But one left to mourn

THRILLERS remind us that we and everything we know can end. Classic thrillers give this prediction an oversimplified face: the Evil Empire, terrorism, the Andromeda strain -- something we can look at instead of the truth, which is that human consciousness is fragile. Most thrillers scare, then soothe. Kevin Brockmeier’s “The Brief History of the Dead” strips the thriller to its bones, presenting the end of humanity undiluted, without any comforting distractions.

The book takes place in two worlds: “the city,” where people go after they die, and the life of the lone survivor of an Antarctic expedition. Laura Byrd is the last member of a three-person team sent by Coca-Cola to “study” the use of the melting ice cap for soft drinks. It’s publicity masquerading as science: Coca-Cola’s already planned the ad campaign.

The city is where the dead stay until no one on Earth remembers them. At least that’s the commonly held theory; the dead aren’t completely sure. “The living carry us inside them like pearls,” theorizes Luka Sims, Laura’s old journalism professor and former lover, now deceased and editing the city’s newspaper, the L. Sims News & Speculation Sheet. The dead arrive, stay for 60 or 70 years, then disappear. No one knows where they go. Otherwise, the city is a normal city, complete with cabs and coffee shops.

It’s not heaven; the garbage trucks blast in the morning. It’s not hell; there are too many “dogwood trees and perfect blue days.” It has parks and bakeries, greedy children, churches and a crazy sign-carrying man. People there say normal things, like “What time are we supposed to be at your mother’s? ... Sixish, I think we said.” Back in Antarctica, Laura is left alone at the Coca-Cola research hut. The satellite antenna is broken, and her two colleagues have set out to find the emperor penguin research station. They never return. Laura sledges out to the penguin station and finds it empty. She sifts through the personal belongings of the former inhabitants -- music players, Disney figurines, stashes of marijuana, a Bible -- trying to figure out what happened. A newspaper clipping tucked in a bottom drawer describes the killer virus. A colleague’s journal and a roster tell her that the regular humps she finds in the snow are graves.

In the city, Luka interviews the newly dead about the virus, which is probably man-made and is called “the blinks.” Thousands upon thousands of its victims are arriving, and instead of staying for decades they disappear in days, even hours. The entire population of a Pacific island appears one day, congregates at the top of a parking garage and disappears in an afternoon. The city is suddenly a sieve. It empties faster than it fills; Laura is the one commonality among the people who are left.

Laura decides to head out for another penguin station, as the journal reports that her colleagues did, to try the radio there. She wants to see whether there’s anyone else left alive on Earth. Meanwhile, her parents, newly arrived in the city, rediscover their love. Luka becomes the lover of Laura’s closest friend. The fear of impending nothingness has caused people to become closer. They realize (as Laura does) that she’s probably the last human alive, and her name is invoked like that of a newly created saint.

What’s so frightening about Brockmeier’s story is how plausible it is. The few glimpses of horror we get -- thousands of empty shoes strewn on a highway, Web pages with real-time satellite pictures of miles of dead cars -- are like images we’ve seen recently on the news. Though the story takes place in some near future, it feels like reality. Corporations make their self-serving decisions -- one of them even carries this behavior over into the city. Adults live their lives of medium fulfillment. And in the end, it’s toadying mediocrity that brings about humanity’s demise.

Although Brockmeier’s writing is clunky in places, he creates an enduring sense of dread. I had nightmares after reading “Brief History.” It’s like “The Andromeda Strain” without the moralizing or the cheesy sci-fi trappings. It’s like George Saunders with corporate stupidity taken to realistic extremes. It’s like Borges, but real. Brockmeier’s book is the only modern thriller I’ve read that’s literary and scary too.