Soft Apocalypse

by Will McIntosh

  Their military analyst, a bald colonel with no right arm, explained that the military trained for this sort of mobilization, that it even had a name: Operation Repatriation. The troops would destroy any large weapons they couldn’t take with them, then they would be readied to deploy across the U.S. to reestablish order if that became necessary.

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not,” Colin said, “assuming they’re really deployed.”

  “They can’t be worse than the police or the Civil Defense goons,” I said.

  “Maybe we’ll find out,” Cortez said.

  Cortez slept in the kitchen, between the counter and the table, because my bed was in the living room and he said he didn’t want to crowd me. By the time I woke, he was gone—he’d left a note saying he was going to salvage what he could from his apartment, and would see us later.

  After breakfast I wandered into Pulaski Square, where the tribe was still camped. They had so few possessions: machetes, cooking pots; one kid was clutching an old action figure. From what I could see, no one was in charge. Most of them were sprawled on the lawn dozing; a group of older men were playing some sort of gambling game that involved tossing carved stones.

  “Where is your friend with the sticks?” I turned; it was the topless girl. Her accent was like the man we’d talked with yesterday—she pronounced Ws like Vs.

  “He’s at home,” I said. I didn’t figure it was worth trying to explain all of the nuances in that statement.

  “Was he playing a game with them?” She made a strange, scrunchy facial expression, almost like she wasn’t aware other people could see her face.

  “It wasn’t a game. They’re weapons, for protection.”

  She made a grunting sound that I took to mean she understood. I glanced at her chest. I couldn’t help it, her breasts were right there. Her nipples were puckered, her areolas as big as silver dollar pancakes.

  “Why doesn’t he just have a gun?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, then saw that she was grinning. I laughed, and she laughed with me. We stood there looking at each other, only I realized after a moment that she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking off over my shoulder. I turned to see what she was looking at. It was the bamboo outbreak.

  She smiled, suddenly looking almost like any city girl.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “I guess you could say that.”

  It occurred to me that these people were like modern hunter-gatherers. A few years ago I’d watched part of an old documentary about a hunter-gatherer tribe in Africa. These people were so much like them—they loved nature, no one seemed to be in charge, they kept moving and seemed to live almost totally off the land. I wondered if they’d been out in the woods since my tribe had been out there. That would be eight years, a long time to be wandering around in the woods.

  “Hey, Jasper!” It was Cortez, jogging toward us. He waved briefly to the girl and then pulled me aside.

  “Remember yesterday when I told you that I felt aimless, that I didn’t know where my life was going?” He didn’t wait for me to reply—he was excited, talking at high-speed. “Now I know. I found this book on your shelf…” He fumbled in his pack, pulled out a softcover book. It was Light of the Warrior-Sage, one of the books I’d salvaged from the abandoned bookstore after seeing Mr. Swift executed. I’d never gotten past the first chapter. Cortez shook the book. “This book showed me my path.” He leafed through it, opened to a page he’d dog-eared, and read:

  “The warrior-sage keeps a silent quest in his heart. This quest keeps him vital, lubricates his mind and spirit, keeps him poised and alert in the luminosity of his soul. His quest is selfless, for the warrior-sage recognizes that the boundary between self and world is illusion, that alleviating the suffering of the world and alleviating the suffering in his own heart are one and the same.”

  As Cortez looked up from reading, I was surprised to see that his eyes were filled with tears. “It’s like those words have always been inside me, waiting to come out. A warrior-sage—that’s what I am.”

  “Hm.” I nodded, as if I were thinking about what he was saying. It was good to see him so up a day after his house had been bambooed.

  Cortez dug back into his pack and retrieved an old Batman comic. “Yesterday I was rereading this. I’ve always admired Batman. I was thinking that the Caped Crusader would sure pull a full shift if he were working in these times, and then it all came together. All this time honing my martial arts skills, my weapons technique… it was all leading to this.”

  “To what?” I asked.

  Cortez held up a finger. “I’m going to devote myself to helping others. Maybe I can’t stop the Jumpy-Jumps and the CDs on a large scale, but I can stop some crime, at least. At least I can do something.” He gripped my shoulder, spoke almost in my ear. “And I know just where to start. I found out who’s responsible for releasing that bamboo.”

  “Really? Who was it?”

  Cortez cocked a thumb toward River Street. “There’s a guy who sells drugs and fences stolen merchandise out of an abandoned building on MLK. I found out he also handles bamboo. I checked the place out. It’s a small-time operation. I’m going to straighten them out.”

  “I’d love to see that,” I laughed.

  Cortez’s eyes got wide. “Hey! Come with me!”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t be a good Robin. I have no crime-fighting skills whatsoever.” I neglected to add that I’m a coward. Before the depression, when battles were fought with words and lawyers, I would have been a much more effective fighter. Fists and guns are not my weapons of choice.

  Cortez put an arm around my shoulder. “No, I’ll take care of the enforcement—it would just be nice to have some company. You can just hang.”

  I had the impression that Cortez mostly wanted a witness. What’s the point of exacting retribution if no one sees it? “What are you going to do, exactly?”

  Cortez waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not gonna hurt anyone. I’ll just confiscate their drugs and bamboo and grind it all under my heel, then tell them they’re closed for business.”

  I wanted to say no, but Cortez was giving me this imploring, expectant look, his eyebrows raised. It seemed important to him that I go. It probably wouldn’t entail much risk. I’d watched him dismantle two knife-wielding thugs who were ready for him, and that was years ago—his skills had improved since then, and he’d have weapons of his own this time.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Cortez beamed. “I’ll come get you tonight around ten.”

  Cortez was dressed all in black. A fat knife was sheathed at his calf, and his Eskrima sticks were in a pouch at his waist.

  MLK Drive was bustling now that the sun was down. An Asian woman stood on the corner in a faded green felt skirt, looking to turn tricks, her children sitting at her feet playing with bottle caps. One of her arms was nothing but bone and scar tissue; she’d danced with the flesh-eating virus, but she’d survived it, lucky lady. Cortez’s mother hadn’t been so lucky, along with maybe a hundred thousand others.

  A bunch of uniforms were standing outside the boarded-up Lucky 7 mini-casino checking IDs, probably for no reason except to exert their authority.

  An old tour trolley, stripped down to wheels and a floor, rumbled by. “Right over there, a particularly bloody stiletto went down,” a red-haired guy in an old navy jacket said into a crackly microphone. “Dude stabbed another dude seven, eight times in the face, till his blade got stuck in the eye socket and he couldn’t get it back out.”

  “Where’s the harm in that?” someone shouted from the back of the trolley, a bottle of home brew clutched in his fist. We watched the murder tour roll by.

  “Have you ever read that book I borrowed, Light of the Warrior-Sage?” Cortez asked.

  “No, I never got around to it. When I have free time I’ve been reading about medicinal herbs.”

  “How’s that going? Your apothecary business?”

  �
��It’s going okay. I’m able to stock about two dozen different herbs. I make foraging day-trips into the country.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, I enjoy the foraging expeditions. It’s peaceful in the bamboo, and fun to hunt for the herbs, kind of like a scavenger hunt. Once I started selling them people started coming into the store to consult with me about what they should take, you know, for a toothache or to help them get pregnant.”

  Two guys stumbled past. “Look at the moon! It’s glowing in the dark!” one of them said, pointing. The other cackled. Stoners shot up with something, probably godflash.

  “You making some good cheese?” Cortez asked me.

  “Not a lot. People can’t afford to pay much, so if I want to sell it, it’s got to be cheap. Plus it’s Ruplu’s store, so he gets a cut.”

  We stopped behind a battered Prius, in front of what was essentially an empty lot with a door and a roof tucked between two buildings. Blackened bricks and heat-tortured steel lay scattered and piled, casting long shadows. “This is it,” Cortez said. “Dude’s name is B-Bob, or something like that.” A tug boat hooted in the distance; overhead a bat flapped mad figure-eights around a lamppost.

  I followed Cortez through the doorway, into a big, dark, empty space. In the far corner there was light, created by dozens of candles, their flames burning in a rainbow of colors. B-Bob sat on a stool behind a bruised Formica counter, his back to the brick wall of an adjoining building. A girl leaned up against the wall, arms crossed behind her back, purse dangling from her shoulder, talking to B-Bob.

  “She’s got some train wreck going on at her place,” the girl was saying as we approached. I recognized her: Tara Cohn. I’d gone to school with her. She’d hung out with a different crowd, but she’d been okay. Always chewing gum.

  “Freeze,” Cortez said. He was holding a gun. Tara shrieked; B-Bob nearly fell back on his stool. Cortez lunged, grabbed the automatic pistol sitting on the counter, stuffed it in his belt.

  “Take it, take it,” B-Bob said, hands in the air. “We got no problem.”

  “Yeah, we do got a problem,” Cortez said to B-Bob. “Put everything on the table. Now.”

  Hands shaking, B-Bob pulled piles of baggies and bright-colored pills out from behind the counter, laid them on top. Then he put his hands back up.

  Cortez pushed the drugs into a pile, pulled a little can of lighter fluid from his pocket and squirted it over the drugs.

  B-Bob stared at the pile, wide-eyed. “What the fuck? You just going to flunk them all?”

  “I ain’t no thief,” Cortez said, fishing a matchbook from his pants. “Where’s the bamboo? I want that too.”

  “What bamboo? I don’t got no bamboo.”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Cortez said.

  “I just hold it to pass on to somebody once in a while. I don’t got none right now.”

  “Well, your fucking bamboo cut up the wrong guy’s home,” Cortez said. “All you bastards bleeding the block, wrecking this city. This is my home, god dammit.”

  “I don’t sell to kids,” B-Bob said. “I don’t do no harm, I just help people escape for a little while. It’s the only vacation most people around here can afford.”

  I heard a metal click. “Drop the gun.” It was a man’s voice, behind Cortez.

  Cortez put his hands up slowly, turned halfway around. Before I understood what was happening, he planted a side kick under the guy’s armpit, followed by a spinning hook kick that caught the guy square in the jaw and dropped him. He was so fast—I couldn’t believe it.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tara fumbling in her purse.

  “Look out!” I shouted at Cortez. He spun to face Tara as she pointed the pistol at him, clutching it in both hands.

  “No!” Cortez shouted as she drew a bead. “Put it down!” He pointed his pistol at her. Tara hesitated, then closed one eye like she was at a fucking rifle range.

  Cortez shot her twice in the stomach.

  She grunted, fell back into a sitting position, stared down in disbelief at the blood, which looked black in the dim streetlight.

  She looked up at Cortez. “You suck.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cortez said. “Why didn’t you listen? I didn’t want to hurt nobody.”

  I was swimming in a dream world. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what was happening.

  “Bobby,” Tara whimpered. “I need help. It’s starting to hurt.” She gagged; blood leaked out of her mouth and down her chin. Bobby squatted beside her, drew her head to his chest.

  Cortez grabbed me by the arm and yanked. I stumbled, almost fell. “Run,” he said. I let him jerk me along as I looked back at the seemingly frozen scene of B-Bob holding Tara to his chest, until the doorway flashed by around me, and the scene was snuffed out.

  “Run!” Cortez shouted. I ran. I’ve never run so fast.

  I finally stopped not because I was out of breath but because I couldn’t see where I was going through the tears. I stopped in a deserted alley, pushed my face against the bricks. Cortez leaned up against the wall across from me, then slid to a sitting position, his head dangling between his knees. He sniffed.

  What had we done? We’d shot Tara Cohn, who used to sit in front of me in biology class. For what? For what reason? She’d told Cortez he sucked, like he’d taken her last French fry or something.

  “She might be okay, we don’t know,” Cortez said, his voice thick from crying.

  “She’s not okay,” I said.

  I turned and stared out of the alley, into a square a block away, at the Spanish moss dripping from the branches of the oaks, the moonlight peering through. “I think I need to be alone for a while. Will you be okay?”

  Cortez nodded. “I’m sorry I got you into this. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know,” I said. I couldn’t look at him. I walked off.

  I walked until daylight. I didn’t want to go home and have to explain what had happened when Colin and Jeannie saw my face. By morning I’d stopped crying, but I still felt so twisted inside that it was hard to take a full breath.

  I found myself thinking about the other killing, when we’d stabbed the men who were trying to rape Ange. That had been a more understandable killing—a noble murder, almost. We hadn’t felt noble, and I still had occasional nightmares about it, but I never regretted it. I would regret Tara’s death every day for the rest of my life.

  I wandered into Madison Square. The primitive tribe was breaking camp. The girl waved when she saw me. I realized I hadn’t even asked her name, like she was an animal not worth that courtesy. This morning she looked strong and certain, like she was the one who had it right, who knew how to live, and I was the clueless one. “I don’t know your name,” I said, trying to smile.

  “Bird,” she said.

  “Jasper.”

  “I like you,” she said, staring at the ground, looking like a fifteen-year-old with a crush. It occurred to me that I didn’t know she wasn’t fifteen, though I suspected she was more like twenty. It felt good to have someone say something nice to me just then.

  “I like you, too,” I said. I blinked tears away.

  “Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I can’t,” I said. She nodded, let her shoulders drop in disappointment.

  It occurred to me that I could go if I wanted to. I imagined myself in the bamboo, hunting for herbs and roots, sleeping under the stars, maybe not sleeping alone. That would be nice. Why couldn’t I just go for a week or two, maybe a month? No guns, no viruses, nothing to think about. Noble savagery. The urge to flee, to get out of the city, was overwhelming.

  “Could I come for a little while, maybe a few weeks? Would that be all right? I can’t come for good.” I didn’t understand these people’s culture, and didn’t want to mistakenly give her the impression we were getting married or something.

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Would they let me?”

  “Would who let you?” Bird asked.
r />   “Your… people. Who would I ask?”

  Bird shrugged, squinted. “Why would you ask anybody?”

  No one was in charge. What a refreshing concept.

  Two naked kids ran between us, giggling, one chasing the other.

  “I’d like to come with you for a while,” I said. Bird squealed with excitement, jumped up and down.

  “I need to go get some things. I’ll meet you back here?”

  She pointed at the ground. “Right here.”

  “Right.” I jogged out of the park, up Whitaker to East Jones.

  Colin was on the roof, working in the garden. I told him I was going on an extended herb excursion with the tribe in the square, that I might be gone for a few weeks. I’d done a few overnight jaunts, so he didn’t think too much of it. I didn’t tell him about Tara Cohn. I knew I would eventually, but it was too fresh right now, it would take too much out of me, and I was so tired. My eyelids burned from dirt and tears and lack of sleep.

  I packed some toiletries, a change of clothes, two wild herb books. I threw on my collection vest, its pockets like a dozen little drawers in a curio cabinet, and headed to the square.

  Back in the square Bird grabbed my arm, led me to a little pile: a cooking pot, bow and arrow, machete, a black plastic bag tied with a string. “These are my things. Can you carry the machete and bow and arrows?”

  I nodded, picked them up. Bird grabbed the other things, and we left. Just like that.

  By afternoon I was drenched in sweat and exhausted. I hadn’t slept in thirty hours, and I’d been an accomplice to a killing since then.

  We reached the foot-high plastic wall that marked the perimeter of the outer rhizome barrier, and pressed into the bamboo. It was like another world. In most places the stalks were so tight that you had to squeeze between them; you chose your path like you were in a maze, trying to look ahead, avoid the areas where you had to hack with the machete, seeking out the more open areas where you could walk normally. It was a perfect distraction, a mindless task that occupied most of my attention.

  I liked watching the kids. They navigated the bamboo so effortlessly. Not only were they smaller, but they moved like they were born to it, which they probably were.