by Black, D. S.
Jack was holding Letters from a Stoic; a collection of letters from the first century philosopher Lucius Seneca. “Interesting!” Jack said, patting the book softly with his fingers. “Seneca might agree, I think. He taught that a wise Stoic seeks friends that are beneficial to his mind, but also taught men to handle the times when no one’s around.”
“Stoics also taught men to avoid the pleasures of life. I’m not so sure I agree with that,” Doctor Brown said as he refilled his wine glass. “Sometimes the small pleasures in life are all that keep a man going.”
Jack held the book out, and spoke as he opened it, flipping through the pages, smelling the wonderful scent only old books have. “Seneca was a bit more human about his Stoicism. He certainly considered seeking out a new friend as one of life’s great pleasures,” Jack said.
“Indeed! I drink to Seneca!” The good doctor finished off his glass and refilled it. “However, didn’t Seneca kill himself?”
Jack nodded. “He did. Suicide is justifiable in Stoicism. Death is considered an escape when life is deemed intolerable. It’s not something anyone should fear. Death for the Stoic, is just the natural course of life.”
“Jack. You sound like you’ve thought a lot about dying. I guess anyone living these days has no choice but to think about death. I know what happened to your face, my friend.”
Jack put his hand against the gauze pad, and nodded. “A failed attempt at ending my suffering. In the end, it only added to my misery.”
They fell silent. For a few moments Jack visualized what it would be like to end his life. What freedom it would bring.
Jack cleared his throat, and broke the silence. “Epictetus taught that death is nothing more than a transformation into something new. From a cosmic perspective, he’s correct. We are star dust, when we die our material is reinvested back into the universe and becomes something entirely new. And when life becomes too much of a burden, when the game gets too hard to play, the door is always open; suicide is always an option, always an acceptable final solution.”
Doctor Brown shook his head. “As a physician I can’t agree. I fight for life. Cause no harm.” The doctor stared at Jack with blood shot, drunk eyes. “Jack, life is still worth living. There is still good to do here. Don’t lose hope, don’t lose faith in humanity.”
Jack almost told him that’s the attitude that killed his family. That it was his fault that they left the swamp; his idea to go out into the world looking to help people and bring back the Old World.
Instead, Jack said, “You’re right of course.” Then smiled, though behind that smile a need to escape via the Stoic open-door policy begged for attention. A poem he once read ran through his mind.
Death today, no more lonely days
Take the plunge, I don’t regret the pain I’ll surely forget
No more tomorrow, no more sorrow, no more hate, no bleaker hollow
No soul to waste, no soul to burn, rotting flesh inside the dirt or urn
Mindless rage, hopeless dreams is all I see when delusion screams
Walk alone, talk alone, say goodbye all alone
Death today, nick the vein, pull the trigger, I’m saying goodbye to my reflection’s mirror
“Of course, I’m right. Best believe the old doctor. Life could be worse.” Doctor Brown stood up and wavered for a moment; he was clearly drunk. He slurred his words. “I think I’ll take a nap, Jack. It was damn good talking with you.”
Jack watched as the doctor drunkenly walked out of the library, then stared down at the book. Seneca used the open-door policy when life became too much of a burden for him; when his life had used up all its usefulness.
Suicide was a path to liberty. Liberation from a hellish existence, after all we are just renting this body, this life. Epictetus compared life to renting a room at a hotel; at some point we have to leave the hotel; what does it matter when or how?
Kant compared life to a smoky room; if the smoke was moderate, then stay; if the smoke was heavy and stifled your breathing, then the time to exit had come.
But what about Candy? He couldn’t leave her. Not after all she had done for him; not after all she’d been through.
No! Not yet. Not while he didn’t know where or what might have happened to her; not until he knew if she was alive or dead.
4
At some point Jack dozed off in the overstuffed chair. Letters from a Stoic rested in his lap. Doctor Brown had given him another spoonful of hydrocodone right after lunch. Along with the large meal, and the comfortable chair; sleep took over and Jack began to dream deeply.
Smoke was everywhere. Screams of women and kids. Blood, pain, fear. Everywhere. Chaos consumed whatever world Jack was seeing deep in his mind’s eye. People running and shouting. He couldn’t see their faces. Couldn’t make out their voices. Gun shots in every direction. Blasts of blood spatter within the fog. Death. Mayhem.
Jack couldn’t move. He was frozen; stuck in one place. He stared around him and only saw the white gray fog of hell fire, the hot shots of blood that suddenly spurted in red contrast against the gray fog.
Red hair! Was that red hair he just saw? He tried to scream her name. Nothing came out, just a dry croak. His mouth was dry as a sun beaten desert.
Red hair again. Pale skin in the mist. Candy! He was sure of it.
She ran back and forth. Reports from her pistol travelled loudly through the thick air.
Growls. Hungry growls everywhere. Dear Jesus! They are everywhere.
Candy’s running with other women. She’s shouting at them to run. Run and…
…she put her fingers to her lips. Shhhhhhhhh.
Run and be silent. The dead approached. Jack smelled them. Smelled them in this dark dream.
Something cold touched Jack, tugging on his leg. He screamed, but nothing actually came out. He looked down.
Ghosts! Ghosts he knows.
“Jack. Almost time to join us,” Tamby said. She held his hand; it felt like ice.
“The open-door policy Jack,” her sister said. “Almost time.”
For a moment they were both there; their cold, dead, supernatural eyes staring up at him. Then gone. Just vanished.
Candy again. She was firing frantically. The dead moved closer. Her gun stopped firing. Only empty clicks. She removed a knife from a side sheath and fought. Fought with the fury of every god that had ever been imagined.
Too many. Too goddamn many. Jack couldn’t move, couldn’t stop the horror show from unfolding. The dead were on her she couldn’t stop them. Too many. Just too damn many.
She screamed. Oh god. She’s not going to—
“Jack! Jack wake up!”
The fog disappeared. The smell of old leather. The beautiful face of Carla.
Just a dream. It was all just a dream.
But was it?
“Boy you were screaming something fierce in here. We thought a walker might have gotten in.” Behind her stood the stalky kid he’d met at lunch. The boy’s eyes were wide and alert. He held a rifle.
Doctor Brown came in still drunk, but trying very hard not to show it. “Good god people. What’s all this about?”
“Oh lord have mercy! Drunk again are we?” It was Miss Thelma. Her hands on her hips, staring at the good doctor hard. “Should have known. Gonna have to hide the spirits, I guess.”
“Now see here. In a day and age like this, a man needs a drink from time to time, Miss Thelma.” Doctor Brown said this and then smiled drunkenly. The doctor clearly thought he’d won this argument with such an undebatable retort.
The Doctor looked at Jack. “Someone want to change Jack’s bandages? I’m a bit too lost in wine to be any good for anyone now.”
This brought on laughter. Even Jack, still questioning if what he’d just witnessed was a dream or a vision, joined in on the laughter.
5
When Jack was five years old he’d wet the bed. The bed wetting went on for some time. Mema told him it was OK. Not to worry about it. It w
as just a stage that would eventually go away, but by the age of seven the bed wetting was still going on. Jack was afraid to stay at friends’ houses over night because of the fear he’d piss the bed and he certainly would never live that down. Dumb Piss Boy. He was sure that’s what he would come to be called if his friends found out he couldn’t hold his liquids while he slept.
Now sitting up in his bed at the farm, the white gray moon shining in through the window; Jack was covered in his own urine. The bed wetting had stopped right before his tenth birthday. Just like that. Done! Gone! Thank God!
Now he started to whimper. Somewhere in his mind he told himself it was time for some of that Stoic philosophy; time to put the emotion of embarrassment and shame away. See this for nothing more than a biological function gone awry.
He’d had a large glass of water before bed, along with a spoon full of Hydrocodone. Maybe that’s what did it. He didn’t believe that; he didn’t have any fucking idea why he pissed in the damn bed. Here he was in the apocalypse and he’s worried about what the pretty girl named Carla is going to think when she discovers the pissed stained sheets and the pissed stained mattress in the morning.
He was sure Doctor Brown would chalk it up to his feverish state, though Jack was pretty sure the fever was all gone; maybe stress then? It’s true he was worried about Candy. Everyone was worried now. Dinner had been melancholy to the extreme. They should have been back by now.
They had fried chicken and green beans. Sweet Southern ice tea.
But the warring party had not returned. No one said it out loud, but their faces and their eyes gave it all away. Something had gone wrong, something very bad or else they’d be back by now. Someone should have come back at the very least. A messenger.
The other worry, the big ugly proverbial elephant in the room wasn’t spoken of either. If Pinky, Candy, Rainmaker, and the rest of the party had been killed then how long till the Militia came knocking? How long before they came with a tank, guns, and angry drugged faces? How long till the small grouping of men still at the farm were either killed or forced to join? How long till the women and little girls were turned into sex slaves?
Jack stood up and started pulling his clothes off. He’d been given an extra pair. He dropped the pee stained clothes on the floor. He stood naked, letting his body dry. He felt disgusting. After a few minutes he put on the fresh clothes. Dressed and dry, he still felt sticky.
He’d been doing this with nothing but the moon light. It finally occurred to him he had electricity at his disposal now. He turned on the lamp; its brightness was like a miracle.
The bed was wet alright. His piss had leaked through the sheets into the mattress, he undressed the bed and threw the soiled sheets on top of the yellow stained clothes.
The smell was a bit ripe. He opened the window and hoped it would air out the room. He remembered seeing a community hamper beside the bathroom right down from his room. He opened the bedroom door, trying to be as quiet as possible.
He saw no one. The hall was empty; all the doors were closed.
When he walked into the hallway he suddenly felt afraid. A coldness took him; his bones felt frozen like a gush of bone freezing wind had rushed past him, then it was warm again.
Jack shook his head from left to right and continued down the dark hallway. He opened the hamper and dropped the filthy sheets and clothes in. He’d have to explain that he peed himself, or maybe they would be so kind as to not even mention it. These were decent people; they would probably not want to hurt his feelings or make him feel embarrassed.
He stepped into the bath room, closed the door, and—
6
frozen, so cold. The light wouldn’t turn on, the door was locked, and he couldn’t get out. He wasn’t alone. Who is that? Something was in the tub. The curtain was drawn open. It stepped out.
“JOIN ME! JOIN ME! JOIN ME!”
A body, a shape, a form moved closer to him. Cold hands grabbing him, jerking him, pulling him. Help! Help! Help! He wanted to scream, but couldn’t. The Voice pulled him into the darkness. It was like an endless tunnel of dreadful, evil, hellish darkness. A tunnel leading somewhere no one ever wants to go. A place so cold and so frightening only nightmares exist there; only the cold hands of death, not even the devil himself could exist there without going mad, insane, lonelier than all the nuts in every nut ward ever to exist.
The cold hands are pulling him deeper into the dark tunnel. He can’t fight them. They own him.
“JACK! JACK! JACK! WELCOME! COME ON IN! I’VE BEEN WAITING!”
The Voice; so loud, cold, heavy with malice; crying and screaming, wanting him there, wanting him with It, wanting him to live with It.
“JACK! JACK! JACK! COME ON DOWN!”
He couldn’t stop the hands pulling him. He couldn’t see the face that belong to the frigid hands clasped around him, yanking him deeper into this tunnel of misery, this tunnel of pure, living, dread and darkness.
“IT’S THE OPEN-DOOR POLICY, JACK! DON’T FEAR THE REAPER, BOY! DON’T YOU DARE FEAR THE FUCKING REAPER!”
Jack saw a figure ahead. It was large and scary. It was laughing, laughing at him; waiting as It dragged him. Jack saw a gray shadow against darkness. It was going to get him. It was so close now. He couldn’t escape, the cold hands on his arms. That Voice. So loud. It won’t let go. He couldn’t fight. Too strong.
Oh, dear lord have mercy! This can’t be. Help! Help! For the love of God! Please! Someone hel—
7
Jack woke up, a bright light shining in his eyes.
“There you are. Jack, you’ve had yourself a seizure. No! No! Don’t try to get up.” Doctor Brown kneeled beside him. Jack was vaguely aware of a blood pressure cuff on his right arm.
Just a dream, Jack thought, but was it? What strange shit was this? What kind of hell had this world turned into? When a man can’t go to the bathroom without being harassed by spectral predators? How can a man keep going when dreams seem more like visions, when waking often leads to living nightmares?
The Stoic open-door policy was beginning to nestle deeply into Jack’s mind. He just wanted to know where Candy was. She was the last link to the Old World. The final reason for being here, for trying to do any good at all.
Sure, Kant said humans should never opt out. That if a man’s heart beats, he can still do good in the world. Jack once believed that. Jack had believed that when he led his family out of the swamps. Where did that get him? Family dead! That’s what! Nothing more.
Kant was a philosopher with an Enlightenment bent, but those ideas are dead. That way of thinking no longer jibes with the natural world.
Now Jack pisses his pants. Now Jack sees supernatural boogie men. Now Jack understands the only way to find peace and solace with the natural world is to transform the body by recycling it back into the universe.
Another poem shot through Jack’s mind:
Lonely madness, a dark tunnel in the mind, a place peace can’t exist, a shadowy mist
Fear lives there, anxiety’s neighbor, lingering like a cancerous cyst
Strange thoughts exist, persistently haunting with never-ending twists
A scary maze with no exit, a black forest you can’t escape
He couldn’t recall who wrote it, but he sure was stuck in a scary maze, dark lonely madness now an everyday threat; but he did have an exit, an escape, the open-door policy was waiting for him.
A return to nature. Suicidal nobility. Opting out to save his mind.
“Jack? You still with me, buddy?” Doctor Brown’s voice sounded far off; sounded like it was on some distant planet.
Jack wanted out of this world, out of this horrible place where peace can’t exist. Another poem beamed into his consciousness.
UFO take me away, no more pain every day
UFO show me the sky, show me the heavens I’ve been denied
UFO so strange with glow, beam me up to the dazzling ride
UFO hovering high, bouncing around my
planet’s sky, a tall green man wants to know why
Green man, don’t you know? This earth isn’t for me, my smile only for show
Green man says to me, accept the illusions they offer thee
Green man, don’t you see, my mind rejects their delusions as illusory
Green man laughs, beams me down, back to the earth that makes me drown
No Jack. No UFO for you. No distant travel with an enlightened race. Just stoic principles of acceptable suicide.
Jack vaguely felt himself being lifted and carried out of the bathroom, down the hall, and placed into his bed. His mind burned; turning over and over, trying to find a solace that no longer existed.
A black shadow lay over his mind. He saw only the pain, saw only the hateful world. There was no good left. No good to be done. What a damn fool he was for thinking it. Candy’s probably dead, never returning. Dead and gone, not buried, just dead. Rotting in the open sun. Maggots on her body, eating the flesh and rotting guts. Festering and laying eggs in her dead body, spawning inside her; or she probably roams now, just a walking stench, searching for more flesh to eat, more death to bring, more life to consume; just a walking, moaning, growling red head of a thing that reeks of maggots and rotting skin. Her former blue eyes turned hot white by the Fever; her brain nothing more than a hot box of black dreams of dripping blood and screaming faces; a land of shadow without cognitive reasoning, without emotion, without fright, joy, hate, nothing….
.…just a hunger that never dies. Just a rash of biting and chewing and mewling around the earth seeking out hot flesh, hot brains, hot blood, tasty and juicy guts to grind in rotted teeth, gums black with rot.
Humanity’s just a hindrance now; in the way of nature’s natural order. No gods. Nothing! Just nature exacting her cruel revenge for years of mistreatment.
Another poem shot through Jack’s mind.
