Alive!

 

Everything Is Alive

How long he had lain in the debris, he had no idea. He gingerly wiped the crud from his eyes and took stock.  He was pinned under some beams and floor joists. Damn it! Oh yeah, it was coming back, he was in the basement. He moved the heavy timbers off of him and noticed an ugly gash down his right side. Fuck! It hurt to move. He felt the gash and realized that he needed to get it cleaned up ASAP. It was wide and it was deep. He must have been there for some time however because the wound was just seeping. Not for long.

He struggled to his feet and for the first time, he noticed the quality of the light. Something was just not right. First things first. He was glad now that he had installed the sink area in the basement. World events had made him a bit nervous as of late so he took a few small precautions. Beefed up the basement with some timbers, lotta good that had done. Well maybe it had, it had probably saved his life. He added a small kitchen and a bathroom, which just happened to have a deluxe model first aid kit. Stored a few months worth of food, water, and enough camping equipment to survive…something. It looked as though something had happened.

He made it to the sink area turned on the water and zilch. Looked as though public works were shot. He switched over to his own water supply, gravity-fed, and voila! He smiled through cracked, bloodied, and bruised lips at his ingenuity. His blond hair was full of dried blood and firmly attached to his forehead. Scalp wound, they bleed like hell, but this one wasn’t deep, little more than a bad scratch. He smiled even though it hurt like all get out, but the fact was he looked goofy as hell. Hair stuck to his head on one side, sticking straight up on the other, lips purple busted up bleeding, one eye was on its way to swelling shut, nose was busted and leaning hard to port. And had time to think “Told ya Ma!”  His mother and he had often joked about his ability to predict future events, but as he had told her often in the past couple of years. “Ma, this is one time I would not mind being wrong.” If he was not wrong, what was he so right about?

World tensions had finally reached the breaking point. He was not sure what exactly happened, but he had a clear memory of the blinding white lights in the distance, probably Ft. Collins going up. So someone either foreign or domestic had had enough.

He washed out the wound which ran down the top right side of his head, being as gentle as he could. Crap. He was going to have to lose some of his blond hair off his head around the wound and apply some butterfly stitches. The nasty wound on his side ran down the back of his right triceps, skipped about eighteen inches, and started again at his hip and tore a jagged wound down along the outside of his quadriceps ending just above the knee. Looked as though one of the bolts from the strong ties he had used to strengthen his underpinnings had torn loose and done some damage. And the blood began gushing out of the wounds. He chewed a couple of methadone’s he had for his back pain, washed them down with a mouthful of cool refreshing well water, waited twenty minutes for them to start kicking in, and stitched himself closed. Not too pretty, but it would definitely do the job. He cleaned it all up again and covered it with some gauze and tape, popped a few antibiotics and he was good to go. Where? Well, up-top he supposed, to survey the damage. But not before taking a look around the basement area. The cause of the damage to his basement shelter was easy enough to discern. One of the huge elm trees out front of the house had been blown over and one of the branches punched a hole right through. Nothing he could not repair, and repair it, he would. As soon as he could. Other than that everything seemed to be good as gold.

He shuffled over and up the concrete steps, had to clear a bit of debris out of the way, and out into hell. He was not certain what he had been expecting, but it hadn’t been this. The only buildings he could see standing were the ones on the farm which he called home. Forty acres of heaven, he called it. It was smack dab in the middle of suburbia. And suburbia was burning. That was the cause of the odd quality of light. It was the smoke from the fires. Fires that had been caused by some kind of accelerant, probably napalm, at least that is what it smelled like. It did not smell like victory, it smelled like gasoline. He could see and hear jets off in the distance. He could see the orange, black balls of fire and smoke billowing up after they made their strafing runs, and could hear the deep popping of the cannons on the wingtips. Someone was doing to America what America had done to so many. He cracked himself up sometimes, and he had this funny thought, he wondered if whoever it was would rebuild us and install a token government. His smile did not last long. It was wiped off by the sounds of dying people, the sounds of barbecuing people to be more succinct.  

One look into the flames and he knew there was nothing he could do, not now. Just have to wait until the flames burned down, difficult as that may be. He moved some branches out of the way and walked out into the yard, not too bad, the damage that was. His cistern was still standing and he was glad that he had taken the precaution of sitting a twenty thousand gallon tank on top of a concrete and rebar structure with a four-foot ceiling setting atop three-foot thick walls tied together with extra rebar, overkill? Not. the room that was made was bomb-proof and he stored quite a bit of his ammo and explosives there. The entrance was two-foot-thick steel blast doors, and he surrounded the tank with twelve in thick steel walls that could withstand anything but a direct hit from a very big bomb. In a turret that sat atop the tank and was supported by its steel walls. Were four twin fifty caliber machine guns that could be fired remotely, and sniper stations stocked with both fifty caliber rifles, 410 magnum express with armor-piercing ammunition.

 He now had 20,000gallons of fresh water and as soon as he turned his windmill into the wind, which there was never a short supply of here on the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains, he could replenish it in a short time. And a hell of a place to make a last stand. He just had no pump to fight the fire and besides what water he could put on the blaze would be akin to pissing on a forest fire. He had pumps and water supplied to all of his buildings, and some heavy-duty handheld extinguishers. But he had none to help his neighbors. So he tried to shut out the screams. He tried real hard.

Several of the trees in the perimeter had been blown over from the blasts and he supposed they would make good firewood. he would make that a priority, getting the wood in and away from the road where it would be easy pickings. Hell might as well prepare for the worst, hope for the best. He went about the task of arming his machine gun nests. Oh yeah, he was not kidding when he said he had taken precautions. He had six machine gun nests, each armed with twin fifty caliber guns. He had eight more armed with twin thirty caliber guns and ten with single thirties. And a shit ton of ammo. He had numerous assault rifles, mostly AK’s, they would fire when packed with mud.  He had four fifty caliber sniper rifles, and as many thirty calibers, one each facing the four points of the compass. And a shit ton of ammo. He had an assortment of handguns, a lot of revolvers with speed-loaders, and a few semi-auto’s mostly Colt forty-five’s, they too would shoot when packed with mud. And a shit ton of ammo.

 The machine guns could be operated manually, or remotely with a headset much like the ones used on the Apache gunships and a handheld trigger device. Just kind of look and shoot. It was awesome! He could sit in his command center which was made from a mixture of Cobb and cement, reinforced with rebar, four feet thick, and oversee his entire farm. He had night-vision scopes available for everything except the handguns, but he had night-vision goggles for that. He could also operate his claymore mines from there. He could reach all of the nests from underground tunnels and for the ones set high up he had enclosed stairwells. He had cameras everywhere so he could keep an eye out. He also had many and I do mean many man-traps located strategically around the property. Everything was solar-powered with battery storage units, but he did have three 5,000 watt Honda generators, that had been converted to natural gas motors, mainly because he had a gas well on the property. Granted it was a small one, but more than enough to fit his needs for the next two, three hundred years.  And, it wasn’t that he did not trust his fellow man but…

He had just been burnt too many times, especially in recent years. It seems as though the American people had taken a cue from their government in their actions towards each other. Promise them the world, but deliver only what You thought they needed. And he hated that with a passion, someone telling him, but you don’t need that much…or some such crap. Fuck a deal is a deal. But for some reason the American public just thought because they were American, they knew what was best. Talk about arrogance! So anyway in the past ten years or so, he had just become more and more self-sufficient. And that was just fine with him. His neighbors thought he was a bit crazy, and as far as their standards were concerned he probably was, he walked his property all of the time, talking to himself, strike that, having conversations with himself, but as he preferred his company to that of anyone else that was alright with him too. He liked to think of it as keeping his own counsel.

Now the kids in the hood, now that was a different matter. Kids, he considered anyone twenty-five and under to be kids, and they were the future, so with the kids, he had lots of patience and understanding, and if any of them, those who dared to venture on his property and get to know him that was. If any of them needed anything and it was in his power to give it, he did. He did this with no thought of repayment in mind, the parents in the hood were correct in that regard, he actually had all that he needed and more, so he gave freely. To the kids. He did not have a lot of extra cash, but he gave what really mattered, time, patience, understanding, and a bit of love; some things their parents, for whatever reason, seemed to be unable to. Oh hell, The main reason they were unable to, was their hunt for the almighty dollar in most instances, like ninety-five percent. It consumed most parents’ lives to the point where they had little time for anything else. Which had always baffled him. Why have children if you were not going to be able to give them the time they needed? Because it was the thing to do? Get married and pop out two-point two kids? He guessed that so much of America had swallowed the whole “American Dream” thing, which was nothing more than a corporate slogan to produce a nation of consumers! Yech! He had more important things to do right now. Like, prepare himself for the nightmare that lies ahead.

Barbecued Hood

After straightening up around the main farmhouse and his command center which was located next door and to the northwest, to give him the best view of the access roads, he had taken a short break, drank a cold beer, some Hazed and Confused, a local product, which seemed apt, and while he was sitting under the shade of one of the Elm trees still standing, he had listened to the last of the screams. Which may seem a bit morbid, but there was nothing else to do. He then tossed the bottle into the recycling pile, gathered some gear into one of his survival backpacks, took an AK 47 with plenty of spare ammo, strapped on a Colt .45 with extra clips, as much water as he could carry, and had ventured into the subdivision directly to the north, Dunes Park.

What a trip. He almost turned back after the first hundred paces, but the cries of a child in distress kept him going forward. Whoever had hit the place had done an excellent job of it. They must have studied wind patterns and had dropped the napalm in the perfect spot to create a small firestorm. While he was straightening up across the road he could not but help seeing the whirling vortex of fire that must have reached temps well over one thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Things had melted. Lots of things. One word kept coming to the forefront of his brain, genocide. Couldn’t be anything but. There were firestorms dotting the horizon on all sides. He was only twelve miles from downtown Denver, and when the wind blew the smoke out of the way to the south, he could see more than he cared to. Someone wanted to kill us all. Which of course was next to impossible, Life always had a funny way of surviving, but this would most definitely be survival of the fittest. He planned to be one.

The cries drew him down 112th place, which was on the outskirts, and therefore had cooled down a bit. To the house of Todd Jameson, whose father was a drunken abusive policeman. On a clear night, which was just about every night, you could hear both Todd and his mother Amy, screaming helpless pleas into the night air. No one fucked with the cops here in this subdivision. There were at least a dozen households that had one, or more under their roof. So as in most places, everyone turned a deaf ear to their cries for help. Which on more than one occasion had made him physically ill. It was on those nights that he worked on his tunnels, or in his woodshop, power tools drowning out the sickening sound of the beatings at the hands of a policeman gone mad with too much power. He had tried anonymously to get them some help, but in the post 9/11 era, anonymous had gone the way of the Black Rhino. He had been harassed unmercifully for six months after and it ended in a beating that had left him hospitalized for a week and when he returned his place had been trashed. He had everything on disc, he had cameras everywhere, but the discs never saw the inside of a courtroom. It was after this incident that he had begun arming himself to the teeth. It was also then he had more or less completely withdrawn from the adult neighbors as not one of them came to his aide.

Todd had been left to fend for himself as his mother could no longer stand the beatings and had fled to the other side of the country, the only place where she felt safe. The beatings had lightened up a bit since that time, but any beating of an innocent child was too much. A sick kind of thought crept through his mind, he hoped that Todd’s father had been roasted alive. 

He found Todd’s father sitting in his squad car. Roasted. He could honestly say that he felt nothing but relief, relief that Todd would no longer be subjected to the cruel abuse his father meted out with little or no regard to the damage it was causing his son. His relief melted just as Todd’s father’s badge had to his chest when he heard the cries coming from inside the home. They were Todd’s. He threw himself into the debris with complete abandon, burning his hands and face as he tore and threw the fallen two by fours and was thankful for the cheap construction, hell it weighed next to nothing. He found Todd pinned under a section of the roof that had collapsed. He took one look at the boy and was almost sick to his stomach. For the boy’s sake, he held it together as best he could.

“Todd, hold on buddy, I’ll get you out in just a minute.” He had to look the boy in the eyes. To look anywhere else would have betrayed the severity of the boy’s wounds to him, and he just did not have the heart.

“It’s okay Eric, I know I’m dying. Just do me one favor.”

“Anything son, you name it.” He was afraid he knew what was coming next.

“Don’t let me suffer anymore Mr. Swanson, please.”

“ I told you it’s Eric.” Failing miserably at his attempt at levity.

“So it is, Eric.”

He was so taken back by the adult adroitness of Todd’s reply; it took his breath away.

“Todd, just let me get you out of there…” Todd cut him off.

“No! I can still see Eric.” There was no need for any more conversation. Todd could see and knew that his wounds were horrific and fatal.

“Please forgive me,” Eric said to the universe and Todd.

“I already have Eric,” Todd said. “One thing though, I want you to know Eric I appreciated everything you have done for me.” The boy looked at Eric, there were tears in his eyes. Todd slowly closed them.

Eric drew his Colt .45 and fired into the boy’s skull. And then he was sick. 

He found he just had no energy left, the loss of blood was taking its toll. As much as he would have liked to help those who were trapped, he just could not, and there was no use in his becoming another casualty. He stumbled back to his command center, locked himself in, and laid down on a bunk he had installed there, it was comfortable and before his head hit the pillow he was out.

More Stuff

He had had this feeling for the longest of times. A feeling that He was becoming. While taking his mindful walks during the day he would get this overwhelming feeling that his spirit was advancing to the point where it could no longer be contained in his body. He was having difficulty keeping his spirit in his body; more and more he felt as if his spirit was ready to dance outside of his man- form. It was too powerful to ignore, it would not be ignored, denied, whatever term you wanted to hang on it, but it was more than words could even begin to describe. It was one of those things that someone else would have to experience for themselves, plain and simple. And it was wonderful, it was the most totally encompassing positive event he had ever experienced.  

The Night of Two Shadows

While Eric was walking along, he noticed that even though the sun was down, he was casting a faint shadow. When he turned a walked in the other direction, he noticed another faint shadow cast in the other direction, he supposed from the moon. Optical anomalies of this he was certain, but what an Uber cool thing to experience, especially in the wake of the apocalypse. Another sign from the universe that he was on the right path. 

He, like most people in the 21st Century, had been long ago taught to ignore any kind of sign, except those with a dollar attached to it. He had been very fortunate to have grown up around some old-timers, gentlemen who had lived life long and hard, and come out the other side wiser for it. While most just called these men burnouts, losers, his least favorite adjective when describing another human being. To all of you arrogant “winners” who are so miserable, you would pay good money to a man with a three thousand dollar suit on to make you feel good about yourselves, while you would be much better off stopping and donating some time to help these losers. Many of them could teach you some healthy doses of humility and real loss. And it wouldn’t cost you a dime. These men were seen as outcasts and society had no use for them because they had no money. 

Eric’s grandfather had taught him to listen to every man until he made up his own mind, was he full of shit, or did he really have something to say? After a little practice, Eric could spot the shitters in a minute or two. So he would politely excuse himself, leaving these men with at least a bit of respect and move on. Most people just cast them aside without a second glance, never looking into their eyes, some very wise old eyes in some instances.  Eric gave them their due, sometimes accompanied by a quart of beer, and learned. One of the things he learned that held the most value, was how to shut your mouth and listen.

Eric had always been able to spot patterns, part of his genius, and one of the patterns he spotted was; these men listened too. But to things like the wind, the sounds of the night, the absence of sound, the sounds of the streets, the wind, the ability to move in it, with it, and to become one with ones’ surroundings. To follow signs left by the inhabitants of this once perfect world and by that he meant perfection in its imperfection. There was a place for everything, a use for us all. 

That was until the dollar became the ruling power and men who created nothing, but paper began to be revered as heroes. As Eric looked out at the massive destruction brought on by these same small thinking men, his heart could not help but leap with joy. He was not an unfeeling man, he cared for those he had lost, all of the innocents taken, but it had always been that way when greedy powerful men made their doomed to failure play for control of the planet. Enough! Enough of this shit. Eric was not sure what had happened to him, what was happening to him, he knew he had been poisoned, by what mixture of toxins did not really matter at this point. He knew he was becoming something man had never seen before and he would try to use this power given to him to the best of his abilities to try and right the so many wrongs mankind had heaped upon the Earth and each other. He would do this with his new race of beings being created in his womb. This womb that was Alive!

Force From Within

He felt this pressure, in his head, behind the eyes and ears. A gentle pushing from within, at first. Almost like someone, something, trying to get out. It was later that he discovered this pressure was the precursor to a shift in one of the dimensions, someone, or thing was trying to get through. It only happened in a few geological locations and he came to know these places as “thin places” for the distance between dimensions were weakest at these points, places.

During his walks through these places, he had witnessed some most awesome as well as most terrible things. Not everything trying to get through was benign. Some were quite ugly, ugly of body, mind, and spirit. The more he “became”, the easier it was for him to see and feel these things. He was trying to communicate with these entities, beings, what have you, and having little or no luck.

One thing he noticed during his trips to the ‘thin places” was that everything was more alive, and even seemed sentient. The weeds that were growing would tangle themselves in his feet and legs and they would cling. He would have to pry them loose with his hands, for some reason it seemed wrong just to kick them loose. When he had tried at first he could have sworn he heard cries of pain and this scared the bejesus out of him, at first. As he became more aware and in touch with his surroundings he began to treat them and everything else with respect. So he would gently pry the clinging branches loose, talking kindly to the plants as he did. They responded by letting go without scratching him. He was flabbergasted in the beginning and worried about his sanity. Then he laughed out loud until his sides hurt. How could anything be more insane than mankind’s treatment of one another? 

As the news had slowly trickled through he discovered that it was no foreign power that had committed these atrocities. It was the right-wing tea party types, who had aligned themselves with the right-wing so-called Christians who were guilty of these crimes against humanity. They had targeted the Denver area mainly because of all the forward-thinking people in the region. People who were not afraid to stand up and call “bullshit” when the government and the police force got out of hand and abused their power, the power that they seemed to have forgotten was given them by the people. And freedom of religion was practiced just as was guaranteed to the people by the Constitution, a document that seemed to have been thrown out the window by the administration in power during the infamous 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center.

One of the things that really stuck in Eric’s craw was the fact that a few fat(quite literally) cats sat on their big butts and spewed this crap forth on the tube and radio. If they were true Christians, as they claimed to be, they would practice love, respect, and tolerance. That is most certainly what Jesus did. But no, these self-righteous, pious individuals thought that because they had the people’s ear, and money, they could tell the people how and what to believe. Bullshit! A person’s belief system was theirs and theirs alone. These power-mad individuals had cast the constitution aside mixed Church and State and had decided that it was alright to kill anyone who did not believe as they. And they justified this by saying God was on their side? How could a God whose commandment “Thou shalt not kill” take the side of any race of people who murdered in his name? How “they”, the fat cats, could get that many supposedly free-thinking Americans to agree with them was beyond Eric. It just proved to him his thinking that the world had long ago gone insane was correct. He would like very much to get his hands around the throat of the SOB who had ordered the killing of his young friend Todd and have him explain on national television how he justified the taking of that innocent boy’s life.

Time To Get Ready

Eric, after reconnoitering the area had decided there was nothing he could do for the injured except a bullet in the head. He just did not have the medical supplies or the know-how. So he made the only logical decision; he set about the business of readying himself for the battle he was certain was coming. Either it would be the Right-wingers, or it would be lawless, he kinda had to laugh at himself on that one. And as he had a working farm, it would not be long before they found him. And what really bothered him was the fact that when the two got together (the lawless and the Right Wing Thumpers), they usually parlayed a way for them both to profit, being God’s will and all.

After a long afternoon and evening of preparing his armaments as best he could he had to rest. The loss of blood was catching up to him, he had taken the precaution of drawing some of his own blood and storing it in a refrigerated safe box and had given himself a transfusion earlier, but the wounds had started seeping pretty bad, he probably had torn some stitches loose. Too tired, just too tired… He drifted into a fitful sleep.

In his dreams, which really did not feel like dreams, he was walking the property at night. The gibbous moonlight reflected off of the mica chips in the newly lain rocks for the driveway, winking at him in a way that let him know they too were alive. The barn owl was doing its hooting thing and was being answered by another owl on the far side of the property. The night air at altitude carried sounds as if they were musical notes floating through the air in a 5/8 time signature, letting him know that it too was alive.

The thin branches of the new growth elm trees that had been mangled in the blasts, distorted by the radiation fallout, wrapped themselves around his legs and bore him to the ground. More small branches pinned his arms and chest immobilizing him, not that he was trying to fight, he was not. The world, as damaged, raped, and mutilated as she was, was still full of life.

When the smaller branches spread his butt cheeks he did not resist, nor did he fight when the Elm’s penis entered him filling him with its seed. You see he had become life, he was at one with everything. When he awoke hours later he knew it was no dream, his ass was bleeding, but had been packed with some sort of poultice, which eased the pain. He could feel the life already beginning to grow within, and this filled him with a joy so intense that he could not help but squirt a couple of tears, and this made him laugh. He had never felt more joyous!

At t some point along the road he had to figure out that he was not the mother, although he was a sperm carrier for a while, what was taking place inside of him was something different, very different. The layman’s way in which he thought laid it out to him like this. He was acting as some kind of mixing bowl, crockpot, type thing in which the sperm from the donor was mixing with what, God only knew, and then he had to mate with a very specific female. He could feel and smell the right ones as they came into heat. Nothing difficult. Well, that was unless the female had big teeth and long claws, or swam at depths that could crush an ordinary human. So far though, he had met with nothing but willing partners. This was one of those situations that you just went with it, there was no fighting it… Eric was not sure what had happened to him, what was happening to him, he knew he had been poisoned, by what mixture of toxins did not really matter at this point. He knew he was becoming something man had never seen before and he would try to use this power given to him to the best of his abilities to try and right the so many wrongs mankind had heaped upon the Earth and each other. He would do this with his new race of beings being created in his womb. This womb that was Alive!

During his walks around the property now he took the time to look where he was going, and see. What he saw amazed him, what he had once taken for granted, the lines of ants scurrying on their way to forage for food, guided by pheromones. The grasshoppers chewing their way through the green flora, the bees doing their pollinating, everything was alive and busy being alive.

He would look out at what was left of civilization and he would weep, he supposed this had something to do with his hormones, and this would make him smile. But the supposed civilized peoples of America had turned ugly. He would pick whatever he did not need for his survival and set it in baskets at various stands he had set up circling the edges of the farm and he would give as much of his precious water away as he could. He gave them food, the water, and the time it took him to harvest and carry it to his stands away and you would have thought that this selfless act would have bought him if nothing else, a little peace and quiet. But No! The more he gave, the more they wanted. “They” had brought in ministers from god only knew what branch of perverted religion, who would set up old-time revival meeting tents outside, and they would preach from some book in the Bible(he had long ago quit caring which ones) and they would twist it around to make him look like an evil man who was doing the devil’s work. Of course, these same men of God would be lining their pockets with whatever these poor people had of any value; inevitably trying to talk these poor misguided souls into trying to take by force what he was freely giving, so they could install themselves in their rightful position as the new owner; chosen by God, of course. A few well-placed sniper shots from a 50 cal. usually put an end to that nonsense, for a while.

In the meantime he was becoming, more and more. His belly would swell and then he would mate with a female, species did not matter, coyote, mountain lion, Gorilla, and his favorite, an escaped white Bengal tiger from the Zoo. Of course, the males of these species would take their turns with him and it was damned odd at first, but whatever had taken place during the nuclear blasts had altered him in some way and he was now mother and father to a new species of sentient creatures. If the ole Bible thumpers only knew about this one, he laughed and laughed at the thought of the sermons that would spew forth over his procreating with animals. Fuck em. His new babies loved him unconditionally and he likewise.

They were intelligent to the max. Their small and large minds were like sponges and he filled their minds with all of the good knowledge he had at his disposal and enough bad for them to know the truth. He smiled when he thought of having a conversation about the genocide of the native American Indians with a creature, part Bison, part mountain lion, and part oak tree. Some of his(he had come to think of them as “his”, but he was in touch enough to know he was but a very small part in whatever was taking place here) creations were just marvelous, strike that, all of his creations were marvelous, some just took a bit of getting used to.

They also matured at a fantastic rate, which in the beginning was not too difficult to hide. He had a lot of underground work to do and supposed he would for like probably ever. Above ground was poisoned and parts would be for thousands of years. It also brought an immense number of possibilities. Could/would his new creations adapt? It seemed as though many were making marvelous strides in that direction already, but the losses were taking a terrible toll on his soul. It was becoming very hard for him not to hate these self-righteous individuals who had killed so many in the name of their Gawd! 

He had finally succumbed to his curiosity (always with the thought of what it had done to the cat, playing to some nameless tune in the back of his mind) and had repaired a couple of his satellites. He supposed in this instance though it had saved his life. The right-wingers were on the move, but to his like thinking comrades credit, they were meeting with tremendous resistance. It was just that the right-wingers had been better prepared and vastly ahead in the arms race. Eric was not one for much prayer, but he said a couple for those brave souls in the military who had come out in opposition. They and their families were paying the ultimate sacrifice but were doing it anyway. And they had rallied enough troops to their side that it was going to be a hell of a fight. (Work in Disarm by the Smashing Pumpkins round here somewhere. The killer in me is the killer in you.)

Later, while he was taking his nightly walk around the property smiling, as he usually did, his babies who were never far away and some had yet to master the art of stealth, but as it was a learned habit, as most things were, he just smiled at their fumbling attempts. He also knew there was another reason for their practicing. His protection. They were wild creatures and they felt danger on a level humans would never grasp. They also had very little conscience, not one that we humans could ever know. They knew life; they were living, so things were relatively simple for them. Survival at any cost. They knew he was in danger and they were practicing to protect him. Which they would do no matter what he said and they would protect him with their lives if need be. Another thing humans seemed to have forgotten along the way was loyalty. To them, he was their creator and they would protect the Creator.

Knowing this he did his best to show them the downsides of senseless violence, he had access to plenty of video footage of all the wars the world had fought, thank ya History Channel, and YouTube! Plus with a nifty little bit of hacking the only one of his housemates to have survived the blasts, had done in order to get into the NIS, Homeland Security, and all the other alphabet soup entities that had sucked the American economy dry, bone dry. My he was gettin a wee bit cynical, he cracked himself up for the umpteenth time. Dude, being able to laugh at yourself is one of the keys to survival!

Communicating with the little buggers was something to behold. They insisted in trying to speak English, it was after all the only “language” they had heard. Of course many did not have anything closely resembling the necessary vocal cords, but they tried anyway. Humor. That had been at the very top of the list when he was giving instruction, so there was much laughter, or what resembled it at all hours of the day and night. Which just scared the hell out of the humans camped closely by. They had no idea the screeched and rumblings, hissings, chirping, and some others that defied description altogether were his babies laughing at each other and themselves during the late night/early morning hours. It was just too unsafe to let the humans have a look at the children during the daylight hours.

He taught them by example, they watched the news and howled with laughter. The human talking heads were so damn serious about everything and tried their damnedest to purvey that seriousness and fear to any who would listen. In the plant and animal world, death and living are all part of life, so they could never grasp mankind’s fear of death, it was just all part of the process. Insurance companies drew the biggest crowds at commercial time, as did banks. He never could, not that he tried very hard to get a single one of them to understand ownership and why would someone want to insure something that could never belong to them in the first place, all things belonged to the Mother and would return to her.

Sadness, however, the babies knew this one well, sadness and loss. Mankind had been first-class instructors in this regard. The loss of entire species, some of which held the cures for the diseases that scared these human creatures so bad. This kind of thought process baffled the new ones to no end. You have the means for your survival at your fingertips and you destroy it for this thing called money? Some nights this brought gales of laughter, others, tears. These humans were odd creatures, to say the least.

[ As he walked down the lane past Ft. Gibson, the small one he and his Little Man, Gibson, had built together, the little sign claiming that you were here on special permission of the Boss Man Gibson, was hanging at an odd angle one of its straps burned through by hot ash left it askew, he turned his head to the left watching the moon rise, a fat witch’s profile hurried across the cratered beauty of its fullness, where the old hag was headed he had not a clue, but he did know what the old hag would be up to; soon: and that would be no good. He had to turn away from the Fort. Saluting its commander in absentia. A tear crept out from a duct he long thought bone dry.

And oh were they violent. My God’s a little crazy and he wants me that way too.

Despite the risk of being picked off by a fanatic he still took his daily walks, his ever-present bodyguards, who were getting stealthier by the day. Some of them were. There was just really not much that one could do with a chicken crossed with an oak(Thank the powers at be it had not been a rooster.) And there really was getting no way to disguise them anymore, they were there, they were growing at a fantastic rate and they were his, no they were the world’s, the universe’s, just his charges for the moment.

He had become one thing he thought he would never, even in his wildest dreams. A news junkie. Probably in large part due to the fact that you could get some “real” news now, not some editor’s, who was paid well to skew it. Not that much of it was good, but a lot of times the truth is not 

Of course, as he kept his matings in super secrecy, no one,  not even the participants knew the location. And that is the way it would stay. The entire event had the neighbors scratching their heads and hoping the creatures (whatever they were) would have as nice a disposition as the owner had. They just, and rightly so, attributed the entire event to the nuclear fallout and were just happy as hell that it wasn’t happening to them. As for the consumption of the food he continued to set out daily, it took a child in all of their innocence, to try it and show all of the brave adults that it was still safe as anything else to eat. Little Pete Bonner tried it because by god he was hungry. People of course had to watch a bit to make sure little Pete did not grow some weird kind of appendages and start making animal noises, then when they saw he wasn’t going to keel over they once again started digging right on in and complaining about how the owner certainly was some weird kind of guy, someone they should keep an eye on. As with most American people, they had no problem looking the proverbial gift horse in the mouth and questioning the hell out of it. It used to crack Eric up to the point that he would have to laugh out loud while setting out the baskets of fresh fruits, vegetables, and the occasional egg or two. This just added to the rumors flying at this point. How could a man so obviously torn and scarred have anything to laugh about at all. Thing was folks; when Eric looked in a mirror, he never saw the terrible wounds and scars. He only saw the perfection he was becoming as a being. And as his children had never known him any other way; things across the street with the weirdos were quite alright. Better than that, they were fucking just great. 

He was spinning around taking a look at the different shapes the clouds had chosen to arrange themselves into at this moment, or more succinctly, this moment to the next. (?) And every time his foot would touch the ground neath his feet again, he could feel the subtle changes in the Earth’s surface. No matter how lightly he placed the balls of his feet, his toes, he no longer tried to walk on his heels, unless it was necessary, the subtlety was there, what a trip. He would lose himself for long periods of time floating between this dimension, and a very good, peaceful, loving dimension it was, briefly, in and out. He knew he needed to spend as much time as he could. It was a good place, and he could bring some back with him, which he did. And he stored it in the most obvious, but the best place he could think of, in his children. Unfortunately(sometimes ignorance is truly bliss), he knew it would be needed, but the real question, was and always has been; would it be enough?

Ken is Alive

Ken felt the heat; Ken was on fire. Shit! Time to move. He could still work his hands and arms so he reached down and grabbed the fire extinguisher strapped to the console. And he moved faster than he could ever remember. Pulled that tab, pulled the handle, and squeezed. The fire was located around his feet and lower legs and after getting that out he loosened his seatbelt, rolled around, kicked what was remaining of his windshield out, and was soon standing on terra firma, beating out the rest of the flames with his hands, nothing big enough to even raise a blister. And was knocked right off his feet by an explosion, and if his movie educated eyes did not mistake it, it was a napalm bomb, and thank the powers at be it was heading the other direction, but the heat was so intense it raised a few blisters on his unprotected areas and started his clothes smoldering. Then it passed. His hands immediately went to his hair. Dude, no damage that he could feel, same to his face. All of which was confirmed when he walked across the street to an overturned truck and looked into its oversized side mirrors. Cool, he was still looking good. Now, what the hell is going on here? One quick glance to the North told him something really bad was going on here. Mushroom clouds, also instantly recognized by his TV-trained eyes. Not good. He knew he had to get back out to the farm and fast. Another explosion, not as close this time. One look around told him there really wasn’t much worth bombing left. He ran around to the side of the building where he stored his Ducatti and was very pleased to see it standing and if a motorcycle could talk this one was saying “Get a move on now. Time to beets feet outta here.” Which he did. After taking a look at his car(his new BMW), toast. He was so glad he had taken Eric’s advice and finally gotten a spare key for his bike, which he carried in the watch pocket of his jeans, which was now empty cuz the key was already in his hand and almost in the ignition. Turnkey, bike cranks and he begins the 12 miles run to the farm. It was hard to get a look at the markings on the jets, he was driving helmetless and with nothing but sunglasses, head down and looking at everything at once. 

Then one banked low and hard to port. WTF? Those were American planes, but with some sort of odd-looking symbol. And then it was gone. As he continued to make his way through the rubble he found one of the planes that had crashed, must have been out of fuel because there was little fire damage. What he saw brought him to a sudden halt. There was the insignia of a USA fighter with some sort of crude cross with what he supposed was Jesus crucified, painted over it. At first, he thought it must have been some sicko’s idea of a bad joke.

He heard the screaming of a man in intense pain. Drove very slowly over to inspect. Shut the bike off and coasted for a bit, then braked hard to a stop and backed the bike slowly in between two trucks that had been overturned in a blast, out of sight. Checked in his backpack and was reassured a bit when his hand enclosed around the Desert Eagle .50 caliber handgun that his dear friend Eric insisted he start carrying with him. And a bunch of extra loaded clips, loaded with illegal ammunition, alternating rounds of armor-piercing and exploding 

Thank God for Technology

I knew I was going to have to nip this crap in the bud. And thank god for Ken. He was still banged up, but still able to direct, Lil shady(what else do you call a 5ft. tall oak tree/crossed with an Orangutan? who just happened to be extremely intelligent and very dexterous to hook up that new tech gadget where you could download for free a program that would turn your computer into a server and you could hold many millions of conversations at once. We had the kids slithering right up to the Good rev with mini webcam’s and mic’s and posted his entire show to the web and then discussed in no uncertain terms what we “The People”(I have come to believe that there is no good or bad side, there are however some things that are right and some that are just downright wrong. So you, pick a side. You use your own decision-making machine, your brain when making your choice, and listen to your heart. Do these things on your own, away from any outside influences, just you and your conscience, and make your choice. And if somewhere down the line you know you have made the wrong one, then do something about it, have the courage to admit you were wrong, and just do something to make right what wrongs you committed. This is the wisdom I have received as well as some others, from the creatures I have been mating with. We think that because we are unable to see things that nothing else goes on, which is downright laughable when you stop to think about it, given the narrow band of light visible to our eyes, it is hilarious. There are many other worlds out there, right here, if you get what I’m saying.

Anyway, with Lil Shady’s  help Ken and I fashioned a station of what really went on behind the closed doors(or tent flaps if you will), of the Good Rev Don Vandil, and posted it  on the W.W.W., but after a few ”secret” meetings made it on the airwaves(it really is hard to keep things from the insect world, which, by this time were working with us, and allowed us to piggyback minicams[we had some nifty nanotechnology going by then too] on them and literally opened the Good Rev’s real plan’s to the world.) Which were? …