Mega Post-Apocalyptic Double Bill

by Mark Gillespie

  With that, Santos turned back towards the tent. Before he opened the flaps however, Eda caught sight of a half-smile creeping onto the man’s face. His sharp cheekbones poked out, knifelike. His was a sinister outline that sent a cold shiver down Eda’s spine.

  “This way,” Santos said, walking inside.

  10

  They walked through a tall, arch-shaped entrance into the tent.

  The air was warm inside. For a moment, Goldman abandoned the role of disgruntled prisoner and sighed, drinking in the comfort and shelter like a thirsty man who’d stumbled upon an oasis. Daylight trickled into the tent, sneaking past a set of white transparent curtains that swayed along to the breeze.

  As Eda walked forward, raindrops fell off her cloak, dripping onto the groundsheet.

  Commander Torres was waiting for the prisoners on a wooden platform, raised about twelve inches off the ground. Three narrow steps had been carved into the center of the platform, each one with a small and exotic mural depicting some kind of jungle scene with wild animals. Torres was sprawled on a bright orange and red couch, like a grand queen of ancient times. She was a fierce-looking young woman, somewhere in between twenty and thirty, with cropped black hair. Her military uniform, peppered with brightly colored badges, clung to her lean and muscular frame like an extra layer of skin. Underneath the medals, a metal dagger pin was fastened to her shirt.

  There were four other people gathered around her on the platform – a tight-knit circle of high-ranked officers, two men and two women, standing on either side of the luxury couch. One of the men and both women were much older than Torres, in their fifties or sixties at least. The other male officer however, was younger and he bore a striking resemblance to Torres, so much so that Eda suspected they might even be twins.

  All eyes were on the captives as Santos, the delivery boy, brought them closer.

  They stopped short of the platform and stood in a neat line. Santos nodded to the platform, then quickly made his retreat.

  Torres signaled to one of the guards standing by the platform. The guard executed a swift, flawless salute and hurried over to where a row of spare folding chairs was stacked up against the tent wall. The guard brought back three of the chairs, unfolded them and set them down behind the line of captives one at a time.

  When it was done, Torres gestured for them to sit.

  Goldman and Mr. China jumped on the outside seats, making sure there was a gap in between them. Eda frowned, then sat down in the middle.

  “Welcome to Fort Independence,” Torres said. “I’m so happy to see you all today.” She spoke English effortlessly, like someone who’d been around the language her entire life.

  “What do you want with us?” Goldman said.

  Torres looked at Mr. China for a second, then turned back to Goldman.

  “Both of these uniforms I know well,” she said. “So you are both veterans of the old war yes? American and Chinese foot soldiers. Yes?”

  Torres adjusted her position on the couch, sitting forward as if on the brink of getting up.

  “You understand my words okay?”

  “I understand your words,” Goldman said. He suppressed a cough and then pointed at Mr. China. “And yes we’re soldiers of the old war, which by the way we were trying to finish when your goons came along and interrupted us. What’s the world coming to when two men can’t settle a score in peace anymore?”

  “My apologies gentleman,” Torres said.

  The commander turned her attention to Mr. China once again. She spoke to him in a foreign language, retaining the elegant, confident tone she’d used while speaking English to Eda and Goldman. Mr. China’s eyes lit up at the sound of his native tongue being spoken aloud. His dour expression lifted like a slow moving fog.

  “What are you saying to him?” Goldman said. “This is still America you know. At least have the decency to speak English.”

  Torres looked at Goldman with a puzzled expression.

  “What am I saying?” she said. “The same thing I’m about to say to you and the woman. But why should you get to hear it first?”

  “Like I said,” Goldman snarled, “this is still America.”

  “Is it?” the commander said with a sneer.

  Torres kept talking to Mr. China. The old soldier responded with a shake of the head, which seemed to displease the woman on the platform.

  With a shake of the head, she turned back to the Americans.

  “What I want from you today,” Torres said, her eyes skipping back and forth between Eda and Goldman, “is information. Specifically, information about the city of Boston. The Chinaman here claims he doesn’t know anything. What about you two? What can you tell me about Boston?”

  “They used to call it Beantown,” Goldman said. “That the sort of info you’re after?”

  Torres’s didn’t bat an eyelid.

  “So far our scouts report very little in terms of activity,” she said. “Personally, I doubt a city as vast as Boston is as quiet as it looks from the sky. So, if you can tell me about what’s going on in this region – networks, tribes, survivors of any kind, I’m willing to spare your lives. What do you say?”

  Goldman responded with a short burst of laughter.

  “You haven’t got a clue what happened here have you?” he said. “Networks? Take it from me Commander, I’ve lived in this city for more years than you’ve been alive. The chinks hit it hard during the war, real hard. Not a lot of people stuck around to watch you know?”

  “And now?” Torres said.

  Goldman shrugged. “It’s a ghost town.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Torres said.

  “You underestimate the effects of war on the civilian psyche,” Goldman said. “And I’m talking about the type of war that shows up in your backyard, not on some television screen. One day you’re living a normal, boring life – work, routine and taxes, maybe a little drinkie poo at the weekend with friends you know? The next minute you’re drowning in hellfire and so is everything and everyone you ever loved. You don’t have to believe me when I say that Boston is empty, that’s your right commander. Waste your time, waste your jet fuel all you want. But don’t expect to find any networks or tribes around here. And I sure as hell won’t help you either.”

  Torres nodded in Goldman’s direction. Then she stared long and hard at Eda.

  “You’re very quiet,” she said. “What do you have to say?”

  “I’m just passing through the city,” Eda said, shaking her head. “I’m not from here and I’ve got no intention of staying here either.”

  “Where are you from?” Torres asked.

  “Don’t remember,” Eda said. “I’ve been on the move a lot.”

  “You’ve seen America?”

  “Some of it.”

  “And what about the people?”

  Eda shrugged. “What about them?”

  “How many?” Torres said. “Survivors. Roughly speaking of course. Is the population sparse or is it growing again? Are we talking hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands or more?”

  “I have no idea,” Eda said.

  Torres smiled. She gestured towards the older male officer standing a few feet behind her. A short, weasel-faced man, he waddled to her side and leaned over the commander. They conversed briefly before she dismissed him.

  Torres stood up. As she got to her feet, everyone in the room leapt to attention, their hands frozen in a rigid salute pressed against their heads. The commander walked to the edge of the platform.

  “Your knowledge of this country is invaluable to us,” she said to Eda. “We have maps, lots of maps, but there’s a type of knowing that can’t be found on a piece of paper. That’s what we seek as we push inland. If you were to work for us in an advisory role you’d be well rewarded.”

  Eda glanced at Goldman sitting beside her. His face was like a piece of ancient rock, a solemn expression carved into its center.

  “Well?” Torres said.

  �
�No.”

  The commander didn’t look surprised.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, her voice softening ever so slightly.

  “Eda.”

  “Do you understand what’s going on here Eda?” Torres said. “I’m offering you a good life. A better life than you’ve ever known I’d wager.”

  Eda heard the rain easing off on the roof outside. All eyes were on her, she could feel it.

  “No,” she repeated. “I know what you want. You want me to help you find and kill survivors. Just to get them out of your way. There are people out there, starving, frightened and desperate, who’re trying to find someplace safe to live for their friends and families. That’s a hard thing to do. I don’t know how many there are but even if I did and even if I knew where they were all hiding out, I wouldn’t tell you. They’ve earned better.”

  Torres appeared to be only half-listening. As Eda spoke, the commander dabbed at a small blemish on the oversized breast pocket of her uniform. From a distance, it looked like a bloodstain.

  “Do you think America when she was at full strength was innocent of bloodshed?” asked Torres.

  “No,” Eda said. “I don’t.”

  Torres paced back and forth on the platform with her hands locked behind her back.

  “I was told you had a Japanese sword in your possession,” she said. “Are you a fighter Eda?”

  “Not really,” Eda said. “Just another one of those survivors you want to kill so badly.”

  Torres ignored the quip.

  “I have a wonderful collection of samurai swords,” she said, “dating back several centuries. If you like, you could own any one of them. Ask anyone around here how I reward loyalty. I’m very generous to those who serve…”

  “Some things commander,” Eda said cutting in, “just aren’t up for grabs.”

  Torres glared at Eda through narrow, burning eyes.

  She turned around and spoke to her officers for a few minutes. When that was done Torres summoned a couple of grunts to the platform. The grunts scurried over, bowing their heads like they were approaching an angry god.

  While this was going on, Goldman leaned closer to Eda.

  “Proud of you,” he said. “That took guts what you did there, telling that bitch to shove it.”

  “Thanks,” Eda whispered. And yet some part of her was convinced she’d just made a terrible mistake.

  Torres dismissed the grunts with a wave of the hand. They ran off with a look of excitement on their faces as if they had some great secret they couldn’t wait to tell all their friends.

  “Looks like we’ve found another use for you and your companions,” she said, staring over at Eda with a chilling smile.

  “Spit it out,” Goldman said.

  “We’ve decided to take you all to Dead Island,” Torres said.

  She repeated this in Chinese.

  “Dead Island?” Goldman said with a bewildered shake of the head. “What the hell is Dead Island?”

  Torres smirked.

  “It’s one of those islands in the harbor,” she said. “We’ve renamed it. How best to describe Dead Island? It’s very small with a rocky shoreline. When we first landed we found evidence of mass graves.”

  Goldman’s eyes flickered with recognition.

  “It’s probably Rainsford Island,” he said. “At the start of the war when people thought that civilization was still salvageable, bodies were taken out there by the boatload. When things got worse they started using the bigger islands. But it all started on Rainsford.”

  “Well it’s not a graveyard anymore,” Torres said. “It’s become something of a playground since we got here. You see, recreation is important on long military campaigns. I don’t want my people to become bored or frustrated, you understand? They’re a long way from home and from their families.”

  “What are you getting at?” Goldman said.

  “Why keep the prisoners locked up?” Torres said, pacing the stage again. “Why execute them when they can provide entertainment? Entertainment maintains good morale. Good morale is essential for final victory.”

  Torres stopped pacing and turned to the prisoners. Her lip curled into a snarl.

  “If you won’t join us,” she said, looking at Eda, “then I have to make good use of you somehow. I’m sure you understand.”

  She pointed a finger at Goldman.

  “So the America-China War isn’t finished? Two old men have kept the flame burning all this time in Boston. Well how about we let you settle the score? And while you do that my troops will have the chance to do a little gambling. Running bets on a duel between an American and a Chinaman, this is big. The winner of the duel will be granted their freedom and given a head start on the mainland. The loser, we’ll drop them off in the ocean. After all, fish have to eat too.”

  Torres turned back to Eda.

  “And you?” she said. “There are many other forms of entertainment that we require to pass the time. A pretty girl like you can help with that.”

  11

  That evening the three prisoners were transported to Rainsford Island.

  They traveled in a small armada of speedboats, heading southeast past some of the other harbor islands en route. The rain had mellowed to a gentle spit. The temperature offshore however, was icy cold. Eda wrapped her rain cloak up tight, the hood pulled over her head to shield her from the fierce wind that cracked like a whip.

  The boats were as reckless on the water as the jeeps had been on the highway. They hopped wildly over the waves in Quincy Bay, riling up the surface and generating a ferocious spray that machine-gunned into the faces of those onboard. The invaders cheered every time they conquered another wave, as if goading the ocean into trying harder to tip them over.

  Goldman coughed a lot during the journey. Sometimes he doubled over with the force of his seizures and although Eda offered her cloak to him many times he always refused. His uniform offered little protection from the biting cold but Goldman was a stubborn old bastard who wouldn’t accept help. Eda got the impression he’d rather die than take a woman’s coat.

  She put a hand on his back, reassuring him in silence.

  When Goldman wasn’t coughing he was pointing out the sights. He directed Eda’s attention towards the likes of Spectacle Island and Long Island in the distance. Despite his worsening condition, Goldman seemed to enjoy the offshore landscape as it passed them by. He delivered a croaky and brief history lesson about the harbor islands, about how they’d been used by the Native Americans prior to the American colonial period. Eda listened intently, forgetting the dire reality of their situation for a few moments. The old man would have made a fine tour guide.

  Eventually a small island appeared up ahead. Eda watched it emerge over the bow, an icy chill running through her veins. Somehow she knew this was the one.

  Rainsford Island.

  Dead Island.

  Goldman’s tour of the harbor continued as the speedboats closed in on the small dot of land on the horizon. According to the old man, the island was about eleven acres in total and composed of a large east head and smaller west head connected by a sand spit. The shoreline was predominantly rocky, which Eda saw for herself as they got closer. The rugged beach looked anything but inviting in the fading light.

  The speedboats at last slowed down, cruising into the shallows. Anchors were soon dropped and gangs of overexcited young soldiers began to leap over the edge. They splashed through the knee-high water, laughing out loud, like it was the best thing in the world. Quickly they made their way onto land.

  With an armed escort beside her, Eda waded through the freezing water towards the beach. Goldman and Mr. China weren’t far behind. When the prisoners reached land, the invaders quickly surrounded the prisoners, stabbing their rifles and pistols in the direction of the unfortunate trio.

  Many of the grunts were young boys, their trigger fingers twitching in a way that made Eda nervous.

  She avoided eye contact with the
mob around her. Instead she looked past them, down both sides of the beach. Two parallel rows of camping tents were pitched to the left, the outer walls flapping in the wind. Beyond that, Eda noticed a hint of stone ruins poking out of the rocks and dirt. She guessed it was one of of the old institutions that Goldman had told her about – a hospital or school or something like that.

  Dead Island was a desolate place. It was fragile too. The constant pounding of the ocean, combined with the northeastern winter storms were slowly eroding the island from existence.

  The three prisoners were lined up on the beach. They stood there shivering, waiting for Commander Torres and her officers who had traveled in on the last boat. When she arrived, Torres strode through the shallows with the swagger of someone who’d already conquered the North American continent. Her officers followed like shadows. The only one who looked out of place amongst the bravado of these high-ranking foreigners was the young officer who Eda had assumed was the commander’s brother. He was a frail-looking youth, with a long neck and restless eyes that blinked too much.

  Eda felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Goldman. He was swaying on unsteady legs and grasping at Eda for support. The old man, his skin pale and sweaty, looked at her as if to ask – is this okay?

  “You need to lie down,” Eda said. “And you need to get out of the cold.”

  Goldman whispered. “I’m fine.”

  Commander Torres approached the captives, her breath shooting out like a fog. She rubbed her hands together to generate heat.

  “You’ll spend the evening here,” Torres said. “You won’t be mistreated but I’m only going to say this once, don’t think about trying to escape. You’ll be shot in the leg and crucified here on Dead Island. Imagine the slowest, most painful death you can and multiply it by ten. Your fate has been decided my friends. You are my playthings now. Back at Fort Independence, the wagering has begun for tomorrow’s duel and we are all very excited at the thought of some sport.”