbelief.

The people said that Ivhesionism operates out of the Risen Kingdom Temple, which was originally the biggest church in Piety before being bought out by Jude Vieux-Pont's newfound donations. Due to the size of the temple and the number of people who believe in the faith, there are sermons held multiple times everyday. The temple had hour long sermons and the last started at 8 PM, so I set a reminder for 7.

One of these people, a man named Steve, told me I had to come to services that day. Jude Vieux-Pont had been talking about a special event regarding their religion falling on that day, and if I wanted to learn more, I wouldn't want to miss this. He looked pretty happy when I agreed. Might as well.

With the general interviews out of the way, I got some lunch, looked around Piety a bit, and then got ready to go to one of the remaining churches. Following the acquisition of the Risen Kingdom Church by Jude Vieux-Pont, the Peaceful Father Chapel became the go-to place for the remaining christians in the area. I was hoping to interview the pastor when he was free and see what he had to say about everything.

I showed up at the Chapel right as services were ending. Unlike most of the other churches I have seen in the area, this one still seemed kinda active. There were about 200 people still there, give or take. As I began walking in, I could see a staircase leading to a balcony with double the seating, which was almost completely devoid of churchgoers. I took a seat and waited as the normal visitors left, until I was free to talk with the priest. For simplicity, I'll refer to the priest as Cee and myself as Jay. I wrote out the interview and I'll post another comment with it in a sec.

Gemstone 03/29/2007 (Thursday) 18:27:46 #27532867

(removed some intro to keep it to important stuff)

Jay: Alright, so, Cee, I was hoping to ask you about, uh, Ivhesionism, I think it's called? I found out that a lot of people in this area switched from Christianity to some new religion, and as they were pretty vague, I came here to maybe learn something about it.

Cee: Right, them, yeah.

Jay: If you know anything about their leader, or what their religion is like, or why people are flocking to it, or anything, I'd love to hear about it.

Cee: I get that, it's human to be curious. Just wondering though, what exactly caught your interest about this?

Jay: Oh, I, uh…how to explain this…you could say I'm a kind of journalist, who generally investigates unexplained events? Christianity is such a monumental part of this region, and seeing so many people convert from it so quickly is attention-grabbing.

Cee: Ok, I think I get it. Back to your questions, though: I'm trying to remember when the religion started. I think it was a few months ago, around late June I think. Naturally, Jude was raised Christian in this area, but he also always seemed to, um, deviate from it, I guess. Jude was never really invested in the faith. The people in this area tried everything they could, myself included, to try to make him understand, but he wouldn't listen.

Cee: Like a lot of other younger people now, Jude, he was acting like we were attacking him. He grew further away from the religion the more we tried to help him. He began rejecting the gospel and acting coldly towards us.

Jay: Did anything happen to him, maybe? No offense, but I've heard a lot about harassment and hate towards non-christians and I was wondering if that put him off the religion.

Cee: We were not harassing him. Like I said, we wanted to show him the beauty of God's word, and like a lot of young people, he refused to listen.

Jay: Um…if you say so. Do you know if that might've led to the formation of Ivhesionism? Generally when someone identifies as non-religious, they aren't attracted to any form of religion, so I can't see why such a person would want to start their own.

Cee: I'm worried that it isn't as simple as Atheism. My theory is that he strayed so far past Christianity, past salvation, that he has turned to Satanism, and now he's spreading the word of Satan under the cover of a new religion.

Cee: I'm not quite sure how to describe it, but Jude and his temple have some type of demon in their possession.

Jay: Are you sure? Even for someone you disagree with, that's quite a bold claim.

Cee: I'm certain. As his temple grew, Jude began inviting influential figures from all over Piety to visit. As his biggest opponents are the churches here, and I manage this chapel, I was invited. This temple was already so busy, and yet he cleared it out just for us.

Jay: What happened?

Cee: There was some awkward small talk, and then he directed us to the pulpit. Right at the front of everything was this…I don't even know how to describe it. It was metal, and it was solid and liquid, and it was alive.

Jay: Wait, what? What do you mean? Like a robot or something?

Cee: No, not a robot. It wasn't electronic, it wasn't wired, there was no technology. It was just a pure mass of metal. And it was alive. It…it was about a cubic foot or two, and it solidified into any form and liquified at will. Jude asked me to touch it, and when I refused, he…

Cee: I don't know what he did but something came over me. My body began working against my will, and I touched the metal. Everything went dark, and I got the feeling that something was watching me.

Cee: I was tormented with visions of hell, with demons. I was praying, but nothing saved me from the visions. There was a big devil, made from the same metal as the one Jude had. It was the size of a mountain, and it towered above everything. Its eyes were like an angel, and I watched as it ruled this landscape with an iron fist.

Cee: At first it was just it and me, staring at each other. It kept changing in front of me. It was still pure metal, but it kept changing from liquid to solid, human-like to spider-like to snake-like to a great tidal wave of silver to a thousand other forms. Its eyes would disappear but I could tell it could still see me. It wrapped around me, talked to me, ripped me apart and put me back together.

Cee: It…it had great power over dark magic, which it used to morph the world at its will, like it morphed itself. The smaller demons, looking almost like humans, were massacred by this thing, and it took thousands of years and millions of demons for the large one to fall.

Cee: But it isn't dead. It's shattered, but it isn't dead. The millions of shards were still alive, still thinking, but solely dependent on others for help. Some were transported to other worlds, and at least one came to earth. And now it's here, in Piety, in Jude's hands. Now 80% of the town obeys it, and serves it, and the numbers are growing. The demon rules Piety, and we can't stop it. I still see it.

Gemstone 03/29/2007 (Thursday) 18:34:53 #27533174

Following my conversation with C, I went back to the hotel and relaxed for a bit. I got some dinner at a local diner, and then made my way to the temple a bit after. Even in the middle of a sermon, the entrance was already kinda crowded. People were waiting like me, outside, just for it to open an hour later. I watched the kids trick or treat throughout all of the houses and their spooky decorations as I waited for my chance to figure out what was going on with this temple.

The temple itself was intriguing. It looked damn old, maybe older than the other churches in Piety, but it also seemed recently changed. It had some old english and french influences in its architecture, and as Piety is a pretty old town, I was sure it was at least 200 years old. The woods were painted turquoise and purple, and the stones black and red. Stained glass windows that likely depicted biblical events were replaced with murals of odd creatures and alien plants. Most of all, there was art of large, yellow eyes.

I didn't waste my spot in the temple, so I just stayed on my phone and earbuds for a bit until the doors opened. I entered alongside the religious crowds, and I just looked around in awe. The thing had three balconies, and the whole thing was about 50 feet tall. The Peaceful Father Chapel was so big, and yet it paled in comparison to this. The same construction choices made on the outside were on the inside too, the majority of surfaces being repainted to turquoise, purple, red, and black. I quickly shuffled into a seat and waited for the service to start.

The temple filled with people. I couldn't tell the exact number, but it had to be somewhere from 500 to 1000. The temple came alive with voices, and yet it all hushed when a man went onstage. He seemed to be in his early twenties, and he was tall, lanky, and had long black hair. He wore a purple dress shirt with black pants, shoes, and vest. This had to be Jude Vieux-Pont.

He began his sermon, and although I had no context to what he was talking about, the rest of the temple hung onto his every word. This continued for a bit before he called for the knowingly faithful to kneel, and for all that were new to stand. I don't know whether it was my drive to get to the bottom of this, my honesty in not being a follower of the religion, or if it just caught me off guard, but I didn't kneel as most of the temple shifted. I looked around, and I saw about a dozen people standing in total.

Jude looked at us, looked at me, and commanded us to approach him. I say commanded because I felt myself beginning to walk before I could even decide whether I wanted to or not. I looked around, and I saw the entire temple watching with me as the dozen of us new people were moving. Some of them were talking, questioning what was happening to them. I just stayed silent. I looked back, and I saw Jude with his arms outstretched. He looked and pointed from moving person to moving person, until we were all at the altar. Once I got closer, I could see that Jude had several scars on the back of his right hand. The cuts were in the shape of an eye, with a half-circle of five eyes and several lines right above it. They were glowing yellow.

Sitting on some kinda pedestal/cauldron thing was a pure, smooth metal. It looked like silver, but I wasn't sure. The metal shifted and moved and shaped and reshaped on the pedestal, despite the fact that just isn't how any sort of physics works.

Jude pointed to each of us, one by one, and commanded us to touch the metal. Some of the people there tried to fight it, but it didn't take long for each person to come into contact with the thing. Their eyes would go blank, they'd go motionless and silent for about a minute, and then they'd be back. Some looked calm, some looked scared, but none moved or spoke. Eventually, it got to me. I tried to pry myself away, but nothing helped. Once my hand was within a few inches of the cauldron, the metal shifted towards me, wrapping around my hand. I felt it, both cold and hot, and everything went black.

Gemstone 03/29/2007 (Thursday) 18:40:57 #27534007

I was no longer in the temple, or Piety, or even earth. I was in a great expanse, with red sands, distant red mountains, and a purple sky. Straight ahead, rushing towards me, was a great silver tidal wave. I tried to outrun it, but it overtook me, and I closed my eyes again. For a moment, right before the liquid metal engulfed me, I took its place, and I watched as the waves enveloped me. I was back in my body, and everything went dark.

I was back in that strange landscape, and the wave was gone. I looked up, and saw it, this behemoth thing in the distance. Rising taller than the mountains, it made me look like an ant. Not even an ant. Just a speck of dust. It was in a human-like form, I guess, but this thing seemed beyond humanity. It had no features on its face, just smooth metal. I was the behemoth for a moment, and I could see the little insignificant thing I was from a million angles. It didn't need eyes, or a mouth, or ears, or anything. It was better. It shifted to face me, and it began to glow until it created a face. One light coalesced into a large eye, in the center of what would equate to its forehead. A half-circle of five smaller eyes arranged in the air above the main eye and the head, and several rays of light shot up past the crown. It looked down on me. I took its place again, and I judged myself.

I couldn't understand how it was working, because it was neither an animal or a machine. There were no organs or bones, nor was there electricity and wiring. It was metallic, but it was neither a refined mechanism or a hunk of raw metal. It was a smooth and simplistic material, liquifying and solidifying and reshaping and living and thinking.

Its arms, legs, and head sank into its body, becoming a serpent with the glowing crown of eyes at its helm. I was myself as it descended on me, the ground trembling as it circled. Its face came near, and its main eye alone was over five times my size. I found myself as the being, and I grew thousands of legs for myself as I shook the world of this tiny person.

I was myself again as the millipedal entity shaped itself into a giant tarantula. I was the giant once more, and I lowered to face myself. I was still so small, so weak, so hopeful, so mortal. I was back to human as it thinned into a bird-like shape, soaring above me. It shifted into a spherical mass, covered in tentacles and still masked by the crown of eyes. We watched each other wordlessly as it took hundreds of shapes and we swapped back and forth. Cee was wrong. This wasn't a demon. This was a God.

In the last indescribable form it showed me, its appendages reached out to me, grabbing me and lifting me into the air. As we looked into each other's eyes, we heard each other's thoughts, and it told me I needed to see. I didn't blink, and yet, darkness reappeared.

I was still in this odd world. I was still there, and so was the God, but it wasn't just us anymore. I watched as it travelled the world. All across the world, there were different species, all so similar to humans yet strong and magical and impossible. This deity, it created two, and enslaved another, making idle servants out of these creatures. These people.

Free for all war broke out, and the God's empire spread like flames. Civilizations fell and species were completely killed off. It even killed another god, and birthed a whole species of followers from its corpse. At the peak of its rule, at the peak of a battle for an enemy city, it lost. Three factions, sworn enemies themselves, knew what they had to do. Nature, magic, technology, and combat expertise were all weaponised in order to keep the deity at bay.

It rained hell on the bastion, killing off hundreds of thousands of foes and followers alike. They were crumbling beneath it, and it was then that it lost. The combined forces unleashed a powerful blast, shooting the God through the chest and upholding fire. It came undone, its shards breaking off as soldiers crashed into the God to keep it from fighting back. The crown of eyes flicked as it fell apart, and soon, as it lay in pieces, the crown broke.

I found myself in the body in a shard, every now and then seeing flashes from the other million fractions. I saw everything. The flimsy allies went out to secure the shards, when disagreement rang out between them. Two sides wanted the god buried and hidden and locked away, and the stronger third wanted its strength. Battle broke out again, soldiers who fought alongside one another minutes ago now tearing each other apart.

A druid teleported the shard I was inhabiting, and suddenly I couldn't see any of the others. I found myself in what seemed like a forest. I was on earth now. I was weak, scared, and hungry for power. I sat there for millions of years, undiscovered. World affairs passed me by, towns rose and fell, and I was left there. Until a bruised and bloodied young human with long black hair found me.

I was no longer seeing from the perspective of the God, nor was I on earth or in that other world. I was in a void, and in front of me was not the God, but a miniscule fraction of its true self. It said my name. It told me, "Find my other pieces. Make me whole."

Gemstone 03/29/2007 (Thursday) 18:47:53 #27534074

And then I was back at the temple. Once each of the other people were finished with their visions, Jude looked from us to the crowd. He told the temple that using the shard, he had seen a prophecy of the start of the rebuilding of "Ivhes", taking place "in the forests of Genem". The event was beginning soon, and the shard would show us once it began. He picked up the shifting metal in his scarred hand and aimed it at the people in the pews. Soon, I felt that cold and hot feeling, and everything went dark again.

I was in a forest, back in that red world. All around me were unfamiliar plants and creatures, which I soon realised were many of the subjects of the stained glass murals. There was a large gathering of humanoid organisms, some of which I saw in my earlier vision and some of which were unknown. Many were hidden by the blue and purple flora, but there were bound to be thousands. And they had thousands of shards.

I was another shard, a bigger one. I was a big shifting mass of metal, maybe the size of a desk. The people approached the large shard, kneeling as they offered their own. Silver tendrils lashed at these separate parts, the smaller pieces joining the larger mass as one. What appeared to be robots stood nearby, and the warlocks ripped them apart to remove the metallic shards from their apparatuses. The shards did not combine like pieces of metal would, but rather as water does when one pool is poured into another.

With each shard incorporated, the mass grew and grew. Soon, it began to act on its own, tentacles dashing through the forest to take the other shards before the warlocks could even approach and offer them. It tore the robots apart, and anyone that withheld their shards was killed in a similar fashion. It kept growing and growing, until it was nine times the size of the smallest person, and three times the size of the largest.

It kept shifting and shaping until it took a human form, with multiple tentacles extending from its back. The light appeared and shifted, until its crown of eyes was once again on its head. The hands of the mortals began to glow with the same light, their hands all marked by the same scars Jude has, the same eyes as the god. They kneeled before it, as it took a cylindrical form and launched a pillar of white light into the sky. In the distance, millions of other beacons lit up in the sky. Everything was white, and then everything was black.

I was back at the temple again, and I looked around. Every person at the temple, save for Jude and the twelve of us, were kneeling and praying. The shard was writhing like crazy, suddenly flashing white and yellow while emitting an odd musical chord that kept looping. Jude spoke above it all. Although we were far from its home world, he preached, we would serve this deity and bring it back to its true might.

He looked back to us, and he gave us control again. He said "Now, you can make your choice. Know that we will not hold a grudge, but Ivhes acts beyond our understanding or our control." One person ran. One person kneeled. Two other people left, and everyone else remained, kneeling. They looked back at me, and I just slowly walked out.

It wasn't until I was out of the temple that I ran to my car. Costumed kids were still dashing from door to door, collecting candy, as their parents sat inside this temple and worshipped this thing. I didn't want to be anywhere near any of that shit, but I was afraid something would happen if I ran in front of all of them. They didn't seem violent, or malicious, but still. Their leader, Jude, had some sort of magic. It came from their god. I wanted to get as far away from that as I could.

I drove back to the hotel and packed up as quickly as I could. I ran back down to my car and began driving out of Piety when I saw him. Jude was standing there, right at the edge of the city, holding something in his hands. As I drove past, I realized it was a metallic orb. As I drove closer, I saw the metal melt and reshape as a staff. I drove faster, but I stopped when I heard what I thought was thunder, and saw what I thought was lightning. But the sound didn't go away, and neither did the light.

I looked back, and I saw lights forming in the sky. They formed into six circles and several rays above them, and from there I realised it was the gods' eyes. The dark halloween night, originally lit solely by the various halloween ornaments, illuminated with the face of a god. It studied me. It judged me. It saw me.

I just kept driving, until either the eyes went away or I was just too far. The drive was longer than I was ready for, but I didn't stop until I was at home around 5 AM. I got home, and I resumed my life, doing my best to not think about it. Once your mind starts thinking about something though, it can't stop.

I haven't been able to escape it since then. I still see its eyes everywhere, day or night. When I dream, I see it. I see everything it's done, everything it's doing, everything it plans to do. I've felt myself shatter into millions of pieces, only to wake again. It isn't angry, it isn't proud, it simply sees me. I would go to a doctor, but I doubt any prescription would stop this thing, and I know that I am not insane. I want it to stop.

I went to Piety about 5 months ago now. Recently, I decided I would quickly go back to see how the scenario in Piety has changed, to see if I could end this once and for all. When I got there, though, things were different. There were large walls blocking any sight into the city. Government workers were wandering outside, especially at the entrance gate where I found myself. They told me that there were several large chemical leaks inside the town, and that I had to turn back around. No matter what theories I had, I had no choice but to turn back like they said, as they had several armed soldiers patrolling. It told me they knew, but shutting down Piety would do nothing.

Once I got home, I began looking up anything related to this. I couldn't find any news reports about Piety, and even older pages about them were gone. That didn't seem to mean the end of Ivhesionism, though. The news reports I found were vague, like the ones I originally found about Piety. But they were definitely real, and definitely related. Several articles described similar events in which small towns and cities converted to a new religion at unusual speeds, all across the globe. They were sparse, but everywhere I looked, I saw metal, and eyes.
 [THREAD LOCKED]


1. It's Hard To See With Your Blood Over My Face
In this story the boy with the pale hair, let's call him Garv, he's taking the wheel over from the kid in the red hat, let's call them Su, because they hate their name said longer than it needs to be. They're in a truck of some sort. Let's call it a Toyota Hilux, standard-issue, and let's say it's streaked with red paint or gunfire, and let's call it old, because it is. Garv's leaning out of the passenger side, lighting the cigarette between his teeth with one hand — he breathes in once, thrice, throws the rest onto the highway — fuck! — wipes ash off the right-side mirror — you got all that, Su?
Su, hands gripping the wheel, the dead man slumped over the clutch, dead arm over the driver's seat, teeth falling out of their sockets — I've got it, they say. Or they think they do but they don't say it, they just smile through gritted teeth. Garv trusts that Su's gestures contain meaning just as Su trusts Garv with keeping ash off the Hilux's carpet, just as the both of them trust in the body between them, its limbs stiffening with every passing minute. They've got to do something about it at some point, they think. Or the whole thing'll fossilise, joints locking around the car seat headrest and the driver side door, and they'll never get out of the truck, and they'll never make it to San Francisco. Garv reads Su's body language and agrees.
So at the next stop they shove the body into the back. Between the two of them they've got enough strength to cram it on its side in the rear compartment, legs curled up and bracing against the sides, one arm previously draped over the driver's seat now sticking straight up into the air. The tarp covers the worst of it but Garv can't deny that it's starting to smell. Su buys air fresheners in the convenience store. Garv fills the tank to three-quarters. Su pays for everything with the little black card.
Hey, asks Garv, when they hit the road again, you think we're in way over our heads?
Su doesn't reply. Through the broken rear window the two can hear the tarp flapping against the corpse arm in the back, like a flag.

2. And The Songs Came From Under The Hill
At first, it was small items up and down the middle of Vegas; an orange hairdryer, a blue enamelled 'M' cut from an old Vicrola, a small plastic rectangle they would later learn was the check-in card for the Presidential Suite at the Hilton. Su liked the little boxes the items came in. Brown, thin like 20th-century stationery, the surface rough like old fingerprints. The two of them would pick the paper-maker up eventually, his body slumped over the armchair in the lobby of the Holiday Inn, the hole in his left temple artfully concealed by the scented burgundy of his shawl.
Careful, warns the math teacher over the phone, Analytics needs the pieces absolutely intact. So they package the paper-maker, bloodied shawl and all, and deliver him in one piece to the florist's office, the one Garv is certain is one of their guys in Summerlin — look how he wears all the tricks of the trade — and get two more boxes in return to drop off at the Strip. This is where they find the fake bullet, and the carnation wrapped in blue tape; this is where the story continues somewhere else, for someone else to discover.
Eventually the packages take them out of town. Before they know it they're carting bodies and bullets and petunias and Brazilian jungle orchids up and down the Mojave, knee-deep in Inland Empire. This is the rolling heart of America, says Garv over diner milkshakes and tyre-rubber steaks; this is where our studies come home to rest. He's certain the stories are pointing them there, nearly as sure as the math teacher is in his constellations of string on corkboard and the abstruse folds of narrative-space; there's a science in intuition, just as there's an intuition at the heart of every dark and secret science in the world, from the rolling desert clouds to the clandestine particle colliders humming metres below their feet, sending great loops of radio whalesong careening from the Hilux's radio in the motel parking lot by night.
Holy moley — exclaims Su, one hand curled on the peeling flesh-pink curtains — would you listen to that! It's the music of the gods!
In a dozen sweaty motel rooms strung out over the desert, Su pores over hastily-photocopied advance copies of publishers' manuscripts sent over by the math teacher, and Garv takes their notes and keys them into the terminal, using a set of personalised code-categories Su can only guess at. Between them they have a more-or-less complete idea of the shape of things to come, compartmentalised for their safety, of course; they've heard stories, or rather, intuited the non-stories, from the gaps in the record, of how one in their line of work can seem to know too much. The meta-commentary of their record, written by Garv and encoded by Su, is similarly fragmented; altogether they've compiled a small thesis of the world as defined by the Las Vegas border and the ever-expanding ambit of Interstate 15: the Mojave, its yellow moon, the black midnight sky.

3. There Are Many Wintry Nights In Spanish Novels
In one story, pursuers blow up a Federal mail truck in a parking garage in New Brunswick. In another, a killer is intercepted by an agent from her same organisation. What's consistent, Garv thinks, is how the stories are never consistent with their packages, that same week's deliveries: a dead librarian, magnolia blossoms wrapped in cellophane, and a salmon-pink gag severed ear. He starts to imagine their team as the protagonist of yet another set of stories, one taken care of by another precocious pair of kids on the other side of the country, their stories set far away from the hard-boiled literary-thriller pretensions of semipro mystery zines infesting the Californian Gulf. Su doesn't care for any of this — says they'd rather analyse tales than publish them — maybe sometimes they bring up an anecdote from Yale that sounds like one or two of Garv's stories. Garv hates it. But he tolerates it all the same.
They bring the librarian to a florist's in River Rock. They bring the severed ear to Victorville. They bring the magnolia blossoms, wrapped in cellophane, to a nameless ghost town on the edge of the Colorado River, where another body awaits them at a florist's. There are always florists' offices wherever they go, the florist a man or a woman young or old with a brooch or a hair pin with the triple-arrows of their trade, and there are always packages to pick up in rough brown paper, and there are always bodies to exchange for them. Sometimes they hint at a common hand, a certain neatness of the wound that bears startlingly close to a trademark, but they leave the speculation to the suits and their numbers. By night, the manuscripts pile up under the Holiday Inn's milky yellow lamp, and maybe Garv unwillingly notices something about Su's cursive that he hasn't noticed before, a certain way they connect the dots of successive i's and j's, perhaps, which only shows when they spell out a Latinate plural or a rare European last name. He thinks it funny to point it out to them, but forgets by the morning.
Knowing another by their handwriting, he thinks, is more intimate for some than holding hands or intercourse; it's a collegiate kind of voyeurism that borders on the perverse. Him, he prefers typing in Courier size twelve.
Su, ever the old soul, brain humming with spurious intertextual musings, sees their relationship this way: Garv's the consumnate professional armed with quips and disarming charm, and they're the straggler picking up the pieces from behind, the one who pays for gas and stacks the coins and keeps the spare toilet paper stocked in the back seat. There's an illusion of closeness that being in a pair implies and that doesn't sit easy with them; doesn't jive well with the way they want to move on the road. They want to drift along the aether; they want to be the whole damn dialectic. They want to annotate leaked drafts by motel-light, sip brandy at noon, leave long trails of bootprints on the desert sands. Su always takes their breakfast at the lobby while Garv takes his time in the shower and they think those five minutes alone are the most beautiful in the world.
In reality, neither of them could function very well without the other if it weren't for the moments of uncanny kinship and surreal jocularity the job brings. Deep down, both Garv and Su are okay with that. They share their rides in silence, like characters between scenes in a movie, and when they get shot at or their tyres get slashed they don't say a word to each other except the bare minimum necessary to keep going.
In another night's story, whole pages cascade with interlocking dialogues and nary a thing happens in the staging save for the singular movement of a woman's hand.

4. Sierpinski's Love Triangle, or, What's Parked Behind The IHOP?
The body hardening in the back of the truck goes to the math teacher in Pasadena.
He greets them from a corner seat at the IHOP, all crusty mall-Santa glare wrapped up in an old-timey three-piece patterned suit — hey, call me Sierpinski — and Garv takes his seat before Su and neither of them extends a hand. It's bad news in the general pattern — says Sierpinski — there's been a shift in their general strategy, owing to some complication down in the Angeleno literary circles, some unforthcoming contacts in the field. He's going to have to spend some time reconfiguring their lines.
But all that doesn't concern you very much, he adds. What have you kids got for me?
They tell him about the botched interception, the black van on the highway, the bullets narrowly missing the Hilux's cab. He asks about their assailants, about the presence of any signs. Writes down correlations in his gunky notepad — three or four Latino males, out-of-state plates, black sunglasses, flannel with white shirts.
That's solved, he says. Californian border patrol, plainclothes and armed, nothing more. It's not anything they should be worried about — certainly not a trace of some conspiracy, definitely not one of their own.
Sierpinski has a corkboard full of string where he keeps tracks of things like this. Not just what kinds of people look like what but also what kinds of things should happen to whom, which when taken altogether with the proper notation can be considered a series of modified fields. It's the general shape of the story like Garv and Su's notes but expressed abstractly, as arithmetic. Garv and Su don't understand an iota of it, but they don't care because it's the same thing anyway. So they trust the schoolteacher when he brings out the real severed ear, iced in a styrofoam box, as well as the real bullet, brass-heavy and wide as a crayon, wrapped in three layers of thick cotton cloth.
And a fake magnolia flower, cellophane-pink like a baby's lip, packed in the familiar brown box with the coarse paper like fingerprints.
These are the real deal, he says. How 'bout you get them to Barstow by the weekend — check tonight's story for the address, by the way — five thousand dollars for the each of you. Pause. You two good?
Garv obliges. Sierpinski snaps his fingers. When Su gets back to check on the truck both the body and the tarp are gone.

5. Budweiser Light Ain't That Bad
Garv, cigarette aglow, in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn.
Su, beer in hand, legs dangling from the back of the Hilux.
The bodies don't bother you — says Garv. So why this?
Su shrugs. It's probably something to do with the physicality of it. I think it makes a difference. Things are more real when taken apart from something because you know there's a whole they belong in. It's hard to ignore just how big this is getting. Are we complicit in unfucking the shape of the world?
They take a huge sip from the can.

6. Parkour Is Romance By Other Meanas
They touch down in Barstow. The manuscript, lovingly emailed as a text file, from some Austin college zine dedicated to the recreation of noir, which is to say, there is a dreadful lot of imagining about the night. Men in old hats follow women in dark streets into corners where cigarettes are lit and secrets are shared. It's all very gentlemanly in a blase kind of way which Su doesn't dislike but has to put up pretenses to preserve their brand. Garv notes the places where the text stumbles against its own unfamiliarity with the setting — style chafing against substance, you know? — the dialogue painting places that simply don't exist to begin with. It's the author's projection of their fantasies, of a more civilised time before the present. So deliberate it's got to be cliche.
Su notes how the first words of the main character's mangled metaphors form some sort of charade alluding to 9 Sycamore Lane.
They find the McMansion vacated when they arrive, arson marking black scars on the lawn, the body in the side-loading washing machine burnt black from the waist down.
In the story, the man must part ways with the mysterious woman: leave it be, mon cherie, our love is falling apart. So they follow the signs and leave the ear in the fridge, take the plastic cherries from the bowl on the counter, debate on whether or not to leave the bullet.
Garv disagrees on the significance of the setting, argues that the vague spatiality necessitates further distinction, a separate set of signs. Su maintains its direction towards a local elementary school.
They let this adversarial reasoning carry them towards a conclusion when there's a rattling at the door. Su makes to dive behind the couch. Garv grabs them by the collar and runs.
Stumbling out the back door, Garv cursing under his breath — didn't fucking train us for this, goddammit — Su's running ahead now, hopping the fence into somebody else's onerously decorated yard, marble ostentations, a fountain shaped like a man's mouth — they don't even register the sound from the McMansion as a gunshot until they're two streets clear and truckless, stranded five miles from the centre of town.
After a while, Garv says: Fuck the stories, man.
So the two of them just start walking and don't look back, the oversized bullet rattling in Su's jacket pocket besides the loose change and truck keys.

7. You Can Leave
Sierpinski's corkboard, it seems, never lies. Much like a trick origami toy, the transformation of the Inland Empire's affairs flows from one shape into another via chaotic but not unpredictable rules. He gets a call on the cheap Nokia — the number obscured, making the identity obvious — warning him that the opposition is moving in. He places a call on another Nokia — which his department will obscure, making his identity obvious — to fold the shape of the story again. On a third Nokia, he dials another number.
The plainclothes detectives of the Californian border patrol. The desert overflowing with bodies. Garv and Su, now fugitives, running. To invert the state of affairs one must adjust the order of operations, remap the particulars, or send one or more assumptions fleeing into the night.
Su finds Garv's sleeping bag empty when they wake. In his place lies a Barrett M82 — the light fifty, the terror of Kandahar, the official state rifle of Tennessee — a big damn gun, at any rate, cream-lit by the moon, and the round in Su's pocket slides neatly into the catch.
There is a slip of receipt paper beside it. Date and time and coordinates. An elementary school near Downtown LA. A woman's name. Details of a face.
The Analytics Department deals in darkness but it sees things in light. The back of the paper has a list of truck names and destinations marked with little crosses. Su doesn't find this odd in the slightest. They leave the underpass before first light.
It's surprisingly easy to walk around unnoticed with a rifle as tall as they are. The first trucker — a hulking purple Volvo — gets them as far as Victorville, where a butch woman in a beat-up vermillion Hyundai offers to bring them across the ridgeline for a cup of coffee and the fake carnation.
It's good hiking this time of year, she drawls, pinning cellophane petals to her lapel. Send my regards to the trees when you're there.
There's no conversation in the cab and no sign of Garv until they cross the pass, when the radio blares a report of a burning border patrol car blocking an Amtrak express train. Su suspects that Garv is way ahead of time. Separated they're unravelling. The trucker's beginning to suspect something and Su's not sure if it's a conclusion they expect. They cling on to the base of the rifle and fall asleep on its barrel while the great vermillion Hyundai rushes onwards to its destination in the great freight parks north of old San Bernadino. Soon the truck comes out from the shadows of the trees and white sunrays cut through the peeling windscreen shade.
The truck rolls to a stop. There's a roadblock up ahead, kid, says the driver. Best to start walking.
Su blinks. It's a little before midday. The time on the paper reads six P.M.
The driver smiles, baring long yellow teeth. Revenge is a real bitch, huh?

8. I'm Not Locked In Here With You
Garv in the interrogation room, skinny hands chained to the desk.
We checked the guy you talked to — says the border patrol detective — well, he's not a lawyer. Not even a person in the United States, to be exact. Just who the fuck do you think you are?
I have nothing to say if he's not here, says Garv.
Who sent you here? Who is your partner? What outfit are you working for? The Russians? The CIA? Who kills the people in the stories that you leave behind? Are the bodies always half-burned and stuffed into washing machines? What business do you have in San Bernadino?
I have nothing to say. Can I have a glass of water?
The door slams. The detective doesn't come back. Hours pass, and Garv feels his muscles tighten against the warm steel of the chair.

9. The Adrenochrome Mills of The Lower Mojave
That's a damn fine tale, I drawl, hunching over the driver's seat of the lime green Nissan.
Su listens, thoughtfully, their cap pressed down low over their eyes.
Goddamned fucking spooks, I say. Last night we caught their vibrations on the radio. A screeching around one-hundred-point-nine FM, some time around two in the morning — that's where they've got the kids, mark my words — they're screaming for help under the highway.
It's the music of the trapped gods, says Su. They electrify them under the desert floor with high-energy particles. The electricity makes them cry, and that's how they get the adrenochrome, because the gods are in the shape of little kids.
I consider the truth of this for a little while — hmm — eyeing my small passenger, their comically large gun — spit tobacco out the window into the path of a passing yellow schoolbus — why, my non-binary friend, I think you're goddamned right.

10. The Things We Love Are All Out To Get Us
The thing is, Garv thinks as he sinks into the leather chair, he's got no leverage here. Spycraft's something they've stumbled into, unwillingly, part of the scope creep of their organisation, and he's got nothing but honesty left for the tall men in the polo tees and the bulky cargo shorts, no psychological tricks or cyanide capsules for the mescaline they're pumping into the IV now, or some other psychedelic force-feminising drug — it's an experimental scopolamine derivative, really, but he doesn't know.
I analyse stories for themes. Between that I move packages. What more do you want?
The plainclothes detectives of the Californian border patrol aren't having any of this. They're sure he's Cuban, now, or some deep cover Chinese plant. Eyes hinting no doubt at some threat beyond these peaceful shores, from somewhere beyond the pale.
You've got the wrong man, he says. I'm from Pittsburgh. Garvin's an old family name. You can check the records — PSU, majored in English, class of '17. Would an illegal profess an unironic love for the great American novel? I love free movement and I believe the land we stand on is the stuff of legend. It's mythic, the stuff that we do, stretching threads across the highways, it's like weaving a great canvas of time and space full of me and you and all those mom-and-pop florists we pass along the freeway in towns with names like Stetsonburg and New Pickett. You think some random pinkie kook would love this? Reading shit manuscripts from wannabe noir hacks, those Iowa-bait tryhards? It's a work of passion, and you better believe it.
Su and I analyse stories which signal the emergence, he says, more clearly, of a particular set of properties that will bring about the end of the world. We suspect there are items, people, things in real life that resemble these fictions. Our task is to alter them by any means possible. Distributed into many actions, entirely mundane, entirely legal. I swear. We have to be clear about these things. Our target thrives in obscuration; we surround our target with an excessively-documented surface of light.
We don't believe you. You killed the woman in the washing machine.
Mikaela Preston, age forty-three, housewife, undiagnosed psychosis. Death by natural causes.
They ask about his employers, about Su, about the North Korean internment camps, about secret radio transmitters in Dubai. But they don't believe a word he's saying about the end of all stories and the end of the world. To be an officer of the law, Garv realises, is to curtail all imagining that there's a world left to save.
Listen, he says, feeling the scopolamine-not-scopolamine creep up his spine, listen, don't you lay a finger on my partner. What concern do you have with our work, anyway? We're entirely domestic. You have no right to do this.
Customs and Border Protection has an extraordinary jurisdiction of up to one hundred miles from any coastline of the continental United States, says one of them.
Fuck me, he says.
There is an interior, hisses the man in the navy polo tee and beige cargo shorts to his right. It is unknown to us. By pursuing these long and tenuous threads we hope to breach it by force of attrition. Your actions as a foreign enemy of the United States will give us just cause to extend our reach past Mount San Antonio and into the sands beyond. There, dark engines churn, and our section chief's destiny awaits.
Whose and what destiny?
The man on his left, in the brown polo tee and the white cargo shorts, heaves a sigh like a broken tannoy. Of his destiny, we do not know. Of his name, we cannot say.
Garv braces against the thick leather straps. The drug's in his sinuses, he's sure of it. There's a sensation in his face like pressurised petrichor.
I figured, he spits. What else have you got for me?
The two detectives in the polo tees just stand there and stare at him until the whole world turns blue.

11. When The Shovels Break We've Still Got Our Fingernails
The severed ear takes a long and winding journey to a forensic office in Pasadena. The passing of a white Toyota Hilux — pristine, with no bullet holes — momentarily distracts the officer pushing the cart with the styrofoam box on it — keeps her attention long enough for the box to drop, contents and all, into the empty shopping trolley of a passing homeless man.
The homeless man performs a long and complicated walk that takes him past several parking lots in big box stores. With religious certainty he selects a particular unlocked car and throws in a package wrapped in brown paper.
Old Sierpinski, fingers aching, puts down the final phone. A series of motions have been set in motion, he believes, to alter the target by any means necessary, and the end is finally near. But the chart's grown too big, too unwieldy; he's lost all ability with his Nokias to prune the ends, and — given the unprecedented interception of his interns — the precision of his moves grows looser by the day. This move, he thinks, may be Analytics' final one.
Sierpinski puts on his tweed coat and straightens his tweed tie. Then he puts on his tweed hat and heads for sixth period with the fifth-grade class.

12. Where The Illithids Are
From the window seat of one of many diners across this low and blessed city I see a brown Saab swerve into the sunlit fishbone of a steel bollard. I hear a woman scream. I see the bird shape of the mold stains on the windowpane, the passing of a stray dog, the lone waitress's name tag reading a singular, dusty, 'Molene'.
Su, their posture steady, hands me the slip of paper under the table.
Don't lose it, sir, and good luck! — they say — we won't let those reptile bastards win!

13. Interlude
The men in the polo tees ask Garv about the magic machines. They're sure that vast engines control the fate of America, dark electric mills churning under the deep, that the terminal with their coded musings really links to some noumenic hive-mind pataphysically weaving onward the fabric of reality.
What the fuck are you talking about — screams Garv, choking through the tube gag — there are no magic machines, there's just us!

14. The Nixon Administration And Its Consequences Have Been A Disaster For The Human Race
Su trades me the rifle and the receipt for a commemorative steel coin. Not legal tender, by any means, but about the size of a quarter, and weighing enough to be one. On the front is a bevelled harpy tearing open a bag of cocaine. On the obverse, cerulean emblazoned on bone white: DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION - PERSEPHONE WING - YOU ONLY DIE TWICE.
Su waves my truck goodbye from the safety of the counter. Molene pours them another cup of coffee. They reach for their wallet, realise, with some alarm, that they left the black card under the mossy overpass hours ago. The diner's rusted register consumes Su's last seventy-five cents.
Another set of motions, they think. Another ritual of hidden hands. They realise, with some purpose, that a certain placid trust has been building in their heart over the past year which has only recently become so large as to banish all fears about its growing. It's the same with the wanderlust, that ill desire to stake it out on her own, whose intensity has only seemed to fade with Garv's departure and the Barrett's cold heft. Out here, on the other side of the desert, Su decides that there are pieces of America out here with too much weight for even the finest topologists to bear. There are plans, there are stories, and there are maps in coloured string — but beyond that lies the territory, my dear, and the land beyond the land.
A long while later, Su calls the schoolteacher at a payphone using one of several contingency numbers. Into the coin slot goes the harpy. The machine accepts it unhesitatingly. The math teacher doesn't pick up. Su beholds this for all of ten minutes then walks down the boulevard alone.

15. Forty Thousand Men And Women Everyday (We Can Find Happiness)
— and I'm death, the midnight rider, the one with no apologies or illusion about my role in the grand scheme. You think you know about the shape of the world? Fuck you! Things are more real when they're taken apart from the things they're part of. I coined that phrase long ago myself — after the conspiratorial assassination of Haiti's Jovenel Moise, actually, shot to death by DEA plants — couldn't see the need for interwoven truths in an age of lies, you see — know that there's only one, one singular and determinable God. And he sees through all of it — like the ground is made of glass!
Take a swig from the bottle. Eyes on the road. There are tasks, and then there are tasks, there is a surfeit of free will in the world and the ones in power don't know it. Death comes because we will it. The history of assassinations cuts through the tangle of the world like a straight line, and the world's not a surface, either, like the mathematician and his ilk believe, it's a ball run through with tiny holes, and our will is what plugs the gaps.
I have these dreams of old America, see, those vast and rolling plains stretching across the canvas, so many words and feelings strained across the skein of bitter concrete, splashed across the pages of the world. So many thoughts and feelings involved in the great moving that the thought of it coming to an end was utterly pointless. Yet never has such thought been so diffuse — stretched thin across such delusions of grandeur and 'the big picture', you see, across many innumerable fraternities — that it became impossible to point out any one story out of another.
That's what this world needs, conviction and a little push. I push the pedal onto Belafonte and Sixth and leave tyre marks on the pavement. Jacqueline Kennedy held much the same view, clinging on to her husband's corpse from the tail of the limousine, that the path can always be gleaned from the vibrations of the rear-view mirror; I spy burger wraps and cut trees, last night's roadkill off the white-painted strip. Who left these markers, these strange signs? Our decisions to see are entirely our own.
The choice of words of the coin, in this respect, was rather inspired: the narc that wore it swore she'd never set foot in Haiti, claimed nefarious interference by the FBI, presented evidence of said claims through a fistful of wires ripped from the Hilton wall. Small is the mind which seeks comfort in the collective will of organisational charts and corkboard webs. Her brains formed an image of a halved butterfly on the jade wallpaper of the Presidential Suite —
Or the woman in the washing machine, who pleaded ignorance to the dead gods hidden in the particle colliders, deflected blame onto the shadowy forces of the Pentagon and its demon priests right until the lit Zippo hit the fuel-soaked drum —
Or the florists, placing dried flowers on dead eyes —
Or the paper-maker, dread-sick of narrative basilisks creeping into the tomes of his vast library, staring down the ice pick as if its singular tip was the answer to every murky end he'd ever imagined. He welcomed me into his study because he was eager to please. Music streamed from his wound as he died, if you can believe that —
It's fine if you don't. There's the mark of the true fabulist, see, never taking anything too deeply if one can help it, because belief is the foundation of a farcical world which thinks that things are connected to other things. Stacks of heaving sycophants — too many conspiracies, too many self-effacing motherfuckers — all endlessly mouthing off theories about organisational charts and foreseen events and the true shape of the world.
A massive diminishment of human spirit. I alone hold all the will in the world!
I move with no apologies to the location of the future death of the section chief of the Californian division of the Customs and Border Protection service. The choice of tool rarely matters for desires when asserted will always bring about the ends. Mantras ground the mind but they do not drive the arm. From the parking lot behind the brick wall across the street from the school I see the shape of the man move through the second-floor rooms.
The teacher's ushering him in. Short fat-faced man, tottering to take the section chief's coat — some departmental jacket, though the rest of the chief is out of uniform, save for the seven-pointed star on his chest and the Colt on his waist — it's career day, please greet our guest, who now stands at the head of the room beside the open window framed by the Barrett's modified bead sights.
He looks like a man consumed with thoughts that he alone has permitted himself to consider, which surely counts as some form of neurological suicide. Not too out of place for a cop in Biden's America, surely. Look at the way he puts his hands in his pockets, look at how the children listen for the promise of secrets he can't deliver. I begin to hate the way he speaks. The way he adjusts his horned-rimmed spectacles like he's keeping something back. The way he turns from the children, the way his tweed tie jumps and twitches when he turns. I hate a man who believes he has so much that he thinks he can withhold the world.
I fire, and in between my thought and deed the teacher bends down to pick up a pin. The bullet tears a hole through his gut before piercing the blackened mass of the section chief's heart.
In the ringing of my ears the kids begin to scream — someone drops something to the ground — others pour in from the next room, peer in, stick their heads out of the next classes' windows, look at the bodies, the shattered glass, out the building towards the carpark, towards me.
And then — suddenly, interminably — theirs screams turn into cheers.

16. These First Few Desperate Hours
Now Garv's all alone. The detectives in cargo shorts have scattered like rats, leaving cherry-scented serum pouring out of his dry, open mouth. He struggles, hurts himself on the cuffs a little, lies still for a little bit. Maybe for hours. Maybe days.
Presently from behind someone comes in and cuts him loose. In the single flickering bulb of the prison cell he recognises Su, the cropped hair, paint-streaked bomber jacket, registers some mild surprise at the crowbar and the bloodied lanyard in their hands.
Had to get in somehow, they say. And then, looking at the state of him: Sorry that happened.
Garv wipes his mouth, gets on his knees. Starts vomiting on the tiles. How much time did we lose?
Not much, says Su. Didn't even think we were on a schedule. Between Garv's fourth or sixth retch: Do you want me to carry you?
Bracing his body against the wall gives Garv enough leverage to put the rest of his weight onto Su. Down the narrow corridor Su takes a left, then a right, then a right onto a flight of stairs.
Su asks Garv: Do you know where they took our stuff?
The two of them stagger out of the police station, which (as Garv is only starting to realise) is really some kind of indeterminate safehouse whose tunnelling, wedge-shaped entrance spits them out of a black-painted door tucked discreetly between an Asian-owned liquor store and a Salvation Army. Garv blinks in the streetlights, still glare-blind from his ordeal. Or maybe it's the comically scopolamine-dilated pupils, notes Su, though they don't say it to his face.
Su dumps the contents of the evidence bag onto the pavement. The terminal's intact, as are their spare clothes, and the keys — though it'll take them some time to find another truck. On top of them all is a final envelope of stories and a pair of dried sunflowers.
I don't get it, says Su. Sierpinski's line is dead. I thought they cut us off.
Garv shrugs, gestures at the ground. Doesn't mean the universe's done talking.
Su considers this. They think about the motels, the road, the squabbles, the endless smiling truckers. Greasy bacon by a gas pump — thermal flasks, the metal hot with bad coffee — all the land wrapped up in murders and flowers and brown paper.
You're right, they say, and for a short moment it feels like every coffee cup in every cafe has just been placed into their saucers. Garv feels it too — like the air's made of clear Lego bricks. Elsewhere other trucks are heading off and packages are placed on doors and pallets are loaded onto trolleys and flowers are being placed on the eyes of the dead and gods are broken and tales are shared and Garv loads up the duffel bag — Su's holding the brown envelope — with all of their stuff, picks it up, and the two of them walk on right off the page and stride into the everlasting sunset.