Nuclear Town USA

by David Nell

  The boxes were everywhere, each face painted with the black and yellow triangles. They were also locked, and Waller couldn't open them. He bashed at one with his sword until he was exhausted, and on the final blow, the one that snapped the blade of his sword neatly in half, the lock crumbled. He opened the boxand saw with his own eyes the spirit of the gods that would provide his village with protection forever. He reached into the box and lifted out the spirit, but he had to put it down quickly for it burned. He found a cart against the far wall of the room and a tool that would lift the spirit without having to touch it.

  He spent the rest of the day fighting the cart up the stairsand out of the building where he found two Watchers waiting for him. They cheered him and clapped him on the back and brought himfood and water thhat he much needed. One wrapped his cloak around Waller for the sun was setting and the desert was cold at night. Then all three of them ignored the call of sleep and walked back to the village, arriving just after sunrise.

  One of the Watchers should have run back and reported on theslaying of the Beast, but in their excitement they had forgotten.The villagers prepared a feast as they shouted for joy and triumph and congratulated Waller on his well-won victory. His hands were badly burned; though they had shown little sign of theinjury at first, they became progressively worse, his palms blistering so badly that they needed to be pierced to let the pusout. He vomited frequently, unable to keep down food or water, and the teachers assumed the Beast carried poison in its bite. NoWarrior had ever returned so this was a subject strictly for conjecture.

  The day and the night went quickly with feasting and dancingand celebrating. Waller did not recover from the poison, instead getting worse. His friends and his family came to him, for they all acknowledged, including Waller, that the bite of the Beast would kill him soon. Mari came to him and held him, and it was with his head in her lap, her fingers stroking his damp forehead that he died. But in his final moments he knew that his death was worth it, for his village would prosper in the glow of the spirit from Chernobyl.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Robert J. Santa has been writing speculative fiction for thirty years, with numerous works published in print and online markets. He lives in Rhode Island, USA, with his beautiful wife and two, equally beautiful daughters.

  THRONE ROOM

  D. Krauss

  The Old Man, he sit out in that chair no matter what. Cold, he don't care. Snow, rain, he sittin'. Ain't no one deserve it more.

  I see him, you know, like when it's snowing, so I go out and I say, "Sirrah, can I gets you something?" He makes us all say that "Sirrah," says it's a good word, an old word, from those days when there was respect. And he'll say, "Tony, no, I am quite fine as I am," or "Tony, yes, yes, I would like a blanket. The cold is a bit piercing today, don't you think?" And I'm all happy to run and get him a Hefty, the ends all tied together with old wiring and shit from off those poles and makes it real long and the old man starts telling me things about it. "This material is called plastic. It's chemical, measured and transformed in such a way that it's malleable. Quite an excellent insulator," and he snuggles in it and to hear those words, well, it's like music.

  He could just stay inside. We'd all come over, sit out the front of his hut and sing him songs, mostly ones he taught us, like "Proud Mary" and "Everybody's Talkin' at Me," those, and if we're good, he'll teach us another. But he says that it's important to be seen, so he'll pull himself out the Heftys and shamble on over and the little uns will just like call out and say "Old Man's walkin'! Old Man's walkin'!" and we all just stop what we doin' and we all just go and see and I ask if he needs somethin'. I think I'm his favorite.

  Well, there's others, like Linda Lou, she acts real sweet on him and stays in the hut with him but it ain't like he acts like she a wife or somethin' and it's just different with her. With me, it's all like, "Tony, you're a good man," or "Tony, I think you're going to do fine," and then, you know, I get respect. Some a others, you know, they give me the ole snake eye and make out some jabs at me but, you know, it ain't like I'm trying to get somethin' or steal their lives or anything and they know that, they know it, and they just make some faces and well, that about it. I do things because I love Sirrah. I do.

  We all do. Ain't no old people around here, especially ones as smart as Sirrah. They all got killed in the War. All killed each other. You find one, you've got a king. You got one knows all the shit Sirrah does, you got a god.

  Look at us. We've got a farm. An actual one, with crops and shit and we've got food most part of the winter because Sirrah had some kinda farm when he was a little un. Only because of that. Like he told us, like when the weather turned warm, "We need to break the ground," and we all just went, "What? Break the ground? You can't break the ground!" and Milly and Freddy all laughed but he said, "Yes, you can," and, by dogs, with big sticks, the point all cut down and a bunch of us pulling on it, and you can break the ground. It real hard to do, but we do it. And he showed us what seeds on the wild corn was and how to let the cobs dry and we got corn for most of the winter.

  Most of it.

  "If we could get some cannings, we'd be fine," Sirrah said the last snow, after we burn the ones didn't make it and put all the ash in a pile for the big Spring Spread on the Ground, like what Sirrah said the 'Native Americans' did.

  "Can ends? Wassat?" I asked him.

  He held up a sacred glassknife, "This," he said. "If it's all in one round piece, it's called a 'jar.' We could preserve the corn meal inside it. Think you can find some whole ones, Tony?"

  I try. I went up the city, all glowy and scary and wearin' the funny suit Sirrah made me wear and then made me throw it away and wash myself in the freezing' river over and over and over and no ones 'lowed to drink from it below the wash point for 'nother year and some my hair and teeth fall out but I'm all right 'cause Sirrah made me drink that nasty red stuff. "Eye Oh Dine," he say, "Drink another." And I almost throw up but he say don't Tony we almos' out.

  "Did you find any jars?" Sirrah look all hopeful.

  I hang my head and feelin' shamed 'cause I didn't. "It's like they all big piles a sacred glass, Sirrah," and I cry 'cause I don't wanna disappoint him.

  He just pats my hand. "It's okay, Tony. You're a good man for trying."

  "Found this," and I pull out the round thing, all black and smooth and writing on it and Sirrah can read. He does and he laughs, "Spanky and Our Gang Live. My, my, haven't heard this since the 60's. Where'd you find it?"

  "Sittin' on a pile of rocks like in the middle of the city."

  He shakes his head, still laughing. "Odd. Like a tornado setting a baby's crib gently down." I dunno his meanin' but never do and he reads some more of the round thing and then goes, "Ah! Another song to teach you!" And we all come up and he does, calls it 'Waltzin' Matilda' and tells us what a waltz is and talks Ann and Barney through some kinda dance. "Close enough," he chuckles and we all try it and he tells us of a magical island called Aws trail ya and we all, we all just hypnotized.

  It's good to have an Old One. It's why he has a throne.

  I'd found it. I'd been near the city, too near Old Man said and said don't go near again, Tony, less I say so and less you dress up and wash 'cause you'll get more scars, Tony. I don't mind, they's like badges, like Old Man said soldiers all got for killin' the world.

  "Why'd they do that?" Caramel ask him, she a real baby and we all as proud a' her as Old Man and Old Man takes real good care a' her and is even teaching her to read which means she all special and holy and we all watch out for her 'cause the others will snatch her if they can and try and breed her and they even try to get Old Man but he show'd us fight'in ranks, he called it. So they don't get him. Everyone wants their own Old Man.

  "Stupid reasons, really," he bouncin' Caramel on a knee on the throne I got him and she all giggly and her momma all worried-like and Old Man laughin' sayin', "Caramel gotta be tough, Caramel is the future," and even pitchin' her up in the sky and she just crazy laughin' and we
all too but momma, oh momma, no, she don't like that and she all try to get Caramel back but no, she belong to everyone and Old Man says so.

  "What reasons?" Caramel all laughin'.

  "Someone didn't like what someone else said, or didn't like how someone else looked, or wanted what someone else had," and we all confused 'cause we all in the world the same now, all brown and scarred and toofless, and none can talk to each other like in Old Man's time with magic, over mountains and oceans (I ain't seen no ocean, they all glowy and dead and Old Man said stay away. I wish I could see an ocean) so must be all about what someone else got, now.

  'Cause them others want Caramel and Old Man and corn so they come at us from the woods but Old Man say they ain't go no displin and we do so we drive 'em all back and maybe steal life oudda one or two which a shame but got to, got to and they all go on the pile so it's like they renewin' and Harold say that's what we all do, renew, in clean places where ain't no glowy sick, all who we are comin' back later as the corn and some others agree and they all like sing it but Old Man laughs and says, "Blasphemy like that would have gotten you burned at the stake in medieval times."

  "What's mid evil?" I ask and Old Man confuse me 'cause he pat my hand and say, "What we're in now."

  The throne still in good shape. When I dragged it up from out the back of the city and Old Man saw it he laughed and laughed and laughed and said, "Tony! You have really found something there! We used to call that 'patio furniture.' And it's still got the cushion!" And I offer it to him but he say no, no Tony that's yours you did all the work put it in front of your hut but we all made us a platform outta the stones we dug from breakin' the ground and put the throne there and we all bowed and said, "Sirrah, you sit there," and he seemed to think like maybe it was a good idea and he does all the time now.

  'Cause an Old Man's important. They ain't that many, anymore.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: D. Krauss is a former USAF officer currently residing in the Shenandoah Valley. He has 30 other stories published in various Ezines, such as OG's Speculative Fiction and The Battered Suitcase. He also has a couple of story collections on Amazon and a novel, Partholon, out with Rebel E Press.

  THE UNDEAD LEGACY

  OF THE KING

  Jeffrey Veregge

  John Lennon once said, "Before Elvis, there was nothing." As you read the following interview and take in the scope of what seemingly may have transpired nearly 40 years ago, you will see the irony of his words. What originally was meant to be a routine interview with one of the last surviving members of Elvis Presley's notorious Memphis Mafia: James Caraway–instead became an inside look at a never-before-told Elvis story that, if true, will truly cement his name in the history books as the most world-altering person in the last 100 years.

  Day 1: Project Methuselah

  I arrive at the Moncrieff Army Community Hospital, in Fort Jackson, South Carolina, around one o'clock. It is a typical muggy, sticky southern kind of day that makes you want to find the living relatives of whoever invented air conditioning just to tell them, "Thank you." I am set to interview James Caraway, a longtime Presley friend and employee, who knew Elvis since their first days stationed together in Friedberg, Germany, and was one of the last people with him the day he died.

  Caraway had reached out to me a couple of weeks ago in hopes that I could help him share one last Elvis tale before he passes on. In the later stages of a losing battle with cirrhosis of the liver, he stated the need for people to know what he deemed as the most important part of Elvis Presley's history. Feeling like a last request, I felt morally obligated to record this story.

  I arrive to a room smelling of various medications and sterile disinfectants. Besides the slight hum of the forced air from the ventilation above and the muffled conversations from the nurse station down the hall, the room is relatively quiet. Mr. Caraway is lying in bed and appears to be sleeping. His body looking haggard, bloated and well-used. His skin has a grey pallor and the look of fine-grit sandpaper. A nurse gently wakes him up. As he sits up and gazes over at me for the first time, and as a seasoned journalist, I can see right away it's more than just the alcohol that has been killing him. His jaundiced eyes have the haunted look of one looking for resolution, a sinner's remorse that begs forgiveness and an unknown peace.

  PS: Good afternoon Mr. Caraway. Do you prefer Mr. Caraway, James, Jimmy?

  Jimmy: Jimmy is fine.

  PS: So where would you like to start?

  Jimmy: Well, the best place to start, I guess is from the beginning. My full name is James Everett Caraway or Jimmy Caraway, a retired lieutenant corpsman from the U.S. Army, member of the Memphis Mafia and close friend of Elvis Aron Presley. An only child, I was born to Robert and Martha Caraway back in 1935 in Aiken, South Carolina.

  PS: So why am I here today Jimmy?

  Jimmy: Mr. Sullivan, I'm dying, I am not going to sugar coat it or deny the fact that I slowly killed myself over the years with my lifestyle choice. I asked you to come here to hear the Elvis story of all Elvis stories, a secret that I have kept to myself for nearly sixty years. A secret that more or less helped lead me to this bed here today, but before I die, I want to do the right thing, and share the story that the world needs to hear.

  PS: No disrespect, but a secret about Elvis Presley did this to you?

  Jimmy: No, Mr. Sullivan, years of taking prescription drugs and washing them down with Jack Daniels did this to me. You think I simply invited you here because of your good looks? Listen, if you are here just to insult and question me, you can leave. I am not going to waste my last few breaths on a disrespectful prick that won't take me seriously.

  James' tone at first was friendly, but as soon as I questioned him and his secret burden, he became quite agitated and angry. I did not mean to insult the man, but knowing that he is dying and realizing that I am helping him out in his last days, I decided to humor him and let it pass. I figured that at the very least that there would be a couple tabloids interested in printing this story. Little did I realize at that moment that all I knew about Elvis Presley, The U.S. Army and our current state of affairs would never be viewed the same ever again.

  PS: Okay Jimmy. I am sorry, you're right, I am here to hear secrets. Elvis Presley was one of the biggest icons of American pop culture, he helped shape rock and roll, and built a lasting legacy that has prospered many decades after his death. I was only three when he died, and yet here we are talking about him nearly 40 years later. So, I apologize as I am just here hoping to add a bit of myself to Presley lore.

  The look on James' face lightened; I gave him a moment of quiet victory before he got back to his story.

  Jimmy: I met Elvis Presley on October 1, 1958, at the U.S. Army base: Ray Barracks, in Friedberg, Germany. I was stationed there a full year before he arrived, fully aware that he was to be placed there after his draft enlistment and boot camp training were completed.

  PS: That seems a little odd, did everyone know back then where people were going to be stationed at that soon?

  Jimmy: No, not at all, but this was no ordinary case, and I wasn't part of an ordinary outfit. I was an X3 corpsman in a highly classified operation. Our division was designated in the field as Alpha Research. My rank was that of a lieutenant and, being an officer, I was allowed insight into details that would otherwise be off limits to a normal soldier. We worked on many projects that were based on scientific experiments carried out by the Nazis back in World War II. As a matter of fact, one of the men I assisted directly was Doctor Otto Häussermann. You see, the good doctor was secretly pardoned for his war crimes and was considered part of the spoils of victory. * At the time, he specialized in what was thought to be a fairly new area of science and medicine known as Biogenetics. Back in his Nazi days, the old Kraut was part of a team that was working on developing Hitler's dream of the perfect German specimen. A super soldier, if you will. When we got our mitts on him, we decided to see if we could complete what they had started.

  *Although I w
as mildly interested in his story about working with a former Nazi scientist on a super soldier serum, none of this was hardly anything unheard of. Back in 1945, the U.S. had brought over approximately 1,600 German scientists and technicians as part of a program called Operation Paperclip. It was a program littered with former Nazi war criminals that would be pardoned for their misdeeds – all for the greater good of the nation and its fight against Communism.

  PS: That's all very interesting Jimmy, but the use of German scientists after the war is hardly anything new. So besides being a good distraction, what does any of this have to do with Elvis?

  Jimmy: I was trying to get to that part, before you interrupted me...Like I said, Elvis was no ordinary case. I'm not talkin' about him being one of the biggest stars of that era, no sir, he was going to be crucial for the next phase of a very important project that I was a part of. This Project was designated: Methuselah.