by Al Ewing
Cade hesitated, then took a black pill and a white pill, palming them. Slowly, the rustling plastic bags made their way through the audience, then vanished back into whatever storage they'd emerged from.
As Doc Clearly took the stage, there was muted applause - people could only clap so hard without dropping the precious pills.
"Everyone got a black pill and a white pill?" he smiled, holding up his own. Cade looked at him, eyes narrowed. He hadn't mentioned this during their brief talk. Cade wondered if that was just absent-mindedness. "Remember, take them both together - otherwise they don't work." He smiled. "I hope everyone's got something to say to God tonight." There was a ripple of laughter in the audience.
Cade straightened in his chair. He hadn't signed up for a suicide cult and he figured it was probably time to get out of there - either quietly or by force. Cassie noticed his sudden shift of posture and smiled, placing her hand on his shoulder again. "It's okay," she whispered. "We do this every night. The pills help us to see God, you know? We get to meet him."
Cade turned to the man on his right. "Yeah?"
The man played with his pills, almost nervously. "Sure. We see God, all right. You should try it."
"He's wonderful - a kindly old guy with a beard and big sad eyes. And he created us all." she sighed, her hand squeezing Cade's shoulder in a way that made him vaguely uncomfortable. She didn't give him the impression of someone totally in control of herself. Cade wasn't a man who got nervous exactly, but the way she'd attached herself to him in the past few hours made him a mite uneasy - restless, even. He didn't see it ending well. Not to mention all this God talk.
He'd had enough of that from the Pastor.
"I love God!" Cassie breathed, looking out into the middle distance, then downing her pills suddenly, almost furtively. Immediately she slumped in her seat, eyes rolling back.
The man on Cade's right grinned. "Comes on quick. Hey, y'know what God told me once? He made us, but he didn't make the world, or the bad times. That was someone else - Simon or Simeon or some shit. Satan figure, I guess. He said he was sorry, but there was nothing he could do." The man chuckled, light glinting off his oily skin. "Isn't that wild? Sorry. Don't that beat all?" He chuckled again, then swallowed the two pills and slumped down.
Cade looked around at the rest of the audience - without a word, they were all slumping, one by one, as the pills hit their systems, keeling over where they sat, heading into dreamland. Cade looked at the stage, and his eyes met Doc Clearly's - those kind, wise, infinitely patient eyes.
"Mister Cade. I guess I should have told you. Kept you informed. This is probably quite a shock to you." The Doc smiled, taking a seat in a prop chair, fiddling with the pills in his hand.
"Sure." said Cade, head cocked a little to the side, sizing the man up, Deciding if he was going to need to kill him.
He still seemed trustworthy.
"Our little... well, ritual seems strong. Our communal trip, put it that way." He smiled, genially. "It's one of the things we keep the generators for - running my laboratory. It's where I synthesise this stuff. My compound. It really does make you see God, you know. I think that's important these days - something people need. Faith, but without the evils of religion. Faith in pill form." He shrugged, then looked about him. "Does wonders for these people. A nightly escape from the horrors of the world... the terrible losses... every night, we can visit our Creator and get some answers, or shout at him, or hit him, or tell him about our day. God confesses to you, or you confess to God." He chuckled. "It's kind of theraputic. Even for me."
"You see God?" Cade raised an eyrbrow, leaning back in his seat. He was still evaluating. Wondering if he was going to need to do any killing.
Wondering if he should take the pills.
The Doc shrugged. "Or it's a drug trip. So sue me. The point is, this is what keeps these people sane. You can join in, or not. It's up to you. You sound like you've made your peace with the world as it is. You probably don't strictly need to take it. But I recommend you do. It really is something." He smiled, popping the pills into his mouth. "Try it, if only the once. I'll see you on the other side, Cade." He swallowed, and settled back, closing his eyes.
Cade was alone. All around him, he could hear the heavy breathing of the sleepers, lost in their drug dreams.
He looked at the pills in his hand, one black, one white. They felt heavy.
It was too damned risky, he figured. He wasn't about to take a drug - hell, two drugs, drugs he didn't know the first damned thing about - on the say-so of somebody he'd only just met, even if they did have a perfect community, even if everybody there was happier than anyone he'd met since the bad times, or before. It was too big a risk to swallow his damned pills even if God was at the other end of them.
Cade wondered what God would have to say.
It was a good sell Doc Clearly made.
Cade made up his mind. Slowly, he put the pills in his mouth. They tasted metallic on his tongue, and he found that the black one was sour, like aniseed. He felt his head get light.
He could still spit them out, he knew that. Instead, he swallowed, slowly.
And closed his eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
I am as I am
Drrr-rrrr-rrrrrrrr goes the alarm. It's not really an alarm, but it's the alarm function on a cheap mobile phone and it does the job well enough. It vibrates against the makeshift bedside table that I put together out of boxes of old CDs, waiting against the day I go to IKEA and get a proper one. I still haven't gotten around to that. Eventually I will.
The phone chirps sadistically while it vibrates and for a moment I don't know where I am. I try to open my eyes and there's a stabbing pain in my eyeballs, and I need to keep them shut and rub at them for a minute, feeling involuntary tears course down my cheeks. Clearly I didn't get enough sleep last night.
The phone's still chirping away, practically dancing about on the cardboard lid of the CD box. Drrrrr. Drrrrrr. Drrrrrrr. I need to find a more soothing way to wake up.
Drrrrrrrrr-drrr-drrrrr, right through my head until I reach out blindly, fumbling for the thing, fingers poking at my glasses and an empty can of something from the night before, finally knocking the phone off the boxes and down the side of the bed, reaching and gripping and finally managing to get the damned thing to shut up.
Then I set it to go off an hour later, put it back and go back to sleep.
What's the point in getting up?
Eventually I have to. There's work to be done and it's already after ten. I always hope that the morning will magically give me the will to carry on, and then once the morning finishes I hope for some renewed vigour in the afternoon. It never comes.
After the glasses go on, I rummage through drawers and pull on the first clothes I see. Nothing special - a drab maroon pullover - sweatshirt thing, black trousers, my jacket to keep out the cold. I don't need to make much of an effort today. I'm not seeing anybody, the flat's empty, everyone's gone. I've got the place to myself. Nobody's going to care how I dress, least of all me.
The face in the bathroom mirror is tired, eyes baggy, beard scraggy, face set in a dispirited scowl. I drag a flannel over it for the sake of habit, brush my teeth, look at the dark patches under the bloodshot, bleary eyes. I feel as bad as I look. I wasn't even drinking last night - I just didn't sleep. Too much news. Too depressed to sleep.
There's some leftover pizza that'll work well enough as breakfast. There are anchovies on it, and anchovies are the secret to eating cold pizza. An anchovy doesn't care if its hot or cold, it'll taste just the same and overpower anything else into the bargain. I highly recommend anchovies.
Of course, now I have to get myself into a world where there aren't any anchovies, and there isn't any pizza - not delivered, anyway, and certainly not the way we're used to, ordered online and perfectly customised for the ultimate leisure experience. This perfect community of Doc Clearly's probably makes pizza, albeit the old-fashioned way, like they
used to in old Italy. I wonder what that is - I should look it up. I suppose the way things are going we'll all be finding out soon.
I made the mistake yesterday of looking at the financial news and the environmental news - I couldn't work for an hour after that, just listlessly trawled for some sign of hope, but there wasn't one. We're long past the stage where the naysayers can make me feel any better, and the doomers seem more and more credible all the time. It's no wonder everything's tanking - money's just a shared illusion, and the scales are methodically falling from our eyes as things get worse and worse. We're not going to need a pandemic.
I remember the last time I had to write a post-apocalyptic world. In the first draft I never bothered to explain how things got to be post-apocalyptic - the apocalypse was inevitable. Just extrapolate from now.
If anything, the world of Afterblight is too optimistic.
This line of thinking isn't going to help me write. I crack open the laptop and set things into motion, listening to the grind of the processors as they turn over.
The laptop's new, or relatively new - an HP monstrosity that gets very hot very quickly, probably a sign it's using too much power. I'm worried it'll burn out faster than another computer might, start acting up, developing minor glitches that turn into larger and larger problems until finally I'm trying hopelessly to get five hundred words out of the thing between grinding, shuddering crashes. The day is coming. Everything degrades. Everything falls apart.
I got a Samsung TV last year, and it didn't last the week. Neither did the replacement. The second replacement lasted quite a while but recently fell over and died in exactly the same way. According to the web, they use cheap components that have a problem with power surges in certain areas. That warranty's paying off, I'll tell you that much. It's the way the world is these days - things built to perform, but not necessarily to last. Not much thought about the future.
The word processor opens and I'm looking at a blank page.
And the blank page looks back at me.
I push the 'hibernate' button and the screen goes black. I've just remembered I've got a contract from some script work that needs to be sent out if I'm going to get paid, and I need to get stamps and envelopes.
Best get that done now, before I start writing anything.
I'm not procrastinating, you understand. This is very practical behaviour.
I pull on socks, shoes and a coat - it's midwinter and the air's bitter - then quickly check the mirror. A scruffy, bearded man looks back at me, scowling with tired eyes. It'll have to do.
I'm not likely to be making any first impressions on people, with any luck. I'm just going to get stamps. It's not like I'm going to the pub or anything.
Just a quick errand and then back to work.
The envelope rack in the post office is right next to the magazine rack, and while I'm there I pick up a copy of a games magazine on impulse. I don't play that many computer games these days, but I've got a soft spot for a few of them and there are some coming out this year I'm really looking forward to.
It won't do any harm to stop off for a sandwich somewhere while I read this. Maybe a lunchtime pint, too.
Just to get the juices flowing. I'm not going to have more than one.
There's work waiting at home, after all.
York isn't so much a city as a town with pretensions. It's got walls separating the city centre from the suburban sprawl, and a cathedral to cement its city status, but at the end of the day you can walk across it in fifteen minutes without breathing hard. Inside that fifteen-minute radius there are several dozen different pubs, maybe as many as a hundred. The city as a whole - apparently - has a pub for every single day of the year.
With so many pubs, there's something for every kind of drinker and every kind of drink. If you're a real ale snob, visit the Three-Legged Mare. If you fancy a fight, the Lowther on a Saturday night is a good place to make an enemy, although you probably won't be able to start anything until you're down the street. If you want to feel cramped, try the Maltings. Personally, I like nooks - quiet spots where I can either read a book or talk without shouting. The Golden Slipper's good for that.
They're not serving food, so I just get a pint of Worthy's and some peanuts. I've still got plenty of that pizza in my belly.
Besides, a drink might help.
I'm definitely not going to have more than one.
The magazine's full of news about the new Sims game. You'll have heard of that - little computer people you can play around with, control their lives. This one's promising to make the little computer people even more human with even more human personalities. You can tailor the personalities how you want them and then turn them loose on each other and watch the soap opera unfold, or dive in and tweak it in the directions you want to go.
A virtual world of self-creating stories, set in motion by a god-like player. I like games like that.
There's an upcoming superhero MMORPG where you can create your hero and an arch-nemesis and set them out in a virtual world to be admired. I'm definitely getting that.
The irony hasn't escaped me. Even when I'm avoiding work, I'm still working. I'm just not getting paid.
About halfway through the pint, the door opens and he walks in. I don't see him at first - the little nook I'm reading my magazine in is blocked off from the door - but I hear the conversation in the room stop.
I only notice him when he's looming over my table. The shadow falls across the magazine and I find myself looking up, right into his grey eyes.
He's six feet, shorter than me, but he looks so much taller. He's standing and I'm sitting, of course. I'm sure that's what it is.
He's got the face Mark gave him on the cover, and the clothes - the black tank top and chains - but instead of the close-cut mohican he's got a shock of black hair, like Bluto in Popeye. Mountain man hair. Just like I pictured him, in fact.
It could be a coincidence, just someone who looks the same.
But it's not.
It's him.
He doesn't speak. He just looks at me, eyes heavy-lidded, no expression on that face. Staring. Maybe he's got nothing to say.
When you think about it, there isn't much that can be said.
He breathes in, bunching one hand into a fist, then breathes out. The hand opens. The puncture wound running right through the palm bleeds a little. I still can't read the look in his eyes.
I'm very conscious of my own sweat. It's hard to swallow but I manage it anyway.
He had a pair of railroad spikes knocked through his hands. I'm not sure why I did that - there was some symbolic value, and I wanted to show the hero enduring in a hopeless situation. To an extent, I thought myself into that situation, at least in his place and with the inhuman power to survive I'd given him. But I wasn't in that situation, of course.
He was, though.
Because of me.
I look up at his eyes, opening my mouth to say something, and think better of it. My mouth is bone dry, but I don't dare lift my pint.
I still can't read the look in his eyes.
Is he angry?
I wasn't the one who killed his world. It was like that when I got there. Someone else built the whole thing and started the dominos toppling, I just came along after the fact and used it as a handy backdrop.
He clenches his fist again.
That isn't quite true. I might not have thought up the setting, but I killed off his town, his friends - no, I made it so he couldn't have friends. I killed everyone he knew. I described the end of the world for him in loving detail. I made everything as horrific as it could possibly get, and then for good measure I made sure his past was horrific as well.
I stripped most of his human feelings from him, only allowing him the occasional hint, because I thought that'd make for a better protagonist.
And now this person - this damaged psychopath - is standing in front of me, flexing his ruined hands.
Idly, I wonder what the barmaid thinks of al
l this. I look over at her - she's looking suspiciously over at me, muttering something to the landlord. I look back at his eyes, those grey, unreadable eyes, to see if he's registered it.
Suddenly, his head drops slightly. He looks at the games magazine, at the half-finished pint. Then he looks back in my eyes.
He doesn't look angry. He never did.
He looks sad.
"I'm sorry." I mutter, cheeks flushing. He doesn't respond.
There isn't anything to say.
After a second, he walks out. I feel guilty, and angry at him for making me feel guilty. I listlessly finish the pint in a couple of swift gulps, then walk out, the accusing eyes of the barmaid following me. I won't be able to go back there for a while, I suppose.
I stop off at the Mason's Arms for another and get some food with it, and finish the rest of the magazine. I'm really interested in this game. You can actually reach into the game world and move their things about, even enlarge or shrink their houses while they're walking around in them. Change and edit their lives between moments.
I wonder if they notice?
I have another pint - coke, this time - over some sausage and mash, which takes me into the afternoon. The day's a write-off, frankly, but it's not too late for me to get a couple of thousand words down - I ask the barman if he'll let me have a can of Red Bull without opening it. He doesn't have a problem.
By the time I get back into the flat, it's become obvious that the bloke in the pub was just some random nutter. He looked a bit like... well, like him, but he was probably just some goth or a local Hell's Angel or something. I probably just took his chair while he was out having a fag in the street and he wanted to stare me out of it.
Or something. I don't know.
The laptop is still sitting open, screen black. I crack open the can and sip it, letting it wake me up a little and counteract the booze. The stuff makes me jittery, but it helps with the writing, especially on a deadline. It's past time I got some work done.