IGKTW - Round 2 - Inevitable (407 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 1.58 on 9 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by r0fl (View user info) at 2006-05-04 10:15:20 EDT
I could still hear Jacob's first speech when we all congregated in that little town. He spoke with flowing words, promises of peace, to abandon violence. Violence is what brought us here, he told us.
---
The sun set deep in the west, casting both a deep blue hue onto the world as well as shadows once extinguished by the luxuries of electricity and power.
We rummaged through the debris in the garbage heap of one of the many unexplored slums of Ware, a now deserted rural territory once inhabited but an odd number of citizens, mostly the elderly, infirm and dumb.
Through the recognizable audio interactions between glass and metal in the rubbish, nothing of value was identified. Isaiah and myself walked the streets admiring the deep indigo and violet contrast upon the horizon, whispering to each other about our next moves.
The whispers were almost for naught, as the song of crickets overpowered that of near-regular voice volume these days, due to the disruption of the planet's ecosystems a generation and a half ago. Seemed there were move crickets than you would imagine. At night, if you were still enough, you could hear them moving in packs (or was it swarms? I was never good at that biology stuff).
We walked through Ware's streets feigning stealth as any surviving inhabitants had already found their way to our necropolis in what was left of Amherst, where were began to redevelop civilization amidst the forest and mountain-like foothills that intruded our harsh agricultural conditions.
We were own scout and weapon detail today. Isaiah and me had just finished shopping - if you can call it that - at the Wal-Mart on Palmer Rd. Our packs were filled to the gills with a variety of salted, cured meats and trail-mix. We grabbed a few fishing poles too, because had Commander Jacob's Chevy Tahoe for as much as we could handle. I'd gotten to know Isaiah pretty well over the past couple of weeks since we began venturing out into the world, and we'd often trade our stories of where we were and what we were doing when the world's proverbially shit hit the fan.
Palmer Road became West Street and we packed at the McDonald's on the left and got out.
A crow cawed in the distance, eliciting us both to turn our heads. The crow was perched upon one of the golden arches, staring down at us with a sense of pity, regret, and malice. The sign below read "Billions upon Billions served."
"I doubt that sign would be updated any time soon," Ike mused.
We walked down the streets, passing a used car dealership, which looked more like an auto-cemetery. We traveled farther down West St., finding a real cemetery. The headstones glowed their last attempts at notoriety from the setting sun and fizzled out as it set behind the Berkshires.
"We better head out," I mentioned. Isaiah nodded, and we walked back to the Tahoe. Overall, we netted a few rifles and boxes of ammo, gassed up the truck, and were bringing back various supplies from the "Camping" section of Wal-Mart.
The whole guns an' ammo thing didn't sit well with either of us, and as a community we vowed no to use them. Guns, in essence, got us into this mess. We were determined to restart right.
We picked up some random trinkets from the kitchens of the abandoned homes on Palmer Road where the ancient railroad tracks intersected, but nothing really to note survival wise.
Ike kicked the Tahoe in gear and whipped around the corner onto the road going northeast, toward the center of town and our rendezvous with another contingent sent to Mary Lane hospital to gather more supplies.
The radio dial was worn from wear, but not from us.
No point in turning on the receiver when they wasn't any power for the stations, now was there?
Jacob's brother Tim assured us he was making progress on the grid and the Western-Massachusetts Electric plant in Goshen. Maybe then we could listen to something other than Jacob's CD's - which looked more like circular mirrored cutting board than musical disks.
"What was it like, Ike?" I asked, referring to the previous times. He was nearly thirty years my senior, and loved to talk. He often talked of the little things - watching baseball with his son who was a doctor in their living room back Schenectady in New York State, the smell of his lilac bushes, cold beer.
I looked at my watch before he started, usually he only gets about 13 minutes in before he breaks down and has to stop.
"It was the Spring of '98," he'd recite, sniffling a little - a sign of emotions welling up already.
"...me and Chris were watchin' the Mariner's play. We were actually watching the post-game notes, see, 'cause they beat Minnesota 4-2 to bring up their record back to .500."
How I figured he was a Seattle Mariner's fan in New York - I couldn't fathom a guess. But did it really matter nowadays?
I always loved when he'd talk baseball, because the subject was so foreign to me. I can't remember a game. I've read up on how it's played and such, but it wasn't my time, it wasn't meant to be. He continued.
"Edgar Martinez had two homeruns that game. Chris would always tell me he was the best on the team, and then I'd always play Devil's Advocate and say it was Griffey Jr."
I began to mouth the story as he said it; he's told me so many times. It was something in his voice, he could... I don't know how to say it... he could transport you there. He himself was there, away from here, that's for damn sure.
"Anyways, the game ends, and it breaks for commercial. Chris, his hands on his knees, pushes down on 'em to go take a leak. 'Be right back, pops,' he says to me. I stand up and stare out the window of our house facing south, and felt this warm breeze - warmer than a normal mid-spring breeze across my face. It was April 24th I think - either a Friday or Saturday."
It was at this point that he turned the wheel a turn and a half to the right around the bend, and I saw the birth of the first tear. I checked my watch. Only 7 minutes in.
"I turn to the T.V., which had this long beeping sound, like the sound when the Tahoe's doors are open and the keys are in the ignition?" he half-asked me, to make sure I knew the sounds.
Like I said, he tries to take you there, away from here.
I knew the sound, though. I don't even remember T.V., but he's described that sound to me ten times. Ike, he's a good guy, strong guy, but his memory's failin'.
"Yeah so, the sound is like no sound I've heard my life. The T.V. - the screen was blanketed in these Technicolor bars, saying it's the Emergency Broadcast Signal. They'd test that sometimes in the late night on channels. I'd see it sometimes when I'd fall asleep after a few too many Budweisers."
His sniffling began as the sky took on a musty color, night finally defeating day in their unending squabble.
"So a local anchor comes on, I forgot his name, but he was wearin' this ugly twill blazer. He says that we're under attack, that this isn't a drill. He starts naming off cities, New York, Chicago, L.A., Boston... the list went on and on. Said it was nuclear. Said it was the damn Chinese. Said we retaliated. Then the signal - I think it was comin' out of Springfield - just went dead. Snowflakes on the screen."
As he recited this, I could recall it too. Remember how I told you I didn't remember T.V.? I don't, unless he recites this. I was staring at our 19 inch Magnavox, at the man in the twill blazer. They said it was nuclear war or something, and he urged us to go into shelters, turn on the radios, and wait.
We were the only one in my neighborhood that had one. Of everything in my life, that cellar will never leave me. The cries of my newborn baby sister and my mother, the damp smell of mildew and rodent droppings.
We camped there for weeks.
"That's when shit went down Matt," he addressed to me.
"Thanks Ike, I remember more every time you tell it," I assured, feeling more down and depressed than before.
We pulled onto East Main St, approaching Mary Lane. Our companions were Maureen and Bill Ashland, both of Williamsburg up North. We parked up W. Warren Road and saw them.
------
Their Cherokee was riddled with bullet holes.
Mo', she loved to drive - was slumped over the wheel, a thick drool of saliva and blood leaking from the corner of her lip. Her brother Bill was crumpled to his left side toward the middle console. They had been ambushed.
We ran toward the Jeep, Ike toward the passenger side. He left Mo' for me, I suppose he knew I had a thing for her. Regardless, they had been dead for a few hours maybe, robbed, truck empty. We attempted to decipher the tracks from the less-trodden roads of these days, unable to distinguish a make or model.
As we sped west toward Belchertown, as cliché as it sounds, a thousand thoughts ran through my head.
We discussed possible culprits. We discussed their motivations - and the ramifications. One of our residents, Bobby Doley, had a severe case of Diabetes. Our primary mission today was to acquire his meds - metformin & glyburide. The insulin had gone over long ago, and we thanked God, if he was even around anymore, that he didn't need it. The lack of electricity and power rendered those diseases untreatable by our community physician.
"Probably those bastards in Hampden County. I hear there's a community growing in the Ludlow/Chicopee area," Isaiah complained.
"There's been some bad rumors around about them, that they have so much land and resources - but they want more," he continued.
"If they have so much, why though?" I asked. I had studied the maps - they did have a significant amount of territory - I've met a few of them (good people, I thought) - with a decent amount of shops and supplies. They even had an airbase in Chicopee at Westover - but nobody knew if any pilots survived the attacks. Shit, most of the population either died in the blasts or the fallout from the past generation.
"Human nature," Ike replied, his eyes focuses on the road as the Tahoe sped through the streets of Ware and Palmer, on the way back towards Belchertown.
He didn't speak the rest of the trip, and had me check our rifles and ammunition twice during the trip.
One thing you missed, he would tell me, were the country roads blanketed with foliage. Ever since the attacks and devastation, the resulting ecosystem breakdown destroyed most of the greenery. Ike would tell me of days he'd hike in the Berkshires and up Mt. Washington, breathing deep the rich country air. He would take in nature, the dark and bright greens capturing the Sun's energy. 'Those were the days,' he would always muse.
There were no musings tonight though, his face blanketed with a sense of sincerity and that of desperation. It was a look of knowing that you knew that you wouldn't live forever.
"Lemme tell you something Matty," he lectured. I loved when he called me Matty, and I really couldn't tell you why. When you boil it down to the facts of everything, I guess Ike's the closest thing to a father figure to me, and his nicknames conveyed a sort of familiarity and closeness I haven't experienced in recent memory.
"The world's gone to shit. You know it, I know it, but there's hope. There's always hope," he said, with a calmness of acceptance. The Tahoe went up and down the hilly asphalt of Belchertown Road.
Uneasiness crept through me, from my toes up towards the ends of my hair and beard. It sounded like he was looking for motivation for his epitaph.
On the intersection of Ware, Jabish, and Sargent St, we came across a barricade.
It was the others, the bandits if you will.
Ike looked over to me, a glint in his eye. Whether it was a faint twinkle or reflection of the D-battery operated Mag-Lite, I guess I'll never know. I reclined my seat, sliding into the backseat and loaded up a weapon.
I knew.
Isaiah knew it was the end of the line. He stepped out of the Chevrolet, hands in the air. Those in the barricade, two men of middle age with grizzly beards and unkempt hair pointed handguns at him.
An inaudible exchange took place - my eyes only registering certain words in the darkness of moonlight. Three shots fired, two from one, one from the other, and Ike crumpled toward the curb defeated.
The sight of my rifle was aimed squarely on the nap of one of the men. I had shot a rifle before - but never in a combat situation - we preached peace and understanding. But these men had gone too far. They probably had just come from the hospital.
The bullet produced a spider-web of chaos through the windshield and number one flew backwards, his back landing on the hood of their Cadillac.
Number two, dumbfounded, struggled to load his weapon, and the bullet from the Tahoe ripped through his chest, causing him to collapse much in the same manner as Isaiah.
The passenger door of the Tahoe opened, and I stepped out, rifle cocked and ready.
Focused on number two, I approached him. Our exchange consisted of my demands for identification, and his bloody gurgles and death rattles.
Isaiah was struggling with life, a passionate energy to continue breathing. I ran to him now that the threat was extinguished.
He told me that he was happy with his life, and not to mourn him. He told me that he loved me as a brother and a son - if that was possible. He told me that life was fucked up since everything, but to watch my back, and get back safe.
He lay lifeless, halfway between the concrete and dirt-ridden sidewalk with the curb dissecting him. A small sapling had sprung from two distinct cracks, and I noted it was the first sign of life I'd seen in awhile.
User Reviews
Submitted by Sinistral (user info) at 2006-05-05 06:38:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
sorry this took so long i was asleep when you answered it
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-05-04 17:33:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Did I miss the blues, and preachers, and vengeance?
There's good stuff here, though.
I'd tighten up the grammar, and give more detail. If civilization has fallen to shit, who is refining gas for the cars? And you say it happened in '98. ???
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-05-04 11:01:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Damn your contest and its 'rules.'
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:45:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I fucking loved it.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:33:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:30:57 (#)
Ranking: 1
This was well written, but I just wasn't getting a blues vibe off of it
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:31:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
And the other half of the rating here. Good job.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:30:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
This was well written, but I just wasn't getting a blues vibe off of it. +1.5.
Submitted by hour_man (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:30:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well i enjoyed it, even if the autor didn't ;)
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-05-04 10:17:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
I apologize in advance.