Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3)

by Thomas Gondolfi

  When I stood, it was in an even more profound silence. The others watched me uneasily. Evangelina seemed like she was about to challenge me, but stopped when I snarled at her. “He had it coming, he did. I did my part, and I’ll eat my share, and no angry child’s gonna decide otherwise.”

  She shook her head, jaw muscles jumping, but said nothing for about a minute, until she finally found her voice. “You are one fucking sorry-ass Preacher-man.”

  “Seems appropriate, don’t it? After all, it’s a right fucking sorry-ass world that God’s saddled us with.” I made eye contact with each of the others. “Time to go home now,” I told them.

  When no one disagreed, I knew they’d accepted the abrupt change in leadership, however grudgingly.

  I lifted my head, turning my face to the heavens tainted by the light from the sanguineous moon. “Thank you, holy Father, for the bounty this night.”

  Like a chorus, the others responded together automatically. “Amen and thank you, Lord our God.”

  I waited an appropriate moment of silent solemnity, broken only by Jebediah’s ragged breathing. Then I raised my voice. “Now, get us back to Kedesh. Everyone needs medical care, and we need to get that carcass taken care of.” When they hesitated, I bellowed, “MOVE!” They did, finally, using the oars to drag us back toward land, the creature pushed ahead of us at the bow.

  It was a good thing they did, too. First, it meant they were taking my orders, and that meant they weren’t ready to kill me, either. Second, if you didn’t bleed fallen angels of the vitriol in their veins and hack out the coiled putrescence of their guts early enough, the flesh became tainted with their own foul poisons.

  On the other hand, when you took care of them the right way they were smoky and sweet and delicious. They were the secret to feeding our folk in these days long after the second angel had poured out its bowl of wrath to slaughter every underwater earthly creature in a tide of blood, twelve long years ago.

  The boat picked up speed as Kendall and Abner put their backs into it. Evangelina sat in the bow and rested Jebediah’s battered head in her lap. She didn’t look at me. Garrett had stopped grunting and was panting softly, his muscles relaxing incrementally as the thing’s venom metabolized from his system. I rolled my neck and realized I felt pretty good, apart from the swelling in my cheek: we hadn’t lost anyone, it didn’t look like I’d die this night, and we’d have enough food for everyone in Kedesh to survive another several weeks, at least.

  I watched the rest of the hunters in the boat and tried not to let the smile in my soul show on my face. Maybe I can get a fucking amen now, you shits?

  No one made eye contact with me the whole way back.

  And it was good.

  A Choice of Weapons

  Lou Antonelli

  Editor: Beware the wrath of a patient man . . . or woman.

  The fortified compound’s gate still bore the original name, “Oakmeadow Estates,” bestowed when it had been a gated suburban community. Two makeshift watchtowers of random materials flanked it. The sentry in one leaned forward and peered through his binoculars. He waved his free hand furiously.

  “Hey, incoming!” he said, seeing the dust cloud boil up from the ground. “Lots of incoming.”

  The other sentry yanked on the bell rope. The clanging of the old church bell brought the people of the compound running, hoisting guns and pistols. One ran to the base of a tower.

  “Is it a raiding party?”

  The sentry looked down. “Looks to be too large. It must be a militia of some kind.”

  Another man looked through the gate. “I thought North Dallas had all the militias bought off.”

  “I thought that, too,” said the first sentry.

  As the cloud of dust rose up in the sky, the dull rumbling grew louder.

  “Shit, this can’t be good,” shouted one of the gathering.

  Soon, the array of dozens of jeeps, technicals, and trucks came into view. As they approached, they slowed.

  The leader of the compound came to the gate.

  “Let’s hope they just want to barter.”

  The militia convoy stopped a hundred feet in front of the entrance, and a woman in combat gear stepped out of a jeep. She waved a white flag, put it back down, and walked toward the gate.

  The leader gestured. “Open the gate.”

  It opened just enough to let him outside. He marched toward the woman.

  She pulled off a glove and took a document from a pocket.

  “I’m Commandant Amanda Blaustein, head of the Grand Prairie Mid-Cities Militia,” she said.

  “How can I help you, Commandant?” said the leader, trying to keep his voice from quavering.

  “I have a warrant for the arrest of one of your residents, Joseph Peckham, as a war criminal.”

  The leader looked around. “You didn’t need to bring such a show of force.”

  “We are serving a number of warrants today, and I prefer not to have to negotiate,” said the commandant. “It’s a waste of time. Will you turn him over?”

  He looked askance. “What choice do I have?”

  The commandant handed him the paper. “There will be no trouble if you bring him to us. We’ll wait here.”

  “Give us a few minutes.”

  He walked back into the compound.

  “They want Joe Peckham; they say he’s a war criminal.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Joe had nothing to do with the war. He hid during the fighting . . .”

  “Just like now,” someone heckled from the group.

  “. . . and protected his wife and kids,” said another man.

  The leader looked back. “I don’t think we are in a position to negotiate. They have as many militiamen as we have residents, and that counts children.”

  He nodded. “You two guardsmen, go grab Peckham and bring him here.”

  In a few minutes the two men arrived at the gate, dragging a smaller, middle-aged man between them.

  “We had to persuade him a bit. He didn’t want to come,” said a guard.

  “What am I charged with?” asked Peckham. “Why am I being turned over?”

  “That’s their business,” said the leader.

  “They say you’re a war criminal,” said a guard.

  “That’s bull—”

  Peckham’s protestations were cut short as he was hurriedly dragged out the gate.

  The commandant and some militia members sat on folding chairs under one of the few trees left in Texas. The commandant stood up as the others approached. She spoke to one of her men.

  “Go grab my backpack.”

  The guards brought Peckham in front of the militia members and let him drop to the ground. They turned and left as Peckham rose on his knees.

  “I protest . . .” he croaked.

  “To whom?” asked the commandant. “There haven’t been any courts for years. The feds disappeared ten years ago, we haven’t heard from Austin in five.”

  A militiaman handed her a backpack, which she began to strap on.

  “What am I charged with?”

  “Well, on paper, unspecified war crimes,” she said. “But really, this is just a personal reprisal.”

  She shrugged as she pulled on the straps of the backpack.

  Peckham focused and looked at her. “Do I know you?”

  “Well, yes, but we never met in person. I’m Amanda Blaustein. You knew me as Mandy Blue.”

  “The author?”

  “Yes, the author you orchestrated the Amazon One-Star Review campaign against, remember?”

  Peckham nodded slightly. “Wow, that was a long time ago. A long time.”

  “Seventeen years. You said my book sucked and called me a lot of names online, remember?”

  “Not really.”

  “I sure do.”

  Peckham began to sweat. “The internet’s been gone for years.”

  “Yes, but the damage was done, and it was assholes like you who caused the breakdown in civ
ility that fueled the fighting that started in ’17 after the last Great Recession,” she said, as she reached behind and grabbed a nozzle attached to the backpack. “So as far as I’m concerned, you are a war criminal.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, what are you going to do?”

  She pulled the nozzle and its hose forward over her shoulder.

  “Inflict some long overdue justice,” she said. “You remember the saying, ‘Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight’?”

  Peckham looked at her, eyes wide.

  She yanked a handle on the nozzle. “Well, don’t start a flame war unless you bring your own flame thrower.”

  Jellied, flaming gasoline shot forward and struck Peckham in the face. He raised his arms and screamed as the flames poured over his face. The searing heat engulfed his entire body before he toppled over.

  The commandant sprayed his writhing body a few times like she was using a garden hose, before she pulled the lever back to stop the fuel’s flow.

  She raised her arms and two militiamen lifted the flamethrower off her back.

  “I think you enjoyed that,” side-mouthed one.

  “I sure did,” she said.

  They looked as the gate to “Oakmeadow Estates” clanged shut.

  “Where to next?” asked the other militiaman.

  “Dalworthington Gardens.” She smiled. “My ex-husband lives there.”

  The Kitchen at the End of the World

  Amelia Kibbie

  Editor: This piece is a sign of our times now, much less in the future. How long will any population suffer abuse before fighting back?

  “Holy shit, it smells good.” Driscoll started, his whole body jerking in surprise as he stepped through the double doors with Ari and the rest of the men at his heels.

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” Ari said, clapping his weather-beaten hand against his guest of honor’s shoulder. “She’s not Rita, but she can cook.”

  Not Rita was at her usual place behind the counter, visible through the serving window that opened into the steamy kitchen. She didn’t look up as they approached. They chose her largest table and settled into the creaky chairs.

  “Man, I’ve never seen this place empty,” Alex commented.

  “I told her to send everyone home,” Ari revealed. “Stella. Some water?”

  Stella, who was not Rita, abandoned her post at the stove and emerged through the swinging door with a pitcher of water and a stack of chipped red plastic glasses. “It’s still pretty warm,” she apologized, her voice a tentative whisper.

  “Boiled means safe, so I’ll take it.” Driscoll accepted the stack of glasses with a benevolent smile beneath his silver mustache. His leathery skin and gray hairs marked him as one who might have dim memories of what the world was like before The Disease. Such knowledge was revered now that everything was gone and babies were growing up not knowing what that box with the black screen was for or why some stars moved and blinked across the night sky.

  “This place used to be a school, didn’t it?” Driscoll went on as Ari poured the murky water into each glass. “Look.” He pointed to a line of posters that sagged from the walls. Each had a series of black and white portraits with names beneath surrounding an intricate scripted message along the lines of “Class of 1974.”

  “I remember those. Those were the students who graduated from here,” Driscoll said, and the other men nodded, pleased with his pre-Disease wisdom. “And I bet this was the cafeteria.”

  “Yeah, about ten winters back we figured out how to run power to a few buildings,” Ari said, crossing his thick arms over his puffed chest. “Rita came in here one day and just started cooking. People brought her meat and spices and things and pretty soon she was feeding anybody who had something to trade.” Ari sighed wistfully. “She just had a way with food. This one,” he jerked his hand over to where Stella worked a pile of dried spices with her hands as sweat beaded on her brow and dampened her brown hair. She paused for a moment and whisked her strands into a bun, unmindful of the particulates on her fingers. “She wandered into town a few years ago. Didn’t have any people, or anything to offer. No idea where she came from before she showed up here. I don’t know how she talked Rita into taking her in, but . . .”

  “Quite the Cinderella story,” Driscoll said.

  The younger men just looked at him.

  “It was a kid’s story. An orphan who works in a kitchen turns into a princess.”

  They all shared a long, gurgling laugh.

  “Damn, that smells good.” Driscoll took a deep, nourishing breath. “What are we having, darlin’?”

  “Venison liver. Onions and mushrooms.” Stella’s voice floated forth from the kitchen over the slap and sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Right. Let’s get down to business,” Ari suggested. The other men agreed. “So.”

  Driscoll nodded. “All right. Business. We have the seeds you want. You have the windmill. Trade is well and good, but merging would just be easier—are we all in agreement?”

  All of them nodded: Ari, Boat Rock’s mayor, and his cabinet of advisors—Alex, Mel, and Joaquin.

  “So, let’s talk assets,” Driscoll suggested.

  “Well, as you can see here, we have the windmill. Some power to a few buildings,” Ari said. “We have a good well, too. We have a nice herd of goats going, and a big ol’ barn of chickens.”

  “How many people?” Driscoll asked.

  “Currently thirty-nine, but Christina’s about to pop. Makin’ an even forty,” Ari said.

  “Way to go, big daddy!” Mel laughed, clapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “That’s three for you now, isn’t it?” He grinned toothily over the table at Driscoll. “I have six myself.”

  “Thirteen,” Driscoll said, as if it meant nothing. The others shared wide-eyed glances, and the whole table shook with laughter.

  They had just regained control of themselves when Stella emerged from the kitchen once more, bearing plates of steaming food. The liver had been dusted with herbs and fried quickly in animal grease, followed by the onions and mushrooms, caramelized in the flavored oil.

  “Oh, honey, you’re gonna make me cry!” Driscoll mewed at the sight of the meal. “This one’s a keeper, I tell you what!” He sobered momentarily as Stella reached out to set down the plates one at a time, revealing her arms. Her flesh was pitted with burns, tears, and scars, all long since healed. She wore them like an extra set of sleeves.

  “Thank you. Enjoy,” Stella said before politely disappearing back into the kitchen. They heard her fiddling with the wash bucket.

  The men dug in, and it was some time before they resumed their discussion. “Well, Honey Hole has a population of sixty-seven,” Driscoll said, using his stained bandana to wipe his mouth and whiskers. “We have nine horses and three cows that are milkable. Still hoping to find and capture a bull so we can breed ’em. And we have the hardware store. Our gardeners have been harvesting seeds for as long as I can remember, and our gardens are damn impressive, if I do say so myself. The women have taken to canning things for the winter. Food’s pretty comfortable, though I’d love to get my hands on some more protein.”

  “All the more reason to pool our resources. With more men, we can go out and capture some more livestock,” Ari said. “I had an idea, too, about the housing. I know you’re getting a little cramped up there. I was thinking we could roll some of those old campers over from the dealership. Maybe your horses could help pull them. Line ’em up, and it’s a neighborhood!”

  “Now that is a brilliant notion,” Driscoll complimented. “Everything we have is movable, except the gardens, but we can dig those up and bring them here. You’ve got plenty of good soil from what I can see. Mmm! Hey there, darlin’, is there any chance of seconds?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s all there is,” Stella called from the kitchen. “I could wilt some greens if you’d like.”

  “Naw, that’s okay. I’m sick of green things. I want meat.�
�� Driscoll leaned back and patted his taut stomach with a satisfied sigh. “My friends, I will tell you that I do have one major concern. Your fencing. It’s pathetic. It’s a wonder you aren’t attacked every night by those damn plague dogs.”

  “Those disease-ridden bastards can jump over anything we build,” Ari complained. “Or dig under it. It’s near impossible to keep the place sealed up. We do what we can, and someone’s always keeping watch.”

  “We know we’re all immune against the airborne,” Alex said, “but if someone’s bitten, they’re either going to become infected, or become a carrier and infect someone else.”

  “That’s why you’re playing with fire here, not having adequate fencing.” Driscoll tsk-tsked, shaking his head. “Well, we can tear down some of ours and transport it as well. We have a couple old wagons and enough tack to hitch the horses. It’ll take gallons of sweat, but I think we can manage it if you’re willing to pitch in some of your people to help.”

  “Of course,” Ari snorted. “We all need to pull our weight for this to work.”

  The men murmured their agreement.

  “You seem like a smart fella,” Driscoll complimented Alex. “Some fancy talk there about The Disease.”

  Ari looked at each of his advisors, who gave him small, shrewd nods. “We’ve been keeping this under wraps,” Ari said, “because it’s dangerous. We didn’t want him kidnapped.” He reached over and pawed Alex’s shoulder. “Alex here trained under a real live doctor as his apprentice. When the old man died, he took over and started training others. He’s good. Damn good. Saved my life more than once.”

  “A doctor?” Driscoll couldn’t believe the words. “That’s it. It’s settled. We’re doing this. Honey Hole will do whatever it takes to make this work.”

  There was much back-slapping and handshaking. They went over the town charters, the rules, the laws, how judgement was passed.

  Stella had just refilled the water when Driscoll said, “What about the women?”

  Ari raised an eyebrow. “Well, the way we do things here is every man has a right,” he said. “Nobody gets to claim a favorite. Hell, we’re not even sure if Christina’s baby really is Joaquin’s. But that’s a good thing. That means we all want to protect the kid, right?”