Star-Spangled Apocalypse

by Harmon Cooper

More images splashed into his mind, this time of a small room at what looked to be a mental hospital. He found himself strapped to his bed, his mother crying as she looked down at him. His mother’s face contorted as she placed two fingers into her eye socket and slowly pulled the skin away.

  Salty tears streamed down Virgil’s cheeks, all disappearing into the two crevices his closed lips formed.

  He took two more steps forward; the girl was now directly in front of him, an ominous smile stretched thin across her face.

  “Closer…” He heard her say from inside of his mind. It was no longer Hope’s voice but that of a man.

  Virgil could no longer focus on her. He was crying so hard that he couldn’t breathe or see.

  All he could feel was unadulterated suffering; all he could hear were detonations and screams. He felt a hand on his face; a nail scratched his upper arm, a warm feeling quickly overwhelmed his senses, an ambient drone replaced all the chatter in his head.

  Virgil collapsed into the girl’s bosom, intoxicated with her energy and disturbed by her violent affliction.

  He could feel her infection boiling over and tunneling deeper into her legs. He felt her legs merge into his, the disease spreading towards his abdomen. The infection tingled and stung, the wound stunk of decay, burnt oil and dirty back alleys.

  “Virgil!”

  Virgil hugged the girl tightly and felt his body merging deeper into hers. He knew this was the final amalgamation. He accepted it, accepted that this was it, that this was the moment when he passed on, the moment when all things ceased to be.

  A few scattered images flashed in his mind, his mother, James, his brother, Hope, his father, his grandparents, his friends, his home, Tony, Arjuna, his friends at work, Nathaniel, all that he had ever experienced, all that he ever was.

  “Virgil! What in the fuck?”

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  Virgil heard the girl screech furiously, her shrieking voice puncturing his descent into the unknown. He felt her body quiver as something continued to strike her from above his head, as an arm tugged him away from her.

  “Virgil!”

  Chapter 19: Truth or Consequences

  Virgil moaned as he looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling.

  He was in a blue room, tinted more by the blinds than the actual paint job. His eyes were bleary and his head was spinning. Voices spun around the room, jumping in one ear and sailing out the other. He coughed as he turned onto his side and looked at his outstretched arm to see it was covered in bloody welts.

  He coughed again, his face contorting into a frown. He tried to remember what had happened, but could only recall the strange woman’s face. He stirred and pulled the sheets above his head.

  “You’re finally awake,” Virgil heard someone say from somewhere. His mind quickly placed the voice – it was James, and he was watching some GoogleFace video about the attack in Austin.

  ~I know what the liberal media wants you to think, it’s been clear from the get go, folks. But let me be the one to say that Russia is not our enemy. Hell, even if they did interfere in the election, we still need to give them the benefit of the doubt. Sure, your MS-CNN and your Bezos Post will tell you that the Russian general who ordered the attack actually has confessed, has even held a press conference. But how many people actually know Russian? You think the liberal fake news MS-CNN journalists can speak Russian? How do we know their translator isn’t in cahoots with the DNC, or working for the lynch mob media? We don’t know who did it, folks, and because we don’t, we shouldn’t point the finger at any country until the facts are in. ~

  “What in the fuck are you listening to?” Virgil mumbled from beneath the sheets. “Where are we?”

  “We’re in Northern New Mexico – Grenville to be exact. You all right over there?” James silenced his phone. He had been alternating between his feed and the ring he stole from the McStarbucks customer in Austin. He knew it was worth something, and he still felt a little guilty for taking it.

  “What happened to her?” Virgil kicked out of his sheets.

  “What happened to who? I came into the house, and you were clutching a mangled tree in the middle of the living room. Strangest thing I have seen in quite a while. Okay, scratch that, Mika’il was the strangest, but you get my point. I was wondering what was taking you so long, so I grabbed my sword and headed into the house. I don’t even know why I grabbed it. I guess I felt like practicing on a sofa or something. Anyhow, I found you with a tree wrapping itself around you, kind of like the mouth of a Venus fly trap.” James took a large swig from his flask and sighed. “It was fucked up.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “Kill who? What in the actual fuck are you talking about? I cut the tree down with Tony’s katana, if that’s what you’re asking. That tree was trying to kill you, Virgil, look at your arms; they are all cut up and welted over. It doesn’t look so hot.”

  “Yeah …” Virgil said, looking his arms up and down.

  “I asked the motel manager if he had any bandages. He did, but like an asshole, he charged me a couple bucks for them. I figured you would want to put them on yourself though.”

  “Where’s my mask?”

  “Your mask? You mean your dream mask or whatever you called it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s in the jeep, where it has been since you last used it on Tony. Look, I think you need some more rest. Also, you were right about that Modafinil: no hangover whatsoever. I’m still feeling it a bit, but it’s not too bad. Earlier though, I was going strong! I mean, I even took a wrong turn and we still managed to get out of Texas and into New Mexico.”

  Virgil started frantically patting the back pocket of his shorts. “Where’s my wallet?”

  “How should I know where your wallet is? Don’t you have it with you?”

  “Fuck, I think I left it back there. It’s not here! It’s always with me. It must have fallen out in the house.” After a moment of panic, he gave up and settled back onto the bed. “Screw it, it’s just a piece of identification.” Virgil took a deep breath and steadied his gaze at James. “I still can’t believe you killed her.”

  “You were hallucinating, Virgil. Hallucinating. I don’t think this thing you keep calling she was really there, man. Like I said, I burst into that house and you were grabbing onto a tree. A tree, man.”

  Virgil narrowed his eyes at James. “I know what I saw. Molly doesn’t make you hallucinate, and … and … you saw it too! You saw her wrapping her limbs around me. She wanted me to come closer…”

  “Yeah? Well I know what I saw too,” James finally said. “And you were clutching that fucking tree, practically squeezing the life out of it. Again, that’s why you have all those cuts.”

  “I want my mask,” Virgil declared.

  “Well, you can go get your mask. What the hell is wrong with you? No one is stopping you from going.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  James grabbed the rest of Tony’s booze from his knapsack and filled the flask. “Frankly, that mask is freaky, man. I don’t mind you wearing it or whatever, but remember, we need to keep a low profile. Martial law, remember? Now if you are finished pouting over there, you can come to the hot tub with me, no mask though. Let’s just relax a night. Or, shit, we could go on a bike ride. We carted those damn things across Texas. Might as well use them.”

  “Let’s just chill,” Virgil said as he reached for the bandages.

  “Fine by me.”

  ***

  Virgil gingerly unbuttoned his shirt, careful to not obstruct his new bandage. He tossed on a long sleeved undershirt followed by a shirt that read “Vote for Pedro” that a friend had gotten him at the mall a few years back. The shirt was torn and faded, the word “Vote” halfway missing its letters so that it read “te for Pedro.”

  He took Mika’il’s feather necklace off and placed it on the nightstand, near the alarm clock.

  His hair now in a tight manbun, Virgil tried to meditate for a mo
ment. He sat at the edge of the bed with his hands on his lap, focusing on his breath.

  His mind darted back and forth like a caged tiger and he quickly started thinking of other things, from people to occurrences thus far on his short-lived journey. Growing distracted, he started rummaging through his hallucinogen box, placing his fingers along the plastic bags that separated the contents and gently rearranging the illicit narcotics.

  Meanwhile, James read more emails on his phone.

  Virgil looked over at him, convinced that whatever James was reading was more or less brainwashing material. He knew James was on the opposite end of the political spectrum from him, but they’d agreed long ago not to really discuss it.

  Having twice heard what James listened to, the younger barista could only imagine what he read.

  He was also aware that neither would convince the other of their personal philosophy. Sad too, because there were questions Virgil had and things that liberals did that angered him, all of which he’d like to discuss, but knew it was impossible to discuss with someone who had swung as far right as James had.

  Does he actually think the Russians did it?

  That’s what blew Virgil’s mind the most about the conservatism he’d come into contact with in Texas: they believed so staunchly in their supposed values that even if every single one of their values had been knifed and placed in a body bag, as the current administration had done and continued to do, they’d still support their team just so they could avoid anything and everything to do with any idea or concept that could have a shade of liberalism to it.

  Patriotism took two ugly forms in the state: one at the national level, one at the state level.

  The irony of Texans having “Come and Take It” flags never ceased to amaze Virgil. Here were a people who originally came to Mexico for the land, who then took the land from Mexico, became an independent country, joined America, left the union to join the Confederacy, and later rejoined the Union, yet they still had the notion that someone was coming to take something from them, not the other way around.

  Be afraid! Be afraid! Be afraid!

  Virgil sighed, his thoughts switching to Hope. At least Austin was different, and she was proof of that. And he’d promised to call her, but had yet to do so.

  “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “Sure, who’re you calling?”

  “Hope.”

  ***

  “Hello?”

  “Hope! It’s, um...”

  “Virgy!”

  He smiled. It had only been two days since he had last spoken to Hope, yet it felt like forever. It didn’t take him long to catch her up on their current location and the fact that they were making good time.

  “And how’s James?”

  “He’s doing well enough. He took some Modafinil earlier today and he was all talkative and crazy. Look, first, I called to say hi. Second,” his voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Hope, things have been happening.”

  She gasped. “What do you mean?”

  “Things I won’t be able to explain well over the phone – angels, demons, entities, all that stuff.” Virgil’s voice trailed off as he glanced down at his freshly bandaged arm.

  “What happened, Virgy?”

  He told her about Mika’il, the dark forces in the mirror, the tree in the middle of the living room.

  “Did you take some drugs or something?” Hope asked, as soon as she could get a word in.

  “Just some molly, nothing serious.”

  Hope cleared her throat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but here it is: no more drugs for a while, okay? I want you to be sure you aren’t actually hallucinating, I mean it probably isn’t even Armageddon anymore.”

  “Armageddon anymore?” Virgil shook his head and turned to a car that had just pulled into the parking lot. He glanced once at the driver, a heavy man in a Texans hat, and looked away. “It doesn’t just stop all of the sudden. And for not being Armageddon, I sure have met a lot of crazy entities.”

  “Virgy, please, listen to yourself. Listen to what you’re saying. Just, take a break. Please.”

  “Look, I know when I am seeing things that aren’t for real, trust me. A hallucination doesn’t tell you to come closer to it then leave actual scratches on your arms from where it had touched you!”

  “I don’t want to see you get hurt, is that too much to ask? I just wish you would be careful, I really want to see you again, preferably alive!”

  “Don’t worry about it. Look, can you meet me in Denver in two days?” Virgil asked, as he felt the phone vibrate, reminding him that he was running low on battery.

  “Denver?”

  “I know it’s rash, but I haven’t been able to take my mind off you for the past few days. Can you? Can you meet me?”

  “Really?”

  “Seriously. Fuck it, the world is ending, or it isn’t. I just want to see you again.”

  Chapter 20: The Mime Cowboy

  James woke up before Virgil the following morning and decided to head to the motel’s lobby.

  He had a slight headache and was ready to pig out on some motel food, whatever that entailed. He’d looked hard for a motel with a good continental breakfast, and was excited to see what they had to offer.

  Unfortunately, the motel’s offerings weren’t quite what he expected. Just a few pastries wrapped in plastic and some coffee that tasted like flavored dirt. The waffle maker was broken, and they brought out some sausage, but it had the consistency of plastic and a taste to match.

  He sighed as he sipped from his cup of coffee. Not even the last drops of Tony’s whiskey would make this coffee taste better.

  Once he was back in their room, he poured the lukewarm brew down the drain in the small bathroom and looked himself over in the mirror. James move in closer to see the prickly blonde and brown hairs that stuck out his skin. He splashed some water on his face and rubbed his eyes.

  “Virgil,” James said loudly as he opened the bathroom door. “The breakfast sucks here…dammit.”

  The younger barista stirred from the sea of his sheets and shook his head in disgust. “What’s the next town?” he asked drearily.

  “Raton,” James answered, as he fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

  “Well then let’s eat our hearts out there,” Virgil reasoned. “Maybe at a diner or something.”

  “Good idea. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  James smiled as they pulled out of the parking lot. They would finally get to Denver today, and he was anxious to see how that would play out. He hadn’t told Virgil much about his son, but assumed that Virgil would understand once he saw him.

  As he pulled onto the highway, he glanced down at his flask like it somehow had the answer to all his problems.

  “I’m going to need to stop at a liquor store there in Raton anyways.”

  “Do it,” Virgil said as he rolled up a thin joint.

  Along the drive Virgil marveled at the mountains leading into Raton. Something about the mountains calmed him, he revealed to James, and one day he hoped to live near the mountains again.

  Virgil then explained to James that, in a way, he was like the Prophet Muhammad, because Muhammad would always leave Mecca to spend some time in the mountains and reflect.

  James laughed. “Like the Prophet, huh? That’s a wonderful way to describe yourself, Virgil. I’m sure some devout Muslims would love to hear you – a drug-wielding, long-haired, crazy man – comparing himself to Muhammad. That wouldn’t make them hate the West anymore, right? You’d better be careful with statements like that. Someone might rage jihad against you, then you’ll think twice about your fucked-up fear of owning a firearm.”

  “No one is going to rage Jihad against me,” Virgil said. “And anyway, they have good reason to be upset with us!”

  “Ah, I remember now, this is why we never discuss this stuff. So, they have a good reason, right? Why? Because we sell their oil? What’s wrong with that? Someone has
to do it, and if they aren’t civilized enough to handle it, well that’s where we step in.”

  Virgil crossed his arms. He knew that James was baiting him and knew better than to take the bait, but he was a hungry fish, and hungry fish always take the bait.

  “Fuck it. I am issuing a two-part fatwah against American interventionism and Islamic ideology,” he said as he finished rolling a tight little joint.

  “A fatwah?” James roared with laughter.

  “A fatwah is a political opinion, yo,” Virgil said as he admired his handiwork. “My two-part fatwah: firstly, the West is led by a bunch of idiotic, crusader-type white people who expect too much from the world and kill whoever they please to get it, including women, children and their own people. Secondly, the Middle East is equally as ridiculous in their attempt to live in the seventh century when clearly, and I mean clearly, the rest of civilization has moved on to twenty-first.”

  James shook his head. “Need I remind you, you are white, and what the fuck do you know about the Middle East?”

  “I can be white and hate white people, what’s wrong with that?”

  “That’s the stupidest fucking shit I’ve heard all day. Let’s change the topic. It’s clear neither of us are going to convince the other, as much as it pains me to hear the bullshit spilling forth from your mouth.”

  “Whatever,” Virgil mumbled.

  “How was Hope? You talked to her last night, right?”

  “She’s good. She’s meeting me in Denver.”

  “Seriously?” James lit his cigarette and passed his lighter to Virgil, who lit his joint. “What did you tell her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you tell her about Mika’il or Nathaniel?” James asked.

  “I hinted at some shit, that’s about it.”

  “Well, that’s good. Maybe, as Nathaniel basically said, maybe we should keep this stuff to ourselves.”

  “I guess? I mean, I don’t see how her knowing would really hurt anything…”

  “Amita isn’t coming, is she?” James asked, remembering Hope’s friend.