Blood and Chaos: The Collected Low Lying Lands Saga (The Low Lying Lands Saga)

by Bob Williams

  “Welcome to Normal Safe Zone! What the hell do you want, Prescott?” I’m waiting for the big Billy Dee Williams smile. Remember in Empire Strikes Back, when Lando fucks with Han for a bit, then they hug it out? I’m still waiting.

  “Can we hit the Safe House already?” I wheeze. I’m still recovering from his welcoming gift.

  “Follow me and stick close. You don’t have a badge yet and I don’t want you wandering off in that asshole way you do.”

  “Jay, listen…”

  “Not. Yet. Not just yet.” He called me by my first name, which is a red-line indicator that I am still up shit creek with him and I need to tread lightly.

  The Normal Safe Zone is unlike any other safe zone I’ve ever seen. I’ve been to quite a few throughout the state, and a couple as far away as Kansas City and Columbus. What makes this zone safe is that it’s self-contained. It used to be a Mitsubishi plant, pre-Descent. The Outlander was made here. This place is huge. It’s surrounded by fencing that’s been reinforced with industrial barbed wire to make climbing it hurt if it’s attempted. There are pre-existing flood lights, but the number has doubled and the wattage significantly increased. From the lookout posts on the four corners, you can see for miles.

  The inside of the plant has been completely repurposed. Walls have been constructed to make sleeping quarters, a kitchen, an open meeting space, a large training space for self-defense, base defense, and numerous other amenities that were required to have a safe and clean base of operations.

  Jay takes me directly to Visitor Registration, where I’m processed and given a badge with clearance level beta. This means I have access to ninety percent of the base without a visitor’s guide. No shit. After that business is taken care of, we know we need to talk. We also know exactly where to go.

  Of everything this safe zone has to offer, the only place I want to be right now is the bar. In the past, Jay, myself, Coop, and in the not-too-distant past, Prejean, had enjoyed several long nights in the Safe House. Jay had named the bar, and he made it very clear that when you walked through the doors of the Safe House, all your bullshit stayed outside. This was the place you came to get drunk with your friends, mourn the loss of fallen soldiers, or just sit quietly. The Normal Safe Zone was established six months after the Descent. Not a single punch has ever been thrown within its walls.

  When we walk through the doors, everyone turns and acknowledges that Jay has entered the room. He stops immediately, telling them all to get back to it. He’s here for pleasure, not work. As always, though, he reminds the residents to remain vigilant.

  A server brings us two ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon beers and then quickly retreats. I have no concept of how this conversation is going to go so I dive right in.

  “Look, Jay, let me—”

  “Shut up, Prescott! You don’t think I know what kind of world we’re living in? Prejean was a good friend, a trusted First. Losing him set us back a fuck-ton, but this place is for fighters. Residents here have a fighter's spirit and a will, not only to survive, but to thrive.”

  “Hold on there,” I say. “I didn’t just walk in off the street, either. Are you running for President Asshole of the Post-Descent Americans?”

  “I’m just saying. I gave you a shot for Prejean, but he always knew the risks. His heart was in the right place and he died trying to help people. We’re cool, Prescott. Why the hell didn’t you get in touch with me sooner?”

  “’Cause I felt like an asshole.”

  “Well, you are, so…”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Where’s Coop? He shacking up with Heidi again?”

  Shit. Heidi.

  “Coop didn’t make it. About a year ago outside Oak Park. The Freaks got him, along with a mother and a daughter. I barely made it out myself.”

  “Damn, man. I’m sorry, Prescott. Suffice to say I know how you feel. I know you guys were tight.” He sits there for a moment, staring off at nothing, deep in thought. “So, here we are,” he says eventually. “Why do we keep living and our friends keep dying?”

  “Wish I knew, brother.” We raise a toast to our fallen friends and take our sips in silence.

  I’m just about to bring up Emily and The 88 when a chime sounds within the Safe House. There are speakers in all four corners of the room, and the server who’d brought us our drinks starts tapping a triangle into a microphone.

  “It’s time!” she proclaims into the mic.

  “Time? Time for what?” I ask. I was hoping for some time to talk to my friend. I have an idea and I need his help with it.

  “As always,” she says, “If you don’t want to listen, you can hit the road. If you do want to stay”—the crowd howled in unison—“THEN SHUT THE HELL UP!”

  “What’s going on, Jay?” I ask.

  “Have you ever heard of Doctor Midnite?”

  “Who?”

  “You’ve never heard the Doc? Seriously? Where the hell you been, man?

  “I’ve been… busy.”

  “Well, you’re in for something… weird.”

  DOCTOR MIDNITE

  When I woke up this morning, I heard a disturbing sound. You hear me, Crissman? When I woke up this morning, I heard a disturbing sound. I heard the sound of thousands of people out there, dying. Do you hear it? I hear the sounds of crying and tears and the other unhappy noises of gunshots and screams and the breaking of necks and the snapping of bones. Somebody’s filling up an ocean of tears out there. No chance in hell for a peaceful life.

  Horrors in New Mexico, terrors in Texas, great storms sinking Louisiana and blowing out the Florida Keys. Even New fucking Hampshire of all places. Is anyone safe? All this is terrible.

  What can I do? When I woke up this morning I didn’t take one single goddamn drink. You hear me, Crissman? You understand what that means? You are gonna hear my disturbing words right now. Disturbingly sober ring-of-fire type words I’m spewing out all over the airwaves. I’m vomiting up truth now. Pure and unadulterated, an Everclear truth tsunami. I’m spewing it all out. This is a disturbing sound coming from my mouth. Are you listening?

  The Apocalypse is here! I’m sober and I’m awake and I’m feeling every pulse and wave of pain coming forth, like fire spewing out of the mouth of a great beast, a whiff of a dragon’s belch! For years I’ve lived in peaceful squalor in Pahrump, doing my bit to tell the business of truth. For years it’s just been Mama Midnite, the eternal microphone, and me. And the bunker. And the booze. And the guns. Oh, yes, the guns. I’m a survivor. So are you, Crissman, and the others I will not name, and Mama Midnite. You feel me? We are all survivors of the Twilight Zone life that we endure.

  And what does that mean, really? So I beat the game so far, I’m up ahead a hundred lives. I’m sitting on a tonnage of gold coins. Full-tilt boogie. What now? I have my castle, but what now? What now? I can’t do a goddamn thing here—I just have cats and this smirking Crissman staring at me, looking like a smug puppy dog, and the others, who are more normal but have less balls to come on the airwaves of Radio Midnite. Yes, you are good looking, but good looks aren’t enough in this life. Trust me, I know from personal experience, Crissman. You got to have panache! I’m not afraid to deliver the message to you Midniters. Because you…listen!

  That disturbing sound. I hear it now. I’ve always been an empathetic person. Gary Busey, Oliver North, Margaret Thatcher, and the Bee Gees. We are all victims of being too empathetic. Really? Yes! Keep listening. We react by becoming cold and deaf. Only way the sensitive can make it through life. But I must act…because it is time!

  It’s the only way. But sometimes we gotta block out those sounds, that awful bit of noise, and start to think. Yes, I have my castle here under the windswept high desert, but I think what to do. I could relax here and play Drunk Jenga with Crissman, learn a new recipe with Mama Midnite, and listen to the world die as all of my network’s contacts disappear one by one from the bulletin board, a mighty black mark placed next to their locations as the despera
does of the damned take them down while tipping their caps to the applause of a Freak parade.

  So what do I do? I woke up this morning and realized that I’m just a man sitting in a bunker and spewing out here. That’s fine. That’s the way it has to be. I get it. I’m an old hippie, former gunrunner, CIA-affiliated warlord. I get it. I can only do so much here.

  Maybe. I’ve been having a disturbing thought.

  Well, that’s me. I can’t go out and shoot a Freak in the face, you know. I’d love to. I’d like to see one of them bastards. Screaming about The Black Hand, screaming about The Eighty-Eight, losing their shit and breaking down and bleeding out and turning into a ghoul. I can see broadcasts; I can hear these radio waves bleeding out. I’d like to shoot a Freak. I’d like to stand over a Freak, a hole where his face used to be, and watch the smoke creep out of the barrel. Yeah. Shoot a Freak for me and Crissman. Can you do that?

  Freaks everywhere. Not like the goddamn pinko hippies. Real Freaks. Real pain. Real blood. In Technicolor. No bullshit sounds of the sixties coming from their weak guitars and blown-out amps, but the guttural sounds of pure hell on stereo, coming right from their bullshit mouths.

  Take it back! Can you do that for me? Pick up the gun. Lock ‘n’ load! Breathe deep. Feel the power of peace and holiness living in your loins and in your veins. Take it back! Guns, knives, swords, bombs. Something. BH-2014 needs to be DEAD-2015. You feel me? Good. Make that disturbing sound become the sound of guns and the bang of shovels. Go after these Freaks.

  And King Freak himself. You know who I mean. Look, it’s time for sober me to make a sober evaluation of this situation. Kade, that’s who I’m talking about.

  First part you should know is that everyone’s fucked. If you are alive right now, you are fucked. Christmas is canceled. The Kentucky Derby is on indefinite hiatus. The powers that be are the powers that were. There’s a great tornado going through our fair land, passing through, leaving piles of bodies and shit everywhere, and the glorious thing is that it’s really everywhere. Mexico. England. Asia. The spirits of Genghis Khan and Charles Manson fuel the death engine. So shoot a Freak for Doctor Midnite. Only way out is forward, through the bodies of the damned. It is biblical Ragnarok. Take back what belongs to you! You tell ‘em this land is not for sale!

  I’m gonna get out of this bunker soon. And I’m going to lead a crusade. Love and shotguns are the only weapons I got. I’m sick of that disturbing sound.

  I can only do so much here in Pahrump, though. Crissman can’t run for shit. I’ve seen it. It’s like watching a one-legged child in Calcutta trying to wade through four feet of molasses. He’s really that slow.

  But me. I got claws. I got dynamite. I can run a 5K in five minutes when I got the juice in me. I got machine guns and napalm and Molotovs and these little drones that make a funny whiz bang sound when their .22 round goes off on your face. Let’s start to kill righteously. I’m ready. Shit, I was born almost ready and then made into a creature of the righteous kill from my years in the dirty service of the God-blessed Uncle Sam.

  I think it’s time. I know it is. This is the moment for the grand crusade of light to come bursting forth. I am disturbed. It’s time you get disturbed. You get weird with me. I’m going on a crusade. Pahrump shall be liberated by the gun and the swords of my collection. I feel it in me. This is my time. The disturbing sound shall be reduced to a whimper and then nothing will be heard but the chorus of the righteous singing hymns to a bloody and triumphant firepower.

  Let’s start making up a list of targets, shall we? You know who’s on the top of mine? King Freak.

  Kade. I don’t know if he’s a Freak or not. He’s a son of a bitch though, isn’t he? Real hardcase. Kills children and shit. Women. Animals. Anything that moves. Well, guess what, let’s start there. He’s in Music City right? What’s left of it?

  God, I keep hearing about him. If I had all the powers of the night I’d turn into a fog so I could fly all the way across the country to appear in his window and rip off his head and use it as a fleshy toilet.

  All right, somebody’s gotta put that motherfucker in the ground. I promise you I will. Pahrump’s never gonna forget when Doctor Midnite rips through with a lead hurricane and a napalm storm.

  Pahrump’s never gonna forget. There’s gonna be happiness from now on. No more drinking for me. Just gunfights to indulge in and mass burials and finding someone responsible.

  All right. But I can’t kill Kade in Nevada. And I want to. Somebody indulge me. I used to sign off by saying “Have a drink on Doctor Midnite. Peace out.” In the old days, when my biggest worry was the FBI and not the apocalypse dudes out there.

  Well, have a kill on me. Kade. Kade. I hope he’s listening. They always are. Well, guess what, chickenshit, the peasants are going hunt you down for sport. The lifespan of a villain is brutal and short. You feel me, Kade? Your days are numbered, pal.

  I got guns to polish, knives to sharpen, and dynamite to fuck around with. Have a kill on me. Crusader Midnite. Peace out.

  A NEW DIRECTION

  I have never heard anything like it in my entire life. Seriously. Post-Descent, the crazies were out in force. Prophesying, screaming, and crying about the end of the world. They were saying it was all over. Hell, the Dreamers bought their line of shit, but I never did. Something’s not quite right about this guy, though. It’s like he’s playing crazy but he’s not. But he knows about The Black Hand. And The Eighty-Eight. How long has he been in the know? Do I know him? Does he know me? Is he talking to me? How’ve I missed this guy?

  I’ve been distracted.

  In the beginning, after the Collapse, it was just me and Coop. We never had any other setting than survival mode. But he didn’t, did he? Sure, we were helping people. And yes, we killed a lot of Freaks. But we were just surviving. Playing defense for the most part. It never occurred to us to… what did Doctor Midnite say? Take it back.

  And he’s right. It’s time to take the fight to the Freaks. Push them back. Re-establish those lost connections and territories. I can do that. It’s time somebody spewed forth a little truth to bad guys. Who knows how long or how hard it’ll be, but you gotta start somewhere. Might as well start with Kade. Right here, right now. It felt good. To have a purpose. I’m going to Nashville, Tennessee. I will find Kade, and I will turn out his lights for good.

  Take it back.

  I hear the loud clap of two hands crashing together, shake my head, and focus on Jay.

  “Where did you go?” he asks jokingly. I look and him but say nothing. He makes the connection.

  “Oh shit.” Jay looks at me with wide, knowing eyes.

  “What?” I say, arms outstretched. Is this going to be a tough sell? I might end up needing some of his resources.

  “Don’t play. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Do I?” I said. I smiled. It doesn’t last for long, though. There is business to attend to. “What can you tell me about this guy?”

  “Well, that was certainly different than his usual ranting. Honestly, he sounds the same supposedly sober as he does when he supposedly drunk. I haven’t heard any of that Black Hand stuff before. Or that Eighty-Eight business. That was new. Maybe he’s tripping cause he’s drying out.

  “But anyway, this guy Kade, he sounds like a bad dude. More than that. A real psycho. The Doc thinks somebody should”—he made air quotes—“put that motherfucker in the ground. Why does that somebody have to be you? You’re here now. We have work to do here. There’s no need to go off and clean up a stranger’s backyard when you have trash in your own.”

  I wouldn’t say Jay and I are the best of friends. We work well together but we aren’t tight. Maybe that’s changing. But he has always read me straight up. It’s the quality of a great leader. He makes a good point, but I’m going to Nashville for me, not for anyone else.

  “Jay, everything he said in that broadcast is true. Cut away all the crazy crap and you have a hardline message. The Black Hand, The E
ighty-Eight, I know what they are. I’m twenty-four hours removed from a life-altering revelation. I’m gonna hit the head and grab me another beer, and I promise, I will tell you everything. We need to be on the same page. There’s about to be a sea change.”

  When I get back to the table, both Jay and another man make eye contact with me, like they’re sizing me up for something. Then the other man walks away. He has an iPad or something similar; I’d seen him scrolling through a list, but his back obstructed my view. What were they up to?

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “A specialist. Let’s call him Hannibal. If you can convince me this isn’t a stupid-ass death wish, I just might go have a chat with him when we’re done.”

  I crack open my beer, take a long pull, and say, “Sit back, this will take a while. And it won’t be pleasant. You’ll probably think I’m insane.”

  I tell him that the search for Emily has come full circle, and that my eyes have been opened to a whole new reality.

  The reason Jay didn’t ask about Emily when I arrived was because a while back I asked him not to. Well, him and several other close associates. After so many inquiries in the beginning and never having anything to report I finally told them when there was something to report, I’d get the word out.

  His eyes widen. “Go on. I want to know everything.” I tell him how I’d been working closely with Pollock as always, and after two years we had finally pinpointed a bar called The 88 as her location. Then I tell him the whole damn thing was a setup.

  “When was this?” he interrupts.

  “Yesterday. Can’t you see how fucked up I am?”

  “Well, sure, but you have a dangerous profession. Proceed,” says Jay.

  I explain that I hadn’t hit it off well with the bartender, which led to me jerking him over the counter and beating his ass. Then a few Freaks joined in and tuned me up until I was knocked out.