Partholon

by D Krauss

  But not tonight.

  John stood still, trying to suppress the restlessness. Wouldn’t go away, that maddening little itch at the base of the stomach driving him from one distraction to another. What did he want? He didn’t know. For things not to be the way they were, of course, but, really, they’d always been so, in one form or another, as a capricious and cruel Fate repeatedly targeted him.

  Born into an imploding family that, finally and mercifully, split up when he was thirteen, followed by poverty and hopelessness then escape, Theresa beside him, then the twenty-five-year struggle to get some level of control and there, within sight, mastery of his life and, poof, the end of the world.

  He thought he’d be used to it by now, would chuckle at his role in the Universe. God’s hacky sack. But he still had those damned expectations, a feeling that everything would turn out great. He must be, at heart, an optimist. More likely, at heart, delusional.

  He looked at his watch. Five more minutes. No calling early; Fishburne was death on time. He had to wait the whole five minutes. He could fidget and fuss and get exasperated or he could simply watch it pass, five minutes where nothing was happening, no conflict, no guardedness, no fear. Time travel. John held his breath and slid down the moment, disappearing.

  It was now five years ago. But the silence, unearthly. What explains that? One of those rare nights, yeah, that’s all, where the whole neighborhood has gone out, be back later, and a trick of atmosphere has masked traffic noise. Theresa’s just made a run to Giant.

  Five minutes is five years is forever.

  He closed his eyes and savored it, repopulating the world and reinvigorating the culture. Everything’s fine, everything’s okay. He was not armed and bunkered and crouching at war. It’s a quiet moment, that’s all, and nothing has happened. The moment extended, though, well past the few seconds of stillness only an odd combination of traffic interruption and a shopping neighborhood would explain. John opened his eyes. Back to the future. Back to the emptiness.

  Was he lonely? Nah, not really. He didn’t miss the great blob of people all that much, never having been big on them. His contacts had been few and selective and never permanent. Theresa and Collier were the exceptions, all the companionship he ever really needed and he still had one of them, so...

  The Event was just something that happened and he was spared and was now responding appropriately, going through requisite routines and vengeances. He didn’t seem to be as upset as he should be. He was probably numb, but he’d felt like that his whole life so maybe, just maybe, a history of personal tragedy gave you tools. You could deal. And you could still maintain an optimistic sense that, even after all this, everything would be okay.

  Okay? That made him laugh aloud and he shook his head and saw only two more minutes to go so, good, worthwhile exercise. But nothing was going to be okay, come on already. This was not a good life. Sheer existence, just being alive, was now the point of it all and wasn’t supposed to be. Only in Fourth World hellholes was that true.

  Fourth World hellholes.

  John stood quietly, watching the secondhand sweep around his watch. Face it. Accept it. The Shining City on the Hill was now a mudflat. The life of richness and detail and possibility had given way to fear and danger and ugliness with absolutely no prospect of becoming anything else, indeed, of becoming worse. Chad. Abandon all hope. This is the way things are. You are defeated. You lost.

  Like. Hell.

  John flipped open the cell as the second hand hit twelve. Not him. The country, yes, Western civilization, okay, but not him. He would never be beaten. Send more of your anthrax, spray more of your viruses, loose your radiation. Dance in your shit-strewn streets and ululate your weird-ass desert yowls and fire off those AKs until the barrels melt and smirk at each other and hug each other and screw each other up the ass. Bring it on, motherfuckers, you, your wives, your children, your whole shitrag culture. And bring it on, Bundys and Vandals and Raiders and soldiers and Draft Gangs and Cubans and everyone. Fuck you. Fuck you all. John would dance on top of their shattered bones, even if it takes forever.

  Yeah. Absolutely fucking yeah.

  He grinned. He hit “send.”

  21

  Collier stood impatiently by the payphone mounted in the breezeway, Davis dancing next to him and a few others dancing behind him. C’mon already, Dad, it’s 2131, you’re a minute over and we only get thirty, now twenty-nine, and there’s things, Dad, things, and I need some advice. He looked at his watch for the ten-thousandth time. Yeah, could be a matter of unsynchronized timepieces although he and Dad calibrated at the end of each call but please, Timex. Could be a matter of the last functioning payphone in a three-mile area finally crapping out and he looked suspiciously at it. Work, damn you. Don’t fail tonight...

  Brrrriing.

  Like a cartoon character, Collier ripped the receiver off the hook and juggled it to his ear. “Hello?” he said. A ripple of anticipation flowed through the spectators and Collier saw Sergeant Zell, the night guy, standing outside the CQ office, pointedly look at his watch. Collier gestured at his own and frowned. Zell nodded and walked inside. Rules is rules, but damn, man.

  “Coll?” Dad’s voice, tinny, distant.

  “Hey, Dad,” his relief was evident.

  “Hey, Coll, how ya doing? It’s good to hear you.”

  “Yeah, good to hear you, too, Dad. How are you?”

  “I’m good. There was some weirdness coming home tonight that’s got me a bit edgy, but I’m okay.”

  “What kind of weirdness?”

  “Well, when I left, I felt like I was being followed. When I got to the Key Bridge, there was no one there and it sounded like some kind of fighting going on up the street.”

  “Really? Did you go look?”

  “No. I’m not stupid.”

  Collier frowned. Wasn’t stupid to check something out. “I would have,” he said.

  “Difference between us,” Dad’s voice had that underlying ridicule that so grated. “I’m partial to seeing the next day.”

  Collier held his snort. Piss Dad off and he’d just hang up and Collier had other things to discuss. “What do you think it was?” he asked.

  “I dunno. Raiders, probably, but they had to be complete morons to strike so close to an MPD checkpoint.”

  “So you don’t think it’s Raiders?”

  “No,” Dad paused. “Something else. Someone challenging MPD’s authority. Not a smart move.”

  “Yeah, MPD probably kicked their ass.”

  “No doubt. I’m going to look tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? A little late to help, don’cha think, Dad? Collier kept that to himself, “Be careful, Dad.”

  “You know me, the epitome of caution.” Epitome, what a Dad word. Collier rolled his eyes as Dad continued, “Besides, I’ll know MPD won if the checkpoint is manned again.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.” All right, enough of this Zone talk, Dad, there’s some real issues out here.

  “You sound down, Coll.”

  Collier blinked. Dad’s ESP again. The guy could smell trouble miles away, a talent severely cramping Collier’s style growing up. “Yeah, yeah, guess I am.”

  “Something happen?”

  He hesitated. You had to be careful. Saying right things in a wrong way could get you a midnight disappearance. “This and that,” he glanced at Davis. “You gonna tell him?” Davis whispered in his ear, and Collier frowned him off.

  “Is Davis with you?”

  Geez. Dad also had radar ears. “Yeah, he’s bugging me about a DVD we’re going to watch on the computer.” Davis tapped him on the shoulder and Collier brushed him back. Play along, dude.

  “Don’t get caught. What’s the DVD?”

  “Braveheart.”

  Dad chuckled, “Well, that’s about perfect.”

  “That’s what we thought.”

  “So you’re willing to risk a week’s stockade for a little inspiration, huh?”

  �
�Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Coll, I’m willing to lose a limb for some hope these days.”

  Despite himself, Collier chuckled. “Dunno if I’d go that far.”

  “Eh, what’s a leg? Can always get a wooden one.”

  “Yeah, patch and a parrot, you’d be set.”

  “Arr, matey,” Dad was quick and they both laughed.

  “Wadesay wadesay?” the hangers-on pestered Collier and he turned, irritated, “C’mon guys, small joke.”

  “Coll,” Dad said, “tell it to them.”

  Coll sighed. Dad insisted he share their private conversations. Makes the hangers-on part of something, he said. Right, right, but geez, Dad, there’s things and we’re running out of time! “Look, he just made a pirate joke,” and Coll explained and Davis grinned bigger than he should and the hangers all guffawed and slapped each other’s backs way out of proportion to the humor. Collier stared at them like they were idiots.

  The small memory of good, Dad said, is far more powerful than the large memory of evil. These days, the small memories sustain. Coll supposed Dad was right, but, guys, come on, it wasn’t that funny.

  “So,” Dad said, “you still haven’t explained why you’re down.”

  Okay, good, but beeeee careful. “Oh, I don’t know, the usual crap.”

  “Yeah, but I’d think you’d be used to the usual crap by now.”

  “Hmm.” Signal, Dad.

  He got it. “What’s going on?” Dad was suitably alarmed

  “Just some rumors.” Danger. This made the conversation interesting to eavesdroppers.

  “What kind?”

  “There’s some talk about activating us.”

  “There’s always talk about that.”

  “I suppose,” Collier let that hang for a long moment, knowing that Dad’s dismissal eased the monitors and they had now fallen asleep. “But it’s coming from inside this time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard it. Myself.” There.

  A long, long pause. “Damn,” was all Dad said.

  “Yeah,” was all he said.

  They sat in silence for a long time. Dad was probably trying to figure out a way to tell him it was just a rumor, there was nothing to be concerned about, nothing is going to happen, you’ll be all right. Stay out of the army. Forget the air force. Go to school. Get a girl pregnant, get a lot of girls pregnant. As much as he enthusiastically agreed with that last one, he was no longer sure he could avoid the first one.

  “I’ve been watching the news and they haven’t mentioned anything like that.” There it was, Dad’s pathetic try and Collier gave it the appropriate snort, “Didja think they would?”

  “Jesus, such a cynic.”

  “Come on, Dad.” Davis was restless next to him and the others were restless beyond and he waved all of them down. They’d picked up his mood and yeah, what a buzzkill, but we have things to face, fellas, things.

  “They’d have to say something.” Dad was still trying.

  “They don’t have to say anything, Dad.” Collier was still snorting.

  “Yeah, they would, they’d need to prepare us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because history tells them to. We lost Vietnam because they wouldn’t.”

  “Phw!” Collier let Dad know his thoughts on that.

  “It’s true. I happened to be there, you know.”

  “I thought you joined the air force after Vietnam.”

  “Well, yeah, six days before it ended, actually, but I grew up back then. We won all the battles, but we didn’t pursue victory. It was like fighting a weekend war, so no one wanted to go.”

  “Did you want to go?”

  “Well, no! I wasn’t crazy. Getting killed for no reason?”

  “So what’s the reason now, Dad?”

  “Survival.” One word. One indisputable word and Dad was, as usual, as maddeningly usual, right.

  “We lost Vietnam because we lacked the will to win,” Dad was still on it. “The idiots running things right now know that. If they’re going to pull something major like activating the Provos, then they have to prepare us, otherwise they’ll lose this one, too.”

  “Dad!” Collier winced. That probably regained the wire tapper’s attention.

  “All right, all right.” Dad was getting wound up and he always got political and said scary things and Capt. Bock always warned Collier to avoid those conversations, saying guys in black fatigues would come by and demand assurances of Collier’s loyalty. They’d never showed up, as far as he knew, but why take the risk?

  “So,” Dad was finally getting to his convoluted point, “until you actually see something on the news, I wouldn’t sweat it.”

  “Really,” the perfect pitch of disbelief.

  “Yes, really,” the perfect pitch of don’t-be-a-smartass.

  “Did you watch the news tonight, Dad?”

  “Yeah, and there was nothing like that.”

  “Was there anything about the car bomb in Charlottesville?”

  A collective gasp from Davis and the others. Collier had just guaranteed a black fatigue visit and Captain Bock exploding and probably some confinement time and, worse, loss of phone privileges. But, so what? Collier’s footing had lost purchase, his grip slipping. He needed a lifeline. Dad, throw me one.

  Dad was appropriately stunned. “What?”

  “Didn’t mention that little incident, did they?” Big surprise.

  “No. What are you talking about?”

  Collier told him.

  “Who did it? The towelheads?” Dad asked after some moments.

  “No. Somebody else.”

  “Somebody else? Who else is there?”

  “The National Liberation Front?”

  “What?”

  “National Liberation Front. NLF. You’re not seeing anything on the news about them, either, are you?” Not a question. Dad’s resulting silence was definitely an answer.

  “We’ve seen some flyers,” Collier pulled away from Davis’s frantic sleeve-tugging. “They’re against the government, this new government, anyways, declaring them tyrants and saying they’re here to free everybody from oppression.”

  “And they’re not the towelheads?”

  “No, Dad. More like Communists.”

  “Communists?”

  “Yeah, Dad, geez!” He rolled his eyes. Would you catch up already? “Something like that, anyway. The flyers talk about oppression and striking off the chains and the people shall rise, you know, that kind of stuff.”

  “You’re right. Communists. How sixties.”

  Collier let out a long sigh. Dammit, Dad, tell me what to do. “This isn’t funny. It’s not funny at all.”

  But Dad said nothing.

  Something big and ugly was moving out there. Collier’s lost footing became vertigo, the floor beneath cracking, the supports giving way. The earth became Jell-O. No anchor, no reference point, no bearing. He didn’t know which way was up and he was out of control, the wing dipping too far and dumping the air and the controls unresponsive and the spiral starting, loose and long and slow, but picking up speed, growing tighter, loading him up and he was paralyzed, unable to grasp the stick, push down and try to regain the craft.

  “Dad?” he breathed. Save me.

  “Coll...” a pause, “did you ever study the Dark Ages?”

  What the hell? “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Well, I guess if you had to pick the worst time in human history, that was it, after the fall of the Roman Empire, when the hordes swept Europe.”

  “Okay.” Is this really the time for a history lesson, Dad?

  “I mean, you can’t imagine it.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Dad ignored his flat tone, “Not only was there no organized society, but all of the learning disappeared, everything people had known about science and medicine and civilization just, poof, gone. I don’t know if you know this or not, but the Arabs actually collected all the
Western knowledge, Aristotle’s writings and things like that, and took it to Baghdad.”

  “I think you told me that before.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s important. Hadn’t been for them, there’d be no Western civilization. Anyway, things were bleak, people died in their twenties, plague and superstition and war was just everyday life. The Catholic Church had an iron grip and was more interested in power and wealth than salvation. Most people were slaves of their governments, which were nothing more than ignorant strong men bashing everybody with swords.”

  “Dad. Point?” Collier looked at his watch.

  “You want a point?” Dad was irritated, but come on already. “Here’s your point – things were bad, and we came out of it.”

  “Phffft,” Collier let him know what he thought of that. “So, I should just wait around for, oh, say, a thousand years and everything will be okay again?”

  “Oy,” Dad always said that when he was really mad and wanted to control his temper, but Collier didn’t care. “Would you let me finish? No, you’re not going to wait around. You’re going to do what good men of the time did.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Find an island.”

  “Huh?” An island? Had Dad, finally, gone crazy? “What island? Like in the middle of the Shenandoah? Little too shallow, I’m thinking.”

  “No. Listen,” Dad’s voice was tight and controlled, the here’s-why-you-don’t-do-drugs tone. “Not what I mean. Islands of sanity. Sanctuary. The monasteries in Ireland and England that preserved what learning they could, the Andalusians who brought the Greek and Latin masters back to Europe, a few brave men, here and there.”

  Last time we checked, Dad, your son was basically a prisoner and the world was a giant concentration camp. “Now how am I going to find those?”

  “They’re there,” Dad’s voice was grim. “You have to find them. Or, make your own.”

  He was at the end of the spiral, the ground rushing up, but a thermal, a slight rise, and he made for it, hope like a wolf in him. Make his own. He looked at Davis and the hangers and, yes, these were good men, not boys anymore, and they would form an island. But, details, Dad. “How am I going to do that?”