Seventh Age of Man: Regeneration

by Kevin Gordon

Down the streets of St. Louis, a new truck moved slowly, fed as it went by a couple of dour and morose attendants. They would hoist the skeletal remains of a person up, and then toss it into the back of the trash truck. When the lower area was filled, the massive metal scoop would come down, and press them all together, breaking the brittle bones down into dust. The jets of white detergent water would then wash down the outside, while yellow streams of propellant showered the consolidated humanity on the inside. The organic mass was shifted to the front of the truck, where plumes of fire ignited what was left. Up degree by degree, the fire would burn hotter and hotter, till thick, black smoke poured out the smokestack near the cab. And on it would move, down the street, eagerly consuming what it was fed.

  Those who tended the bastard creation, who would devour its creators, hung as wraiths around its form. They wore a motley of clothes, scrounged from whatever was left in the neighboring department stores, or that could be cherry picked from the homes of the dead. Cashmere sweaters over Dickies overalls, Nike sneakers peeking out from Carhartt workpants. While their clothes may have been different, their faces were all the same. There was no hope in their eyes, no dreams of better times, no confidence that what they did would really matter. Their young souls were broken when they ceased to pile the corpses onto waiting flatbeds. For some reason, even though they knew the bodies were being taken for disposal, it wasn’t them that were doing the disposing. But now, hearing the machine crunch through bone, ground up their souls as if they placed them in with the dead too. So often vomit would join the corpses, as not even the most jaded of the children could completely disassociate themselves from their gruesome tasks. The only thing that kept them sane was the ever present Deaconess, who flitted from crew to crew, inspiring them, building them up, cajoling them to come back for another day, praising their work as something noble and necessary. Her words were as intravenous nourishment, going straight to their hearts and minds, even if their souls were too far gone. And the few times she asked for a favor, the few times she had an assignment for the strongest or smartest of the Grunts, after hours, they eagerly and willingly complied, knowing that in helping her, they were helping themselves.

  It was a hot, dusty day on Interstate 78 when Enterprise touched down, tucked underneath the graceful yet massive Eve. The runways at Scott weren’t quite long enough, since the modifications after the Countdown, and Charlie wanted to make sure there was room for error.

  A group of fifty Grunts were there to reorient and attach the ship to a pull vehicle. Pulled off corpse removal, they were in good spirits until they got halfway back to Scott, when one of the axles of the semi pulling the ship broke.

  “Damn,” grumbled Charlie. He was tired of the whole shuttle business and while now he may have been eager to get someone into space, it still wasn’t what he liked to do, and he just wanted it all to be over, so he could turn on the Machine, and relax. “Call in some more Grunts from St. Louis,” he said to Frank, who got on his cellphone. “A storm’s approaching, and we need this plane under cover!”

  In thirty minutes, ten semis filled with people pulled alongside Eve. By that time, five more massive metal lines were attached to the craft. The Archetypes opened the trailers, and out stumbled the Grunts, disoriented and bruised from the journey.

  “Alright, hand out the gloves! We’ve only got gloves for about half of you, but we need all of you to pull! So rip off your shirts, tear your pants in half. We’ve got about five miles to cover, and—”

  “Are you insane?!” yelled a voice from within the crowd. The Archetypes turned their guns on where they thought it came from.

  Charlie got down from his Humvee, and pulled out his sidearm, with Frank at his side, his AK-47 drawn. “Who said that?!” He ran back and forth, holding the gun up to various men and women, hoping to provoke a response, but none would cow to him. They all stood, resolute and passive, stoking his anger even further. “You better show your face, damned sonofabitch, or I’m gonna—”

  Suddenly the crowed parted, revealing a smiling Deaconess, her hands clasped behind his back. Her black jacket fluttered in the wind, exposing her austere white silk shirt. Charlie cursed under his breath.

  “So,” stated the deaconess in confident, even tones, “you expect these people to pull a craft weighing several hundred tons, using steel cables, and only half have gloves? Are we building the pyramids again, on the back of American slaves?!”

  Thunder could be heard in the distance, almost an echo of the strength in her voice, as storm clouds began to roll in.

  “We don’t have time for this!” snarled Charlie, as he tried to hold Frank at bay, who desperately wanted to let the bullets fly. “We need this ship under cover if we’re ever gonna get it airborne!”

  She was calm in her reply, speaking slowly, as if time was utterly immaterial to her concerns. “And I tell you that this is tantamount to slavery. These are citizens of the Homestead, and they deserve better than this.”

  The Grunts around her murmured words of approval, as Charlie stood in the middle of the highway, frustrated yet furious. The wind picked up strength around him, shifting the massive plane back and forth. He glanced back at Frank, who motioned to his own gun. Charlie nodded to himself, coming to a decision.

  “Column C—formation!”

  A group of twenty Archetypes ran into two short lines. Charlie stepped forward.

  “This craft needs to move, by order of the Homestead. Refusal to follow orders from the Homestead is punishable by euthanization. You have one minute to pick up those cables!”

  “Stand your ground,” growled the Deaconess, as she raised her fist into the air. Her jacket was almost blown off, and it revealed more of her muscular shoulders and arms. While she had a feminine face, she had the arms of a woman who had multiple childbirths, who was used to holding an infant for long periods of time while tending to other matters. Suddenly, Charlie saw part of her strength, how she was able to influence the Grunts, how she was always unperturbed at whatever he might do or say. “We have the strength of the righteous,” she screamed over the approaching storm, “and pharaoh shall not break us!”

  She’s treating me like some damned child! She’s always talked down to me, always thought so little of me! Well I raised the Homestead from the dust and grime, I’ve got my Machine primed and ready—I’ll not let some damned bitch like her take it all away!

  “Level guns!”

  The Archetypes put one foot forward, and leveled their machine guns. The crowd of Grunts began to stir and yell, but the Deaconess raised a hand to silence them.

  “If you do this, we still shall not move. The more you shoot, the less there will be to move the craft.”

  “Target . . .”

  The Deaconess folded her arms, standing proud and defiant.

  “Fire!”

  Ten Grunts dropped to the ground. The Deaconess didn’t flinch. Instead, she raised her hand higher in the air. The crowd around her grew quiet and still, as another crack of thunder cracked in the distance.

  “He who opposes the children of the Lord, opposes the Lord!” she yelled. “And must be made to feel his wrath!”

  Suddenly, a beam of sunlight split through the clouds. The grey storm clouds split open, revealing open sky.

  Then, as all gazed at the sky, a chirping could be heard. High above a small bird dove down, darting back and forth, before flapping out of sight. The Deaconess smiled even as Charlie smiled, seeing life somehow flourish on a world filled with so much death. Then the Deaconess’ lips curled into a sneer. She brought her hand down, and the first civil war of the Homestead began.

  Chapter 11