Apocalypse at Harpers Lane

by Mackenzie Mazerolle

  . . .

  “You spoiled a lot of good things, Joe. You’ve been something of a pain in my neck.”

  “You… Mr. Dystopia I presume?”

  “That’s me, though you can call me God for short.”

  “Why? Why was all this necessary? What was the purpose of all this?”

  “You think this was all my doing, this was simply the only way to get to you, but because of your inability to build a proper character, Jim has disappointed me greatly. I seem to have run out of certain, special resources, and time is ever apparently short. But don’t worry Joe, I have a feeling we’ll be meeting again someday, one life or another.”

  Joe was stuck, perplexed and doomed. He looked behind him and saw the black hole which was as far as Mr. Dystopia was on the opposite side. He just stood there, watching Joe and smiling to his moment of defeat. It wasn’t what he’d planned but it would do.

  “Screw this…”

  Joe walked off as the blackness made arm’s length.

  “See you later Joe!”

  Joe returned no words, only a finger as he made his way down the bottomless eater of dimensions.

  THE SEVENTH FLOOR

  Chapter One

  Seven Years Later

  Mr. Buckingham prepared his papers in synchronicity with his student’s anticipation. Being his first year as a professor at UNB (University of New-Brunswick), Joe subsequently found himself more anxious than his usual self. The dual burden of being his first year as well as filling the shoes of his subjects’ previous teacher left a heavy burden. This was nothing, however, that the great Joe Buckingham could not handle. With elegance slicked between the tone of his words, Joe would reply;

  “Turbulence within the surrounding transition of one’s self-be no more estranged, (extended pause for suspense), than the clockwork of time itself. The lines dubious characteristics and ability to format into just about any conversation as advice made it a favorite to Joe. Whether be socially relevant, advice to be considered heartfelt or just a good time for pretty words, Mr. Buckingham used it and others like dual wielding colts in the best of westerns. Yes, putting thought to paper truly was his warriors’ way, Joe would say although quietly not to wake the slumbering student occasionally at his side.

  Far out on thought, as was his duty entailed, Joe was nearly brought to embarrassment as the school alarm pierced his slumbering awareness. Students shuffled books and bags as they made their exit. The occasional nod, ‘evening Mr. Buckingham’, some he knew some he did not. Finally the only one he cared for passed by, Kendra Polanski. Not only his brightest student, he admired her own admiration for thought, as well her almost too well on the eye’s appearance. Joe had no problem tasting the forbidden fruit of Eden, as he would say prior. Discretion, however, was absolute. No public insinuations and no wandering eyes, consequently committing heavier a burden than his prior affairs. This, he put towards the tragic attraction that seemed to follow her. This sense of appeal he knew to be near cliché now a time. Finding both cruelty and infatuation within something or someone can become addictive.

  “Sweet dreams Mr. Buckingham!” Kendra seems to shout with her eyes, thought her lips do not move.

  “Sweet dreams Miss Polanski.”

  ...Shit, did I say that aloud?

  Kendra returns a glare, not hostile, but confused… Perhaps a hint of curiosity? Losing sight of his student, Joe grabs the last sheets that lay display on his desk. Packing up his briefcase, Mr. Buckingham walks the quickly desolate halls of his school, to the shady parking lot where awaits his faithful two-wheel companion, a bike.

  TWO

  Three months now since my last book, Tales from roach motel has yet to receive the expected surpassing success of its predecessor; Apocalypse at Harpers Lane. As great as it was to have made anything at all off my first publication, money still must be had, and Earwig Man simply was not up to the task.

  I enjoyed my time, while at my camp working on the project at hand. Unfortunately, it did not provide a means, or at least not the right kind. Whether be winning or losing a battle change seems to be an absolute must for consistent production. What I’ll do now, I haven’t any idea. Perhaps I’ll wearingly contrive some kind of situation for myself to get things going. May not sound the slickest or brightest of plans, but believe me, we all do- it.

  THREE

  The frigid chill of the cold November night in Fredericton NB could nowhere near prepare him for the icy cool refreshment of his soon to be near death experience. Peddling his way down the busy streets, Buckingham cursed the fool who said lets puts bikes on the road. In a perfect world sure, but the odds were those people didn’t ride a pedal bike to school. It’s one thing to get in a car accident with these crazy bastards roaming the streets, their dark tinted windows to conceal whatever soul suppressing narcotic they got going up their nose. Animosity surged through Joe’s veins. Indignation, towards all and whoever was responsible for the ill-dramatic change in his life, moments to occur.

  FOUR

  Twenty bucks in my wallet, least two beers in nickels and dimes (which they WILL take); I’m off to the races. It’s the last of my wealth. I can conserve it for one hopeless week, sure. But I’d rather put it all on red.

  Before proceeding with events to this particular night, I believe some background information should be known. For one, I live in a van. Don’t be too alarmed, it is quite comfortable as well is heated. Between my mobile residence, native blood (partially but still registered) as well the still vast Atlantic Canadian territory yet cut down to parking lots, plenty stands in between my dignity and the street. It’s a peculiar way of living, yes, but aside from the occasional midnight intrusion by police, I am quite content with ‘how she goes’, in a matter of speaking. Not to say I wouldn’t want a life in a high rise, Toronto capital living. A real sophisticato, as Mr. Burgess would say. However, you need to buy my book (as I’m sure your decent self-has), if I’m to live the high life. So, by all means, buy my book, pay my bills. A bottle of Jack in your name, I assure you. Hell, steal my book and I’ll still drink to you. Nothing and I mean nothing picks my fancy bone more than moral deprivation for literature. Then again I’ve always had a fascination with the concept of paradox.

  On that note let us begin the story, the inciting incident. I won’t beat around the bush; I sometimes wonder how I’ve made it this long without hitting someone on the road. I’m a menace; we all are in these chunks of metal. The time for bourgeoisie and fantasizing are over. I need to quench my curiosity before my subconscious does it for me, and Joe needs an Inciting incident. Let’s not disappoint either of us.

  FIVE

  There was no stopping it. They say when someone brushes near the faint mortality of their own life, time slows, and images play whatever relevant reel you’re supposed to see. I’d say ask Joe, but it all happened within what seemed less of a moment. One second the self- proclaimed self- realized teacher of thought, otherwise a good person rides his humble pedal bike to the lonely nothingness of his apartment. The following second a large black van swerves away from his lane, not for the oncoming traffic but against the flow of the bikers’ lane. Again, Mr. Buckingham cursed the bastard whose bright idea it was constructing this moronic death trap. No time for philosophies to reason why it happened. The front steel grill, pure blackness behind it confronted Joe with a proposal he could not refuse...

  (How about a nap?)

  Chapter Two

  The Golden Nugget

  Jack woke or did he. His is name Jack? The answer is no, but what does it matter when you are dreaming.

  Knowing nothing of his surroundings or of himself for that matter, rising into sleep was as natural as waking up from it. Unknown, yet dismissed ever so arrogantly by many, including Jack.

  It was a most peculiar slumber (or what have), coming into a very uncomfortable presence. Not his own, per say, but the round bending steel frame which he laid
and the ever so brilliant sun that if the memory had stayed, would be unfamiliar. Perspiration already took its stubborn physiological duties; it had sensed and knew well the accident that had taken to its master moments ago. The mind, however, was on a different page.

  “...”

  What becomes there to say with no one around and no self to portray? Without even himself to talk to, observation therefor stood his sole responsibility.

  “I’ve seen this before...”

  Climbing down from the ceiling of the unknown metal like creature, it seemed docile enough as Jack stared towards its conjunction.

  ‘...’

  Something is missing; his present mind begins to conjure. What is it...? That word. What word could deliver such solace, to an empty mind...

  Purpose! Without the need to reason, or for that matter question the purpose of purpose, confidence held its post as forward became his sole priority.

  “Now what of this beast...” Jack continues to question his desert-like surroundings. Scripture rested on the back of its hide. First glance seemingly incomprehensible, a very limited but selective memory injects again.

  Numbers... ‘Nine, six’. Words... ‘Buick’, ‘Regal’.

  “Fuckin Greek...” Jack, discouraged, remarks to the sand.

  “Greek...” Yet another enigma.

  Enigma...

  Eventually, the simplistic pleasures of amnesia wore from our protagonist’. Intuition passed down by pre-existing incentive (or his more conscious and educated self) brought the mysterious workings of the rusty car to life. Sparks led to small explosions producing movement of specific gears. A chain reaction caused a consistent purring sound, surprisingly achieved through the turning of a small switch attached to the steering wheel. It wasn’t long before the larger lever aside the small metal one, combined with an initially seen clever sequence of pressing pedals laid by his feet. The more Jack learned the more he remembered until he was driving steadily through the desert. Where he was going was just as oblivious as the car he drove first appeared in this strange world. The concept of dreams too came back to him. Some relief was provided by such a reflection, but in case he were to be wrong, forward became good a plan as any...Which currently there was none.

  Sand, desert, sun and heat, the rust of the Buick fit well with this scene. Bland Syrian contrast and the beige to brown surrounding; Words finally back and giving Jack a vocabulary delivered to him his joys as he twisted words of poetry regarding his view.

  “Emptiness... Gold heaven, so brilliant, so infinite; Where then lies the angels of my fateful heaven before me? If a heaven at all… The furious flame surrounding the sun seemed incredibly close for some reason. Why and how does such a source provide both the ecstasy of motion and deceit of fatigue; why does it want to kill me when I need it to live?

  ...

  “Because it’s too bloody hot, that’s why.”

  Discouragement… No female attention abroad to admire such lyrical verse, what satisfaction could Jack derive from this wasteland. Hell? Is that what this was? Why then, would he have deserved such punishment? His life was led righteously so, he truly believed. Being kind to others provided for Jack an easing feeling, a sense of accomplishment. Was it that? Perhaps his distorted focus, not seeing the difference between helping someone for them rather for that ‘helping high’ you can get the attention. Can you call that a high? Being addicted to helping those less fortunate for the satisfaction of being needed? Was this desert his cruel damnation for being such a douche- bag?

  Futile as it would be to check your gas gauge in hell, Jack did so either way. Driving what seemed the better part of an hour, the gauge had not dropped. Considering the price of gas (being the main proprietor in his life on a pedal bike), Jack than concluded he was in fact dreaming.

  TWO

  Just my luck no doubt… I apologize ahead of time to my readers, I do relish in the prospect of optimism, however, nothing is indeed forever. I curse the genius who decided bikes can keep up with main road vehicles. Sure, keeping up in a fifty kilometer an hour vehicle prioritized street is one thing, but punctuality means nothing if you’re driving straight for an eager artist making way to his fix. It doesn’t help either, him driving an eighty-seven Chevy van, off to probably lose it in a game of cards.

  Enough opinion, though, I suppose the story is needed to be known. Considering you bought my book, I’m to assume you well enough capable of already knowing I clearly did not write this as I hit the man. In that respect, I do in fact know and the man on the bike whose name I discovered to be Joe is alive. I’m not a complete prick, the screeching of the tires, the police car lights shining the dark streets like my favorite suburban acid walk. Colors, stretchers and incarcerating notepads did finally fade away. Despite my wavering charges on inebriation, as well as seatbelt and lack of credentials (insurance, license, aka the hall pass of the road) ... Point is after all had sub missed and whatever financial plan for survival I had literally and in all sense was raped, I still cabbed myself to see that the idiot was alright. Sleeping the doctor said. Slight possibility of nearing coma state, but otherwise he was alright.

  THREE

  “The sun she raises, but she does not fall. Like the nature of man, it seems never to dismiss, leaving the stinginess of failure my only companion. Oh faceless divine, whether by man or dog- I plead. Why the fuck am I still in this cursed desert!”

  Without recognition for time, as without do we, Jack cruised upon his endless domain. Fortunately for him, the faceless deity that cursed him so left the car a bottle of whiskey. It too had no end. Limitless as its effects seem to be, the logo laying Canadian eighty-three instilled home sicknesses to his already warren mind. A temper unknown to him substituted his otherwise romantic vocabulary to something, still romantic, but in the far more traditional sense. Then again, would you give a shit if you were stranded in an imaginary desert, alone, drunk and too fictional to understand this is still merely the introduction to your story? I imagine if so then someone should surely enlighten you.

  ‘... alright now chap, keep yourself together.’ Another hefty swill from his bottle. Something off in the distance, something...

  ‘...Well, it’s about god damn’/SHWEEEEH- BANG!

  An explosion, loud, powerful was heard. Debris hits the windows, so bewildered, Jack remained unaffected. Aside from the look of wonder on his face, he maintained speed.

  SSSHHHHHHWEEEEUUU/

  ...

  BANG! Jacks car comes at far too fast a halt as an apparent mortar strikes the hood of the Buick. A slight rush of excitement sneaks its way across his spine. Still very fearful, as he flies through the air, he wonders if perhaps he was already getting used to this.

  If totaling one’s car to a most glorious as well eminent death were to be in the Olympics (not too farfetched considering the brilliance of the car-to- bike unison track), Jack would surely have taken home the gold. A complete rotation was made, bringing the hood end back to the front of the impact as it struck him first. Twisted metal bent in determination towards ending his life, as it certainly did.

  It wasn’t a moment before Jack felt his body or something that felt like it wavers out of place and into a falling motion as when ‘falling awake’. To Jack’s dissatisfaction, his eyes opened to the burning shine of the sun, and the rust of the Buick beneath his back.

  Chapter Three

  Going West

  It’s hard to explain the hopelessness I felt the next morning. It then becomes impossible when the suspense of resolution is exposed in the chapter title. I don’t do this by mistake, fellow friends. I’m sure everyone at one point or another has had the make or break moment in their life. Most of us seem to lack the choice in the matter, but I’m almost certain all of which have pictured the alternate way things could have gone. If anything that would be the basis for why we as a most general public become so infatuated with the hardships of a story, gladia
tors fought and died as do actors play such remorseful roles for our one simple satisfaction; to endure and experience through someone else. Not to say there isn’t a multitude of other more artistic values; it just can’t be denied seeing someone swallowed up by a black hole sure as hell beats whatever lonely life you or I may live.

  It was on that note my optimism remained. In reward, the universe delivered me an out of the blue but much needed phone call. With it came a plane ticket away from my Atlantic home to the oil fields of Western Saskatchewan. This provided an excellent opportunity to investigate the warranted ‘planet killers. Is it possible? Have we learned to destroy the world before we learned how to leave it? Enough speculation, it’s time to get out there and see just what is going on. Hell, maybe get yourself a nice girl, settle down your wicked way and for gods’ sake pay some bills!

  TWO

  Jack sat patiently on the roof of his car. No longer drunk, no longer alive, he waited quietly as words paraded his muddy thoughts from hopelessness and boredom. Years studying the most in-depth of catchphrases, they now served him for more than contemporary love. Equilibrium within the mind, that’s the trick, is it not?

  No response from any outer world observer. Jack continues to sweet himself with mantra;

  “Only the pain man feels he needs will man bestow upon himself.”

  ...

  “Care not the treachery of displeasure, another spoke, your discovery will appeal just the like.”

  ...

  Feeling all the same, Jack begins to open his eyes. Sand, still, remained.