Apocalypse at Harpers Lane

by Mackenzie Mazerolle

  It was later in the night, training had just completed. He was on his way to the showers when he noticed a light outside the building. While pursuing he strays from the camp and into the forests. However, a few more meters into the bush and everything within his perspective shifted. The green leaves from the trees, the dark moist bark, all melted away as what eventually would be known to the world as a camouflage hologram lost its effect on the young North Korean. He screamed and yelled, threatened the light to which sucked him up from the ground. All was futile for this was a very efficient heliogram and none of his peers would hear him.

  On board the ship, two unknown species began questioning the man. He was trapped in what looked like a jar only without glass, instead, a different impenetrable form of a hologram.

  The meaning of this abduction was simple; these aliens (eventually known as Grey's) are the most closely associated off planet species, constantly in a state of observation and policing of our planet. They reside from Pluto, whom with their resources within government would convince the world that it was not a planet, as to lure curious eyes away from their mother ship.

  However, like any group of beings, there's always going to be a few mavericks. These two Grey's whom we will simply call X and Y for their names I imagine would not register in our terms, are exactly that. Convinced that some earthlings were meddling with forces beyond their control, they too set out to make a name for themselves amongst their peers.

  Unfortunately for this North Korean, he knew nothing of black holes or molecular assimilators, and so they parted him from his current plain and into a more forgetful space called Zenith.

  Chapter Two

  Humble Beginning

  We go through twenty years into the future and start our day with the same two fishermen we had met before. This time the son is older, old enough to communicate and old enough to cause mischief. This becomes their topic of choice as they watch their rods for supper tugging the other end.

  "So, let me get this straight; you went to the game on assignment meant to interview the players after the match. You do so, but they invite you to a party they had plans for. You go there looking for your story but when the teacher sees you in the film, you're not doing your homework are you?"

  "It's not all like that. It would have been an insult to refuse. What kind of journalist would that make me if I were to turn down a drink or two with the story?"

  "A sober journalist to start, and maybe a sensible one at that if you put into mind it was a local hockey game meant as an assignment for a college course. It's not the end or start of a war, nor a big discovery. Aliens haven't landed and far as I know they haven't found a cure for cancer, so I think poisoning your body during an evaluation on your maturity and knowledge, I wouldn't have expected anything else but your expulsion."

  "Schools not going anywhere anyhow, actually, I think I might open a club."

  "Seriously boy what has gotten into you? I'm here telling you about the wrong decisions you've made and you're telling me you're going to make a career out of it? Haven't I taught you anything?"

  "You taught me a lot of what not to do, not much what to do."

  "How about teaching you to pay attention to your line for starters, I do believe you've got a bite there."

  And so there was, masterfully pulled onto the boat as the son had been taught growing up the mastery of the line. Though this was not discussed it might as well have been written in the clouds above them.

  "We should head home, we wouldn't want to keep your new family with your mother too long or else they'll know what you looked like as a kid. By the time you get them, they may not want to see another picture if they can... And we got rain coming."

  "Looks like it will pass. And don't worry about the girls, they'll probably be the ones wearing mum out. I don't know where they get the energy."

  "Don't underestimate the native in their blood, for it hasn't. That's a culture worth respecting, that's a culture that did it right. Damn near only thing you did right, so far."

  The aging father, now in the age of wisdom preached but with a smile. This was friendly banter, he was concerned with his son, yes, but he was in no more mischief than he was at his age. Mischief is healthy, mischief is insight. Man can't appreciate peace until he's had his share of chaos. He knew one way or another, his son would discover this.

  "Warm wind, tells me the rains coming. Also, the leaves are curling, and nature knows best."

  The son laughs; "Alright Chief Two- Rivers, let's go." The two carry on to row with ease back to the cottage where they return the canoe. They both depart with a friendly gesture and make way. Upon returning they are greeted with the same reaction as twenty years ago, only more people. A young native wife and young pale-skinned daughter greeted the man as if only gone a moment, but just the same as a hundred years. Of course, there were bad times. This most certainly was not one of them.

  The young family did not stay much longer. They had an hour and a half drive back home and so greetings turned into farewells. Bundled up into a mini-van called Caravan, though resembled nothing the like, left in haste as the father was anxious to get the driving over with.

  It wasn't five minutes after, before getting onto the highway the family noticed a strange sight that was a car pulled over from the on-ramp. Its four-way blinks kept blinking, but stranger than was inside the trunk that was opened carried a young passenger, sleeping in most discomfort.

  It was soon after this that the young man would wake up and tend to his situation.

  . . .

  Joe woke up, disgruntled and very much uncomfortable. He was sweating furiously as the sun went through the gap between his opened trunk and his car and unto his face. Joe raised, stretched and grunted some and put on his shoes. Despite most treacherous circumstances he felt quite rested, as if he had slept an eternity but didn't know it. It took a moment, but nothing more for Joe to receive his memory of that which led him to wake up in his trunk. He looked onto the side of the rusted gold Buick, read the regal custom printed next to it and it all flooded piece by piece as if a film playing backward. First, the heat from inside the car as the sun began to rise. As it did so he was only just going to sleep... Out of gas, from a beach? Yes, a beach party he had been invited from a middle school associate, Genevieve. It all came back to him now; he was in Miramichi, locked himself out of his car while at the party. He drank beers and whiskey from the pint, which he remembered distinctively for he remembered pointing it out to another who was chasing his whiskey with a two-liter pop. This process included a sip of pop, a sip of whiskey followed by another sip of pop. Joe laughed at this and pointed out his superiority for his tolerance to the harshness of whiskey, chased by beer.

  He remembered later that night, realizing he was locked out of his car and as result traveling by two other partygoers who were not locked from their car. They drove furiously, as Joe remembers, being convinced they were going to crash as they skidded through one corner to the next. They returned with a screwdriver which Joe would then use to break open his trunk and then rip through his back seat and into the car. Here, the keys dangled gloriously in the ignition.

  It was later that the true tragedy occurred when Joe stepped out from his car while amidst returning home. Upon his return the car that refused to start again. He didn't know how he didn't know why but he knew it was dead. Joe hated cars for this reason, for their unreasonable extent of longevity, at least for him. He would sleep in his car that humid morning, only too soon did he have to relocate as the car warmed up dramatically. He moved to the trunk, closed it and went to sleep. After falling into sleep, the trunk as it was broken, opened as to reveal the strangeness of his situation to the passing by traffic.

  This included the young family who passed by only just before Joe was forced to rise.

  Not owning a phone, Joe then would proceed to walk the remaining five kilometers to a nearby gas station and phone hi
s roommate back at home.

  Twenty minutes later, Joe did just that. He called Dave, one of the four total tenants at their residence, four Harpers Lane. This dead-end street faded into a trail which led to one of five supermarkets in the City. It was also the end of the downtown region. This city was called Moncton, home to the humble family, home to the human comedy. The Human Comedy was a band which consisted of Dave, Goerge (also Dave's cousin), and Simon who was their newest member. Their drummer though as talented as he was wound up stranded in Edinburg Scotland while traveling, apprehended for trying to smuggle DMT. None the less, this story is about Joe. Joe was the writer of the house. He hadn't accomplished anything of worth, but the atmosphere of the house convinced him he would create something great. He liked comic books but could not draw so his narrations tended to be far too graphic with action scenes and gory deaths to be taken as a serious novella. Joe was not set back; he knew the inspiration would eventually show itself, giving meaning to his words and truth to his story. Joe had no idea just how right he would become.

  Two hours passed before Dave arrived. His greeting was never without its satire;

  "What the hell happened to you...? What's wrong with your car?"

  "It's dead. I got locked out... One of those nights, you know?"

  "No, I've never slept in a trunk before. And what's wrong with your car, you're not just leaving it are you?"

  "Yes. What's it to you?"

  "That's just, not what you do."

  Dave easily found the ridiculousness of the situation comical, more so as Joe would explain it on their way home. It was a sunny day, much more enjoyable when in a moving vehicle heading towards the comfort of home.

  "How's that girl doing, Silga I think her name was? The one shacked up with Simon... She seemed pretty shaken up the other day, something about seeing her father wasn't it?"

  "A little better, I guess. I mean Simon says they haven't hooked up, he just really wants to. Says there's something about her, almost beyond sex appeal that's got him incapable of giving up."

  "Right, next he'll be telling us he's doing it out of the kindness of his heart."

  "Ya, maybe. She does seem worried though. She's always got a thick blanket over the window, peeking occasionally."

  "That's a little excessive, what's the deal with her father?"

  "I don’t know some doctor or something that went crazy... Heard he killed her mother."

  "Nuts... Think this is at all, you know, dangerous?"

  "Nah man she seems chill, I don't think she's crazy."

  "I meant her father..."

  “Oh... I don’t know. What could happen though, really? It’s a house always filled to the brim with reckless youths and adult mishaps. Not the ideal place to just go cause a scene.”

  “We’ll just keep the house filled up with people and never go to sleep, is this your plan?”

  “No, that’s just how it is anyways.”

  “I suppose, that’s why I can’t get anything done around the place, ever.”

  “I thought these ‘interruptions’ were what inspired you, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, but that was then, and this is now, fresh material demands fresh inspiration; writer one- 0- one David.”

  “Joe, your name should be Jack because you don’t know shit. Keep the one- o –ones in the bag for a couple more years will ya?”

  “Of course, David, of course. So, will there be people at the house tonight? I’ve got some inspiration from the trunk.”

  “You know how it is. Never planned, people just show up. It’s a community thing.”

  “It’s a hostile take-over is what it is. Poor immigrants looking for cheap rent. Sasksquater’s David, the myth is true!”

  During that night out on the Miramichi beach, the professor while in Moncton would receive his raw inspiration. While walking the alleys at night he had indeed seen his daughter, passing by the well-lit downtown nightlife. Shops and bars were still buzzing as Isaacs lurked in the shadows of Robinson Court, the central watering hole for inebriates and danger seekers. He would see his sweet, his daughter. He would indeed follow her towards her home but be halted by what would appear paranormal to the sane. Luckily for the professor, he had risen above such status and so was able to take what he saw as it's worth.

  X and Y, never aging nor fading from their task were now on to more adventurous deeds; this was, impregnating earthly species with their own as to speed up the evolution of their consciousness as so they could join their intergalactic community. Only this experiment was not on humans, but on dogs for Y had proposed that perhaps humans were in fact not the dominant between the two. He expressed that their 'best friends', the K nine species had proven far wiser in their motifs, wanting for nothing as their servants would in most cases, beckon their masters every command. In Y's perspective, dogs were the masters of the humans.

  Unfortunately, Y was not nearly as good of a biological engineer as he was an idealist. The experiment was a disaster. The dog was heading for a nasty stillborn when X frantically sent him to earth before exploding into dog guts and alien matter. X was not paying attention to the red blip on his radar when he chose the shadows of Robinson Court to send the dog. The dog evaporated from the ship and landed just as Isaacs made way the direction of his daughter. The professor witnessed the dog materialize out of nothingness before him, just prior to exploding.

  Again, the professors’ overly excited and confused pineal gland would provide him with information he would otherwise have to work very hard for. It told him to investigate the sky, it showed him within a frequency in between the senses we perceive, a sixth is born within him as he acknowledges in distaste his uninvited players in the ship above.

  Chapter Three

  House of A Thousand Broken Doors

  Six months had passed since Silga's last sighting of her father. Over many of the nights and days, she spent hiding in Simon's room, peeking out the window upon the trail where many unsightly pedestrians made their way to the local supermarket. The rest of the crew, that is Goerge, Dave, and Damien continued to write music or else just live at the residence. Many parties continued, and all the while would destroy the house bit by bit.

  Winter had arrived though yet to deliver any snow. It was now a week away from January's end, the year was two thousand and twelve which was for some a great period of disappointment on accord of the scheduled apocalypse. None the less, it was fun while it lasted. Joe would finish the year with something out of the Mayan hysteria which would be an inspiration for a story in which an identical version of the current crew resided at harpers lane. Joe would invent this parallel universe where an apocalypse truly had occurred only instead of meteorites or zombies the world ran amuck with homeless gone mad. It wasn't until on a night of a party Joe met a van of Ottawa locals who had made the trip while on tour. They stopped by the house had known Dave and the rest of THC through their own tours. This band which consisted of four told Joe and some other listeners their strangest occurrence which too happened almost a year ago on their previous release tour. That was; a hobo hitchhiker they brought from Montreal. It wasn't often they found someone of the like who wasn't a little loose where it counted, however, there was something almost sadistic about this man, or at least one of the band members sister Elize would pronounce. Her brother Bush would disagree, pinning her dramatization of the man as her nervousness amplified through the shrooms they had taken. The wild part, Bush would also exclaim, which also was a bit creepy was when the hobo joined them almost excitedly in part taking in the hallucinogens. The weirdest part was he did not trip. In fact, the hobo remained calmer than before, as if the shrooms had sobered him up. All had become rather tranquil until he brought up the subject of his daughter and her disappearance. He showed a picture that was almost twenty years old. His daughter's name was Silga.

  Joe and the rest of the crew would keep this information away from Silga for
she had only recently begun to calm down. She even began showing herself on the main level of the house during parties, though was yet to step foot outside. She was an incredibly timid creature, though one couldn't blame her. The more they learned about her father the more they wanted to hide in their rooms and board the windows up themselves. Joe, on the other hand, loved it, it worked perfectly into his story; the psychotic Professor turned hobo yet determined to finish his research and along the while find his daughter. It all began to fit it, the hate the man must have but for such a noble cause. He wondered if anyone else would do the same, search far and wide while sacrificing moral reasoning as to become whole again. This is where in a land of alter ego's Joe's super villain would take form. This man, this influence who would torment the crew located within the harper's lane of Joe's mind, this watchful eye of the governing of chaos and mishap would be called MR DYSTOPIA.

  The crew at Harpers Lane would see less and less of their companion. He spent many nights recording the events at the House and transcribing it to fiction. This story, however, would eventually take on its own course as the freedom and creativity found at the house depreciated with every bottle thrown, many walls caved in and not a single door spared from complete annihilation. What began as amusement quickly turned into an endless bottomless grave and free for all and a safe ground for young adults who needed to break shit. Eventually, these characters Joe had created became rag dolls for his voodoo hatred. His escape became their prison and Mr. Dystopia would become his friend, his hero.

  The night of the party would transcend everyone's expectations. The selfless Joe Pig of Harpers Lane would also transcend as later on that glorious night of survival, the end of two thousand twelve would also mark the months’ notice for eviction and police cars filled the street. No one could have guessed the landlord who was believed to have lived in Alberta would take such offense of the message received from the RCMP just two nights prior. They informed him how his house was on its final warning before being condemned... who could have guessed he'd take so much offense as to get on the plane the next day, on New Year’s Eve and travel four thousand kilometers to Moncton. This man had hell in his heart and revenge on his mind. He knew by their erratic behavior which was discussed with the police officer that these punks would be going at it tenfold on New Year’s Eve. This coming to a man who did not dabble in the silliness of drink, it disgusted him. And his beautiful house! The landlord could not contain himself as he approached the house in the back of the cab, already behind four police cruisers. As he got out, paid the cabby and returned his direction to number four harpers lane his anger immediately was cut off by an overload of emotion which his already thinly laid temper could comprehend; a man, some punk is thrown barbarically through his beautiful porch window. On to the wet gravel, he lands, his beautiful fucking gravel. Out comes a man seven feet tall.