Watch the World Die

This story was published by From the Asylum many, many moons ago – in fact, the webzine no longer exists. I got paid $25, which I immediately spent on whiskey and regret.

Watch the World Die

HE sat on the hood of his car with an unlit cigarette in his mouth, a waxy, unkempt youth in Jeans and flannel, grinning. It was cold and crisp but not windy, a photograph to walk around in. Closer to the wreckage, it was warmer.

The highway had become still as well, a stretch of frozen motion. Behind him cars lined up in quiet rows, in front they were smoldering in quiet, jangled piles. Amongst them, people picked their way carefully, small and tender, some with dazed and jellied expressions, some with cool, detached demeanors. He watched them calmly, the familiar fines of the old Malibu slowly rusting beneath him.

Someone approached from behind and paused to stand next to him, but he didn’t turn to look at the newcomer, a bland young man in loose, easy clothes. His eyes, however, turned slightly, and then flicked back again.

“Did you see it happen?” the young man asked.

“Yep,” he replied.

There was a quick, elastic silence.

“Got a light?”

He smiled around his unlit cigarette and shook his head. After a moment, the bland young man shuffled away.

Abruptly, the end of his cigarette flared and caught fire, a jolly red coal glittering in the night. He took a deep drag and let a great gust of white smoke out into the air. He watched a tall State Trooper approach, his face nothing but vacant disinterest.

The trooper was tall and lean, dark and grim. Be held an open pad in one hand and a pen in the other.

“I’ll need to take a statement.”

The man sitting on the car nodded. “The red car, the Mazda, exploded,” he said with blank enunciation. “Just burst into flames. I’ve seen it before.”

“You have?” the cop asked.

“Many times.” A smile filled his face.

The cop nodded and pretended to write this down on his pad. “Could I have your name, sir?”

“The Mazda,” the man continued, “was driving like an asshole, weaving around, high-beaming everyone. It was really irritating. The asshole refused to see that there was nowhere to go, no one had anywhere to go.”

The cop pursed his lips. “Your name, sir?”

The man turned his bloodshot eyes up to the cop. “Sorry. Daniel. Daniel Eggert.”

Writing this down dutifully, the trooper didn’t glance up. “Did you see what caused the accident, Mr. Eggert?”

Eggert smiled around his cigarette. “I just told you: it burst into flames. The Mazda. The red one.”

This time the cop did look up. “Just like that?”

Eggert nodded cheerfully. “Just like that.” He shrugged. “That’s the way it always happens; once the gas tank catches, it’s too late.”

“I’ll bet.” The trooper had a bad feeling about this guy, but couldn’t put a finger on it. His eyes slid down. “This your car?”

Eggert glanced over the cop’s shoulder. “1973 and it runs like new,” he agreed.

The trooper glanced at his pad as he wrote the tag down. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Eggert.”

Eggert nodded, once. “Not a bit of it,” he said.

####

Driving home, Daniel Eggert studied himself in the rear-view with an unflinching gaze. The road was empty and dark and he drove by instinct, thumbs nudging the wheel carefully. His pale face shone in the glass, bright and smooth and framed by dark hair that blended into the dark, leaving him a moon in a constantly shifting night.

After a moment, he reached over and shut off the headlights. Dark snapped in, but his face still shone.

He had always been able to do it, from the earliest memories, the smell of burning hair and the whimpering of a dog. He remembered how his mother had looked at him afterward, how he had smiled at her, and spread his hands. “Like he was older,” she told her husband as he pressed tranquilizers into her hand, “like he was an old man, that look.”

There had only been a few others as a child; there was too much attention involved in The Burning when it was so pure.

Then, he had gotten his Drivers License. And it had opened up everything. People catching Fire in public caused a stir. Cars burst into flame all the time. Once the gas tank caught, it was too late.

####

The place went silent as he walked in, except for the juke, which was playing AmericanPie and would be for the next few minutes. He bit back a grin, his narrow white face convulsing with the effort. A few seconds, and the hum of people continued, a little subdued. Aware of eyes on him, he walked to the bar, where a beer was waiting for him.

“Hello, Daniel.”

The bar was a dim, run-down roadside place, filled with locals who had never been anywhere else, who knew the grain of the floorboards and the rust of the plumbing. Most of the customers had been coming there since they were in high school. A lot of the furniture and fixtures were new; the place had caught fire and almost burned to the ground a few years ago.

Eggert winked at the bartender, who was red-faced and sweaty in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Hey, Will, how’s business tonight?”

Will rubbed his balding pate. “Same as it always is, Daniel. We don’t get any new customers and these die slow, you know?”

Eggert brayed laughter, pounding the bar and looking around. Will’s face had a ghost of a smile pass near it, and then he was moving off, lured by a waved twenty-dollar bill.

Eggert let him go. He picked up the mug of beer, and turned to someone on his right. “Hot night, huh?” he said jovially.

They responded nervously, but he didn’t hear them. The silent TV on the wall showed the news, which was covering the massive pileup on the freeway. He was smiling, sipping beer.

People turned to watch the silent news, and the hum crept away into silence, American Pie had wound down into the coda, which suddenly sounded loud. When the story switched to something new, the hum re-emerged timidly. Eggert brought the mug up to his face and paused.

“Hot night,” he muttered.

Will prowled to the end of the bar. “Sounds like a funeral in here folks!” he shouted, a manic grin cheerfully splitting his face. “The night’s early, kids, let’s make some noise!” He looked around the quiet hum and threw his hands up. “Aw, hell—drinks on the house!”

A weak cheer went up, and a half-hearted surge for the bar. Around Eggert, a bubble of empty floorspace remained, He threw a grin around.

“Hot night.” he said.

####

At four AM it was a different bar. Stripped of everyone except Eggert and the bartender, it was hollow and faded, collapsed. Will sat easily in a high backed chair behind the bar, feet up and back against the register. His hands were laced behind his head, but his eyes were anywhere but on Eggert, who sat drunkenly on a stool, lighting matches with a thought.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Will said quietly.

Eggert grinned. “Don’t worry, Will, I won’t burn the place down.”

Will studied him for a moment. “Again.”

Eggert nodded amiably. “Right.” He stood up and moved towards the door. “What do I owe you?”

Will kept his eyes on the empty stool, “To date? About five grand. That’s not counting the price of rebuilding.”

“You crack me up.”

Will waited until he heard the door click shut and the Malibu start up, and then looked up. He jumped a little when he saw the short man sitting in the corner booth.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Hey buddy! We’re closed, okay?”

“I know. Why do you let that asshole treat you that way?”

Will squinted at the short man, who was graying and owlish, slumped and somehow shorter than he should have been, “Who’s speaking?”

The short man cleared his throat. “Name’s Kip Thompson.”

Will climbed over the bar. “Well, Mr. Thompson, I don’t know ya and I don’t appreciate you calling my friends names.”

Will came to stand over the smaller man, trying to loom as best he could. Thompson flipped open his wallet to reveal a badge and held it tilted up for Will to see.

“Detective Thompson, actually,” he said without fanfare. Got a moment?”

Will looked around, shaking his head. “I guess so, huh?”

“Have a seat. I want to talk about our Mr. Eggert. Did he really burn this place down?”

“None of your business.”

“Fair enough. I’ll assume that’s a yes.” Thompson looked around, squinting. “Nice place.”

Will shifted in his uncomfortable chair, studying the cop. Thompson seemed almost shriveled, sunken, as if he’d been born bigger but had faded away since, collapsing. His face was sagged and 1oose, and his hands, when they darted from the darkness of his lap, were surprisingly small. The bartender didn’t know what to make of him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’ve been tailing Mr, Eggert for a few days,” Thompson went on, “because he’s one of those oddfellows who turn up sometimes. You see, I’m one of those old men who get interested in weird cases, unusual cases.”

“Really?” Will said blandly.

“Yeah. I have a lot of free time, and I poke around until I find something strange: like our Mr, Eggert.”

Will was fascinated by the loose skin of Thompson’s face. “What’s strange about him?” he asked, knowing the answer.

Thompson glanced at his notebook, which was open on the table. “He’s been a witness to thirty-three major auto accidents in the past two years.” He glanced up, his watery eyes finding Will staring at him, off-center, “Isn’t that odd?”

Will shifted. “Not exactly.”

Thompson winked. “Just unlucky.”

“Yep.”

There were a few moments of quiet, then.

“Okay,” Thompson said, pushing his way out of the booth in what seemed to Will a feeble manner. “If that’s the way you want it. I’m no tough guy, I left a card.”

Will picked it up and studied It in silence. When he heard the front door open, he cleared his throat.

“Detective.”

A moment, hung there, blank.

“If those drivers hadn’t been assholes, none of it would happen.”

Another moment, and then the front door closed. Will sat for a moment before getting up to lock the place down.

####

“Detective Thompson,” the officer said blandly, bored in routine, “a Mr. Eggert to see you?”

Kip Thompson sat buried behind his desk, a pile of files seeming to be bigger than him looming on it. He coughed up a cloud of cigarette smoke and stared in surprise for a moment. “Well,” he said easily, putting down a folder, “send him in, I guess.”

Eggert was wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. When he sat down, the pile of folders hid Thompson almost completely. With what seemed a major effort, the detective moved the top half.

“Mr. Eggert,” he panted, “What can I do for you?”

Eggert smiled. “I thought you wanted to talk to me?’”

Thompson smiled back. “No. Not in the least.”

Eggert’s smile turned quizzical. “Uh, you have been—”

The detective waved him silent. “There’s a big difference between asking about you and asking you, Mr. Eggert. If I’d wanted to talk to you, I could have found you.”

Eggert shook his head. “I don’t get it. But why are you sniffing around me?”

Thompson shrugged. “Curious.”

“Curious.”

Thompson repeated his shrug, “You may be the biggest mass murderer in history, Mr. Eggert. I want to know.”

Eggert studied the sagging detective. “What makes you say that?”

Thompson steepled his fingers under his chin. “People just seem to catch fire around you. You’re the only common detail in all these accidents. The law of averages says you’re a freak.”

“I’m a freak all right,” Eggert replied, leaning back a little. “You have no idea.”

“Some small idea, I assure you.”

Eggert’s mouth turned up at the corners. “Be careful you don’t get too close—”

“And get burned?” Thompson chuckled, “Really, Mr. Eggert, such cliches! But no, I’m not afraid, I’m an old man, after all. And you don’t seem brave enough to do it to someone sitting this close to you, that’s why you act through cars, taverns.”

Eggert shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

Thompson winked. “Officially.”

“You ought to leave me alone.”

“Why, Mr. Eggert?”

“Because I’m not a bad man.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Eggert looked away, snorting, and seemed to take an interest in the far wall. Thompson leaned forward, squinting, intent.

“You can ask Will. I’m not a bad man, You don’t know, you have no idea—”

“No idea—”

“No idea!” Eggert snapped, and Thompson felt a trickle of sweat make a trail down his face. The temperature seemed to have jumped. He sat back, watching as Eggert obviously regained his control and composure. “You only see what I do, what I allow to happen.”

Thompson evinced no reaction. He studied Eggert steadily, chewing on a fingernail deliberately. After a few moments, Eggert stood up.

“Obviously this is pointless. Detective Thompson, I hope you’ll try to understand some day—I’m a better man than you think.”

“Good day, Mr, Eggert.”

Eggert turned and left.

####

There were still a few late-nighters huddled at booths when Will noticed the cop again. The older man looked smaller than before, amazingly, and yet as Will slid into a seat across from him the cop was obviously normal-sized. The night seemed to diminish him.

“I didn’t think we had more to talk about?” Will said.

Thompson shrugged. “Guess not.”

“Maybe you just want a drink?”

“I wouldn’t turn one down.”

Will grinned slightly and slid away, leaving Thompson alone. When he turned to look at him, the cop receded into the shadows, fading. He brought a bottle and two glasses and set them in front of Thompson, who smoked a cigarette, hidden by the smoke.

They had a drink. Thompson studied the bottom of his glass for a moment, squinting through the smoke. “Why are you protecting him?”

Will snorted and poured himself another. “You’ve got it all wrong, man.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of Danny?” Will laughed. “Of course. But you still got it all wrong. I ain’t afraid of what Danny does, man, I’m afraid of what he tries not to do.”

Thompson just stared.

“More specifically,” Will said, leaning back. “I’m afraid one of these days he’s going to lose control.”

“You’re giving up all my secrets, Will.”

They both looked up. Eggert exhaled a huge amount of smoke around them, Thompson broke out into a sweat.

“Oh shit,” Will muttered.

“Go on, Will,” Eggert said. “Let us have a chat.”

Will stared at the floor as he slid out of the booth, and shuffled off to the bar. He pointedly didn’t look at either man.

Eggert took Will’s place and stared into the watery eyes of the cop who seemed to be smaller every time they met. He put a smile an his face that Thompson didn’t return.

“I want to make a full confession,” Eggert said. He studied his cigarette. Thompson waited, holding his breath and feeling trickles of sweat make their way down the back of his neck.

“I’ve killed a lot of people, Detective Thompson.”

Thompson wanted a cigarette very badly, but couldn’t open his mouth.

“But,” Eggert went on slowly, “not, as many as I could have.”

“Does that—”

“Yes it does!” Eggert shouted, pounding the table. “You’re goddamn right it does! You don’t know!” Pound, and people turned to stare. “You don’t see!” Pound, and Will hid his face in his hands. “You can’t understand!”

There was a resounding silence, then, an emptiness that left Thompson with the impression that he could hear the wind outside. And then Will’s voice, soft and hollow: “That’s it, folks, we’re closed.” Soft and hollow, but it cleared the place out. Thompson studied Eggert, who sat with his head down, letting his cigarette burn down. People walked past them, felt but unseen. When they had all left, Will hopped over the bar, threw the bolt on the door, and then sat again. Another moment of silence, and then Eggert caught Thompson’s eyes again, looking up suddenly. His eyes were wet, and red, unsteady.

“I want to burn the world, Detective,” he said quietly. “I want to set it all aflame and watch the world die. I live with these flames gnawing at me, demanding the world, the world twice over.” Slowly, his voice rose, and with it the temperature. “I could burn this city and not be satisfied! I could burn all the cities and just be getting started! It wants me to, it demands I do this! Every minute I don’t burn I fight, Detective Thompson!” He hung his head. “It wears you down. It’s so hard to fight your nature.”

This time, Thompson beat the silence. “And sometimes you can’t hold it.”

Eggert put another cigarette between his lips, and it lit with a puff of smoke. “If I fight it too long, it’ll burn me.”

Thompson shifted slightly forward, amazingly far for someone so small, Eggert thought. Softly, viciously, with a snarl of spit, he said “Let It burn you.”

Unnoticed, Will slumped forward in his seat.

Eggert found Thompson’s eyes and held them. “What?”

“You’re responsible for maybe more than sixty deaths.” Thompson growled. “Let it burn you.” The cop fought a strong urge to wipe the sweat from his eyes, and let it sting and burn.

Eggert smoked carefully, his eyes not leaving Thompson’s until he finally spat out a lungful of smoke and glanced down, snorting. “No, I’m too much of a—”

In a fluid motion, as if he’d been practicing it specifically for weeks, Thompson raised his gun level with Eggert’s chest and fired three times, the third shot sinking into the wall behind the younger man as he slid down, wetly.

Will moaned, but did not look up.

“We’re all damned, Mr. Eggert.” Thompson found himself shivering, the sweat suddenly clammy on his face.

They both waited for a while, expecting something to indicate what had just passed, what had been erased. Now Thompson was sure he could hear the wind, and the creak and sway of the settling building, too. He reached over and took one of Eggert’s cigarettes, putting it in his mouth but not lighting it.

Will stirred, looking around and wiping his face in his hands. “You want a drink?”

Thompson didn’t move. “Hell yes.”

Outside, it started to rain.