With a recorder in my pocket, I walked to the end of my drive, scraping the metal retriever along the cement before me and holding my free arm straight ahead to fend off any head-high obstacles.
I tried to imagine a new world full of people feeling their way along the edges of objects, going to their refrigerators and pantries trying to figure out how long before they would have to venture out into the brave new world of constant midnight.
I heard a few muted hysterical voices coming mostly from the inside of homes along the way, but I chose to tune my ears to the distant car horns. People had been caught in their vehicles during the early morning rush and had been lucky enough to stop safely. And what of those that hadn’t stopped safely? I guessed they were fucked.
There were no engines running near me. That was good I thought, then it dawned on me that the sound of a moving vehicle would mean someone could still see. Didn’t there have to be a few that would be immune to this virus or plague or germ warfare or whatever the screaming hell it was? If so, a sighted person could be King. Almost better if there were none, I thought selfishly, if one of the lucky ones wasn’t me.
My blind man’s golf stick encountered signs, newspaper stands, and mailboxes, as the ball retriever became my eyes. I felt my way through a world of mostly metal as the coarse touch of an occasional tree trunk proved strangely reassuring.
The sound of a car horn was very close now.
“Hello!” I cried out.
“Are you out of the street?” a man called back.
“Yes, I’m on a street corner, I think.”
“Keep talking. I’ll come to you.”
I could hear the man carefully stepping closer and closer. My hearing had become more acute. Moving my magic wand to my side, I groped straight ahead until our arms bumped into one another. He grabbed my hand and my forearm and pulled himself upon the curb like a man being rescued from a pool of sharks.
Not quite ready to let go, he said, “Thanks. My name’s Campbell.”
“You’re welcome, but I’m not sure what we’ve accomplished.”
“I’m out of the street anyway. Wouldn’t want to get hit by a reckless teenage driver, would I?”
A sense of humor. What better way to handle this gruesome situation no one could ever have imagined was there? “My name’s Sam. I’m a reporter for the Gazette.”
“A reporter?” Campbell said, unbelievingly.
“Yeah. I live just a few blocks away. You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to.”
The man was silent.
“I’d like very much to hear where you were headed when this thing happened.” I took the recorder from my pocket and clicked on the “record” switch.
Campbell suddenly crushed his fist into the side of my head. I staggered back, stunned. He was on me, fumbling for the recording device. I fought him off, kicking at him and finally pulled free. I could hear his breathing. Guessing he was preparing for another assault, I dropped the recorder back into my pocket and raised my tenuous weapon, the ball finder, and listened with as much cunning as I had ever possessed, like a hunted animal listens for danger.
“You asshole,” Campbell said, finally. “We’re all blind. The whole world is fucking blind and you’re out trying to get a goddamned story. I just want to be home with my wife and kids. You have any great ideas how I’m going to do that, or how they will get home themselves, mister newsman? Can you write a story about that?”
“We’re all going to have to work together on this. It could be temporary.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Campbell said. “You know as well as I do we’re finished. The scientists or terrorists have finally let something loose. Better to have killed us all than blinded us. How long do you think it will take for people to be scrounging for food?”
I heard Campbell start to weep. It sounded much like the wail of many abuse victims I had encountered while on the beat. It was a cry of confusion and frustration. “I’m sorry about the questions,” I said softly.
“Leave me alone,” he responded. “You don’t know me and I don’t know you. Just…”
He said no more. I could hear him shuffle away to somewhere, maybe to find his own street corner until he could figure out a way of getting to where he wanted to be.
So this is the way it’s going to be. The first stranger wants to fight me, a world without eyes still seeking violence.
Everyone was the same. Until society regained its sight, it would amount to little more than survival. I understood that now. Unless the world could see again, there was little need for interviews. Everyone had exactly the same story: “One minute I could see, the next minute I was blind.”
The madness of a world thrown into darkness had begun. Life as I knew it had ended in the blink of an eye, so to speak. Religion would blame mankind’s sinful ways. Nations would blame each other. Fashion, sport, traditional warfare and commerce…all vanished in an instant. The scientists will squabble and try to find the mysterious genetic code that has swept across the face of the earth. The teeming masses, now in a world where prestige, power and appearance no longer matter, will pray for salvation. I felt sick to my stomach. I realized that unlike Campbell, who wanted to pummel me, I had no family to go home to. I had my girlfriend, but it would be her family she would cling to.
I had always cherished my independence and freedom, but now for the first time, I felt truly alone. I took the recorder from my pocket and replayed my presumptuous words. I hesitated for a moment and then threw the device as far as I could. I heard it land, the parts clattering and bouncing along the pavement somewhere, out there in the new reality.
I leaned against a stainless steel post that anchored signal lights on one side of an intersection. I heard the mechanical clicks of the lights changing colors, changing for the phantom traffic that might never again pass beneath its robotic eyes. I found the button on the pole that makes the lights change for pedestrians. I pushed it until I heard the clicks again. Then I pushed it again.
Never again will a romantic couple make a wish upon a star, dreams shattered like priceless crystal thrown to the ground. There will be a world of confrontations and dire consequences previously unknown to the ruling species of the planet since life first crept into existence. I pushed the light changing mechanism over and over. I didn’t know I was crying until I felt the tears running down my cheeks, and I don’t know how long I stood there pushing the button, but it didn’t matter because I had nowhere I wanted to go.
Occasionally, I heard other honking horns and voices rise and then fade away, but for the most part, the world had stopped moving. We were all now phantoms in an eternal night riding a blue bauble in a sea of darkness.
The Other White Meat
Rachel Verkade
Editor: And they taste like chicken.
You ain't gonna believe this, but I got into this business by accident.
Yeah, I know how that sounds, but it's true. Mama carried me over on the boat from Haiti when I was still at the tit. That's how I got my name, Dieufort, strong god, ’cause Mama said I never cried, no matter how hard the boat got to rockin'. When we landed, Mama took work pickin' fruit. Nobody'n the field mind if you got a baby slung on your back. When I was old enough, I was picking fruit 'longside her, and when I got strong, I started working the animals. That's how I got to slaughtering.
Slaughterhouses, at least the ones I went to, don't care much if you've got your papers. Just need a strong back, a good knife hand, and can't faint when y'see blood. In those kind of places, you get paid per carcass. The more animals you bring down, the more money you walked out with at day's end. Cattle, horses, goats, sheep, hogs, quick shot with the bolt gun, bleed 'em out, carve the carcass up. I worked fast, and I did quality, so I made good money, and the work suited me fine.
It might sound weird to you, but I like animals. Lotta the guys there, you'd see them kickin' the critters, hurtin' 'em just to make 'em squeal. After a while they just get to be par
t of the machine. Only way most guys can go on, y'know? Can't keep beatin' their heads in if you're thinkin' of them as livin' things. But me, I always liked the critters. Wasn't their fault they got sent to the grinder. Equipment was shit, most of the time, but I did my best. Made it quick. Gave 'em a pat when I could, hid the bolt gun from 'em. They could tell I liked 'em, and that made it easier. I wasn't kicked or bitten near's often as the other workers, and the animals would go where I wanted even if it was all bloody and nasty-smelling. And that helped me make more money. So it comes around, y'see?
You've probably guessed, given why you're here, but my favorites was always the hogs. Oh, I liked all the others, don't mistake me, but there was just somethin' about pigs. Cows and sheep, they were just scared, except for the bulls sometimes and they was just stupid angry. Horses were sad, never ever saw it comin', just followed wherever you led 'em thinkin' they was going home. But pigs're smart. Couldn't be any breaks in the pens, couldn't let your guard down, not when it was a hog day. Cows and sheep, you could beat 'em bloody and they'd still follow you, but you kick a pig and it'd never forget. It'd never trust you again, and if it got the chance it'd rip you right open. I respect that. Known slaughtermen who'd face a two-ton bull 'fore they'd face a breeding sow, 'cause that pig, she'll go for blood, and she'll think about whether it's better to go for your knees or your gut or your balls ’fore she comes. Respect that, too.
So I guess it ain't no surprise when I got enough money saved up, I bought myself a little bit of land with a house and a pigpen. Didn't need much, just a two-room house for me, a shed and corral for the pigs. Never more'n a dozen hogs, never kept a boar, just sows and barrows. I didn't wanna breed or nothing, after all, I just liked having 'em around. Made enough money to keep me and them fed, and that was good enough for me.
So I had my little house and I had my pigs and I had my job at the slaughterhouse. Things was just fine as paint so far's I was concerned. And I coulda gone on like that, really, until my friend Georgie came by. Georgie and me, we known each other since we was kids, our families worked the same farms, but I got into slaughterin' and he got into griftin'. Anyway, he comes to me on my day off, and he's real shaken up. Have to get some whiskey down him before he can tell me what's wrong. Turns out him and this barfly he hangs out with got into a fight, and one thing led to another and the barfly ends up dead. Georgie swears to me it was an accident, but now he's got a dead guy on his hands and he don't wanna end up in jail. Comes out the guy's in the trunk of his fucking car, which's right now parked in my yard. And that's just what a guy like me wants on his fuckin' land, am I right?
So before I can knock Georgie's head in, he finally comes out with what's on his mind. He's seen some movie, some English pic about a crime boss that used pigs to get rid of bodies. And who does Georgie know who owns pigs? His old pal Dieufort, that's who. I thought about it, and I really couldn't see any reason to say no.
Hey, I don't want you gettin’ the wrong idea. The guy was already dead, right? I checked that myself, he was cold as ice cream on the Fourth of July. And pig feed's pricey. Them pigs eat before and better than I do, and meat's meat to a pig. So I told Georgie, okay, gimme three hundred and you can feed the guy to my pigs.
Don't fuckin' look at me like that. I gotta eat too, and I wasn't about to chow down on some barfly burgers.
Anyway, Georgie came up with the cash, and he set to helpin' me, 'cause Georgie really ain't a bad guy. We knocked out the barfly's teeth, pulled out the fingernails, burned the hair and clothes. I gotta grinder in the back, big thing for grinding pig feed. Chopped the body up with a chainsaw and in it went. Had to make sure it was ground up small, so I put it through three times. The pigs really liked it, Georgie was glad, I was able to put down another payment on my truck, so really it worked out for everybody.
Things went on like normal for a while, but a few weeks later somebody else shows up with a big package wrapped in plastic. Says he knows Stan who knows Chuck who knows Georgie, and Georgie said that I had a great way of getting rid of dead guys.
You got two choices in that kinda situation. You can turn the guy down, risk a broken face at best or a bullet at worst, then go beat the shit out of Georgie once you're back on your feet, or you can make the best of it. I looked at the guy and I said six hundred.
You know how this kind of thing goes. Once word started spreadin', I was getting at least one a week. I quit the slaughterhouse, bought a better feed mixer and an industrial meat grinder, bought a few more pigs, paid off the truck, added another room t'my house. Pigs started getting fat and sassy, I was drinkin' Wild Turkey 'stead of ’shine. Not gonna say things were easy, 'cause you've always gotta be careful with this kinda thing, but life got a helluva lot smoother. Did a little experimentin', found the pigs would take whole limbs, if they was hungry enough, but I generally preferred the grinder, just in case. That's how they caught that fella up in Canada, you know.
I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I never killed nobody, not never. All of 'em were dead long before they every crossed onto my land, so why the hell shouldn't I get a paycheck out of it, and why shouldn't my pigs get a meal? Wasn't gonna make the poor bastard any less dead if I said no. You gotta look at the practical side of things, friend. Make your life a whole helluva lot easier.
Anyway. It was getting so that I didn't have to buy meat for the pigs no more, there was so much food coming in. Still got grain and such, you can't feed pigs on just meat, it ain't good for them. But I could buy more fencin' too, let 'em graze and root. I had happy pigs. And knowin' I had happy pigs made me happy too, y'know? There was times I'd just set out a folding chair, grab myself a case of beer, and sit out while the sun set and watch the pigs wander around, dig and wallow. I liked it. I liked them. They liked me. It was nice.
Anyway, at the same time, I'd met Felicity. Felicity ran a bar down in town called Freebird's, 'cause that's her name, Felicity Freebird. Named herself after that old Lynyrd Skynyrd song, 'cause it's her favorite. You oughta hear her sing it sometime, she'll sing it when she's feeling real good, and she sings it like nobody else. But anyway, I started hittin' Freebird's about the time things started getting good for me, and soon I was there at least twice a week, jawin' with folks, drinkin' a pitcher or two. Every so often, Felicity'd take me up to the apartment she kept up over the bar and we'd have ourselves a time. We like each other, Felicity and me. She's good folk, don't take no shit. Kept a rifle behind the bar and whip it out anytime folks got too rowdy, but most times she'd just wade into fights and set things right with her fists. She's that kind of woman, Felicity.
Her'n me, I think we started being friends when some drunk asshole called her a tranny whore, and I threw him through a window. I know Felicity'd heard worst in her time, but it got under my skin, hearing him talk about a lady that way, y'know? And I don't care what anybody says, no matter how she mighta started out, Felicity's one helluva lady. If you're lucky, maybe someday you'll see what I mean, but she's awfully particular. And she paid me back, anyway, when some good ole boy called me a coon. You wouldn't think, looking at her, that she could throw a guy all the way from the bar out the door, but Felicity's got a lot of secrets.
Anyway, Felicity knew what I did for a living, and she was okay with it. She'd come by my place sometimes, and we'd sit outside and drink and watch the pigs. She liked the pigs too, and they liked her, which's part of how I knew she was good people. Sometimes she'd help me feed 'em. Other times we'd hang out at Freebird's after closing, just her'n me at the bar, boozin' and laughin'. An' like I said, sometimes we'd end up in her bed or mine, and sometimes we wouldn't. Neither of us had all that many friends, so we stuck together pretty tight.
So that's why when it all happened, Felicity's the first person I went looking for. Who else did I have, anyway? Mama died 'bout ten years back, and it's just been me and the pigs since then. And Felicity's family dropped her like a piece of rotten meat the day she came out. So her and me, we looked out for each other. T
hat's the way it was.
You remember where you were that day, don't you? Yeah, ain't met a person yet who don't. Me, I woke up 'cause of the pigs. They were fucking screaming, and you ain't heard screaming 'til you've heard a pig screaming. And they ain't normally noisy animals, y'know? I mean, they'd squeal when they was hungry, but there's a big difference between a “get up, it's breakfast time” squeal and the racket they was making. So I jumped outta bed and grabbed my shotgun. Was loaded, sometimes the mood'd strike me an' I'd go out an' shoot myself a partridge or a turkey, and it was mighty good for scarin' people otherwise. Birdshot won't kill a man, but it'll sure make 'im think. So I grabbed that gun an' I was out there quick's could be.
First thing that hit me was the smell. It's the kinda smell you don't never forget, and when you been in the business I been in for as long's I been in it, it's a smell you know pretty goddamn well. The guy looked like he'd been in the water for at least a week; figure he musta crawled outta the river. He was down to his skivvies, so I figure he was swimming, maybe hit a rock or something, and nobody ever found him. So now this fucker's staggering around my pig shed, and the pigs are going fucking apeshit.
Now, I ain't like those dipshits in those movies that stands there'n babbles 'bout how this can't be happening. I see a guy with his arm hanging off and one of his eyes eaten out and his skin gone all blue, I know I'm looking at a dead man. I see 'em often enough. Only difference is this one's walking. Dunno why he's walking, but the fact that he's scaring my hogs's what's botherin' me right now. So I cock the shotgun and yell for the bastard to get away from my pigs.
Don't think he could see too well, since one eye was gone and the other'd gone all cloudy, but he could hear well 'nough. Really was just like in those damn movies, just turned and started shufflin' towards me, real slow. And I seen enough'a those flicks t'know what'd happen if he got me. I let ’im have it, both barrels.
Enter the Apocalypse Page 4