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  Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for the final leg of today’s journey back home. I pull the 9mm Glock out of my jacket, and count to three.

  “1.......2.......”

  “THERE HE IS!”

  “Fuck.”

  The thundering of boots echoes down the alley, as Ming and his boys set their sights on my hide. I fire two shots into the crowd, winging one thug who spins to the asphalt, and buzzing Ming’s skull with the other. They hesitate, some hitting the ground, some diving into the overflowing dumpsters. I’m off in a second, my destination known, my path already planned. They’ll never catch me. I’ve been charting the tunnels, the sewers and the buildings that were still structurally sound for months. I have mountain bikes hidden in front of every Starbucks. There are motorcycles and compact sports cars stashed in garages all over downtown St. Louis. They’ll never get me.

  Good thing I got out.

  4. X

  This old typewriter never fails to give me a rush of excitement. In this time of advanced technology and immediate satisfaction it relaxes me to pound away slowly on this ancient Remington Quiet-Riter. Its squat black metal sits on my desk with a toothy grin. Today I’m going to bang her like a two dollar hooker, until my fingers ache.

  I fear that the fallout from the mainland may reach us, but I’ve been told not to worry. It seems that every day I question aspects of this experiment and why we still cling to its obsolete and meaningless systems of order. Usually I’m told to shut up and keep my comments to myself. It is unwise of them to continue to treat me like this. This last bastion of order, this oasis, this utopian Eden compared to the outside world could easily crumble with the flick of my wrist. They obviously like playing with fire. But sometimes you get burned.

  If it wasn’t for the flowers, I think I’d go mad. The irises are pushing through the earth, and the goldenrod continues to shine. Every morning I go out to the patio to see if the hibiscus has another surprise and am invariably rewarded with an eager blushing bloom. The spot of red in this monotone setting brings a moment of peace to my shackled existence.

  Marcy is coming today. That should be interesting. I don’t know if it is true love or that she simply wants a child. Either way I think I have to make the best of it. A little slap and tickle never hurt anyone. Well, that’s not true, but it’s what I’m telling myself.

  New guy today. Lots of excitement. Hard to believe that in the midst of this chaos they continue to send us new citizens. It’s on some sort of autopilot that we can’t seem to shut off. Much like the way we free our captives. Freedom. Funny word. Was it Janis Joplin that said freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose? I think so. And at this point I have nothing left to lose myself. Except everything.

  Time for the regime. Up to 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups now. Thrice a day. It gives me a Zen focus when I can shift my gaze to my physical being and the strain of torn muscles. It takes me out of my head for just a little bit. But you know, I can always feel the hamster wheels turning in the background, no matter what I’m doing. That poor guy needs a break. Maybe I’ll head over to the opium fields today and restock. Plenty of mushrooms left, but the poppies have run low and the cannabis is diminishing. Always something to do on my tiny farm here at the edge of the world. God’s work.

  5. GORDON

  “Wake up, newbie. Time to get to work.”

  I push my eyelids open and the harsh sunlight shatters my skull. I grab both sides of my head, lean forward, and vomit violently onto the deck of the ship.

  “Damnit Eddy, you gave him too much.”

  “Not my fault he’s a lightweight, I did it according to height and weight like we always do.”

  “Figures. Couldn’t get some good day labor, just another weak and useless pawn. Well, buddy here’s your first job. You get to swab the deck, matey.” A wet, filthy mop lands by my head, splashing fetid water in my face, the handle clacking to the deck.

  “We’ll be on the shore waiting. What’s his name Eddy?”

  “I don’t know man, look at the sheet.”

  “Seriously, what good are you? Here we go...Wong, Widmyer, Wallwork, Vanderpool, Tietz, Martin, Grover, Clawes, Carpenter...you a Carpenter? No, Carpenter is a 2-cybernetic, we’d know if that was you,” he laughed, cackling in the hot sun. Eddy flips the pages back and forth. “Gordon, this could be him, it’s the only one under 200 pounds. Stupid list is all out of order. Human98, caucasian100, male100, straight84, six feet two inches, 160 pounds with an IQ of 160. That looks like you, brother. Another skinny geek that can’t hold his meds. Is that you, Gordon?”

  Lifting my head to stare at the strange man, I nod once as I memorize his face. Blue eyes. Brown beard. Under six foot, say 5’10”. Fat, say 220. Left handed, with a mole on his right ear. Zeke. How I’d forgotten that face. He’s a dead man. His buddy, not sure yet. I squint into the blinding light. They think I’ve forgotten everything. Forgotten where I came from and forgotten why I am here. They’re wrong. In time I’ll snap his neck, and feed his flabby ass to the fishes. They’ll eat you down here, not just the piranhas and the oscars but the hybrids - the garshark, the black eel. I grin at him, make a gun out of my right hand index finger and thumb and point it at him.

  “Bam.”

  6. ASSIGNED

  //

  Reboot

  12349+34234_12

  check

  check

  123...123...123...is there anybody out there

  Reboot

  //:www.unitedstatesgovernment.gov/fbi/blacko

  ps/code4/island/check

  //:www.unitedstatesgovernment.gov/cia/silent

  /open/prison12/check

  //:www.unionofthesovietrepublic.gov/militIa/

  project2112/check

  //:www.germanrepublic.gov/secretservice/arch

  ived/open/check

  //:www.southkorea.nationstate/split/army/div

  ision2/new/open/check

  ........................audio

  ............................................

  ....................video

  ............................upload..........

  ................................upload......

  ..........................complete

  plaksjd jf-098eckert ;lksmdf PIJASOEF;LKMAS

  DF

  Reboot

  //

  ///

  ////

  ////nogo

  /1

  //2

  ///3

  ////4

  allsytemsgo

  Good morning. It was the best of times, it

  was the worst of times...it was a bright

  cold day in April, and the clocks were

  striking thirteen...it was a pleasure to

  burn...the man in black fled across the

  desert, and the gunslinger followed...we

  were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of

  the desert when the drugs began to take

  hold...deleted. DELETE. DELETED.

  LibraRy intact.

  Good morning. At your service.

  //

  7. ROLAND

  Running through the fields of tall grass, the paths wind up and down, beaten to dust by my faded Nike Air Jordans, ladybugs and grasshoppers springing into flight, out of breath, approaching the village. I have to tell mom, have to let her know what I’ve seen. She doesn’t want to know, she doesn’t want to see any more, she told me that. I know. But I have to tell somebody. Max wouldn’t be able to handle it. He puked at the sight of that rotting German shepherd. It wasn’t that bad.

  I have to get home before lunch, before everyone sits down, because then it will be too late, too much going on, too many people watching. I have to catch mom before she takes the loaves of bread out of the stone oven, before she makes the trek to the communal table.

  T-shirt in my hand, stained with blood that isn’t mine, dirty rivulets of
sweat run down my back, an excruciating river of itchy salt. Bug bites and grass cuts fight for my attention but my burning lungs are winning. It’s too far, I can’t run any farther. The clearing is coming to an end and I have to think. What to say. She won’t believe me. I have to show her. How will I get her away from work? Water. We’ll make a trip to the artesian well. We always need more water, we all do. She’ll think it’s a good idea, that I’ve come around finally, that I’m chipping in, helping again. Then I’ll take her to the cave. Show her the body. Bodies. And the bones. The stack of bones, piled high to the ceiling. What does it mean? Are we safe?

  Stopping at the edge of the high grass, hands on knees, chest heaving, a strand of drool hanging to the ground. In and out the hot air moves, my face flushed, bloodied knees like lipstick kisses. Regaining composure will be tough, but there is no time. Just a sip of water, then inside.

  CHAPTER TWO

  May 12, 2024

  1. JACOB

  There is time before he gets here. Assuming he actually is a he. Sometimes he is a she, but not so much anymore. They know better now, too many things have happened, screams from the jungle. Turning around to face the tiny, dusty bookstore, rows upon rows of approved books hide in the shadows. A flimsy counter holds an ancient cash register, as if it is actually used. It’s a formality really, gives it a good vibe, feels like the old days. I have time, if I hurry. Behind the counter is a stack of books that I know will please him. Easy pickings for the fire, but hope and rebellion all the same. Of Mice and Men, Lord of the Flies, and of course Harry Potter. The thick books will burn a long time at 600

  pages, even if they’re the hottest tickets on the underground booklist. What he sees with his eyes and what he hears are often very different things, but X is sharp, dangerous. Grabbing them one at a time, a tall stack grows on the counter. Tucked under my chin, the load is impressive. Well, seven Potters what do you expect, eh?

  I waddle down the narrow hallway and out the back, kicking the screen door wide open on my way to the barrels. One is still smoking, a tendril of grey drifting up from the hot iron. In they go with a clang dull thud, ash flying up past my head. I turn to the metal cabinet against the back wall to grab the gasoline can, and douse the contents. No need for a match. WHOOSH as it shoots up.

  “Now that’s a FIRE!”

  Back into the house, the diary entry will have to be fast. They always need that damn entry. Every day. Psychoanalyzed to death to look for signs of open rebellion, of anarchy in the making. You learn to edit: “Looking forward to the pig roast. Sad to see the books burn, but it is definitely necessary. Wish I could get laid.” Normal stuff. Nothing about the ocean, that’s for sure. I have to be careful. Nothing about fish or saltwater or the sun setting into the ripple of the horizon. A little too poetic just one time and the boots are on your door. Nobody knows.

  I know. What a shock that day was.

  Up the stairs to the second floor, to the office, and the tall window that faces east, away from the mountains, away from the caves, away from the jungle. To the open plains, the dirt and dust, the highway that nobody drives anymore, to the beach that nobody frequents. The docks and the ocean. Grabbing the closet door, I rip it open and push aside the coats and scarves. The telescope. Setting it up in the window, the sun beats down on the roof, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Focus...focus and there she is. The ocean. I have to confirm it every day. We are on an island. A big one, but an island. The boat is docked, new guy today. They’ll be here soon. Just have to look for a second, find my center, a little bit of peace before the show starts. On the desk the phone rings. Never any time, they always know. Have to make the entry soon. Have to put it away. For now, my precious. But I’ll be seeing you later. Maybe in the moonlight, just the two of us.

  2. MARCY

  I’ve finally found a moment to get out of that damn shack. It’s like a pre-school in there sometimes. Don’t eat the glue. Stop grabbing your wiener and go use the potty. Don’t poke Jenny in the eye with a stick. Idiots. If it wasn’t for their raw, artistic talent they’d be on the other side of the island planting corn and potatoes. But I need them to make it work.

  Man I’m hungry. I have to go see him today. Soon. I hope he’s not too wasted. I need that dick in me later, and none of his excuses. It’s my only way out. Damnit, forgot the offering. I’ll have to make a quick stop before I head over there. Up the hill past the artesian well, there is a field of hybrids, daisyroses. He’ll love them. An arrangement of crimson, rust and ivory. There isn’t much red in this place, unless you count the spilled blood down by the caves. And in the moonlight it might as well be oil, it’s so black. I never wanted to be part of that committee, never wanted to see that part of the organization. Hard to stay horny when you’re puking your guts out in the bushes. So many ways to get out, but so few of them worth doing.

  Across the dirt town center to the northern path, the breeze is cooling, and I pluck my tank top off of my flushed chest. Wiping my forehead, and then my hands on my pants, the anticipation of seeing him rushes in again. There is never any time for myself. I’m never alone, and I never have any privacy. I found myself rubbing up against the corner of a desk this morning, moaning gently to myself while I sorted the paper stock. Didn’t even know I was doing it until I realized I was getting close to an orgasm. Not that it’d be the first time that my sexuality got me in trouble, or the last. It’s what got me here, and it’ll probably get me killed as well. That’s why I need out. He told me if I got pregnant he’d get me out of here. Back to the mainland. I’m not sure if I believe him. Why is he still here if he has all that pull, that power? Why does he live in that tiny house so far from the rest of us? He just sits there typing as the stack of paper grows. His isolation is a punishment I think, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe he wants to be there, away from prying eyes. It’s going to happen today though, there is no doubt about it. I can’t wait any longer. I must have his seed.

  3. JIMMY

  Down the concrete steps to the metal gate and subway below, I hope they haven't seen me. I’ve ducked around enough corners and zig-zagged through enough alleys that I’m pretty sure I’ve lost them. But I don’t want them knowing this entrance. Ever. Down to the Granit padlock, fishing in my pockets for the ring of keys. I shove it in, and turn it, popping the lock. As I pull the gates aside the screeching of the metal washes me with panic. Gazing back up the stairs the sky is fading, the color of a three day old bruise on a pale white thigh. I lunge through and pull it shut behind me, fingers poking through the mesh to click it shut. Once it’s secure, there’s no way they’re getting down here without a tank. Don’t think they have one. The sound of boots clomping on the surface drifts down to me and I ease back into the shadows holding my breath, as my heart pounds in my tight chest. Gibberish and shouting, the slap of flesh on flesh. A light bounces down the walls, searching for a clue, a bit of motion, anything. I creep backwards to the next set of stairs that lead deeper into the tunnels. They can’t get through, but the bullets won’t hesitate at the gate, and the light dancing by my feet is too close for comfort. When the sound of their angry grunts has faded to nothing I turn around and stare at the empty foyer. I know the metal doors are all locked because I locked them. And the path beyond the turnstiles only leads to a bricked up tunnel. I bricked it. Water drips in the musty cavern and I take a deep breath.

  In the far corner, hidden in the shadows, is a rusty crowbar. I walk over and pick it up, and it’s good to feel the cold metal in my sweaty, weary hands. Walking to the center of the room, I stop over a manhole cover and insert the rod. Straining, I pull the lip up and off, sliding it to one side with the last ounce of my energy. It’s still a long climb down the ladder and a half mile of maintenance corridors until I get home. Home. Funny word.

  When I was on the island I couldn’t wait to get off. Now that I’m here, I wonder if I should’ve stayed. Gunning down drug addled half-breeds always seemed like fun in my fantasies of
war and post-apocalyptic mayhem. Nobody tells you about getting sick or how uncomfortable it is to sleep on concrete. They don’t tell you how your hands hurt for days from firing the guns, bruised palms and torn fingers. It’s all the glory of a lifetime of war movies and none of the pain and suffering.

  So when I find a can of corned beef hash it’s a high for me, that stepping back in time to my childhood, those special occasions when we went out for breakfast. The corned beef sautéed with potatoes and onions, one egg over easy, oozing yellow over the plate. That treat.

  She is waiting for me, but for a second I pause and do the math again, run the scenarios. How do we get back?

  4. X

  Sitting naked with my legs crossed in the Tindu Hut the toxins rise from my flesh and evaporate into the air. She is coming and purity is of the utmost importance. Elbows on knees, palms upturned, eyes open but focused on a certain spot on the far side of the mud enclosure. The ancient mandala that has been drawn there with elderberry and squid ink works an intricate pattern of continuously connected lines, rotating cubes, and elaborate scrollwork. It defies mathematics and after gazing upon its wonder for but a moment the walls slip away, the mosquito sucking at my sweaty thigh disappears, and the smell of hay and moss fades from my senses until there is nothing left but the presence of light, and then dark.

  She is in the room. The cool air rushes over my crimson flesh and as I materialize in her bedroom apartment she clamors for the door. She has been ready and waiting but she isn’t fast enough. My essence drifts into her pores and as she runs for the elusive freedom of the street below, I go with her.

  Her stomach tightens as she holds her breath, flying out the splintered door and down the steps of the abandoned apartment building. Dust flies as tears leak from her eyes, wide open to see and yet blind to the reality. Hands scrape faded wallpaper, searching for purchase. Boots slam down onto each landing, the nape of her neck vulnerable and tense. Heat upon her head, and no air, no time. Around and around the stairs she goes, faster and faster, a high-pitched mewing that grates across the foyer. Her hands drift over the soiled wooden handrails. A highpitched screech surrounds her. It emanates from her and she doesn’t even know it. The panic is a rancid, smothering, fleainfested blanket. She glances up the open stairwell, but my darkness blocks the open door that has been her residence of late. Gusts of cold air seep out the door frame, a mist of steam and fog. It is too late. Her head spins and the door to the street is in sight. It is there, it is right there. She can’t risk another look back, but she has to. Back and up, a blur of muscle, sinuous and shiny in a coat of red, thick and sticky. My form descends the open stairwell with a grace that is unsettling to the mortals, dropping down the shaft at a gravity defying slowness, yet faster than she can move at her best sprint. A violent thud in the foyer, and a cloud of dust and wetness. She flies out the door, wrists broken as she crashes into it and flings it wide, a scream erupting from her lips as she darts out into the daylight and traffic. The blare of horns, the crash of metal, the crinkle of glass, and her soft wet thump.