·       Hi everyone! Stephen Wormwood here, thanks for clicking! Feedback and criticism is always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can.

 

·       Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

 

 

**********

 

6. THE REPUBLIC OF DENVER, Part 2

 

**********

 

Atheists for suicide, planes falling out the sky
Trains jumping off the track, mothers yelling "he's alive"
Backpedalling Christians settling for forgiveness
Evidence all around us the town is covered in fishes
Ocean water dried out, fire burning more tires out
Tabernacle and city capital turned inside out
Public bathroom, college classroom's been deserted
Another trumpet has sounded off and everyone heard it
(It's happening) no more running from world wars
(It's happening) no more discriminating the poor
(It's happening) no more bad bitches and real niggas
Wishing for green and gold the last taste of allure
I swore I seen it vividly...

 

-      Kendrick Lamar

 

**********

 

I've been thinking a lot about Walsh these days. Walsh, that dead soldier I got the old recorder from. I don't even remember how he got it. What was his first name? It's fucked up I can't remember, right? But Jesus, how long has it really been? How long's it been since I left my hometown ruins for the road? How long's it been since... him?

 

Ralph.

 

That was his name. Ralph Walsh. Poor bastard. Never got home to your family, did you? All you wanted to do was protect them. All you wanted to do was make a difference, make the country whole again. But there's no point. America's a festering corpse, it's too late for CPR. And too late for you, huh, Ralph? Why am I thinking about you, I wonder?

 

Damned if I know. Sometimes my head feels like a cracked mirror. The memories are there, but... they're fractured and fuzzy. Sometimes I feel like my head might shatter. Sometimes I wonder if it already has. Fuck.

 

Ralph.

 

Still thinking of you, buddy. Bet your wife is dead now, if not dead then enslaved. Bet your home's been ransacked. Bet your parents' graves are weeding over. Bet no one remembers you even existed except for me.

 

Is that... why I'm recording all this? So that the people who find this will remember me? What I've been through? No. No, I'm not that shallow. I'm not doing this for posterity's sake I'm doing this for me – to get it out of me, purge myself of all this fucked-up shit I've swaddled up inside myself. Parker, McCullough, Wuhrer, the 55ers, the Foragers, Denver ... all of it. And everything that comes afterwards.

 

If there's anyone listening... if there's anyone left... if I'm not just bitching into the ether... try to remember that I'm not telling you all this because I want pity. Fuck pity. I'm telling it to you because Ralph Walsh had the right idea. When you're powerless, all you can do is bear your soul. It's catharsis and testament.

 

And there's so fucking much to testify...

 

**********

 

The sun was falling.

 

Jay wanted to go. He wanted to get the hell out of Forager territory without a second look, but both Parker and McCullough nixed the idea. `We'd just draw attention to ourselves now', said the girl. `Won't be long before word gets out that someone commandeered a Humvee, and they start doing checks – if we go at night at least we'll have the cover of darkness'.

 

She was bandaging up her arm as she said it. A stray bullet grazed her forearm as she escaped from a deli that the Foragers corralled her into before circling back through the alleys into Walton Street. Jay watched Parker pretend not to watch McCullough as she did it. She'd stripped down to her chest where a spool of wrappings flattened out her breasts. Her t-shirt and hoodie were puddled beside her. A constellation of old scars, receding welts, fresh bumps, and purpling bruises speckled her taut skin. And she had a weird tattoo on her shoulder, like nothing Jay had ever seen before:

 

XXI.XIX.XVIII.XVI

 

I.XVIII.III.VIII.V.XX.XXV.XVI.V:

 

(III)

 

XIII.XV.IV.V.XII:

 

(LXXXVII)

 

 

But he paid it little mind. He didn't care because he didn't care about her – and Parker was too busy smirking at her to notice. They were in the building's security office at the time, eating what little food they'd brought with them from Del Mar Park – fried bread and apples – nothing they needed to cook.

 

"You're smart," Parker said.

 

Jay kept his head down. He knew Parker wasn't talking to him.

 

McCullough grinned. "...Thanks?"

 

"You tape your titties down and keep your hair short, so strangers think you're a boy, right?"

 

She rolled her eyes. "That's the idea, yeah."

 

"Most girls aren't that smart."

 

"Most girls wouldn't have to be if most boys kept their hands to themselves," McCullough put her t-shirt and jacket back on. "Had a couple close calls though. My old partner, he..." She paused for a breath, "...he warned me not to trust anyone – especially boys."

 

Parker gripped his fist. "Before he killed himself?"

 

"...We all check out someday," she replied. "He just chose when."

 

"Suicide? Come on. That's a coward's way out."

 

"You don't know anything about him," McCullough frowned. "Or me."

 

"I know you're tough," said Parker. "Wouldn't have survived this long if you weren't. We could've left you, but we didn't. We didn't need to wait but we did."

 

Not that you asked me about it, thought Jay.

 

"...Sorry. It's hard to trust people in a fucked-up world like this," McCullough paused on that and gnawed off a hunk of fried bread. "Been on the road too long, I guess. I don't even remember where I grew up. Up north, maybe? There was an attack and the town hit the road heading south... then the youngest of us got picked up by men in white suits... taken to a compound somewhere in a desert... and then years go by until Ennis, my friend, he... he helps me escape. He gave up so much for me. He taught me how to use a gun... how to track... how to hunt. He kept me alive. So... no, I don't blame him for giving up. For the longest time I thought he had the right idea. But then..."

 

"Then what?"

 

McCullough smirked. "Then I found the Republic... and then I thought, `maybe there's still a life worth living out here after all'."

 

"The Republic is fucked," said Parker. His tone wasn't spiteful, just matter of fact.

 

"You don't know that for certain," the girl spat, but it was a reflexive, stock response without any passion behind it. It wasn't long before she admitted the truth: "But yeah. I know. Still sucks. Who wants to run forever?"

 

But instead of arguing the obvious (like Jay thought he would) Parker pulled the Walkman out of his backpack and set it against McCullough's leg.

 

Parker Evans was far from a sentimental man, very little possessed symbolic worth his mind – but even a primitive mind worships totems and he certainly had his – his Walkman was one of them. His Cookbook and Luger were the other two. Back in Polk he'd beaten up more than a few boys up who tried to take them from him. And yet here he was, handing one of his precious toys over to a stranger.

 

Jay bit his lip and looked away.

 

"What is this?" Asked McCullough.

 

A grinning Parker told her to put the headphones on. She did. And when he pressed play the cassette spun and the Creole-tinted teachings of Octavia Wilkes drifted softly into her ear. Her call to freedom, real freedom, her desire to build a new community, her disdain for the old world framed through her nostalgic refrain of her preacher-father's rhetoric. `It's quarter to twelve and you're going to die at midnight. How are you spending those last fifteen minutes?'

 

McCullough pressed pause.

 

"You guys are going to Mexico?" She asked.

 

Parker's brows spiked. "You've heard of her?"

 

"Who hasn't? The last six months half the travelers bearing south through Denver were talking about her. Not that it matters. You can't possibly believe in that stuff."

 

Parker frowned at that. "Is there fuck else better for anyone in America?"

 

"Dude. Colorado to Mexico is like... a thousand fucking miles of territory. Even if we could make it-"

 

We, thought Jay, spitefully.

 

"-you have no idea what that fucking compound would be like. Say it's viable. How long before word got out and thousands of refugees suddenly show up at her gate, how long is it gonna stay viable? What if it's a trap? Some trick to get folks to head for the border so slavers can snatch `em up there? What if she's dead? What then?"

 

Parker, undaunted, took his Walkman and headphones off her. The battery was running low, and he hadn't found replacements since leaving Polk. "Then that's where we start up again. No fucking 55ers, no Foragers, no Republicans. You've got a better chance down south than in Denver. Tom Cherry's a cunt but he's right about this place. It's doomed, Cully."

 

Cully, thought Jay, frowning.

 

She smirked -- first at Parker, then at Jay. "What do you think, `Pee Wee'?"

 

I fucking hate you, the sheer venom of the thought didn't give him pause because he meant it. He wasn't brave enough to say it, but he meant it. He hated her. And that grim night in downtown Denver was the moment he realized it. She was ruining everything, and she didn't even realize it.

 

"...It's worth a shot," He whispered, grudgingly.

 

But it wasn't.

 

And Jay knew that as well as McCullough did because the fuckery of it was – she was right. There were so many holes in Parker's plan you could barely call it a plan. Mexico was a long way away and how many crazies and slavers and militiamen stood between them and the border? And even if they did make it and there was something worthwhile in Octavia's compound, who was to say they'd be allowed in? And even if they were allowed in, Parker Evans was still Parker Evans, Pumpkinhead the Pyromaniac, Keeper of the Cook Book. How long before he set something on fire and got them kicked out? What then?

 

Mexico was a shitty plan. But Jay didn't have the heart to say it. Parker was already angry with him, why make it worse? He didn't give a fuck about Mexico. All Jay wanted was to be with Parker. Nothing else mattered.

 

McCullough didn't say anything back to him, just nodded, crunched one of the apples between her teeth, then muttered something about needing more time to think about it. Parker told her not to think too long. And Jay felt tears welling up in his eyes. If he cried in front of Parker, he'd get called a pussy again and he didn't want that – so he excused himself.

 

"I need a piss," he said. "I'll be back soon."

 

Jay shuffled to his feet, dusted off his jeans, pocketed his 9mm, and quickly padded away from the tiny `camp' they set up for themselves next to the Humvee. He walked all the way to the other end of the carpark. There was a side door nearby, barely hanging off its rusty hinges. Jay shut it behind him and burst into tears. He threw his face into his palms as his back slid down the mossy concrete wall and he sobbed. It could've been hours he sat there, crying. It did feel that way, even though it was probably only a few minutes. But it didn't stop until he realized that if he took too long Parker and McCullough might wonder where he'd gotten to. Then they'd come looking and find him there looking pathetic.

 

And so, he knuckled his eyes dry, flattened his palms against the stairwell's cracked concrete and pushed himself up to his feet. That was when he found the dead soldier, a flesh-stripped corpse in withered old military fatigues with a rusty pistol in his lap and something more unusual clutched within the marbled fingerbones of his left hand.

 

A recorder.

 

Jay didn't know what motivated him to take it. He wasn't above scavenging corpses, but only for necessity's sake. He didn't need a recorder. But he took it anyway, prying it loose from those stiff old fingers. Then he pressed play.

 

There was breathing at first, ragged breathing, a man savagely out of breath, pausing to fill his lungs before they collapsed on him. Then Jay heard scuffles, like fabric sliding stiffly down concrete, and then the clunky thump of a backpack slapping the ground. A sigh of relief afterwards like a weight relieved. Then a calming breath, and a saddened sob.

 

"This..." Jay eyed the cadaverous soldier's remains as his living self's voice echoed throughout the stairwell over the warble of aging tape. There was a bullet hole in his skull. "T-this is Private Ralph Walsh of the 2nd Battalion's 9th Civilian Levy..." A breath. "...I-I-I think I'm dying... Sgt. Higgs, he's... he's gone mad. I knew this was coming, I knew, I KNEW I fucked up, but... if someone's listening to this... please take it to my wife, Nancy Walsh, out in Pueblo... she's got to know how this all happened... why I'm so sorry... and why can't come home to her..."

 

But then McCullough called out to him – "Jay? Jay, you okay out there?"

 

**********

 

I've forgotten a lot of things in my lifetime, and there are many more things that I wish I could, but I'll never forget Parker yelling at me in the Humvee. I'll never forget the way his smile lit up like a birthday cake when he saw McCullough. I'll never forget how quickly it all turned south for us. I remember not wanting to think about it, hoping it would all go away somehow, wishing McCullough caught a stray bullet and expired in a dirty alley somewhere. Distracting fantasies. I guess that's why I was drawn to Ralph Walsh's recorder that day. I knew in my bones what was coming, and I wanted... no I needed someone else's pain to distract myself with.

 

It didn't work for long, though.

 

In the end we didn't leave that car park until close to daybreak, when the fighting was at its lowest. Parker and I had the Humvee, McCullough drove the Dodge Ram. The streets were mostly clear save for the armed barricades blocking off the main roads around the city center. To avoid them we drove north to Elyria-Swansea then looped through Park Hill to the battered Republican checkpoints on East Colfax.

 

Bullet holes of damn near every caliber pockmarked the asphalt leading up to the makeshift car walls that the townsfolk blew their backs out pushing onto the road. They successfully blocked off Forager jeeps and trucks from rolling into Del Mar, but they got hammered hard throughout the day, mostly by automatic fire and grenades, and by now half were either on fire or blown to pieces.

 

Parker saw road crews with captured bulldozers ten blocks back, idling until sunrise no doubt. The next wave of Forager attacks would be the hardest – and the last one was more than enough to put the fear of God into the Republicans. Those few dozen men left guarding the main road were haggard, jittery, and nervous. Some stood by with untreated wounds, others looked ready to drop for lack of sleep and hunger. They damn near had a heart attack when they saw us roll up along the side road... then blessed their makers when they realized we were friendlies.

 

They let us ride through to Del Mar Park in peace.

 

We knew that things were bad, judging by the fighting, but I didn't know how bad until we rolled through Peoria Street that morning. A day before it looked like a defensive outpost at the edge of a warzone, but now it looked more like a refugee camp. Tents, triages, and cookfires lined the sidewalks as far ahead as my eyes took me. Hundreds of desperate Republicans filed into the park line by line with bulging backpacks, suitcases, wheeled trolleys, and shopping carts full of what precious little they could bring from their villages – food and clothes mostly. They were tired and hungry, bloodied up some of them, dirty from the road, nerves frazzled by all the shelling and gunfire. Poor bastards.

 

I hated Polk. I didn't feel like I lost much when the 55ers took it apart. But these people? They'd lost everything in the space of a few days, their homes, their farms, their livestock, their possessions, damn near everything. Kinda hard not to feel sorry for them. When something's on borrowed time, there's feel to it, a presence. When you know, you know. And I knew then that the Republic of Denver would be lucky to see another sunrise.

 

Wouldn't be long after that before the Foragers proved me right.

 

**********

 

The boy trudged through viscous black waters as jungle trees loomed overhead and the reflections of burning villages cast a guilty twinkle in his eye. Croaking frogs paddled away from the smoke choking his throat as he waddled ahead, M16 aloft to stave off corrosion. Bombs reigned with cruel tyranny over the poor as errant sniper fire brought his war buddies to Jesus. Private Mixon had to get home though, he was weary of war and ready to return to his curly-haired sweetheart. Radio messages blared out through hidden speaker systems – messages about a chopper at the end of the river. They urged him to keep going, to proceed, to ignore the river worms wriggling within his soggy fatigues. His sweetheart whispered in his ear. KEEP UP, PEE WEE, KEEP UP. Said he. KEEP UP, PEE WEE, KEEP UP. And as he marched on through molasses the sun began to fall, and the Hunter encroached from his rear with smoky lust on his breath and the drawl of a Klansman. KEEP UP, PEE WEE, KEEP UP. Two steps for Mixon, four for the Hunter. One step for Mixon, eight steps for the Hunter. No steps for Mixon, sixteen for the Hunter.

 

...TAKE OFF THOSE CLOTHES, quoth he. SLOWLY...

 

*

 

Jay shot out of bed, gasping.

 

He panted for breath, sweaty shoulders heaving up and down with each intake, heart racing. He clutched it with his palm and willed himself to calm down. "Just a dream," he told himself. "Just a stupid dream, relax." The boy glanced around the room. No swaying fronds to be found, no sloshing river waters, just a barren, cream-painted room with some cushioned wicker chairs, an unmade bed, and a stained teak coffee table.

 

Just a stupid dream, Jay thought. He poured a glass of water from a dented tin jug by his bedside, it was lukewarm, but he couldn't really remember the last time he'd drunk something cold. He drank it anyway. And then he spotted the recorder next to his 9mm. Parker flashed through his mind, but Jay didn't want to think about him (or where he might be, or who with, in that moment). Instead, he reached over and pressed play.

 

Private Walsh's voice, raw with vocal fry, blared out. "I was born and raised in Pueblo, my sleepy little hamlet on the hill... and my parents were good Christian folk, always kept me warm, clothed, fed, roofed. Went to kindergarten there, went to Junior High there, did my seniors there, met my wife there. Nancy. Oh, Nancy. Most beautiful girl you've ever seen, bro. And somehow, she chose me. Damn. When you're that lucky, when the most beautiful person you've known chooses you... what wouldn't you do to keep them safe? That's why I joined up. When the bombings and kidnappings started, when the Bible-thumpers started riling up all the old folks with their doomsday talk, and the hospitals flooded with junkies and AIDS patients, when I saw that the whole fucking country was going to shit – I HAD to sign up. My Daddy always used to say the US Army was the baddest gang in town, and I wanted in. How else was I gonna keep my girl safe from the fucking crazy people? I knew she was mad at me when I left, but... if this message doesn't get to her... I hope to God she understood. It was all for you, babe. Six weeks of boot camp at Fort Carson? Eating dogshit rations and sleeping on a bed straight out of the Flintstones? All for you. That day when they finally inducted us, MG Griscolm and Lt. Col Creighton and them, I wish you could've seen. Wish you would've been proud of me. They told us we were gonna clean up the scum and bring America back to its senses. Back then? I kind of believed it. We were the good guys. We were gonna fix this. And then it all went to shit."

 

Everything always does, thought Jay.

 

"They assigned me to Squad B of the 9th Civilian Levy and drove us out on convoys to Denver. The militias were pounding the city with IEDs and assassinating government officials on the streets. They stole women and food, shot up synagogues, lynched colored folk and queers, at least that's what they told us. Might've exaggerated the numbers a bit but they weren't lying. In Castle Rock I saw a naked corpse swinging from a traffic light... had FAGGOT carved into his belly in big letters... and that was when I knew for sure that the world had gone upside down. We had a job to do... secure Denver, take back Boulder and Fort Collins, then drive those insane fuckers back across the border to Wyoming. Didn't see much action at first though. Combat duties were taken up by the conventional forces while us Civilian Levies were tasked with fortifying the city. Had us out there bricking up alleys, setting up roadblocks and checkpoints, laying down dragon's teeth, building watchtowers, digging graves. Sometimes they had us guarding the refugee camps in Ruby Hill and Lakewood. Horrible fucking places, though. Horrible. Like something out a fucking history book, Nance. Suicides every day. Kids starved down to their ribs, barely able to hold their heads up, just like those African babies on the infomercials. I even heard a rumor that there were some cholera cases in the Lakewood camp. Cholera! Can you imagine? Never thought I'd see Americans living like that. I hated seeing all that shit. I got lucky though, or at least I thought I did, when a militiaman drove a truck full of bombs at the gates of the Ruby Hill camp, and I shot that motherfucker up and blew it to hell before it ever came close. That's what brought me to Higgs' attention."

 

Jay listened to Ralph Walsh spit audibly, but weakly.

 

"Staff Sargeant Joab J. Higgs. Fuck him. Fuck him straight to hell and back that evil fucking COCKSUCKER!" Heavy beathing, a sob. "...There is evil in this world, Nance. Not all the good guys are good... if I don't get back to you... please... watch who you trust..."

 

A town bell tolled across Del Mar Park. Jay pressed stop. It wasn't an alarm (the Republicans had an air raid siren for that) it was more like a church bell, like the one Pastor Evans used to ring back in Polk to summon the town to his Sunday Service. I don't even remember what day it is, thought Jay, drearily. Probably not Sunday though.

 

The boy crawled out of the bed sheets, dressed into his current clothes (a torn white shirt, some dusty khakis, and a battered pair of sneakers left to him by McCullough) and padded through the glass double doors to the balcony overlooking the park. With each bell peal Denver's beleaguered townsfolk poured into the grass field from the surrounding apartment complexes and sleeping tents and merged into a crowd of hundreds all bearing north toward the Key Bank building on the other side of East 6th Avenue.

 

Jay couldn't say what motivated him to join them. Curiosity, maybe? Not enough to get out of bed. Boredom maybe? But boredom was no stranger to him. It certainly wasn't because he cared about those people. But join them he did – the Mixon boy slipped his 9mm into his back pocket, grabbed the door key, and left the apartment behind to walk with them. He wasn't thinking of them, though. He thought of Parker.

 

Jay hadn't seen him or McCullough since they brought the guns and Humvee back from downtown, and it bothered him. He knew Parker was still mad at him for all the fuckups he'd made in the last few days, but he hated being away from him. Jay felt cold when Parker wasn't by his side. Cold and scared. And then he realized he just didn't want to be alone in that apartment building while Parker was out there with her, doing who knew what. So, he walked with the Republicans through the weedy fields all the way to the Key Bank building where hundreds more had assembled, gabbing and murmuring. The sun was high and the air hot. As usual staccato rattles of automatic fire rattled off in the great distance, but hour by hour the sound grew louder. The Foragers were getting close. Too close.

 

And the Republicans knew it.

 

There was an oak tree nearby looming out of a line of pebbled earth hemmed in by wire fencing running the length of the street. Jay sat beneath its shade with some of the old folks as hundreds and hundreds of people clamored together within the car park around the Key Bank Building, Ned Creighton's de facto base of operations in what was now the Del Mar encampment. The growing crowds formed up around a half circle of three dozen folding chairs where the civilian council sat, the elected leaders of the Republic of Denver's 36 villages. Ned was there too, in full military fatigues, alongside his unofficial second in command, Tom Cherry.

 

When enough of the townsfolk had gathered up, Tom Cherry signaled to someone across the road, and the bell peals stopped. Then the councilwoman for Sunny Vale village called out loudly to everyone, "Thanks for coming, y'all. I know you're tired and scared, but God bless y'all for coming. I have no words to describe how much we've lost these past few days, but we wanted you to hear from Lt. Colonel Creighton about where we're at, what our plans are, and where we're headed. Ned?"

 

Ned stood up from his cushioned stool and turned to the frightened crowds encircling him. "Let me start off by offering my condolences any of you who've lost loved ones. I can't imagine what y'all are going through right now, but I promise you this. My battalion and I will do everything in our power to protect you."

 

The Lieutenant-Colonel fixed his hands to his hips. "This is what we know. In the last two days the Foragers have crossed the I-25 and captured all villages east of Colorado Boulevard. At the rate they're going they'll hit Montclair by tonight and Del Mar Parkway by tomorrow. We can't stay here. Therefore, until the fighting stops... we've got no choice but to move you all to the Buckley Base. It's fortified, well protected, and after reclaiming our larders it's got enough food, ammo, and medicine to last us into next year. We've already begun evac on our wounded. My wife Sarah's helped the Battalion draft a registry for our confirmed dead inside the Key Bank. We won't be able to take them with us, so... check the list. If one of your own is on it, you can claim them at the CSL Plasma building. We've got 250 graves dug for them in the field, and I've asked Father Kessel and Rabbi Abrams to coordinate a mass funeral at noon. After that, gather up what you can and get ready. Tomorrow, at first light, we're moving out for Buckley."

 

Jay watched on as the crowd nattered amongst themselves, digesting everything Ned had given them so far. He studied their sweaty faces. The overall mood amongst the Republicans was a kind of confused weariness laced with doubt. A fat man yelled out, "WHAT ABOUT THE BATTALION? AIN'T THEY FOUND MY SON YET?"

 

Ned sighed. "Most of the Battalion spent the last eight days scouring the streets for survivors. We can't spare any more men for retrieval operations. We've been on the defensive these past two weeks – it's time to take the fight to them."

 

The crowd's mutterings grew louder.

 

I guess that's why the council is here, thought Jay. He needs their approval...

 

And then Tom Cherry stuck his hand up to speak. The Sully Vale Councilwoman, who Jay soon realized was the current chair of the group, nodded for him to stand. Ned didn't seem to think much of it when his deputy took to his feet, smoothing out the creases of his checkered overalls and whipping off his bright red cap emblazoned BUCHANAN '92. He cleared out his throat, scratched the side of his buzzcut head, and addressed not the council, but the people.

 

"Folks, you know me. Been living here my whole dang life, I've known some of y'all since we was kids together. And me and the Lieutenant Colonel have been friends for a loooong time, and hell, he's done a lot for us. Held us all together, I'd say."

 

Ned pulled a terse, tiny frown.

 

"But I gotta disagree with him on this," said Tom. "I love Denver. It's my home and there's nothing more natural than wanting to protect your home. But I truly do believe right down to my fucking marrow that Denver is a lost cause. We gotta get outta here, guys. We got all the guns, food, meds, fuel, cars, trucks, and U-Hauls we need to get us south and find somewhere new to settle. Colorado Springs, maybe... or-or-or Pueblo? But whatever we do we can't stay here. The Foragers ain't worth fighting and what's left of Denver ain't worth fighting for. It's time to scram and I think the council ought to vote on it."

 

From his spot beneath the tree Jay was close enough to see Ned's jaw and fists clench with blisteringly well-checked rage. In a different setting he probably would've blown his stack. But there were whispers of agreement in the crowd. Some folks didn't want to waste resources fighting what felt like a losing battle. Some wanted to talk to the Foragers and strike a bargain and others were sensible enough to understand that parlays with cannibals weren't a smart idea. There was a surprising amount of folks on Ned's side too. Men, mostly. Older ones at that. They were angry, hurt, furious. They wanted blood. And they trusted Ned's men to get the job done.

 

Jay stood up and looked to the council. They whispered amongst themselves from person to person and by the looks of it they were just as divided as everyone else. Ned Creighton and Tom Cherry took their stools and the crowds assembled openly discussed what essentially amounted to war – until the council's chairwoman stood up. "The council's gonna need time to discuss this before any of us vote on it. For now, we focus on getting to safety. All y'all, collect your things, bury your dead, and say a prayer. Our lives are in the hands of the Lord now."

 

And that was that.

 

The council stood to leave. Ned shot Tom Cherry a wrathful glare then went amongst the townsfolk to greet them and offer condolences. The crowd broke into open discussion as they fanned out of the circle. Many headed for the Key Bank Building to check the registry. Some stayed behind to talk to Ned and the council members, ask advice, call in favors, etc. Most of them dispersed.

 

"Hey, Pee Wee!"

 

Jay's heart almost leapt into his throat. He turned around and saw Parker, his natural grin freshly returned. He leapt over the wire fence and caught some of the shade beneath the tree. It was hot out today. He had an old pack of Lucky Strikes on him, too. He lit two then passed one to Jay.

 

"Thanks," said the Mixon boy, and a sudden smile popped out of his lips. He couldn't contain it. He didn't even want to – even with an entire town falling to pieces around them. "Where'd you get them?"

 

Parker took a drag and blew a hoop of smoke into the air. "Got `em in trade off a soldier by the guard towers. Anyway, fuck that, I got some good news."

 

"What?"

 

"McCullough's coming with us to Mexico."

 

Jay's smile fell.

 

"What?" Said Parker.

 

He was so clueless sometimes. He's so clueless sometimes, thought Jay. "You're so-"

 

"What?" Parker's eyes thinned. "Go on. Talk. The fuck's your problem?"

 

I WANT TO FUCKING SCREAM AT YOU! Thought Jay. I FUCKING HATE THAT GIRL! I HATE HER, I HATE HER, I HATE HER! I FUCKING HATE HER! WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT? "Nothing. Whatever."

 

"Dude, just get off your period and come on. Cully's got some liquor back at her place, it's old but it's still good. Let's get fucking baked before we blow this shithole."

 

Jay looked away. "No thanks."

 

A silence fell. They were surrounded by jabbering old folks, crying women, and shouting men but Jay didn't hear a word of it. It was all just white noise. And he couldn't look Parker in the face. The older boy shoved his ciggy pack into his back pocket, took a final draw of his lit Lucky then stubbed it out on the trunk of the oak tree.

 

"Suit yourself," he said, walking off.

 

Jay, barely holding back his tears, didn't look back until he heard the wire fence rattle. Parker leapt over it and crossed the street where a hooded McCullough quietly waited. Jay turned then. He turned and he saw them smile at each other, softly and secretly, like they'd known each other for years rather than days. Not like `pals', not like `buddies', not like `homies', but... something else. And then they left. Jay's cigarette fell out of his fingers and hit the dust. A couple of tears joined it there.

 

**********

 

I... um...

 

I sometimes... sometimes I wonder why that moment bothers me so much. In hindsight, the worst was yet to come. But man. That really was the day that the train went off the tracks for us, huh? I didn't know it at the time, I thought it was just another fight, I mean... we'd fought before. Back in at Polk I'd just give him a couple days to cool off before I climbed into his bedroom, opened his jeans, and wrapped my mouth around his cock. That was our routine. We didn't say sorry. We didn't talk it out. I'd just let him sulk and then I swallowed his cum. Maybe that shouldn't have suited me. Maybe I deserved more than that. But it was enough at the time. I didn't care that he'd get mad at me now and then, I just cared that he stopped.

 

Because I loved him.

 

I loved him so fucking much. He's the only boy I've ever loved, probably will ever love. He fascinated me, scared me, turned me the fuck on; made me want to be around him every hour of the day and every day of the week, every week of every month, and every month of every year until the worms and the crows came for us, until the Sun burned out, until the heat death of the universe, until the dawn of the final fucking singularity. His touch made my skin burn. His smile was my fucking heartbeat. And his eyes, oh Jesus, those eyes. If I'm with him, and he's with me, what was that if it wasn't heaven? If I could synthesize for you a feeling – a feeling of what it was like when he pinned me to my bed sheets, spread me open, fucked me until I saw stars – you'd have the world's most addictive drug in your hands. Parker could've burned the world to cinders and I wouldn't have cared – just so long as we could share what was left together.

 

I thought it was just another fight.

 

I NEEDED it to be just another fight.

 

But it wasn't.

 

It was a door, slowly closing, while another door opened for someone else.

 

Damn her.

 

**********

 

"I'll never forget that bastard," said Ralph Walsh, his voice was more fatigued and drawn now. It felt intrusive to listen. But Jay was in bed and unable to sleep because it was dark out and Parker hadn't come back from McCullough's – and if he permitted himself even the slightest moment to think about it, he'd throw up in the toilet again. And he was sick of that. He was sick of crying, too. And he couldn't sleep. So, Jay decided to distract himself by taking out the recorder and listening to someone else's pain for a change. "...What he made us do. What THEY made us do, Higgs and Creighton and the Brass. Fucking Higgs. Fucking Higgs. FUCK HIGGS! Oh God...! Don't hate me, Nancy, pray to God for my fucking soul."

 

Walsh sobbed, then calmed himself.

 

"I... um. Higgs, he... he lost a squad member to an IED in a shootout near the Eisenhauer Highway. My old Sarge told him about me, and he pulled me into his circle. Special Duties, they called it. But no duties that have you sleeping in the day and working in the night are special, Nancy. It's all fucked. Higgs told us... that it wasn't enough to drive the militias out of Denver, like they'd been doing. He told us they needed to... to root out the sympathizers as well, with that fucking sadistic smile on his pasty white face! He... he said they had a list of targets, seditionists, sending aid to the militias through secret back channels. I just... I didn't think about it. I thought it was legit. We were the good guys! I... Higgs gave us our briefing. There was an apartment block on Logan Street, near the business district. A guy called Sizemore lived there. Higgs said he was sending money to a militia in Cheyenne and were we gonna bring him in for questioning at one of the internment camps we set up in Aurora. So, we drove out there, dead of night... armed to the teeth for some Poindexter salaryman they said was a seditionist. We worked with Squad A and D, they secured the block, while we went inside, running up those stairs, yelling, screaming. I remember being kind of... excited. Then we came to his door, 39B, and two boys broke it down with a battering ram. Me and Jones rushed in, m16s up, torchlights on, cleared the living room to the kitchen to the bathroom before we broke down his bedroom door."

 

Walsh paused, then smothered a wet cough, presumably with his fist.

 

"I woke Sizemore out of bed. He was naked. I just... kept yelling at him to GET UP, GET UP, GET OVER TO THE WALL, HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE `EM, HANDS ON THE WALL, HANDS ON THE WALL NOW! I was so fucking mad at him. I didn't even know him! But in that moment, it just... it felt like he was the cause of it all somehow, like it was his fault I can't give you a baby. Sizemore was barely with it. There were beer cans by his bed at the time, maybe he was drunk. I don't know. I radioed Higgs that Sizemore was secure, then the rest of the squad came in and tore the apartment to shreds. We went through his desk and sock draws, took his papers and laptop, cracked open his safe, took his wallet and cards. The boys found a gun, but it was just a pistol, nothing dramatic. He had stash of weed and some porno mags too but that was it. We didn't see any money except the handful of bills in his wallet. And then Higgs came in. Smiling. Wiping his greasy face with a napkin. He came up to Sizemore and me, asked him where the money was. Sizemore said he didn't know what we were talking about, so Higgs, he..."

 

Walsh paused again.

 

"...Higgs made me break his fingers."

 

A sob.

 

"N-Nancy, please. Please don't think less of me. I'm only saying all this because I want you of all people to know the truth! I just... I had orders. We were the good guys! We were... we were saving the city from the crazy people... that's what I thought. But Sizemore wouldn't talk. Kept saying he was innocent, that he didn't know anything, that he was on our side. I don't think he was lying, Nance..." (A sob). "And then Higgs just shot him anyway...!"

 

Tears now, over the recording. Not Jay's but Ralph's.

 

"And then Higgs' whole fucking squad, just... high-fived each other and took all Sizemore's shit! Jesus Christ, when the fucking militias talk about tyranny...! I was just... I was so... fucking... disgusted with myself. We went back to our barracks but I... couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I see him crying when I close my eyes, hear him screaming in pain. I couldn't believe what I saw. So, you know what I did? I... I fucking ratted Higgs out to the brass... misconduct. I didn't have a choice, I just... I had to. And then-"

 

Jay's thumb pressed paused. Not by choice, but by the sheer velocity of an explosion that ripped through the air outside and smashed open his bedroom windows. He shrieked and ducked for cover as the whole room trembled in an instant, swinging the lampshades, juddering the furniture, bed legs screeching against the floorboards. Dust trickled down from cracks within the ceiling until the rumblings stopped and Jay surveyed the damage – grass fragments strewn about the molding cream-carpet from wall to wall.

 

"W-what the fuck?"

 

Jay thought it was an earthquake at first.

 

But then he heard the screams. Gunfire. Visceral explosions, more distant this time, but bone-chillingly close. The 9mm was nearby. Jay threw himself out of bed into his clothes, grabbed it, then stuffed the recorder into his pack (already ready to go). Glass shards crunched beneath his shoe's treads as he jogged through the now empty frame of balcony doors. And then he saw.

 

The Foragers were here.

 

Bearing east, as far as the eye could see, Denver was in flames. A great blaze consumed the panorama, like hot coals smoldering inside a firebox. Smoke columns rose into the chokingly hot night air and blotted out the stars. The sky was grey, not black. Even the watchtowers were on fire. From the direction of the Key Bank building, the Republic's current base of operations, a bright orange glow lit up the landscape. That meant the infirmary camps were gone too – but there were crackles of gunfire coming from there too, and the long, loud, marrow-curdling wail of an air raid siren.

 

Off at the edges of the park came the screaming, shouting, swearing, crying, as hundreds of Republicans broke across the grass field in stampeding herds. Men and women running desperately westward, half-clothed and breathless, some wounded, what little goods they had spilling out of their hands – clothes, food, jewelry. Some stopped to collect the things they dropped and resumed their flight. Others were trampled to death by other Republicans when they did. Most didn't bother and kept running. It didn't take long to see why.

 

The fringes of the road, Del Mar Circle, were lined with a loose awning of trees. As the Republicans ran away from the eastern side, a handful of battalion soldiers at the rear laid cover fire for the townsfolk to escape, but one by one they were gunned down by sustained bursts of return fire – semi-automatic fire. As a frightened Jay watched those last few resisters fall dead into the grass, he saw their attackers emerge from the darkness.

 

Foragers.

 

But these Foragers weren't like the ones he saw before; scruffy-haired, greasy marauders in torn denims and overalls. These ones did not look like militiamen. These ones looked like soldiers outfitted for war. They wore flak jackets, camo fatigues, and night vision goggles. Some carried riot shields and batons, others m16 rifles equipped with m203 grenade launchers. A column of them, slow moving and purposeful, formed up a line toward the south facing the other side of the ring road where the apartment buildings were. Where Jay was. Then they lobbed shots. Black rounds of death shooting off in puffs of smoke and crashing into rooftops, windows, balconies and blowing them apart. Explosion after explosion. Tiles, timber, dust, and ash raining from the sky. And they were just a few condos away.

 

"Shit!" Swore Jay. "I gotta get out of here! Now...!"

 

Jay bolted for the door, grabbing his backpack along the way. He shoved it open and darted into the lobby, strewn with abandoned luggage and clothes – socks, boxers, dresses – leading down the corridor toward a flight of stairs curling down into the lobby, but he didn't go that way. He went the other way, towards a windowed wall at the other end. There was a fire extinguisher nearby. Jay found strength he didn't know he had and smashed it through the glass like a battering ram until he made a hole big enough to climb through without cutting himself. There was a fire escape just outside. Jay scaled down it, followed the steps and railing down two floors before hoping off onto a lidded dumpster. And once his sneakers were on solid ground he made a break for it, running east, following the herd of escapees from a distance.

 

When the ring road bent west Jay ran with it along Quentin Street, where he lost sight of the main group, but smaller ones poured out of their bungalows into the leafy sidewalks. A few had pickup trucks to take their neighbors in. Others jumped on bicycles, scooters, whatever they had. Most, like Jay, just had their feet.

 

As the road bent northwest, they ran up with it to the other side of Del Mar Park, the eastern side, and the two crowds of refugees merged, forming up a crush of screaming townsfolk, hundreds of frightened people, all bundling into the assigned evac point to Buckley Air Force Base. Some Battalion soldiers were already there, sweating beneath an array of floodlights, urging the people to form up lines around the assembled convoy of personnel carriers, big rigs, pickup trucks, cars, and vans. Jay lost himself in the middle it. The crowd surrounding him was frantic, pushing and shoving and wailing beneath the floodlights. It was as if he was being tossed to and fro by the sea. A man on the hood of a van got over a bullhorn and said EVERYONE STAY CALM! THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE, STAY CALM! FORM UP AROUND THE CONVOY, WOMEN FIRST, FORM UP! It was Tom Cherry on that bullhorn, but Jay didn't notice – he was too busy struggling not to get crushed to death. He felt someone's face beneath his shoes, and he winced when he heard them cry, but in that ugly moment he didn't care. He was like everyone else. He had to get out.

 

And then Jay saw Parker.

 

On his own, beside a dumpster on the other side of the road, loading a fresh mag into an M16 behind a row of soldiers passing out weapons to any able-bodied men who could carry them. A last stand.

 

"PARKER!" Between the screaming townsfolk and that fucking droning air raid siren, Parker couldn't hear him, but Jay kept shouting his name and fought harder through that damned crowd, shoving them out of his way until he was free to run through the row of vehicles and get over to him. "PARKER!"

 

The love of Jay's life, keenly eyeing the sights of his weapon as the Republic crumbled to ash around them. He looked up. And a sense of relief struck Jay breathless. "PARKER!"

 

He lowered his weapon, yelling to be heard over the siren. "JAY? YOU OKAY?"

 

Why did it feel like a reprieve just to hear Parker speak his name? Why was so little worth so much? Jay wanted to hold him, draw him close, smell his hair, breathe his scent, feel his heartbeat, drink him in! But he didn't dare. He didn't dare.

 

An RPG whistled overhead.

 

It was a familiar sound by now but the Mixon boy barely heard it over the tumult. It was Parker who grabbed him by the collar and dove for the grass yelling "GET DOWN!" as the ordinance cut clean across the street and pounded a crater into the earth. The shockwave tossed soldiers off their feet, tore down trees and the wooden post of an old power line that fell crashing into the asphalt. As charred soil rained down around their ears Parker and Jay crawled up and dove behind a dumpster for cover.

 

The Foragers were on the advance.

 

Tom Cherry roared for a team of Battalion soldiers to form up at the base of the convoy and return fire as the rest of his men hurried the Republicans into the trucks and carriers. The Foragers advancing on them from the park took cover behind the abandoned cars lining E 6th Avenue and an all or nothing fire fight broke out between them and the battalion.

 

"SHIT!" Seethed Parker. "WE'RE PINNED DOWN!"

 

"WHERE'S THE-" A bullet clipped the dumpster and cut Jay off. "WHERE'S THE PICK-UP?"

 

Parker fished the keys out of his back pocket and tossed them into Jay's hands. "IT'S PARKED UP ON TOLEDO STREET! JUST MAKE A BREAK FOR IT, FOLLOW THE CONVOY!"

 

"WHAT ABOUT YOU?"

 

The Evans boy threw the safety off the M16 and set the stock against his shoulder. "MCCULLOUGH'S WITH CREIGHTON BY THE KEY BANK, I'M GOING BACK FOR HER!"

 

Jay saw red. "FUCK MCCULLOUGH! WE GOTTA GO!"

 

They'd had fights before. The Pastor's son was an easy guy to piss off. But that in moment he glared at Jay with a stone-faced malice that sent a chill down the younger boy's spine. He'd seen Parker that angry before but never at him. Never at him. "JUST GO GET THE FUCKING TRUCK, MIXON!"

 

Mixon, thought Jay, dumbly. Not even Jay.

 

And then?

 

A louder, harder, more tooth-rattling rumble of heavy fire cut through the raging din, pounding like a thunderous heartbeat. Screams followed. Parker glared over the dumpster, Jay too, more out of reflex than curiosity – and together they saw a golden stream of automatic fire light up the darkness and rip through the advancing Foragers, cutting through abandoned Fords and Buicks, tearing up their fatigues and body armor, punching holes through hearts and skulls, watering the dry grass with bloody viscera.

 

The battalion soldiers lowered their guns and roared with cheer as the dust-colored Humvee drove by with Lieutenant-Colonel Ned Creighton at the leathered grips of its Ma Deuce. When it rolled to a stop at the rear of the convoy, he climbed down off the .50 and ordered his men to secure the area before the remaining Foragers caught up to their advance team, and out of the passenger's side climbed McCullough; pistol in hand, pack on shoulder, and hair tucked tight inside the yellow and black striped hood.

 

Parker's smile came back.

 

**********

 

• Thanks for reading, everybody! Hope you enjoyed it, comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from you.

 

• Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).