Fallen Nation: Party At The World's End Read online

  “Babylon’s ops posture is a synthesis of Anonymous, MEND, Al Queda, Hamas, and the Grateful Dead. You need a minute on that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. If you said 'no', you were either a plant or an idiot.”

  “Al Queda and the Grateful Dead... Identity. Purpose and movement. Anyone's in who wants in, simply by aligning and educating themselves...”

  Loki cocked his head. “Partly.”

  “No, wait. It's a movement with a thousand centers. They see the broadcasts, they watch your little how-to's...” Artemis said, trying to reason it out.

  “Stole the last bit from Hamas. Not so far as setting up an alternate social infrastructure, more like...”

  “It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy,” she said. “The illusion of a movement becomes a movement.”

  “Got it in one.”

  “And anyone can join, essentially build their own cell. They become the center of their own local franchise.”

  “'Franchise'. I like that,” Loki said. “You really know how to use that fancy crossbow you got there?”

  “Yeah. Always had a thing for bows. Thus the name. Been training ops my whole life, really.”

  “Military?”

  “Fuck no. Dance. Archery. Martial arts. Survival.”

  “Can you get more of those toys?”

  “Yeah. But they’re not toys.”

  He cleared his throat. “This is the most I've talked in weeks.”

  “Yeah,” Artemis said, thinking. “D2 to d4.”

  Loki grinned.

  Dionysus and Ariadne staggered into one of the bedrooms. They had torn window curtains wrapped around their shoulders like capes. After running circles around the room several times, they fell into the bed and each others arms.

  Ariadne stared up at the ceiling. “This is weird.”

  “What is?”

  “Tonight. Life. Everything.” She nuzzled closer to him.

  “Life can seem to have had a consistent order and plan, as though composed by some novelist. Events seem accidental. Of little meaning. But they turn out to have been indispensable factors in the composition of a consistent plot. So, who composed that plot?” Dionysus asked.

  “Quoting Joseph Campbell at me. Cute,” She paused. “You know Lilith thinks that we're all...I don't know. Forgetful demigods?”

  “What? No. They’re just nicknames. Call-signs. Pseudonyms. Right? You don’t think that you’re actually...”

  “Forget it. I don’t know anything about you. Not really. But I feel like I’ve known you forever. Fuck. That’s so cliche. Doesn’t make it any less true. It isn’t just the drugs, is it?”

  “No. Feels like...This isn’t the only dream we’ve been in together.” Dionysus seemed a bit surprised at what he’d said. “I think that plot can be seen in dreams.”

  “Plot?” she asked.

  “I asked who composes the plot of our lives. You're right, I was quoting. Let me finish while I still remember the damn thing. Just as people we’ve met by mere chance become leading agents in our lives, so, too, are we serving unknowingly as agents, giving meaning to the lives of others. The whole thing gears together like one big symphony, with everything unconsciously effecting everything else.”

  “M'kay. That's what I meant when I said weird. I know exactly what you mean, but no. Let’s just...Keep it simple. I like you a lot. That’s weird enough.”

  Dionysus gave the kind of smile that only the mentally enfeebled are usually privy to. “Hey! I'm pretty likable.”

  She scowled playfully. “I'm just saying. Philosophers are usually assholes. Or autistic.”

  “We can be crazy, too,” Dionysus said.

  “Shush,” Ariadne said, kissing him.

  “This is definitely better than talking,” Dionysus said.

  She hit him over the head with a pillow, and continued kissing him.

  What seemed like – and very may well have been – hours later, Mary kissed Jesus’ forehead softly and slipped out of bed. Gazing around the room wide-eyed, the intensity of the night finally caught up with her. A day before, she’d been a college drop-out chained to a $7 an hour corporate coffee shop job, living in her parent’s basement. Stuck in neutral. Now...

  She hugged herself again and again. Everything felt renewed. She had always wanted to feel like this. Like it was spring and she was eleven. Like there were no rules and she could run and fall and roll in fields if she wanted to, and it didn’t matter if she got her dress dirty or scuffed her knee. Her parents would just have to fucking deal, she wasn’t coming home. But she should at least call and let them know she wasn’t in a ditch somewhere.

  Opening the door a crack, she glanced down the hallway to see Dionysus and Ariadne asleep, curled around one another like two kittens. Her cell phone was in her clothes, which were in... the bathroom. She started in that direction, but a pleading sound stopped her in her tracks. They were still at it? Good God!

  She tiptoed by the supine couple on the bed and headed towards the hall. As she reached for the door, it shot open, seemingly of its own accord. She nearly screamed, clamping her hand over her mouth instead.

  “Well come on, then,” Loki said from behind the door.

  “Hey, you’re still out here,” she observed as she slipped out to stand beside him.

  “Where else would I be?” he continued checking both directions of the hallway, not making eye contact with her as he spoke. “We wouldn’t want to be caught by surprise, now would we?”

  “Um, no. I suppose not. Who are you looking f–”

  “You never know.” He finally turned towards her, though his eyes were barely visible through his tinted aviator glasses. “You never know.”

  She giggled, though he didn’t respond with any facial gesture whatsoever. “Where’s Artemis?”

  “Sleeping. It's my shift.”

  “Do you sleep?”

  He seemed to think about it for quite some time. “Sure.”

  “When?”

  “Tuesdays, usually,” he said, gruffly. “You were, uhm. With. Jesus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just wanted to – does she... You know what? Never mind.”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “Hm?”

  “No really, never mind. So, why are you out here?”

  “I have to make a phone call. Tell my parents I’m not coming home. You know, probably for a couple years.”

  “You don’t have a cell? There’s a phone in the room, and another in the bathroom, I would assume.”

  “Well, yeah. But I didn’t want to disturb Jesus, she kind of slipped into a trance. And Lilith and Amber...God only knows, and I don’t want to.”

  He nodded his head. “Amen, sister. Alright, you can use mine.”

  “We need to go.”

  Dionysus opened an eye to see Loki staring down at him through aviator shades. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth.

  “We need to go,” he repeated, nudging him with his boot.

  “Huh?” Dionysus managed to ask.

  Ariadne flailed. “Tell them to call back. I’m sleeping.”

  “This is really happening. Wake up,” Loki said.

  Dionysus slowly got to his feet with the torn curtain draped around him. He could still only manage to get one eye open.

  “I don't know how it happened, but they found us,” Loki said.

  That got both of his eyes open. “Who? The cops?! We need to–”

  “No, no,” Loki said. “The fans.”

  “What?” Dionysus said. “You woke me up for that?”

  “See for yourself,” Loki said.

  Loki dragged Dionysus to the window and threw open the blinds. The riot at the concert had followed them through word-of-mouth, spawning an apocalyptic after-party in the parking lot. There were mattresses strewn about with half-dressed teens passed out on them. One had SLUT BOY written on his face in lipstick. A furry orgy was in progress, centered around a disreputable conversion van with a cl
owns-and-balloons mural painted on the side. “Fuck me, Teddy Ruxpin!” cried a voice from within the wildly bucking van.

  “Oh. God! You’re right, this is bad,” Dionysus said.

  “Yeah,” Loki said. “We need to disappear before they find us.”

  Chapter Five

  Trevino stood, his hands in his pockets, looking down at a muddy bed sheet sign tangled in what may have been an herb garden. It read “GROUND ZERO’S JUST GROUND.”

  “What the hell’s that even mean...” he grumbled. The previous night’s concert had completely trampled the place. There was little useful evidence, though there was plenty of footage to be had of the orgiastic scene. Someone could probably run an amateur porn business just off the footage. Scanning through footage, he saw things he didn’t think there were names for. He flipped open his cell to call it in.

  “Trevino.”

  The voice on the other end belonged to one of the suits. “Report, Deputy Marshall.”

  “Subjects are in the wind, sir. I tracked them as far as a farmhouse on CR 41, but the mess they made of it... It's like the morning after Woodstock. Nothing here of use.”

  “We expect more.”

  “With respect, sir.”

  “No one's putting this on you, Adam. We need more than felony theft and rotten music.”

  Trevino walked through the barn doors and flicked a light switch. It did nothing. He pulled out a flashlight and began a circuit of the interior: rumpled sleeping bags and blankets, condom wrappers, cigarette packs...

  “You are a tool. We can find another.”

  His circle of light fell on a stack of fertilizer bags and lingered. It jerked back to a workbench near the door – a rusted car battery and miscellaneous old tools. En route back to the bags, the beam of light lingered on a discarded, pre-paid cell phone.

  “Bombs,” he said.

  “At least.”

  Trevino swallowed. “No, sir. Bomb-making materials. Two, three hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate fertilizer and electrical components abandoned at their last known location.”

  “You found fertilizer at a farm, Adam.”

  Walking back to his car, Trevino’s eyes fell on the bed sheet sign again. Ground Zero’s Just Ground. “Explosive materials, sir. And... literature referencing the 9/11 attacks.”

  “The combination is... suggestive. Hold your present location. Additional assets en route.”

  Trevino pocketed his phone and sighed, rubbing his temples.

  “God help you little shits.”

  Night fell as they wound their way west. Jesus insisted on keeping the wheel, despite the onset of a bone-throbbingly intense trip. Most of the passengers watched the mile markers slip by, lulled into that trance that life on the road can produce.

  Artemis was cataloging the weapons in their ever-increasing armory, acquired through a rather aggressive “donations campaign.” A selection of repeating crossbows, bolts, daggers, ropes, a few handguns and an AR-15. When planning tactics, she had advocated the 'philosophy of ninjitsu.'

  Loki had nodded, saying “Okay, we’ll go with that.”

  She could never tell if he was just humoring her.

  “These mushrooms are hitting me hard!” Jesus said. A pair of fairy wings twisted awkwardly around the seat behind her. Her face sparkled with glitter.

  “I’m sorry!” She yelled over blaring music. “The harmonics of the silence are giving me a headache. I have to keep turning it up to compensate.”

  “WHAT?!” Loki screamed.

  “Can you read my thoughts?!” Jesus eyed Loki suspiciously. The vehicle began to drift out of its lane.

  Loki grabbed the steering wheel. “Will you at least let me drive?”

  Jesus batted his hand away, but did deign to turn down the volume slightly. “Hush. I’m at one with the Beast.”

  An American flag burst in the sky, a malevolent, red white and blue terror.

  “Is that Captain planet?!” Jesus yelled.

  “No. It’s Captain fucking America. Pull over. Fuck,” Loki said. The girls in the back grabbed weapons and ducked into bunks and closets.

  Jesus took a breath and slowed down, pulling to the side. She turned the key. Took another deep breath, both hands glued to the wheel. The interior lights went down to a faint warm glow. “I have this covered,” Jesus said. “Follow my lead.”

  “Okay,” Loki said.

  A flashlight inspected the interior of the Behemoth like an inquisitive finger. There were several knocks on the window. Jesus tried to smile pleasantly at the stereotypical cop that peered up at her through mirrored shades.

  “What can I do for you, officer?” Jesus asked, batting her eyelashes. What kind of mind lurked behind those glasses, she wondered. She imagined it was something like a wasp or hornet.

  The officer's mouth opened, but what came out was a long string of guttural consonants.

  Jesus swallowed hard. There was no getting out of this one. They may as well have walked up to a random police man, grabbed him by the shirt, handed him a fistful of crack, and proclaimed “I AM THE GRIM REAPER!”

  She looked over at Loki, who was frozen in place. No help, there. The girls in the back all gripped their weapons tighter. Artemis moved towards one of the window, looking to line up a shot if need be.

  “MMMMMUUUGHHH MOOOOORRZZZ NNNNUUU FFFRRRRRMMMM?” Jesus said, trying to imitate the cop’s language. The words seemed to ejaculate straight from Jesus’ gut. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  The stereotypical cop nodded agreeably and took his hands off his hips. “Don’t let me catch you speeding again,” he said, turning on his heel.

  Loki unfroze. “What the fuck was that?”

  Jesus slowly removed her hands from the wheel. “I...don’t know.” The steering wheel began to melt. The speedometer turned into a snake and slithered off the dashboard.

  “Loki?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think it’s time for you to drive,” Jesus said.

  The cop got back into his car and sped off, a Babylon track cranked on his headset.

  The cops lights reflected off of the window by Dionysus’ bunk as he pulled away. He was still napping, but it had taken a turn for the worse. Once drifting on thick rubbery clouds towards some rendezvous with an emissary from an alien race of Libertarian Tree Nymphs, he now found himself kneeling on a smoothly stained wood floor in a cathedral.

  Light filtered through the arched blue and red stained-glass windows that lined the stone walls of the baroque chapel slash courtroom, turning everything a royal purple. Tendrils of ivy coated the walls, a knotted network of veins and leaves. Clay pots brimmed over with orchids. Dionysus realized he was wearing footie-pajamas and clutching a stuffed dragon to his chest. Why couldn’t he ever dream about something normal?

  Muffled female voices reverberated through the room, jarringly dancing to the domed ceiling above. His eyes moving skyward and he noticed that the ceiling was supported by a ring of stone pillars covered in carvings of hunting cats. The pillars jutted fiercely out of the last ring of pews, but the pews themselves remained empty.

  The organ music stopped. A procession of milky skinned, masked women entered the room. They were gaunt almost to the point of grotesqueness.

  They filled the pews, watching him from behind their masks. Occasionally, the women would turn to another and make a hushed comment while pointing at him with a razor-sharp fingernail.

  He knelt before the Judge’s bench. It towered over him like a skyscraper, reaching to the scene above. In the fresco, women pressed grapes with their feet in front of an orchard. A man wearing animal skins stood proudly, surrounded by a circle of cherubic naked women holding wands topped with pine cones.

  A shadow passed over him as the Judge entered the room, and hushed the Jury.

  The Judge was a hulking creature with ashen skin, wrapped in tattered linens that trailed out from under his flowing black robes. His footfalls made no sound, but Dionysus could hear the scuttling o
f spindly insect legs on the floor. A host of spiders followed his every move, and crawled under his robes when he was seated behind the bench.

  The room fell silent. The Judge sat unmoving, deliberating.

  “You aren’t ready yet, child,” he finally said.

  “For what?”

  The Jury began clacking their teeth together. Dionysus couldn’t imagine a more unsettling sound.

  “You are hereby sentenced to dinner.”

  The Jurors clapped and tittered in anticipation of the feast. They also came to their feet, encircling him, shuffling closer as they continued clicking their teeth in unison.

  They took him. There was nowhere for him to run.

  Claws tore through his flesh with surreal ease. They kneaded the meat on his bones like it was fresh hamburger. Ensanguined nails sliced his skin to ribbons and tongues lapped at spouts of thick, sticky blood, like red semen. The Judge stood impassively as he watched the spectacle.

  For some reason there was no pain at all, but he screamed nonetheless, howling glittering gobs of plasma and lymph until he had no lungs left. The wooden floors soaked through, despite the throng licking the floorboards. Bodiless, Dionysus retained a detached awareness of the proceedings.

  Their frenzy didn’t cease when his body was completely desiccated. Writhing around on the floor like wallowing pigs, their stained fingers ran through clumps of hair, slid between quivering legs. Tongues licked bellies, toes, even eyes. They moaned together senselessly, somewhere between the low braying of a donkey and the snarl of a panther. Eventually, their fervor gave way to a languid purring, as they lay strewn amongst his remains.

  The Judge finally stood and made a gesture with his hand, which the women reacted to immediately. A sarcophagus was carried from a side corridor, and touched ground with a whoomp. They opened the ornate lid and began shoveling his bones inside.

  They closed the lid. The Judge brought his arms out to the side, as if he was crucified, and then he spoke:

  “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,