Apocalypticon

by Clayton Smith

  They turned onto World Drive and began hiking the last stretch of road to their destination. As they walked, Ben was stricken by how little everything had changed, all things considered. Tall trees still lined the roads and masked the many secrets of the park. The entryway to Hollywood Studios, though empty and covered with debris, looked like it was one good sweeping away from being open for business. The fog and the darkness made it hard to see much, but Ben could still picture the Hollywood Tower Hotel looming above the trees in the distance.

  The monorail track appeared alongside the road. It loomed starkly over them, floating in and out of view as the dark fog swirled above. Some sections had cracked and broken away, leaving mountains of concrete and steel along the roadway. They crossed over the shimmering lake, smooth as obsidian in the night, and passed the clean outline of the Contemporary Resort on the right. “If memory serves, the Magic Kingdom is just over yonder,” Ben said, pointing ahead and to the left.

  “Yonder close?” Patrick asked.

  “Yonder close,” Ben confirmed.

  They turned down the drive that led to the parking lot. As they approached the park, Ben noticed something glimmering in the distance. Patrick saw it too. “Look at that. They turned the lights on for us,” he said, furrowing his brow. Ben peered into the brownish yellow evening fog. There was a second glimmer, and a third. Then more and more, until Ben counted eight points of light in the distance. They flickered and flashed in the air.

  “Torches?” Ben suggested.

  “Looks like it. Maybe they are still in business.”

  Ben stopped walking. “I don’t like this. It’s not right.”

  “No,” Patrick agreed. “It’s probably not.”

  “Think we should wait ‘til it’s light out?” There was no mistaking the fear in his voice. “There’s still one more peril before we’re done. Bombastic Tom and--”

  Patrick started. “Ubasti Tom,” he said.

  “Come again?”

  “Ubasti Tom. That’s what the old lady said. I don’t know why it just registered. Ubasti Tom and the Hollow Man.”

  “What’s an Ubasti?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Ben frowned. “It doesn’t sound pleasant.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Patrick admitted.

  An invisible hand of ice closed around Ben’s chest. “The old lady said we would make it to Disney World,” he realized aloud. “But she didn’t say we’d survive all the perils, did she? Specifically?”

  “No,” Patrick said gravely. “That tricky minx, she did not. I had assumed we’d face all the perils before getting here, but...”

  Ben shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “What do you want to do?”

  Patrick’s face became hard and unmoving, uncharacteristic and impossible to read. “She was right about everything. She’ll be right about this. Whether we go now or we go tomorrow, whatever’s gonna happen is gonna happen.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Ben insisted. “This isn’t The Time Traveler’s Wife. This is Disney World. We’re here; we made it. This is it. Hooray! Now we can turn around and go. Right now. Make your peace here, or hell, we’ll go to friggin’ Epcot. We don’t have to do this.”

  “We didn’t come here to make a stand in the parking lot,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “She wouldn’t have just stood in the parking lot.”

  “No,” Ben sighed. “She wouldn’t have.”

  Patrick took a deep breath. The words of the fortuneteller rang in his head. The bulldog or the mouse hunter must fall. You will choose. “Ben--” he began, but Ben held up a hand and cut him off.

  “Save it. I know.”

  “No,” Patrick insisted, “you don’t.”

  Ben gritted his teeth. “Well, let’s just say, if I don’t know, then I don’t care. This is the part of the story where you say something sentimental or heart-wrenching or some bullshit, thinking maybe I’ll go and let you go on alone to face the doom of a dozen sentient torches in the night. Right?”

  “Well. Yeah. Something like that.”

  “I’m not leaving. And anything you say can only make me regret not having the sense to leave, so save it.”

  Patrick shook his head sadly. “If you were a superhero, your power would be loyalty.”

  “I am a superhero,” Ben said, gritting his teeth. “And don’t no one forget it.”

  They crossed into the grass and approached the line of torches, Patrick pulling the machete from its scabbard, Ben grasping the wrench. What the dark night’s fog couldn’t hide, the brilliant flames shining into their eyes did. “Oo-we,” called a voice from the darkness behind the row of light. “What do we have here?” Wait, Patrick thought. I know that voice. He stepped through the line of torches stuck into the grass and crossed onto the pavement. He squinted into the mist. A burly figure emerged from the darkness.

  “Calico?” Patrick said. Bloom’s henchman gave him a smart little salute.

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Yank,” he said, grinning his horrible grin. “I told ya I’d be comin’ for ya.”

  “Technically, you wrote it,” Patrick pointed out.

  “Oh, come on,” Ben groaned, his heart falling like a lead weight. “You tracked us all the way to Disney World? From Illinois? Are you fucking crazy?”

  “Not crazy. Just determined,” came a low, even voice from the gloom. Patrick’s eyes were adjusting to the light of the torches, and at the edge of their halo he noticed a second man sitting on the asphalt. The man stood and walked toward the torches. “You cost me something very dear.” The man stepped into the light. Patrick gasped involuntarily. He recognized the cold, hollow eyes instantly.

  “Bloom,” he whispered.

  The left side of Bloom’s face was wrinkled and scarred. He noticed Patrick staring at it. “Gravel burn,” he explained, tracing a finger down the side of his face. “I wanted to thank you for that. And for the experience of drowning. That was new to me.”

  “You look dry enough now,” Patrick said.

  “I make a hell of a lifeguard,” Calico grinned.

  Patrick swallowed. “Yes. Well. The scars look totally natural. A little concealer, and you’ll be fine. Nice catching up, but we should be going.” He grabbed Ben’s arm and turned on his heels, but Calico leapt forward, quick as a snake, and grabbed Patrick by the scruff of his neck.

  “Don’t think so,” he grinned. He whirled Patrick around easily and shoved him over toward Bloom. Patrick stumbled and fell to his knees on the cold, hard blacktop. The machete flew from his hands and went clattering across the asphalt. He looked up just in time to see Ben leveling the wrench at Calico, keeping a distance as he crept his way toward his fallen friend.

  “Pat, you okay?”

  “I’m daisies,” Patrick said.

  Bloom kicked the machete across the parking lot, into the darkness. Then he picked up a bottle from the ground and took a thoughtful sip. “I was dead for almost four whole minutes before Calico gave me the breath of life. Think about that. Four whole minutes. The human body is a wonder.” He tipped the bottle toward Patrick. “Care for a drink?”

  Patrick examined the bottle. Whiskey? Rum? “I’m not thirsty just now,” he said.

  Bloom shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He set the bottle on the ground. “Calico, call the others.” Calico dug into his pocket and produced a little whistle. He blew into it, one loud, sharp, shrill note that rang off into the distance. He waited expectantly. Five seconds later, they heard another whistle, the same sharp note, from beyond the trees.

  “Them boys is gonna be happy as pigs in shit when they come back’n find yer two sorry asses dead on the ground.” Calico pocketed the whistle and drew out a dagger. He hauled back and threw a hard kick at Patrick’s ribs. Patrick rolled to avoid it, but not qui
ckly enough. The toe of Calico’s boot caught him in the stomach. The air blasted out of his lungs like helium from a popped balloon. When he opened his eyes, he saw Ben charging, wrench raised high. He swung it down at Calico’s head, but the man whirled deftly to the left, threw a hard punch into Ben’s stomach, and tossed him aside into the gravel. Patrick watched miserably. Ben would just keep coming until they put him down for good. Goddammit.

  Bloom looked on disinterestedly as Calico tightened his grip on his dagger and squatted down next to Patrick. “You owe us a train, boy. Guess I’ll take the payment out in pounds of flesh.” He flicked the knife forward, digging the point into Patrick’s shoulder. Pat grunted in pain and reached out with his other hand, grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck, turned, and swung it up at Calico’s face, exploding it against his temple. Calico screamed and clutched at his eye, brown liquor and blood pouring down his face. Patrick pushed himself to his feet and awkwardly dodged a blind swing of Calico’s dagger. He grabbed one of the torches at the edge of the asphalt and yanked it out of the grass. Calico charged him, blade brandished. Patrick lowered the torch and shoved the flame into Calico’s face. The whiskey roared to life, blazing hot yellow and blue flames across his face. He screamed and screamed, dropping his knife and swinging his fists blindly in the air. He fell to his knees, scrabbling at the fire until his hands blistered and his skin peeled and popped. He spewed vicious obscenities into the night, his legs kicking wildly, his entire body writhing in pain. Soon the whiskey burned off and the flames subsided. Calico sobbed and clutched at his face. It was black and melted, and already scarring over through the bubbles.

  “Jesus, Pat,” Ben breathed, steadying himself to his feet. “What did you do?”

  Bloom approached the fallen Red Cap quietly. He knelt by Calico’s side and took stock of the damage. He sighed heavily. “That is disappointing.” He drew his the sabre from his hip and slid it across Calico’s throat. The screams stopped instantly. A strip of steaming blood spurted open across his neck. A river of red soaked his coat, and with one final flap of his legs, Calico was dead. Patrick watched in open-mouthed horror, stunned by his own actions as much as by Bloom’s. Bloom slid the sabre back into its sheath. He rose to his feet just as Ben charged again.

  “Ben, don’t!” Patrick yelled. But he was already swinging the wrench. Bloom ducked the blow easily. Ben spun, off balance. Bloom grabbed him by the throat and, with his free hand, landed a hard jab to the nose. The bones crunched under the force, and Ben went down a second time.

  “Leave him alone!” Patrick yelled. “I threw you off the train; this is about you and me!”

  “It is,” Bloom admitted, shaking out his hand. “I admit, when Calico was so hell bent on tracking you down, I was more than happy to let him off the leash.” He removed his cap and ran a hand over his shaved head. “I don’t begrudge you what you did. You chose a side, and you followed through. I respect that. I would have done the same. But you understand, Mr. Deen, that there are consequences for every action. Even after the world has been destroyed, there must still be balance. Order. Do you understand that?”

  Patrick nodded. “Sure. I understand. I mean, where I’m from, we call it petty vengeance, but whatever. Tomato, to-mah-to,” he said evenly, despite the hammering in his chest. His blood was really pumping now, and his shoulder throbbed with pain.

  Bloom gave a wan little smile. “Well. Vengeance isn’t so petty.” He moved like water. His hand flew to his sword, and he drew it in one smooth motion. He glided forward like a man on ice. Patrick tried to dodge, but Bloom was too fast. He buried the blade deep into Patrick’s belly.

  Patrick looked down, stunned, at the pool of black blood spreading through his shirt.

  So close, he thought as darkness began to settle over his eyes. We are so goddamned close.

  He heard Ben yelling thinly, as if he were hearing him through a storm. He felt Bloom’s blade slide back out of his gut. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground. He moved his hand to the wound and felt a warm spill running through his fingers. He opened his eyes one last time and saw Bloom’s face returned to its normal placidity. “And so order is restored,” he said simply.

  You could have just gravel burned my face, Patrick thought.

  22.

  The world rang with silence as Ben watched Bloom shove the sword into Patrick’s stomach. “Noooooooo!” he screamed. His mind scrambled, and he was choking. He couldn’t breathe. He saw Patrick’s eyes gloss over as he fell to the ground.

  I’m in shock, Ben thought dully as he pulled himself to his feet. His skin tingled with numbness, and suddenly the scramble faded, and he could think clearly. Logically. He walked calmly over to the machete in the shadows and picked it up. Bloom flicked Patick’s blood from his sword. Ben stepped up behind him as the man bent down and whispered, “And so order is restored.” And, very calmly, Ben raised the machete and hacked the blade down on Bloom’s neck.

  When Ben came to his senses, he was cradling Patrick’s limp body near the torches. How much time had passed? He turned and saw Bloom’s body splayed out on the ground to the left. His head was somewhere nearby.

  Ben turned back to Patrick, hot tears stinging his down his cheeks. Pat was still breathing, but shallowly. “Goddammit, Pat,” Ben said, his voice thick with mucus. “I told you we should just leave.”

  Patrick coughed a weak laugh. “Fighting was a good idea. At the time.”

  “Shut up,” Ben choked.

  “Hey.” Patrick grabbed Ben’s sleeve with a blood-soaked hand. “You gotta get out of here.”

  Ben shook his head. “Bloom’s dead.”

  But Patrick persisted. “More coming. The whistle. Go. Now.”

  Ben grimaced. He felt more tears choking their way up his throat. “I’m not leaving you like this, goddammit,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel his face flushing hotly. “I am not leaving you like this.”

  “Didn’t come all this way so both of us could die,” Patrick rasped. He smiled thinly through the pain. “They catch you here, they’ll kill you.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Ben insisted.

  “Think I’m beyond repair,” he said, choking out another little laugh. “Ben. Go. Back to Fort Doom. Be with friends. Learn how to talk to that girl. Rebuild a world, remake a life, or whatever dumb stuff normal people do after the apocalypse.”

  Ben wiped a string of mucus from his nose. “It’s not dumb,” he said.

  Patrick tried to shrug. “It’s pretty schlocky.”

  Ben heard men shouting from off in the distance, back the way they’d come. “Shit,” he swore. “They’re coming.”

  Patrick nodded. “Go.”

  “No.” Ben wiped his nose with his sleeve, then slid his hands under Patrick’s shoulders. “You’re coming with me.” He heaved backward, dragging Patrick across the asphalt. Patrick cried out in agony.

  “Stop!” he gasped, shrinking into himself. “God, please, stop.”

  Ben released his hold and fell to his knees, hot tears dripping from his cheeks. Patrick whimpered and grasped at his gut wound. “Go,” he said again. “Please, Ben. Go.”

  Ben’s chest heaved with labored breath. He shook his head and clapped his hand awkwardly over Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we didn’t make it,” he whispered.

  Patrick patted his hand reassuringly. “We did,” he said. “We did make it.” Then he closed his eyes, and Patrick was gone.

  Ben screwed up his face and scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. He wanted to scream, to pick up the torches and smash them to bits and burn goddamn Disney World to the ground, but that would bring the other men all the faster. His chest heaved with silent sobs as he pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed Patrick’s bag and dug through it, frantically pushing aside weapons and cans of food. Near the bottom, he found the little cup of
butterscotch pudding. With the world swimming through a sheen of tears, he set the Snack Pack next to Patrick’s pale form. “This stays with you,” he murmured. Then he cleared his throat, shouldered Patrick’s bag, grabbed his own, whispered a shaky goodbye, and turned and ran away from the lot.

  By his best guess, he was heading west.

  23.

  Patrick opened one eye and watched Ben tear across the parking lot. He smiled wanly. I’d like to thank the Academy. He struggled slowly to his feet. He’d lost quite a bit of blood, and he was woozy, though he wasn’t quite as bad off as he’d let on. From what he could tell, Bloom had miraculously missed all major organs. Hell, if he could stop the bleeding, he could probably even survive the injury. Under other circumstances, of course. Circumstances that involved emergency rooms, peroxide, stitches, and gallons and gallons of morphine.

  He would’ve loved to have gone with Ben. He’d been looking forward to starting over, really starting over, with the gang in Alabama. They were good people. Ben would do well there.

  As for Patrick, well, he’d given a bit of a white lie when he told Ben that they’d made it. Close, but no cigar, as his grandpa used to say. He still had a little farther to go. He reached down, wincing with pain, and grabbed the little pudding cup. Thanks for this one, Benny Boy, he thought.

  He moved forward toward the turnstiles of the Magic Kingdom. The voices were getting louder behind him, so he picked up the pace. He hopped painfully over one of the metal gates and struggled up the mall. He had no idea where to find the castle, but he figured he was bound to stumble across it, even in the dark. It was the hallmark of the friggin’ place, right? They probably weren’t hiding it.

  A wide path opened up before him, bisecting two rows of shops, now in various stages of decay and dismay. It looked like a main pathway, so he dragged himself along it, one hand pressed firmly to the hole in his belly. As he stumbled up the road, the mist around him began to glow a soft yellow, and he knew the sun was rising. That’ll help things a bit, he thought. Light filtered down through the Monkey Fog, and suddenly, there it was, looming straight ahead-—the dark outline of Cinderella’s Castle.