Mar 9, 2010


by Vincent Daemon


Dexi awoke early. The crimping pain and slight nausea in her gut forbade her to go back to sleep. She could hear voices in the living room and, desperately craving a cigarette, she ventured out with the hopes that someone out there would have a smoke.

Ward was sitting before his laptop, several of their neighbors around him, getting what little news and/or information they could. Even knowing that they were most likely being fed electronic lies, it was better than nothing.

“Anyone got a smoke?” Dexi asked in her groggy, early-morning, bad-sleep voice.

“Here you go, Dexi,” replied Raymondo, lighting, then handing her a Virginia Slim, and flashing her a warm smile.

“Thanks.” She knew exactly how bitchy she sounded. She took the smoke and pulled back a huge and dizzying first drag of the day.

Raymondo was a young Mexican punk, attractive, smart, and very shy. He sat around the computer with his sister Angel and her wife Chelsea. Ward had known Angel and Chelsea for years, having originally met them at a gay rights rally. They had found each other, fallen deep, hard into love, even married during that brief and deceptively peaceful time when it had been legal for all to do so. Before that strange and whiplash-quick shift in the universal conciousness toward hatred, rage, intolerance, and violence.

After the firebombing of the “National Gay Church” (as the press had so delicately tried to scrutinize it), wherein many innocent people died just for wanting to make an eternal commitment to another human being, the government had made homosexuality altogether illegal. It was now a crime of amorality, and carried really over-exaggerated sentences of extended imprisonment, and death. Angel and Chelsea, freedom fighters that they had been, were not going to cotton to that and had to go into hiding just to maintain their love for each other. For a time it had become open season on gays and lesbians, police officers being given the okay to beat people down and arrest them for any public display of gay affection. Occasionally lynching would occur, the angry club-wielding villagers hailed for their efforts. Homosexuality was now considered High Treason, a deliberately anti-American, anti-Patriotic act. Holding hands, kissing, hugging. It didn’t really matter. If seen, caught, would pay the price. It was just a further example of the sudden new Intolerance run amok.

Dexi asked if there was any good news, and Ward more than answered her question.

“No, not really. Bigger rats. Lots more dead. Horny-thorny vines,” he chuckled to himself. “This is neat, though. Apparently, our leaders have gone into hiding, literally disappearing into an underground bunker in the Rocky Mountains somewhere. Now, get this. They set off a small nuclear device in D.C. yesterday, obliterating the White House and the Capitol. That’s neat. They said the city was an uncontrollable war zone. Too many looters and riots, people dying in the streets, too much crime,” Ward finished with a big sarcastic smile on his face. “Oh, and the N.E.C.R.O. is just rampaging out of control.”

The news came as no surprise to anyone. It was no secret that the uber-corrupt U.S. government was finally beginning to destroy its own cities with nuclear weapons, claiming it to be for “the best interests of the people.” It had all been headed in that particular direction for years. And it was quite obvious why they went into hiding. If the rest of the world put a hit out on your head, you would go into hiding, too. They were crooked, despised worldwide, owing too many nations too much money, too much food. Too many promises delivered with too many lies.

The cries of the wailing child had started already, if they had even stopped. The look of frustration on Dexi’s face was obvious, but she chose not to say anything, not to get emotional in front of their company. But it was killing her inside.

“It’s coming from down the hall,” Ward offered up. “I was out there this morning. Also, the elevators are out, so we’re going to have to take the stairs. I guess suit up, we’ll meet you in the hall in ten minutes.”

Dexi didn’t like the stairs, especially when they would go dark during the rolling blackouts. The mere idea made her stomach feel a little worse. She went back to her room and began to change.

She stepped back, looking herself up and down in the mirror. She found it sickly humorous. The world may be going all to shit around her, but she was still a woman. She was impressed that amidst all this turmoil, she could still manage to look sexy. Tight black stretch jeans rode spray-painted onto her lithe thighs, with black and shiny combat boots tied tight to the knee. She put on a sturdy black-knit sniper's sweat-shirt, pulled her hair back, and slipped on her gasmask. Bending and arching her body out in sharp yet soft curvatures, her blonde and black locks were cascading down her quasi-fascist looking attire. She turned and looked at her militant little ass in the mirror. “Man, an end times junkie and you still got it.” Turning herself on, she sensually began to stroke the large hunting knife strapped to her right thigh.

“Alright, Domino,” Ward said with a smirk, catching her rubbing her ass in the mirror. “You ready?”

As they entered into the hall leading to the stairs, Chas’ hyper-increased level of agitation was more than obvious, with shakes, sweats, and angry cursing mumbles. Apparently, rationing things out was not his forte. His dope sick was setting in hard. He was probably the last person who should have been carrying a weapon. He spat out some nasty cuss words about the room with the crying child down the hall. Those sounds, faceless mysteries in there, nothing more than a ghostly, ugly racket. Heard, but never seen.

Tomorrow: Will You Follow

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