No Man's Dominion and Other Post-Apocalyptic Tales

by Glen Krisch

But he was going to blow up the dam… did blow up the dam.

  That was why Jason's system now coursed with adrenaline.

  He heard water lapping against a solid wall nearby.

  Jason steeled himself against the pain he knew would erupt through his skull, and forced himself to his knees. His hands encountered a seemingly endless abrasive landscape.

  He fought to right himself from his prone, canted angle. Pain shot through his skull like buckshot, peppering his already muddled concentration. His ink black mind's eye swam with lurid silver streaks. His mouth was bone dry; a stale stench puffed from his lips.

  As he struggled to stand, a snippet of memory solidified long enough for him to focus it.

  Of course…

  Marcus smiling a new-found, unquenchably confident smile as he patted his big brother on the back… and then climbing out a window of some stranger's house, having just stepped on some stranger child's stuffed animals to reach the window, stepping out to the safety of the roof before the rising water could overcome them… and then, blunt pain exploding at the base of his skull, followed by the falling black curtain of unconsciousness…

  Of course, he must still be on the roof.

  And the water… still flowing from the sound of it, still infiltrating the homes of the citizens of Concord, people who had carved a quaint and tidy existence in this little corner of the world. Water seeping into walls, ruining plaster and drywall, shorting the electrical nervous system of every home it touched. Bloating childhood photos with moisture, wedding day snapshots, bar mitzvah keepsakes. Rending apart homemade cookies, bins of dog food, store-bought ice cream housed in once-thought impervious freezers—all broken down to their constituent ingredients, joining the roiling slurry of unbound river, flowing away to empty the soul of Concord into the raging Mississippi.

  His fear-laced adrenaline transformed to that of anger. Ignoring all the pain his body could manifest, Jason forced himself to his feet. After steadying himself, he raked his fingernails across his eyelids, scraping away the crusted blood blinding him. As his fingers worked, his eyes welled with tears, and as his eyelids pulled apart, his tears flowed. And all he saw was blackness. Blackness augmented by the sound of the lulling flood waves.

  The soft black canvas of his vision quickly piqued with gray tinges. Soft globes of sallow light: the moon, obscured by clouds, stars muted by distance and time.

  It was nighttime. He wasn't blind after all. Jason crept as close to the roof's edge as he dared. The river crested just below the second floor windows of this stranger family's house. It rushed by like a river of oil, creating a disorienting feeling, making it seem as if the house itself was moving. But no, it was only the water.

  Marcus had gone mad. Once and for all, his brother had fully committed to his madness, thrown away all pretense of dabbling at his destiny.

  Marcus had flooded the world as far as Jason could see.

  Sitting down on the gritty roof shingles, he cried real tears. Sorrow, remorse, and some vague trace of irony shook his limbs and trembled his hands as he cried.

  Jason had to chuckle to himself at seeing how homey Concord was, especially in comparison with the dives to which Marcus typically gravitated. He stopped his Buick at the only stop sign he'd seen in the last three miles of harvest-bare cornfields. Houses began where the fields ended.

  A wooden sign indicated he was now entering Concord, Missouri. Population 1573. Incorporated 1867. Home of the Missouri State High School Baseball Champions, 1960. He chuckled again. Must have been a slow last fifty years.

  He eased off the brake, letting the car idle down the street. Anything faster would feel unseemly in such a peaceful neighborhood. To either side, actual white picket fences boxed off yards. Basketball hoops hung above garage doors. Mounds of raked leaves dotted the autumn-soft grass, ready for burning. And yes, as he cracked his window, he could smell a hint of burning leaves.

  Why the hell would Marcus choose to live here?

  Jason's laptop was riding shotgun, closed and dormant. A dozen files of unfinished stories for his column waited, saved to his desktop. The urge was niggling at his brain. As his eyes glossed over the quiet street, story ideas were coming to him in a rush. He felt the urge to pull over to jot down some notes before he lost it.

  But no. That could wait. He was here to get Marcus, to bring him back home to rehab or therapy, or wherever he needed to go this time. No sense in wasting time on his own pursuits.

  After another block of houses, he abruptly stomped on the brake pedal, the slightly rusty squeal sounding disproportionately loud.

  Where are all the people? The stay-at-home moms talking across the picket fences? People on their way to the grocery. The mailman, for God's sake?

  The sleepy streets of Concord seemed abandoned. Felt abandoned.

  He eased off the brake pedal, again moving at an idle, this time out of curiosity. He sniffed the air again. Someone had been burning leaves. Someone had to have started the leaf pile alight. Right?

  A tire swing swung in aimless circles, childless, nudged along by the wind. A swirl of red and yellow leaves cartwheeled across the street in front of the Buick like a tumbleweed.

  His reporter's curiosity was shifting to worry.

  But then, from the corner of his eye, sudden movement.

  As he turned, someone jumped behind a tree to hide.

  That's it.

  Jason pulled the car to the well-manicured curb, shifting into park and stepping outside. The engine continued to ping and sputter. The air was now heavier with leaf smoke. He could see gray wisps of it rising from a backyard maybe three houses down.

  "Wait. Hold on a second… Hello?" he called out, stepping up to the curb.

  An arm pulled back, now fully hidden behind the tree.

  "I saw you. I know you're there," he said, feeling like a child playing hide and seek.

  No movement. No sound but the wind whooshing through fallen leaves.

  Jason stepped over the low picket fence, cautiously circling around the tree.

  "Hello? I'm looking for someone. My brother. I have an address, but I don't know the layout—"

  And he saw the boy huddled behind the tree. Cowering.

  He was no more than nine years old, wearing only boxers and a sweat-soaked undershirt. His feet were bare. Raw rope burns ringed his wrists, his ankles. A necklace of used duct tape hung around his neck. Bits of blond hair clung to the tape's crinkled sticky side. In his shock, it took Jason a moment to realize the tape was a ripped-off mouth gag.

  "Jesus…"

  "Don't hurt me." The boy moved around the tree, and Jason followed, his hands outstretched to try and comfort him. "I don't want to die," the boy whispered, still moving.

  Jason stopped after a full circle of the tree, trying to collect his thoughts. "Who did this to you?"

  "I don't want to… I can't even swim. Mom and Dad aren't back from work yet. They should'a been home an hour ago. And they're not home, and then… and then they broke down the door."

  "Who did this to you?"

  "The God-man and the preacher-man." The boy started crying, his shoulders jouncing up in down. He blinked through his tears, looking up at Jason. Instead of relief in the boy's eyes, he saw resignation.

  "What are you talking about?" Jason took the boy by the shoulders, kneeling to meet him at his eyelevel. Something clicked in his brain. He couldn't help thinking of Marcus. "Who is this God-man?"

  "He tied me up. Kept saying, 'water is salvation.' Over and over."

  "Does this man have a tattooed arm?"

  The boy's crying intensified. "I can't swim!"

  "Does he have a tattooed arm?" Jason demanded, coming close to shaking the boy. He took a deep breath. "You know, all black, like a sleeve? Like someone dipped his arm in a can of paint to the elbow?"

  The boy calmed, got control of his hitching chest. "Yeah. I wanted to punch him, but I was scared. Are you going to punch him for me?" the boy asked hopefully.
>
  "When I find him I'll do more than punch him. Do you know where he is?"

  The boy pressed himself against the tree. Peeking out from his hiding spot, he pointed through the leafless canopy across the street. Pointed as if to indicate the moon.

  At first, Jason thought the boy had lost it. But then through the skeletal branches of the distant trees, he saw the rise of the surrounding hills. And movement atop the hill. A gathering of people. He strained his nearsighted eyesight to its limit.

  Are they watching me?

  Jason flattened himself to the ground and looked up through the slats of the picket fence.

  For an instant, he felt like a fool with his cheek against the ground while the boy looked down on him from his hiding spot. But seeing his rope burns and duct tape necklace… he wished he had his cell phone with him. Or a gun.

  "Hey mister, can you swim?"

  "I'm going to go up there."

  The boy looked disappointed, as if Jason had just made the worst possible decision.

  "Will you be here when I come back? I'll take you to the police. We'll find your parents."

  "There's nobody. Nobody's coming back," he said.

  "I'll come back, I promise. Just meet me here."

  The boy scrunched up his shoulders in an I guess motion. His expression still hadn't changed, though. He obviously thought Jason didn't know what he was doing, and his innocence didn't allow him to shield his derision.

  "I'll be okay. That's my brother up there. I know how to talk to him. Everything'll be fine."

  "I'm gonna climb this tree now. I can't swim."

  Jason walked over to his car, keeping an eye on the grassy-topped hill rising above the tree-lined valley. There was a circle of people looking down at him. Waiting.

  Before he pulled away, he had the sudden desire to shout to the boy, shout for him to jump inside so they could drive away. Because nothing good could come of this.

  He shifted into drive. The boy climbed higher from branch to branch. Jason gave him a reassuring wave. The boy couldn't free his hands to wave back, instead answering with a solemn nod. He reached for another branch, and pulled himself higher.

  The day Jason's high school coach told him he had made varsity in cross country his sophomore year was also the day Marcus and his skinhead friends had been arrested for burning down a synagogue. Their mom had given him a loose hug and their dad had clapped him on the back as they waited at the police station for Marcus's release.

  The day Jason learned he had earned a full scholarship to Washington University was the day Marcus overdosed for the first time. He had technically died for two minutes before doctors could revive him. Seated at Marcus's bedside, their parents barely acknowledge his announcement.

  Today, just before he rushed out the door to vote, his editor called to say he was giving his column in the Lifestyle Section of the Post a permanent green light. The old sour puss had reluctantly given Jason a two-month trial run to test the waters. To earn the trial run, Jason had pestered him on a daily basis with polished unsolicited copy. So, he finally gave in, caving to Jason's persistence. With reluctance, he'd given him two months to sink or swim. If he didn't make it, he could go back to being a stringer and copy editor.

  It probably didn't hurt that the Lifestyle Section needed a boost from a younger demo. So he wrote columns about hot new clubs, and the city's dating scene. Jason had a way of writing about relationships that had women inundating the office with inquiries into who this new writer was. The two months flew by. And just this morning Ted had made his column permanent.

  He should have known Marcus would trump him. He always did.

  The car climbed a winding road, leaving the valley behind. Before he knew it, the trees thinned, replaced with long, dry grass. As he wound the car through a curve, he reached the summit of the hill.

  His brother stood in the middle of the road, the reflective dead end sign over his shoulder. People gathered around Marcus, looking at him as if searching for guidance. They could've been awaiting a bit of kibble from their master. At least Jason didn't see any weapons.

  He took a deep breath before shutting off the ignition. He waited half a minute, his pulse beating in his ears. He gathered his composure, then stepped from the car.

  "Marcus. Want to tell me what's going on?" His voice was tense, and he hadn't let go of the car door. If they did anything funny, he would still have time to jump back inside.

  "I see mother received my letter. I assume she thinks I've backslid into my old ways. Rest assured, that's not the case. Maybe, I should give her a call," he said, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. The others laughed quietly, as if he'd made a joke. Oddly, they wore dress casual suits, blazers with jeans, skirts with pumps. They looked like a PTA gathering. All but Marcus.

  "You've done it this time. There's no way they'll take you back now."

  "Good. It's better that way. The severing of ties, so to speak. Mom and Dad would've never understood."

  There was a pause. Jason wouldn't call it a stand-off, not yet, not when he didn't know what was going on. The water spinning through the dam's turbines provided white noise filler to their conversation.

  An old man separated from the crowd to stand closer to the water. He began praying over it. Praising it for its patience.

  When the preacher-man was finished, Marcus said, "Oh, by the way, happy Election Day, brother."

  "What do you care? You've never voted for anything."

  "Ah, Jason, I'm talking about an entirely different Election from yours, I'm afraid." Marcus turned his back to him, pointing to the valley below.

  Jason walked away from the car's relative safety, following his brother's gesture. "What… what are you talking about?"

  Marcus checked his watch, sighing. "The Election. The selection of God of His chosen people. The Election of those He chooses to carry on, to advance to the next stage of life."

  "You hurt that boy," Jason said, not certain what Marcus meant, but knowing his own rage was growing. "You're one sick sonofa—" Jason said as he advanced on Marcus. His brother turned in time for Jason's fist to catch him in the jaw.

  Marcus fell back against the dead end sign, then slumped down to sit on the guardrail encircling the hill. In an instant, his followers fell in on Jason, holding back his arms before he could get in another blow.

  "Easy, easy. He is my brother, after all," Marcus said, bringing a hand to his lip. When his fingers came back bloody, Jason felt somehow vindicated. "I hurt a boy? What boy in particular? There are so many. And little girls, and grandmas and soccer moms and factory-working daddies… oh, I lose count."

  Jason struggled to free his arms, but the hands of the PTA moms and dads held him firmly.

  Marcus consulted his watch again. "And look at the time. This little impromptu family reunion is about to come to a close. As is most of the rest of the world."

  Marcus started pressing buttons into the cell phone, the intonations sounding faraway, but altogether damning and final.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Giving back what doesn't rightfully belong to us."

  And with the seventh pushed button, an explosion roared through the valley, violently shaking the ground. Jason's captors fell to their sides, nearly bringing him down with them, but suddenly he was free, standing a stone's throw from the crumbling river dam. Water gushed through wide fissures where huge concrete chucks had broken away. The force of the waves widened these gaps, sent more and more water rushing down to the silent town.

  Jason couldn't hear himself think for all of the rushing water. But he was free. With the commotion and excitement of the explosion, Marcus and his followers seemed to have forgotten about him. They leaned over the hill's edge, getting the best view possible. Jason slinked away to his car, hopped inside and locked the door before anyone noticed. He turned the ignition, and with all the noise, didn't know if the engine engaged until he shifted into reverse. He whipped the car through a semic
ircle, then shifted to drive, gunning the engine as fast as he could manage on the downwardly winding road.

  By the time he reached the tree where he'd left the boy, the raging water hit his tires, creeping as high as the rims. He lost control of the car when he stomped on the brakes. He slid for ten feet before slamming into the curb.

  He kept the engine running as he hurried out into the rising water. He glanced over his shoulder and saw water falling from the uppermost part of the dam, where the explosion had sheared away a huge section of concrete. He hoped the rest would hold long enough for him to find the boy and get out of here.

  He didn't see the boy right away and was going to call out his name, but suddenly realized he'd never asked him what it was.

  "Hello? Are you there?" he shouted, looking heavenward. The November-chilled water reached his knees, and still higher. He slogged through it, trying to spot the boy. It was an easy search without leaves to obscure his view. The boy was gone. He must have run when he heard the explosion. "Hello? If you can hear me, we have to get out of here."

  Damn it!

  Jason scanned the neighboring yards and living room windows of nearby houses, but the boy had disappeared.

  I hope he's safe. Somewhere on high ground. He wished the boy the best and ran back to his car. It wasn't until he reached the door that he realized the water had killed the engine. His one means of escape was gone.

  He estimated the distance to the hills. At least half a mile. When he was in his best running shape in high school, he would be able to cover that half mile in under two minutes. But the numbingly cold water was knee high, and he was not in the shape he was ten years ago.

  A tremendous splash ripped his attention away from his plight. As he watched half of the dam come crashing down like an enormous felled tree, he knew his plight just got more complicated.

  Not in any position to be choosey, he ran for the nearest house. He tried the front door, found it unlocked, then remembered he was in small town America. Many of the homes would be unlocked before nightfall. Water flowed into the house, an uninvited guest bent on destruction.