“Look, folks, I know some of you heard some crazy things earlier and we all saw the flash in the distance. Well, turns out there was a bomb let off in the city. We should be safe here, the wind is blowin’ away from us and all, but it might not be a good thing to leave.”
He stopped to take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from his head. I saw his hands were trembling.
“See, turns out the bombs pretty much hit all the big cities. We got no electricity and cell phones aren’t getting through to anyone.”
The murmuring in the crowd stopped abruptly, cut off as if someone had just splashed our collective faces with cold water.
“But see here, folks, it ain’t all that bad.”
What was the crazy old man talking about?
“We got us a pretty nice set up here, and we think we’ll be able to support ourselves for a while, considering all the skills you people have. We called this here meeting to start organizing ourselves into groups for food, shelter, and defense, if you know what I mean. So we’ll be over here and sortin’ people into lines if you wanna start coming forward. How’s that sound?”
I looked at Vivian in shock, but she was leaning forward, watching people start heading out to the field. I could tell she was thinking real hard, so I leaned back and closed my eyes.
It was the frigging apocalypse!
I so needed another beer.
It was getting dark and since the lights were out – ‘cause somehow I hadn’t noticed all the electricity before – volunteers started lighting torches (which I guess really are just hanging around the festival). And since communications were cut, there wasn’t anyone we could call. We really were stranded.
I gotta admit, it was a pretty dark moment.
But then I realized something amazing.
We were in the middle of the friggin’ Ren Fest! Do you understand what that means? Those people knew everything about surviving. I mean, these people had swords, chainmail, cloaks, daggers – the whole bit. They knew how to survive in the wild and makes clothes and beer and crap. As a matter of fact, when the whole thing went down, they were in the middle of roasting an animal over a spit! I mean, I didn’t even have to miss a meal.
And I had my girl with me, so you know, I had all my needs taken care of. We even had a tent waiting for us.
“Vivian!”
She turned to me, surprised to see me smiling.
“Honey, I just figured it out.”
“Figured out what?”
“It may be the end of the world as we know it, but we’re together AND we’re in the best place possible for it.”
She blinked at me.
I leaned over and kissed her.
“Come on. Let’s go see what we can do.”
I stood up, took her hand, and went to stand in line.
Now, I wasn’t any kinda’ cook or swordsman, but I was pretty handy with a hammer. And my girl was pretty good at learning anything new. Life was gonna be tough, but that’s life. And I may’ve been surrounded by a buncha chainmail-wearing, LARPer geeks, but I had to admit, they sorta had it going on, especially after the bombs killed microwaves, computers, and the sports channel.
Yeah, they grew on me.
So here’s what I learned. In case of another apocalypse or earthquake or volcano or some other disaster, do the right thing - save the nerds!
You’re totally gonna need them.
~*~
Memory Farm
By
Robert Neyland
Charlie was a baby boomer. And the memories he had of his grandfather were very faint. Only what the old codger had offered up in family settings or relegated to brownish tinted, tattered photographs of a bygone era; old cars, old clothes and old ideas. He had no recollection of his great grandfather, less than faint descriptions of an almost mythical and certainly forgotten character. He was a baby boomer though, and most of them had few memories of any great grandparents. It was different for those born after the 21st century in the US. By that time society was well into a rapid disintegration and young men and women were making children by mistake, as an afterthought. And because they made babies and moved on to other, selfish interests, there were lots of children born in the early 21st who might have known their great grandfather, but in all reality almost would never encounter them in this lifetime. But, he was a baby boomer and he did have a smattering of memories about his father.
It was in the early 21st century when those memories ended. A lot of things ended then. The world began to change. At first, it was just weird changes, but then things got darker. At one time in history, the world citizens had their own ethnic culture and sense of, well for lack of a better word - morality. True, there were dictators, injustices, and evil. There always had been. But at one time, the world citizens had culture as well. Technology only aided the evil that had always been present. The darkness manifested itself in economic control of all the masses by a select few. The effort was further supported by the elimination of privacy and a determined effort to eliminate individualism or free thinking by consumerism and societal values determined by Government Media.
In the early 21st century any free thinker or one of artistic expression was singled out; not by any thought out mechanism, but by a tide of lies and propaganda. George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1949 and in 1984, his story had materialized, but very few took notice. Even then control of ideas and memories were being integrated.
Most of the music in the 80's really sucked. He was a baby boomer. He grew up in the last true artistic era that the US would experience. The music would never be better. Even in the early 21st century, the music of the 60's & 70's lived on. But he did have memories of his father. And in those dark times those memories shined like beacons in the night, After the Great Fall and even before, many people around the world and across the US had lost their houses, their hopes and their families. It was all a part of a plan, whether realized or not that would put total control in the hands of a few.
The depopulation movement had gained hold and the concept of an “individual” was looked down on. Things got darker, and there was no one to look to for help, no one to share experiences with. The Daily Screen had replaced all that. Charlie had even wondered in the early 21st century when the first generation of “smart phones” had been marketed if they were really such a good idea. Social media and workplace applications took away the interaction that humans were used to. It was s very subtle developmental engineering tool that was “just the way things happened”.
Charlie sometimes felt like John, the Savage from Brave New World. Nobody that he knew had ever actually read the book, they had seen the synopsis in older versions of the outlawed Wikipedia site that was removed and replaced by the Governmental Media Services tab on the Daily Screen.
Charlie had heard about the Memory Farm and was intrigued by the idea. Because of classification and age he was assigned to the Governmental Agricultural services building, He would never have the opportunity to even enter the building, but the thought became an obsession. He was very depressed when he was first assigned to the Governmental Agricultural services building and even though he was required to receive the Feel-a-reel anti- depressant in his daily water ration. Something had changed in him, in his way of thinking, the day he saw the tulips open.
It was an act of rebellion that had afforded him the opportunity to linger in the growth pods late one day as the work day had ended. The signal had gone off and all the workers had started to return to the atrium to return their tools and return to their living stations, but Charlie lingered. Something about the light on the leaves around the center, right near the bulb. And as he waited, the light shined ever so lightly and the whole plant burst forth in light. And he actually saw the bulb open, so small, but yet so sure. He was never the same after that. He was staring do intently, he remained oblivious to the cessation signal and it was only when two Class 3 attendants had physically grabbed each arm that his concentration was taken off the blooming flower
.
They grabbed him roughly and made some crude remarks about his mental state, but Charlie was completely oblivious. He had just had a revelation so powerful, an epiphany so strong, so life changing, so inspiring, that he would never be the same. It was then, at that moment that his fascination with the Memory Farm was fueled and he starting desperately trying to remember anything at all about his father.
All night long Charlie wondered, imagined and visualized what the Memory Farm contained. It was like adrenaline was pumping through his veins and despite the fact that it was almost dawn, Charlie felt as alive as a teenager preparing for his first date. And with the musings and wondering a more desperate scenario was being realized in Charlie’s head – how to get into the Memory Farm.
He realized the ramifications when he would be caught – isolation chamber, Electro therapy or perhaps even death. But after witnessing the tulips opening, nothing really mattered anymore. Perhaps it was the connection of blooming, birth and the relentless curiosity about his father that had given action to this obsession.
As dawn quickly approached, Charlie had conceived his plan. And nothing, not even death would deter him. He mentally visualized each step of his plan, rehearsing it over and over. After breakfast he would be taken to the atrium to begin work .On Fridays only one attendant would be there as the rest of the work crew were dispatched to the fruit and vegetable processing warehouse. It was really against Charlie’s nature, but he planned to hit the attendant from behind with a garden implement, take his uniform and I.D. chip and enter the Memory Farm. What would he find? How soon would he be discovered and how quickly would he die? It really didn’t matter. It was as if the witnessing the tulip blossom brought him to life, it erased the mind programming and set his spirit free.
After breakfast, Charlie followed his plan to perfection. Beating the attendant to death was invigorating to Charlie. He was so tired and crushed over how his life had become that murder wasn’t a fear or concern. As he approached the entrance to the Memory Farm he slipped the I.D. chip into the scanner port and Whoosh! The door opened promptly. He went into the main hall; thousands upon thousands of what looked like viewing stations lined the walls. Charlie quickly entered the first station. With no idea of how to access the equipment Charlie sat motionless, and slowly and quietly he began weeping. Thoughts about his father flooded his mind.
After a moment he looked at the bottom of the screen and saw a pad that looked like it might be a place for a fingerprint. Could it really be that simple? He reached down and placed his finger on the pad. All of a sudden a myriad of numbers and codes flashed across the screen. Flashing almost seemingly at the speed of light the numbers finally stopped. The background screen went from deep purple to a greenish hue and then Charlie saw his name flash on the screen: CHARLES EVANS ID# 37375.
Charlie felt a lump in his throat and the tears continued as the screen faded to a lighter sepia tone Charlie’s whole life was documented. A combination of what looked like home movies and Government surveillance video sped forward, and at one point Charlie recognized him and his dad playing. He fumbled for the controls and somehow the screen frame went into slow motion. Charlie was six years old and he and his dad were playing chase in the park. It was fall and the leaves were lazily drifting to the ground. They were both laughing and running. His dad caught up with him and hugged him and they fell on the ground in laughter.
Tears streamed down Charlie’s face. He wept profusely, and then, as the attendants placed the immobilizer into Charlie’s neck, his tears stopped.
~*~
Behind These Eyes
By
C. M. Bratton
Did they ever look up and really expect to see us when we dropped down in our ships, the clouds boiling away from the heat of our engines? Did they know it was time for their end? When did they realize they were dying? Did any of them wonder if we had a choice? Could we have passed them by, living securely on this luminous blue sphere shining alone in the empty waste of their galaxy?
And the survivors. What makes them so defiant, still, so full of the belief that there is a reason to keep living, keep trying, keep defying their captors? We have no words in our language for this useless emotion, what they call “hope.” Don’t they understand that they’ve already lost, as we nearly did, until we learned to be as hard and cold as our conquerors? Until we forgot remorse and compassion, decisively annihilating those hated ideals from our very DNA in favor of survival at any cost? Including the destruction of an entire world, of millions of species, of another sentient life form – a rarity in this expanding and mostly dead universe.
Do they know we’d destroy their world to keep ours alive?
~*~
I stopped reading and took a deep breath, my heart pounding away inside my chest. I looked back down and stared at the transcription, interspersed under the translation I could see unfolding behind my eyes. How I could read and understand it, I didn’t know. But more importantly, I didn’t know why it had been given to me.
Cars rolled past me, oblivious as I sat on the park bench. The sky above was tranquil and pale blue, the grass waving gently in the spring wind. A perfect day, I’d thought.
I rubbed my eyes, trying to erase the words printed there.
Did I hold a history – or a prediction?
Unable to take “reading” any more of the alien script, I rolled it up into a diminutive cylinder and slid it back in its case, which looked like a cross between a cigar holder and a leather case for glasses. Only instead of leather, it was made out of some metallic material that caught and reflected light in such a way as to make the object mostly invisible to ordinary eyes. Which mine were, or had been. I closed my eyes and leaned back, replaying the pictures of last night in my mind in an effort to erase the golden script flowing behind my eyelids.
I’d been woken up just a few hours before dawn. My stomach was clenched in a tight knot and there had been a pressure banding my head, more tightly than any migraine I’d ever experienced. I opened my eyes at that point, but was unable to see the dim light that usually filtered through the curtains of my window.
Palms sweaty, I made as if to get up, but a voice I felt more than heard said, “Shh.”
I froze, my body breaking out into goose bumps even as my lungs caught mid-breath. A moment of heart pounding terror passed, and then suddenly, it was gone. The pressure left and the room brightened again. The outline of the window reappeared. I shakily managed to sit up, but as I started to move my hand, a shock of cold fire blazed in my palm. I let out a small shriek of pain and clutched my hand to my chest, but even as I did, the burn faded to a cool ache. As I unclenched my fist, I felt the shape of a cold cylinder just longer than my hand and half as wide. I tried to see it in the dim light, but only its slight weight was discernible.
I’d lit every light in my little apartment and spent the rest of the early morning either pacing or staring at the thing I’d left sitting in the center of my bed, as if peering at it would make it easier to see or explain its presence.
By late morning, the sun streaming through the edges of the curtain, I’d made no decisions, so I’d chosen to come to the park and go for a jog to clear my head. But before I could so much as start stretching, I’d felt a cold burn flash momentarily in my hand. It was immediately followed by a cylindrical shape, my hand somehow clasped around it.
That’s how I came to be sitting on a bench in the middle of a mild Texas afternoon. I could hear lots of people passing me, laughing and enjoying the mild temperature – a rarity for the end of spring. I allowed myself a moment to feel envious at their carefree chatter, knowing I had been the same as them less than a day before.
I sighed and opened my eyes. I dropped them down to my hand, where the object sat immobile, utterly foreign and wrong. Some… being… had visited last night, in some form or other, and left me the scroll I’d so gingerly opened less than an hour before.
And I had no idea what to do with it.
> I got up, unable to stay still and unwilling to keep reading.
I needed help. And there was only one conspiracy theorist I knew who would believe me.
I pulled out my battered cell phone, scrolled through my contacts, and punched the number.
A familiar, lively voice quickly answered the ring, greeting me with warmth.
“Hey! It’s been forever.”
“I need to see you.”
“Whoa. What’s the problem?”
“Something only you can help me with.”
His voice changed, immediately lowering and becoming quite serious.
“What’re we talking about? Level 4 outbreak? Asteroids? Natural disaster?
“No. Worse.”
He paused, and I could practically see his brain whirling as it processed that short statement.
“Level 10, code red, end of the world, huh?”
I waited, letting my silence speak for me. I’d always ignored his crazy ideas and belief in all things weird, fantastic, and geeky. So he had to know something big had happened.
“Okay. Where are you? I’m on my way.”
“No, not here. I’m at the park and it’s too public. Do you have someplace secure, but not your house? Uh, you know, off the grid?”
“Yeah. Got it. I’ll come pick you up and we’ll head over there.”
“Okay.”
“Be there in twenty.”
He hung up and I took a deep breath of air. It was then that I felt the cold burning in my hand. The container was back.
And now I could feel it pulsing in sync with my heartbeat.
The clock was ticking.
~*~
We keep a few survivors – to study, to dissect, to learn. We do this so that we can stay stronger than they. Sometimes they try to learn about us, try to communicate, to befriend us or ask for help, for mercy.
They can’t comprehend they are what we used to be – weak.
Even more important is that they don’t understand what they will become, as we once were: a remnant. Survivors of a world hanging on by gossamer streams of cosmic wind.
~*~
A horn honked, pulling me out of the words flickering behind my eyes. My head ached and my hand was starting to throb. The scroll dropped out of my hands.