Foolish Phantoms: A Post-Apocalyptic Epic (The Book of Tribulation: Volume 1)

by Sam Clark

  Besides, abdicating wouldn’t change anything. As king, a day would come when he wouldn’t be strong enough or quick enough to defeat a challenger, and they’d kill him. But even if he had done something different with his life, it would still end in the same way. If he were a farmer, bandits would arrive one night, and he wouldn’t be strong enough or quick enough to fend them off. If he were a baker in Maize City, it would likely end with him and his family chased from their shop because he couldn’t pay the exorbitant protection fees, leaving him, his wife, and his child as beggars, living in the tents. At best. At worst? He didn’t want to think about that.

  He let out a sigh. Things were different with his people, but he could never go back there. If only he could do something to make this place, the Free Counties, better. But he couldn’t. He was a king, but he was as powerless to change the world as any baker or farmer.

  Thoka turned his thoughts to the only man he’d ever killed: Edward Rhodes. It had haunted him day and night ever since. He’d done it for a good reason‌—‌love‌—‌but that didn’t make his memories of that day any less vivid or distressing.

  Sunkist’s father Budweiser had made it all seem so romantic. Slay the monster, become a king, win the hand of the beautiful princess. But that was a fantasy, and life is always uglier than fantasy. Budweiser hadn’t told Thoka how loud the queen’s wail would be as he crushed her husband’s head with his bare hands, or that he would never be able to forget it. He had neglected to mention how thinking about it‌—‌the way it felt as the bones of Edward’s face snapped under the force of his fists‌—‌would still sicken him nearly five years later. Or that a stray thought‌—‌looking down at Edward Rhodes’s lifeless body, noting the similarities between his ruined face and ground beef‌—‌would put him off meat. Thoka hadn’t known that he would be able to see‌—‌could still see‌—‌the devastation in young Edison’s eyes at the demise of his father, his hero, or the way sobs racked his muscular frame when it finally sank in that his father wouldn’t be getting up. Budweiser had also failed to mention that, each year, Thoka would have to fight that young man and see the all-consuming hatred that had replaced the devastation. Only Preston had seemed unsaddened by his father’s death. He was smiling after the bout. He had tried to hide it, but did a poor job. There was something terribly wrong with a son finding so much joy in his father’s death.

  Worst of all had been the way it made him feel inside. To go through with the death match, he’d had to work himself into a frenzy, thinking about his uncle’s crimes‌—‌the loss, the injustice, and his inability to do anything to fix it. When he’d finally stepped into the arena his whole body was shaking with rage, his vision blurred and his guts quivering. He hadn’t been in control of his own body. The anger took over. It made him keep hitting Edward after he was no longer moving, after his face no longer looked human. And it was that anger that had allowed him to ignore the queen’s shrieks and Edison’s sobs. The pent-up release of emotion was a like a dam bursting, and as he stood over Edward’s battered corpse, overwhelmed and wrung out, he’d started laughing like a madman. Even as a figurehead, he had never felt as powerless as he had on that afternoon.

  Thoka turned his gaze to his own son and visions of Edward Rhodes’s face faded. Guinness was the pride of Thoka’s life, the reason he got up each morning. To watch the boy grow, learn, and thrive brought him unending joy. Guinness was immersed in another one of his building projects. A large pile of uniformly cut wooden sticks sat beside him as he busily glued two together. In front of him was a largish structure made from the sticks‌—‌it looked like a miniature version of the Cathedral of the Prophetess. Thoka thought it was an excellent representation, especially considering how young his son was.

  Thoka wished he could have been a builder. He would have liked to design great buildings. He would have been happy cutting the wood or hauling the milled boards. Just to make something good, something solid, something that would stand the test of time. To take his grandchildren to see the building, to point to it with pride and say, “I helped build that.”

  Instead, he was stuck. Thoka the Dread. King of the Free Counties of South Dakota. King of Nothing. That would be his legacy: nothing. He would leave his subjects nothing and be forgotten by them before he was in the ground. His wife and son would get nothing. He’d had no lands when he became king, and he could procure no more once he was crowned. When he died, his son wouldn’t inherit any lands like the Rhodes children had. Thoka also didn’t see his son winning any Inheritance Tournaments. He wasn’t a fighter, which was fine with Thoka. Fighting hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Thoka also had no money of his own, just a stipend for maintaining the palace, which was far from generous. Even the furnishings belonged to whomever succeeded him on the throne. Whomever killed him to take it.

  Thoka knew his son would never get the chance to be a builder. He would be lucky to be a beggar. He also knew his son’s last image of him would be his death at the hands of another man. Whether it was Edison Rhodes or someone else, the end was fated. Stuck.

  “Well?” Sunkist asked, her exasperation clear from her tone.

  He had hoped she would drop the subject after he had remained silent for so long. Of course, he should have known she wouldn’t. His queen didn’t let go, and he loved her for her ferocity.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do, my love.” If I kill him, there will just be another.

  As Sunkist grabbed her glass, he prepared to duck. When she set it down, shaking her head, he wanted to weep.

  EIGHTEEN

  Location: Underground

  Date: 9-1-61

  Steve held a deck of cards in one hand and poker chips in the other. Each of the other boys held flashlights. The table in the middle of the room suddenly made a whole lot of sense.

  Czarina glimpsed at Marisa, who had managed to re-hook her bra and was in the process of pulling her t-shirt over her head. So close… yet so far.

  Czarina had a good idea of how this was going to end: with her lying on her back, and not in a good way. However, she had no intention of going down quietly, so she rolled off the cot and onto her feet. She then moved away from Marisa toward an open spot on the opposite wall. She hoped it would divert Steve’s attention and possibly give her an opening. For what, she didn’t know. At the very least, no one would be able to attack her from behind. Unfortunately, moving seemed to draw Steve’s attention to her.

  When he spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet, with a slight tremor. “Cza-rina, wh-what were you do-ing to my si-sister?”

  “Technically, she was on top, so it might be better to ask what your sister was doing to me.” F. U. C. K. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Just once, Czarina, try thinking before speaking.

  Tim and Tom’s jaws literally dropped at Czarina’s comment, while Vinny started to inspect the ceiling. Steve looked back and forth from Czarina to his sister, as if deciding whom to direct his rage at first, clenching and unclench his fists the whole time.

  Czarina felt relieved when Steve settled on Marisa, and she felt no shame at that sense of relief either. Better her than me.

  “What were you thinking, Marisa? Di-did she force you?”

  “No, Steve, nobody forced me to do anything,” Marisa shot back, her own voice every bit as angry and bitter as her brother’s.

  “It’s not right! It’s fucking disgusting,” Steve said.

  “And why is that?” Marisa said. “Oh, that’s right‌—‌because we’re women, so we’re breeding stock! Can’t afford to waste a couple pairs of ovaries for repopulating the earth. What a fucking joke!”

  Seeing Marisa as angry as Steve made Czarina acutely aware that this was a family argument that had been going on for some time. If only I didn’t have to be present for this round.

  “Stop being stupid, Marisa,” Steve said.

  “No, Steve, you’re the one being stupid. You do what you want, with whoever you want, and so will I.”

  You tell him, Marisa.
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  “Now, why don’t you and your three slack-jawed friends get the hell outta here so me and Czarina can finish what we started.”

  Oh shit, Marisa, please stop telling him.

  Does she want to see Steve try and bash my head in? Oh, fuck‌—‌maybe she does. She had to know Steve and his friends came here at night, that they’d catch us. Did she play me this afternoon? She’s certainly not afraid of Steve now.

  Czarina now saw Marisa’s body language from earlier in the day in a new light. She hadn’t been afraid, she’d been excited. The over-the-top fear was all for Czarina’s benefit. To goad her into acting like a hero. To get her to make a move. Oh well, it’s not like I didn’t see her as a means to an end. Well played, Marisa.

  If Marisa’s goal was to see Steve and Czarina fight, her comments had the desired effect. Steve’s face turned dark red‌—‌not a good look for a redhead‌—‌as he slowly turned his head toward Czarina. His small, unblinking eyes locked with Czarina’s, and he let the cards and poker chips fall from his hands. The chips made loud clacking noises when they hit the floor.

  Well, here we go.

  “I’m going to kill you, Czarina.” It came out somewhat muffled through Steve’s clenched teeth.

  “Whoa, let’s take a minute here,” Czarina said. She had no misconception that she could talk Steve down. Her hope was to convince Steve that she wasn’t ready to fight, that she wasn’t a threat. Then, maybe, Steve would leave his crotch open. It was the very thing James had criticized her for‌—‌hoping her opponent would make a careless mistake‌—‌but it was all she had right now. No, think it through. He’s going to expect you to go for the balls. Come up with something else, if you want to have a chance.

  Steve took a step toward Czarina. With time running short, Czarina risked a quick glance at Marisa, to see if she might intervene and draw Steve’s attention back to her. However, any hope of that quickly vanished. Marisa was smiling the biggest smile Czarina had ever seen on her face, and she’d seen plenty over the years. Marisa was loving every second of this.

  Czarina returned her focus to Steve. Tom, Tim, and Vinny hadn’t moved, so she dismissed them as immediate threats. They apparently thought Steve could handle the situation without aid. If she managed to drag things out, however, she’d have to watch for them jumping in.

  As Steve came closer, Czarina raised her hands, keeping her arms tight to her body, her palms out and fingers spread wide. She stopped with her palms at chin level. It was something she’d learned in her training, a way to look non-threatening while placing your hands in a position where you could easily block a punch, and if you were lucky, maybe catch an unsuspecting opponent with an elbow on their way in. The problem was, Steve had all the same training. It’s fine. All he’ll see is a weak woman, who’s no threat to the mighty Steve. If he expects me to fight back at all, he won’t expect me to go for a head shot.

  To give Steve exactly what he expected, Czarina started to stammer and plead with him. She found it highly undignified, but her goal wasn’t to maintain her dignity. Her goal was to win, or at least to hurt Steve as much as possible before she lost. If that meant groveling, then grovel she would.

  “Please, Steve. Don’t hurt me.”

  With each deliberate step Steve took, Czarina worried he, or the guys in the doorway, would do something to throw off her plan, which was simplicity itself: When Steve was about a step and a half away, step into him and throw an elbow at his chin.

  She figured he was about eight steps away.

  Best-case scenario, I catch him on the nose or chin and cut him. “I’m really sorry!”

  Seven steps.

  Czarina could hear Fegan in her head: ‘Best thing ’bout elbows is they’re pointy, and pointy things’ll rip a face real good.’

  Six steps.

  Worst case, Steve pulls back from the elbow, leaving himself open for a follow-up knee to the midsection or groin.

  Five steps.

  Assuming he doesn’t suddenly charge me or look to box with me from the outside. His hands are still down at his sides.

  “I don’t want to fight!”

  Four steps.

  “It won’t ever happen again.”

  Three steps. Steve raised his hands.

  “Please, no!”

  Two steps. Steve started to pull back his right hand. He’s looking to finish me with one big haymaker.

  Not yet, not yet… NOW!

  Czarina stepped toward Steve and threw her right elbow straight up toward the ceiling, thinking about grabbing her own right ear with her hand, just like Fegan had taught it. Much to her delight, her elbow connected with Steve’s nose and made an incredibly satisfying crunching sound. Steve fell backward and landed right on his ass. Blood gushed from both nostrils. His eyes had a cloudy, far-off look in them, and his mouth hung slightly open, as if he didn’t understand how he had ended up on the ground.

  Holy shit, it worked. …Don’t just stand around, idiot, finish him off.

  Czarina started to pull back her left leg to soccer-kick Steve in the head, but before she could swing it through, Tim, Tom, and Vinny were swarming her, pushing her back against the wall. Having caught her with one leg off the ground, they had an easy go of it. By the time Steve rose unsteadily to his feet, she was pinned helplessly against the wall. Tim and Tom each held an arm. Vinny‌—‌the heaviest of the three‌—‌had driven his shoulder into her waist and then wrapped his arms tightly around her legs. Not exactly the kind of embrace she had been hoping for that evening.

  No matter how hard she struggled, she could barely move her arms an inch, and while she had a little more movement with her legs, it wasn’t enough to make them a threat. She looked at Marisa, who was still smiling, big and bright. If Marisa’s smile got any bigger, Czarina thought, she might swallow her own head.

  Czarina’s attention returned to Steve as he wiped his nose on his sleeve, then shook his head several times to clear the cobwebs. Some of his blood splattered onto her shirt. Plenty of my own blood will be there soon enough. Steve then fixed his eyes on her, hatred seeming to have burned away the cloudiness. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  The only thing Czarina could think to do was tuck her chin in and try to let her head roll with the punches. Unfortunately, she wasn’t expecting Steve to start by working the body. As the first blow came toward her stomach, she tried to flex her abdominal muscles. Too late. Steve’s fist hit just below her sternum, and drove all the oxygen from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath in vain.

  Stupid, Czarina, he told you he wanted you to suffer. That suggests the body. At least Tim and Tom are blocking him from punching my ribs.

  Unfortunately for Czarina, Vin’s position did nothing to hinder Steve, and she was still trying‌—‌and failing‌—‌to catch her breath when the next body shot came. She willed her core muscles to engage, but they refused. The punch set off an earthquake in her guts as pain radiated outward from where it struck, and her stomach spasmed several times before stopping. Maybe if I make him angry, he’ll hurry up and knock me out and go. Or maybe he’ll kill me. Or worse.

  “That… the best—” Czarina’s insult was cut short by a wave of nausea that propelled her dinner back up her throat and down the front of her shirt. And on to Vin. He let go of Czarina’s legs as he jumped out of the way, crying “Eww!” However, Tom and Tim held on like troupers.

  She had her chance. Her legs were free. She might be able to land one more shot. Make Steve pay a little more. But it wasn’t to be. The pain in her stomach was like a clamp turned tight around her guts. It was too much. If she tried to kick Steve, she was certain her plant leg would betray her. The putrid taste of vomit dominated her mouth. What should she do? What could she do? Think, Czarina. Think. Oh, god, what did I eat? Focus. See the whole board. See all the moves. What would James do? I don’t know‌—‌not get into this mess? Think! How can anybody think with a taste like this in their mouth? Ah, fuck it.

  Cza
rina did the only thing she could think of: She spat in Steve’s face.

  An uppercut snapped her head back and bounced it off the wall. Her ears rang, and her vision went all fuzzy. Her eyes rolled wildly around the room, trying desperately to find something to focus on. Her vision cleared just enough that she could see Marisa. It was like she was standing at the end of a dark tunnel, covered in shadows.

  Another punch landed. The shadows closed in.

  NINETEEN

  Location: Underground

  Dates: 9-2-61 to 9-6-61

  Czarina felt like a million tiny fists were pummeling her brain when she woke up the next morning. At least she thought it was the next morning. She had no idea how long she’d been out. Hell, the only reason she knew she was awake was the headache to end all headaches. She tried to open her left eye and failed. With some effort, she managed to get her right eye open just enough to let a tiny bit of light in, but objects just looked like blurs of color. Her nose hurt, too, and she couldn’t breathe through it at all. When she reached a hand up to touch it, a stab of pain shot through her face, and sent the million-fist army into double-time. There was a large bump on the bridge, and she could feel wads of cotton in each nostril. Broken. There goes my dream of being a beauty queen when I grow up.

  Once she woke up that first time, all she wanted to do was go back to sleep, but James wouldn’t let her. Something about a concussion and slipping into a coma. A coma seemed pretty appealing right about then, but every five minutes James would shake her shoulder to make sure she hadn’t dozed off, and he talked incessantly. She was pretty sure he went through most of his Intro to International Relations lectures that first day.