The Removers

Author's note:

For a lot of you this story may seem familiar if you read Ray Bradbury’s Last Night of the World. This flash fiction piece is part of a continuum of pieces that I wrote to accompany that short story. The other part of this story can be found here on my blog. I hated the fact that Bradbury didn’t end his story, so I kindly wrote an ending for him. This flash fiction piece isn’t so much a sequel, but more so another “version” so to speak. I love pieces with alternate version and ideas. For those to who take the time to read my story, thank you, and for those who take the time to read my other blog story, double thank you. 

The Removers 

       His wife paces in the room clenching her fists. Her stoic exterior is crumbling as she beats her hands into the walls of the motel. 

       “Shhh, they will hear you,” her husband says. 

       “What difference does it make?” the wife says as she walks towards the table outside. “We’re all going to die anyways.” 

       The husband winces at her statement. Though he shares her sentiments, it pains him to witness his wife, the strong one in the relationship, falling apart. 

       “Look, we are safe right now,” he says. 

       “And the girls?” her voice breaks. She is almost inaudible, but the husband is able to hear the underlying venom. She lowers her head taking a seat at the table. 

       Their two daughters and most of the children from the school were the first to go. Someone informed the husband “children have less body mass,” so they were “easier to delete.” He dismisses the memories of the Removers deleting skyscrapers in seconds. Men, women, and children: the Removers acted pitiless to everyone. 

       “What’s done is done,” he says. He strolls to the kitchen, gets a glass of water, and joins his wife outside. He hands her the glass, she accepts it with a trembling hand. 

       She glares at him, “So that’s it, ‘What’s done is done?’” she says. “Our girls were my life, were they not yours?” 

       “I-” Is all the husband can say, nodding in affirmation. He takes a seat across from her. 

       “We have been running and hiding for almost ten years.” Her head slumps and she begins shaking. 

       The husband moves to console her, but stops short when she raises her hand to halt him. “Honey?” he says. 

       She calms herself and with more vigor says, “The agents of Elle won’t quit until everything is gone.” 

       “There is a resistance,” he says, “people fighting.” 

       A bitter look passes over the wife. “Have you seen them fight?” she asks. 

       A shadow passes over the husband’s face as he nods. The resistance, if it can be called that, turns to dust in every fight with the Removers. “I heard they killed a Remover once,” he says. 

       His wife let out a bark of a laugh. “And you believed them,” she says. 

       “They said he turned to a beam of light when he died,” the husband says, “so it must be true.” 

       His wife chuckles again. “Excellent,” she says, “so now the score is one kill for us and three billion for them.” She puts her head in her hands. 

       He was bothered by her sarcasm, but understood she was correct. It was only a matter of time, they will be next. Part of him wanted to quit and join their girls. He glances at his wife, these were already her feelings. He perished the notion acknowledging they had to keep moving. 

       “I am tired,” she says. 

       “We will take turns sleeping,” the husband says. 

       “That’s not what I mean,” his wife says. “I mean I am tired of running, and hiding.” The wife starts sobbing. “I miss the girls,” she says. 

       “But,” the husband loses his words. “I miss them too,” he says in the end grasping her hand. 

       Both their head perk up as they hear the familiar sounds of screams being cut off. 

       “They’re here,” he says. “Quick.” He yanks at her arm but she does not move. Her attitude infuriated him; they did not have time for games. “We have to go,” he says. 

       “No,” his wife says. “I am done.” She stands pushing from her chair. 

       “What?” the husband says. He couldn’t believe it, after staying alive for ten years their story is going to end in a cheap motel with the fabrics of reality disintegrating around them. He loosens grasp of her arm realizing the truth, then pulls her in giving her a hug and a long kiss. 

       In an instant, the front door glows as the atoms that form it accelerate and destabilize. 

       Three men in black suits and bowler hats stand outside the door. The lead man has an outstretched hand as the remaining particles, of what used to be the door, flurries around the trio. 

       The lead man removes his hat before crossing the threshold to their room. 

       “Confirm their identities,” the lead man says in a raspy voice. 

       The man to his right produces an old style notebook. “John and Jane Wilson,” he says. 

       John holds on tight, but Jane breaks free and rushes towards the men in suits. “It’s no use fighting,” she says with tears in her eyes. “Just do it.” 

       John falls to his knees. “No, wait,” he says unable to force his eyes shut. 

       Her bright blond hair is first to glow turning a luminescent white. For a moment he is reminded of his daughters and how their hair shone in the sun. Jane had enough time to turn and smile reaching for him before enveloping in a burst of light and dissipating. John wailed in agony and anger, but before he could rise everything turned a pure white. 

       Now both John and Jane are gone, just another piece of February 30, 1951. 

       The youngest of the three agents averts his eyes when John burst into a ball of light. His head remains down.

       “Son,” the lead man says taking note of his demeanor, “it is good you still have a measure of humanity, but I assure you this job doesn’t get any easier, understand?” 

       The younger agent looks up. “I understand,” he says. 

       “Our work is done, leave the rest to Elle,” the lead man says as he walks towards the door. 

       They travel as intergalactic dust, incorporeal in the swirling abyss. The disembodiments of those lost, now in the care of the universe, awaiting absolution. 

       A fragmented memory of speech passes through the collective, “Who's there?” they say. 

       “I am,” a voice reverberates, shaking the very stars.