The Apocalypse Club

by McLay, Craig

  There were two short pops producing two more fresh splats of yellow on Lemire’s chest.

  “Hey!” he protested. “You fuckin’ blind? I’ve already been shot!”

  “Then lie down, shitbird,” said a familiar voice.

  Whatever they were, I could see that they certainly weren’t blind. Both the new arrivals had special binocular night vision units attached to their helmets. They did a quick scan of the room. Could they see me? It didn’t appear that they could.

  “Clear!” said one.

  “Clear!” said the one who shot Lemire. Oh yeah. I definitely knew that voice.

  They turned to head back out the door. It was now or never. I pushed open the door slightly and raised the air rifle. They were less than five yards away and facing the other direction. Still, I had only ever fired the damn thing once before. And I had missed.

  I squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in my hands and a large splat of orange appeared on the back of the first intruder. I squeezed again and a bright splat appeared on the back of the second.

  “What the hell?” the first one said, turning around.

  “You’re shot!” said the second.

  “You too!”

  I stepped through the door. I was quite satisfied with myself. It hadn’t been difficult shooting, but I hadn’t missed this time. Three of us had run into this room, and I was the only one who would be running out.

  “You asshole!” said the second one. The voice belonged to Ida. There was no mistaking it. There was also no mistaking the fact that the next thing she did was raise her rifle and shoot me in the crotch.

  I dropped the rifle and doubled over on the floor. The pain was intense, but there was no way in hell I was going to let her see me writhing around like that. With all the willpower I could manage, I crammed the pain into a little box and stuffed it on a little shelf in the back of my mind to think about later. I sucked air through gritted teeth and pulled myself up to my feet, using my rifle as a makeshift support. As far as I was concerned, it was an illegal shot. I was going to keep going.

  “Look out! We got one coming out!” Ida yelled as I pushed past them. Technically, her wound was a Fatal. She wasn’t supposed to be talking at that point. I didn’t care. I just wanted out.

  I stumbled into the hall and headed for the stairs. I heard a noise on my left and fired off a couple of shots without looking. Every step was something less than joy. I made it to the bottom of the stairs and staggered through the lobby. I could see the door in front of me that led to the street. Running was not possible. The best I could do was a sort of modified hop. I made it through the door and out onto the street. If I could just make it across and into one of the structures on the other side, I might be able to hole up and hide until it was over and they sounded the all-clear.

  I only made it about halfway across when something hit me in the middle of my chest, knocking me backwards. I landed hard on my ass and looked down at my chest, which was now bright yellow.

  Shit, I thought. Almost made it. Ah, well. At least I lasted longer than the others.

  I watched as a figure emerged from the building across the street and walked toward me. So they did have someone covering the exits. Smart. I could see the figure had the same night vision gear, but was using a rifle that was skinnier and appeared to have a longer barrel. A sniper. The figure crouched down next to me and lifted the night vision gear up into the ready position.

  “I’m impressed,” Max said, grinning. “The rest of your unit barely made it more than three steps.”

  I tried to smile. “Hell, give us a helo and night vision and grenades and try again, smart ass. See how lucky you get.”

  “Good to see you again, man.”

  “I’d like to say the same, but you did just shoot me. Asshole.”

  “You want some water?” he asked, taking a swig from his flask and then offering it to me.

  “Got anything stronger?”

  He smiled and reached into his back pocket. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  -14-

  The JD graduation parade took place on a drizzly Thursday afternoon at the end of August.

  My parents came out and sat under an umbrella in the stands to watch me pick up my certificate and a special citation for distinction in combat operations. It seems that nobody else had managed to tag one of the STUs during War Games. I had managed to take out three of them (that random shot on the way down the hall got one by accident) and got fifteen steps closer to escaping than anyone else, so I guess that counted for something.

  Max graduated as Top Cadet. General Dion Westmoreland, commander of GDI training programs, presented him with the trophy (which was supposed to look like a spear, giving it an unfortunate dildo-like appearance) and pinned the commendation to his tunic personally. Max’s mother did not come to the ceremony. Max had decided to enlist full time in the GDI instead of going on to university and she was not happy about it. She had elected not to come during the midway visit, either. I guess Max had told her shortly before that he was having a blast in the JD and planned to pursue it as a career.

  “She wanted me to go to med school instead,” Max said when I tracked him down after the ceremony. As the Top Cadet, he was the closest thing the party had to a celebrity. Everybody wanted to shake his hand, or at least to be seen doing it, so it took a while before the crowds died down enough that I was able to talk to him more or less alone. “She said I had the spot and it would be a huge mistake if I didn’t take it. I told her I’d already emailed them and said I wasn’t going. Not that I would have gotten in, anyway. Not without her help.”

  “What’d she say to that?”

  “Nothing,” Max said, popping open a beer that one of the admiring officer cadets had surreptitiously handed off to him. Being Top Cadet certainly had its perks. No one was buying me free drinks. “She just hung up.”

  “Ouch. And that was it?”

  Max took a swig and offered me a sip. I declined. I had to get into the car for a four-hour drive with my parents, which would be followed by a two-hour drive to university the next day. If I had beer on my breath, they would notice.

  “She sent me an email a couple days later,” he said. “She said that if I wasn’t going to go to med school, I should pursue it through one of the GDI specialist programs. She’d probably been up for hours researching them online. The email was sent at three forty-two in the morning.”

  “To which you said?”

  “I said no. She’s the one who always wanted me to be a doctor. I was never all that thrilled with the idea, to be honest.” He let out a belch. “Damn, these things are gooood.”

  “How many of those have you had now?”

  “Not sure,” Max said, looking foggy. “People kept handing me new ones even before I’d finished the old ones. OC Seligmann’s given me, like, at least two. I think she’s got the hots for me or something. Every time I turn around, I catch her looking in my direction.”

  “Isn’t she about twenty-five years old?”

  Max shrugged. “So? I hear she’s a third-degree black belt and hand-to-hand master. I could use some additional training in that area right about now. Especially after having been cooped up in here for the last two months.”

  “No one in your unit who might have captured your interest?”

  Max shook his head. “Nah. We were all too focused, man. No time for fuckin’ around in the STUs. Took your advice, though. Anytime I saw Ida in the showers, I turned around and went the other way. I think she knew that word had got out.”

  Ida had been stripped of her STU designation after the War Games and forced to graduate as a regular cadet. I guess the secret infrared cameras planted all over the site captured some of her less than honourable conduct and outright breaches of the rules (like shooting me in the nuts after she was rendered a Fatal). All of the remaining members of A Company had given her a nice smile and a wave when she stepped down off the podium.

  “Well, that’s good
.”

  “What about you?” Max asked.

  I shook my head. Erectile functionality had been iffy at best since the shower incident, and my most recent crotch shooting had not helped matters. “No. So if you’re not going into medicine, what are you going to do?”

  “Special Ops infantry, I think,” Max said, looking suddenly serious. “It’s weird. I’ve never really been, you know, so…good at something before. Just naturally. Like I understand it. Like I was born to do it. Everything else was like work. But this…” His voice trailed off. He looked like he was staring at the parade ground, but I knew he was really looking for something more elusive and farther away. “Westmoreland said there might be a spot in the GDI Special Ops academy. They don’t usually allow JD grads in. Usually you have to do two years before you’re allowed to apply. But he said if I’m interested, I’m basically as good as in.”

  I could understand why his mother was having mixed feelings about this. I was happy to see him so excited about the possibilities and the future; I just couldn’t believe that future was going to be in the GDI. Max the great anti-establishment revolutionary was now about to become as establishment as it was possible to get short of running for office. The boy who wanted to tear it all down was about to become the man who would put his life on the line to keep it standing. How was this possible?

  “So I guess I’ll have to find some new recruits for BO-two-two-four,” I said, laughing. “You’ll be a hard man to replace, Commander.”

  Max smiled. “Better lay off that for a while. I have a plan.”

  “What?” I didn’t really have any serious notions about restarting the group, I had just been kidding. “What plan?”

  Max looked around to make sure there was no one in earshot. “Can’t say too much here, but don’t worry. Things are in motion. We’ll see each other again soon.”

  In motion? What in the hell was he talking about? I was going to ask more questions, but was interrupted by the arrival of my parents, who congratulated Max and told me it was time to get going. My mother was not quite as effusive in her praise as my dad. I had no doubt that this was because she was friends with Max’s mother and had spent more than a few hours on the phone over the past few weeks listening to stories about how Max was throwing away a brilliant future in medicine so that he could be sent to a foreign country and step on an IED. My father, on the other hand, clearly thought it was fantastic. He gave Max a hearty, two-handed handshake and told him he was doing the right thing.

  Watching all this, it occurred to me that if Max and I could’ve switched parents, both parties would probably have been a lot happier. Granted, I wasn’t going into medicine, but at least I wasn’t signing up to be a rifle rat.

  My father stepped back. Max and I looked at each other for a moment. I took a deep breath. I’m lousy with goodbyes. I like to pretend they’re only temporary. Oh yeah. We’ll probably run into each other tomorrow. Or maybe not tomorrow, but not long after. This time we both knew that most certainly wasn’t going to be the case. We were now going in two directions with no indication that those lines might ever converge at some point off the graph and over the horizon. It was entirely possible that the two of us would never see each other again.

  “Well, Commander,” I said, pulling him into a hug. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too,” he said. “Good luck in school. Try not to get shot in the crotch.”

  “Same goes for you.”

  We broke off and I started backing away with my parents toward the car, school…a whole different life. I threw him a salute and he saluted back.

  “Don’t forget what I said, Mark,” he said as we separated. “Vive la revolution!”

  In the car on the way home, my mother asked what Max had meant by that final remark. I told her that he’d had about five beers by that point and probably didn’t know what he was talking about, either. She let the matter drop.

  -15-

  The first time I saw my dorm room, I thought it was an elevator. Then I spotted the window. It was just large enough for a small bed, a small desk, and a chair. The walls were about as soundproof as bed sheets, which meant that I became quite familiar with my neighbour’s tastes in music (horrible Italian Eurovision), movies (mostly porn, although they could have been exercise videos, I suppose), and mating (usually first-year kinesiology students on Thursday afternoons). I spent a lot of time listening to audiobooks. Russian names are a great antidote to expressive moaning in romance languages.

  I skipped all the frosh week stuff. I’ve never been a “hang-out-and-chat-over-the-fence-good-neighbour” type of guy. I’m more of a “you-kids-get-the-hell-off-my-lawn” kind of guy. I don’t usually base my socialization on proximity. Just because I live next door to you doesn’t mean I want to hear your version of “Oops! I Did It Again” after you’ve polished off 32 shooters at three in the morning and can’t remember which room is yours. Especially if I have to get up and spend 15 minutes explaining that, as much as my room looks like your room and no matter how positive you are that I am a squatter who snuck in while you were out, you have got the wrong address.

  I got a job working evenings at the university library and another one doing the occasional weekend shift at a boutique video store. The video store had managed to survive by avoiding the mass market studio stuff and specializing in the esoteric: French new wave, Swedish existentialism, Italian neo-realism, Japanese cartoon monster tentacle porn. If it was black and white, featured a lot of ironic nudity, or had been inspired by the slicing of a cow eyeball, we had it. Being self-referentially hip, we didn’t classify our movies alphabetically, but by a series of bizarre and ever-changing categories: “Movies Starring Ewan McGregor’s Dick,” “Stop Them Before They Shoot Again” (featuring Uwe Boll, Michael Bay, Tom Shadyac and Joel Schumacher, among others), “Nic Cage Goes Batshit,” “Idiot Plots” (dumb concept movies with central conflicts that could easily be resolved by a 30-second conversation between the main characters) and “Prescribed By Doc Oc” (movies deemed capital-I “Important” by the Academy that you feel you have a moral or historical obligation to watch even though they’re really not very entertaining, like “12 Years A Slave” or “Judgement At Nuremburg”). I had only been there a few weeks when the assistant manager left after six months to study art restoration in Florence and I took over the job.

  The income from the jobs wasn’t much, but it was enough to enable me to move out of the dorm and into a tiny basement apartment at the end of my first year. The place wasn’t great, but it was only two blocks from the nearest subway station. Plus, I finally had a kitchen and bathroom to myself for the first time. I bought a cookbook and learned to make curry, Chicken Kiev and Pad Thai, only giving myself food poisoning once. I switched my major from Politics to History, which was relatively easy since so many of the courses overlapped. I went to movies, art galleries and museums. I got used to being by myself.

  I only heard from Max a couple of times during that first year. He emailed me when he completed the GDI special ops training and been assigned to an operational unit overseas. He couldn’t tell me which unit, what he was doing or where he was going. Indeed, a large disclaimer at the bottom of the email advised that it had been reviewed and passed by the GDI Intelligence Division and that all correspondence with that email address was subject to the same scrutiny. The only other email I got from him was a picture of him standing in a tan T-shirt and shorts somewhere in what looked like a desert. He appeared to be holding a chicken upside down by the claws and laughing with someone standing just out of frame. There was no text to explain where the chicken had come from or what was so funny (or if there previously was, it had been deleted by the censors).

  Since I was out of the dorm and class sizes were smaller this time around, second year started more quietly than the first. I was getting enough hours at the video store that I no longer needed the job at the library, but I kept it anyway. It was during one of those shifts on a quiet Thursday night
in October that it happened. I was shelving books in Economics when I came around the corner with my cart and there she was, sitting quietly at one of the study carrels.

  Violet Haze.

  I just stood there for a moment, sure I had to be seeing things. By that time, I had mostly convinced myself that she had been a figment of my imagination, along with everything else that had happened leading up to our attack on the Weather Station. What had come after was harder to forget, but I was doing a pretty good job of blocking it out of my mind.

  What on earth should I do? I considered turning the cart around and walking away, but she had already looked up and spotted me. A strange little smile flicked across her face. Out of nowhere I was furious. Retreat was suddenly no longer an option. I dropped the book I was about to re-shelve on the cart and strode over.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked in a low growl. After working in a library for a year, I had become so accustomed to speaking in whispers that I was physically incapable of raising my voice.

  “My, oh my, Mark Simms!” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Fancy seeing you. What, you work here?”

  “Don’t pretend you had no idea!” I hissed. I looked around, but we appeared to have the place to ourselves. “Why are you following me this time?”

  She laughed. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean I’m out to get you, Simms.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Violet had changed surprisingly little since the last time I had seen her. The only difference was that before she had looked like a school girl and now she looked like, well, a woman. Instead of being pulled straight back, her hair was longer and slightly curly and hanging down across her forehead, framing her face. She was wearing a business-like pantsuit. On the floor next to her chair was the same type of brown leather carrying case favoured by law students.

  “I’m on a study exchange program,” she said. “Four months at Cambridge and four months here. What about you?”