Apocalypticon

by Clayton Smith

  “At least you’d be far from the Ku Klux Klan.”

  Brother Haffstaff’s face was chalky white, and damp with sweat. “And I could buy a house near an alluvial fan,” he gasped.

  “Fault!” cried Brother Triedit. “Repeated use of the word ‘fan.’ The title of Great Adulator falls to Brother Bicon.” The brothers gave him a rousing applause. “Well done, brother! The Great Centralizer is fittingly adulated, and yea, art thou bright in his eyes, oo-fray dic-tus homy-noo.” Brother Bicon bowed low to the Holy Father and responded in the order’s gibberish. Brother Triedit blessed him with the Sign of the Wobbly Circle, then clapped three times. “Brother Mayham, bring forth the Book of Failure and Disgrace.” Brother Mayham shimmied up the trunk of a great oak tree and returned with a heavy, leatherbound book the size of a tombstone. He lowered himself to one knee and presented it humbly to the Holy Father. Brother Triedit took the tome and flipped it open to what seemed to be a random page. “As Fortimus did shame his family with the forfeiture of his larger-than-average genitalia in exchange for a piddling sum, so too are we shamed by the catastrophic failure achieved thence by one of our own cloth.” He closed the book with a heavy thud and beckoned Brother Haffstaff forward. “Step to, Pillar of Embarrassment, and receive the Divine Shaming.” Brother Haffstaff fell to his knees before the Holy Father. Brother Triedit cursed him with a Reverse Wobbly Circle, then lifted the book high in the air and brought it crashing down on Brother Haffstaff’s shoulder. The Pillar of Embarrassment was knocked to the dirt.

  “Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom,” he said.

  Brother Triedit turned to the other members of the Order. “Come, brothers, and form the Line of Severe and Direct Punishment.” The monks stood and shuffled toward the prostrate failure. Patrick and Ben followed, casting each other questioning glances. They squeezed themselves into the line that formed behind Brother Spyndthrift. Brother Triedit handed Spyndthrift the book. He hauled off and whacked Brother Haffstaff in the leg.

  “Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom,” said Brother Haffstaff.

  “Is there anyone left in the world who’s not roundly insane?” Ben whispered to Patrick. Brother Bickdraft overheard him and intervened.

  “Only one of our number receives the Divine Shaming each night during adulation,” he explained quietly. “It’s practically an honor.”

  Patrick watched doubtfully as the other brothers took their turns battering the inadequate rhymer with the heavy book.

  Wham!

  “Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom.”

  Whack!

  “Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom.”

  Whomp!

  “Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom.”

  Whuff!

  “Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom.”

  …And so on. Soon it was Ben’s turn to bludgeon the poor bastard. Brother Toldus handed him the book. Ben almost fell under its surprising weight. He hefted the thing and cast an uneasy look at Brother Triedit. The Holy Father nodded, urging him forward with his hands. Then Ben looked down at Brother Haffstaff, splayed out awkwardly in the leaves and brush. He, too, nodded up at Ben, and even gave him a thumbs up. Ben shrugged. Then he hauled off and whacked Brother Haffstaff in the head.

  “Well done!” Brother Triedit exclaimed. “You Shame as well as any practiced member of our order.” The other brothers bobbed their heads in agreement. Ben beamed.

  He handed the Book of Failure and Disgrace to Patrick, who nearly dropped it. The damn thing was heavy, and he only had one good hand. He looked down on poor Brother Haffstaff, who gave him an encouraging smile. Patrick bent down and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. Then he handed the book back to Brother Triedit.

  The Holy Father frowned. “Not the strongest Shaming I’ve seen,” he said bluntly.

  Patrick shrugged. “I’m not really a shaming kind of guy.”

  “The road to True Centralization is paved with tiles of Great Shame,” Brother Triedit pointed out.

  Soon, it was roundly considered late enough to call it a proverbial night. The brothers stood and bid good evening to their guests before ambling up the trees. Ben stood and stretched. “You turning in?” he asked.

  Patrick shook his head. “I think I’ll keep the fire company a little while longer. You know how lonely fire gets.”

  “It’s the fourth loneliest of all the elements.” They high-fived goodnight, and Brother Toldus led Ben off to the guest tree house. Aside from Patrick, only Brother Triedit remained.

  “Thank you again for putting us up. Heh, heh.” He pointed at the trees. “Get it? Up? That wasn’t even on purpose.”

  “You are most welcome, Friend Patrick. The Great Centralizer has sent you to us, and we heed Its providence.”

  Patrick flexed the fingers of his injured hand. They still tingled numbly, and they refused to straighten all the way. But the infection didn’t seem to be spreading through the hand. That was providence.

  “Tell me,” continued Brother Triedit, “your friend, Ben, is he a man of steadfast beliefs?”

  “He’s a man of much steadfastness,” Patrick admitted. “Though it’s generally more accurate to say I have a steadfast belief in him.”

  “Yes,” Brother Triedit said, stroking his chin. “Hmm.”

  Patrick reached for the abandoned flask of centerwine and squeezed down another gulp. “It’s getting better with age,” he groaned.

  Brother Triedit quickly scanned the area for any lagging monks, then reached into his robes and retrieved an honest-to-goodness metal flask. He screwed off the lid and raised a toast.

  “Is that the real deal?” Patrick asked.

  Brother Triedit nodded. “It gets no realer.” He tipped Patrick a salute. “Heavy is the head that wears the hood,” he said before knocking back a swig.

  “Could I have some of that? My head’s naturally heavy.” Brother Triedit handed him the flask. Patrick glugged from its tinny depths. “Gaaaaah,” he hissed as the drink burned its way down, and possibly through, his esophagus. “That is not the real deal,” he gagged, handing the flask back to Brother Triedit.

  The monk frowned as he took the little metal container from his guest. “I made this fermentation with my own hands,” he said, his feelings obviously hurt. “How could it possibly be more real?”

  “That’s true,” Patrick conceded, scrubbing the tears from his eyes. “The only way it could get more real is if Bruce Lee jumped out of the bottle and roundhoused you in the face.” He shook his head, cleared his throat, and took a deep, cleansing breath. The red in his cheeks slowly started to fade. “Say, lemme ask you something. Where are you guys from?”

  “Oh, here and there. I’m from southern Wisconsin myself. Brother Haffstaff and Brother Spyndthrift are from Illinois. Brother Toldus is from Mississippi, I think. Or Louisiana? Brother Mayham hails from Arkansas. We’re a motley group.”

  “Midwesterners, all,” Patrick said. “Hm.”

  “And you?”

  “St. Louis, originally.”

  “A place of heathens,” Brother Triedit said, with no further explanation. “What brings you men to Alabama? Ben mentioned something of a quest, I think?”

  “You could call it that,” Patrick said, nodding. “In some ways, I suppose it’s the ultimate quest. A quest to reclaim a misspent childhood. A quest to scrape through the rust of apocalyptic ruin and let pre-M-Day chrome glimmer in the light of hope. A quest to determine if the reasonable shelf life of an overcooked concession stand hot dog could possibly be more than three years. Brother Triedit, we quest for Disney World.”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Fully of truth.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “You may.”

  Brother Triedit looked expectantly at Patrick. Patrick looked expectantly at Brother Triedit.

  “Why?”
the monk finally said.

  “Glad you asked!” He reached around and pulled the worn paper from his pocket. Maybe it was the hooch, maybe it was the centerwine, maybe it was the gender transmutation starting to take effect, but Patrick realized he wanted to share it with someone. Not with Ben...not yet. But Brother Triedit was a loon, and there’s a sort of protective comfort in lunacy. He handed the paper to the monk.

  “I see,” Brother Triedit said when he had read the faded words. He handed the paper back to Patrick. “You must feel extremely...” He searched for the right word. “...Misaligned.”

  Patrick nodded slowly. Misaligned. “That actually sums it up pretty well,” he said.

  Brother Triedit crossed his arms and leaned toward the fire. “The M-Day, as you call it, as the entire wasteland calls it, I suppose, wasn’t a day of destruction, Friend Patrick. It was a day of centrification. Before the Great Event, I was a pre-owned vehicle salesperson. Brother Bickdraft was a high school gym teacher, Brother Spyndthrift was a traffic attorney, and Brother Haffstaff was a night clerk at Dunkin Donuts. All of us, so far in our former lives from the beings we have realigned into, and so different from each other. Yet we had one thing in common; we felt displaced. Do you ever feel displaced, Friend Patrick?”

  “Only when Ben puts me away in the wrong toy chest.”

  “I can see that you do. We all did as well. We all knew there was something else we were meant to be. We’d lost our way, both as individuals and, I believe, as a species, and the Alignment brought us back to ourselves. It started with the Mesopotamians, of course, and their modern notions of civilization. Ridiculous! Man wasn’t meant to live in collective housing and certainly not in encampments made of stone and mortar. We were made to live in the trees, just as our winged ancestors did before the evil magician Toomralan cursed us with arms of flesh and unfeathered skin. We didn’t know this truth before the Great Alignment. How could we have? We were born into Maladjustment. But the Alignment...ah, the Alignment. The Great Centralizer brought us back to ourselves. It reminded us of the true Latvish tongue, and, again, I do apologize for my horrendous English. I’m sure you don’t understand half of what I’m saying. But the Great Centralizer revealed to me the truth of our existence, Friend Patrick, and in the dozenth year of the Post-Alignment Calendar, I have seen that we shall all break free of these human shackles and return once more to our proper sparrow state. I only pray we’re able to transmutate enough of our men into women in order for my bloodline to live long enough to experience this Tremendous Centralization of Being.”

  A gulf of silence passed between the men. It became obvious that Brother Triedit was anticipating a response. He kept jiggling his eyebrows up and down like hairy jump ropes. Finally, Patrick just said, “Well, we all have our quests.” Then he snatched back the flask, held it high in salute, and drank down its entire contents.

  13.

  Ben awoke early the next morning to the sounds of shouting and splashing from somewhere below his tree. He rolled blindly out to the rickety wooden balcony and squinted through sleep-crusted eyes at the world below. All was quiet; not a single hooded brother stirred. Yet, the hollering and the splashing continued. Then Ben saw the trapdoor in the forest floor and remembered Brother Wildgardyn’s banishment to the Chamber of Secrets, or whatever the hell it was called. Someone else seemed to remember it, too, because just then a wooden slipper was flung from a tree across the clearing and clattered against the cistern’s door. “In the name of the Great Centralizer, shut the bloody fuck up!”

  Ben rolled back into the tree house and tried to fall back asleep, but it was useless. All that splashing had snapped his bladder to full attention. He looked over at Patrick, who was snoring softly, one arm flung crazily over the sack of rotted leaves that served as a pillow, his head awkwardly propped between the floor and the wall. Ben shuffled out the door, slip-fell his way down the rope ladder, and wandered off into the woods to relieve himself.

  When he returned to the clearing, Brother Triedit was up and reenergizing the fire. “Ah! Good morning, Brother Ben,” he said, already chipper.

  “Ah, hi. Just Ben is, really, is fine.” Ben plopped down on one of the logs and held his hands out to the growing flames.

  Brother Triedit smiled sweetly at him from across the fire. “Of course, my mistake. Though if I may say, you certainly do have the feel of a Post-Alignment Brother about you.”

  Ben’s face grew hot. Evangelization. Perfect. “I’m not religious,” he said quickly, dropping his eyes to the ground. He wondered what the best way to slink away from this conversation might be. Clubbing Brother Triedit over the head with a log would be a little obvious. Maybe he should just make a run for it, dash into the woods, catch up with Patrick after breakfast.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call what we do ‘religion,’” Brother Tried said, still smiling. “No, don’t think of it as religion. Think of it as a cult.”

  Ben blinked. “I’m not--that’s also--I don’t--just--no. Thank you.”

  “Do think about it. Promise me that, at least. We were none of us always keen to the idea of Centralization. It is a difficult discernment, but one that often comes with time and reflection. You’d make an excellent female breeder; you’re gifted with wonderful birthing hips for a being of your stature. Will you at the very least drink more centerwine, see if it gives you a tingling in your genitals?” he asked hopefully.

  Just then, Patrick stumbled out of the tree house. He sifted dry coffee grounds into his mouth from his fist. “Mrrning,” he said through a mouthful of grit.

  “Good morning!” Brother Triedit called, beaming. “I’m just having a talk with Brother Ben here about our Order. He has some questions, but it looks like you might be continuing your quest on your own.” Ben shook his head violently from side to side. Patrick smiled.

  “That makes sense. Ben’s very religious.” Ben’s face darkened. “What do you say, Benny Boy?” Patrick clamored his way down the rope ladder. “You wanna stay with the Lost Boys? I’ll be fine going on alone,” he promised.

  Ben was caught between the sheer terror of staying with these nutjobs and the equally sheer terror of pissing them off. They’d stuck one of their own in a well for speaking out of turn; what would they do to a complete stranger who roundly snubbed them? “I don’t want to be a woman,” he said awkwardly.

  “None of us wants to be a woman, Ben. But it’s not for you. It’s for the Order,” Patrick said. Brother Triedit nodded in agreement.

  Ben wanted to reach out and smack Patrick’s giant head. “No. Seriously. No.”

  Brother Triedit shook his head sadly. “Well, perhaps your personal Alignment is yet to come. The Great Centralizer may return you to us yet, and it would be a great providence.” He traced the backs of his fingers down Ben’s cheek. Ben froze and pleaded with his eyes for help. Patrick just shrugged. Supportive as always, Ben glowered.

  The rest of the brothers slowly began to stir. Soon the fire was once again surrounded by disheveled men in heavy blue robes. Ben thought Patrick’s eyes would pop out of his head when Brother Toldus noticed him shoveling coffee grounds into his face and suggested he might have better luck with the Order’s percolator. “Brother Wildgardyn is in charge of utensil detail,” he said. “He’ll know where to find it.”

  Patrick leapt up, sprinted over to the wooden trapdoor, and pounded out a mighty tattoo on it. “Coffee!” he screeched. Through a series of splashes and near-hysterics, Brother Wildgardyn managed to impart the location of the percolator. Patrick dashed off, ignoring Wildgardyn’s desperate pleas for mercy and salvation.

  After breakfast, the pair decided it was time to be back on their way. “Disney World waits for no man,” Patrick said. Ben was too desperate to be rid of these blue-robed yahoos to point out that Disney World had nothing to do but wait. “Let us collect our buffalo, and we shall be off,” Patr
ick said, shaking Brother Triedit’s hand.

  “Of course!” said the Holy Father. “Brother Mayham, please gather the buffalo and bring it hence to our guests.” He turned back to Patrick. “Gather? Is that the right word? The English language, it is so confusing to me.”

  “Sure. Gather works. You could also say, ‘Bemme.’”

  “Bemme?”

  “Bemme the buffalo.”

  “English is indeed a strange tongue,” Brother Triedit said, looking troubled.

  “Its mysteries are not for us to understand,” Patrick mused, patting the monk on the shoulder.

  By the time they had gathered their belongings and girded their weapons, Brother Mayham was returning from the forest. He had a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, but Ponch was nowhere to be seen. He sidled up to Patrick and handed him the sack. “Here’s the beefsteak left over from last night’s dinner,” he said. “We smoked it so it’ll keep. It should feed the two of you for a few weeks. There was quite a lot left over.”

  Patrick opened the sack and looked in. “Oh. Thanks,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. He closed the sack and tied it to his backpack. “So, where’s Ponch?”

  And suddenly, Ben understood. “Oh, Christ.”

  “What?” Patrick asked.

  Ben took his friend’s head in his hands and held it firmly by the ears. “Look at me. You need to take some deep breaths.”

  Patrick squirmed in Ben’s grip. “Why?”

  “Because you’re about to lose your shit. Breathe, okay? Like this.” Ben demonstrated with an exaggerated expansion of his lungs. Patrick tried to swat his hands away, but Ben held firm. “Stop it! Listen to me! You’re gonna figure this out in about six seconds, and you need to stay calm.”

  “Figure what out?” Patrick asked. “I just want to get Ponch and go.”

  “I know you do. The weirdo said he was going to get Ponch, and then he came back.”