by Sam Clark
With that rather depressing thought, she turned from the pile and went to the footlocker at the bottom of her bunk. In it was a pile of her own books, books she’d read dozens of times. Maybe I do get how James can watch those games so many times. They let him escape to a simpler time, when things had been better. He’d have been in grad school back then, surrounded by people who loved to talk about politics and philosophy as much as he did. He must have seen the world as being full of possibility.
For Czarina, it wasn’t a different time she looked to escape to tonight. She wanted to flee to another world, one that offered her more possibilities. The fact that the possibilities were imagined didn’t bother her. For her, it was a plus. The kind of possibilities James had, those scared her. They were the ghosts of real possibilities. Lives that could have been lived. Paths that could have been taken. Better if the possibilities were never real in the first place. That way it hurt less when she inevitably returned to her underground prison. She reached down and grabbed the top book off the pile, Game of Thrones, then lay down on her cot and began to read. And somehow, she managed to suppress the voice in her head enough to lose herself in those pages. Until lights out.
TWELVE
Location: Underground
Date: 8-16-61
Czarina was already awake when James pulled back her divider. The little bit of sleep she’d gotten was of poor quality. As morning approached, she’d found herself tossing and turning. She kept wondering if the warning bulb had been replaced, and if it had, whether anything out of the ordinary had happened with the new bulb. Did it flash? Did it go right back out? Or would she find its dim yet steady light mocking her as she made her repeated runs down the corridor, just as it had for countless laps before? All in all, not a terrible night by her recent standards.
“Czarina,” James said, only his head poking through the divider.
For a second, she thought about just lying there and not answering. She knew that if she did, James would let her be. Even though she couldn’t sleep, she had no desire to get out of bed. She was afraid of what she might find. She wasn’t sure she could take another day of the same old same old—not when she had hoped for so much yesterday, even if it had been a little naive to do so. James was so right, I am a total fucking idealist. Just seventy more days, and it’ll be all over. Either something will have changed, or I’ll be done.
“Czarina, are you up?”
Her desire to know what had happened with the light overcame her fear of finding out. “I’m up, James.”
James pulled the divider all the way back as she got out of bed. Then, while he went to get their coffee, she went to her footlocker and pulled out an outfit identical to the one she had worn the day before. As she waited for him to return, she decided she wouldn’t go to look at the light until her afternoon run. That would give them time to change it. Besides, it was rare to have something to look forward to, so she wanted to drag it out, especially since it would likely end in disappointment. It only made sense to get as much enjoyment as she could from the anticipation, even if that meant it would hurt more when she was greeted by the inevitable red glow at the end of the tunnel.
Her morning played out like every other one she could remember. James commented on the taste of the instant coffee. She was the first in the cafeteria. She ate alone, waiting for Marisa, promising herself today would be the day she did something, or said something, to get Marisa’s attention. Of course, she did all of jack shit. Her classes, her classmates—all the same.
What few differences there were hardly qualified. For instance, that morning she skipped her facial exercises, just because she wanted something to be different. Her breakfast had slightly different spices in it, but it wasn’t enough to make her forget she was eating porridge and powdered eggs, and that porridge and powdered eggs had made up every single breakfast she’d eaten since she was weaned. She often wondered if remembering what other things tasted like made it easier or harder to eat the food. She managed not to be kicked out of any of her classes in disgrace that morning, although she was too distracted to perform well either. At several points during the day, it was all she could do to keep from screaming and pulling her hair out of her head.
Like the morning, the afternoon was just another repeat, with only slight changes to a random smattering of inconsequential details to distinguish it from the previous day. She tried to read the book James had picked out—Plato’s Republic again—and ended up putting it down for something else after only a few pages. However, Clausewitz couldn’t hold her attention today either. She kept reading the same sentence over and over again, distracted by the light. Once again, she lost to James at chess, although this time she played poorly all the way through, as opposed to making one big mistake at the end. When Isabella came into the room during the afternoon break, Czarina excused herself from one of James’s impromptu lectures to go running. Today, though, she didn’t bolt from the room. She walked. Slowly.
The most exciting thing ever to happen to her was a lightbulb burning out. She would have laughed if it wasn’t her life. Instead, it just made her a little sad. But it was all she had. She stopped several times on the way to the corridor and thought about skipping her run, to have something to look forward to for tomorrow. She even turned around once to go back to her room. But there was no point in delaying. It wouldn’t change anything, and she knew it wasn’t healthy. She was placing too much hope on what was probably just a burnt-out bulb, and the longer she waited, the worse she would feel if the light was back on.
And you know it’s going to be on. If something had happened with it, you’d know by now.
I can’t know that for certain. Maybe something did happen, and they’re trying to keep it secret to avoid upsetting everybody. Or maybe they haven’t changed the bulb yet.
Stop. You know. You know. Deal with what is, not what you wish was.
Just because she had been an idealist didn’t mean she had to keep being one. There was no logical necessity to it. And James says I never listen.
When she finally meandered her way to the exit corridor, she stopped one last time to mentally prepare herself. Whatever it is, you can handle it. You will handle it. She closed her eyes and stepped to the sliding glass door that led to the exit corridor. After hearing the mechanical whirling of the door opening, she took an exaggerated step through the entryway and opened her eyes.
It was on.
As if it had always been on.
As if it would always be on.
She could feel the fountain of depression welling up inside of her, filling her with an endless despair. The desire to simply lie down right there in the corridor and never get up again was overwhelming. She knew that if she didn’t fight herself, if she gave into the self-pity, this would be her worst episode yet. That she wouldn’t make it through another week, let alone seventy days. So she did the only thing she could think of.
She ran.
She started out with an easy goal: run the corridor ten times. When she got to ten, she decided to push on for ten more, then ten more, and ten more after that. Soon she lost count. She ran and ran. She ran until the voice in her head stopped. She ran until she couldn’t run anymore.
So, in the end, she found herself lying on the exit corridor floor after all, but she wasn’t depressed. She was exuberant at having pushed herself further than she’d ever pushed herself before. Further than she had ever thought possible.
Eventually, she found the strength to get up. After retrieving her shirt, which she had tossed aside at some point, she used a dry portion to wipe the sweat from her face, then hung it over her shoulder. As she began shuffling back to her quarters on rapidly tightening muscles, she paid little attention to her surroundings, content to simply enjoy her runner’s high and the sliver of peace it provided. In fact, Czarina was so out of it she didn’t even notice Marisa walking toward her until she was only a few dozen feet away.
When Czarina did finally
notice, her attention snapped back, and she became hyper-focused. All at once, she was aware that Marisa was looking at her intently, and that by some miracle, Marisa’s clique was nowhere in sight. In fact, they were the only two people in sight. Czarina also knew she stank; was covered in sweat, wearing only shorts and a sports bra; and was now staring back at Marisa. Then, just as quickly as it came, Czarina’s awareness of her surroundings vanished, as she turned inward again, lost in her own head.
Holy shit, what do I do? The only thing I need to do is get by her without her gagging on my stench. I could turn around and run back the way I came.
A coward dies a thousand times.
At least running might preserve the work I’ve put in already.
What work? This is it. You’ll never get a better opportunity. Who cares that you smell? She’s alone. You never see her alone.
I could come back this time tomorrow, and she might be alone again.
Yeah, might be. Stop fooling yourself, idealist. If you don’t do something right here, right now, you’ll never do anything. Ever. You’ll never get anywhere with Marisa. You’ll never get out of the bunker, and you’ll die a little bit every day, until you open a vein, just like Mom. Stop. Focus. Right here. Right now. Do something. You have nothing to lose. Either you die of embarrassment today, or you kill yourself on your birthday, so you might as well say something. ANYTHING!
By the time Czarina regained awareness of her soundings again, Marisa was only a couple of feet away. Czarina had spent so much time wondering if she should say something that she hadn’t thought about what to say, or how to say it, and now she was out of time. Her window was closing, and the voice in her head was just shouting at her to say something. When she couldn’t think of anything, she just acted.
She winked while making a gun with the index finger and thumb of her left hand, and then clicked her tongue as she mocked shooting Marisa with her finger gun.
Marisa stopped right in front of Czarina and started laughing like a certifiable maniac. While Marisa laughed, the voice in Czarina’s head chided her mercilessly. I said say anything. Say, not wink, point, and click like a fucking moron. Literally anything would have better than that. How about ‘Hi, how are ya?’ That’s been known to start a conversation or two throughout history. No, wink, point, and click, that’ll do it.
She wanted to run away so she could start dying of embarrassment, but her legs felt like jelly, and Marisa, who was still laughing, was partially blocking her way.
After fifteen or twenty seconds, which felt like as many decades, Marisa stopped laughing and began wiping tears from her eyes. “Did you really shoot me with a finger gun, Czarina?”
She’s talking to me? Now, there’s an interesting turn of events. Don’t shit the bed, Czarina. “I believe I did.”
“You’re an… interesting person, Czarina. There aren’t many of those down here.”
“Interesting—that’s one word for it.”
“Oh, and what are some others?”
“Depends who you ask, I guess. Fegan would probably use ‘malfunctioning.’ Your brother, something worse.” That’s it, Czarina, work in how much her family hates you.
“And what word would you choose, Czarina?”
Bored, trapped, alone, miserable. Get me a thesaurus, and I’ll give you a hundred more.
“Interesting works. I like interesting.”
“Well, it’s been interesting. See ya around, Czarina.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I was thinking about moving out soon.”
“Funny,” Marisa said, smiling up at her.
Damn, even her teeth are nice. “Yeah, I’ll probably stick around a while longer, though. I know as soon as I leave, something exciting’ll finally happen around here. Later, Marisa.”
Czarina continued down the hall, leaving Marisa behind her. She maintained enough self-control not to look back. In that brief exchange, less than a minute, she’d made more progress with Marisa than in the previous two hundred and ninety-five days combined. It was a major win, yet her inner critic couldn’t help but point out that she still had a long way to go, and time was running out.
THIRTEEN
Location: Maize City
Date: 5-6-61
The Church of the Plutonium Handlers embodies and promotes the teachings of the Prophetess Cassandra, praise be upon her, whose ministry began on the one-year anniversary of the Rapture’s commencement, February 20, 2GT (2019BT), and lasted until she was taken above on January 17, 6GT (2023BT). The Church was officially founded in Ismar (formerly Bismarck), North Dakota on July 17, 6GT (2023BT).
The Church believes that during the Rapture the most wicked received their due, as did the most just. God, in His infinite capacity for mercy and forgiveness, decided not to eradicate those of His most beloved but disobedient creation whose sins were not so great as to blacken their souls beyond redemption. Rather, He chose to give the remainder of humanity one final chance to atone for millennia of wickedness. A final test for those left behind. The Prophetess Cassandra was His chosen instrument for spreading this message and delivering unto humanity a new Scripture, one befitting the Age of Tribulation and capable of guiding humanity through its darkest hours, back into the glory and light of the Lord.
On her death bed, the Prophetess summoned her closest companions and instructed them to establish a church in her hometown. She gave two tasks in doing so: first, prepare humanity for its final test; second, search out the Harbinger, whose Arrival shall signal that the test has begun.
According to the Scripture, the Harbinger shall have the power to redeem humanity for its past sins and usher in a golden age of peace, prosperity, and goodwill toward men. The Scripture is equally clear that the Harbinger also has the power to destroy humanity once and for all, condemning all those who were left behind to torment beyond imagining, first here on earth, then for all eternity in the fiery pits of Damnation. Which outcome occurs will depend on how well the Church prepares the way for the Arrival, and how well it works with the Harbinger once they have come.
***
In terms of doctrine, practices, and traditions, the Church of the Plutonium Handlers is highly syncretic, although its adherents, if aware of this fact at all, like to downplay it. Its forerunners are primarily Christian in nature, with Eastern Orthodox being predominant, as one of the Prophetess’s closest companions was raised in the Orthodox Church prior to the Rapture and brought much of its terminology to the new church. These various Christian elements have, however, been re-purposed and are hardly recognizable to those who still adhere to the old Christian sects. Indeed, most of those who still adhere to Christianity see Plutonium Handling as heretical, whereas the Church of the Plutonium Handlers sees Christianity as a relic of a past epoch, one that failed to keep humanity on the righteous path.
While the Christian imagery and themes are obvious, I would argue the Before Times doctrine that most influences Plutonium Handling is Social Darwinism. Certain pre-Rapture philosophers criticized organized religion as a tool of the weak to restrain the strong; however, this is not a criticism that can be leveled at Plutonium Handling, which places complete strength (i.e. of body, mind, and soul) above all other virtues.
—Excerpts from Brother Helix’s A Contemporary History of the Dakotas During the Great Tribulation.
As the bartender of the Spread Eagle set down Preston’s drink, he asked for the second time if he could interest Preston in some company. For the second time, Preston’s response was a curt “No.” The bartender left, muttering something under his breath—quite vulgar, no doubt.
If the bartender knew whom he was dealing with, he wouldn’t have dared to display such an attitude in Preston’s presence. Of course, not being recognized was precisely the point. It was why he wore his hood up despite the unseasonable warmth of the day, and it was why he sat alone at the dimmest table in what was a rather dim tavern, on a rather dim street.
He was always surprised at how m
any men were at the third-tier tavern-slash-brothel on weekday afternoons. It was well past lunch—not that he could imagine anyone ordering food from the Eagle’s kitchen—but there were still several hours left in the work day. While there were always more patrons at the Eagle than Preston expected, he wouldn’t have called it crowded, either. Four patrons sat at a small bar, one of whom was Preston’s head of household security, Austin.
About Preston’s age, Austin was of average height with a lean muscular build, short light brown hair, a well-trimmed beard, and a ruddy complexion. He had come to live with the Rhodes family as an indentured during the War for Southern Supremacy. Austin had shown an aptitude with weapons and horses, so Edward had made him his adjutant, a position Austin maintained even after his period of servitude ended. When Edward was killed by Thoka, Austin had agreed to stay on with Preston and oversee his security. More importantly, he had agreed to train Preston in how to use a sword.
Preston had always wanted to learn the sword as a boy, but he had been sickly. His mother forbade it, and his father refused to intercede. As Edward had so lovingly put it, any training would have been ‘a waste of time for a boy with no muscle, weak lungs, and his head buried in a book.’
In addition to the patrons at the bar, several of the tables were occupied, either singly or in pairs. Overall, the crowd was subdued. There was none of the raucousness or jocularity you found in nicer working-class taverns at a later hour, and there certainly wasn’t any of the wheeling and dealing that you found in establishments catering to the upper echelon of Maize City society. For these men, drinking was their business. They took it seriously and thought it required a solemn attitude.