Genesis Virus

by Pinto, Daniel

  Ava says. “I thought that was obvious by now.” Lou makes a swiping motion downwards with his hand to dismiss her. Behind him, Youngblood heads for the house on the hill, he sweeps the dirt with his foot; the ashes and smoke arises. A few light bugs glow and float over David. The idyllic farm and evergreen harvest is lost to the wind.

  13

  Everything matters and nothing matters at the same time and this makes life hard.

  Every person has a golden period in their lifetime, could be a summer, a school year, spring break, most take place in our youth, which is no coincidence, the older we get the more we learn about people and life and it’s never good. We look back at these times to make life bearable because without the potential to be happy at its most purest like in these past moments. What’s the point of life?

  Thinking about Abigail all the time has got me thinking about my childhood and the small things that gave me joy, not fame or fortune, but toys. Maybe it was never the cheap plastic toys, but me, myself was joyous, the toys were the tool to unleash my happiness, not the other way around. I feel selfish about thinking about such things that made me happy when she is in danger. Is Abigail ok, does she have toys?

  At what age does it stop being the parent’s fault and start being the kid’s responsibility for their actions? If a toddler gets a hold of a gun and the unthinkable happens, who is to blame? If a teenager does the same thing, whose fault is it? People who have no children have the best answers to this riddle. This ambiguity leads to parents and their kids not taking responsibility for their bad behavior.

  Trust in other’s self-interest to predict their behavior and you’ll have a better track record than Vegas. If I was born a generation ago, I might have been a good man. I was a violent person before this and now I have an excuse and people even call me a hero. Selfish motivations can lead to correct consequences, it’s a win-win.

  How can little kids like Abigail, who can’t even wipe their own asses be expected to survive this shit? Parents abandoning their children is far worst than their death. The feeling of less than, that I live with everyday will be passed on to Abigail.

  I have no home, no family, no life, in the wake of the fire and trail of tears. Chasing temporary pleasure only ends in more sadness. Once in a blue moon, something decent happens, but it’s never enough. Own your hatred, it may never pass, but you can keep it in check. I’m burning at both ends of the candle and on top of that, I’m starting to sense more and more undertones of fuck you in every conversation I have with everyone around me. Put the blame on me I can take it, but that doesn’t mean I have to love it. Hate and dislike equals the same result, why do we have two words to describe the same emotion. Is it to make the person feel better when they hate everything and everyone? Because that would make you an unhappy person.

  Things have been going south and we’re going way South. Tragic and impromptu wasteland locales and psychopaths enough to fill a stadium have stood between me and my goals. I have little, but I don’t need this shit.

  I have one foot on the last stoop of sanity before terminal psychosis. I’m in a comforting dissociative state. Is my pain psychosomatic? And if so, nothing is physically wrong with me. Or is it that experiencing short bursts of jovial sensations are so alien to my psyche that happiness now feels like an unwanted disease. The last taste in my mouth will be blood, unfamiliar faces all around me, and when I die I will still be a killer feeding on life.

  I’ve had enough of getting my ass kicked across the States. I’ve swim through rivers of bullshit and doubt to get here. As I get closer to death, I’m more afraid and cognizant of it, like a drowning man in the middle of the ocean, no one is ever coming to save me. In the end, I can only bring people down with me and never truly save anyone. Whatever happens next, remember the person I was. That’s all anyone ever has, is their memories, good or bad.

  David

  14

  The Chief is an Equite and his horse is an equestrian gladiator attacking the prairie with the stampeding of hooves.

  Loudening clopping is on all sides of him. Clamps of topsoil and shrubbery fire behind the beast like exhaust as the horsepower accelerates; its tail held high. The Chief’s squeezing his thighs and rhythmically rocking up and down. His horse passes the clearing; the other horses are running amok and bunching together. What’s that on your left?

  In his vanishing point, the three spooked stallions pursue after each other through the trees and down the mound, slowing down. Fluttering rabbit noises are down low.

  He whips the reins and kickstarts his friend into the next level of speed and rides alongside the animals, looking at them and the blur in front, then cuts them off with authority.

  The Chief is sitting tall on horseback, circling the three defeated horses, his warhorse bites the nearest horse on the neck, she squeals scaring the birds on branches into flight. The other horses lower their heads and droopy ears, waiting for instructions like thieving juveniles.

  The Chief takes a breath then smiles; glad none of them was hurt. He circles the horses one more time and is about to get off his horse until a scratchy voice makes him squeeze the reins again like a lifeline straight to God

  The man spits out black tar. “That was fine wrangling, my friend.” He appears from nowhere like an apparition.

  The Chief snaps around, aiming his rifle, scratching the trigger with his fingernail.

  The Stranger is on horseback as well. Clad in jeans and a thick wooly shirt. His dark mirrored shades reflect the Chief. He puts up his hands and says. “Would you shoot an unarmed black man…I’m just passing through, I’ll be on my way, now.”

  The Chief waves his rifle away, to indicate get lost.

  The Stranger adjust his black leather gloves in his lap. “I’ll pay you for those horses…you see I’m heading back to my camp.” He stares yonder. “It’s a grand place called Nigga Land. A paradise for the chosen.”

  The Chief’s horse nickers and moves side-to-side. He waits to see if he’s serious then says. “Come again?”

  “You heard me right. You have to be black to join, that goes without saying. White people are finally getting what they truly deserve. They can only lose if everyone else loses with them, they’re sneaky like that. Thousands of years of slavery for my people because Noah son’s saw his daddy’s little dick. Someone should have just written a play about it and be done with it, call it. Ham-let 2: an Oedipus complex for the father. Because the word black and all its variations are associated with bad in every language, ‘his heart is black, there’s a evil darkness within her,’ people look down on black people without a second thought. It’s not written in their DNA, so they have to learn that hate somewhere.” He raises his chin and one finger, in a faux realization. “Maybe, it’s because of that movie Birth of a Nation, KKK membership did spike after that. Or am I seeing a pattern where there is none, like a burning cross in the clouds.” He spits out more black tar before it spills down his chin. He has a big black grin afterwards.

  The Chief says. “Are you a Black Nazis?”

  “The Nazis, the go-to insult, and the go-to moneymaker for writers and filmmakers. People loved to talk about the one white holocaust ad nauseam and none of the many black holocausts in our fucking lifetime. I guess white audiences only like to cry to white murder. In fifty years from now, black kids will learn how bad white kids had it during this time and how a black man defeated the White Devil. The first President of a country is the person everyone identifies with and deifies, and by default vilifies everyone not his shade of skin. Human nature is to belong only at the exclusion of others. The years following the Genesis Virus was the first time I ever felt like an American, sad, but true, even though my family were here for centuries. Both of my grandfathers fought in the war killing Nazis, but when they returned home, they weren’t allowed to buy homes. So they sacrificed their youth for no future in this country.”

  The Stranger spits then says. “For heavens no, I’m no Nazis and for you
to even think that, the white man has already brainwashed you, you work for him now. My people have been exploited across the globe; they were even rejected medical help when the outbreak occurred and I thought we lived in the Age of Acceptance. Every race should live apart from here on out, because living together in the past wasn’t appealing, it didn’t work, and it only created resentment under those phony white smiles. Racism takes on different forms, but never dies. Live and let live is the solution.”

  The Chief says. “Live apart like in the prison system. All races banded together for safety because evil men with power set up that system years ago, and it’s either join a tribe or die for every new prisoner, but that world is not representative of the real world. It’s a microcosm of our worst-selfs. We each have the freedom to choose different options.” He looks around like a paranoid Caesar.

  The Stranger says. “I know what I’m saying is not politically correct. Who invented political correctness, anyways, I can tell you it wasn’t black people. Because that continuous public dialogue is meant to enslave. Come on, you should know what I mean about the abuse, the White Devils took everything from your people.”

  The Chief says. “Bad is bad, it has nothing to do with race. Here’s some free advice get over it.”

  “Your people were a bunch of unemployed drunks on reservations, obviously they didn’t get over it. You’re up against a system of hate, not only mean words.” The Stranger touches the rim of his hat. “Agree to disagree…Back to the matter at hand. How much do you want for those horses?”

  The Chief says while rubbing his horse’s neck. “All horses were smaller centuries ago, about the size of a big dog, this will be the last great generation of animals if we don’t survive. A small horse doesn’t know he’s small, he has the confidence of a horse twice his size. It’s only when you make him feel worthless does the horse start acting small. You could have been the President if you chose that path.”

  “Who says I’m not.”

  “I won’t trade my friends.” His mind is somewhere else.

  The man shows mild surprise. “Now don’t be niggardly, Mister. I make take offense.”

  The Chief heels the horse to move and it stirs the Stranger’s black stallion into a huffing fit.

  The Stranger touches his chest with both hands. “I understand. Where’s your group? I know these parts, I could help you out.”

  “Close…don’t test me.”

  The Chief’s horse turns him around in an instant; three more horse riders are galloping closer with pistols in each hand.

  The Chief fires five shots in one direction with his repeating rifle as still as a statue. First two shots hit a man in the throat; who turns his horse into the other two riders. The shot man’s horse rides away with him still attached, dragging him by one arm. The next two shots, hit the middleman in the chest and he backflips into the dirt. The last rider was turned around by the first rider and the Chief holds his breath and shoots the last shot through the back of the black cowboy’s skull. Hat soars away. The horse buckles five feet in the air like a rodeo showman and the man’s bouncing horizontally on the saddle.

  The Chief turns his torso to face the Stranger, who’s aiming a handgun, the same one the Chief has had an eye one, he lays flat on the horse’s back and rapid fires the rest of the rifle ammo. The Stranger lifts his horse’s front legs as high as they can go, blocking out the sun. Rifle bullets nick and sear through the horse’s underbelly, it grunts in agony. The Stranger swings from behind the horse and fires one shot at a time; bullet casings bounce off his horse’s hind legs and ribs.

  The Chief’s horse automatically moves in a circle around the Stranger on his buckling bronco like a tetherball spinning clockwise, to protect his friend. The Chief throws his rifle to the ground and aims his handgun as he lays forward as low as he can go. The Stranger blind fires shooting the Chief’s horse in the head; it roars, picks up one hoof, and then faints backwards with the Chief again in the saddle. Pinning the Chief’s torso to the ground with his hand and gun stuck under the thick neck.

  The Chief struggles under the weight. Seven minutes ago I was smiling, now I’m about to die. Hurry up.

  The Stranger’s boots hit the ground; he fans his face with his cowboy hat.

  He peeks over the dead horse to see the Chief wriggling.

  The Stranger says. “Not bad for an old man. The Knights of Niggadom won’t let this stand. Old-timer. Three good men down. For what, horses? No. Respect. Don’t beat yourself up, you lost the minute you opened your mouth.”

  A black cloud of locusts swarm in the distance, the sound turns the Stranger around to see. “It’s a bad omen.” He drops his hat and falls on the Chief’s horse, bleeding from his cheek. There is white smoke coming from the Chief’s gun barrel.

  The Chief yanks out one leg at a time from under the horse.

  He drags the Stranger away from his dead friend, laying him spread eagle in the open field, the Stranger’s horse is on its side struggling to breathe. The Chief shoots it in the head.

  The Chief answers the Stranger with a boot to the mouth. “Son of whore...”

  He stomps on the man’s face, his boot continually slips into the dirt. The human head is solid and sturdy unlike the dead. The Chief stomps again, again, and again. The Stranger’s face becomes mangled cartilage, eyeless, and is covered in blood and dirt.

  All the horses are on the hill with their heads low and a long shadow reaching for the Chief. The exhausted Chief is sitting on the ground with his arms resting on his standing knees and he’s coughing up his lungs. He looks up at his horse and longtime friend, lowers his head, and starts to cry.

  15

  “Help.” A scream on the wind wakes up the Chief. He has a touch of lightheadedness, eyes as dry as the dust blowing and his knuckles are encrusted in filth.

  The Chief puts a finger to his lip; spies around turning quickly to each side with his reloaded Winchester Rifle. Wanting for someone to attack him. He runs deep into the woods. I thought I saw something, he was stalling.

  He stops and beats a zombie’s head in.

  The beautiful woman has a red bandana around her neck and is sitting with her back to a tree. Hands roped behind her. Is this another trap? He walks around aiming his rifle with the end digging into his shoulder.

  He yells over and over. “Come out and face me.”

  She says. “Shh.”

  The Chief stands in front of her and slowly spins in three full circles. The woman kicks him. “Hurry up before they come back.”

  “Who?” The Chief has not made eye contact with her.

  “Black cowboys, ah-excuse me, African American cowboys. Buffalo soldiers. You know what, who gives a shit.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Maria and Tree.”

  “Why did they have you?”

  “To do their taxes. Why do you think?”

  He stabs his gun into the ground. “Why trust me?”

  “Is this twenty questions? Kill me or help me. Just pick one before I become fast-food with a side of screams.” The Chief rubs his forehead. “Maria, Maria, where have I heard that name before?”

  “Probably the Sound of Music. Are you going to help me or should I start singing for someone else?”

  The Chief says. “Of course. Keep still.”

  Maria says. “You look a million miles away, like you’ve just been through some shit. Do tell.”

  The Chief says. “Maria, Maria.”

  Maria breaks the rope before the Chief is done cutting. “You can’t spare a gun can you?” She looks down and shakes her head. “Stupid question.”

  “I can give you a horse.” Spoils of war.

  “Perfect.” She hugs him. He’s startled by her friendliness just as much as he was by the Stranger’s hostility. “How did you get here?”

  Maria says. “I was with a small group traveling south looking for Abi…for someone for a few weeks until I ran into the crazy cowboys. And you?”

&nb
sp; “Looking for a guy named the Boss?”

  She massages her redden wrists. “Really, pretentious much. Can I call you Chief?”

  “If you like?” I won’t be like David and ask a strange woman to join me, look how that turned out.

  Maria’s walking and talking to him like her and the Chief are long lost friends. “I was joking…don’t be such a pushover…I have to know who saved me, what’s your name?” She crosses her arms and taps one foot, looking into his eyes as if trying to read his mind. There’s something about her aggressive personality that reminds him of someone else. Maria is in her early thirties, has long dark hair, and is average height.

  The Chief says, “Raoul,” as if disturbed from a daydream. He places his rifle over a shoulder like a hobo pack on a stick, on a new path. “This way.”

  They walk and talk and she makes him forget about his dead friend, maybe she’s a Godsend and his horse had to die in exchange for her life. Rationalizing after death is to be expected, but it can be the truth, who is to say differently.

  The Chief lifts Maria onto the horse. She has the Stranger’s weapons over her body. Wrapped up horsemeat in her new satchel. “Raoul, take care of yourself. Thank you for everything.” She kisses her hand and waves upward.

  The Chief says. “Go home.” He slaps the horse’s ass. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. Four men had to die for her freedom.

  Maria’s almost out of sight and the Chief is watching from his new black horse. His friend’s horses are waiting for him to move to follow him. I wonder if Ava and the guys are okay…Ava…Maria…SISTERS. He cocks his rifle and aims it at the clouds; his finger on the trigger and eye on a tiny Maria on the horizon.

  “Mar…” He puts the rifle in his lap and rides in the other direction. I’ll tell David and Ava after we’re done. She’s safe. There you go, rationalizing again.