Pursuit of the Apocalypse (12 page)

Pretty soon the sport had grown in such popularity that people were breaking and no longer entering. More could be made from the purse of a good Door Kicking Contest than could be scrounged from inside the home. Contestants would just move down the street from house to house kicking in each door and moving to the next. And the crowds followed their every move.

Much like NASCAR, the activity grew from its criminal beginnings quickly into a spectator sport. Unlike NASCAR, it was exciting to watch. In this way it was not much like NASCAR.

Fans made stars of the contestants overnight. Though he retired early, Head Banger Hollis was an instant legend despite his short time in professional competition. Bam Bam Barros was so named for a two-fisted approach that shattered the “legs only” strategy of every other contestant. Sweet Talking Shirley was known more for her pregame rituals than her actual contact method. Two-Ton Todd was renowned for a total lack of style. Instead fans loved his energy and aggressive flailing.

But, despite his size, Andy Levinson rose above them all with his Flying Foot technique. It had a flair that was impossible to deny and an effectiveness that was hard to beat. He was inspiration for the everyman.

Soon crowd size made traditional competitions impractical. The events soon moved to an arena atmosphere and, instead of kicking them in, doors were carefully removed from the frames and brought to the kickers.

This, the Librarian figured, was how he made his way to the home’s garage without encountering a single door—kicked in or otherwise.

Jerry found his way to the release cord in the middle of the room and gave it a pull. This produced a pop and a bang from the door springs as the door jumped an inch from the ground. The door lifted with ease despite years of being unused and let the winter sun into the garage.

One bay of the garage was empty. From the disarray of the house inside it appeared as if the occupants had left in a hurry in a single vehicle. The other bay held a car shrouded beneath a canvas cover.

Jerry pulled back the cover exposing the vehicle’s quarter panel revealing a screaming cat logo. He whistled as he ran his fingers over the cat. “This is something special.”

Chewy barked from the truck’s cab.

“Keep it down. I’m coming.” He jogged to the truck and got behind the wheel.

The dog barked again.

“Stop it. I was just looking. I know you like the truck.” He turned the ignition and backed the truck into the garage before disarming himself.

The dog looked at him with a cocked head as he pulled guns and knives from various pockets and then set about removing the holsters and sheaths that held them.

“These people are really against guns that aren’t theirs,” he explained to the dog, who woofed quietly that she didn’t really understand or care. “It should be an easy walk through town. I can’t recall any particular threats. And everybody lives on the campus.”

The pair left the truck and closed the garage door behind them. He was fairly confident the truck would be waiting for them when they returned. Few people passed through this way, and almost no one passed through twice.

As they walked away, he patted where his gun usually sat. He’d considered trying to sneak a weapon in, but figured it wasn’t worth the risk. If he needed one, there was sure to be one he could grab. Besides, he was more than willing to kill Mr. Christopher with his bare hands.

The streets were fairly clear of debris and trash. If one could forget about all the bombs dropped and lives lost, the walk would feel more like a lazy Sunday morning stroll. The trees lining the streets clung to stubborn leaves. Those that had fallen raced along the ground in a gentle breeze.

Chewy sniffed her way along the curb jumping into a yard every now and then if a particular smell interested her. She didn’t bristle or growl at anything on the route. It would be a perfectly safe, quiet little town to live in if it wasn’t for the gathering of dangerous idiots at the campus.

The homes got smaller and older as they approached the old university. The spire of the old administration building rose above the century-old homes and the duo turned towards it down an avenue of flags and banners that snapped against the wind.

Propaganda Way put his nerves on edge. The popping was a constant chaos that interfered with thought, but it was the messaging itself that frayed his concentration. The town was built on hate. They had picked their villains, focused their ire in the name of good on ghosts of the past and refused to move forward. It didn’t matter if their accusations were valid or not. It was far too late to do anything about it. They hung on to past grievances that could never be settled and forced this way of life on any who wandered into their midst. Basically, they were grumpy bastards. All of them. All of the time.

The last flag bothered him the most. The Tolerance flag itself was a conglomeration of people forming the peace symbol while doves and paper cranes flit about with broken rifles in their beaks over rainbow colors filled with an assortment of gender symbols and raised fists. The Librarian had no issue with any of this as a concept, but the design was horrible and, as it flapped about, he was sure it should come with a warning label to prevent strokes. They were idealists, not artists. That much was clear.

The guardhouse stood beneath the town flag and Jerry took the two Guy Fawkes by surprise when he wished them a good morning.

The two guards scrambled to remember where they had put their rifles. They found them and rushed toward Jerry and Chewy. One guard was all Guy Fawkesd up while the other had the mask sitting atop his head.

“Put your mask on,” Guy Fawkes one whispered.

“It is on.”

“Put it on your face, moron.”

“Oh. Hold this.” The guard handed his rifle to the first guard, positioned the mask, and took back the rifle. “Okay. I’m set.”

Jerry could see Guy Fawkes one’s eyes roll inside the mask before they landed on him.

“Halt,” the first guard said.

“We’re halted,” Jerry said.

Guard number two stepped forward. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to do a little trading.”

“We’ll see about that.” Guy Fawkes two stepped up and began to pat him down. “You been here before?”

Jerry raised his arms and allowed the pat down. “Are puppies and kittens still cute?”

“They are,” Guy number one said.

“Did ferrets ever make the list?”

“Missed it by a single vote, last I heard. One of the council members said she found them creepy the way they wriggled.”

The Librarian shook his head. “That’s a shame. It would be such an interesting conversation to have.”

Guy number one just grunted as Guy number two finished the pat down. “He’s clean.”

The Librarian dropped his hands and moved towards the gate when the barrel of a rifle fell across his chest.

“Not so fast.” The first guard tilted his head toward Chewy. “Do you want to tell me what that is around the dog’s neck?”

Jerry looked at Chewy, wondering if the dog was trying to pull something. Nothing looked out of place. Jerry answered the guard. “Her collar?”

“Is it consensual?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Is it a consensual collar? Did the dog agree to it?”

“I never really asked her.”

“Oh, I see. Well, do you have any idea how demeaning that collar is?”

The Librarian shrugged. “I thought it was a pretty nice collar. It’s not like it’s leopard print or anything.”

“Very funny,” the guard responded in a sarcastic tone. “And since you can’t see my face I should probably tell you I’m being sarcastic.”

“No, I got that. Even through the mask.”

Guy number two moved between Jerry and the town. “All collars are demeaning.”

Guy number one explained. “When you put a collar on an animal, you’re telling that animal, ‘you’re mine.’ You’re telling it, ‘you’re my property.’”

Guy number two stepped forward and poked Jerry in the chest. “Do you think animals should be property, pal?”

“Before you answer,” the first guard interrupted, “I’ll tell you. They aren’t property. All animals are born free and they should live free and they should die free.”

“You want me to take the collar off?” Jerry asked.

“That depends. Do you want to be brought up on Animal Captivement Charges, smart guy?” Guy number two produced a pair of handcuffs and dangled them in front of his mask.

“And, before you answer, you do not want to be brought up on Animal Captivement Charges. Unless you want to go a round in the cage. And, before you answer ...”

“Yeah, I don’t want to go a round in the cage.” Jerry leaned down and removed Chewy’s collar. He tossed it to the first guard and turned to the second. “Can we go shopping now?”

“Before you enter it is my duty to warn you that you are entering Tolerance with a potentially dangerous animal. It is your responsibility to make sure that said animal is restrained at all times.”

“But you just made me take off the collar.”

Guy Fawkes number one stepped closer. “I don’t think I like your attitude.”

“I know I don’t like his attitude,” the second guard said.

“Do you want people to get hurt?” Guy Fawkes number two said. “You don’t like people, is that it? Well, people matter, pal. And we can’t have a dangerous animal running around in there. So either control your dog or face the consequences.”

“So can I have the collar back?” Jerry asked.

“Only if you want to face Animal Captivement Charges.”

“Which we already agreed, I don’t want to do that.” Jerry sighed a looked at each Guy Fawkes. He held up his hand and spoke. “I swear that this animal will be under my complete control at all times and cause harm to no one and at no point shall the animal’s free will be restrained in any form or fashion. Should this not be the case, I will accept the consequences of either my or my, sorry not my, the animal’s actions. And can we go in now?”

Guy Fawkes number one’s eyes grew narrow behind the mask. “You’d better check that attitude here at the gate or you’ll be paying your Fair Share in no time.” The guard stepped aside and opened the gate. “Have a nice stay.”

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S
IXTEEN

Erica’s dash across the campus had turned into a hurried walk as she realized that her disguise was more effective than she had hoped. During her exchanges with Carrie, Erica had failed to notice the insignia on the maroon jacket. The citizens looked away at her approach if they didn’t turn around altogether. Whatever Carrie’s position was, it was obvious that people were eager to avoid her.

It had to be the uniform. She refused to believe she looked anything like Carrie herself. But she did try to adopt a gait more like the bitch from the cellblock. She stomped hard with every step, swung her arms with clenched fists, set her eyes hard, and tried to look like she had never smiled, laughed, or found anything delightful in her entire life.

The buildings on the campus were a mix of neoclassical halls that created an esteemed, stately atmosphere of higher learning reminiscent of renaissance forums, as well as newer buildings that seemed to say, “hey, it was the seventies.”

Wide walking paths meandered between these buildings and Erica stomped her way along trying to find the outer boundaries of the town. The directional signage that once helped guide students around the school had been covered with messages encouraging freedom and love and peace or else. This frustrated her escape, but she walked with a purpose as if she knew where she was headed. Looking lost was a sure way to be found out.

The path curved right around a cinder block monolith and then left into the college square where a crowd had gathered. Turning around would make her trepidation too obvious, so Erica clenched her fists tighter, hated things more, and stomped on.

The campus square served as the marketplace. Dozens of booths, all appearing to be the same size, shape, and design, formed a rectangle on the inner portion of the grounds. A mass of people browsed the shops, stood around and talked, sat and ate, and generally loitered in the area. The social scene in Tolerance was happening.

Erica avoided eye contact but studied the people in the crowd. They appeared generally happy and well fed, which was more than could be said of most people she had met. There were genuine smiles and laughter. Their personal grooming even appeared and smelled a step above norm apocalypse levels.

If she focused on the people, it wasn’t hard to imagine that the war had never happened, and for a brief moment, in her mind, the world had returned to normal. Except she couldn’t get over the number of beards.

Their voices blended into a long forgotten din. She picked up on pieces of conversation as she moved through the square. One woman was going on about how much she liked kittens. The man she was talking to agreed with her that kittens were cute and said he found puppies adorable as well. Another group talked about how much they were enjoying the sun that day while others discussed how much they loved hiking through nature trails and how nice it was that almost everywhere was now a nature trail.

One heated exchange discussed the ills of greed, but there was no argument from the other party. The two men just agreed with one another in angry tones about how bad they thought it was.

But, no one complained about starving. No one complained about the war. No one complained about the condition of the world. The only complaint she overheard was something about Nickelback. They were a people without a concern in the world. Happy and carefree.

A man’s voice cried, “Officer.” It was the first voice she’d heard that seemed to have any distress. She stomped a little faster. She didn’t want to be anywhere the local authorities might show up.

“Officer.”

The caller was coming in her direction. Erica turned to a booth selling a surprisingly decent selection of personal care products and pretended to look around.

“Officer!”

The voice was right behind her now. She feigned interest in a loofa and turned it over in her hands several more times than made any rational sense.

“Officer!”

A hand landed on her shoulder and pulled. Erica turned around and came face to face with an angry man with a beard but no mustache, and a face but no chin.