I look over to Lieutenant Cooper, and ask, “Where are we?”
“Mount Weather, sir, or what’s left of it.”
I look back towards the first three-man crew and the pile of bodies and whisper, “Jesus.”
The soldier that was checking my vitals exits the helicopter, pushes past us and makes his way down a massive ramp that leads into the inside of the clear-cut mountain we’re standing on. Everyone else from the helicopter moves to follow after him.
“Sir, we need to move; this area isn’t safe,” says Lieutenant Cooper.
I don’t want to move, so I light up another cigarette and offer him another one. He shakes his head and looks at me as if I don’t understand English.
“Sir, did you hear me?” he asks.
I nod and look out towards the Blue Ridge Mountains, engulfed in smog and the sickening smell of burning, rotten flesh. The little particulates of ash are starting to accumulate on my shoulders and head. Ash from the piles of bodies, the smell of roasting meat, the sound of gunfire in the distance, the fences, the helicopter, everything begins to swirl. I put my hand out as if to steady myself on the helicopter but completely miss and start towards the pavement. Lieutenant Cooper catches me before my face makes contact.
He pulls me back up and stands me as upright as he can; I lean into him and we begin to walk towards the blast doors of the compound. We stop a second later when both of us realize that there seems to be an entire battalion of armed troops tensely standing in a semi-circle around one man.
Lieutenant Cooper stands up straight and nearly drops me. I can’t make out the face from here, but the fact that the man is the only one standing in a suit and the Lieutenant went to attention can only mean one thing. It’s McMillan.
God is a vengeful and spiteful God, indeed.
10.
The man in the suit moves towards us with purpose, taking great big strides, and closes the gap between our two positions in no time. The soldiers keep up with him and form an open perimeter, following behind them is a small camera crew.
I begin to smile as I see McMillan’s familiar features moving closer towards us. Lieutenant Cooper manages to salute him with his left hand. McMillan, along with his guards and camera crew, stops a few feet from us and he returns the soldier’s salute with a crisp, formal one of his own.
The reporter behind the group begins saying something into the microphone about the situation.
Robert McMillan and I stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. I can’t help smiling at him. The reporter continues to talk about “how brave the President is for coming out of Area B.” I feel the trickle of a giggle forming in my chest. It hurts.
Lieutenant Cooper addresses McMillan as “Mr. President, Sir,” and McMillan addresses the Lieutenant as “soldier.”
Then the Lieutenant goes on to update him on where I was, and how he found me. McMillan’s eyes are wide in disbelief and hate as he looks from the Lieutenant back to me. I let out a small snort of laughter and they stop for a second and both look down at me. I hold my hand up to signal that I’m sorry. They continue to debrief each other. I start to hiccup from holding in the giggle and McMillan can’t ignore me any longer.
“Do you find something funny, Mr. Sorbenstein?”
I can’t help but crane my head up and look at him through my one good eye; I can’t keep the smile from my face.
“I find a lot of things funny, Rob, but this…” I say and wave my free hand around the perimeter of the base and then stop on him. “This is by far the most hilarious fucking thing I have ever seen.”
I felt Lieutenant Cooper tense when I called McMillan “Rob”; I saw the rest of the soldiers tighten their grips on their weapons when I waved my hand. Now I know where I stand.
“If I were you, Jeff, I wouldn’t be laughing,” he says.
McMillan surprises me by addressing me like we’re friends again. I push off of the Lieutenant and try to stand on my own. The soldiers surrounding McMillan bring their weapons up and sight me down. He waits for a second and surveys my movements, then brings his hand up and motions for them to lower their weapons.
I try to hold my head up and scan around to the other soldiers’ faces, but they are all protected by helmets and gas masks.
I stop on McMillan again, then let my head fall back down.
“You know, I half-expected to see Phil and Janet standing next to you,” I say to McMillan.
I can’t see his face, but I would guess by the way he shuffled his feet slightly, he didn’t want to talk about that little issue.
“They didn’t make it out of Cleveland.”
“That’s a shame,” I say back and smile to the pavement.
The news reader behind the group goes on to try and punch up the tension of the situation to the camera. I bring up my hand and point to the camera and crew behind him.
“Who are you broadcasting to?”
McMillan judges my instability and then answers. “Mount Weather is home to nearly half a million people; we have a closed-circuit TV station.”
I try to look up at him again, but I can barely keep my body upright so I continue to stare down at the ground. “That’s impressive,” I say.
“And we’re going to put you on trial for your crimes against humanity,” he ads.
“I’ve already done my time,” I say back to him with a laugh.
“This isn’t about time, Jeff; this is about justice,” he says in the most macho bullshit way you could ever imagine. He’s playing to the camera, to the people he’s leading. This is a puppet show.
“So what’s the verdict?” I ask, stepping further away from the Lieutenant and towards McMillan. The soldiers tense again, but McMillan motions for them to stay calm again. He takes a step forward and then stops and stands up straight.
“You’re going to stand trial for the end of the world, Jeff, and everyone knows you’re guilty.”
I can’t help but start to laugh at the words, at him and the shadow play of the moment. The laughing hurts my stomach and burns my chest. I move my free hand to massage the small of my back.
“Well, then, I guess I’m still famous,” I say and manage to look at him in the face.
He looks three times as old as he did on the day that he came to threaten me in my building. His hair is nearly silver; the lines on his face are hardened and deep. As he scans me, I notice how his eyes have lost their hungry animal quality. They appear to be distant and dimming stars in the deep-set shadows of his eye sockets. He’s already dead, too.
“I guess so,” he says back in disgust and without missing a beat.
“Well, let’s make it count, then,” I say as I reach under my jacket and pull out the pistol.
McMillan’s eyes go wide as I pull the trigger. The explosion of gasses from the barrel echo out into the surrounding spaces between us, the single shot comes back to me as a thunderclap from a distant storm. It was a wild shot but hits him squarely in the chest. The .40 caliber slug rips a hole into the front of his shirt and reaches all the way through his body to exit out the back in tiny fragments of tissue and a great big glob and spray of blood.
I pull the trigger again and watch as another bullet rips open the side of his face and pushes teeth and bits of jawbone up and out into the haze. Lieutenant Cooper reacts and lunges out and to the side as the rest of the soldiers pull up their rifles and sight me down.
I smile and pull the trigger one more time as the first bullets from the soldiers tear into me. The last shot hits McMillan in the gut and little pieces of his intestines protrude like baby squids from his belly as the force of the bullet dissipates into his body.
The news reader begins to scream and cry. The cameraman is steady and true, careful to keep focus on the action as it plays out, as bits of my body begin to fall away from me, as bullets from no less than fifteen assault rifles begin to slice my body in half. The pain is non-existent because the second you feel it, your brain starts to shut down. It’s li
ke little bits of electrical current in my head start to click off.
Everything grows dim, but before I pass out I see my right arm become a strand of jerky. I look down to the ground and my hand is still holding the gun. I look towards McMillan; two of the soldiers pull him back towards the blast doors. He’s gurgling blood; he’s leaving a skid mark as they pull him.
The news reader tries to compose herself but she can’t; there are tears streaming down her face. The cameraman begins to dial in the zoom on the camera. I watch as the great eye of society pushes towards me, in a tighter and tighter shot to get the close-up.
So I smile for the camera, because I’m the man that’s just shot the President of the United States, because I’m the most famous man in all of America, and because this is the end.
Eric Pollarine is an author, freelance writer, book reviewer with flamesrising.com, and constantly disheveled musician who lives, works, writes, smokes and drinks far too much coffee in beautiful dreary Cleveland, Ohio. You can contact the author through Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr and stay up-to-date with other goings-on, through his website www.unlikelyconvergence.com.
ALSO BY ERIC POLLARINE
A Man of Letters
(Available on Amazon and Smashwords)
Stories Around The Campfire With Uncle Eric
(Available on Amazon and Smashwords)
One Fine Day
(Available late 2011 Early 2012)
Pale Horse
“The Complete Collected Stories 2011”
(Available 2012)
AFTERWORD
So there it was and here it is; the end of the book. I hope you enjoyed “This Is The End” and I also hope that you enjoy the story that follows this brief afterword, by the editor of this book, John Lemut.
Initially John was a beta reader for my next book, “One Fine Day,” which is finished and undergoing the merry go round of being submitted to various publishers. As of this date, I am still moving forward with my plans to self publish “One Fine Day” but I thought I would give the book a shot with someone else first.
Anyway, John looked it over, read the first draft, gave me some feedback and fucking blew my mind with the depth of understanding and critical eye he brought to the beta reading process, so of course I asked him to edit this book. I’m not stupid, when you find someone who gets you, gets the work, you stick with them.
But here’s the catch, the rub: John’s a fucking brilliant writer himself. Now I can’t just go about taking time off another writers hands without offering something, so the idea came to mind that, if he had something he was working on and that he wanted to see out there, I would give him enough space in the back of the second edition of “This Is The End.” And that story is precisely what you are about to read once you turn this page, tab over, flip your finger or whatever other way there is to get to the next page.
John’s story is original, entertaining, comedic, dark and that rarest of things…important. It’s fantastic, believable and of course a story that leaves you with that gut wrenching feeling of knowing your world view is never going to be the same after you read it. I love it and I know that, if you liked “This Is The End,” then you’ll love it too.
HAPPY HOME
John Lemut
The mouth of the tomb called to him—beckoned him.
He had no choice but to drop the sack he worked hard to fill with lentils and corn and work his way up the rocky incline. His footing gave way many times but, before long, he found himself standing at the entrance of the cave. He suddenly thought himself foolish for listening to his imagination and turned away.
Just then, he heard his name being called from deep inside the tomb. Avernus…
He turned back and slowly crept inside the cave.
Beyond the complete blackness of the cave he saw something else, almost like a light but also like fog. It moved as smoke from a fire. Avernus, it called to him again.
Curious, he stepped closer. The boundaries of the mist gently expanded and surrounded him.
He could now feel the mist had substance to it, but he remained unafraid.
The mist gathered itself unto him and was, at once, within him.
After a frightening moment passed when he could not breathe, the man felt different, but not ill or at unease. A warmth spread throughout him as an embrace. “What do you want?” he asked.
To feel, Avernus. We want to feel.
* * *
The man went home and went about his life with little thought as to the mist. At first none in his village saw a difference, but the mist soon grew weary of the everyday tasks Avernus performed.
They suggested, Eat more food.
They whispered, Drink more wine.
They hinted, Touch your wife.
They commanded, Touch yourself.
They demanded, Hit your sons.
The mist sometimes made Avernus do things without speaking, by their will alone. They stole using his hands. They touched strange women in crowds.
People began accusing Avernus of these deeds and he was unable to lie. He told the judges of his encounter in the tomb.
“Demons,” they spat.
Avernus was shackled by his hands and feet, but the souls within did not like being bound. They took control and easily plucked the chains asunder and rent the shackles to pieces. “No man may tame us,” they proclaimed through Avernus.
The judges conferred and decreed that Avernus be taken back to the tomb and be held inside.
* * *
Avernus cried loudly for days and the demons inside him reveled in the anguish.
His cries could be heard from far off but the judges stood fast in their verdict.
More days passed and Avernus grew weaker. Ask us for help, Avernus, they said, and we will.
Avernus held strong for three days more.
“Help me,” he was only able to mouth those days later, but the demons heard.
They took command and killed rats to nourish Avernus. This is manna, they teased as he devoured the raw meat.
This is blood, they giggled as Avernus sipped from a murky puddle to which they led him.
When much of his strength returned, they rewarded Avernus by exciting him from within.
Avernus’ faith now lay with the mist that entered into him.
* * *
None came to visit Avernus, but he did not crave the lovingkindness of his wife or sons. All he needed was the voice, a chorus of warmth that soothed his skin as the sun and made him feel complete.
Shatter that stone, the voice purred.
He held a stone the size of a man’s head in his hand and began to smash it on a piece of hard earth that came up out of the dirt floor. After many hits, the stone split in half.
Shatter it, the voice said with more force.
Avernus grabbed one of the halves and resumed. His hands became cut and bruised, but Avernus did not stop until all that was left of the stone were small shards with sharp edges.
Good, said the voice. We will find manna for you.
* * *
Cut yourself, the voice said to Avernus who held a shard of stone in his raw hand. When he hesitated, the voice encouraged, We want to feel…
He dragged the stone across his chest; the line of red welled up with blood.
Taste it, the voice spoke.
They frolicked in the chills and pain the cuts suffered and fell into celebration at the taste of his blood.
Avernus delighted in making his Gods, the Many who spoke as One, happy.
* * *
Word of Avernus’ hosting of unclean spirits and exile to the mountains spread far. Before winter, travelers came from the other side of the sea and asked after Avernus to those in the village.
The tomb was easy to find for the three travelers.
At the cave entrance, they could see a figure peering out at them. This figure moved back into the cave and from their sight a moment later.
“Wait here for me.”
&n
bsp; The two other travelers, who looked much like one another, obeyed and watched as their companion bravely marched up the mountain and into the cave.
* * *
The smell inside the cave was strong, but he ventured within and did not pause.
A voice came from the darkness, “What have we to do with you that you would make an enemy of us today?”
“Come out of the man, demon.” He spoke with authority.
“We know you.”
The traveler repeated his command.
“You are the Christ. By your God, leave us.”
Jesus sighed.
* * *
While Jesus was out of sight in the tomb, James and John sat on a large boulder in wait. For about two minutes.
James hopped down from the stone and kicked at the ground with his sandal, stirring up dust and small rocks.
John ignored him.
A bird’s call brought James’ attention to the darkening sky. A small flock of birds flew overhead and James grabbed a handful of stones and tried to knock a bird from the sky.
After several attempts, James’ frustration increased and he hit John with the last stone from his hand.
The stone bounced off John’s shoulder and left a small cut. James ran but John pursued, catching up quickly. John kicked James’ back foot causing James to trip and fall to the rocky ground.
John easily sat on the smaller James and raised an arm to strike when James cried, “The Messiah comes!”
John let his arm drop and looked for Jesus. This allowed James to crawl away and regain his feet. John saw none approach and knew he was tricked. James laughed at his brother’s embarrassment.
John held back a small laugh at himself.
Once they each calmed down James asked, “What’s taking so long?”
John shrugged.
James stuck his elbow into John’s side and said, “Hey…”
When John looked at him, James asked, “You know that’s the Son of God, right?”
John answered in irritation, “Yeah, I know.”
This Is the End Page 16
