The Fall of Polite

by Sam Kench

  Eamon finished the walk up the aisle and Probey stood up to match his gaze. Eamon steadied himself with each hand on a seat.

  ‘Need something, Eamon? Or are you just coming up to join us finally?’

  ‘I want to go back to the farm.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Probey asked.

  Henry pointed through the windshield, ‘There it is.’

  Probey turned on his heels to face the windshield. His eyebrows raised and a smile grew. ‘My God. It’s glorious.’

  The sight through the windshield filled Probey with warmth and sent chills down Eamon’s spine.

  A military base stood a hundred yards down the road. From the tallest watchtower, a large, homemade swastika flag was hung with care. Men and women milled about beyond the tall chain-link fence, some dressed in full military garb, others in camouflage, and others still in dark winter coats. There were 15 men and women beyond the fence and dozens more inside the military base’s various buildings and tents.

  For all the differences in their dress, there were things they all had in common. They were all white, they all had blue eyes, all wore red, homemade swastika arm bands, and all of the men had shaved heads. Many wore iron crosses in addition to their armbands and most of them carried firearms with them wherever they went. There were far less women than men on the base, but the ones who were present, were just as passionate and vitriolic in their beliefs as their male counterparts, if not more.

  The neo-Nazis in view past the fence carried out their daily duties: sorting looted goods, shoveling snow, standing on guard duty, cleaning the base, and working on military vehicles.

  The bus idled atop snow covered gravel. The heavy rolling gate remained unopened and several rifle barrels were pointed in their direction. The bus doors opened, and Beau stepped out.

  The gun barrels lowered upon his emergence. Beau and Henry took the shopping cart from the bus, and an old man met them at the fence. They had a quick chat, then the gate rolled aside.

  Eamon looked to the new recruits. They seemed to share in his discomfort, except for Jim who shared in Probey’s giddiness. The two of them looked as though they had just come across an oasis in the middle of this barren tundra.

  ‘Everyone off the bus!’ Probey shouted gleefully.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ Said one of the new recruits, a well-groomed, black haired 30-something named Lee.

  Another of the new recruits chimed in, ‘This is too much.’

  Jim stood up and looked down on the others. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

  ‘This is not okay. I didn’t sign up for this fucking- fucking…’ Lee struggled to find the appropriate words. He gestured angrily out the window, ‘Fucking fascism! Nazism!’

  ‘You God damn race traitor.’ Jim sneered, then turned to Probey, ‘You’re really okay with liberal fucktards in the gang?!’ He turned back to the seated recruits and stepped into the aisle. ‘For the first time in a century, the superior race doesn’t have to feign equality. If you race traitors want to align yourselves with the kikes and the coons, then you can rot in hell!’ He reached into his waistband and withdrew a semi-automatic handgun.

  Three of the other recruits put their hands up, Lee didn’t. He stared in defiance.

  Probey reached over Jim’s shoulder and grabbed onto the handgun. He filled his other fist with Jim's hair, stuck his knee into the small of his back, and yanked down. Jim bent over backwards. Probey kept a tight grip on the old man’s hair, ripped the gun from his hand, and stared into his upside down eyes. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, I run this posse. I call the shots and I alone make the decisions.’

  ‘Okay, I apologize. I got heated. I acted out of line, but you’re really fine with these race traitors being on board?’

  ‘They’re white. That’s good enough for me for the time being.’ Probey let go of Jim’s hair and allowed him to retake his standing posture. He looked to the other recruits. ‘As for your objections, we will be back on the road soon enough, but we are recruiting men from the base and, if I can, I’m going to strike an alliance with them. Share resources, trade protection, use the base as a spot to regroup…’ Probey left a silence and studied their faces. ‘If you can’t abide by that… know that the alternative is death. Does anyone have a problem with that?’

  Lee spat at Probey, his hazel eyes flashed fire. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a fucking problem with that.’

  The other recruits averted their eyes.

  Probey wiped the glob of spit off his cheek. ‘Okay then.’ Probey cocked his gun and leveled it at the troublemaker.

  ‘Hey, hey, wait!’ Lance shouted from the driver’s seat, ‘If you’re gonna shoot someone, take ‘em off the bus first.’

  Probey lowered the gun. ‘Right-O’.

  Eamon spoke up, ‘Probey!’

  ‘What, Eamon?!’ Probey reached for the troublemaker who shook away his hand, then took a blow to the face from the handle of the gun. Probey pulled Lee into the aisle, then forced him toward the exit.

  ‘Probey, I need to talk to you.’ Eamon said, following him toward the exit.

  Georgie entered the aisle between Eamon and Probey. He glared at Eamon with his wide eye, then turned and followed Probey off the bus.

  Eamon stepped down onto salted ground. The Nazis were keeping the area fairly well maintained. Lee gave Probey a shove and tried to make a run for it. Probey took aim at him, but had no need to fire as Georgie slugged the recruit in the gut and dropped him to a knee. He placed his Webley against the side of the Lee’s head.

  ‘Probey!’ Eamon shouted and was again ignored.

  Probey turned to face the military base and addressed several skin heads who had directed their attention toward the scuffle. ‘No cause for alarm, just executing an unruly one.’

  They went about their day.

  ‘Probey I need to talk to you!’ Eamon said urgently.

  The cop turned toward him, ‘About what?! If it’s about sparing this son-of-a-bitch’s life, then I don’t want to hear it!’

  Eamon looked from Probey to the compound of neo-Nazis, then to the kneeling man whose eyes pleaded for help. Biding time, Eamon reverted to his initial request ‘I want to go back to the farm. I’ve done good for you. I’ve done what you wanted.’

  ‘What farm? What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘My Brother’s farm.’

  ‘Oh, Paul’s place? Why? Nothin' there.’

  ‘I’ve done right by you, and I want to see what family I’ve got left.’

  ‘What family do you have left?’

  ‘… What?’

  ‘No, fuck that. Waste of goddamn time. This place is a golden opportunity.’

  Eamon went quiet as the implication sunk in; Georgie splitting off from the group, the looks he and Probey shared on return… it made sense now.

  Probey turned his attention back to the sorry fool on his knees. He lifted the handgun.

  Eamon made the decision he had been thinking about ever since he joined the posse. The safety was already off on his assault rifle. In a moment of frozen time, Eamon evaluated his best course of action. Probey had given the order to kill his family, but Eamon was correct in assuming it had been Georgie who pulled the trigger at the farm. Eamon’s fury made Georgie his first target, and his rational side agreed, believing Georgie to be a larger threat and a quicker shot than Probey after seeing them both in action. Inside the bus, Eamon counted on between one and three threats. He planned the order of his actions carefully.

  Probey, always following trigger discipline, moved his finger within the trigger-guard. Eamon made his move. He raised his assault rifle and fired two shots into Georgie’s chest and one into his shoulder.

  Georgie hit the ground silently. Before Probey could fully pronounce, ‘What the fuck?!’ Eamon swiveled his aim and stepped toward Probey. As he moved, he unloaded a burst of automatic gunfire into Probey’s torso. The cop undulated on his feet as hot lead burrowed through his body and continue
d through to the military base beyond.

  Speeding lumps of metal burst both of Probey’s kidneys and his liver. A bullet punctured his stomach and sent gastric acid spilling over his insides, corroding them. Eamon lifted his aim higher. A dotted line of bloody chasms advanced up Probey’s chest and neck until a final bullet drilled through his forehead and hole-punched his brain.

  Probey’s yellow-tinted glasses fell in two halves to the snow and were crushed by his perforated torso.

  The lead that killed Probey continued as stray rounds that caught two separate skin-heads in their limbs. Eamon had started a broader conflict. The unarmed among them ran for their guns. Eamon continued his advance toward Probey, now a leaking corpse. Behind him, Lance yelled, ‘No!’

  Eamon sprayed the rest of the ammunition from the rifle in a wide arc toward the skinheads who were taking aim. The action bought time as the neo-Nazis scattered and ran for cover.

  Eamon grabbed the handgun from Probey’s holster and swapped assault rifles with him. Keeping two hands on the rifle, Eamon walked quickly toward the bus with his aim on Lance who had stood up out of his seat.

  Lance moved his hand along the massive center console of the bus and reached for his handgun that had slid to the corner of the windshield near the doors.

  ‘Get back in your seat, Lance!’ Eamon shouted commandingly as he ascended the stairs.

  Lance stopped short of grabbing the gun, but his hand hovered over it. He looked Eamon in the eye, cautiously.

  ‘Sit down!’ Eamon commanded in a booming voice as he climbed the last step into the bus, towering over Lance.

  The jumpy driver did as instructed. Jim wrestled a gun away from one of the other recruits.

  Without missing a beat, Eamon turned in place at the head of the bus and aimed down the center aisle. He found his target at the end of Probey’s sights and squeezed two shots into Jim’s center mass. The bigot hit the floor and two bullets dented the metal at the back of the bus.

  Eamon swiveled the rifle toward Peter, who threw his hands in the air and scrunched his face up in terror, ‘Wait, no! Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me, please!’

  Eamon withdrew Probey’s handgun and aimed it at Lance, ‘Drive!’

  Peter continued, ‘Don’t shoot me! I liked you more than Probey anyway! You’re in charge now! You’re in charge! Let me live!’

  Lee ran to the bus and climbed inside as it started to move and the skinheads began to open fire.

  ‘Turn this thing around!’ Eamon shouted to Lance, the gun still trained on his head.

  Lee pulled the bus doors shut by hand as bullets, slung from the base, slammed into the side of the bus. Dents formed on the outside of the bus and a few of the side windows shattered. The passengers ducked down.

  The bus completed its rotation and picked up speed back the way they came. Soon, the gunfire stopped chasing them.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lee said, crouching on the bus’s miniature staircase.

  ‘Keep an eye on this one.’ Eamon said to Lee in regards to Lance. He motioned towards the gun against the windshield.

  Lee took the gun in both hands and pointed it at Lance.

  Eamon lowered his guns and started down the aisle. He sat beside Peter and muscled him up against the window.

  Peter looked at him in fear. The other recruits looked at him gratefully, but it gave him no solace.

  17. ONE UGLY CUNT KILLS ANOTHER

  BUG WALKED A FEW STEPS ahead of Maisey. The beginnings of their multi-day journey to Bug’s old dealer had been conducted with a gun to his back; now it sat in Maisey's pocket. They had crossed from one town to the next and Maisey hoped they were getting close, but Bug knew the truth.

  The horizon worried him. Bug pointed at the sky ahead, ‘You see that?’ Maisey looked up. Bug continued, ‘Storm comin’ right at us.’

  Maisey saw. The blizzard was moving toward them from the north. ‘How far are we?’

  ‘Still a whole day’s walk, movin’ as slow as we are.’ They continued forward slowly. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry as hell, and don’t exactly feel like getting caught up in a full-on snow storm.’

  They came across an Italian restaurant a block down and took refuge inside. It was moderately sized and relatively upscale.

  ‘Don’t look like it’s been raided.’ Bug said, walking deeper into the restaurant. White, padded chairs sat upside down on top of wooden tables. None of the utensils or tablecloths were out. The carpet was soft and clean and colored a deep red.

  The two entered the kitchen and took stock of the food. Maisey looked over a large rack of pasta.

  Bug peeked over her shoulder and said, ‘We can maybe light up one of those pilot lights, boil some pasta.’

  Maisey nodded.

  WHILE BUG TENDED to their meal in the kitchen, Maisey took down two chairs and set a table. She rubbed her face and realized the stitches had dissolved. She felt along her gumline and found the same result with the dental sutures. Just in time for chewing. She had run out of the doc's meal replacement shakes and her stomach grumbled for something solid. She had lost several pounds on her all-liquid diet.

  She sat down and took another pain killer; only one left. She looked with worry into the bottle. They weren’t half as strong as whatever the doctor had first given her before she woke up. Even still, they dulled the constant pain significantly and the thought of pressing on ahead without any pain suppressant was distressing.

  Bug stepped out of the kitchen. ‘It’ll be ready in a couple minutes.’ Maisey nodded, and Bug shook his head. ‘Don’t just nod, girl. Come on, let’s be friendly, it would do us both some good.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You know, you ain’t said but ten words to me since we started walkin’… and I’m pretty sure three of them were fuck.’

  Maisey cracked a smile. ‘Yeah, that sounds like me. Sorry, you seem like a nice person, it’s just hard to trust anyone these days.’

  ‘Oh I understand that. Completely. But we can talk and be all jovial-like, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘Good. It’ll make dinner less boring.’ Bug went back into the kitchen. Maisey followed.

  Bug grabbed a jar of tomato sauce, a jar of vodka sauce, and a jar of alfredo sauce off of a metal storage rack, and tossed one into the air. He began juggling and a smile immediately formed on Maisey’s face; wide enough to hurt a bit where her lip had been split.

  ‘What sauce do you want?’

  ‘You can juggle?’ She laughed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Bug said, continuing to juggle, ‘I learned in middle school and no matter how many drugs I pump into my system, I can’t seem to dislodge the skill. I guess it’s like riding a bike.’

  Maisey laughed and gave the pot of pasta a stir.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘Which sauce?’

  Maisey turned back around. ‘Oh fuck, yeah. Red.’

  ‘Cool.’ Bug had a realization. ‘Oh shit, hang on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know how to stop actually. I usually only juggle with bouncy balls or something and just let them fall on the floor when I’m done. I might need your help.’

  Maisey chuckled and walked over.

  ‘Just grab the red sauce and I'll catch the other two.’

  Maisey grabbed the jar, Bug caught one and missed the other. It smashed on the floor and the white sauce spread out in all directions. They both looked down at the alfredo covered tiles and laughed.

  IT WAS A GOOD MEAL. Especially filling when running on shrunken stomachs. They sat talking and approaching empty plates.

  ‘What did you do before?’ Bug asked.

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before the uh- before the… I don’t know what to call it. Before the laws went away.’

  ‘Before shit was fucked?’

  Bug chuckled, learning first hand just how dirty Maisey’s slashed mouth was.

  ‘Well, I didn’t do mu
ch.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Was thinking about giving college another go. I was still living at home.’

  ‘With your parents?’ Bug surmised that meant they were likely dead, and regretted even saying the word “parents”.

  Maisey nodded and took a longer pause than usual.

  Bug had thought she was older than him, but now he wasn't so sure. It was hard to tell with all the damage done to her face. 'How old are you, Maisey? I'm 24.'

  '23. Oh shit... I think my birthday might have passed. I guess I'm 24 too.' Maisey didn't know whether that was funny or depressing. ‘Tina is- oh, I have an older sister, her name’s Tina. She’s 30 and she's a genius.’ Maisey gave the air in front of her a karate chop to punctuate her words, ‘I mean a literal fucking genius. Certified by… uh, whatever the fuck that group is that certifies geniuses.’ Maisey let out a little laugh, ‘I always looked like a fuckin’ idiot next to her. I was keeping in touch with her until my phone died.’ The phone was still in her pocket, as was her charger in case she ever came across a functional power outlet again. It wouldn’t be enough to stumble across a random phone with a little juice left. She didn’t know her sister’s number by memory and could only rely on her dead phone’s contacts menu for any hope at future telecommunication. ‘She’s over in Japan. Got some kind of job in robotics a few years ago. She wasn't allowed to say much about it but she hinted pretty strongly that it was some kind of military sub-contractor type deal…. She told me about an expression they have over there, and I keep thinking about it.’

  Bug gave her an inquisitive look.

  ‘Like giving a kanabō to an oni.’

  ‘What that mean?’

  ‘Well, a kanabō is this crazy powerful weapon, and an oni is a demon.’

  ‘So it’s like… making matters worse?’

  ‘Yeah, like, adding fuel to the fire. Every day I see some new fucked-up thing that I never thought I’d see in the world, and that phrase pops into my head.’