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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
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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).
8. PUEBLO
**********
This is a mean old
world
Try to live it by
yourself
This is a mean old
world
Try to live it by
yourself
Can't get the one
you're lovin'
Have to use somebody else
I've got the blues
Gonna pack my
things and go
Yes, I've got the
blues
Gonna pack my
things and go
Well, I guess you
don't love me
You're lovin' Mr. So-And-So
Sometime I wonder why
Can your love be
so cold?
Sometime I wonder why
Can your love be
so cold?
Seem like, to me,
you don't want me
I'm just an
unlucky So-And-So
-
Little Walter
**********
I
wouldn't call it suicide... what I tried to do. That word always seemed too
dramatic to me, attempted or otherwise. `Suicide'. No, I wouldn't call it that.
I just felt... empty. I felt lifeless. I felt like the point was gone. No
Parker. No Mexico. No home. No Dad. No nothing. Just me... or at least this empty
shell of me. I felt hollowed out.
Like
what was the point of anything anymore?
And
then there was the water. Cool and inviting, the biggest body of water I'd ever
seen outside of a book, and I just... wanted it to sweep me away.
Looking
back on it from where I am now – everything had such a cruel inevitability to
it. Parker was never meant to be mine – not truly. He was the very fire he
loved so much, savage and blistering, pleasing to the eye but too dangerous to
touch, fit and bred for the ugliness of our world. I wasn't.
What
was I?
An
admirer? A hanger-on? A liability? Maybe
I was all those things. I never meant to be. Parker was my sun and all I
wanted to be was his earth. I wanted to be his partner
– come hell or high water – to tend his cuts, salve his wounds, fill his belly,
keep him warm, wash his clothes. I was his. All I wanted was to be his
– to support him, to protect him, to love him. I didn't want to be some fucking
attachment to him, some star-struck groupie on an apocalyptic road trip – but
in the end? That's all I was to him, wasn't it?
Wasn't
it?
You
know, until my dying day, I'll always remember that one hot day on the Poudre,
when he threw me down on the riverbank and said he'd kill anyone who ever laid
a hand on me, then fucked me senseless. Could you believe I was stupid enough
to think that was love? That that was him, saying with his cock what he
couldn't say with his lips, the same peachy lips he never let me kiss? My most
romantic memory of him was nothing but a rough fuck. What did that say about
us? About me?
The
saddest thing though? Parker was right about me. I was weak. If the God
of the Theonomists made this world, then he certainly didn't make it for me. I was
weak. Yes, I loved Parker, but I also needed him in a way he didn't need me.
His survival didn't rest on mine – mine did his. I see that now. I think he
knew it all along too. Maybe I was just a convenience? An extra pair of hands
to carry his supplies, an extra pair of eyes to watch his back, a warm mouth on
a cold night. He didn't need me... but I had my uses.
And
then came McCullough.
Brave
McCullough. Tough McCullough. McCullough the crack shot, the tracker, the
hunter; a survivor tied down to no one. And a girl too! No guilt in fucking
her! She and Parker were cut from the same fucking cloth. From the moment she
arrived in our lives I didn't stand a chance. I was just another crossed out
name in his Cook Book before he moved on to his next
target. Yeah. What happened was inevitable. But it still hurt.
It
hurt so fucking much...
**********
"Went
down to the river Jordan..." she sang. "Where John baptized three..."
Bubbles
and black thrashing hands ran through his mind as Jay shot up gasping, his hand
pressed against his pulsing chest as a moth-eaten white blanket slipped down to
the soggy boxers covering his crotch. It took time for his vision to settle,
maybe a few moments, then he looked down at his abs and saw bandages wrapped
around them. His left arm was also bandaged too he'd cut it crawling out of the
wrecked Silverado. There were other lacerations along his right forearm and
shoulder, but some good stitchwork had sowed them up well – almost as good as
his dad could do it. And the broken cuffs were gone, nothing left of them save
the welts they left around his wrists.
"Well,
I walked the devil in hell," she sang. "Sayin' John ain't baptize me..."
Jay
looked to his left.
There
was a woman there. A middle-aged black woman in a plastic bib and a nurse's
smock, dripping with sweat from the hot winds beating at the tent flaps. She
knelt over a bowl of bloody water and picked glass fragments, wiping her hands
clean with a hand cloth. A used suture kit lay next to her feet - needle,
forceps, scissors, tweezers, and a spool of thread.
"I
say roll, Jordan, roll," she sang. "Roll, Jordan, roll... my soul arise in
heaven, Lord, for the year when Jordan roll..."
And
then she saw him wake.
"Hey."
Her smile was broad – soothingly so. "Back with us now, huh? Well goddamn,
you've been horizontal for half a day, how're you feeling?"
He
felt drained and lost. But Jay looked down at himself again, alive and patched
up, and said a croaky "Better" with a voice raw from coughing. Then he thanked
her.
"You're
welcome," The nurse turned to the tent flap door and yelled, "Hey Trav, get in
here, I hear your country-ass hovering outside!"
Blades
of light cut across the bright orange groundsheet when the tent flap peeled
open and a man crept in, broad-shouldered and tall, the sun dappling his neck
and forearms. It was a familiar silhouette – the very same Jay saw before he
passed out at the reservoir shore; a man in beaten blue jeans, dusty brown sneakers
and a grey tweed shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looked older than Jay, but
not that much older, early to mid-twenties, maybe... blonde-haired and
brown-eyed. The black grip of a Glock 19 sat securely in his hip holster.
He
smiled softly. First at Jay, then at the nurse. "Thanks for that, Moni. I know
you've got plenty of other folks to see to before we head out. Salvatore's been
on my ass about it."
"Light
work," said Moni. It was short for Monique, which Jay would learn in time.
"Once I finish my rounds I'll come back and check on him." Then she turned to
Jay again. "Don't let him talk your ear off, kiddo. You still need your rest."
Once
her hands were wiped clean, Moni stood up, packed away what remained of the
suture kit for sterilization and left the tent to see to other wards.
Jay
looked away.
There
was no real reason he couldn't look the blonde man in the eye – he had saved
him from drowning, after all. Jay just... felt guilty somehow. Guilty and tired.
The
blonde man dropped to his haunches. "Hey. My name's Travis. Travis Wyatt.
What's yours?"
"...Jay
Mixon," said the boy. He gazed at his lap like there was something worthwhile
in it except an old white blanket and his own dry, calloused hands. There
wasn't.
Travis
smiled again. "Nice to meet you, Jay. Good to see you awake. You had me worried
for a spell."
Then
some of Pastor Evans' old training kicked in. Jay suddenly felt the absence of
his pistol, and the presence of Travis'. He looked for his pack and found it
drying in the tent's rear left corner – but he couldn't see his weapon. His
clothes were gone, too.
"Where
am I?"
"Pueblo,"
said the older man. "We were filling our canteens by the reservoir when I
spotted you, but our big guy in charge didn't like the look of the thunderheads
rolling by the west so we carried you here to our camp. Not to worry. You're
safe now."
Jay
looked on, quietly.
"You
could've died out there, you know?"
Jay
bit his lip.
"Was...
was that what you were trying to do?" Asked Travis.
Jay
looked away, tearfully. "...I don't know what I was doing."
Silence.
And
then? "Hey? You hungry? I've got some hot water and ramen outside. Might even
have a few eggs we could boil? Feel like a bite?"
Jay
shut his eyes before the tears fell. "...I think I want to be left alone."
"...Okay,"
Travis set his hands to his denimed knees and stood up. "Alright. Well, you do
like Moni says and get you some rest. I'll come back and check on you later.
Take it easy, Jay."
Travis
ruffled his hair – sort of like a father would, even though he was so young –
then he excused himself and left. The tent flap opened and shut. Light poured
in then disappeared. There were people outside. Travis spoke to them. Jay
buried his face in his hands so they wouldn't hear him cry.
**********
There
is someone I will come to hate with all my heart and soul. And he is destined
to communicate something to me that will chill me to my core. He will say,
"At the end of the day, the only thing scarier than nihilism is optimism
-- the things you don't believe in can't hurt you, but the things you do always
will."
Kindness
gets you killed in this world. Go ask my Dad. Go ask Ned Creighton. It's a
disease, it's a sickness, it's a FUCKING cancer. You should've let me die,
Travis, you dumb fuck. I didn't ask you to save me. You didn't need to be a
hero. But you were. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you! FUCK YOU!
**********
Kennedy
was an asshole.
It
was something else Jay would learn over the coming days. He got the
first taste of it the first time they met; the noon of the day Travis Wyatt
fished him out of the drink. He was asleep at the time, a restless and fitful
sleep, filled with dreams of Parker and Hunter and Polk – but he didn't rise
until that first strike of a steel spoon to a rusty tin pot. BANG, BANG, BANG,
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!
Jay
shot up.
"Awake
now, Aurora?" He spat. "Sleeping Beauty, hello?"
There
was another man at Jay's tent flap. Blonde, again. Older, again. But not by
much, again. He was shorter than Travis, leaner and skinnier, with surprisingly
well-groomed hair woven into a shoulder-length Dutch braid falling across the
chest of a faded Dead Kennedys shirt. Sunlight glistened off the diamond
stud in his nose. He had no weapons, no sheathed knives nor holstered guns
swinging from the belt of his dusted black khakis. And he was a faggot. That
much, Jay knew without knowing – almost like he had a radar for it. But he was pretty,
too. And that much, Jay couldn't argue.
The
slightly older man lowered his pot and spoon. His face was sour, scrunched up
with annoyance, like he was trapped in a coffin with an eggy fart. "Would you
get up? And maybe eat something before Travis flips his shit about it?"
The
tent flap popped open again. Jay thought it might be Travis, but it was Moni,
her plastic bib crinkled and sullied with crusted blood. "Kennedy! Sweet
fucking Jesus, will you knock that shit off? I got a broken leg to set not two
tents down, the fuck's the matter with you?"
Kennedy
glowered at Jay as if he hadn't even heard her.
"Get.
Up." He said, "Everyone pulls their own weight around here, you're not
excepted."
Jay
sighed.
"Knock
it off," said Moni, sharply. "You don't fool me. Not one bit. Go pull your own
weight and help me set Mr. Haberman's leg. Go on, move."
The
younger boy looked up as Kennedy shot him one last irritated glare through
those pale grey eyes of his before he stormed off out of the tent (which Jay
was soon to learn belonged to him) on Moni's orders. The nurse shook her
head. "Pay him no mind," she said. "He's got a lot of growing up to do."
Honestly,
Jay didn't even care.
He
yawned. Felt his belly grumble. He wasn't hungry, but his belly was. He felt
weak, but not as much as that morning. The tiredness was gone. The tinnitus
plaguing his ears since that grenade that took out Wuhrer and his men was gone.
His ribs, bandaged by Moni, still hurt though. But they were only bruised,
nothing was broken, he would've felt it if they were. He could move despite
them. That was good enough.
Moni
sighed. "He's wrong to rush you, but... do you think you can walk?"
"Yeah,"
said Jay. "I think so. Why?"
"We're
probably moving out tomorrow. Salvatore, our... `leader' I guess you could say,
he's asked Travis to take a team and scope out the north. If we get an all
clear by nightfall, we'll go at sun-up."
Jay
sharpened. "North? North where?"
"I
think he said Denver."
**********
I was kind of stunned when I stepped outside of that tent. I knew the
camp would be large, of course. I heard all the banging, chattering, scraping,
and hammering between sleeping spells, but... I never expected what I saw. The
town of Pueblo would've normally been as dead as any other town in wind-beaten
Colorado State – but not that day. That day Pueblo was alive with
people. Hundreds of them. The streets were lined with tent after tent, cookfire
after cookfire, sleeping bag after sleeping bag. Latrines were dug out of old
porches. Teams of folk went from house to house and garage to garage prowling
the rotting old homesteads for anything useful, spooling general looted wares
(clothes, shoes, tools, books, cutlery, make up, towels, blankets, rope,
jewelry, etc.) into a heap at the center of the encampment for the rest of the
group to pick at. More important resources – like fuel, ammo, weapons,
medicine, viable canned food, and WP tablets – and raw materials (wood, tin,
aluminum, etc.) were more closely guarded and bundled into a baggage train of
wagons, vans and U-Hauls lulling along the cracked concrete stretch of the
US-50. They even had horses.
It was one of the biggest camps I'd ever seen.
And the people!
The Colorado I grew up in didn't overflow with colored folks. Polk only
had one black family, the Stanfields, and there were still brothers and sisters
of the town who felt they shouldn't be there. I'd never known an Asian person
by name my entire life. But that camp – that camp was like a rainbow. Black
folks, White folks, Asian folks (South and East), Hispanic folks, Mixed folks.
Hundreds and hundreds of them. All working together and pitching in like it was
nothing. My Dad used to say that all the big cities were like that, New York,
DC, New York, Atlanta, Philadelphia. Why did that feel like such a big deal? I
wasn't sure. And at the time, I suppose, I wasn't paying that much attention.
When I told Moni that Denver was dangerous, she went and got Travis to
warn him. Then Travis came back to the tent to talk to me about it. I didn't
want to talk about Denver. I felt sick thinking about it – memories of fire,
bullets and blood, explosions, fucking McCullough and Tom Cherry, poor Ned, and
Parker... I didn't want to remember any of it. But I didn't want these
people to walk blindly into a hell zone either. So, I spilled my guts – about
the Foragers, the 55ers, the Republic of Denver and the 2nd
Battalion. Not Parker, though. I wasn't ready to talk about him yet. Back then
I could barely think about him without crying.
"Salvatore will want to hear this," Travis told me. "You okay to walk a
little?"
I was broken.
And I knew it because Travis was kind and for some fucking reason his
kindness kept pissing me off. I just nodded though, and kept my thoughts in my
head like I always did, nodding along even when my mind was screaming at me to
say "No" or question "Why?"
But I followed him.
Salvatore's tent was an olive-colored two-person canvas with a rolled up
sleeping bag and an unused hot plate lodged inside. It sat at a street corner
beneath the rusted old sign of a nearby Arby's. The man himself, a squat and
beady eyed man hunched over on foldable deck chair, eyeballing an A3-sized map
of the entire country paper weighted to the sidewalk by some old soup cans. He
was ex-military for sure, he had that stoic air of authority about him, just
like Pastor Evans and Ned Creighton. It wasn't hard to see why he was camp's
unofficial leader.
Two men sat with him, one white and one black, both burly and muscled,
both carrying stock-folded Krinkovs. Guards. But they didn't look like the
Black Bandanas or the Battalion soldiers or even the 55ers. They didn't look
like trained fighters. They looked... normal, somehow. Like a couple of dads on a
hunting trip. Was that good or bad, I wondered? Why do I care?
Salvatore looked up at us when our shadows fell over his map.
"Another stray," He had the voice of a chain smoker, deep and gravelly.
"Well. It'll be your job to keep him fed and clothed."
Travis told Salvatore that he would, but it wasn't about that, that I
had `news' from Denver. Which... wasn't the way I would've put it, but at the
time I didn't care. Salvatore eyed me over then asked me to talk. So, I did.
And I told him almost everything. I told him about escaping Polk with a
`friend' before coming to Denver for supplies. I told him about the Republic of
Denver and Ned Creighton and the 2nd Battalion, I told him about the
Foragers (which alarmed him the most) and the deal that they made with the
55ers. I told him most of the truth – Denver was a warzone and best avoided.
"How do I know I can trust your intel?" He asked. "How do I know you're
not working with a road crew to divert us into a trap?"
It was a good question.
I gave him the only answer I had the energy for.
"You can't," I said. "You don't. You guys saved me; I guess I'm just
returning the favor. Believe me or don't, it's up to you."
It occurs to me now that I must've sounded rude. Understand, at the
time, I didn't know or care. I was numb. Someone could've shot a slug through
my brain, and I wouldn't have known about it. Salvatore frowned at me, then
looked down at his map, arms tersely folded. "If the city's so dangerous, how'd
you survive it?"
And in my head, I had a stupid answer to that. In my head, I thought, "My
boyfriend was protecting me, and we got really lucky." But he wasn't my
boyfriend. He never was no matter how much I wanted him to be. I stopped
myself. Wasn't it weird and funny and sad how easily his name flew into my
head? Even now I see him smiling at me, evilly, as the flames of Hunter
Wuhrer's sundered corpse refracted off the dark sparkle of his oil brown eyes.
"I ran," I said. "I'm good at that."
Salvatore's guards snickered.
"And your friend?"
He left me for dead, I thought. "Dead,
maybe. I don't know."
Salvatore sighed, then tossed his small eyes at Travis. "Call off the
scout & scavenge. Tell the boys to get an early night," he looked at me.
"And leave the kid with me. I want to pick his brain."
I could tell Travis didn't want to leave me alone with him. He knew I
was vulnerable – and probably the only one who understood what I almost did to
myself in the reservoir. And there was no command structure here. Travis had no
reason to `obey' Salvatore, but he was the leader all the same. He sighed,
squeezed my shoulder, then promised to come back for me later. Then Travis left
to brief his team.
One of Salvatore's guards grabbed me a spare chair.
I took a seat, and he asked me to tell him everything I knew about the
city, about Colorado, the 55ers, the Foragers, the 2nd Battalion –
weapons, bases, officers, everything. Anything. I told him what I knew. Gave
him some rough ideas about numbers. Told him how far the Foragers had advanced
– that Buckley was probably under siege by now. Then he asked me if I knew
anything about him.
I said no.
"You ever left the state?" He asked.
"No."
"You know who we are or where we came from?"
I shook my head no.
And so, Salvatore pointed me to his map, that huge map of the country spread out in
front of him by four soup cans, and with it, the ex-Marine explained to me the
fate of our country as best as he understood it.
"Everything fell apart when the Occupation ended," he said. "Everything
from Idaho to Iowa belongs to the Fifty-Five Thousand Army. Texas `seceded' and
became a republic. What's left of the legitimate government broke into two
halves based around the Western and Upper Eastern seaboards, the Western US and the Eastern US: two presidents, two senates, two
houses of representatives. And the south was taken over by a bunch of nutjob
Christian fascists calling themselves the Theonomic Confederation of New
America. That's where we escaped from. Some states haven't been taken over
yet – Utah, Colorado, Oklahoma, Wisconsin, Illinois, New Mexico – usually where
the fighting between the five powers is most fierce."
"This is crazy." I said, staring at the map, thinking how much Parker
would've loved hearing all this.
Salvatore pointed at Nevada. "We're headed for the Western United
States. The Navajo Nation is fortified so there's no routes to the W.USA
through Arizona or New Mexico. Our only way to Nevada is through Utah. That's
where we're headed. You want to come with us then you've got until sunrise to-"
"I'll come," I said.
The old soldier paused. "...If you come with us, there's no going back,
you understand?"
I thought of Parker, again. Smiling at me. Calling me Pee Wee. Crawling
inside my sleeping bag and yanking my jeans down until my belt danced around my
ankles so he could fuck me. I wanted to cry again. I ran scenarios in my head. What
if McCullough's dead? What if Parker's hurt and he needs me? What if I followed
him and he took me back? What if I went to Mexico and met him there? What
if, what if, what if. Worthless thoughts. There was no `what if'. Parker was
gone. He left me. He didn't care about me anymore, he was `done with me'. Polk
was gone. My Dad was dead. There was nothing left for me in Colorado.
"I can use a gun," I said. "My Dad was a doctor; I know a little first
aid. I can drive. I can read and write. I can cook a little. Mend clothes. I
won't be a burden."
Salvatore smiled at Jay then – for the first and last time. "Then you're
with us."
**********
"I was on guard duty the night I learned
that Higgs had been let off with reprimand," Ralph Walsh's haggard voice blared out from
the grainy recording he'd cobbled together with his dying breaths. Jay held it
up over the grave of his wife, Nancy Walsh, marked by a half-withered memorial
cross bearing her name. The message made it home. "It didn't take them long
to sus out that it was me. Did I do the right thing, Nance? I don't know.
They're calling me a traitor, a rat, they're saying I'm sympathizing with the
seditionists – none of `em even stopping to question if Sizemore even WAS a
seditionist! If I can see it, why can't they? It's all fucked, Nancy. We got
the word a few days ago. The brass ordered a full pull-out from Denver, we're
to fall back to Fort Carson with immediate effect. Most are going, but... Lt Col
Creighton and the 2nd Battalion's gone rogue. They're refusing to
leave. They say they won't abandon the people to the 55ers. I respect it, I
guess, but if someone as strait-laced as him is breaking the chain of command...
what the fuck are men like Higgs gonna do when they're off the leash? I'm so
scared for you, Nancy. I swear to God, America is going to hell in a
handbasket. That's why I had to leave. That's why they shot me." (a sob, then another) "I think I'm dying,
Nancy. I'm so sorry, Baby Girl... I miss you so fucking much! If I can't make it
back to you, but this message does? Just know this – I was never a coward, I
tried my best, I fucking fought for this country, I fought for you! `Cause I love you. I love you more
than anything in this world, Nance. By the Grace of God if I can't see you
again in this world, I'll be waiting on you in the next. Goodbye, love."
The recording ended there.
It took Jay a few hours to find Ralph Walsh's house.
The address was crudely carved into the plastic casing of the recorder,
probably by the tip of a Ka-Bar, and with everything that had been going on in
Denver, the boy almost forgot that he had it. But the name Pueblo kept
reverberating in his mind (probably to distract himself from other things). Pueblo,
Pueblo, Pueblo. And then he remembered. That was where Ralph was from.
The message he always hoped would get back to his wife if he never could. Nancy
Walsh was dead, and town was abandoned, but it seemed poetic – and uncanny –
that of all of the places in this fucked-up world he
could wind up, it was here. He couldn't leave without fulfilling Ralph's last
wish.
Jay dug a little hole at the base of the memorial
cross, buried the recorder in it, and covered it over with fresh earth. He said
no prayers because he had no faith – but maybe it helped the Walshes find peace
somehow. Who knew? If nothing else it was Ralph's last wish. There was no
reason not to honour it.
Jay stood upright and dusted soil from the knees of
his skinny jeans. They (as well as the blue & white striped tee shirt and
air cushioned Doc Martens he now wore) were provided to him by the camp. They'd
placed a spare change of clothes into his pack as well (once it dried) along
with some rations and a 2nd water canteen for the road. By
Salvatore's insistence though, he was not permitted a pistol.
A shadow fell over Jay. He turned around and found
Travis there, smiling over him, hand on holstered hip. "Hey, kiddo. We're about
to move out. Still sure you wanna come?"
I'm not sure about anything anymore, thought Jay. But what
choice do I have? He spied the sky beyond the Walsh household's cracked
tile roof – in the direction of Colorado Springs. Somewhere beyond that stood
Denver... or whatever was left of it. Parker and McCullough were there. Together?
Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe one was dead or both or neither. Jay couldn't say.
Wherever Parker was – cruising down the I-25 with McCullough, bound for Mexico
or shot to death in a gutter somewhere – his wishes were clear. He didn't want
Jay with him.
"There's nothing for me here," said Jay. "Lead the
way."
There was a saddled horse at the corner of 22nd
Street, where the sidewalk was cracked into pebbles and weeded over. Travis
mounted up, slipped his steel-toed boots into the stirrups, and extended a hand
to Jay, hauling him up to the saddle's rear and warning him to hold on tight as
he whipped the reins and coaxed the mare forward. They circled back through the
Northside neighbourhood, plying around old tree trunks torn from their roots by
age-old storms and tornados and left there to lie. The whole neighbourhood was
a wreck. Lichen and moss overran the damaged walls of abandoned townhouses.
Bushes of thorns and poisonous wildflowers swallowed up whole lawns and
gardens. Loose street signs croaked against the hot wind. Forsaken cars, long
crashed or parked, withered away right down to their rusted, skeletal frames.
Wild dogs and jackals scavenged dumpsters for food. Travis warily kept his free
hand near his pistol, but the scavengers kept their distance.
"Tell me about the Theonomy," said Jay.
Travis smirked. "It took a whole dang day to get
those lips of yours good and greased and now you want to go and talk about
something as unpleasant as all that?"
"Tell me."
"...Well, ain't much to tell except it's a
Christo-fascist shithole," he said. "Blacks are persecuted, queers are
sterilised, Hispanics are deported, and women are their husbands' property.
Anyone who questions their authority, refuses to pay their tithes, or practices
immoral behaviour? They either get the firing squad or a one-way ticket
to the Re-Education Centres. Most never come back. My Mom did, but... only half
of her. She was a zombie when they cut her loose. Killed herself not long after
that. Bastards."
Jay frowned. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," said Travis. "They
think the Global Fertility Crisis was God's plague on mankind, and they've
carved out their little niche of America to `await the coming of the Rapture'.
When it got too much we had to leave."
"Why not go to the... `Eastern United States?'" Asked
Jay. "Shorter trip, no?"
The bay horse, a good-tempered girl named Mildrith,
whickered. Travis petted her mane as she clopped along the beaten path toward
US-50. "Put it this way the Mason-Dixon's pretty much the warzone Denver is.
We've had an easier time cutting through 55er territory."
"How do you know the WUSA is any better?"
"Because it's where Salvatore's from. He was a WUS
Marine, fought in a joint naval operation with the EUS Navy to retake Florida
three years ago. When it failed, he was captured and tortured, but he got free,
threw in with a resistance movement in St. Louis and dedicated himself to
getting as many of us out as possible. He says it's safe and I believe him.
He's not a nice man... but he's a good one."
Then his days are numbered, thought Jay. "I'm glad you
got out."
He didn't give two shits,
but it was a nice thing to say so he said it. And wasn't that always expected
of him? To be the nice one?
Travis smiled. "Me too."
They made it to the US-50 within a half-hour of
burying Ralph's recorder. By then that massive camp they'd pitched in the heart
of town was packed up and a long, long line of cars, horses, vans, school
buses, motorbikes, bicycles, pickup trucks, RVs, wagons, carts, and U-Hauls
formed up along the winding concrete stretching from the old car dealership in
Northside back down to the I-25 interchange. It took a good while before they
found Kennedy's car amidst the caravan; a mud-brown 1985 Buick LaSabre with
camping equipment and a red-painted Cannondale strapped to its roof by a tight
rigging of cables and carabines. Kennedy peered out of the driver's side window
wearing a pair of sunglass aviators and a catty smirk.
"Done sightseeing?" He quipped.
"Jesus, is there anything you love more than a good
bellyache?" Said Travis.
Kennedy bit his lip, his smirk deepening. "...I can
think of one big thing."
Travis rolled his eyes (and flushed) as Jay climbed
down from Mildrith's leather saddle. On the way to the convoy the older man had
asked the younger if he wanted to ride the first leg with him, but the saddle
was hard on his back and ribs – it was too painful. Instead, Jay took the back
seat of the LaSabre and threw the pack off his shoulders.
"I'm gonna ride up ahead with the scout party. Drive
safe, I'll meet up with y'all when we next make camp." Travis took a firm grip
of Mildrith's reins. "C'mon, girl. Let's amscray!"
The horse and her rider cantered off down the length
of the column. Kennedy rolled up the windows to ward off all the dust and
exhaust smoke being whipped up around it. And the whole car slipped into a curt
silence.
Kennedy adjusted the rear view and glared at Jay
through it. "...Don't go getting any ideas about you and him."
So that's why you don't like me, thought Jay. He almost
wanted to laugh but he didn't quite have the stomach for it – imagine him, the
`McCullough' of someone else's triangle. "He's not my type."
"Oh? Who is?"
Heartless bastards, he thought. "...Black guys, I
guess."
Kennedy laughed. A real one, right from the belly.
Jay smiled back mirthlessly through the rear view, then turned to the window as
engines up ahead revved, horses neighed, and bicycle bells jingled. And slowly,
vehicle by vehicle, that massive convoy of refugees pulled out of Pueblo and
made its way northeast.
A tear slipped Jay's eye. Goodbye, love.
**********
`Exiles'.
That's the name I ended up giving them in my head. Refugees from
Christian theocracy, migrants fleeing tyranny, like the pilgrims of ye olden
times. Kinda? Nah. There was no political statement in what the Exiles
were doing, hell, half of them were Christians themselves. Moni was a Baptist.
Salvatore was Catholic. They were just normal people hounded out of their
rightful home by neo-puritanical nutcases bent on securing more control and
more lebensraum. Escaping the Theonomy was a matter of survival for
them. Their goal felt far less vapid than chasing dreams of absolute freedom in
Mexico. There were a handful of `Octovites' amongst the Exiles though, and I
even spoke to a few of them, but they all agreed that heading south came with
little to no guarantees. Except for Salvatore none of them knew what they were
travelling towards, but they were certain it was better than what laid behind
them.
Let me tell you what I learned about The Theonomy.
On the 4th of February 2006 The Occupation collapsed in Georgia.
Officially all US military personnel pulled out of the state to bolster the
counterstrike against a civilian uprising in the DC Metro area. But that wasn't
the truth. The `truth' (as Salvatore tells it) was that the US Army's 3rd
Infantry Division, led by Christian extremist Major General Jackson Gadley,
revolted. They rejected allegiance to the government, swore a new oath to God
and the Constitution in the name of the Founding Fathers, and declared
themselves The Lord's Army. Beneath a new banner – the Christian flag –
and by Commander Gadley's motto – "It is the will of God to destroy evil!" –
they mobilized north to bomb and conquer Savannah, then Augusta, and then
finally Atlanta, until all of Georgia was theirs.
Gadley occupied the Georgia State Capitol and expelled all members of
the General Assembly who refused to comply, publicly executed the millionaire
Governor Sunny Purdue for the crime of `Mammon worship', and via a brief
televised address he called upon the good and the faithful to rally to his
cause and help him build a new "People's Covenant with God".
It worked.
"Almost all the Southern militias flocked to them," Salvatore would tell me. "By winter 2006 The Lord's Army grew to
110,000 men – almost ten times the size of the former 3rd Infantry Division.
Thousands of religious leaders across the country sent them money. Preachers
and pilgrims came down from as far north as Maine to be a part of it – `the
rebirth of America'."
In the summer of 2007, the `Atlanta Convention' was held. Hundreds of
religious leaders, constitutional scholars and political scientists gathered to
draw up documents of governance, select electors, and establish a provisional
legislature under Gadley's guidance. And with the help of the most zealous
theologians at his side, Commander Gadley wrote his People's Covenant with
God charter, a `scaffold' with which to protect and build upon the US
Constitution, and his Eleven New Commandments doctrine, with which to
construct a newer, godlier way of life until the prophecy of the Book of
Revelations, the Rapture, the Final Judgement, whatever the fuck he called it –
was complete. They were:
1.
Thou Shalt Know No gods
other than God.
2.
Thou Shalt Keep and Know
Well Thy Bible.
3.
Thou Shalt Cultivate Thy
Soul to Prepare for The Coming of the Kingdom of God.
4.
Thou Shalt Pledge Utter
Allegiance to the True Constitution.
5.
Thou Shalt Honor Thy
Church.
6.
Thou Shalt Honor Thy Protectors.
7.
Thou Shalt Honor Thy Land
and the Fruit of its Yield.
8.
Thou Shalt Honor God's
Hierarchy of the Races.
9.
Thou Shalt Honor God's
Hierarchy of the Sexes.
10.
Thou Shalt Forsake All
Carnal Knowlegdes Beyond God's Grace.
11.
Thou Shalt Suffer no
Heathen to Live.
Nothing about helping the poor, I notice. Nothing about `Love thy
neighbor' or `He who is without sin cast the first stone' or `judge not lest ye
be judged' or `Do unto others as you would have them do unto you'.
Hm. Funny, that.
With his teachings in place, Commander Gadley took to the radio and
called upon fellow states of the south to join him in his crusade against sin
and help him `liberate' America from the traitors and apostates in Washington
DC. Emboldened Christian mobs flooded the streets of all major Georgian cities
and destroyed Jewish businesses, synagogues, mosques, gay bars, brothels, and
gynecological clinics. Similar riots and diet Kristallnachts spread like cancer
throughout the capitals of the south – Nashville, Montgomery, Columbia, Jackson,
etc. – until, one by one, most of the old Confederate States seceded and signed
up to the project. Elections were held for a new senate and a new president –
Jackson Gadley, by a landslide. And by 2009 a new nation was formed within the
heart of the old: The Theonomic Confederation of New America – `The
Theonomy'.
Polk gone gangbusters.
And the Exiles, numerous as they looked, were lucky enough to escape it
with their lives. They dreamed of a better life in the Western United States, a
safer one, with no militiamen or theocratic overlords to dictate their lives.
And that sounded good to me.
**********
• Thanks for reading, everybody! Hope you
enjoyed it, comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from you. If
you didn't catch the link to the map of America as I conceptualize it in this
story, you can find it here https://i.imgur.com/oXAk8tm.png.
•
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).