By J. Robert King
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Additional resources for Angel of Death
He turns to his bride and sees only the sheared away edge of the car and the cracked piling that now brushes his right arm. He blinks, uncomprehending at first, and looks into the back seat, as if she will be sitting there. Gone. Folded away in metal and plastic. He turns forward again and watches the cars and their firefly lights. One of his mantis hands lifts to the horn and honks it twice, a bleating sound. He begins to pick glass out of his body, tossing the bloody fragments out onto what is left of the hood.
Nor is the shoulder dislocation, already swelling beneath a strained strap. Nor is the bleeding band of his forehead where it crunched against the steering wheel. But he will die tonight. He is not strong enough to survive this. The planet has been destroyed, and the asteroid flies free again, pelting toward a sun that waits, fiery and voracious, ten or twelve hours ahead. (I would not have done it the other way. The bride would not have committed suicide. Even had she tried, her own elemental flesh could not slay itself.
The oblivious semi roars onward. In the empty windshield space, the next vehicles slow. Emergency lights begin flashing like mournful fireflies. January bites cold against the man’s hot red belly. The rumble of traffic slows, like the sudden reverent hush that comes to a crowd when something has gone terribly wrong. He has often thought that a fatal accident should stop traffic: human death should never occur conveniently or unobtrusively. A man after my own heart. “That was… close,” he says hoarsely, realizing only then that he has screamed his throat raw.