BY NATHAN WILLIS
There is a radio station that broadcasts the herd’s movement. It produces beeps at different tempos and tones to indicate speed and direction. Paul started tracking the herd when I was born. He’s been doing it for so long now, that when the herd moves, he feels it in his body. It’s not pleasant but it’s not something he can change. He still listens to the radio to remind himself that he isn’t alone.
When the herd got close, Paul said his chest turned into a churning black hole. They were spotted at the mall and spent a few days grazing the parking lot. After that, his chest went back to normal and the beeps stopped. Something was wrong.
Paul pointed to a scar on his throat. The one that’s round like a burn. “Here,” he said. “They’re right here. We have to go check on them.”
Their bodies were piled in front of the monument. We didn’t know they were Father suits until we carried one home, cut it open and climbed inside.
Paul wore it first. Then we came up with a schedule and took turns, wearing it on alternating days.
The monument is a raised concrete disc of colosseum seating built around an unexploded bomb. The bomb is a cylinder of soft metal. It was dropped here in the last war. When the fighting ended, the bomb was decommissioned and made into an attraction for people to see and touch for themselves.
There is a display at the entrance that illustrates how things could have gone; how much land would have been destroyed, how many people would have been killed, and the types of injuries that would have been suffered by survivors. There is a chart detailing how long it would take for life to get back to normal. We aren’t even halfway there yet.
The body pile got smaller and we started to see more Father suits around. There were Mother suits, too. They ate in restaurants, shopped at the grocery stores, and sat in our classes at school. Most people didn’t take care of the suits and it wasn’t long before they began to rot and fall apart. They wore them until all that was left were the head and hands. Then just the hands. Then a patch of skin shoved in a pocket and carried around each day.
By the time we graduated, the only other people with an intact suit were two sisters, Elaine and Erin. They were like us only they had a Mother suit. We paired off and got married; Paul with the older sister and myself with the younger.
No one ever asks about our mother. I still try to prepare myself in case someone does. Whenever I’m alone with a mirror, I ask my reflection, “What happened to her? Why did she leave? Is she ever coming back?” Then I wait as long as I can to give myself an answer. So far, I haven’t been able to wait long enough.
The radio station changes format. It now broadcasts listener theories about what happened to the herd. Most involve a sudden illness. Strangers are eager to clear the herd of any blame. Elaine has a theory but she won’t say what it is unless she’s on the air and none of us know how to contact the station.
Paul and Elaine want children. They have been trying for a while. They think the suits are part of the problem; that something in the hides or coats is being absorbed. They’re afraid it could be airborne. They had already made coffins and sealed the suits inside when they told us. We helped load them into their attic where they’ll stay until the kids start asking questions. Then we’ll bring them back down, remove the suits and drive them to the dump or Goodwill or the natural history museum. Whatever is most appropriate at the time.
I dream about the herd. I watch it migrate from one place to another. By observing, I am also a participant. I try to break away, but can’t. When I leave, something inside of me beeps and wherever I go, the herd follows. Erin is having the same dream. We agree that it’s time to make our own suits.
We watch videos online to learn how to work with leather, felt, how to sew, and the many uses of Mod Podge. We make a suit for each of us. Then we make a set of spares. We keep them in the storage room in case Paul and Elaine come over. We make suits for all of the family we want or miss. We don’t stop until the storage room is full. Then we make one more. A Baby suit. We construct a nursery in the attic. Whenever we get home from seeing Paul and Elaine, we take turns going up there and holding the Baby suit until we’re certain she would be asleep.
Paul’s chest is a churning black hole, again. He and Elaine know something is going on. They’re asking questions.
In the middle of the night, we take the suits to the monument. We sit them in the stands, mouths agape, staring at the bomb, waiting for it to explode. The only one we keep is the Baby suit.
The dream changes. We are no longer in the herd. We learn that we have been Husband and Wife suits this whole time and if we take them off, there will be something else inside. Something exciting. We pore over each other looking for seams. We try to pull each other apart until we wake up.
Elaine spends the time when she is alone in front of a mirror. She sees the Mother suit in the reflection. She asks it if she will ever be pregnant and how long it would take for everyone to forget how hard they tried.
The Mother suit tells her to be strong and put on a brave face. She caresses Elaine’s cheek. For the first time, this feels dismissive. Elaine puts her hand to her face and nods.
Paul finds a doctor to treat the black hole but there are side effects. He can no longer eat root vegetables and always feels like he’s knee-deep in ice water. He says that it’s bearable. He says that he can live like this.
We take the Baby suit down from the attic and spend a day treating her like a real baby. We even give her a name. Then we spend another day and another day after that. We go through a whole process in order to say goodbye. We take her to the monument to leave her in the arms of our Mother and Father suits but they aren’t there. None of them are. The monument is empty. The bomb isn’t even there anymore.
Erin holds the Baby suit tight against her chest and says, “What are we supposed to do now?”
The radio broadcast cuts off. There is static. Silence. Then a beep. Then another. The beeps increase to a steady pace. It sounds like a heartbeat. It sounds like running.
Nathan Willis is a writer from Ohio. His stories have appeared in various literary journals including Little Fiction, Jellyfish Review, X-R-A-Y Literary, JMWW, and Atlas & Alice. He can be found online at nathan-willis.com and on Twitter at @nathan1280.