After the End: Recent Apocalypses

by Kage Baker

  RAGNAROK

  Paul Park

  There was a man, Magnus’s son,

  Ragni his name. In Reykjavik

  Stands his office, six stories,

  Far from the harbor in the fat past.

  Birds nest there, now abandoned.

  The sea washes along Vesturgata,

  As they called it.

  In those days

  Ragni’s son, a rich man,

  Also a scholar, skilled in law,

  Thomas his name, took his wife

  From famished Boston, far away.

  Brave were her people, black-skinned,

  Strong with spear, with shield courageous,

  Long ago.

  Lately now

  The world has stopped. It waits and turns.

  Fire leaps along the hill.

  Before these troubles, Thomas took her,

  Black Naomi, belly big,

  To Hvolsvollur where he had land,

  A rich farm before the stream,

  Safe and strong.

  In the starving years,

  There was born, Thomas’s son,

  Eirik the African, as they called him.

  Hard his heart, heavy his hand

  Against the wretches in the ruined towns,

  Bandits and skraelings beyond the wall,

  Come to plunder, kill and spoil,

  Over and over.

  Every night,

  Thomas stands watch, wakeful and sure,

  Guarding the hall with his Glock Nine.

  Forty men, farmers by day,

  Cod-fishermen from the cold coast,

  Pledge to shelter, shield from harm

  What each man loves, alone, together

  Through the winter.

  When spring thaws

  The small boughs, buds unpack

  From the red earth. Eirik passes

  Into the fields. The fire weeds

  Move around him, arctic blooms

  And purple bells. Below the ricks,

  He finds Johanna, Johan’s daughter,

  Guests at the farm.

  At his father’s house

  He’d sometimes seen her, slim and fair,

  Ripening too, a tall primrose.

  He draws her down with dark hands,

  Meaning no harm, but honor only.

  Rich is her father, in Reykjavik,

  Rich is her cousin, with cod boats

  In Smoke Harbor.

  Happy then,

  Proud Naomi offers her hall

  For the wedding feast, but she’s refused

  For no reason. Rather instead

  Johanna chooses the little church

  At Karsnes, close to home,

  South of the city along the shore.

  High-breasted,

  Snake-hearted,

  Sick with pride, she predicts

  No trouble. Near that place,

  In Keflavik airport, cruel Jacobus

  Gathers his men, gap-toothed Roma,

  Thieves and Poles, pock-marked and starving.

  The skraeling king calls for silence

  In the shattered hall.

  Shards of glass,

  Upturned cars, chunks of concrete

  Make his throne. There he sits

  With his hand high. “Hear me,” he says

  In the Roma language, learned from his father

  In distant London. “Long we’ve fought

  Against these killers. Ghosts of friends

  Follow us here.”

  Far to the east,

  Black Eirik, in the same hour,

  Walks by the water in Hvolsvollur.

  By the larch tree and the lambing pens,

  Thomas finds him, takes his sleeve,

  Brings his gift, the Glock Nine

  With precious bullets, powder and brimstone

  From his store.

  Father and son

  Talk together, until Naomi

  Comes to find them. “Fools,” she calls them.

  (Though she loves them.) “Late last night

  I lay awake. When do you go

  To meet this woman, marry her

  Beyond our wall? Why must you ride

  To far Karsnes?”

  Cruel Jacobus

  Waits to answer, in Keflavik,

  Hand upraised. “These rich men

  Goad us to act. Am I the last

  To mourn my brother, mourn his murder?

  The reckless weakling, Thomas Ragnisson,

  Shot him down, shattered his skull

  Outside the wall

  In Hvolsvollur,

  With his Glock Nine. Now I hear

  About this wedding. His black son,

  Scorning us, splits his strength,

  Dares us to leave him alone in Karsnes

  In the church. Christ Jesus

  Punishes pride, pays them back

  My brother’s murder!”

  At that moment

  Black Naomi bows her head,

  Tries to agree. Eirik turns toward her,

  Groping to comfort. “God will protect

  The holy church. Hear me, Mother,

  Jesus will keep us, Johanna and me.”

  Then he strips the semi-automatic

  From its sheath.

  Some time later

  Embracing her, he unbolts, unlocks

  The steel door, draws its bars,

  Rides north beneath the barrier,

  Built of cinderblocks and barbed wire,

  Twenty feet tall. With ten men

  He takes the road toward Reykjavik,

  West to Karsnes

  On the cold sea.

  There the pastor prepares the feast,

  Lights the lamp in the long dusk.

  In the chapel porch, pacing and ready,

  Eirik waits, wonders and waits.

  Where’s the bride, the wedding party?

  Where’s her father, fat Johan?

  No one knows.

  Night comes.

  Checking his watch, counting the hours,

  Eirik frets. At first light

  He rides north through the ruined towns,

  Empty and burned, broken and looted.

  Abandoned cars block his path.

  The hill rises to Hallgrimskirkja

  At the city’s heart.

  Here at the summit

  Above the harbor, the high tower

  Jabs the sky. Johan’s hall,

  Rich and secure, is silent now.

  The dogs slink out the door,

  Baring their teeth, biting at bones.

  At Leif’s statue we leave our horses,

  Wait for something,

  Sounds from the hall.

  The concrete porch piles to heaven.

  The door’s wrenched open, all is still.

  No one shouts, issues a challenge

  As we approach. Eirik the African

  Draws his pistol. The danger’s past.

  No one’s left. We know for certain

  On the threshold.

  There inside

  Lies Thorgeir Grimsson, throat cut.

  We find the others, one by one

  Among the benches in their marriage clothes.

  The bleached wool, black with blood,

  Polished stones, stained with it.

  Windows broken, birds fly

  In the tall vault.

  Eirik, distraught,

  Watches the birds wind above him,

  Strives to find her, fair Johanna

  Where she lies. Ladies and bridesmaids

  Died in a heap, huddled together,

  Peeled and butchered at the pillar’s base.

  She’s not there; he searches farther

  Up the aisle.

  Underneath

  The high altar, he uncovers

  Fat Johan, father-in-law,

  But for this. There’s his body,

  Leaked and maimed below the organ,

  The wood
en cross. Cruel Jacobus

  Tortured and killed him, kidnapped his daughter

  Twelve hours previous.

  Proud Eirik

  Turns to listen in the long light.

  Out in the morning, his men call

  Beyond the door. Desperate to leave

  The stinking hall, holding his gun,

  He finds them there. Fridmund, his friend,

  Shows what they caught outside in the plaza,

  A wretched skraeling

  Skulking on Njalsgata,

  A teen-aged boy, bald already

  Back bent, black-toothed,

  Hands outstretched. Stern and heavy,

  Eirik stands over him, offering nothing

  But the gun’s mouth. Meanwhile the boy

  Lowers his head, laughs at his anger,

  Spits out blood.

  “I expect you know

  All that happened. Here it was

  That King Jacobus carried the girl,

  Stole her away, struggling and screaming,

  Kicking and cursing when he kissed her.

  Now he’s punished, proud Johan,

  Who took this church, chased us away,

  Made it his hall.

  Who among us

  Steals such a thing, thieves though we are,

  Jesus’ house, Hallgrimskirkja?

  Now you threaten me, though I’m helpless,

  With your Glock Nine. Go on, shoot me.

  Cunt-mouth, coward—I dare you.

  Jesus loves me. Laughing, I tell you.

  Fuck you forever.”

  Fridmund Bjarnsson

  Pulls back his head, bares his throat.

  But the African offers a judgment.

  “Murder’s too kind. Cut him loose.

  Let him crawl to his king, Jacobus the Gypsy.

  If he touches her, tell him I’ll kill him.

  Bring him this message . . . ”

  But the skraeling

  Spits on his boots. “Say it yourself,”

  The boy scolds. “Better from you.

  Besides, you’ll see him sooner than me

  If you ride home to Hvolsvollur !”

  Furious now, fearing the worst,

  Eirik Thomasson turns from him,

  Shouts for his horse,

  A shaggy gelding,

  Stout and faithful. Sturla’s his name.

  Climbing up, calling the others,

  Eirik sets off, out of the plaza,

  Down the hill. Dark are his thoughts

  As he rides east, hurrying home

  Under Hekla, the hooded mountain,

  Steaming and boiling.

  Sturla toils

  Along the asphalt, eighty kilometers,

  All that day. Dark is the sky

  When Eirik and Sturla, outstripping the rest,

  Reach the farm. The fire burns

  Under the clouds. Clumps of ash

  Fall around them. Furious and empty,

  Eirik dismounts.

  Without moving,

  He stands a minute by Sturla’s flank

  And the split wall. Waiting, he listens

  To the strife inside. Soon he unlimbers

  The precious gun, the Glock Nine,

  Checks the slide, checks the recoil,

  Stacks the clip with steel bullets.

  Gusts of rain

  Gather around him.

  Thunder crashes. Then he begins.

  A storm out of nothing strikes the gate.

  Men die among the horses,

  Shot in the head with hollow-points,

  Shot in the mouth for maximum damage.

  They shake their spears, scythes and axes,

  Swords and brands.

  In the burning rooms,

  Eirik kills them. By the cold stream,

  The crumbling barns, he kills more.

  Howling they turn in the hot cinders.

  Clip empty, he cannot reload,

  Seizes instead a skraeling axe.

  They circle around him, certain of triumph,

  Not for long.

  Near the porch

  Of his father’s hall, he finds their leader,

  Pawel the Bull, a Polack giant.

  Stripped to the waist, he stands his ground.

  Sword in hand, he swears and bellows.

  Tattooed and painted, he paws the mud.

  Now he charges, cuts and falters,

  Falls to his knees,

  Face split,

  Lies full-length. Lightning strikes

  On Hekla’s side. Howling with rage,

  The skraelings escape, scatter in darkness.

  Come too late, we can’t catch them,

  Let them go. Gathering hoses,

  We pump water, wet the timbers

  In the rain.

  Or we roam

  Among the dead, drag them out

  From the burned hall. Here they lie

  On the wet ground, wives and children,

  Old men. Naomi stands

  Among the living, leans away,

  Turns her face. Thomas is there,

  Blood spilled,

  Body broken,

  With the others. Eirik lays him

  By the fire. Fridmund Bjarnsson

  Finds the gun, the Glock Nine

  Buried in mud, by the stream.

  “Here,” he says, holding it up.

  “I was scared the skraelings took it.

  Thank Jesus—”

  There by the fire,

  Eirik rebukes him. “Bullshit,” he says.

  “Close your mouth.” He climbs the porch,

  Raises his hands. Red are the doorposts,

  The frame behind him, hot with sparks.

  “God,” he repeats, “God be thanked.

  You know Johan, for Jesus’ sake,

  Took for his house

  Hallgrimskirkja,

  On the hill. He thought Jesus

  Could sustain him, could preserve him,

  Save his daughter—don’t you see?

  I also, Eirik the African,

  Sank my faith in something empty—

  Thomas’s gun, the Glock Nine,

  Chrome barreled,

  Bone grip.

  But look now. Neither Jesus

  Nor my Glock is good enough.

  The rich hide behind their walls

  In Hvolsvollur. Who comes to help?

  But I will hike to Hekla’s top,

  Hurl my gun, heave it down

  Into the steam,

  And the steel bullets

  After it. In the afternoon

  I’ll wreck this wall, winch it apart.

  Safety is good, grain in the fields,

  Greenhouse vegetables; vengeance is better.

  This I tell you: Time was,

  We were happy, here in Iceland.

  Cod in the sea,

  Snow on the mountain,

  Hot water in every house,

  Cash in our pockets, planes and cars,

  The world outside, waiting and close.

  Old men remember, mumble and mutter—

  That time’s gone, turned forever.

  The pools are drained, dams breached,

  Turbines wrecked,

  Ruined engines

  Starved for oil. The sea rises

  Beyond Selfoss. You have seen

  Thousands die, tens of thousands—

  The mind rebels, breaks or bends.

  Days ahead, the dim past,

  Forward, backward, both the same,

  Wound together.

  At the world’s end,

  Jormungand, the great worm,

  Holds his tail between his jaws.

  Ragnarok rages around us

  Here, tonight, now, forever,

  Or long ago. Good friends,

  Remember it: men and skraelings

  Fought together

  Ages past.

  So—tomorrow we’ll march west

 
To Keflavik. Jacobus waits.

  We’ll scour the coast, search for fighters,

  Heroes to help us, guide us home.

  Left behind, you’ll learn of us,

  Tell our legend, teach the truth

  Or invent it

  The old way.

  Parse our lines upon the page:

  Two beats, then pause.

  Two more. Thumping heart,

  Chopping axe, and again.

  Not like the skraelings, with their long lines

  Of clap-trap, closing rhymes—

  Not for us.

  No more.

  Johanna’s alive. How I know,

  I don’t know. Don’t ask.

  But I swear I’ll bring her here,

  Avenge this.” Then he’s silent,

  Standing near the spitting fire,

  Under Hekla, in the rain.

  Paul Park’s first novel, Soldiers of Paradise, was published in 1987; his next two novels, Sugar Rain (1989) and The Cult of Loving Kindness (1991) share the same setting, a world on which the seasons last for generations. His most recent novels are a sequence set in a Ruritanian-flavored parallel world where magic works: A Princess of Roumania (2005), The Tourmaline (2006), The White Tyger (2007), and The Hidden World (2008). Park’s short stories have appeared in Omni, Interzone, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and other venues. His short story “The Persistence of Memory, or This Space for Sale” was nominated for a World Fantasy Award and his novella Ghosts Doing the Orange Dance was nominated for a Nebula Award. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife and two children and teaches a course in reading and writing science fiction at Williams College.

  Biowarfare brought plague and we bombed our own cities to contain it. The End came a decade ago, but automated planes still fly overhead—providing an unusual rhythm section to the only band left in the world.

  BEAT ME DADDY (EIGHT TO THE BAR)

  Cory Doctorow

  We were the Eight-Bar Band: there was me and my bugle; and Timson, whose piano had no top and got rained on from time to time; and Steve, the front-man and singer. And then there was blissed-out, autistic Hambone, our “percussionist” who whacked things together, more-or-less on the beat. Sometimes, it seemed like he was playing another song, but then he’d come back to the rhythm and bam, you’d realize that he’d been subtly keeping time all along, in the mess of clangs and crashes he’d been generating.

  I think he may be a genius.

  Why the Eight-Bar Band? Thank the military. Against all odds, they managed to build automated bombers that still fly, roaring overhead every minute or so, bomb-bay doors open, dry firing on our little band of survivors. The War had been over for ten years, but still, they flew.

  So. The Eight-Bar Band. Everything had a rest every eight bars, punctuated by the white-noise roar of the most expensive rhythm section ever imagined by the military-industrial complex.

  We were playing through “Basin Street Blues,” arranged for bugle, half-piano, tin cans, vocals, and bombers. Steve, the front-man, was always after me to sing backup on this, crooning a call-and-response. I blew a bugle because I didn’t like singing. Bugle’s almost like singing, anyway, and I did the backup vocals through it, so when Steve sang, “Come along wi-ith me,” I blew, “Wah wah wah wah-wah wah,” which sounded dynamite. Steve hated it. Like most front-men, he had an ego that could swallow the battered planet, and didn’t want any lip from the troops. That was us. The troops. Wah-wah.