Serpent Feeds the Sun

Fantasy / 6600 words

PREFACE: A couple of years ago, I came across a blog post where it was clear the author was more concerned about how her social media “friends” would react to her posts than about her own children’s feelings. It was troubling, to say the least. And it prompted this story.

There is always light wherever he goes, that is the way he likes it.

People turn their heads when he passes. Some reach out to him, scream his name, or ask for his autograph.

There was a time when he enjoyed the attention.

A part of him still does, but it is no longer what he craves.

Would he have stepped away from his career, otherwise?

Al C. Quetz had once been the front-man of Serpent Star, a highly popular rock act of the previous decade. After growing a large following on social media, he had quit the band and released his debut solo album, “Serpent Feeds the Sun.” It had topped the charts around the world, growing his fanbase even further.

He had not released any more music since, though.

Instead, he spent all his time interacting with his followers. He loved to answer their messages and ask them questions, always encouraging them to share their lives on their own walls.

It’s not like he needed the money, either.

Not only did he still earn well from his back catalog, big brands often paid him handsomely to promote them on his feed.

No, money wasn’t an issue... nor had it ever been.

It had been a good day. Spent catching up with old friends—including his band’s former drummer. They’d had lunch together as they’d reminisced.

He was happy to be back home and alone, though. Here, he could be himself, away from prying eyes.

After pouring himself a whiskey, he sat at his computer and scanned through his private messages. Quite a few of them were from fans.

He spent the next few hours responding to every one of them. It was like a ritual for him now. And something he actually enjoyed and looked forward to doing.

It was getting dark, though. Time to call it a night.

As he was about to close his browser, a new message popped up, that simply read, in all caps: “WHAT’S THIS???” followed by a link.

Before he could click it, two other messages appeared, then another, and another... all of them with the same link and messages that ranged from surprise to anger.

He frowned as he clicked the link.

It opened a sound file and his throat tightened as he recognized his own voice.

“I wish they’d leave me alone,” he was saying. “It’s annoying to have them constantly asking me all those stupid questions. Like I could care about any of them. Do I look like I’m a therapist? Why do they all feel like they need to spill their guts out to me? I wish they’d all just leave me alone already...”

He stared at his screen in disbelief.

The title on the page read: “How Al C. Quetz really feels about his fans.”

Switching back to his messages, he found that a hundred and thirty-three new ones had come in, and it wasn’t stopping.

He checked all the social media he was on and saw that he was trending everywhere, but in the most horrible way possible.

There were some who questioned the authenticity of the recording, but too many believed it to be genuine and they were just poisoning the well.

Pulling himself together, he realized he had to say something. The more he waited, the worse things would get.

He typed a quick note that he posted on all of his feeds:

“That recording is a fake. I never said any of that stuff! Why would I? I love you guys. This is wrong. I don’t know who put that out, or why, but I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

And he meant every word, too. He really never had said any of that. Someone was messing with him and he would find out who.

He turned his computer off, annoyed to leave with so many unanswered messages, but it was dark now and he needed to sleep. He’d think more clearly in the morning.

When he walked out of his office and into the living room, he noticed a blind man browsing through his collection of vinyls. A large dog stood next to him.

“Hello Quetz,” said the blind man without looking up.

“Xol. What are you doing here?”

There was no surprise in the rocker’s voice. Just exhaustion.

The blind man pulled one of the records out and snorted. Quetz glanced over and saw it was a copy of his first solo album.

“I always wondered why you picked that moniker. Don’t you feel like it’s too glaringly obvious? And frankly, a bit lame, too.”

“It may seem obvious to you, but I assure you most people have no idea what it refers to.”

Xol put the vinyl down and turned to face Quetz.

“So you just hope for the best?”

“No. You assume I picked a name to hide behind it, but that never was my intention.”

“What, then?”

Quetz clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again.

The blind man shrugged and walked to the couch. The dog lay down at his feet.

“It’s been a long time. Just thought I’d check on my big brother.”

Despite being twins, the two men looked nothing alike.

Quetz had long black hair and a beard, and wore a leather jacket and jeans.

Xol had short white hair, was clean-shaven, and wore a black suit.

One thing they did have in common though was the necklaces around their necks, both with a crystal pendant in the shape of a conch shell.

“I appreciate the thought, but you know I don’t like to be up late...”

“Which is why we rarely see each other anymore,” remarked his brother.

There was some truth to that, as Xol was more of a night creature... in more ways than one.

“I can spare a few minutes, but no more,” said the singer with a resigned sigh. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No need. I have my flask,” said the blind man, tapping on his suit’s pocket.

The dark glasses he wore reflected Quetz’s face as he sat down across from him.

“So... what is this really about?”

“I think someone is trying to kill me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Why would you think someone’s trying to kill you?”

The dog lifted its head and stared at Quetz and growled. Xol leaned down to pet it, humming softly. “It’s alright, Aghar.”

It’s not like it was the first time they’d met.

“What’s up with him?”

“He’s been nervous ever since the first attempt.”

“There has been more than one?”

“Five so far. And that is why I think someone’s after me.”

“Wait... why are you not sure if there have been so many attempts?”

“Any one of them could have been a coincidence. But five is a bit much.”

“Tell me about them.”

“The first time, I was crossing the street, and a car ran me over. He just kept going. After that, I walked into an empty elevator shaft. Then... let’s see... I think number three was the neon sign... from an antiquity shop I had been in for an hour. When I walked out, it fell on me. Hurt like hell, too.”

Quetz was growing increasingly uncomfortable as his brother listed all the incidents. Could someone be coming after them both? But then why not try to kill him as well?

“There was also this fire at the movie theater... that’s the only one I got out of unscathed, by the way.”

“You went to a movie theater?” asked the rocker with a quirked brow.

Xol smiled. “I enjoy hearing the soundtrack.”

“That’s four.”

“The last incident was just an hour ago, after I decided to come see you. That was perhaps the weirdest... because, well, it really shouldn’t have happened at all. I was... mugged.” He sounded offended by the mere thought. “Me! Can you imagine? They even stabbed me, too.”

He pulled his vest open and Quetz saw the dried blood on the torn shirt, though the skin underneath was fully healed by now.

“Are the muggers okay?”

Xol’s jaw dropped. “You can’t seriously be asking me that!”

“You’re right. Forgive me, brother. I am tired and not thinking straight.”

“I broke their necks, of course,” said the blind man with a frown. “Was the least I could do.”

Quetz remained quiet for a moment as he pondered all this information.

“Why tell me all this?” he finally asked.

“Should I not have?”

“I just wonder...”

“One or two of these I could chalk up to coincidences. But after the third, I started asking myself some serious questions. After this last one, I’m near positive someone wants me dead. What I want to know is if anyone’s come after you too?”

The rocker grimaced. “Well...”

“They have!”

“Not in the same fashion, but yes.”

“What do you mean?”

Quetz brought out his cell phone, pulled up his account—noticed that his inbox had now been flooded with over a thousand private messages—and clicked on the link. He played the sound file for his brother and waited for his reaction.

“And I’m assuming you never said any of that?”

“Of course not.”

“So... someone’s trying to discredit you in the eyes of your fans, is that it?”

“Looks that way.”

“I don’t understand why you spend so much time with all this nonsense, anyway... Is the blood spilled daily around the world not enough to feed the light?”

“It’s a more humane way to do it. There is no good in our people, but humans are different. One day, they will be done with all these wars...”

Xol snorted. “You have spent too much time in the sun, my brother. You would not be so naïve had you dwelt in the darkness as I have, or seen the things that I have seen. Humans are no better than us... it may even be that they are worse.”

“You do not know them as I do,” said Quetz, sounding somewhat miffed. “Or have you forgotten that they are my children?”

“And yet, it is I who walks with them in their darkest hours. That gives me a perspective that you lack.”

“Perhaps. But what it does not do is solve our little quandary.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know about you,” said Quetz as he stood, “but I’m going to bed.”

He went up the stairs without a look back at his brother.

***

When he came down the next morning, Xol was gone. Not that he had expected anything different. His brother preferred to dwell in the darkness.

After taking a frugal breakfast, he sat at his computer to assess the extent of the damage.

His mailboxes had overflown on every platform he was on. There was no way he’d ever be able to answer everyone, and that—more than anything else—annoyed him.

At least, until he noticed the significant dip in his followers.

He’d had over two million before this disaster. He now was down at a million and a half.

Scanning through his wall revealed a lot of angry messages.

Despite his attempt at calming folks down, things had festered while he slept, with many trolls chiming in to mock him, call him a liar, and other such niceties.

At least no one had doxed him... yet.

With a groan, he typed another announcement.

“Guys, this is all an elaborate hoax. The recording is fake. Don’t let it fool you. I am investigating this. Whoever is responsible will face severe consequences, I promise you.”

As he sent that out, he considered his options.

It would be pointless calling the police at this stage. There had been no law-breaking, technically, at least none that could yet be proven. Which only really left him with two things that he could do.

When you lived as long as he had, you picked up quite a few tricks. He’d had plenty of time to learn the workings of modern technology—had even, in his own way, contributed to its birth.

He pulled up the audio recording and saved it to his hard drive. He then ran it through a digital authentication software. This would help him identify the source and identity of the voice—it had to be someone imitating him.

While the software ran in the background, he started looking up information on the domain that hosted the recording. It was the only thing up on there, so it obviously had been set up specifically for this purpose.

The IP address was no help, though, as it pointed to an ISP that would not release client information without a warrant.

Quetz pulled up the whois data linked to the domain. With a bit of luck, the owner wouldn’t have obfuscated that...

He obtained an email address, a phone number, and a physical address in New York, along with a name: Jonas Jones.

A google search on the name brought up too many hits to be useful.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

After a few rings, someone answered.

“Hello?”

“Mister Jones?”

“Who’s this?”

“My name is Al Quetz. I wanted—”

“That doesn’t sound like a real name.” There was suspicion in the voice. “Who are you?”

The rocker blinked. He was not used to being asked that. Let alone being called out on his moniker.

“I’m an artist. But someone has posted a fake recording of my voice—”

“How did you get this number?” interrupted Jones.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you work for the government?”

“No. As I said, I’m an artist and—”

“Stop spying on me!” screamed the man on the phone. “I never allowed this, you hear? I forbid you to conduct any further experiments on me! Is that clear?”

Jones hung up.

Quetz stared at his phone.

What the heck had just happened?

He went back to his computer. The voice analysis wasn’t done yet, so he checked his accounts. He had lost another twenty thousand followers. This was not good.

What could he do?

Well, if the name alone wasn’t enough to provide relevant information, maybe adding the man’s address would get him better results.

It did.

What he found was disturbing, though not quite helpful.

Jonas Jones had been in and out of various mental institutions in the past two decades. There were frequent complaints about him from his neighbors. He lived alone, and his only known relative was an estranged older sister.

More importantly, the man did not appear to have any computer skills—something that would have been required not only to set up the website but also to alter the recording.

A notification popped up on his screen, letting him know the voice analysis was over.

He stared at the results in disbelief.

According to the report, there had been no alterations.

Plus, it definitely was his voice.

How was this possible?

***

While out running errands, Quetz pondered on his findings.

He didn’t have much, but what he did have was more puzzling and worrisome than helpful.

Most of all, he did not like the implications, as this all hinted at supernatural tampering... nothing else could explain the voice that was his, and yet was not.

Someone was out to get him... And Xolotl, too, he reminded himself.

As he got back into his car and drove out of the parking lot, he saw a billboard that made him frown.

“Be free, be happy, be yourself! Say no to social media,” it read.

What the heck?

On his way home, he noticed more of those, though the wording would vary:

“Don’t want any more junk mail? Say no to social media.”

“Tired? Stressed out? Unhappy? Say no to social media.”

“Don’t want others to poke their noses in your lives? Say no to social media.”

By the time he parked in his driveway, the wind was blowing hard. He was in a foul mood.

What was all that about?

This had turned into a full-frontal attack.

But who could be so daring?

It had to be someone with intimate knowledge of his identity and plans.

Which meant it could be pretty much anyone of his kin.

He did not like that at all.

They should know better than to upset him.

What were they hoping to achieve?

He switched the TV on and turned the sound down—he just wanted some background noise to keep him from thinking too much about this. He knew that would just anger him further.

When he sat at the computer, he didn’t even bother to check his accounts—what was the point? He knew more followers would have dropped off, and that too would enrage him.

He could hear the wind howling outside his window. The world did not need the kind of storm that was brewing in his head. He needed to calm down.

The words “social media” caught his ear, and he turned to his screen. The news anchor—a long-haired African-American woman—was interviewing a scientist who looked quite agitated.

Quetz turned the volume up.

“... unacceptable! How much longer will we have to put up with this nonsense? The amount of disinformation that spouts from these mediums, on a daily basis, is simply astounding! And we just sit by and smile and say nothing. No more!”

“And yet, professor, this is not the first incident. There have been many other times when private organizations have used these social platforms—”

“But that’s my point!”

“—to spread messages that were later debunked as lies... You can’t seriously hold the sites accountable for what their users say?”

“Why the hell not?”

“There is such a thing as free speech, you know...”

“Oh please! Free speech! We know that’s a vast farce. The truth of the matter is that they decide what is allowed or not. Besides, they’re in their right to do so. Let’s not forget that free speech is about not letting the government control what we say. We’re talking about private companies. They are in no way required to let anyone say anything they want. Nor should they.”

“Thank you for your insight on this matter, professor Crane.” The woman turned to face the camera. “We will, of course, keep you updated as the story develops. Please stay tuned. We’ll be back after this short break.”

He was about to turn the sound down again when the first commercial made him pause.

It was from the same organization as the billboards he’d seen in the streets.

“Do you feel stressed? Do you worry about what others think about your hairstyle, the clothes you wear, or whether that last thing you posted sounded smart enough?”

The words were accompanied by images of individuals of different backgrounds, ethnicity, and genders looking worried as they looked at their smartphones or computer screens.

“Why put yourself through the strain?” continued the voice-over. “Say no to social media! Break free from your bonds and learn to live life the way it was intended to be lived. Enjoy the sunset, spend time with your family and friends—the real ones, not strangers on the other side of your screen. Be free, be happy, be yourself!”

The same people were shown tossing their devices into the trash and going outdoors, walking through peaceful and beautiful landscapes, or having fun with other smiling individuals.

“This message was paid for by the Carmichael Committee.”

Quetz squinted at the screen.

Outside, thunder roared and rain started to fall.

***

The rest of the day had gone little better.

He had moved to his couch and spent hours zapping through all the networks. There were numerous reports, all coming out at the same time—as if the defamatory ad campaign had let the cat out of the bag—of various social platforms entangled in shady business.

In one case, private user data had been sold to a political organization. In another, a repeated male sex offender had been caught posing as a young woman to “make friends.” Then there were the terrorist apologists, the conspiracy nuts, and the white supremacists...

It was a bit much for just one day.

And definitely not a coincidence.

That much was certain.

To top it off, the Carmichael Committee was running ads everywhere—television, radio, internet... he even saw full-page promotions in print magazines, in addition to the giant billboards all around town.

Full frontal attack indeed!

And he still had no clue who the enemy was.

All this was dredging up tired questions about privacy, free speech, abuses, and other related dangers... all topics he would have preferred kept at a minimum level of exposure.

There was truth in all of that, of course. But it was a small price to pay for all these things that humans took for granted.

Enjoy the sun!

How ironic.

There would be no sun, were it not for social media.

But perhaps they would rather go back to those more barbaric days of human sacrifices?

It would be so much easier to do it that way...

It was tempting.

Historians and archaeologists thought it had been about the blood, but they had that wrong. It was about the lives that were sacrificed.

Why would blood need to be poured, now, when people would willingly spill every little detail of their lives on social media? It had, for some, become such an obsession that it devoured their lives... Not everyone, of course, but enough to keep the sun bright in the sky.

If this attack kept going, it could do some significant damage.

Maybe Xol was right and he should have opted for wars instead. There would always be blood spilled on the fields...

Despite what he had told his brother, deep inside he knew the wars were not likely to ever stop. That did not mean he had to like it, or condone it.

He had never approved of the human sacrifices.

Technology had given him an alternative.

He turned the TV off and went back to his computer.

This had to stop.

A google search brought up information on the Carmichael Committee.

He stared at their address.

It was the same as Jonas Jones’.

***

It would be a long drive to New York, but this was his only lead.

The sky was clear, the sun shone bright, it was overall a pleasant day.

His anger had settled—or, at least, simmered.

He had tried to call Jones again, but the man was not picking up anymore. He had gone straight to voice mail.

“If you know me, leave me a message. If you don’t, why are you calling? Stop pestering me! Oh, and if you work for a government agency, go screw yourself!”

Lovely.

He listened to music for the first hour, then switched to a talk show.

At one point, they started discussing social media.

Quetz considered switching station, but decided to wait a bit. He couldn’t help feeling curious about how people would react to this whole mess.

“I don’t know what I’d do without my wall,” said a man’s voice. “I don’t care what anyone says. Sure, it’s not perfect... but perfection isn’t what I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” asked the show’s host.

“Connection. Understanding. Information. Stuff like that...”

“Understanding? Are you sure you don’t mean approval?”

“I suppose you could call it that,” answered the man, sounding somewhat embarrassed. “But the reality is that without these websites, I would be totally cut off from the world.”

“You can’t mean that...”

“I do! I live in a big city, but I don’t really have any friends. Not anywhere near me, anyway. I don’t get along with my neighbors, and my family lives in California. This is how I stay in touch with them. You can’t take that away from me!”

“Well I deleted all my accounts and I’m much happier now!” said a woman’s voice.

Quetz cringed.

“Tell us your story, Sarah. It’s a fascinating one.”

“The Carmichael Committee opened my eyes. I needed that. I hadn’t realized the degree to which I had become obsessed with these platforms. To the point that I would worry more about what my online friends thought than how my kids felt. I told my followers everything about my life. So every time I had a choice to make, I would always consider first how they would react... Would buying this dress earn me more likes? If I told my son that I was proud of him for coming out as gay, would I be ostracized?”

Something was off, he realized, without immediately being able to identify the source of his discomfort. Then it struck him that the lighting had dimmed.

He looked up through the windshield, but there were no dark clouds and the sun was still shining... just not quite as brightly as it should have.

“You were right on,” continued Sarah, “when you mentioned approval. That’s exactly what my life was about. I sought approval and popularity... this not only affected me but also everyone around me. I was miserable without even realizing it... or if I did, I had no idea why. I’d think I wasn’t wearing the right clothes, or dating the right guy, or reading the right book—”

“Always placing the blame elsewhere.”

“Exactly. When, in reality—”

The rocker switched the radio off.

Things were looking grim, but that didn’t mean he had to put up with this torture.

He slid in a CD and turned the music up loud.

***

The address led him to a Victorian house in the Kensington neighborhood in Brooklyn.

There was a “no dog allowed” sign on the lawn and a black Crown Vic parked in the driveway.

It was almost noon when he rang the bell and waited.

The man who opened the door had long white hair, an unkempt beard, a patch on his right eye, and smelled like he hadn’t showered in a week.

“What? Who are you? What is it? What you want?”

All the words came tumbling out of his mouth in a quick flow, as if he were in a hurry—or possibly worried about something.

Quetz had given this a lot of thought during his driving and had decided to go with a different, less truthful approach.

“My name is John Andrews. I’m a journalist. Was wondering if you’d be willing to answer a few questions?”

“You with the police?”

“No, not at all, I—”

“Then why you want to ask questions? What are you hiding?”

“Are you with the police?”

That caught Jones off guard. He blinked. “What?”

“Well, you’re asking an awful lot more questions than I am. Seems very fishy to me.”

The older man stared at him, then squinted. “I bet you it’s those damn government experiments.” He smacked his hand hard against the side of his head, twice, as if trying to dislodge something stuck in his ear—or maybe in his brain. “They must have put some device in to control me, make me say stuff... GAH!”

As the man screamed he turned and walked away from the door, though he left it wide open. So Quetz walked in and closed it behind him.

The room he’d stepped in was a mess. There were books and sheets of paper all over the place, with heaps of clothes strewn across the floor, along with half-eaten pizzas and half-empty bottles—some of them having spilled their contents on the stained carpet. It smelled stale and damp.

Jones suddenly turned to face him again.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

Quetz wondered all of a sudden what he was doing here. This man clearly had no idea who he was and could not possibly have had anything to do with the recording, let alone the Carmichael Committee. He had been used as a pawn... but by who? Getting answers out of him might prove difficult.

“Have you ever heard of a Carmichael?”

“Is that a government official?” asked Jones suspiciously.

“No, not at all. It’s the last person who came to see you.”

The man ran to the windows and looked through each of them, almost in a panic. “You don’t have a dog do you?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

“Good, good, those creatures will bite your head off if you’re not careful.”

“Mr. Jones—”

The man spun around and waved an accusing finger at him.

“How do you know my name? You’re working for them, aren’t you?”

“You told me your name yourself when I arrived, Mr. Jones.”

That was a lie, of course, but it worked.

The man frowned. “I did? I did, didn’t I... oh my.”

He walked past Quetz and into the kitchen, started going through his cupboards, throwing boxes out onto the floor, as if he was searching for something, while mumbling in his beard.

“Do you remember what he looked like?” tried Quetz.

“Who?” asked a distracted Jones as he continued rummaging through his kitchen.

“The last person who visited you.”

“Aha!” shouted the man as he retrieved a box of Oreo’s and brought it back with him. He offered it to his visitor with a big grin on his face.

“Hmm, thanks, but I’m not hungry right now.”

Jones looked disappointed but Quetz ignored it.

“So what can you tell me about him?” he insisted.

“I don’t know,” mumbled the old man, “I can’t remember.”

The rock star was growing tired of this circus. Maybe he could jog the man’s memory... it’s not like anyone would believe the guy anyway.

So he started to glow.

“Was he anything like me?”

Jones recoiled and lifted an arm across his eyes.

“No! Please! No more experiments!”

That was a disturbing reaction.

Quetz resumed his normal appearance and turned to leave. This was all pointless. He wouldn’t get anything useful out of this human wreck.

“I said no dogs! Bad Aghar, bad!”

The former singer froze, with a knot in his stomach.

He turned to face the old man again, who was now curled up on the floor.

“What did you just say?”

***

There are creatures that hide in the night—waiting in the closet, or under the bed. They cannot be seen by humans, though they can be heard or sensed.

That tingling feeling on the back of your neck; that soft breeze that blows against your skin, even though there is no wind; that knot in your stomach when you’re alone in the dark, but something doesn’t feel quite right... It is not your imagination. There are monsters.

And the monsters have a father.

He, too, lurks in the dark. Watching, waiting. He does not care for humans, only for his children... and their victims.

It is his duty, after all, to guide the dead into the afterworld.

For millions of years, he has shunned the light and obeyed the laws of his people...

But now, Xolotl is tired of the darkness.

***

His twin’s lair was a dark place, deep underground—a former subway station that had been closed down years ago.

Quetz had only been there once before, but he remembered it well. It still reeked of sewer dumps and rat excrements. And, just like before, he wondered how his brother could stand living in such a cesspool.

It was not night yet when he arrived, though the sun had dimmed even more—not enough for humans to notice it yet, but enough to be alarming. He knew his brother would not come out until later, but he needed to see him now.

Besides, it was not like Xol had minded to disturb him in his own home, so why should he not reciprocate?

It would not have been difficult for Xol to reproduce his brother’s voice. They were similar enough as it was, though any god could easily change how they sounded. But what Quetz couldn’t figure out was why his twin would do this?

He banged on the large metallic door for ten long minutes before it finally opened.

“Why all the commotion?” asked an annoyed-looking Xol. He had not put his glasses on, and his empty sockets bore directly into his brother’s eyes. It was not the first time this had happened, but it always was an eerie feeling.

“You’ve got some explaining to do! That’s why,” said the rock star as he pushed his brother aside and barged into the improvised home.

The father of monsters closed the door and smiled. “Do I now?”

“I know what you’ve been up to! You’re the one who made that recording and launched that ridiculous ad campaign...”

The smirk did not leave Xol’s lips as he stepped into his kitchen and poured them both some mescal, just as easily as if he’d had his sight.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it ridiculous.”

The dog Aghar came into the room, then, and sniffed at the rocker’s legs—who decided to ignore it.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

Xol shrugged. “I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later. Though I have to admit you were quicker than I had expected.”

“Why would you do this to me?”

“Not everything is about you, brother. In fact, in this case, it’s all about me.” He came out of the kitchen and handed Quetz his glass. “Here. Something to remind us of the good old days.”

The rocker knocked the glass out of his brother’s hand and it shattered against the floor.

“I am losing patience! Explain yourself.”

Xol sat on a chair and sighed. “You’ve always been so over-dramatic about everything, brother. It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything. We’ve already been through this four times, after all. What’s another end of the world?”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” snapped Xol, “I’m tired, that’s what I am! Do you know what it’s like to constantly live in the darkness? To never see the light? To only have a dog and monsters for companions? No, of course you don’t, how could you?”

“You are mad!”

Xol laughed. “Maybe I am. It doesn’t matter. I’ll soon have my turn at being the sun. The sixth one shall be the most glorious of all. I will shine like a beacon, and my monsters shall become creatures of light and beauty.”

“You would destroy this world to satisfy your petty ego?”

“What has this world ever done for me? Why should I care? All I do is take the dead by the hand and lead them to the underworld. Let someone else do that. In fact, I think you should for a change. See how you like it.”

“And all that talk about someone trying to kill you?”

“Just drawing attention away from me while trying to slow you down.”

“But you had blood on your shirt!”

“Oh please!” he laughed. “That was cherry sauce from a pie I’d eaten earlier... You can be so gullible, sometimes.”

“I won’t let you do this...”

“No? And what are you going to do exactly? Haven’t you noticed that it’s already too late? The fifth sun is dying.”

“I’ll stop it!”

Quetz ran out of his brother’s lair and back up.

He needed to act before sunset.

When he reached the surface, he thought for a second that he was too late, because it was so much darker. But then he realized the sun was still up, though it had dimmed to a point where it barely shone.

All around it, stars were glinting brightly, dangerously, and it sent shivers down his spine.

The tzitzimimeh were converging and preparing to strike.

He heard laughter behind him and turned to see his brother had also come up, followed by the dog.

“I told you it was too late. There are no longer enough sacrifices to your social media heresy... you can’t say I didn’t warn you, though. You should have gone with wars.”

The wind started to rise.

“You are wrong about the humans. They will flock back to the networks, given time.”

“Maybe,” shrugged Xol. “But it’d be too late. This world will be destroyed before they get a chance.”

Quetz stared back at the sky. New stars were popping up, closer and closer to the sun, brighter and brighter... while the sun itself faded.

“You forget who I am,” hissed Quetz between his teeth, his words carried by the wind. “You forget what I am capable of. You forget what I once was.”

He spread out his arms and arched his head back, and his entire body began to glow.

“Don’t be a fool!” called out Xol angrily. “All you’d do is delay the inevitable and exhaust yourself in the process.”

The winds were blowing hard now, and though he heard his brother, Quetz paid him no heed.

The brightness that bathed him grew. It became so blinding, that even the blind Xol had to turn away. He did not see the light, but he felt it, deep inside of him. It was warm and blinding in ways that only a blind man could feel.

Then, all of a sudden, the light burst out and shot upward toward the sun. It hit the astral body with such strength that there was an explosion and the stars that had crowded around it were literally blown out of the sky.

By the time the particles of light had settled, the sun’s brightness had returned to normal and the surrounding stars had disappeared.

The wind, too, had calmed down. All that was left of it was a cool breeze.

Quetz sat on the ground, breathing heavily.

The dog came up to him and sniffed at his arms.

“Look at yourself!” yelled Xol. “How long do you think you can do this? Your precious humans will not start sacrificing themselves again overnight.”

“Enough!” shouted Quetz, glaring at his twin. “I will do this every single day if I have to, and as long as I need to. You will not cross me on this again. Do you hear?”

“The world has ended four times already, for crying out loud! Why can’t you let it go?”

Quetz rose and walked up to his brother. He stopped within inches of him.

“I said,” he repeated slowly, “you will not cross me again. Do you hear?”

Xol turned his head away and nodded slightly. “I hear you.”

The former rock star stared for a moment at his twin. Then, without another word, he spun and walked away.

He was going to need a good night’s sleep.

***

The next day, Al C. Quetz granted an interview to the largest online rock review site—his first in a decade.

He addressed the voice recording, said it was “fake news,” a recording created by a group of anti-rock fanatics associated with the Carmichael Committee. He pointed out that all of it was linked to an address in Brooklyn that belonged to a private citizen, not a business, that it was all a front to discredit him and the platforms he used. He pointed out that this also made it an attack against his fans and followers, which was unacceptable.

But what everyone really remembered from the exchange was the announcement he made at the end.

He had started recording his second solo album.

People flocked back to social media to discuss this incredible news.

By the end of the week, his followers had increased to three million.

Want to read more of my Science-Fiction stories? Check out these titles, if you haven’t already:

• Everlife – Chapter 1 (the opening to my debut novel—a Science-Fantasy adventure)

• To Mourn the Stars (a spy story set in a dying universe)

If you enjoyed this story, please feel free to forward it to your friends or to share it on social media.

And don’t forget to like by clicking the little heart below this post ;)

Thank you!

—

Text (c) 2022 by Alex S. Garcia.

Header: royalty-free stock images, edited by me.

—

Want to read more free stuff?

Sign up to Refind for a large selection of nonfiction (and some fiction.)

For genre stories, click on the banner below.