“Can we see what’s there?” Mary asks.
I give her suggestion a primitive cognitive analysis, I conclude it can’t be worse than elsewhere to sleep. We drive over the dirt road as a low fog of debris floats up behind as we drive up and a fence makes itself visible. A woman—roughly in her 40s, weathered face, auburn hair, and an air of True Grit—stands with a rifle at her hip guarding the entrance.
I slow down and stop within 40 feet, I look back at the kids and say, “Don’t move, if shit…. If things go bad drive away, you can do that right? You have practice.”
I hand them the keys. I put the revolver into my waist band, Killer Swiffer staff in hand. I get out of the car with my hands up tell them we’re friendly while I question my decision to give the kid the car keys. She motions with her hand to step forward, she happens to be smoking and wearing all black-out of place these days. As I walk closer I see that she has some sort of writing, a pamphlet in one hand.
“Are you friendly?” I ask once I am within talking distance.
She remains silent as she motions me ever closer—my nerves became frayed and my heart speeds up. In the air I sense blood, the sun warms my face, I’m close enough to count the crow feet around her eyes, each step crunches dirt underfoot. She extends the pamphlet in a leathery hand, her eyes dim and she nods her head back. I take the pamphlet in addition to a few steps back. My eyes dart between her and the pamphlet. She nods again, motioning at the paper. I begin reading:
Subway
A Jewish man sat by a Jewish woman, I could tell because he wore a golden Star of David, the woman was in traditional attire, or probably it’s more accurate to call it conservative dress—but with flashy bracelets and earrings, a contradiction of theirs. I could see his arousal, interest, and desire but lost in an unknowing nest of what to do. He stared sideways as she bent over and brushed her hair back, she sat back as his lust overcame him. He picks his ear as I wonder if that’s the best he can do. Is he proud of himself, I want to know but I’m too scared to ask. Is that fear a trap, is it none of my business?
I don’t know what to make of this. I flip it to its backside and continue reading. My discomfort grows as I peek back at the woman, she simply stands there, a monolith of unknown origins.
Face
He was strangely handsome, as if his handsomeness was only an inverse refraction of his ugliness. Unorthodox appeal to be sure. A perfect imperfection of various almost just right features, grotesque at a glance and the gestalt of them was clearly a face to admire. English, strong features, and probably on a crew team. Ugly and beautiful are at times one and the same; close interplay of features in which analysis can vary wildly simply because one observer miscalculates or perceives differently a single feature.
“Lady, what the fuck is this?” but she says nothing. “I got two kids in the car, can we stay here tonight?”
She squints in my direction and nods. I look back at the car, Jesse and Mary falling over the steering wheel trying to get a better look. The woman in black opens the gate and motions us in, I drive in slowly it say, “I don’t know who these people are, so stay close.”
“Why are they wearing black?” asks Mary.
I want to tell her they might be a cult, but reconsider, “It’s just, the way they dress,” I fumble.
The gate closes behind us and we drive over to a lot with others cars. Two men approach us as we get out of the car, my hand ready to grab the Swiffer or revolver, probably the revolver. One reaches into his back pocket and I step back ready for anything but he pulls out a notepad.
On the pad he writes: Where did you come from?
“Some town not too far from here, we’ve just been driving for some time now.”
Are those your children?
“In a manner of speaking I suppose they are,” I look back at them, they look cute and I feel a warmth envelop my heart.
You can spend the night here, only one.
“Alright, thank you.”
They take us round the compound, or commune, or cult base. I was surprised to see that not all of the people here were silent or wore black. A large fat white man with overalls strides past smelling of labour, shovel over his shoulder. Shacks are spread out around us in organic fashion—some mobile homes with personal decorations, others tin shacks hastily put together. Hippy types dance around a fire, naked people lying unconscious nearby, others shouting, but they seem semi-content. As we kept walking Mary and Jesse were glued to my sides holding my hands.
“I don’t like it here,” Mary said.
“Me neither,” Jesse replied.
I look to comfort them as we pass a naked man being paddled by a woman wearing a nun’s outfit. I want to laugh but I only find befuddlement. We near what I would likely call the center of this community, a group of people sitting cross legged-their eyes narrowed, focusing intently.
“Who are they?” I ask our tour guides.
The bigger fellow writes: Jedis. I don’t question this, at this point if they aren’t trying to kill me or cover me in shit I am okay with it. Suddenly Steady as She Goes by the Raconteurs starts playing over a loud speaker. In the air I smell reefer and hear people yelling, I pick up Jesse and we keep walking with our guides. From what I can tell this place has one entrance—the rest is barbed wire fence. They seem to have their own water and it doesn’t seem to have any central authority; unless the people in black run the show. We get close to a tiny house and the men write: Tonight you stay here now you work.
To the left of the house a man is shackled to a tree. “Help me god damn it,” he faintly whispers.
“Why is he chained there?” I ask our kind patrons.
He helped Samson cut his hair is all they write.
I tense up realizing we’ve entered a new kind of place.
“What do I need to do?” I ask.
Leave kids follow.
“Where I go they go,” I say.
They glance at each other, then the small one nods at me. We walk to a larger house near the outskirts away from the “city” activity. We walk to a house—old Victorian style with books scattered over the floor and oil-paintings hang from the walls. They motion me over to sit in a chair at a desk. Opposite me sits a woman with blond hair, glasses from the 70s, and dressed in black slowly giving herself lung cancer.
“Welcome to our humble little oasis. I hope you find it suitable for the evening. Sarah let you in because she deemed you worthy, not everyone here was let in for the same reason. Do not ask me any questions, you simply answer mine and you can stay here without trouble,” she says this all coldly and yet she betrays some leeching desire to know something.
“Ask away ma'am. I’m just glad to find a safe place to sleep,” I say as the kids begin to explore the room we’re in.
“How many people have you killed?” she says as she lights her second cigarette.
“None, haven’t needed to, we’ve been quick on our feet, and our wits match that speed,” I smirk, feeling somewhat clever.
She gazes at me steadily with intent licking her lips as he closes her eyes.
“Why are those two kids with you?” Her head signals towards them.
“You’d call it serendipity I think,” I say honestly.
She sits there just smoking, I shift in my seat looking around and the two tour guides just stand there.
“Why don’t they talk?” I ask.
“Shut the fuck up!” she stands slamming her arms on the desk. “I told you, no questions, is that so fucking hard to remember?”
I apologize ready to fight, adrenaline pumping as a dead weight drops in my chest.
“Ok, forget it, I need you to go in that room and talk to the man inside it. For one hour then you can stay here.” She points to a door in the next chamber.
“Ok, like I said before the kids come with me.” They don’t deny the request and we walk to the door.
I look back at the woman and she says to knock, I knock, and the door slowly opens. I i
mmediately notice an exquisite chandelier hanging among general disrepair. A man walks back to his seat and we walk in cautiously. A television is mounted above his head, it’s playing a video of what looks like a Youtube channel-someone’s vlog about eating food. I stand there taking it in; he’s eating something and talking about its taste, the camera zooms in multiple times on the food and another video starts again about foodies and food culture. I look at the man, sun-tanned with a salt and pepper beard, grey-blue eyes set back in a European skull. I look around—on his desk are a few books: One-Dimensional Man, Sane Society, Existential Psychotherapy and Everyone Poops. In the corner stands a women dressed in steam-punk attire, she has a nose ring that extends to her ear, I have a slight inclination to yank it out—she’s also sporting a wicked green waster cut. I look down and Jesse and Mary are sitting cross-legged on the ground as if ready to take in some dropped knowledge. I look back and the man is sitting there calmly as tears stream down his wrinkly face.
“You must have come far to get here stranger.”
“Sort of, far physically but in other ways too,” I respond in what I think is nonchalance. “What’s with the commercials and the books and the weird chick?”
“Why not? The books help me make sense of what happened, the commercials remind me of the past sub-conscious desires, and the chick is just weird man,” he says with a smile.
“So I’m just supposed to stand here and talk to you for an hour?”
“That’s the deal kid.”
“Well what do you want to know?”
“A better question is, what’s the point?”
“The point of what?” I ask as my eyes squint in minor confusion.
The steam-punk weirdo comes over and sits with Mary and Jesse. A commercial for Arby’s sandwiches comes on followed by some kind of clothing company that ships clothes to yuppies in cities they are about to visit.
“The point of anything anymore? Everything’s gone, everyone’s gone mad, and nothing really matters anymore,” he says but without indicating any emotional connection to the words.
“Did it matter before though? I mean, people are still people, we just happen to live in a new era, a crazier era but here we are,” I haven’t exactly given it much thought, I just like not answering emails and paying taxes really.
“It mattered before because we had a system of justice and humanity. We also had a vision to create a better world, and yet here we are. A people succumbed to their own sickness.”
“Sickness, like the plague or disease you mean?”
“No, I mean like consumerism, mindless people working 40 hours a week, driving to a place they hate, to do things they don’t want to do, to buy shit they don’t want, made by poor exploited people, burning fossil fuels to bring it to us, while the whole damn world burned. The disease was just one symptom that got out of control. If not the virus it would have been something else. It was a sick world, we were, are, all sick. So maybe you’re right, maybe there never was a purpose. So why go on at all?”
“Why not?” at which point shouts are heard outside, expletives and gun-fire too.
The People in Black, Anal Penetrator, and the European Skulled-Man
Once all hell had broken loose in the world the usual cults sprang up preaching salvation in a damned world. Others rose up to monetize or at least profit, on humanity’s renewed sense of faith and community. And of course another clever group intent on self-preservation would attach themselves to the savvy profiteers, too smart to join up with whack-jobs while hating humanity too much to lead them. Not all cults were made equal however and some were way cooler than others. Our story with Beeblebrox, Mary, and Jesse happened to veer into just such a wonderfully interesting group of post-apocalyptic humans.
The People in Black had given up health and happiness, speaking even in favor of cigarettes, community, and suffering. They felt—not without reason—that all that happened was just desserts for humanity’s misdeeds, the reckoning we all deserved. They viewed themselves as truly unworthy of continued breath, so they diligently but slowly snuffed it out with chain smoking. Those who had risen in rank would eventually work their way up to other drugs. Their spiritual pursuit eventually ending in desiccation and death.
The People in Black had formed their group, cult, within the city limits of Denver. Those souls who somehow managed to stay alive after the initial collapse formed small bands which coalesced around the European Skulled-Man. He was tall, with cheek-bones that seemed to give rise to his crystal blue eyes. A man with a keen eye for profit and a .357 Magnum finds himself with the bona-fide job characteristics to meet the requirements of post-apocalyptic cult leader. To his surprise, instead of demapping everyone he met, his face seemed to inspire faith in others. But whence cometh his loyal followers you may wonder? Who would devote themselves to a cause and why?
Before we get to that it’s important to first note Logan’s (European Skulled-Man) brief tango with suicidal ideation. He had taken shelter in an abandoned apartment complex in Five Points, it was there that the ex-banker was forced to finally consider what the point of his life was. 9-5 was gone, status disappeared, Huggies butt wipes extinct, easy sex access via Tinder evaporated, parents dead, friends unknown, and most importantly he didn’t know what the fuck to do. Before he was inside of a groove, rolling forward with the constant feedback of his bank account, promotions, and the attention of attractive women. Now he was surrounded by chaos; finally in these moments of existential ennui, he was confronted whole-heartedly by that which he had spent a lifetime avoiding. The bulwark of fear, once it plows into your soul doesn’t simply walk away. He cried long and hard and he knew not why or for whom—maybe for the world, maybe for his fear, but ultimately he went and decided that he would kill himself. In his newfound mental prison amidst limitless freedom, he couldn’t understand who he was anymore. Without external monitors of his progress, virtue, and purpose he himself was unmoored. He put the gun inside his mouth, his European-Skull was about to be eviscerated and in the moment of truth he heard a commotion outside.
“Fuck you, you mother cunt!” shouted a tall dark-skinned, Mo-hawked woman as he was stepping on a raider’s groin, pointing a katana at his face. She was surrounded by four others pointing rifles, nail-bats, and chains at her. He squirmed and shouted, “Kill the bitch!”
The other raiders—in their rags, old-sports equipment, and missing teeth started to move in. Logan liked her chutzpah, and wondered what to do. Moments from his own demapping he thought, well if I’m gonna die I may as well go out in style. In this flicker of meaning something new ignited, a sense of purpose not externally granted but pushing him on from within.
He pointed his .357 out the window slowly, wanting to get a surprise critical hit. He aimed at the one he thought most dangerous, mostly based on his size, one-eyed grin, and gun. He took steady aim as the woman below crouched and said, “Who wants to die first, you fucking pigs?”
Bang, her head swirled to look at the window from which a bullet that opened the big fella’s skull jettisoned out. Logan looked down at her and winked, it was the start of a beautiful friendship. Instantly she sliced the throat of the fool under her as she spun and lunged at the nearest threat. She swung the blade from the ground up slicing from his groin and right through his face, a blood-curdling scream pierced their ears as the other two ran at her. The first swung his chain at her as the second shot rang out, blowing his entire arm off. He stood there holding the nub with the other hand as a fountain of blood poured out—he moved in a 360 like a red sprinkler. The final raider swung his nail-bat at Anal Penetrator and she ducked while rolling back. He lunged forward smashing his bat down again, this time she parried right, as she sliced his gut open, stood up and made a final slice decapitating him.
“Nice,” said Logan.
He decided that maybe there was something to live for after all. He came downstairs as she was cleaning her blade, he noticed a pink dildo hanging from her belt, “is that for peop
le you like or…..”
“Maybe you’ll find out,” she said without jest. “Thanks for the help.”
“Yea, no problem.” They decided to set out together, for both had a mutual distaste for raiders and psychos.
Logan learned that in a past life Anal Penetrator had been a librarian. She was very anal about the places in which books must come to a rest and now she finally had an outlet for years’ worth of pent up rage as imbecile library goers misplaced books, not returning them on time, and just generally being wastes of life. She took refuge in the calm and quiet library in an absurd world. For many years she had grown world-weary, with our politicians, climate change, and the deluge of stories about our destruction of the natural world. She even began to crave the dissolution of society—she would binge watch anything where the world order had fundamentally shifted, reading every apocalyptic novel. Her favorite was The Windup Girl, which luckily she saved a copy and lent it to Logan. She respected anyone who read books, especially suggestions from peers so as to discuss them together. Meeting Logan-much like it did for him-gave her a revitalized sense of well-being. The life they began to build was a tiny pocket of peace.
They traveled together until they came upon a compound of tobacco and sin. They found a village with a simple legal system, run by insanity and cigarettes, and all were welcome. Of course those who overstayed their welcome were ungently reminded. Logan and Anal Penetrator quickly ingratiated themselves here as essential problem-solvers, ruling over a small motley crew until their pocket of peace would one day erupt.
A Fateful Day at the Compound
“What the hell was that” the man looked visibly upset now and the steam-punk moron ran out of the room.
“Let’s go,” I tell the kids and they follow me out. In the main chamber people are scrambling, the woman from before shouts about watching the walls. We run outside to general disarray, the fat man in overalls runs by with an axe and I see people in the distance fighting. The chick with the ear-nose ring runs by with a god damned M249 SAW. The kids and I run back to our car, get in and I start driving away from the chaos, machine guns rattling over the hum of the engine. We drive away from the commune and head towards the other-side of the wall. Mary shrieks wildly and I whirl back telling her to calm down and that everything is going to be…. We’re suddenly slammed to the side with an immense force as a truck smashes into us. My head goes right through the window, the warmth of the blood is oddly soothing but I freak when I remember the kids. The engine is out-the people in the truck are getting out-and the kids are unconscious. Panic starts to set in and I autonomously get out and run for cover, I leave the kids because I don’t know what else to do. Two men with pistols start shooting at me, the bullets hit the tree and whiz by.
Pandemic- We’ve Run Out of Toilet Paper! Page 4
