The American Apocalypse: A Fiction Series…. And the Real American Apocalypse Heading Our Way
This week, I am presenting a new short story fiction series that will appear in monthly increments
Dear Reader,
I am presenting a new fiction series. But I couldn’t in my right mind present a story this week about the American Apocalypse, which is the title, without touching on the horrific and gut punching mass shooting that occurred in Texas — the real American Apocalypse.
I weep for the nation, for we have become accustomed to these stories and are numb in every part of our bodies. The world is oozing with blood, and no one is attempting to dress the wound.
What a week…. I got my heart broken twice. I was thrown into the furnace of love and pissed out of the ashes of reality a broken American… along with the nation. Love hath no quarter for the seeker.
There is no need to talk about the Second Amendment. The wounds are too fresh for me to flesh out “common sense.” It is, simply, easier to just talk about Rage.
We could also talk about better gun laws, and also about mental health. But the bastards in charge will almost surely squabble with each other over a comma or period out of place… instead of what the story is actually shouting and screaming. The villains control the typecast, and the heroes are in prison fellating themselves and sucking hard on a past that can no longer cum.
I love guns, but I love the future of this country even more. And arming teachers will never be the solution. Also, if we truly value Life like many pretend to value, we have to quit viewing Life as a double edged sword to penetrate either side in the gut when convenient.
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness was brilliantly manifested because it can be shaped into many forms. What is life when it can’t be protected? What is Liberty when we aren’t free to roam? How can we pursue happiness when the road is blocked by maniacs and lunatics with bazookas?
So many questions… and no answers floating to the surface. Ah well. I am sure our legislators will hatch this one out like grown adults…. And I’m not being facetious (well, maybe a little). “Bi-partisanship” is permeating Washington like a freshly conceived concept:
A bipartisan group of senators met during lunch Thursday to talk about a path forward on gun safety legislation, according to two sources, two days after a gunman shot and killed 21 people in Uvalde, Texas, Tuesday.
Democratic Sens. Chris Murphy, Joe Manchin, Kyrsten Sinema, Martin Heinrich and Richard Blumenthal attended the lunch with Republican Sens. Susan Collins, Pat Toomey, Lindsey Graham and Bill Cassidy, who joined by phone.
This was their second gathering, one of the sources said, and while it's still very early in their discussions, a few of the senators suggested that there might be the most consensus around red-flag and yellow-flag laws.
…."If there is a gun violence prevention measure, I feel pretty sure that red-flag law will be part of it," said Blumenthal, who worked with South Carolina Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham in 2019 on a bipartisan proposal. "Lindsey Graham has been a real partner in this effort. It's been bipartisan. Now we have other Republicans saying it's time for that kind of red flag. It might have prevented some of these killings."
— Full Article: https://www.cbsnews.com/news/gun-control-senate-uvalde/
Anyways, let’s shift gears for a moment and transition into my new series of monthly fiction pieces. I plan on doing more, but for the moment, The American Apocalypse will be presented first.
I have plans for some other fascinating & riveting stories. And, I would like to spill the sauce on the floor, but that would leave you with an unsavory flavor to lick up. I will wait till these ideas are fully cooked and seasoned.
As for The American Apocalypse, be prepared to follow a dystopian newspaper/group of historians in the year 3090. They will be greeted with a mysterious delivery of an important artifact, thought to be lost in the rubble of the past. A journey to find it’s origins will ensue.
Without further adieu… enjoy the first episode in The American Apocalypse saga.
Sincerely,
Prince Pauper
Episode I: The Highlander
It was the year of our Lord’s apocalypse (actual date has been lost). It wasn’t as climactic as inscribed, but it happened nevertheless. Nuclear wars have been teased since their inception and usage. It came as no surprise that a disease wasn’t our undoing. It was Pride & Pettiness. The bane of our human existence.
Strategic nukes were utilized and caused a great disturbance in peace… needless to say. Why the sarcasm? Isn’t this not a serious topic? Sure. But what is important is always cradled in irony and hilarity. This is not written in the direct aftermath, but instead, in the thralls of human rebirth and machination.
The year is 3090.
Past records are spotty, and it is the job of a few dedicated and radically foolish individuals to stitch together the “Truth.” It is a hopeless endeavor. They all know it. But they search for it anyways. Like the Historians in the era they termed: Relative Peace — did before them — they attempt the same. Civilizations have been lost before and found beneath the rubble and depths of destruction. This new era wouldn’t be any different. The past must always be reconciled… for, it is the way towards the future.
Their home base is in the lost city of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. An east coast town that was saved by its obscurity and lack of tactical placement. New York… Washington D.C…. Los Angeles… are all craters. Los Angeles is referred to as “Lost Angeles,” on account of it being nearly impossible to locate and find. Teams of “Diggers” have been sent but most of them died by disease, nuclear waste inhalation, or by groups of savage tribes that roam and tear apart America’s scraps. A team hasn’t been sent since.
A rustic truck ambles along and carries boxes of cargo to the center of Mercantile Town. The outside area is ripe with farms, and the city center with illustrious and crude industry. Weapons and food are the only commodity worth squat. Though, the roads aren’t the safest for merchants and farmers carrying their goods to the center of town. Guards patrol them, but are often in on the thefts and are paid off by the very thieves they’re supposed to suppress. Farmers never make a profit. They only receive enough to get by. Guards or thieves make the true money, and control the sway of goods. This level of corruption is embedded in the system, and has created apathy for living. Suicide rates in the outer parts of town run rampant. There is little hope, and far too much despair. The only things that get them by, are drugs & alcohol, the gladiatorial games and car races.
The buildings share rust, decimation, and decay. Many skyscrapers are halved, but a few of the tallest still standing act as fortresses for tribal leaders.
The train crushes along its tracks and carries with it cargo and people. Tribal guards sit atop and watch out for bandits and scum. The train is the same as it was back in its original time. Only, it now has defensive capabilities. Time and innovation stopped. There isn’t free trade of thought or innovation to build off one another. Stagnation ripped through the world and rotted its core. Bitter resentment and hurt feelings embedded distrust and disunity throughout the world. Global tribes of old legions and powers roam the wastes like animals and herds of boorish brutes. When humanity flounders around in atrophy, it becomes bestial and savage.
The streets of Mercantile Town are trampled with these types of putrid savages. They look for cheap pleasures and tools deemed excessively violent in Relative Peace: pistols, knives, brass knuckles, and rifles, etc. This culture is not obsessed with weapons, as they were in the past. Instead, it is driven by them. Those with the most firepower survive the long haul of life. They don’t care about the reason or meaning behind the blood they spill. That is up to their God. Their God will take them to where they need to be. Contemplation is a waste of time to them. The mind is saved through course action and servitude.
They, who blows away thy enemy is safe, sound, and chosen by God.
— Excerpt from Surviving: Book III: Creed’s from the Living
The regional army walks through the street cautiously. Their uniforms are varied. But they wear a singular color: drab green. Most tribal forces raided armories of the old world. Some have Kevlar vests, while others wear metal and hard plastics. Their helmets share similarity (except for a few with cages hanging over their faces). The markings on their helmets vary. Many paint them with their tribal towns, branding, and heritage. They are proud of where they came from. It represents their survival and persistence. 12 tribes make-up this army (there used to be 13…). They vary only by location. Their culture is similar. Many of them come from the marshlands outside of Mercantile Town. The tribe’s in the center of town are the most prominent, rich, and brutal. The one’s on the outskirts were prey to their largess and prowess. Though, the Outlands carried the region’s food stuffs, they lacked the weapons to ward off enemies — or in their case, stronger, more mechanized and center dwelling tribes.
The farmlands are a mesh of nine tribes, but are patched, weak, and too few in number. The center is where debauchery and pleasure accentuate. The farmers are never at peace. They are either drugged out, or drunk off their gourds. The city conveniently offers these pleasures, and raids those in the farmlands… because it is “unlawful” to make them away from the center dwellings. The race track is its own independent industry, but the leader’s pockets are lined with center dweller’s coin and ingots.
The council of 12 tribes have their own leader who represents them. They do not elect a chief. A chief is brought to power by combat or sheer force. Power does not change as much as one would think. Many tribes are weak. There are only about three that wield such will and determination. A tribe long ago attempted a coup. It failed, but almost tipped the balance of power. They were broken up and shunned and exiled. Its leaders were hung or decapitated in the streets for all to see. A festival broke out. The citizens of that tribe were forced to watch as they celebrated the victory. Many were given marks on their bodies as to not forget their shame. They are a brave and proud warrior race that wanted more from what they and the other tribes were given. After the victory, the three chiefs ensured parcel tribes were given a morsel of pride as to repel further rebellion. One tribe, the Steel Soldiers recanted their support for the tribe that is only named in whispers: The Appalachian Highlanders. They mostly live in the mountains, now. And are rarely seen or heard of. Many were killed off or hunted by disgruntled tribesman. Bounties were offered with highly valuable prizes awaiting them. It was no easy feat to kill a Highlander though….
Deep, in the Raiders of History’s Skyscraper, Channing Muldoon walks through the mechanics quarters, where tools, equipment belts, and shelves of junk litter the ground and walls. The smell of soot and smoke filled the air and wrestled in the nostrils. The workers got used to the smell. It was only nauseating to those unaccustomed to the stuffy and cramped quarters.
“When will the edition get to press?” Said Channing Muldoon, the second in command of the Raiders.
“As soon as we get the Xerox working,” said a gangly man, Chaz Renton, who spends most of his time working on old machines and technologies brought in by Raider teams, also known as “Diggers.” “I’m going to need some new parts soon, or else we’ll be in the black for a year…”
“Teams are headed out now and searching for your new parts. But as always, we have to make due with what we have. We are the only news paper and radio station in town… for good reason. These parts are as rare as happiness.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do. But if we don’t get them soon—”
“I know, Chaz. We are working on it. Just do what you can. I have to check upstairs and see Sam.”
“Alright, boss….” Chaz said with a sigh, then continuing to tinker with the mess of parts on his work station.
The air was heavy in swampy dew and hot steam. The air made people sweat profusely. Winter was coming, but wasn’t anymore pleasant than the heat. The nuclear vapors, coal and crude oil industries sparked heat like a gas stove. But it was their only way of generating power. Innovation was only found in pragmatic uses of already attainable tools and parts. If they needed parts, they would simply “make them” or find new ones in Old America’s rubble and char. Time was a window always closing.
When Channing got up stairs, away from the work stations, he looked out the window and watched as hordes of industrialists and charlatans carried about their business. Trading weapons, drugs, tobacco, sharing stories from the marshes and tales about the Outlands. He looked back and saw radio jockey, Sam Ellington about to go live. His guest, was someone he had not expected: An Appalachian Highlander…
The mark on his face was deep. A burning scar on his forehead: a single X. He was decorated with knives across his chest; leather straps and pouches attached to his belt and bandoleer; a kilt with leather knee guards going up to his thigh; and a large, silver revolver hitched in his holster.
He didn’t move much, and was still in his chair. Channing motioned Sam to speak with him. Why wasn’t he informed about his guest?
“What’s up, my man?”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Oh, him? He came in like five minutes ago saying he had something to say, or that he had something. I’m not entirely sure. We weren’t going to record a show, or nothing. He just wanted to talk with me. Again, not sure why.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I’m sorry, Channing…” Sam said rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to hear what this cat had to say. It’s not like I’m meeting him in secret. I was going to tell you….”
“It’s no matter,” said Channing flatly. “I’m going to go in with you, and see what his deal is. But we still have to have our news broadcast sent out on time. People travel from the marshes to hear it. If there is any delay, they’ll march onto our steps.”
“Gotchu,” said Sam. “Let’s get this show on the road, then.”
“Alright, you first.”
It was a small radio studio. Two microphones and four chairs. The table was weathered and felt rough. But sturdy. It was musky and smoky from the cigarettes and cigar smoke. The building used to house tobacco operations. From the history scrounged up, it was styled after the Empire State Building in New York. It was largely intact. The Raiders were a small tribe of warriors that recovered old tech and trinkets. They were small in number, but well armed — and well-funded. They are members of the 12 tribes, but largely operate on their own volition. They serve an important purpose to Mercantile Town, and hold tentative favor amongst the other tribes for circulating news and sharing stories of old or newly discovered remnants.
“So, why’d you come into the city? Isn’t it dangerous for Highlanders here?” Channing said.
The Highlander didn’t speak.
Channing looked over at Sam and exchanged looks.
But after a few seconds hung in the air, he said, “I bring something valuable.”
He put a wrapped box in the middle of the table, gently. And began unwrapping it methodically.
“What is it?” Sam said impatiently. “It better not be a damn bomb!”
“Not a weapon. Though, it could be used as one,” the Highlander said dryly.
“Do you have a name?” Channing said.
“Yes,” the Highlander said lifting the top of the box.
“What is it?” Channing said.
“Not important what my name is,” he said bringing out a rolled scroll. It was old and dusty and on the verge of dissipation. “Here.”
Channing took the scroll carefully and Sam and him looked it over. Their eyes lit up… “The Declaration of Independence???” They said in unison.
The Highlander said nothing.
“How did you obtain this? D.C is in ruins?” Channing said.
“Underground,” the Highlander said. “A small bundle of people live underneath the earth and hide from the radiation. They keep many things you would value. I can take you there… for a price.”
“Why did they give this to you?”
“Because I helped them… for a price. What do you have to offer?”
“What is it you want? We do not know what you’d take?”
“Ingots. Lots of them. Enough to make tons of weapons.”
“I’m not sure we can acquire such an amount…” Channing said.
“Then, I will take this elsewhere — or burn it.”
“No!” Channing said with a hand flying in the air. “We—we will think of something. But you have to be patient with us. It will take time to get that many ingots.”
“May I ask why you want so many, brother?” Sam said.
“That is not your concern.”
“Well, it seems like you’re raising an army… for redemption?” Sam said.
“If we get the ingots, then, we can talk next steps. But for now, all I can tell you, is that we are preparing for an enemy…”
“The 12 tribes?” Channing said.
“No. Something worse.”
“But you lost to the tribes before. What makes you think you can take on whatever this new enemy is?” Channing said, in slight disbelief.
“Because. You will all fear this enemy. And we will have to take it on together. Additionally, we were defeated because of cowardice and small thinking. Your tribe of 12 only thinks of what’s in front of them. We were forward thinkers. Warriors fighting for a better future.”
“Why do you think we put out the news and hunt down old relics? We are trying to introduce culture to these steel hearted bastards!” Channing said, his pride oozing out.
“Why do you think I presented you with the Declaration?”
Channing and Sam looked at each other for a moment and realized more was at stake. What was this enemy he was speaking of? And why did he come to them, really?
“It will take time to accrue the amount of steel you desire. But we would like to have the Declaration, first,” said Channing.
“No,” said the Highlander. “I will take you to more artifacts. But for now, I will hold on to it. I will also need a shipment of ingots before I take you. As a… deposit.”
“Jesus! We have to have something in return? This seems pretty one sided, man,” Sam said flying his hands into the air.
“I have proof of compensation: The Declaration. You two, do not. Your trepidation makes me believe ingots will be hard to come by.”
“We will talk to our elder about this,” Channing said. “She will have to approve such an exchange. You must understand that we are not really a warrior clan… we are scouts and gatherers of facts and stories of the past.”
“I know your tribe,” the Highlander said unfazed. “On top of that, I know your elder to be a wealthy baron. Your tribe may not be flushed with ingots, but she is… and she funds your news gathering. From what I hear, she is also a fanatic of artifacts like the one I offer. Surely, the decision will not be hard.”
“I will speak with her,” said Channing.
“Good. Until I hear her decision, I will hold onto this. You can reach me at this frequency,” the Highlander said, putting a piece of paper on the table. Then, he got up and hunkered to the exit. His boots were heavy with metal tips. No words were said as he left.
Sam waited till they were alone to say, “You think he’s legit?”
“Highlanders don’t fuck around,” said Channing viewing the frequency he left. “There isn’t a reason for him to be lying. The Declaration… we’ve searched for it before and found nothing. I have no idea how he could have located it. And who are the people underground? Elder Tara will want to know about this. Do the broadcast. I’ll go report to her.”
“For sure, man. I’ll do my thing here, and you do your thing there.”
“Tell the truth.”
“Always, baby.”
At the top of the skyscraper, sat Elder Tara Rodriguez. The highlander was correct. She is a baron, and a rich one. Her family found prowess in selling tobacco. Before the American Apocalypse, as humble farmers, her family bought a large share of the cigarette conglomerate that inhabited the building they currently occupy. The end was nigh, and people were willing to sell their mothers and family — or anything they could scrounge up — for cheap. Her family was either forward thinking, or lucky.
People stopped caring about health and life after the bombs flew and fell. They sought quick releases and pleasures to wash reality away. Dredging through farm work and steel milling, grinds them into a feeling of non existence. Drugs, alcohol, and prostitution remind them of … nothing. It keeps their minds bare and black. Like the world they roam, thought the Elder, peering out onto the city.
“Elder Rodriguez,” said Channing taking a knee. “I have a proposition for you that I feel you may find to your liking.”
“Then don’t hold me in suspense,” Elder Rodriguez said.
“Of course… A Highlander, he brought us the Declaration of Independence—”
“The Highlander brought what?” The Elder said, quickly cutting in.
“The Declaration of Independence, ma’am.”
“Where is it? I want to see it!”
“I don’t have it. He’s holding onto it until we offer him ingots.”
“You have my authorization to buy artifacts.”
“I know. But, he’s asking for enough to raise an army…”
“An army? Esta loco?”
The Elder’s native tongue always spit out when she was surprised or angered. Channing picked up a few phrases, but more often than not, didn’t understand her.
“He’s pretty serious…”
“Is he looking to attack the city? The Highlanders do not have enough manpower to do such a thing.”
“He didn’t say he wanted to attack the city. He said he wanted to stave off a threat heading our way.”
“What threat?”
“He didn’t say. But I am inclined to believe him. He has the Declaration, and he knows about a hidden society underground that holds ancient artifacts.”
“Does he now?” Elder Rodriguez said, turning to look over the bustling and dark city. The city was always putrid to her. She hoped she could provide betterment to it. But it always swallows hope whole and spits out filth. “We will give him what he desires…”
“Yes, Elder.”
“And you will follow him with a team to D.C.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“You will also make sure he doesn’t come back, alive.…”
“Elder?”
“You heard me,” Elder Tara said coldly.
Channing hesitated a moment and said, “It will be done, Elder.”
As Channing walked through the halls, towards the armory, he pondered what it meant to kill someone — and why someone should be killed. He’d seen death in abundance before, but not entirely by his own hands. When he had taken a life, it was out of self-defense. The Elder knows he isn’t a killer, but rather, a survivor. He did what it took to recover artifacts, stories, and sustenance, but there was a greater cause tied to all of that. He would have to do the same for this mission.
“Tina, Sherry, how is the day?” Channing said to Twin Sisters, who were scarred, brutish and adorned in weaponry. “Anything interesting to report from the field?”
“Nothing today,” Tina said sharpening her long blade. “Boring, actually. We only killed a festering den of rodents. The family could have handled it themselves, but they paid for our services. I’m not going to turn away coin, or the chance to squash vermin.”
“No way,” Channing said in snarky deadpan. “I thought you two would have planted tomatoes or lettuce at the farms?”
“We help people push up daises, not plant them,” said Tina.
“People don’t eat daisies….” Channing said with his arms crossed, and a finger to his lips.
“Like I said, we are not farmers,” Tina said.
Sherry was quiet and solemnly rubbing her sniper rifle with a white cloth.
“I see,” Channing said. “Well, you will be given a chance to cure your boredom. We have a mission to D.C. and I’m assembling a team to scout the area.”
“We’re in. But why D.C.? That place is essentially a crater,” Tina said.
“More like a toxic paradise for Gas Walkers,” Sherry said emphatically.
“Gas Walkers don’t exist, Sherry. They are mythic people who have only been ‘seen’ by those who’ve been exposed to nuclear storms or made the unfortunate mistake of walking through a toxic field of fumes,” Channing said snappily.
“I sense fear in your dismissal,” Sherry said, still looking down on her single shot, bolt action rifle.
“There is not fear… I assure you. I just hate bogus claims. We hunt down facts, hard truths!”
“Save your tenor for the Elder’s ass.”
Channing sighed and negated walking down the conversation completely, and changed the subject. “Either way, I want you two ready by dawn tomorrow. We will leave at once. But first, I want to hold a briefing in the field room. Be there as soon as you can, please.”
Lord… a “briefing” thought the Twins.
“Sure,” said Tina. “We’ll be there.”
“Yes… and so will your fear…” Sherry said with a sly chuckle.
Again, Channing chose to ignore her slight. With his back to them, he said, “See you soon.”
The Twin Sister’s room was riddled with weapons and field equipment. There were some scrolls with explosive and trap schematics on a long table in the middle of the room, along with booze and cigarettes.
“Why do you tease him?” Tina said.
“Because I like to see him squirm,” said Sherry. “It amuses me.”
“I have to admit, it amuses me as well.”
They both laughed.
“Do you think we will see… any Gas Walkers?” Tina said ominously. “You and I both know they exist. Whether the other tribes insist they don’t. It is why they hunker down in their walls and pretend a greater world doesn’t exist.”
“I hope we do not,” said Sherry, taking a moment to ponder. “But things out in the wastes are always uncertain.”
The print room was filled with old Xerox’s that hardly worked and functioned. The zig-zag sound of words bleeding on paper screeched loudly and pierced the ears of anyone who set foot in that room. Channing was almost used to it by now, but still felt the need to drown it out with his hands as he marched through the different operators. It was work that seemed old, for, the age of digital media fell through the cracks of nuclear chasms. Global communication was almost non-existent. Satellites were the first to be destroyed by the missiles. The world went black with confusion and terror. Or so the story goes. The pieces are still being gathered about the day. And possibly, the trip to D.C. would rectify these questions and stitch and weave a coat of truth over the obfuscation.
“We have 12 minutes before we send these bastards out!” Yelled the lead print operator, Todd Coons. “You hear me? 12 minutes!”
The crowd of operators simply held their thumbs up in acknowledgement to Todd’s demand.
Chaz must have found a way to fix the broken printers, Channing thought to himself. Chaz always pretends the problems are worse than they are. But hopefully, it would remain hysteria, and not become reality.
Channing tapped Coons on the shoulder. He spun around, exposing his small circled glasses, buggy eyes, and bushy eyebrows. “What? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of our final countdown?”
“Yes, I know, but we have to talk about something.”
“Jesus, God, what? Just tell me!”
“A story, you grizzled old dotard!”
Suddenly, Coons’ eyes got somehow even bigger. “A story you say?”
All of their words were essentially being shouted.
“Yup! A goddam story!”
Coons got out a cigarette, and held it in his lips and said, “Well, you know how I feel about tracking a story,” then lit the cigarette with a match. “Where we goin’?”
“D.C.”
“Holy shit, really? In that dust pile of filth?”
“Yeah… A highlander has a source out there.”
“A fucking Highlander? I didn’t know there were any left after they stormed the plaza.”
“There is, and he is one of them. He also has the Declaration of Independence….”
The cigarette fell out of Coons’ mouth, which he quickly went to pick up, on account of all the paper scattered around his feet. “You’re fucking with me.”
“No, I’m not. He showed me it. Now, finish the deadline and meet me at the field center. I’m going to brief the team before we get ready for a dawn trek.”
“Alright, I’ll be just a few minutes with these bastards and I’ll head up there… You think we’ll have time to catch the morning races?”
“I doubt it. You will have to make your bets and send a proxy to collect the winnings… or inform you on your bitter loss.”
“I’m on the top of my game. I can’t lose! Tucker’s car is hotter than his exhaust! I’m going to make a fortune!”
“That’s what every gambler says…. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Don’t be a bastard! I’m not a gambler. I’m an… artist of numbers!”
“Whatever you say. Just be in the briefing room ASAP. There is a lot riding on this op.”
“Yeah, yeah — I’ll be there, don’t worry.”
Channing was back at the radio station trying to raise the frequency given by the Highlander. It was spotty, but after a little fine tuning, he was connected. The beeps of the station flickered in the backdrop as Channing chose his words carefully.
“Highlander… you there?”
Nothing.
“Highlander? I have word of the ingots. Do you copy?” He said.
“Good,” said the Highlander, finally responding. “When are we heading out?”
“Dawn,” said Channing. “Meet us at our base, and we will head out at first light.”
“Understood.”
“And Highlan—”
The feed cut off, and the signal no longer came through. Only static.
“Well, alright you son of a bitch…” Said Channing, taking out his pipe and fixing it in his mouth.
“He doesn’t talk much does he?” Said Sam, leaning back in his chair. The microphone sat in front of him, and radio equipment surrounded him. He had many ears linked to the station. It is what made his news razor sharp and fresh.
Elder Rodriguez kept eyes and ears throughout the whole region — reporting, snitching, and spying on all of the tribes and their people. What came through the station was often disputed as “lies” and “hearsay.” But their cries didn’t stop the information from flowing into the many radios littering Mercantile Town. And when the papers hit the stands, there was no stopping what was said. Which is why, the Elders from the tribes distrust, but use Rodriguez. They know her spies, or “reporters,” are vast and crafty. When they wanted to destroy a baron, all they had to do was tell the “truth” and have it sung on the radio.
“No… He doesn’t. I think there is something he knows that we don’t,” said Channing, puffing his pipe.
“Like that army, or whatever he said was coming?”
“No, well, that too. But…”
“What, man?”
“Never mind… I need to meet the team in the briefing room,” Channing said getting up abruptly and leaving without saying goodbye to Sam.
“See you later then!” Sam yelled, as Channing’s back bounced down the hall.
Sam slumped into his chair dumbfounded. Then he fiddled with different frequencies and heard the usual blabber. The local channels were all the same. Chit chat about local barons, race track drivers, and injury reports for gladiator teams — things Todd would have foamed at the mouth for. But he told them to just write it down and send it through the telegrams down stairs. None of it was going to go on his radio show, today.
“Hel—” A channel blared out. It was cut out and then for another brief moment, “Someone!”
“Hello! Who is this? Jackson? Is that you?” Said Sam, recognizing the voice.
“Yes! They came out of no—” Said Jackson, before the feed cut out.
“Jackson! Come in, brother! What’s going on!?”
Static filled the room, and a cold chill stroked the back of Sam’s spine. He tried again and again to reach the frequency to no avail. Jackson’s team were now ghosts and ghouls, lost to an unknown enemy…. Channing was going towards this danger in the morning. He would need to know, but Sam was shaking because even though there was always petty crime, murders, and assaults happening all of the time in Mercantile Town — a team hasn’t been lost since the expedition to L.A.
Were the stories true…? But which one’s? There were many that were swapped at the trading centers, shops, and newsstands. Sam’s imagination flurried in his head. He had to get out of his trance, and tell Channing what he had just witnessed and heard. He wasn’t going to be happy though, considering, Jackson is his baby cousin….