I didn’t get a chance to see The Road, but I’m reading the book now and it is bogglingly good, one of those “why does anyone bother to continue writing in this subgenre after this” sort of books. (Though the fact that it’s listed as “literature” instead of “science fiction” is an example of arrogant genre-dismissive bullshit that I can’t stand.) For a fun exercise in seeing people entirely missing the point, take a gander at some of the negative reviews over at Amazon. I particularly enjoy the one that thinks the lack of punctuation was perhaps an accident.

I did get to see The Book of Eli on Monday. There were a few things that could have been improved, but overall I thought it was quite good. I’m kind of surprised at the overall negative reviews it’s gotten. Many immediately complain that they’re tired of apocalyptic movies, at which point I pretty much stop reading. Isn’t that your own fault for becoming a movie reviewer? Stop whinging about your comfy, trivial job.

Anyway, I am interested in the place of religion in these settings. Would people turn their backs on the old religions, since they appear to have failed? Would they cling to them, desperate for salvation? Would they invent new ones to try and explain the horrible events that took place?

The third option is a sticky wicket to me. We tend to think of religion as something that humans naturally develop per a basic need to explain the unknown, but I have to wonder if new religions would arise at all. In these scenarios, humans are barely surviving, primarily off the remnants of the dead, and a landscape so inhospitable makes long-term survival for the species unlikely. When would these people have the luxury of inventing new gods?

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Klaudijs learned to catch bullets at age twelve, a full six months before his brothers and sisters. He led them in packs across the ruined cityscape, scrounging for food and destroying Red-jack scouts. If the monastery were ever found there wouldn’t be any more brothers and sisters, and no more safe haven. Under Klaudijs’s watch, no Red-jacks had been found within three miles of the old temple.

At the heart of the old city, ten miles distant, a massive Red-jack factory sat, as tall as the skyscrapers it devoured. Dozens of crooked legs arched from the bulbous factory superstructure in a miles-wide web of metal. Klaudijs’s mentor, Thorben, had taken him close once, close enough to see the destructive work of those legs. They’d watched as the leg, a dense conflagration of scavenged materials, had moved, lifting up just high enough off the ground to fall atop an old city bus. Before the leg had punched all the way to the cracked street, hundreds of tiny Red-jack scavengers erupted from the extremity like a burst spider egg. They set upon the bus and chewed it to pieces, eating until their cargo pod had filled with metal and plastic, then scuttled back to the factory leg. In a few hours, nothing remained of the bus. Thorben had traveled from the east years ago, and had seen dozens of cities like this, the architecture of human civilization become mulch for the machines.

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Delivery

Aldo found a newspaper in the rubble of an old refueling station, amongst a pile of shattered glass. He carefully scooped the shards of glass into his bag. The glittering shards were tiny, but Casimirio was smart and knew better how to use this stuff than he would. He glanced at the meaningless squiggly black marks on the newspaper. The image plastered across the front of the paper was faded but still recognizable: a blurry dark smudge in a clear blue sky, blue and green lights lancing from the bottom, carving up some collection of skyscrapers. In his short lifetime Aldo had never seen buildings that tall still intact. The Smudge he knew all too well. Aldo hesitated before tucking the newspaper into his bag. He didn’t want the extra weight, but he knew Casimiro would want to see it.

Aldo raced home, picking his way through the remnants of the old city. He avoided the highways, because everyone knew the Smudge still patrolled the highways. They would pick off survivors trying to move from one city to the next. Their ships looked no more distinct in real life than they did in the photo, blurry and constantly shifting in and out of existence. Their weapons, however, were as real and solid as the billions of people they had slaughtered.

Aldo climbed through the open window of Casimiro’s home. The building itself was nothing more than a shell of concrete and exposed girders and looked, from the outside, no different than the rest of the ruins. An old sign declaring the building’s former use as a Mel’s Diner still hung above the door. Inside, however, the home was paradise. Casimiro and his small contingent of orphans had scavenged enough carpet to cover the entire floor, even if it was a patchwork of hundreds of different colors and textures. Furniture had been brought from all over the city, ranging from waiting room chairs to a Victorian couch pilfered from museums. Some still featured scorches from fires. Dozens of crates full of canned foods lined the walls. Casimiro had found a brand-new mattress a few years ago and slept near the bar. In what had been the diner’s kitchen the children had set up cots. It wasn’t as comfy as the rooms Aldo saw in the old catalogues, but compared to what most people had now they lived in a mansion.

Not that there were many people left to compare to. But, still.

Casimiro say on his mattress, chatting with one of the older boys, Ernesto. They looked up from a map of the city as Aldo approached. Casimiro broke into one of his infectious grins.

“Aldo,” he called. “Come, sit. Ernesto and I were just looking for a way to reach the suburbs, over to the south here across the river.”

Aldo sat and began to empty his bag. “I was just over that way. I found this glass at an old fuel station.” He poured the glass onto a flat piece of fabric, careful not to lose any.

Casimiro frowned. “Here, show me.” He pushed the map over to the boy. Aldo tapped near the southern edge of the city.

“By the hotel?” Ernesto asked.

Aldo shrugged. He pulled out the newspaper and handed it over. Casimirio sucked in his breath and took the paper with shaking hands.

“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Aldo said. “It’s not in Portuguese.”

“This is English,” Casimiro whispered. “This is…New York City, I think, back during the invasion. See, the Statue of Liberty.”

Aside from Casimiro, who’d been in his thirties when the Smudge attacked Earth, none of the boys was old enough to remember the invasion. Ernesto had only been about five, Aldo barely a toddler. Casimiro had found them and the others among the devastated refugee camps outside of the city almost a decade ago. While everyone else fled to the countryside to be massacred, Casimiro led the orphans back into the city, where the Smudge had lost interest. He’d kept them alive and raised them – for the most part alone – ever since. The boys certainly knew nothing of New York City or the Statue of Liberty.

“What are those little grey marks?” Ernesto asked.

“Those are airplanes,” Casimiro said. “Fighter jets, trying to fight the Smudge.”

“Nobody fights the smudge,” Aldo said.

“We didn’t know that back then,” said Casimiro. He caressed the paper, then looked up sharply. “You said you got this at the fuel station south?”

“We’ve been over that station a billion times,” Ernesto said.

“Yes. Someone’s here, or passed through here.” Casimiro ran his hands through the pile of glass. “And this isn’t glass.”

“What does it all mean?” Aldo asked. He felt completely lost.

“This,” Casimiro held up the newspaper, “is a message. And this…” he picked up one of the shards of glass and drew it across the newspaper. The shard had no trouble slicing through the image of the Smudge. “…this is a weapon.”

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Prompt: Write about a post-apocalyptic world (doesn’t have to be post-nuclear war – could be a world after the financial system collapsed, after a deadly plague, after the zombie apocalypse, etc.).

I went with a zombie story, pretty much. I’ve talked plenty about zombie stories in the past, so I’ll just post the clip and move on. I’m not sure ambassadors actually have any sort of power like this in real life. The idea of a civilian whose job is to help secure peace (presumably) forced to make the difficult decision of whether to wipe out an entire city (or country even) to which he’s been assigned struck me as a powerful one. About 500 words or so.

The Call

Henry Gold straightened his tie for the fifth time in as many minutes and avoiding looking directly out the window. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could see the front gate and the people – or what had been people – piled up against the bars. Rotting arms thrust through the gaps, clawing at the air. Several marines stood back out of reach, rifles ready.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Henry said. “This was supposed to be a cushy job. I…I’m an actor.”

Colonel Howards stood at the door, his suit immaculate. Henry saw himself reflected in the officer’s sunglasses.

“I was his daughter’s favorite,” Henry said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” Howards said. “I should note that the gates won’t hold long against the weight of the crowds, sir.”

Gold nodded. “All right, let him in.”

Howards pulled open the office door, admitting Dr. Cohen. Cohen had looked better. His hair was a mess, his glasses gone. Blood spattered his civilian clothes. His eyes wildly darted to each corner of the room as he limped inside. His hands shook as he laid a battered aid kit on the ambassador’s huge posh desk.

Gold cleared his throat and kept the desk between himself and the doctor. “Dr. Cohen.”

Cohen collapsed into a chair and held his head in his hands. “It’s over.”

Gold swallowed hard, felt his blood drain deep into his gut. “Did you make it to the governor’s mansion?”

Cohen shook his head. “On the way we met up with the last of the governor’s bodyguard. The mansion was overrun hours ago. Everyone dead. There’s no government left.”

Even Howards sagged at the doctor’s grim statement.

“We went to the hospital,” Cohen said. “That’s the last official holdout. What’s left of the army is there, led by some kid Lieutenant, while the doctors work on a vaccine, but…” He looked out the window, where the gates were visibly bowed from the weight of the dead. The marines had retreated out of sight, probably to the door to the main building. Gold spotted what appeared to be land mines sprinkling the courtyard.

“I think you know what to do, Mr. Gold,” said Col. Howards. He glanced to the courtyard, where the gates had finally given out. The dead began to shuffle across the grounds. Staccato pops announced the marines’ resistance, and walking corpses began to drop. The front line began tripping mines, and explosions tore through their ranks. Blood and body parts sprayed across the courtyard. Something splattered on the office window. Howards saluted. “I need to go coordinate our defense. You know what to do. We’ll buy you the time.”

The ambassador took a deep breath and lifted his phone receiver. He locked eyes with the doctor.

“They could still find a vaccine,” Cohen said, but even he didn’t sound convinced. “The hospital might hold out.” Gold grimaced.

“I’m an optimist, too, doc,” he said as he dialed. “At the moment, I’m just hoping the bunker beneath us will hold. It’s the only chance you and I have got left.”

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