Crackjaw Journal
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ISSN 1913-2506 (Print)
ISSN 1913-2514 (Online)
Crackjaw Journal is on sabbatical unless I become a bit less busy. If you’d like to volunteer to be an editor, please do contact me.
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Past Issues
Current Issue
Vol. 1, No. 2 September 2007
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| Crackjaw Journal |
| 1, No. 2 September 2007 |
Shining Sun by Shane O'Connor
It wasn’t until the ambulance arrived that I really began to get scared. What have I done? I thought to myself. I remember everything, yet as I sit here and actually think about it all, it was as if, during the entire thing, I had gone through some dissociative tunnel. My normal reactionary tendencies removed, I became someone… else. This pattern of behavior continued (with a slight tidal ebb and flow) through from admission to my discharge only one week ago. I guess I’ll tell you exactly what I told those nurses and paramedics: “Sorry, but I accidentally cut myself while washing dishes under some very hot, running water. A tumbler had broken off into big shards as I was scrubbing its residual insides. The inside of my right wrist, in turn, had become sliced open from one of the particularly heavy shards of the tumbler’s glass.”
I knew they wouldn’t believe me. I knew even before the paramedics arrived at my apartment what they’d think—that I was a liar and a “cutter”, a real piece of work; “another one of those babysitting jobs for the psych ward,” they’ll say to each other afterwards over coffee and sandwiches in some lunch room next to a barking dispatch office. “Pawn him off on a pink-cheeked resident. They need the experience.” As if I was some typical case study. The fuckers didn’t even know what was wrong with me. That’s why I left. I wasn’t about to tell them, either. Fuck ‘em. I tell you this, though: they seemed quite agitated at me and my “accident”. The paramedics, I mean. Both the young woman and the older gentleman (whom I presumed was very close to his retirement) cleaned me up swiftly and without hesitation, yet with routine scowls, like the way an owner cleans up the shit in the kitchen left over from his incontinent dog—performed through intolerance and disgust. I knew they didn’t believe me, because they didn’t say a thing or ask any questions, aside from, “So, bub. How’d this happen?” A shrewd, “Whatever, pal. Just hurry up and say something. So we can all go home, okay?” Oh yeah, I knew all along that they wouldn’t believe me. Would you?
I don’t know. I am sort of frightened. I’m really unsure as to whether or not I understand what it was all about — my accident, the “tests” to rule out this and eliminate that, all the doc-talk that’ll make your brain squirm, and the damn group meetings every Wednesday and Friday. God, those sessions! The annoyance became all too familiar, the content always reaching existential proportions without any considerable resolve.
“All the little houses stay the same,” one eccentric, bi-polar woman would comment about her weekend visits home, “but the people have all changed. So, do you guys ever feel as though you no longer have a home?”
“And in the evenings,” a rather tall, gaunt young man named Andrew would reveal, shuffling in his seat, “a little Mexican wrestler lives in my bottle of Tequila. He tells me what to say and do. I can’t make him stop, and I’m tired. He’s so strong and I’m so very tired.”
“So, just quit drinking, man.” suggests a newcomer.
“Dexedrine comes in little capsules. You can see the minute yellow and red balls on the transparent end, the other half layered in black. Ah, has anybody here ever taken speed?” I wasn’t paying attention to who said that, though I have indulged in the drug.
Adam, who loves baseball uniforms and the rules of that particular game, retells to the Group a dream he had, searching for meaning from the Group Mind, of a Native dressed in nothing but a loincloth and holding a hatchet. Adam met him on a familiar sidewalk as he handed Adam a rugged, homemade mug along with a wooden stick. The tall, strong Native said nothing, but smiled and walked away waving good-bye with such benevolent energy, passing from the Native and into Adam, that Adam wondered whether or not this individual was the “force unseeable” to which he was currently being haunted by inside of his own home (lights on, then off, doors and cupboards slamming shut, swinging open again), a situation that led him to check himself into this place for some respite from the paranormal. But most the Group snickered at this little dream of Adam’s. Even the group facilitator, who, by the way, always seemed terribly bored and irritable throughout these sessions, smirked at Adam’s issues. I think she was on a lot of drugs, too (or wished that she was).
Then there’s Claude with his time to speak. “All of us are closer to insanity than we’d like to believe,” he’d often say. It was like a mantra for him, that one repeating phrase, allowing his own mental infirmities to seem underplayed, almost normal at times. I guess that was his way of dealing with them, adding, “Did you know we teeter on the precipice each and every day, without realization, enshrouded by the illusion of sanity and control; a false confidence that we have figured out the predictability and explanation of things — this entire world in our coat pockets, pockets with holes torn out of them.” Claude was born somewhere in rural Quebec, owned a quite ornate set of luggage, too — up there inside that French head of his. He was in his mid-fifties, short, terribly thin; a slice of air compressed between two more layers of air. At times, during Group Discussion, the other patients would bring up the idea that perhaps Claude has some sort of eating disorder. But I don’t think he does. He simply thinks too much about what and how he should eat (which is disorderly in itself, I suppose). He is an odd fellow, indeed, harboring about four disorders that the Group knew of: Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Social Anxiety/Depression, the eating disorder (which is a manifestation, I believe, of something more severe and latent), and finally the rogue stowaway of his splintered, sinking ship: pedophilia. This last affliction he had been relapsing into, landing him in here, again, because he had indulged in his sexual deviance. He told the group many times about how he succumbed to temptation: ogling the young girls at the supermarket; skulking around town from newsstand to newsstand to peek at the teeny-boppers in the glossy magazines; and those fantasies about young girls played out through rough, frequent masturbation — hours long spent in his apartment in the dark. He shared a room with me in the hospital, and I felt comfortable, at times catching a glimmer of a different Claude. At his most authentic and brilliant he was like the shining sun: bent on saving our environment, of leaving a legacy for future generations. He donates money every month to various environmental organizations, and is also a foster parent for one of those “a cup of coffee a day, save a child” schemes. It was touching, yet comical because I’d never actually known anybody who signed up for one of those programs. The little girl whom he sponsors is from Ecuador and her name is Esmeralda. She would send him photos of herself along with crude drawings of her village colored in pale greens, hard blues and reds. Esmeralda was six years old, Claude told me. He would often let me read the letters sent by her, and while reading them I couldn’t help but think, how long will this last? When Claude dies, will the program notify her of this sudden change in financial accountability, a return to instability?
DEAR ESMERALDA-
YOUR MYSTERIOUS HERO FROM THE FAR-AWAY LAND OF RICHES AND LIBERTY IS GONE. HE IS DEAD. SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO SELECT A NEW SPONSOR WE WILL GLADLY ASSIST YOU IN YOUR EFFORTS.
SINCERELY, THE PROGRAM.
Or will she grow up healthy, strong, and beautiful, become bored of him and his warm, fuzzy, long-distance generosity, and leave her village with a handsome, young English missionary? To England she’ll settle, discovering a wonderful new life with Londoners of market fresh meaning, with her missionary (new hero) and friends, piling into little cars for quaint Sunday drives to the countryside. I don’t know, but Claude’s life was fascinating to me. At his most traumatic he resembled a timid mouse, his personality altering to a shrunken pin point so that even if you held your breath and shut your eyes, you’d still be unable to know where he was or if he was even still alive. But on his bright days he’d often tell me stories, stories about his Lilith, a French-Canadian woman who had been a romantic partner of his a few years back, and of whom he was still very close friends with. He revealed to the Group one day that she had been his “transition woman”; a physical and symbolic savior from his pedophilia. She was an appropriate and healthy outlet for his born-again psychological blossoming, the Group facilitator stated.
Lilith has a young daughter, Amelia, from a past marriage. One Friday evening after Group Discussion I went to my room and found him sitting in a chair at his desk verbalizing his entire will into a Dictaphone (his Obsessive-Compulsiveness did not allow for him to write or read very efficiently on account of the constant re-evaluating of every word he wrote or read.) He planned to leave large sums of money to environmental groups which were to be specified at a later date. He also wished to leave a chunk of his savings to Lilith and specifically to Amelia so that she would have a bright future all packaged and ready for her. That was Claude. The man I came to know. He had a huge heart and loved pretty much everything alive, always feeling and emoting; gracious for the people and the life around him. However, he admitted to us, the Group, of never being able to do enough or feel enough. Always more to do and to take care of. That’s why he desperately wanted to leave something behind; the legacy as I said, a personal footprint for others to step into and curl up in.
The last time I spoke with Claude he had already been discharged from the hospital for about a month, entered into private therapy at the University Clinic, dropped out, and was now living on his own again and working as a school bus driver. He said he acquired a new roommate, too, an American Native street kid, 21 years old and fresh from some downtown shelter. Claude took him in, trademark Claude, and had said that he and the kid were doing well together. Claude was highly intelligent, with a sweet and pounding heart, but I always got the feeling that his disorders we’re like bullies to him: always getting in the way during the important times; crowding him to claustrophobic levels until the taunting was deafening. His disorders owned him, and I can’t help but imagine how far he could’ve taken things. He would’ve conquered the world, I believe, if it weren’t for those bullies.
Shit, we are all so fucking fragile, and maybe Claude’s mantra is a poignant, overlooked truism of our modern humanity. That’s what I’ve been attempting to relay to people lately, to all of the dumb fools who work in that place I was in: that we’re all fucking nuts, and most of us will never be cured. Searching for a swift cure is like Sara and I and the love we lost: it takes two to get it back. So, if one half doesn’t show up for the party, well, you got nothing left to do but cancel. I imagine her right now, in bed listening to the rain, her thoughts blossoming into full immaturity. The gentle, jealous ideations begin again, to which another quiet bible read will follow (passages from the book of Genesis, the begat-ing of humanity at midnight). It seems to be the only way for her to validate our cob-webbed situation; cut these thoughts up into unrecognizable dust over the floor, she concludes; blow it out the window or sweep it under that space where prying guests will never think to look. But the scenes haunt her pathways: unrelenting memories of past Oriental prostitutes who welcome themselves with leech lips into her thoughts; milking her man from under wooden bar tables in secretive corners curtained by the jumping shadows from night time revellers and the spiralling smoke (this thought rubbing against the one of who gave me a loving blowjob to ‘Billie Jean’, and as the music played from the stereo distant thunder rumbled from behind our bedroom window, outside of which the evening that had lost itself in the towing clouds of a dying day had just begun to straighten its neck and shout).
From the bar she would keep watch as I sat slumped in my usual splintered chair; the porcelain faced and sinewy are at me, for me, amongst bullets of rat leavings. It frequents her head, in bed alone, feigning a restful sleep. Reminded of the smoke and rotting sperm and the smell of drugs, she can’t escape my disease, the one I refused to tell the doctors. She has become compromised to her lover’s enrapturing psychosis. An unfurling of souls…Gush!
But afterwards I feel empty, you know? I didn’t even like those women — not in that way. I often question love like a rebel rogue of the kingdom questions the good authority of his Queen: respectful, calm with a sly grin hidden behind this honest face. Many believe — as Sara hopelessly does — that love is compartmental: one enters into it with well-bordered denotation, and to cross back out is definite; a finality to which its negation — despairing hatred or the Absolute Numb — is unavoidable, a sneering and inevitable certainty. Yeah, sure, but I still do not understand Love and what It wants from us.
But these mental health pros. They’d pass by in the hallways pretending to be much saner than the rest of us. Sure, they’re polite men and women, professionals I can give them that, well-clothed in blazers, floral print dresses, and sport coats. But the whole lot of them got baby-boomer fear in their eyes and in their movements (we’re all gonna die soon. Drink soy milk and get into therapy). Of course, the younger kids, students of psychology, so well-versed in the lingo of graduate studies, they too stroll the hallways lost. Proud, naïve in their unscathed skin, high-heeled shoes, fancied hair, fake smiles chilled by endless meetings in conference room # 3 (outside of which trays of juice and muffins always sat. To walk on by during one of these meetings and lift a raspberry yogurt muffin was my solemn “up yours” to that place and those people). I didn’t belong there. Most of the others I spent time with didn’t either. I still don’t understand why they made us feel like we should be nuts — they tried with me and almost fully succeeded — or how most of us even made it that far into the mental health system to begin with. I suppose it just reflects the bull-shit college degrees they all barely earned, and the practices they hardly understand.
But back to the fear. Fear? Huh. Maybe I am afraid. One of my most effective methods of coping, after all these years, is to just sit in a chair and disappear, I’ll tell you that much. It works well in getting rid of all the fear. I can remember, even through all the chaos in our heads that went down thereafter, the way in which Sara said it: “Maybe you are afraid,” with her emphasis on me, as an individual, like she tossed that big ball of issues right back me. An emotional chest-pass. HERE! You have it! I don’t want to have to deal with it myself. Not now. I don’t have the time. But I thought it was going to be a good thing for me. Really, I did. You do it right for once, you see the illuminated front, and, God willing, you’ll follow through with it, no regrets or second, third, fourth hesitations about anything. It’s a great feeling, a tallying of giant combinatorial suggestions that gets you to that point. It’s just that, at the time I stood in my kitchen, those suggestions came cascading down to me with no regulatory filter, a hard rain from brain to unsuspecting wrist.
Oh sure, Sara was there, in the kitchen. I’m sure you’re wondering how it happened. She’d just finished saying to me about how she couldn’t, “do this anymore, Nick.” Rose, our dog, wasn’t feeling well those last few days, and Sara was thinking of moving back into her parent’s house — with them and the dog, and her horses, way up north. I didn’t say a word to her. I just walked into the kitchen and threw open the drawer, quickly withdrawing what I knew to be the sharpest, hardiest knife of the bunch. I chose the 8-inch, black-handled steak knife. I don’t even like knives, and I don’t think I’ve ever used that particular knife for anything prior to that moment. But they’re my knives and thus I knew it’d be the freshest. My original thought, as impulsive of an act as it may have seemed to everyone in the end, was to cut myself away from the wrist, up near the inside of my right forearm. But my head was swirling and popping with malevolent suggestions, way out in left field. As Sara dialled 911, and my desperation to just feel something — some emotion, any emotion — had evened off, I lifted the towel from my arm and saw what, to my conscious self, was a surprise: I had missed the forearm completely, instead cutting my wrist wide open on the inside edge; an inch-and-a-half long slit. A subconscious slip of the blade, I suppose. I saw the exposed whiteness of my tendons and how they curled back like an overcooked hotdog split open. Then the blood flowed, and I believe that was the point when I went into shock. I was lucky, the nurses later lectured, in that I just missed severing a main artery. But I knew nobody’d believe me. I hadn’t meant to do it like that. Not in such an abrupt way. I’m just not like that.
History by Ciaran Myers
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| The Cave and Other Works |
| Released July 28, 2007 |
(The LOVER is sitting among the audience, s/he speaks quietly, though still heard, at first)
LECTURER
By the time of the Roman Empire theatre had changed completely. Though the feeling of the Dionysian festival was still present, it was less of a religious event, and more of a socio-political event. Theatre evolved into the circuses that Rome was so famous for. The blood games, set up to keep the populace under patriotic hypnotism, were more than just gladiators killing each other. They also included clowns of sorts and re-enactments of religious history as well as military history.
LOVER
And I think that the Romans weren’t sure about that either.
LECTURER
Their auditoriums had highly sophisticated sets, etcetera, as well. Notice that the phrase Deus ex Machina is Latin not Greek.
LOVER
I mean, obviously you think they’re an attractive individual.
LECTURER
Roman theatre was more based on spectacle.
LOVER
Well, really, beautiful is more like. But that’s why you’re so attracted. Isn’t it?
LECTURER
Is it? Like the Greeks, the Romans were obsessed with a perfect human frame and skill and strength and image.
(At this point LOVER’s voice has become as prominent as LECTURER’s)
LOVER
Of course, it’s not like you’ve got nothing to lose. Your friendship. Pish, if I had a coin every time I told myself that. And then there’s all the other people I like. Well, I don’t always like that. But sometimes I love them. Do I? What’s this guy on about?
LECTURER
Often times, to keep the people happy, these circuses were absolutely free.
LOVER
Nevertheless, I aught to just take the plunge. Well, damn, that would screw it up. How would I do it? I don’t know. But I want to.
LECTURER
Nevertheless, they had to often-times change the show, make it more exciting. It would just be so much better.
(LOVER stands in front of aud. as a second “lecturer”)
LOVER
I would just be happy.
LECTURER
To keep the people happy the Roman theatre became more ruthless and truly a “blood sport” as they called it.
LOVER
So sexy. You just know that you’d make a hot couple. If only you could go for it. I had to make my history less a part of the show.
LECTURER
You have to start to forget your history.
LOVER
They wanted to be surprised and thrilled more than entertained, so I took the change.
LECTURER
When the Romans thought long and hard about asking someone out they would often overplay the situation.
LOVER
I’m giving them what they wanted.
LECTURER
This is Roman theatre: blood and ships and exotic carnivores.
LOVER
The circus began to outdo itself, so to speak, because it wasn’t really about the drama, and everyone knew it. It was all about getting the blood bath.
LECTURER
This just made the Romans more nervous about going in for the kill. It began to blow out of proportion.
LOVER
After I had really gone overboard with this new entertainment the church banned it.
LECTURER
The romans were running out of choices, there was the sexual plunge, a risk, the safe road, and its conscience.
LOVER
Eventually it was the Christian church that took over.
LECTURER
Theatre was banned, and no more action took place until many years later.
LOVER
So much for this one.
LECTURER
Maybe next time I’ll start off with my senses intact.
LOVER
Eventually it was the Christians who brought theatre back into the world. But that wasn’t until many years later. From this point the Romans changed completely and became a civilization without dramatic entertainment. No wonder they were destroyed from within!
Silence (Luke 19:28-40) by Ciaran Myers
Silence shutters but stands firm in its place,
It coldly compromises everything,
And though ruled by silence we are no race
Without teaching to stand our dead offspring.
We can look calamity in the face,
Injustice, artwork; and without crying
Pride be damned for a human’s saving grace.
What we missed: silence has no suffering.
Return to the ghostly Mount of Olives
Where we were once told to stop and be calm.
Ask, how much more now do we love our lives?
Now hear the stones cry so urgent a song
That I respond to cry out alone
Because nature’s scar pangs now rattle stone!
The Plague of the Soul by J.S. Longstreet
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| Bubblegum Wishes |
| To be released |
| September 30, 2007 |
Lurking, churning, like seedy discarded oil into a pond, dark shadows formed eerie silhouettes across the night sky. Whirling, in an endless continuity, the shapeless wonder began a slow descent to the world below. It paid no mind, for it had none, to the unsubstantial existence of Unreality surrounding. Perhaps this shape of dark blackness, which shimmered at some moments and appeared transparent at others, was designed not by the gods but by nature. None could say, as none could see it. Though it oozed in a dazed purposeful manner towards the ground, none seemed to take heed. From whence did this foul presence originate? Perhaps an abyss of distorted personification would be a likely home; where it might excite activity by melting to and fro between fellow shadow creatures. Nevertheless, downward our demon wandered.
It came to pass a forest of deep green. Grasping words of local tongue, the mass of darkness may come to know this as the Black Forest of Cake; though alas, this trivial fact remained eluded. The pure point of interest seemed slightly more significant. It was a small girl, playing idly with her doll. The girl was innocently devoid of apparent realization that she would soon be in danger.
Pressing aside a loose bang of her braided brown hair, the little girl announced that tea would be served. Perhaps Ms. Dolly might enjoy a biscuit as well? Oh indeed so, Samantha.
The blob of ever-moving slosh of a creature sat mid-air watching this peculiar little child and her doll. A little ways away, setting up a picnic atop what was known as Blueberry Hill (a name to which the dark creature remained oblivious), the child’s parents had little clue of the terrible fate to await their cheerful little tyke.
Mishap and disaster befalls the ignorant. Had her parents been remotely concerned for their daughter’s health and wellbeing, they might have researched enough to know the dangers that lurk within Black Forest of Cake’s dark walls of pine. Naturally, no form of investigation could educe the shapeless form of creature we have come to know.
Long drawn moments came to a bitter end, when, as if sifting sands were falling into a funnel, the blackness swirled into Samantha’s nostrils.
The little girl gave a sudden gasp of breath, a terrified hiccup. Ms. Dolly crashed with a tumble onto the grass. Samantha fell back, spread-eagle and misconstrued. Her body seemed to misinterpret how it should be unconscious. However, after a moment passed, Samantha’s eyelids opened in a single motion. One moment they were closed, as if she had fainted, the next second they were alive. Her beautiful blue eyes were turned into a swirling thunderstorm of the grayest cloud. The occasional lightning would spark across the spinning chasm that melted into a black oblivion.
Like a fallen marionette puppet, Samantha pulled her limbs together and stood. Her stance was awkward: bow-legged, sagging shoulders, and limp at the waist. That moment, her mother decided to call, “Lunch is ready, dear!”
At once, Samantha found herself replying, “Coming, mum!” For a second, her words sounded hollow, and diluted, but no one seemed to notice. She grabbed Ms. Dolly and ran towards her parents. Each step was like new, though her balance, stride and posture improved with every footfall. When at last she had joined the parents, Samantha appeared as she always was. No one noticed the pools of blackness in her eyes. No one can see these kinds of things.
No one ever expects it.
The Unforgivable by J.S. Longstreet
Outside was a sea of endless drizzle. It wasn’t the kind of rain you’d like to see. It was that sort of rain that was likely to say, if it had a voice, “I’m just not in the mood, so sorry.” A nice downpour would be perfect. Something that soaked you to the skin, driving cold chills into your bones. Something like that, or maybe hail. At any rate, the current weather was not helping Laura’s mood. She would give anything to see a clap of thunder, or even some oppressive winds if it could be managed.
Those were her thoughts at the moment. If stepping into the Laura Thought Centre meant life or death, then it definitely meant death. Her eyes burned with rage as she sat there, arms crossed, staring out onto the city of Toronto. Yonge Street had never been so offensive to her before now. It was all his fault, too.
That low life had never been so infuriating before today. Before he told her the Truth. Steve and she had practically shared wedding vows, it had been so long now. And then this pops up?
“Hun, I’m sorry…” Steve Bates attempted from behind her, near the doorway. Even though he couldn’t see her eyes, he could feel the anger radiating from her tight bun of red hair.
She suddenly stood up, feeling that if the weather couldn’t thunderclap then she would. “Don’t you ‘Hun’ me, you inconsiderate jerk!” Dark green eyes were seemingly fire red at the moment. And nothing, not even her mental thunderstorm, was going to put that blaze to rest. “How long has it been? How the hell could you do this?”
Steve felt like he was shrinking. It had been so great while it lasted, but he hated this sort of thing. If it’d been up to him, Laura would never have found out. Though, he knew she would. She’s Laura Bristol, after all. An investigative reporter. A vixen in the sack too. Yeah, never a dull moment when things went sexual with her. And that, sadly, was his problem.
One night at the bar had turned into a week. A week into a month, and before he knew it, he’d been cheating on her for two years. It became so damn addictive.
“I—” Steve tried, but faltered. He felt two inches tall and an idiot. But, he had tried to tell her, hadn’t he? It was just that every opportunity he that came was suddenly snatched away by hot sex. There’s no denying it, Steve fucked up. But, was he man, or mouse? “I wanted to tell you…”
Mouse, he decided.
“Ohhh, wanted to! Well that makes it all right! How long? How long have you been seeing that hussy?” Laura growled.
Man. “Don’t call my wife a hussy!”
“WIFE?!”
OK… Mouse. A very, very stupid mouse.
“What the hell do you mean, wife?” Laura was advancing fast on Steve’s shrinking figure.
“I-I-Look, it’s … Look…” he tried again, massaging his neck nervously. “…this is… Look…” Steve wrung his hands a couple of times, wishing that metaphorical cat would let go of his damn tongue. “You see…”
“You’ve lied to me about having a wife?” It wasn’t a question. The storm in Laura’s brain had turned blizzard. She took a deep breath. “Get the fuck out. Get out, and don’t say a word. I’m certain this Helen chick will be saying the same to you too soon. Or, at least I hope she will.” Laura crossed her arms and nodded expectantly at the door.
Steve left, tail between his legs, and meekly closed the door behind him. Women… he was so helpless against them. Sexually attracted to them, and subservient on top of that. It was a problem, he decided, and maybe he needed help. Or perhaps that was just an excuse to feel better about this.
Behind him, in the apartment, Laura secretly prayed for a downpour, hoping it would make him very wet and maybe give him hypothermia. The dick deserved it.
This was unforgivable.
Run Aground by Erik Mortensen
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| Avenging Abe |
| Released November, 2006 |
Vol. 1
This story is dedicated to Joshua Wolfe-Maxwell
The Orcha sat moored on the on the beach of the island. The two halves of its wooden hull were reminiscent of a corpse rotting in the desert. The ship had once been one of the most feared pirate vessels, but no longer. It had been two weeks since the ship had crashed on the island during a terrible storm. Of a crew of over fifty; only fifteen were still alive, and most were as battered as the ship itself.
The crew had no idea where the island was and, from all their exploration, they could discern it was deserted. The island was small in size; they could walk across it in a day. The edges were beach and the center was full of rocky hills and formations surrounded by a forest of palm trees. Most of the valuable supplies had been lost. All that the crew had left were their personal weapons and tools; and these were few and far apart.
The crew had banded together to search the island and had found a small fresh water pond in the forest. For food they had been primarily surviving on coconuts, but they managed to catch a couple seagulls and grab some washed up fish as well. Life on the island was boring—very boring—for this crew of miscreants. Their boredom led them to explore and wander the island at great length, and this exploration led to a discovery—a discovery that would change the fate of those on the island forever. However, before the discovery is talked about, the crew left on the island should be introduced.
There was Captain Delavega, a fearsome sea dog as there ever was. He had a large red beard, and his hair was hidden beneath a large black captain’s hat he had taken from a British captain he’d killed. He had a large and battle-worn cutlass hanging at his side, and his one leg ended with a wooden peg for a foot. He may not have been able to move fast, but his cunning more than made up for it.
Then there was the first mate Snidley, a currying favor weasel. He had an unusually large nose, and his eyes were stuck in a permanent squint from looking out at the horizon and sun from the crow’s nest. The only thing he had with him was a telescope. He wore a blue bandana on his head, and his clothes were tattered and torn.
The newest member of the crew, Armand had also survived the storm. He had curly black hair and was unshaven. He had been a sailor on a Spanish Man of War that the Orcha had raided. Armand had turned on his own shipmates and helped the pirates claim the prize, of which he got a handsome piece. He had a saber at his side and was known for being agile and quick.
Armand had his eye on another member of the crew, Kristol, another of the survivors. She had joined the crew from the West Coast of Africa and had a remarkable love for violence. She had long braided hair and an agile and athletic body to match Armand’s. She had two pistols and a horn of powder for additional shots.
Mad Dog was another of the survivors and, since getting stuck on the island, he had gone mad. Perhaps it was from the heat, or malnourishment, or maybe he’d just gone stir crazy. He had originally been given the name for charging into fights senselessly and, since his face was as attractive as a pit bull’s, Mad Dog had become a suitable name. He wore a red bandana on his head and had absolutely no supplies or tools of his own. Upon arriving on the island he had found a long stick and carried it with him since.
Janto was another of the survivors. He had joined the crew in Jamaica. He was muscular and wore a tattered vest. His hair was put into dreadlocks and he had a machete at his side. Although Janto had the abilities that go with brawn, he preferred to use brain. His cunning wasn’t comparable to Captain Delavega’s, but it wasn’t far behind. Janto also had his own little group of ruffians on board, some of whom survived the storm.
Demano was one of this group. He was also from Jamaica and proclaimed to have the skills of a voodoo witch doctor. He always wore a peculiar grin and a black cap. He had a small knife with him and a bag of chicken bones. He was seen as odd and filled the crew with uneasiness, except Rossel.
She was a French woman on the crew who had great interest in Demano. It was not a romantic interest but a curiosity of a new culture and the dark arts of voodoo. She had long red hair which was put into ringlets and she wore a now-ruined dress. She used her sex as her greatest weapon and also to get her way. Other crew members would also give a fair portion of their loot for her company. She, of all things, managed to secure for herself a hatchet from what was left of the supplies, and attached herself to Janto’s group.
The other members of the group were Ramsay and Duboco, both of who were freed slaves. They had become free when a merchant vessel was attacked by the Orcha. The ship was carrying slaves, and Ramsay and Duboco were among them. Janto had freed them during the fight, and they had stuck by him ever since. They were large and far from bright, but they knew how to fight, and after the crash the two had made spears from tree branches. These were weapons to which they were much more accustomed.
The remaining five survivors were all members of a fighting group on the ship called the Dead Eyes. They were a group of gunmen with excellent aim. They rarely missed, if ever, but not all of their little squad survived. Their leader, Jacob, did and so did Rufus, his good friend. They all dressed in patched together uniforms of random navies they had encountered. None of them were very smart or strong, but they could all shoot, and they all had stealth. They had also managed to secure a musket and a horn of powder.
This rag tag band of people is what formed the last living members of the crew of the Orcha. Since being beached on the island two weeks ago the group had formed a camp in the clearing inside the forest. They had erected some crude shelters of palm leaves. They had also gathered a stack of wood to build fires. During the day some of the crew gathered food, water and wood while the others explored. It was Armand’s exploration that led to the fateful discovery.
It was in the afternoon that a group was exploring the rocky hills in the island’s center. The group consisted of Armand, Janto, Jacob, Kristol, Snidley and Captain Delavega. Armand was walking up a rocky incline when the rocks started to slide and move. Then a section of the hill collapsed revealing a tunnel leading into the hill.
“What was that sound,” Captain Delavega shouted.
“The ground giving way,” Armand replied. Soon the rest of the exploration group had gathered around the cave entrance.
“Who wants to go in first?” Janto asked.
“Well, Jacob has the gun,” said Snidley, looking shiftily at the others.
“Kristol has two,” Jacob shot back. Armand looked at her, concerned.
“You’re all a bunch of cowards,” she retorted.
“I’m going in the lead with her,” Armand added.
“No,” barked Captain Delavega, “I’ll go in first. No one calls me a coward.”
The whole group started moving slowly through the cave, keeping their hands along its rough rocky surface as a guide. They could hear the echo of all their footsteps, especially the captain’s peg leg. They continued down the dark of tunnel until it opened into a large chamber. Even though the chamber was dark, they could make out large dark heaps. In the small amount of light that there was they could see some gold coins glowing.
Janto walked over to the heap and grabbed a handful from the dark. He moved into the light and opened his hand. He revealed that his hand was full of gold coins. Kristol looked at the contents of Janto’s palm with wide eyes.
“There’s a fortune,” she said.
“Yes, indeed there is,” said the captain, twisting his fingers in his beard. He looked over to Snidley, who just licked his lips and pocketed a piece of gold.
“What do we do with it?” asked Jacob.
“What we do best. We steal it,” replied Janto.
“And go where with it? How are we supposed to get it off this island?” Armand asked.
“We’ll get off here eventually,” replied Snidley.
“As soon as we repair the ship or build an alternative means of transport,” said the captain.
“The sun will be going down soon. We had best get out of this cave and head back to camp.” The rest of the group nodded to Captain Delavega, and they all started back out of the tunnel with one last longing glance towards the gold. As they started on their way down to the rocky hillside the captain put his hand on Snidley’s shoulder and held him back.
“Stay here, we have things to discuss.”
“What’s that, Captain?”
“Well Snidley, the way I see it, why share the treasure if there is no need? That storm cost me an awful lot and lost me most of my crew. It would seem more to my advantage to take the gold for myself and be able to secure a new crew for a new ship. If we work together and eliminate the rest of the crew we’ll both walk away much richer men. I’ll give you a quarter of the gold, and you’ll still be my first mate.”
Snidley wrung his hands around the telescope.
“You’ve got a deal, Captain. Who do we start with, for eliminating the competition?”
“Well,” replied the captain, “I believe I won’t be the only one of the crew thinking to have the gold for myself. Therefore we let the monstrous animals take out themselves, and we’ll take care of whoever is left.”
“A genius plan, Captain.”
“Let’s go up higher, Snidley, see what your telescope can pick up on the camp.”
While the captain and Snidley were climbing up the rock formations, the rest of the group arrived back at the camp. Janto had immediately gone back to his group, and Jacob went to the Dead Eyes. Kristol went to sit by the fire, and Armand gave a quick look around before he went to sit by her.
“Nice night,” he said.
“Let’s not go through a bunch of pointless banter. You find me attractive, and you want to be with me but I am not Rossel. I will not be your whore.”
“You misunderstand. You are right. I find you attractive but I do not want you to be my whore. I want you to trust me, I want you to be my partner.”
“A partner?”
“Yes, Kristol. A partner in trade and a partner in love.”
Kristol laughed, “You Spaniards are good with your words.”
Meanwhile, Janto and Jacob had been talking to their group, and it seems they were plotting about the treasure. Captain Delavega had been right, and both groups were looking at each other shiftily to see if either group were moving toward their weapons. Armand and Kristol were just sitting in the middle. They began to feel the tension growing in the air. They realized just in time that the two groups were going for their weapons.
Armand and Kristol both jumped from the fire pit and into the forest as the Dead Eyes grabbed their guns. They began to lift them to fire, and Ramsay and Duboco both threw their spears at them to stall their shooting. The spears landed in front of them and, as soon as they had realigned their shot, Janto and his group had disappeared into the forest. The group fired a volley into the woods, and then they took off into the palms as well.
To Be Continued
Look for Volumes 2 and 3 in future issues of Crackjaw Journal
A Mundane Secret, Interrupted by Nick Zacharewicz
“It’s really a shame that he had to go like that. It was so sudden.”
“Yeah, I know. He didn’t even see that forklift coming. And then it was just all over. He didn’t even work there.”
“I think that’s what they call irony.”
His form crumples as the words set in.
“Hey, sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. He definitely wouldn’t have wanted us this way.”
He groaned. “You’re right, Mel. You’re right. Absolutely. But he’s gone. He’s gone, and he didn’t even say goodbye.” No tears come, but his posture betrays his emotion all the same.
“Well, anyway. I guess we’ve got to go through all of this stuff. That is why we’re here, after all.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I suppose.” He swings himself upwards and puts his hands onto his hips. “Well then. Let’s tear into this.”
“Yup, let’s.”
The two walk into the room where things have already been set aside and boxes brought in. They set to work organizing and straightening things out, setting them all gently into the boxes. Each object holds a memory, and the placing of each is an exercise in mourning. But Mel smiles. It’s only John who goes about with a heavy head and a sober mood.
Thankfully smiling is infectious; eventually John cheers and then his movements become lighter. He reminisces with Mel about all the times he and Keith had shared together, how they met in high school and from that religion class onward had held a fairly tight bond. They were roommates. Well, had been roommates, and for about two years. Almost two years it was. But, it is now cut short.
Amid the words and the reflections and memories, the work becomes less tedious, and soon John barely notices the efficiency with which he works. Mel is keeping a steady pace, and slowly the room is emptying into the boxes. At long last they come to the last item that needs to be stored. It is the old and tattered backpack that Keith always carried.
“He’d been using that since high school. I remember when he first got it and couldn’t stop himself from going off on theorizations of why the capacity was measured in litres instead of volume. Frank would always chime in to remind him that litres and cubic measurements were the same. Keith never was good at advanced math…”
“Well, that would explain why he was majoring in English. Not so much math involved in reading books. Except for figuring out how many more pages there are to the end.”
John releases a short laugh. “Yeah.” A moment of vigil silence passes between them. “Well, we’d better find a place for this.” He reaches for the pack and lifts it. His arm stops short from bringing it clear from the ground when he realizes that it’s a little heavier than it should be.
“Is there something in there?”
“It,” he hoists it, tests its weight, “feels like it.”
“I wonder what it could be.” Keith looks up at her when he hears her words, and they meet with their eyes. His plead to stand on ceremony. But hers pry, hoping to break into a treasure store.
“I don’t think it really matters. Besides, this is practically Keith’s locker. I don’t think anyone but his folks should see what’s inside. Maybe after we could ask… and then sate that curiosity of yours.”
“Maybe.” Mel looks around the room. Utter emptiness, save for them and their boxes. “But I don’t think we have enough box space for a whole pack.” She takes a few steps forward.
“No. We really can’t.” John jerks the bag aside and then sets it down.
“Well, what about just a peek. Say, in the front pocket. Nothing too big could be in there, could it? Aren’t you just a little curious?”
John’s eyes leap from the backpack to Mel and then back again. “He always carried this mystique about him. But…”
She sidles nearer, then stands up straight, and launches a look to John from a few feet away.
“But that would change who he was for me. I liked the mystique. The quirkiness. Besides, it’s only a backpack.”
“It was only a backpack. Now it’s like a time capsule. What about all those famous dead people you study? What’s the difference between this and that? Either way you’re prying.”
“Yeah, but… well, that’s prying on a mass scale. So it’s okay, but this isn’t. It feels weird.” He sets the pack down as if it is suddenly alive in his hands. It falls onto its front, and a small rectangular prism slides out across the floor.
“Hey, what’s that?” John is woken from his reverie.
Mel fearlessly picks it up and examines it. “Huh. It looks like some sort of present. Wrapped up in comics… how like Keith.”
“Whoa! Hey… careful.”
“Don’t worry, I’m just looking it over. I wonder who it could’ve been for?”
“I don’t think that really matters – just be careful with it. Wait, just put it back. The pack doesn’t need a box, anyway.”
“But there’s not even a label. It doesn’t look like it’s been written on at all. Feels a bit like a book, but what sort of book could be so small?”
“Hey now, just, just put it back. Hand it to me.”
A small noise of disappointment escapes her. “Fine.” John deftly takes the prism and then places it neatly back through a hole. “Alright then. Our work here is done.”
“Yeah, we might as well go. Just keep the boxes to one side. We still need to work out the details of getting all this to his parents.”
“Right.”
The two move the boxes against the wall nearest the door and then click the light off and leave the room.
“Yeah, that does explain a lot. Why it was such an unexpected way to go.” The vision faded, and the airy setting returned as the silent voice boomed in his ears. He still couldn’t believe that the roads were paved with gold here. It took some squints for his eyes to re-adjust.
Impenetrable silence shouted into the boy’s chest.
“Well, still, wouldn’t you just be able to, like, change it; having so much foresight and such? Or did you somehow miss this detail?”
The same sound throbbed in his head, but he felt fine.
“Oh. Well, yeah, I guess that would make things a little boring. Anyway, I’m here now, and so no doubt you want to know about that gift. Just who it was for and everything. Even though you’re supposed to know that too.”
It ignored his last comment. The silent shout reverberated back to his chest, where it sounded like another heart beating beside his own.
“Well, I’d really like to tell you but. The thing is…”
The noise of a chess piece scraping across the board before a game-ending move echoed through his chest.
“Well, I don’t even know. I never had time enough to decide.”
Revolutionary Without a Cause by Norman Dubeski
 |
| The Master of God’s Domain |
| Released May 26, 2007 |
Mother died yesterday. Or it could have been today. Scorpio would have to read the paper to find out. He put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the street. A few olive-drab lorries ground past, shaking with dust and sputtering diesel fumes. They were all heading to the north with their loads. Scorpio supposed that the trucks were part of the mopping-up operations. Every time a truck faded away into the gloomy horizon another would appear from the opposite direction. Scorpio paused to consider the drivers. Were they those who just followed orders, or did they believe in what they were doing? If every man had a choice whether to do what he was doing in war and revolution, would he still do it? Scorpio had difficulty with the question. He always had free will. As far as he knew, he always had a choice. True, most of the choices he had were poor and marginal, but he always chose, and he always had made those decisions himself. Making decisions was something one had to always do or to never bother. Part of the reason why Scorpio was a squad leader in Mother was that he could be counted on to make a decision, some decision, no matter what the emergency. His decisions were not always world beaters, but he always had kept things moving. And now, from what he could see of unarmed and unescorted heavy trucks moving unconcerned up the street, things were moving well for his enemies and had come to a stop for himself.
Mother had been the name of the last counterattack. The movement had been on the defensive for more than a year in its operations against the powers-that-be, in general, and the local Michigan army, in particular. Over the last two weeks the movement gave its all, and had attacked with all of its manpower. They had blown up buildings and bridges, they had seized control of several radio stations, and they had come out of the hills to fight in the shantytowns and ‘burbs. They had been too weak to defend themselves against the army, so they had fought it out in the streets in one last desperate battle to try to rekindle their once popular following and civilian support. Scorpio had approved of the decision, and had done his part. He had bombed three buildings, observed troop movements, and couriered information; anything for the cause. Their attack had come to a halt as soon as they entered the shantytowns. The army helicopters and armored cars had kept them pinned from behind, and the expected popular rebellion had never materialized. At the end of about three weeks of heavy fighting, Mother was over, and so was this revolution.
He paused on the edge of the street like some homeless beggar. He stood there empty-handed, face expressionless. He watched the trucks roll by, and once in a while he saw an ambulance or a command car. No one paid him any heed. He supposed all the personnel were smoking out the last of the rebels and cleaning up the rubbish of war. Here he was, standing on the side of the street in the dawn, watching the vehicles with unconscious precision. He had been in one cause or another ever since leaving university. This revolution had been the cause of his life for the last seven years. Now, at the age of thirty-three, the cause he had fought for was over, and there was nothing left. He was a squad leader of the movement and a high-level courier. No doubt the security forces wanted him dead or alive, and here he was standing by himself, unarmed, at the edge of the street. He felt he could just dash forward into the street, knock on the doors of the trucks, and introduce himself as a public enemy. Even if he was not Public Enemy #1, with the high mortality rate of public enemies, he should be up in the high teens by now. He wondered if any of his superiors were still alive. If they were, his concomitant duty was to rendezvous with them and fight on to the bitter end. If they were not, he knew not what to do. He had not had to make a decision like that since he had graduated from university and started joining all the causes.
So, this was SaltSpit of the independent and decidedly unrevolutionary state of Michigan. The plan had been to liberate Michigan from the people who ran it now, put in a new group of leaders, and then use the resources of the people of Michigan to liberate the surrounding states of MidWest, Manitoba, and Minnesota. The government of Michigan had to be overthrown and stopped before they began a war and infected the rest of this section of North America with their elitist brand of ideology, whatever it was. Now, Mother was dead, the movement was over, and Michigan was back being old Michigan, full of burned out suburbs, crumbling factories, and army trucks. So, where in SaltSpit Michigan could a failed revolutionary get himself a drink?
SaltSpit had its silent factories, boarded-up homes, and its unkempt lawns. It was probably as safe at night as it was in the day, as all dangerous people were busy fighting each other anyway. People still worked here and there, tending vegetable gardens, selling biscuits and coffee, and hammering away in workshops and tool sheds. SaltSpit could have been anyplace in North America in this era, and probably was.
He went out towards a more built-up section of this part of town. The power was still out, and the tall buildings were dark. As he passed into the narrow street, the sky above him and the highway behind him gained in illumination. Dawn was breaking.
Scorpio walked down the street, glancing at the boarded-up shops and homes. So, this is where people who did not support the revolution lived. Here were the little kennels and stalls of the oppressed masses. Scorpio bore them no love. If the movement had succeeded, they would have liberated the oppressed masses. He was willing to risk killing them all to do it.
Some revolutionaries might claim they did what they did out of love for the masses and the little children everywhere. Scorpio knew better. One did not sit behind a sniper’s scope in a burned out skyscraper in the middle of winter shooting at anything that moved on the streets below, day after day, without a shave or a place to shit out of love for little children. One did not blow up power stations and throw hand grenades into crowds out of love for humanity. Scorpio was a professional. He had his faults, but naiveté was not one of them. When he inserted pipe bombs into heating ducts and gas mains he only paused a moment each time to consider the effects it might have on children or humanity. One fought a revolution on hate. Hate was stronger than love, but it was not the only game in town. Win with hate, and then maybe the love will come in later. Maybe, maybe not, but one did not win with love, and one fought in a movement to win.
Maybe he loved people in general, as long as they stayed out his way. At some level, at some distance, people looked pretty good. But up close, they all looked disturbingly the same in their ugliness and petty vicious day-to-day demands and sneers. If you got close enough to any man you would see his stubble and old scars. He fought in revolutions because he wanted to make a better world and because it was the right thing to do. One had to do what was right, after all. If more people did that, there would be fewer civilians and little children getting caught in the crossfire. If the oppressed masses stopped taking it from their leaders and followed the orders of the revolutionaries, there would finally be that great revolution. Then, after a series of other revolutions and wars, there would be peace, final peace. Then there would be no more need for violence. Until then, one had to keep his hatred honed to the bone.
A policeman walked past him, and they nodded at each other. Scorpio scarcely noticed him. He barely saw the stubbled face, old cap and sweat, and dusty blue uniform and the flash of faded eyes. He had committed numerous acts of treason which would bring the death sentence, but here in the streets at dawn he was just another anonymous face padding out his empty life. Scorpio shuddered after the policeman passed. It was not the thought of being arrested that gave him a chill, it was the thought that maybe indeed, without his membership in a particular group, he was just another faceless blur in the crowd.
He found a little café that was open with the dawn. He stepped down the stairs and ordered coffee. The lights were still off, but they were heating coffee and grits on an old coal stove in the back. Scorpio paid for coffee and a bun and gave a small tip. He sat at the window in full view of the street and read the old newspapers from the previous day.
The papers were a mixed bag, but Scorpio was a trained information gatherer. The Workers’s Gazette of the first week in June 2057 had nothing of consequence, except tips on how to avoid crossfire shootings and reminders about the next gardening festival. This meant that they had hedged their bets but were willing to go along with the government without any protest. The SaltSpit Carrion for June 3 was a little more lively. It had editorial cartoons about truth and justice being shot down in the streets but was careful not to single out the Michigan government. As Scorpio sat there, a newspaper deliveryman came through, and Scorpio bought a fresh one. He liked the touch of fresh uncrinkled newsprint. He slid his fingers over the recycled paper and thought back to the times when newspapers were housed in new office buildings and were their own voices. He pondered the news and smoothed this paper, reading the date of June 5th, 2057 with a brief stab of professional pride for how long he had survived. The Globe was a little more forthcoming and detailed than the others. Victory had been declared in a previous issue, and the newspaper was turning its attention to more mundane issues. The prospects of any reemergence of the former revolutionary group was nil. Scorpio noted with interest that all of his superiors had been accounted for. The security forces were still looking for the last of the revolutionaries, but they did not expect trouble. There were rewards, but they were not expected to be claimed.
So, the revolution was over. The revolution was over, long live the revolution. That being dispensed with, what to do?
He read the newspaper. If the movement was over, it was over. He had to find something new. What other cause could use his skills? He found only a few leads. The Anti-Vivisectionists were still recruiting. They probably could use someone who could plan commando-style “liberations” of captive animals, but times had been unkind. Today, people were more likely to eat animals they stole. Animal “liberations” did not go further than the next stewpot. In the 20th century, back when people cared about human rights and health care, Scorpio remembered that scientists used to experiment on animals to test hairspray and cosmetics. Now, no one was likely to experiment on them with anything more demanding than a new recipe. If they wanted to test weapons, they used human beings. Only in the 20th century did they care so much about human beings that they used animals rather than political prisoners for product testing.
Jobs were scarce. Scorpio could see that only the multilevel marketers were hiring and then only for munitions. Causes were scarcer. The Peace Nuts were open to new volunteers, but they probably did not want someone with his job description.
He studied the news article about organized labor. The unions were always a possibility. Sometimes they fought in the criminal gang wars and sometimes they protested against the government. But in general, the unions were an idea, a slogan, and a century too late. Scorpio shook his head in dismissal. Plus, he looked bad in overalls.
The government was hiring informers, but that was a dead end. The only person left that Scorpio could inform on was himself, and the government did not reflect any cause in particular, merely its own interests. The government spent most of its time finding ways to avoid acknowledging that it did not have any agenda. Some people always accused the government of having a hidden agenda. If so, it was the last who wanted to know.
Now, what to do? Scorpio looked for news articles and mentions of any of the old revolutionary movements. There always had been causes. What had happened to them? With the territorial disintegration of most of North America into petty independent states in the 21st century, proper ideology had begun to fade as its separate threads were cut up into different splinter groups. There were Native bands who fought with machine guns around their gleaming casinos to defend their ancestral rights. There were Marxists, but they were all fighting each other, and their leadership was nodding off due to old age. All the independence groups had already achieved independence, and all anti-establishment groups had either become the establishment or had faded away. The last cause he was in was the last big cause in this part of North America to attempt a full-scale liberation of the people. What to do?
He had to find a group. He had been in a group ever since university. Even there he had been one of the student leaders, always safe in the anonymity of a group on demand. Leaders gave orders, but groups gave causes. He needed a group to give him recognition of his special talents. He needed a group to mourn for him after he died, and to continue the fight for the cause he had died fighting for. Not only did he need a group, even more so, he needed a cause. A man without a purpose was rudderless in an unpredictable sea. Without a purpose, he would be indeed just another Joe or Mac on the street, delivering fruit and scratching his neck.
The idea of doing nothing with whatever remained of the rest of his life was too horrifying to contemplate. He had to do something. He had to keep the fight going, if not in the movement, then in something else. He had to fight for the overall cause of improving the world.
More pedestrians were on the street. A few more people came into the cafeteria. With a thud and a thump the power came on. The radio came on, and the neon signs flickered into life. The tired people in the shop smiled and nodded to each other, and then their faces became nondescript unemotional billboards again. Scorpio figured that maybe one of his pipe bombs at the power plant had not accomplished its objective. Still, the power was welcome news, now that the question of the revolution was moot. He would get a hot meal and maybe a wash later on.
He got up, left the café, and climbed back up onto the street. He would go to The Swill and have a few beers. He glanced at the bright sky. It promised to be a hot day. He would want to be in a dark cool room today. The Swill had an air conditioner built back in the days of the early 21st century when people built things to last. The bartender was a friend of Scorpio’s insofar as he was a friend of every man who paid in cash and who harbored a private unease.
Scorpio made his way down the street and cut into an alley between the automotive repair yards. He crossed several avenues, and then headed down through the waste land of burned-out homes. From this point on the hill he had a view of the highway in the distance in front of him and one of the local police stations off to the side. There were plenty of cars on the street now, and shops were opening up.
In a big industrial lot to his left, cranes were stacking old cars for a giant crusher. An armed guard slouched and smoked while a dozen workers in stained overalls moved disassembled old junk into salvageable parts and moved what could not be used again to the crusher. Scorpio paused for a moment and watched. The regular crunching sounds were like comforting little explosions, the tear of metal like distant screams, and everything was yet orderly, all so familiar. He put sentiment behind him and got going down the alley.
He heard a whistle. He turned. A man slid out from the shadows between two fences. He recognized Jonathan. Jonathan had been a member of the movement. He had been a courier as well, and Scorpio had known him for years. He was one of the few members of the movement that Scorpio genuinely could never come to like.
Jonathan was his age and dressed in nondescript dark clothes that allowed him to blend into the shadows. Now that it was a bright morning, he looked out of place, like a mourner at a wedding. He had the air of a rat coming out from the narrows into sunlight for the first time.
“Got a match, bub?” Jonathan asked.
“Got a light. Got a cigarette?”
“Naturally.” Scorpio received the mandatory cigarette and lit the one his acquaintance held.
Jonathan laughed. “Long time no see!”
“Now that the formalities are over, what the hell are you doing?”
Jonathan glanced around on either side to make sure they were not being observed, a motion almost designed to attract attention. “Guess you heard the news?” He watched Scorpio’s impassive face for some recognition and feeling.
“Come on, didn’t you hear that the movement was crushed?”
It was interesting that Jonathan seemed to be a little gleeful. It was also significant that after three weeks of heavy fighting Jonathan had not a single mark on him. “I hear many things,” Scorpio said. “What do you want to know, and what do you know?”
“It looked like everything went badly as soon our side entered the cities. They got wiped out at once. It was a real butt-kicking. I did my job, and I was lucky to be alive.” Scorpio said nothing, and Jonathan continued in a rush. “I followed my orders to the letter and kept out of the main fray. I didn’t see the point of throwing my life away once I saw how it was going.” He paused nervously. “I guess you felt the same way?”
“You didn’t even do anything?”
“Hey, I was just following orders. I was told to watch. Then the orders stopped coming. I kept watching, and waited for a contact. Nothing happened.”
“Not surprised. It was a little hairy. We were getting hit left and right. I made contact with the observers in my section and headquarters, but everyone was getting picked off one by one."
“So,” Jonathan said, almost cheerfully, looking around in the sunlight and blinking, “what are you doing now?”
Scorpio made his decision. “I’m off to get a drink.” He smiled. “Why don’t you join me?”
Jonathan’s face lit up. “Sure! Be like old times.”
“Of course.”
Scorpio resumed walking, and Jonathan joined him. Scorpio chose a winding path between the burned out buildings and the tall wooden and chain fences. It kept them from being observed by anyone for more than a moment. No one can be invisible, and no one can avoid being spotted. The trick of suburban infiltrators was not to be spotted by anyone for long enough to be recognized at once for what they were and not to be recognized much later as specific persons should they be seen again. Scorpio did not look around but kept his face pleasant and noncommittal. “So, what do you think of doing now?”
“Now? I don’t know,” Jonathan said quickly. “I have a few things opening up. I’m looking for a new organization to join.” He laughed. “Hey, I hear the government’s recruiting informers!”
“Read it,” Scorpio said, with a brief glance on Jonathan’s pale smiling face.
“Anything else?”
“No, not that I would do anything like that, but we really got to think carefully and put our heads together over what we are going to do next. Should we head off to the rear headquarters to see if anyone in the movement survived? I guess that is what we are supposed to do, but I don’t know even where it is.”
Scorpio grunted. “You won’t find anyone there. They all got hit at the forward H.Q. As far as I know, I could be the only squad leader left, and there ain’t none of the seniors left at all.”
“Still, it would be nice to go there and see for ourselves,” Jonathan said. “I would like to know for sure.” He glanced at Scorpio a couple of times. “Just to do our duty, you know?”
“Duty is duty,” Scorpio said.
“Then where is it?”
“I ain’t telling you. If you had to know, you’d know.”
“You are going to quote regulation at a time like this? The last of the gang is being rounded up. We have got to get out of this town and find if anyone else has survived!”
“I’m sure, but you’re not the one to do it.”
They were coming up close to behind the big blockhouse which was the bar.
“What do you mean? Come on, I need to know how to get out of here!”
Scorpio said nothing for a moment. He glanced at the sun halfway up into the sky. Soon it was going to be hot enough for a Hemingway novel. He always felt a little exposed in bright sunlight; ideology and plotting always seemed to go better in the gloom. Scorpio and Jonathan quickened their steps until they were in the shadows again, and they paused behind the cement and brick walls.
“You don’t need to know, so you don’t. We can’t compromise security.”
“Damn security! We’re all doomed if we don’t escape from here! We got to escape and save ourselves.”
“No, we got to keep our heads down and find a way to rekindle the movement.”
“What?” Jonathan gasped incredulously.
“We have suffered a setback. We will keep our heads down. We regroup the way we were supposed to. When I know more, I will find you. That’s the way it has always been.”
“You call this a setback? Nearly everyone’s dead! We have got to get out of here before the security forces find us!”
“Our lives are really not the important thing, Jonathan. We have made our commitment to the cause and the movement. I am not giving up now.”
“Fuck that! We are beaten, and we got to escape. If we don’t know where the rear H.Q. is, we won’t even have a place to escape to. We need to get out of here and then find a way to slip across the border to Montana or Manitoba or somewhere.”
“We got to keep the cause going, Jonathan. We need every man. It needs every man. Don’t back out when it needs you the most. We got to make a better world.”
“I don’t care about saving the world at a time like this!”
“I do. What else is there?”
“I don’t know, our own lives? We got to look out for ourselves. It is everyone looking out for themselves now, and we got to get out of here.”
“Doesn’t the cause mean to you what it meant a month ago?”
“It is a dead cause.”
“A month ago we swore we would die for it. I did, and you did too. In victory or defeat, I remember.”
Jonathan paused. He glanced from side to side, his eyes darting to Scorpio and then away. He seemed to find something he could use and plunged in again. “I remember all the things you said at discussion meetings. Do you always have to be the impractical idealist? That is what they always called you. An idealist.”
“I suppose I am.”
“But there is a time and place for ideals, and this isn’t it!”
“You need your ideals at all times.”
“But come on! We need to look after ourselves first! Then, we can worry about ideals!”
Scorpio nodded slowly as if coming to a decision. “All right,” he said. “I will give you the way to contact the rear H.Q. Then we can go inside and have a few beers.”
Relief flooded over Jonathan’s face. He was so transparent. “Finally! Yes, of course! Let’s just get going and get inside!”
“Here, it’s over here,” Scorpio walked down the wall of the building.
“Where? You mean something’s here?”
“Just down the wall, here.”
Jonathan belatedly recognized the building as being the back of The Swill. “Of course! This is one of your favorite places!”
They walked across the gravel in the shadows. They paused at an unlit opening in the gloom. “Here it is,” Scorpio said with a muted wave of one hand.
“Where?” Jonathan crowded forward. “What?”
It was an old phone booth from some past decade. The door was broken and long gone.
“A phone booth? There is nothing here that works! You got to be kidding!”
“Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight. We outfitted some of the phones in plain sight with security devices. We even fixed a few phones that weren’t working. No one ever notices when a broken-down pay phone starts working again.” Scorpio reached inside his trench coat into the pocket just above his pistol holster. He gave Jonathan a coin and a scrap of paper with a number on it. “Here. Dial the number, and you will get someone who is in contact with the rear echelon.”
Jonathan walked into the old phone booth and picked up the phone. He heard the buzz. “You’re right. It’s working!” He quickly dialed the number. He waited for it to pick up. Then the voice spoke over the phone. His face flushed with recognition. He gasped. “It’s Dial-A-Prayer!”
“So, it is,” Scorpio said. He had finished removing his silenced automatic from underneath his trench coat. Jonathan gasped again and tried to move, but Scorpio had him covered. “Uh-uh-uh, not so fast. I think you’re an informer.”
“What me? Why?”
“You survived. Until now. No false moves.”
“Hey, I’m not moving—”
“And you don’t seem to respect the cause as much as you should.”
“What? What are you kidding? The cause is dead! Scorpio, get with it! Put that gun away! The cause is dead and over! We’ve got to look after ourselves now!”
“And some of us are not doing a good job,” Scorpio murmured. He pulled the trigger twice. The gun recoiled firmly yet gently in his hands and the silencer whistled sharply in the enclosed space. He hit twice in the central body mass by the heart. Jonathan fell down, slumping against one wall of the phone booth. His fingers still clutched the phone receiver. He sagged onto the floor and then fell against the other wall. He opened his mouth. Blood poured out, and he fell over backwards and died. The recorded voice on the phone continued without missing a beat. “…and so the Lord said, blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth…”
Scorpio slid his gun back in its holster. He strode back across the gravel. He went inside the back exit of the bar and came out into the dark rooms. A small neon sign was on one wall, and there were lights from the appliances behind the bar. Barney the bartender stood there as he always seemed to be, dispensing beers to his patrons who had just finished night shifts as deliverymen, nightwatchmen and thieves. He was the friend to all those who had seen more than they could say, and who paid in the currency of blood money.
Scorpio sat down on a stool at the bar. “I’ll have the usual.”
Barney handed him a bottle of beer and a glass of water. “How’s it going?”
“Just the usual,” Scorpio said, noncommittally. “Same old, same old.”
“Heard that Mother’s dead.”
“She is, she is.”
“Going to the funeral?”
“Barney, I am the funeral.” Scorpio slurped down half the beer. “Hit me again.”