In the Shadow of Bones
by

Robert A. Metzger

Third Metacarpal – Right Hand
Day 1

 The sun hung low, just floating above a sea that looked like chocolate
syrup.

“This isn’t necessary, Rick.”

 I moved slowly cautiously, sliding one foot forward at a time, working my
way across a greasy plank. Winter storms had transformed the Santa
Monica pier into a pile of splintered wood and twisted steel girders that
now tumbled into the dark water. I sat down on the sheared end of
rusted steel beam and let my soot-caked boots dangle out over the dead
sea.

“You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe me a thing.”

 Hovering above my head in the warm breeze, sludge-stained gulls cried,
searching for fish, but not willing to get near the water. They were
survivors, smart enough not to join the other rotting corpses that were
being battered about in the dark frothy surf.

 I popped the straps of my backpack, and then hung the bundle from a
bent rod that protruded from a shard of concrete. The pack felt far too
light, but then I reminded myself that Nicky had only been twelve and, of
course, small for his age.

“Just throw the whole pack in, Rick.”

 A distorted red sun, flecked black by passing clouds, now rested on the
dark Pacific. Not a single ship was out there. Not a single white sail
appeared from over the horizon – and none was likely to. Peeling back
velcro straps, I reached into the backpack and pulled out Nicky’s list.
Like everything else in the world, it was coated with ash.

“Santa Monica pier, California” I read aloud.

“Just forget me, Rick.”

 It was Nicky’s last list. He had updated it almost daily: adding,
changing, deleting. Twelve pages long, and with more than a thousand
entries, it listed all the places he’d go, all the things he’d see. Nicky
had wanted to stand atop the Eiffel Tower, tough the weather-roughened
front paw of the Sphinx, read the original Constitution, cross the
Australian outback to reach Ayers Rock, drift down the Ganges in a
rainbow-colored barge, and even watch the Earth spin by as he floated in
the Hilton lobby of the Low Earth One. And I had promised to take him.
I had made that promise almost as often as he had updated his list.
And Nicky, always smiling, his eyes always trusting, would just rock
back and forth in his wheelchair and dream of the day we’d visit all those
places. For him, it was his only reason for being, while for me, it was a
game, a game I played with a sick little brother who I knew could barely
survive a drive to the corner vid store. I played the game until the day he
died; until the day they all died.

 “We’ve finally started,” I said, and pulling out a stub of pencil from my
shirt pocket, I crossed out the entry for the Santa Monica Pier.
Refolding the list carefully, I stuffed it back into the pack. But before I
removed my hand, I grabbed onto something hard, something that felt
gritty and chalk-like. When I pulled that something out, I found myself
holding a third metacarpal from the right hand. In bright red paint,