Pop Kult Warlord

by Nick Cole

  “That’s all?”

  “No,” she confesses. “Because if you’re willing, I think you can help us. I think you can make a difference.”

  She looks at me as though she’s asking me a question. Like it’s my turn to answer. And she’s waiting.

  But I don’t.

  So she asks.

  “Will you come?”

  I nod, and she leads me deeper into the ruins of Disneyland.

  We pass along a main street that looks half haunted and half shrine. It takes me a moment to realize there are other people here in the darkness with us.

  “Who are these people?”

  “The faithful. Catholics. Aztec Liberation Front. The grieving. The lonely. The ones who don’t want to ever forget all that once was.”

  Everywhere I look, people are staring into the ruined stores and amusements. To my surprise, many of the displays inside have been meticulously reconstructed.

  “The monks have tried to restore everything to what it once looked like,” she explains in a whisper as we gaze in at a candy shop. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  It’s like looking into some old photograph of what America looked like long before the Meltdown. Except if you look closely you can see the damage. The chips and nicks. The glue and tape. The missing eyes in some of the dolls.

  At the end of the street lie the half-burnt remains of a fairytale castle. Here is the source of the low chanting and the occasional mournful bells.

  “They come here to remember why we fight. Why we want America back.”

  She leads me on, toward the castle.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  We cross what was once a big park but is now nothing more than dead trees and shell crater holes. And this ruined landscape now hosts some kind of weapons bazaar.

  I’ve seen all kinds of weapons in games. From the latest tricked-out HK Type-90 smartgun to even the old 1911 .45. But that was all in-game. Not real life. Now I’m seeing tables and stalls filled with antique guns and the occasional modern AK-2000 complete with a tri-dot target acquisition system. I know assault rifles like that retail for upwards of ten thousand. I checked once when I used one in a game and wanted to see what the cost was in real money.

  “What’s going on here?” I ask as we weave through the stalls like shapes among shadows.

  “This is where the resistance gets their weapons. It’s run by the Aztec Liberation Front.”

  “I didn’t realize there was any real resistance actually going on,” I say. “Seems like the Calistanis have things pretty well locked down.”

  She snorts. “Hardly. That’s why the zone is so guarded. Truth is they’re on the verge of losing it. All the barrios, us, the Chinese, the Thai, the Vietnamese, and even the Indians are ready to revolt. And it’s only recently that we’ve started working together.”

  “So what happens if…?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happens if you revolt?”

  She stops. Turns to face me.

  “We go back. We join America again. We become California.”

  I’ve taken some history courses on the world before the Meltdown. It was a madhouse of grievance action and social justice. And all of it a scam for cheap power and wealth redistribution. That’s what caused the old America to collapse. Grievance politics, out-of-control immigration, deficit spending. And when the power went off, everything just tore itself apart until the corporations stepped in to restore order so they could get the global economy going again.

  I know that one of the facets of that time had been the resistance of minorities to assimilate into the classic American culture. Without assimilation, diversity wasn’t a strength. It was a fracture. One that opened wide the second it got the chance.

  So I ask.

  “But… you’re Mexican, right?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Before the Meltdown, most Mexican-Americans wanted to return California to Mexico,” I say. “I remember something about La Raza and all that.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. Defiantly.

  “Listen, those vatos were crazy. They had no idea what they were talking about. They viewed the countries their grandparents had come from with some sort of blissful nostalgia that wasn’t grounded in any kind of reality. They completely disregarded the fact that most of their ancestral countries were at best oligarchies and at worst totalitarian regimes that were nothing short of living nightmares. My parents and grandparents, they were second- and third-generation. Didn’t remember first-hand what they’d fled. Why they’d fled. What they’d wanted to get away from. What they’d wanted to get to instead. But once they got a taste of what it was like to live under an oppressive government—fifty rich families governing everything in Calistan, no one gets a chance to better themselves and everyone is just a servant—they got over that real quick. They remembered just how great America was. I was raised with the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  “America was a pretty great place. The old ones, the ones who were once Americans, they’re proud of that fact now. They wear it like a badge of honor, and there is no one more committed to the restoration than them. And they’ll tell you straight up that they weren’t like that as kids. That the public school system and the colleges, which were run by a bunch of power-hungry leftist goons who tried to make everything they didn’t agree with bad, made them that way. Tried to tell them America wasn’t great. But it was all a lie. The elites, as they called themselves, just wanted power. The old ones like my abuela, she was just a teenager when it all happened. She’ll tell you she was lied to. She’ll tell you that when she’s pumping water from the village well where she lives in Riverside. When there’s no food to purchase in the market. When she remembers that she once had beautiful teeth. She raised me on how much America had and how great it was. And the one thing they had… and they lost it… was freedom. You could be anything in that America if you were willing to work hard enough. Is it like that still?”

  She looks up at me with those deep brown eyes. Like she’s just recounted some religious truth her whole culture faithfully believes in and she’s asking me to tell her if it’s actually the truth because I’ve been to the heaven they’re all dreaming of going to.

  And somewhere deep inside, I wonder if she’s daring me to shatter everything she’s ever believed.

  “It is,” I say. “It’s tough. If your family works corporate, you probably start out with a leg up… but yeah… you can still make it. I did.”

  She looks down and nods to herself. And then back up at me. I see some weight come off her shoulders. The doubt. The fear that maybe she was wrong and every terrible thing she’d had to do had been for nothing. And now there’s almost an otherworldly shine in her eyes. As though… as though I’m some monk who’s been to the top of the mountain and told her that there really is something there. Something to believe in.

  That’s all she was asking for.

  “That’s all we want,” she says. “A chance. Here… we have no chance. But in America you can have a chance.” She takes my hand. “C’mon. I want you to meet Brother Chris.”

  We pass through the gun bazaar and come out the other side, directly in front of the castle. Across an old bridge covered in graffiti, she leads me to a door next to the main gate. From beyond that gate comes the low monastic chanting. It is both deep and peaceful. Above, the moon rides into the night sky and I realize I’m standing beneath it, next to a fairytale castle that is both a fable and a historical landmark. Next to a damsel in distress. All of this was important once long ago and now not so much. But it’s something. Some place on the map of people’s lives then and now. Something to believe in when belief is what is needed. And I am standing here, next to her.

  And that is a good thing in a world that is anything but.

  She knocks on the wooden door.

  A tall man opens it. He is wearing cargo shorts and nothing else besides wire-rimmed glasses and a large wooden cross ha
nging around his neck. His hair is long and gray.

  “Heyyyy, Chloe,” he says. He reminds me of the hippies that used to sit in Grand Central all zoned out on F8 and selling knockoff SoftEyes. “Where you been, girl?”

  He smiles expectantly at me. Like it’s what he does. Like everyone in the entire world is a friend waiting to be made.

  “This is…” She seems suddenly nervous. Aware of herself like she’s never been. Like a little girl who has once taken communion and learned all the holy things that must be learned. “This is my friend, Brother Chris.”

  “Good to meet you, my man. I’m Chris. Humble shepherd to His children. I’m deeply, and I must say deeply because I’ve known Chloe for a long time, honored to meet you. Come on in.” He opens the door and holds out his hand as though ushering us into some grand palace.

  “He’s the last Catholic priest left in the OC,” Chloe whispers. “He’s a very wanted man. The sultan would airstrike this place if he knew he was here.”

  The room beyond the door is tiny. A lava lamp undulates, casting red blobs of light and shadow. A long counter, where once Disney merchandise must’ve been sold, is piled with ancient books. Pulp novels. Old sci-fi books with fantastic covers of rocket ships, monsters, and beautiful women.

  Brother Chris smiles. “I’m not the last, Chloe. I know there are others. We just can’t find each other right now. But you’re never the last. God reminded Elisha of that when he tried to tell God he was the last man willing to serve Him. Nay, nay, said the Big Man… I’ve still got seven thousand who haven’t bent the knee. I like that story. I need it sometimes.”

  “And yet they would kill you if they found you.” Chloe seems almost to be lecturing the old priest.

  Chris busies himself with clearing a space for us to sit on a beautiful ancient leather couch.

  “We are souls, not bodies, little girl. They can’t kill a soul. So even then…” He laughs like a badly timed motorboat engine. “Even then they can’t get old Brother Chris.” He sits across from us and fixes us with a sober smile. “So why are you here, little girl?”

  Chloe sits, knees together, leaning forward, eyes shining, her whole posture somehow now desperate. The priest takes a cigarette from a small tin and lights it. He offers one to each of us.

  I accept.

  “He’s close to Rashid, Brother Chris,” she says, indicating me.

  Behind the wire-rimmed glasses the old man’s eyes go wide.

  “How close?” he asks.

  “He knows where Rashid will be tomorrow. He will be with him.”

  Chris gets up and begins to pace.

  “Baby girl, I can’t condone a hit. I’ve told you that. Even if he wants to kill me, that’s not the way…” He sighs and takes a long drag. “I know you and the Aztec Liberation boys don’t get it… but that’s not the way we do things. We’d rather die for our faith.”

  “Even if that means Rashid wins and becomes the new sultan,” she says as though remonstrating some small and wicked child. “He’ll be worse than his father ever was.”

  Chris casts sad eyes down at her. Then he kneels and puts a long gangly arm about her. “Even if,” he says softly.

  Her eyes begin to fill with tears. She shakes her head. Then…

  “He says there’s another way,” she whispers.

  Brother Chris looks at me hopefully.

  “Tomorrow Rashid will lose the final battle,” I say, “and his brother, who it seems might be a better fit as sultan, will win… by default.”

  “Rashid’ll lose? How?” asks the priest.

  “I’ll throw the battle.”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “Yeah right. And then you’ll be dead. We heard about the executions.”

  I finish the smoke and crush it out in a ceramic skull ashtray.

  “I can do it,” I tell them both. “But yeah… I’ll need to get to the border and clear out of Calistan once it’s done.”

  Chris thinks about this for a long moment.

  “The Front has been looking for an excuse to revolt. Look at ’em out there. They’re armed to the teeth and spoiling for a fight. If the world watched Rashid lose big-time tomorrow…” He rubs his bare chin. “Maybe things get crazy for a few days. We could get your boys at the Front to start some protests and even blow up a few power stations. No one gets hurt—and I mean that—but in the chaos I can get you some transport to get out.” The priest looks at me. “But you’ve got to make it outside the Gold Coast first. I can’t do anything for anyone inside the zone. You get outside after you stab Rashid in the back, metaphorically speaking, and I can get you across the border and into Mexico. Can’t go to LA. Too hot. They’ll be all over that border. But yeah… I can get you out through Mexico no problem.”

  Silence. And then…

  “Get us out. I’m going with him,” says Chloe.

  Chapter Fifty

  We make it back to Chloe’s car at around midnight. We drive through the dark neighborhoods of Calistan, avoiding streets where bonfires are springing up. They look like they’ll burn until dawn.

  By the light of the dash I watch Chloe’s face. She’s lost in thought. Not even listening to the music coming from the speaker. I turn it down.

  She nods toward one of the bonfires. Shadows dance around it. And yes. The shadows are holding guns.

  “It’s starting,” she mumbles.

  What’s starting? A revolution? Civil disobedience? I didn’t mean to do that. I’ve only wanted to ruin Rashid’s day. And I’ve only just come to that realization. Maybe even ruin his life if I get lucky. But now this feels like something heading out of control.

  Something I started.

  Or something I’m going to start.

  No. Not start. I didn’t light those fires. But I’m going to fan the flames.

  What else did I think was going to happen?

  The truth is, I have no idea how I’m going to backstab Rashid. Game time is twelve hours away, and I have no idea whatsoever. But I do know that I’m going to do it. For a lot of reasons.

  I text Irv. Probably not the smartest idea. No matter what Irv said. My text is probably being observed, noted, and filed under T for Treason before being forwarded to the appropriate authorities.

  But I don’t have a choice. I need to get out of here.

  I need to get her out of here.

  Need to get out of Calistan tomorrow. Things about to explode. Meet me at that pier we passed once we turned onto the coast.

  “Is everything okay?” Chloe asks, casting me a quick glance from the dark road ahead.

  I know what she means.

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” She looks at me expectantly. “I can come with you?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiles and places her hand on mine. She squeezes and doesn’t let go.

  Irv texts back.

  Be there by four.

  An hour later we’re walking down the dock to the sailboat. Both of us haven’t said a word. We know what’s happening.

  “Are you scared?” she asks me as we stare at each other in the galley after I lit an old candle I found in one of the cupboards. “About tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” I say. My voice sounds dry and hollow.

  “Don’t be,” she whispers.

  She moves to kiss me. The night, what remains of it, is ours. And later we sleep.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  I was wounded badly in the shoulder when the minotaur pulled me from the remains of the crumbling castle. Its destruction was majestic. It didn’t come down all at once. It came down, apart, collapsed, in sections. Individual towers and walls and wings of the great structure sloughed off in great sheets of stone. Ghosts and spirits fled into the night sky as we made our way out. And as we reached the bridge, the soaring slender tower that had housed the giant demon’s heart collapsed in on itself, its ancient stone walls turning into a sudden waterfall of debris that drenched the rest of the castle.

  The silence wa
s devastating.

  I can barely walk now. The pain of my injury burns like a white-hot poker.

  “We must hurry. This simulation is coming apart, PerfectQuestion!” huffs the beast.

  Simulation?

  PerfectQuestion?

  “What is this?” I croak, my voice dry and hoarse. We’re struggling along the road through the dark and haunted woods. The destruction of the castle has faded behind us and all I hear are the mournful cries of night birds.

  “You’re not ready for that yet,” growls Morgax. “You’re still in danger. If we don’t make it to the temple before the end, there’s every chance the programming will take and all will be lost. You’ll be lost, my friend.”

  I don’t understand.

  I’m limping along now, following the beast man as best I can.

  “And you can’t,” whispers Morgax. “Now is the time of greatest danger. We must make it to the temple before noon and confront the Raggedy Man. Those are the set parameters if you are to complete the resistance programming. It was all we knew about you. I’m sorry.”

  None of this makes sense.

  “You remember him, right?”

  I stop and search my mind, but all I can see is the beautiful murdered angel spinning with Alucard into the void at the bottom of the tower.

  “In the Black. The Oubliette of Torment. The vampire,” says Morgax.

  Alucard.

  The Priest of Chaos.

  And…

  The Raggedy Man.

  “You must defeat him if you are to come out of this with your mind, PerfectQuestion. And he’s waiting for us at the Temple of Elemental Evil.”

  We walk on through the night, crossing through the twisted dark forest and passing down into the north end of the Lost Valley. In the distance, within a great swamp beneath the jagged peaks, an old temple lies in ruins. It’s dark and foreboding and my whole body feels cold and poisoned when I look directly at it.

  “Tell me,” I say to the minotaur as we rest at a bend in the trail that winds down into the mire. “Tell me what this is.”

  Morgax shakes his great bull’s head.