Partholon

by D Krauss

  That’s the way of inadequate people. They revel in their inadequacy and find fault with others’ success, because it is much easier to do that than confront their own failings.

  And those miserable bastards knew they would never have the ability to take on the West, the US, directly because doing so was beyond the capability of any small religion where rules were more important than thought, and severe self-righteous repression of any slight alteration of just one nuance of those many rules, was far more important than discourse. So, in their hate, in their gleeful, lustful hate, they thought it would be great to drive a twelve-year-old girl into the side of a building.

  What masterful warriors, what men, what true, noble soldiers of their faith.

  John’s lips curled in contempt, then guilt. Because he’d known all this, was very aware of it, but had filtered it through Western eyes, through Western rationality, and made the very serious mistake of believing that throwing a child into the side of a building was beyond anyone’s concepts.

  He screwed up. He completely screwed up. He knew hate was a relentless motivator. Hate was irrational and uncompromising; no negotiations. It cannot be changed into love or respect – all the bleeding hearts take note. You must eradicate the one who hates you. There is no other solution because you can bet the hater is trying to eradicate you. The world was far more Darwinian than anyone wanted to admit.

  Funny, that. The elites, the sophisticated, the oh-so-progressive embraced Darwinism as their pet origin theory, yet refused to apply its implications. Inconsistent bastards.

  But, John, you didn’t apply it, either.

  He shifted uncomfortably. Think of hate. It motivates incomprehensible actions, like driving children into the sides of buildings or urging your teenage son to strap on 50 pounds of dynamite and blow himself up inside a school bus. How noble. And the raging joy the haters felt. Their leering faces as they danced in the streets, firing their AK-57s in the air and screaming some barbaric ululation over the success of scattering the body parts of school children across a sidewalk.

  How manly, how heroic.

  They took pleasure in dragging mutilated corpses down streets and stripping veilless women naked and beating them with canes. They believed their soaring passion was a blessing from God but didn’t know God long ago abandoned them because they have made a god out of their hate and mistook the subsequent raging self-righteousness as divinity’s touch. They reveled in that self-righteousness and believed it a mark of God’s favor.

  It was not.

  Their acts were used as menstrual rags thrown before God’s throne, evil and worthless. John’s fists tightened. All of them, every man, woman and child of them, must have their own body parts scattered on the sidewalk, food for crows.

  “Do you hear me, ghosts?” John gripped his hands tighter. “It’s what must happen. It’s what pays back.”

  The ghosts turned, as they always did at this point, and stared at him, aghast. “Okay, okay,” he conceded, “I hate them as much as they hate me. I see their entire culture and history as a sewer stain, and every time I hear of some successful operation against them, I revel in their deaths. But how can you loathe me for that?” and he swept his still-clenched hands to take in the dead Quad. Evidence.

  They lined up and regarded him. He shook his head, “It doesn’t make me the same as them.”

  The ghosts shook their heads back at him and asked whether he could be the more civilized, the more compassionate, weep for the pain and death caused by all this hate yet, somehow, consider the possible merit of their complaint and try, just try, to meet the murdering bastards halfway. Let’s put an end to all the killing and anger and misery and just learn to get along.

  John stared at them. Stupid babies.

  “No,” he said, “no way. You see, no matter how inadequate the culture, how inferior the people, how insignificant the beliefs and practices, how medieval the thinking, and how fourth-rate you feel as a result, you simply don’t get to run twelve-year-old girls into the sides of buildings. No matter how much your hubris is offended by the presence of a more sophisticated, wealthier, cosmopolitan society than yours, you don’t get to blow up school buses to demonstrate how offended you feel. You can protest and insult and boycott and shun and denigrate and feel superior about your backward ways all you want, but simply, absolutely, in no way, can you run twelve-year-old girls into the sides of buildings.”

  John shook an adult finger at the ghosts. “You do that,” he continued the lecture, “and the full weight of retaliation falls justly on your donkey-crap society and its low-class religious zealotry and all the bearded self-righteous old men who are mad because their repressive, stupid beliefs have only impoverished and brutalized their own people.”

  John pointed at a particularly long-haired ghost who was shaking a disapproving beard at him, “You want to call me a bigot and a racist, go ahead. If you want to think the vengeance burning in me is proof of my own backwardness, that’s fine. Sit around in your coffeehouse and put that proper look of sincere horror on your face about people like me, who are reacting to what is truly a tragic event. But surely one that requires us to rise up in our humanity and reach an apologetic hand out to those honest Third World peoples who feel so frustrated by our brutish Western condescension that they have no choice but to slam girls into the sides of buildings.” John put the proper sneering tone in that last comment.

  “Do so. Throw back your long hair in a gesture of sympathy and sip that double latté and look deeply at the fresh-faced coed across from you and deplore the violence and make sure the little muffin knows how sincere and loving you are, as you call people like me cavemen. You might get laid out of it.” John saw, with great satisfaction, how that angered and embarrassed the hippie ghost.

  “Call me anything you want, but step aside, little boy,” John took an aggressive step towards the hippie ghost, “You see, we don’t slaughter children. And whoever does, whether it’s a drunk redneck throwing his daughter across the trailer or a holy mullah blessing the hijackers as the Towers burn, they are beyond compassion and understanding and possible redemption. Rabid dogs are to be killed. You don’t negotiate with them or try to understand them or deplore them or issue condemnations. You put a bullet in their heads.”

  John was on a roll now, feeling the righteousness of it. The hippie ghost, though, stood his ground and mouthed at John, “We did that.”

  John frowned and stepped back. “Yeah, we did that. We found the murdering bastards’ base and turned it into dust, in a matter of weeks destroying camps and homes and government and routing them until they were just shivering rags of bleeding refugees cowering in caves. And, yeah,” John conceded to the hippie ghost, “innocents were killed, some of them, no doubt little girls. But these same ‘innocents’ allowed the murdering bastards to train and plan and come up with the means of driving planeloads of children into the sides of buildings. These ‘innocents,’ as you call them, wrapped their women in bags, sold them to others and caned anyone who even dared to listen to a rock and roll song. Yeah, they’re ‘innocents’ all right,” John snarled at the hippie ghost, “You support that?”

  “Wasn’t our business,” the hippie ghost muttered and the coeds around him nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “Oh yeah?” John took the aggressive step again. “Why don’t you go ask the survivors what they preferred, to lose some of their ‘innocent’ population while getting rid of their overlords, or continue living under repression? Why don’t you go do that, then? Huh? But, you better not, you better not,” John waved a warning hand, “Nope, better stay here and get more lattés. You might not like the answer you get. And don’t just rely on what your fellow ghosts are telling you,” he swept in the suddenly angry coeds. “Go there. You can do it. You’re incorporeal, you can travel through time and space with just a thought. Walk into their diseased and broken villages. Ask them, Taliban or independence? You know what they’ll say, hands down, to almost a man and
definitely to a woman, except, of course,” John chuckled, “for the Taliban themselves.”

  It was a good point in the lecture, the point where John felt vindicated and superior. He had vanquished the effete ghosts who stood there leaning out from the hips, adolescent moue on their faces – well, vanquished for about a second. Because, then, they looked around, looked at the car with the open door, then back at John.

  “It should have been enough,” he conceded in a whisper, “We should have won. It’s all we needed to do. We had them... we had them. All that was left was the final, merciless hunting, the cornering, and then shooting them dead, like dogs. That would end it, we would go home, we would celebrate, we would forget.”

  We were wrong. He did not say that aloud.

  “We saw how they fought,” this he did say aloud, “as cowards. They used their own sons as bombs. Oh, sure, they fought with rifles and grenades and land mines in Afghanistan but they weren’t very good. Our casualties were insignificant while theirs were catastrophic and we put them to flight. They became scattered, hunted bands that would pop up and fire wildly as our Special Forces coolly mowed them down. They had ceased to exist as a fighting force after a few weeks. We looked at each other and shrugged and wondered why the Russians had such a hard time with them. Were we that good?

  “Yeah, we’re that good, for what we know, what we expect. Against guns and bombs and land mines, we are unequaled. Why, look at what we did to Saudi. We’re preparing the final assault on Baghdad right now while pounding the remnants of Castro’s forces. We’re winning, at least, that’s what we’re being told. Yeah, at great cost, great slaughter on both sides, but this is what we know. This is what we’re good at, and we’ll win.” He paused. “We’ll win.”

  The ghosts blinked at him, speechless. They looked at each other then back at John. “We’ll win,” he insisted and his gaze fell on the car. When he looked back up, the ghosts were gone.

  And, like always, he started to cry.

  14

  It was getting late. John watched the sun’s rays slant across the floor: 4:30ish, he figured, and confirmed it with the watch. About another half hour or so and he was outta here. Miller time.

  He really should adjust his hours so he traveled in the light, but it was hard to get eight good day-lit hours in the early spring, no matter what he did. Could work six-hour days... what, did he wear a dress? Gonna travel in the dark. Dangerous doing that, hard to spot ambushes. Traveling in the day wasn’t a picnic either, but at least you could see what was up ahead.

  The cold offset the dark somewhat. Bundys and Raiders stayed mostly inside. For all their swaggering, they were kinda wimpy. On a long cold night, the commute was generally uneventful, only trigger-happy MPD patrols or skittish Loners to worry about. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that cold tonight, upper 50s, so there was a good chance an unusually high number of jerks would be out celebrating. Could be eventful.

  Quite a contrast with the upcoming summer months, when everybody was out all the time. Sunset became the Raider Witching Hour, so John didn’t travel after dark if he could help it and the long days let him help it. By the time they crawled out of their troll holes, he was safe at home. Summer was actually quieter, proof that timing trumped circumstance.

  The generator had been running about an hour now and John scrutinized the Zap battery loaded in the charger. The light was red but that was okay; he’d used that battery to get here and it wouldn’t be fully charged yet. It was just backup in case the return-leg battery crapped out a bit short. It shouldn’t. One battery was good for about two hours of straight Zap riding, which bell-curved enough to get him back and forth on a single charge.

  John pulled the return battery out of the pack and went over to the Zap leaning against Daria’s old desk in Parking and Traffic. He loaded the battery then examined the Zap’s chain and checked the tires, everything good, but he added a few drops of oil and a few pounds more pressure anyway. The Zap bike was built like a tank and was just about as heavy, able to take the pounding from all of John’s carry weight and the debris on the road. But it was a royal pain in the ass to change a tire on it and if he could spot a flaw and fix it now instead of on a windblown shoulder of the Eternal Graveyard of 395, then he would. He didn’t even want to think about snapping a chain, so he didn’t.

  He slapped the saddle affectionately. Good ole Zap. When he flipped on the motor, he could get up to 20-25 mph while pedaling, pretty easy pedaling at that, even uphill. Remarkable, considering his load. More remarkable, the Zap was holding up well. So were the batteries. He’d been using this set for about six months now and there was no sign of deterioration. Didn’t matter, he had several spares and no indication in any of the literature they’d fail to take a charge, even years from now when he broke them out. That might end up being wrong, but was too far in the future to worry about. For now, he had a ride.

  At least this ride. Not cars. Not that there wasn’t any shortage of cars. He could have any number of Rolls or Mercedes or V-Rods scattered around rich neighborhoods like Foxhall, all just begging to be driven. He could even tool around in the university president’s Infiniti G28, quite the luxuriant town car, that. But he didn’t touch them. Driving a car was just asking for trouble.

  For one thing, you could hear an engine starting at least a mile away. Might as well hit a bass drum in a crypt, send up a flare, tell everyone you’re coming. All eyes for twenty blocks turn towards the sound, all ears strain, weapons come out of holsters and lust and murder light the mind. The zombies move, hungry.

  No thanks.

  It wasn’t so much the engine but its undertones, the off-rhythm mechanical thrum of pistons and cams and lifters moving through the ground for miles, a sonic wave. The Magnums gave him the same trouble. And since car travel was pretty much restricted to still-passable roads (which eliminated 395, 95 South, 66 and all the other graveyards) even the most dull-witted Bundy could figure out where he was going and set up an ambush.

  John found that out pretty quick. He was driving the Pathfinder, getting on and off 395 as breaks in the graveyard allowed, bulling his way through on occasion (metal on metal screeching, that was brilliant) when someone put a round through the windshield, missing him by a half-inch, at best.

  That was about a month after he’d started putting the house together, about his tenth or eleventh trip to the District. He was heading towards the Mall and an appointment at the CDC mobile lab set up there. Four or five other Survivors and he were in some kind of trial that the docs were pretty excited about, and he wanted to get there on time because there was a feel to it, like they were on to something. Now, he was pretty sure it was just a line, that they were actually getting ready to put the habeas grabbus on him. But, back then... well, you trusted.

  He’d actually been on 395, a trail he’d cut on previous trips, topping the big hill past Landmark Mall when – wham – glass all over and he was careening across four lanes, smashing through cars. He ended up behind an abandoned van and jumped out, running for cover with the mini-14. He huddled under the trailer hitch between the back wheels, cold and hungry and pretty pissed off, until dark. Never saw who fired. The bastard never made a move. Some Bundy having a little fun.

  John took the now windshield-free and bumper-creased Pathfinder back home and limited his driving to short trips at odd times for odd reasons, like when he needed to haul something big, and, of course, going to the Gate. That’s what everyone did now. You lowered your exposure. Even Families didn’t drive unless it was in heavily armed caravans. Driving made you vulnerable.

  That missed CDC appointment led John to the Zap bike. He felt guilty about not showing up. They’d told him the tests were vital, that they needed him, practically waved the flag in his face. Not that he needed a lot of prompting. He was itching to do something more than kill Bundys. He wanted to strike at the real enemy, hunt down and eviscerate the bastards but since he couldn’t leave the Zone, the only thing available was helping defea
t their biggest weapon. It felt like God’s work, so he really wanted to get back to the Lab.

  He considered a motorcycle but there was still the noise issue. He gave long thought to a regular bicycle, because he’d always loved them and had a 10-speed Bianchi in the backyard anyway. But, it was 18 miles, one way, to the District; 18 miles loaded down with rifle, ammunition, water, and whatnot. He was a tough guy, but, c’mon. He wouldn’t make five miles.

  He knew about Zap bikes, even thought of buying one Before. His dog sitter had one and let him ride it around the neighborhood a couple of times. It was a bit small, but fun, so he went to her townhouse in Daventry, broke in, buried her and her husband, and took the Zap home. He left a hundred dollars on the counter, should their son ever make it back from the West Coast, and only a hundred because, after all, it was used.

  A week later, proud of himself, he tooled up Backlick and Edsall and George Mason Drive to 50 and across the bridge right up to the Lab. Ta da! Here I am, now let’s get chemical.

  You’d think they’da been happy. No, instead he got attitude about the missed appointment; the serums were experimental and they needed to check John at certain times to see what was happening and if he couldn’t make it when they said then maybe he should consider moving in to the trailer encampment area with them. The little army colonel running the thing just stood there screaming. Colonel Storm, that was his name, which was certainly appropriate. John was a bit taken aback, to say the least. More so, he was suspicious. Things had an ugly whiff to them.

  He still went back a few more times, but was wary. As things got uglier, he just stayed away. He felt guilty about that, too, for a while, because of the other Survivors. They just weren’t taking his warnings seriously. Oh, they listened, a couple even agreed but one of them summed it up, “What else can we do?” She was right, but he stopped going, anyway. Given what the CDC devolved to, it was a good decision. Unheroic, though. Not like the ones who stayed.