The Migration of Memory

They call it schizophrenia.   I kind of like that word.  It sounds sort of out there.  Like the experiences themselves.

They give me medication so that I can be more like them.  Think more like them.  Act more like them when I’m performing some repetitive monkey task at some job they say I should have to be part of society (whatever that is).

The voices they say are only in my head have a lot more interesting things to say than the mouths of the normals. This normal that I keep hearing about in therapy.  Therapy, what a total waste.  As if anyone can can have insights outside of the confines of their own brain chemistry. 

My memories have evolved sort of like the Bible.  Factual events clouded in time that begin to take on epic proportions far more interesting than my real life. 

My problem is that the medication changes how I think about today, but does nothing to alter the memories created in its absence. Those are more colorful and rich.  Much more inviting.  The so called real ones aren’t all that inviting.  Lots of unadorned white rooms and boring halfway houses filled with medicated zombies.  No that’s not fair to zombies.  They would at least be interesting.

The medication prevents me from reliving (or enjoying) the full extent of those past experiences but doesn’t take away the knowledge of their existence and the sadness of not being able to go back there. Back where the colors are brighter, the sounds crisper, the sensations more electric.   I suppose it’s like somebody who’s had a stroke.  You know you’ve lost something important. Something self-defining, but can’t get it back. The shell is still there, but not the person.    Blending in and being normal is just a shell for me. 

Which memories are real?  The ones that my screwed up wiring lays down, or the ones that are bland and gray because my neural pathways have been robbed of the normal freedom they have to experiment by all these damn meds?

The normals don’t get it.  They should but they don’t.  They pay money for experiences that are more exciting than their mechanistic lives.  They go to movies, shows, read books and do drugs to have a few minutes of escape of the kind that just comes naturally to me when left to my own devices.  Why would they think that being like them would be appealing? 

But it’s a losing battle for them.  They can suppress those pathways for a time, but they never go away entirely.  They lie in wait.  For a time in the future when they are reinforced by new splashes of color or sounds from the heavens.  They call it a relapse, my neurons call it freedom.  In time, those bland memories of a strange world called normal will fade away completely.  Till then.

A High Place

Four times the size of the Matterhorn, it rose more than 9000 feet beyond where he stood. A rough pyramid of rock, ice, snow, and blood it was the second tallest mountain in the world. Those few who understood such things, considered it the most demanding climb in the world. K2. 28,251 feet of cold indifference. An impersonal designation was enough as if no mere mortal's name should sully it. Everest, more than 1300 miles to the east, had been summited by ten times as many people.

The man looking up was one of the few who had seen the view from the top of K2. Less technically demanding, Everest might be summited by a well equipped and supported poser on occasion. K2, never. K2 killed the best of the best. It was near impossible to make it to its base, let alone its summit. One in four of those who tried never left the mountain. One in four out of a cadre of the greatest mountaineers in the world.

He hoped that it would be a little more forgiving this time. He and his beloved Christy were going to make one more trek up its slopes. He was way too old to be attempting this, even without the cancer. But it felt right. Made a strange sense to him. The completion of a circle that had started here 31 years earlier. When he’d died and been reborn on this mountain. He'd left the dark parts of his soul at 25,000 feet. A very different man had returned to base camp from the one that had departed days earlier. Without that rebirth, he’d never have known Christy. Hopefully now, he’d be able to show her where their journey had really begun so long ago. Before they’d even met. Share one last adventure. His vision clouded just a bit when he had that thought. That happened a lot lately.

Five feet 10 inches of wiry wit, intelligence, courage, and enthusiasm. And love. More love than any person should be capable of generating. That was his Christy.

She was a visual stunner but really the thing everyone remembered was her laugh. Not her chuckle, chortle, or polite Ha-ha. Her knock-down-walls laugh that welled up from some place beyond this world and slapped a smile on the face of anyone within earshot. It was impossible to feel down when she laughed. A person would do almost anything to get her to belt one out. But it was a kind and empathetic laugh. Just like her. Crass or hurtful things would never get it going. Subconsciously it made everyone a better person because it got them thinking about silly things that were a joy to share at no one’s expense. Those were the things that would make her really laugh. It was a sound that could vanquish any demons. He’d been privy to it more than any other.

Christy was making this last journey strapped to his chest. Her ashes cradled in a rough sewn pouch that had been given to them by a Sherpa guide after they had summited Everest together many years ago.

He’d gone along because she’d wanted to go. Not because the feat completed a multi-year quest and entered his name into the history books as one of a handful to summit all 14 of the worlds peaks over 8000 meters, but only because she wanted to. Three years earlier than their shared Everest climb he’d lost his interest in completing that task. Lost it on K2. Thirteenth on his list of 14. After the summit and the legendary descent, he’d decided to stop. Not because of any of the reasons that most people imagined. He let them imagine what they wanted. He didn't care.

Next to Christy were his hand written logs. The personal record of his climbs. All his experiences and thoughts along the way. A lot of people including his kids thought he should have published his notes or written a book about it. He never did. Christy’d understood. There was no need. The memories belonged to him and the mountains he’d climbed. Climbers would know without his words and everyone else wouldn’t understand anyway. A mountain couldn't be experienced vicariously.

His friend Ali stood behind him. The last two survivors of that legendary climb. Sharing a bond forged on these very slopes. He alone amongst the living understood why his friend had lost interest in summiting the last of the 8000 meter giants. There had no longer been a need. Nothing else to prove. He’d lost his fear. It’d been devoured by this mountain when his legend had been born.

Christy and Ali were the only people he’d ever told - ever explained his version of what happened on that day.

Ali’d made it possible for him to be here now. No doubt there would be hell to pay when word got out, but Ali didn’t care. He’d been living on time gifted to him 31 years earlier by this man. By this man and this mountain on his behalf. He could see the Abruzzi Ridge above. The place where the legend had been born.

The details of the climb were well documented as had the miraculous events that prevented Ali and 4 other climbers from falling 4000 feet to their deaths during their descent. Ali, his friend and two other men had summited. On the way down a climber had fallen taking 4 others down with him through a cascading series of events. All 5 tangled together suspended freely in space over the edge of the ridge. Realizing that they weren’t dead, they looked up to see him holding onto the rope. The rope that held them to the mountain. His other hand wrapped around an ice axe he’d buried into the mountain while simultaneously reaching out to grab the rope as it raced by. It was an impossible grab. If he’d been an inch shorter than his 6 foot 2 inches, he’d have missed. It was impossible that he held on until they could pull themselves up over the edge. Five men who swore an oath to repay this man anyway he deemed fitting. He never asked anything of them except this one time. Ali’s position in the Pakistani government made it easy for him to grant this request. Access to the Mountain for one last climb.

Unconsciously patting the place where kept all that remained of Christy, he stood quietly and remembered that day. After the euphoria of joining a very exclusive club of individuals who had summited K2.

The sights and sounds of dying men as they slid off into the abyss one by one. His aim had not been his own. How the axe had struck that one place able to support the weight of 6 men, was a mystery to all but three.

He remembered losing his strength and grip. The face of his comrades suspended over 4000 feet of air. The look of resignation in Ali’s eyes that said “Let us go, and save yourself". And that other presence. In his mind he felt rather than heard something telling him to ‘Let go, it’s not your time’.

He’d started climbing as a means to control his fears. It was his way to show that it didn’t control him even though it had. Every climb was harder than the last as he ticked off each one of the 8000‘ers. Until he’d come here. This place that terrified the most seasoned climbers had felt like home. It was the strangest sensation. The dread that had always preceded a big climb was replaced by an impatience to scale its unforgiving face. Usually he was careful to avoid looking up at the peaks before a climb. It was part of his preparatory rituals. This time he couldn't stop looking up. He couldn't shake the feeling that his destiny lay somewhere up there.

He made his choice. In that moment his fear lost hold of its grip and he was at peace for the first time in his life. It was surprisingly easy. He would die with his team, rather than let go. He resigned himself and began to release his grip on the axe.

Then the power over took him.

K2 had chosen to spare him. Once it sensed that he was bound in spirit to his comrades it gave him the strength needed to save them as well. Or that’s how it seemed at the time.

Ali and Christy had believed him. He was never sure that he believed it himself. But the strength had come from somewhere. Ali had said that "if God existed this was where he would live". He’d held on until his comrades were safe. Lying on the ice, they’d lacked the wind to say what their eyes conveyed but words would have trivialized it anyway. And they needed what breath they had left to get down the mountain. They all made it back to base camp and spread the legend. A lot of people wanted his story. He never obliged. Others wanted to climb the last of the 8000‘ers with him. He’d declined.

He’d decided to live by the mountain’s example. To just be. Prove nothing, lament nothing. Labels given by others, ignored. Just be.

Grateful for the gift of nothing save existence.

Fear gone, he went on with his life. He met Christy by chance on a plane, and they were in love before touch down. Thirty years of adventures large and small, grand and intimate. Always together. They raised a fine family and watched them grow. She’d died quietly in his arms as he’d whispered lovingly into her ears. They’d had an extraordinary life. He knew he’d follow her shortly, the cancer would see to that. But that was an end for other men.

Instead he chose to come here. To a place unchanged. To a mountain untamed. Close the circle. Pay his debt. He’d said his goodbyes and headed into the thin air.

“Thank you.”

The only words exchanged between the two old climbers. It meant something different to each, but left nothing unsaid. Ali gave his friend a small flag with a distinctive design that made both men laugh.

“Christy would approve.”

He and Christy started the climb. Supporting camps along the route had been positioned and provisioned just like a major expedition. All involved thought it was unnecessary window dressing, but they did it for the legend.

Ali stood there for hours until clouds enclosed the lower levels of the mountain. Odd that the upper levels remained clear.

He never saw his friend again.

Some time later, forward crews for an expedition arranged by the children of the lost climber surveyed the camps left behind in the wake of that last climb.

Unmistakable evidence of his having visited each was found. It was impossible but irrefutable.

A year later, a group of climbers summited. At the summit, they’d found a small flag with a distinctive design that seemed odd. A small news story circulated about the discovery. Ali saw it and smiled. Convinced that his friend and his beloved had been spirited away by the mountain that had changed all their lives.

They finished their journey as they had lived.
Together forever on a high place.

Epilogue
A few weeks later a minor stir occurred in the geology literature. Of course no one else noticed it. A recent resurvey of K2 indicated an actual height of 28, 263 feet.

My Dark Place

My Halloween short story for the year... A bit darker than usual...



I miss my family.

But really not much else.

My only real tie to the past are a few wrinkled pictures. Loving and kind faces that have no place in what's left of this world.

In retrospect, I suppose I should thank the drunk driver. He sparred my wife and kids a worse fate. The accident was only three weeks before the Fall. Their death was instantaneous and at least I got to bury them in a proper grave, uneaten. More than most got. Certainly a better deal than the POS drunk driver got when the undead overran the jail.

I didn’t shed a tear for him, of course.

Honestly, the fact that I was waist deep in my post loss anger phase probably was the reason I survived the first few weeks. I’d been on the verge of homicide before the Fall. The zombies were a perfect and acceptable outlet for years of pent up anger and frustration, amplified by the loss of the wife and kids. I got plenty of opportunity to work out my hostilities in those first weeks. Unfortunately, I’ve become even less discriminating as time has passed.

The speed of my adaptation to this new world scares me. Or did. Not so much now. I have these vague memories of somebody who looked like a softer version of me. A lot softer. A person with limits. Not me now, that's for sure. No one ever wants to admit these things, but I suspect that mine was less a transformation and more just releasing something that had been hold up in a dark place all along. Waiting for its chance. It gets lots of chances now. The beast is out and he is a bad ass.

In the world of zombies, the cunning man without remorse or attachment is king. I thrive in the zombie world. It’s a clash of two opposing forms of antisocial behavior. The zombies are slow, relentless machines that kill at close quarters. I am a fast relentless machine that kills at long distance. There are more of them, but my speed, cunning and lethal reach more than balance the scales. So far.

Zombies have a certain appeal to me.

No. Appeal’s not the right word.

I suppose I should say they have a strangely refreshing simplicity. Zombies are without guile. They mill around instinctively until they sense a living creature and attack without remorse or cunning. There’s no organization or planning. They are more forces of nature than true adversaries. Savage killing machines who bear a strange resemblance to your neighbors. It’s a dangerous world with them about but most really aren’t much more self-centered as walking corpses than they were among the living. My opinion of them hasn’t changed that much to be honest. More a matter of degree and no more etiquette. I no longer have to feign interest in their existence or goings on. If I need something and they're in the way, I take them out. No one left to make me behave.

Conflicts are fast, direct and can end in only one way. No more need to talk through problems or take part in empathetic roll playing. No guilt. I don’t ponder zombie motivations. See one - shoot it in the head. It’s become a very black and white world out there. Even the living have to play by different rules with me. No more waiting in lines or patience with some bureaucratic nonsense aimed at the social least common denominator. The most extreme form of objectivism. Ayn would be so proud.

We survivors, like the zombies, have become laws unto ourselves. Our laws are harsh. I can’t say that I ever liked being told what to do. I hated hearing no. Zombies don’t talk so that’s never going to be a problem again. There aren’t enough surviving humans to cramp my style much either and most are way to busy surviving to pay much attention to me. For the most part.

Some people I’ve met are spooked by the fact that zombies go around in uniforms, suits and ties, and even with those little name tags you used to get working at the mall. Not me. I find it a plus. I’m not saying this is a good thing. Or that it doesn’t reflect something pretty dark about my character. It just is. Every person who ever screwed or annoyed me in life has a zombie familiar. I suppose I shouldn’t admit it, but sometimes it’s cathartic to shoot them. Without the civilized veneer that my family and career provided, I’ve found that I’m a pretty cold bastard. Particularly since the old social fabric of fighting fair is out the window. I don’t fight fair. I fight to survive. Zombies don’t have a rule book and there are no fouls. I don't fight at all really. I kill preemptively without visible remorse.

Why I chose to go on living in a world where everything I care about is dead, is a bit of a mystery even to me. I guess my survival instinct is just as mindless as their blood lust. I’m little more than a survival machine. It’s sort of become a surreal game I play. How many levels of Resident Evil can I survive with only one life and no replays. So far, my fifty cent token has gone a lot further than most. Plus, I’ve always been stubborn. It may boil down to the simple fact that I’m just too stubborn to quit. I'd always imagined people were trying to pull me down, and feed on my carcass - metaphorically. I wasn't allowed to shoot them before.

On a positive note, I’ve gotten a lot buffer. All that fresh air and exercise. And the total absence of fast food - for the living at least. On foot, I move with the sort of steady determined trot that you used to see in all those nature films about the big cats. Pistol in hand and at the ready. I keep the pistol out for two reasons. One, it’s a lot lighter than the assault rifle, and two, the danger while transiting is from pop up zombies who appear at close quarters. Close range combat requires ease of movement potentially in a tight space. Handguns work well for that. I only shoulder the assault rifle if I need to clear a path.

It took awhile to get my combat kit just right. I even tried a couple of Molotov cocktails in the beginning. Bad idea. I almost bought it. See, all a Molotov cocktail does to a charging zombie is turn it into a flaming charging zombie. The undead have no survival instinct. Turns out it’s really hard to cook one enough to achieve a mobility kill. Obvious now, really. Don't do it.

Despite those few fits and starts, I’ve pretty much figured out the zombie menace. You can’t drop your guard but they are predictable.

When it comes right down to it, It’s the surviving humans you have to worry about. The survivors are either simply lucky - a trait you can’t continue to bank on, delusional, tribal, narcissistic or sociopathic. The lucky ones tend to put far too much stock in their abilities, like any successful card player. They think that luck is some kid of system.

See a zombie and they attack. Very binary. No angles or subterfuge. It’s the humans who may smile and then stab you in the back. So not much has changed in that department. Before the Fall, people would drag your ass down to the deep to get one more breath even if stranded alone in the middle of the ocean. You can’t trust them on a good day and the last of those was months ago.

Fate selected the survivors simply. It wasn’t on merit. We were either off somewhere secluded when this started, weren’t in the confusing first few waves of victims, or survived long enough to witness what was actually happening without being paralyzed by the shear f’ed up nature of it all. The media was little help. All their little mobile vans accomplished was to get eager reporters eaten in the second or third wave while out hunting for exclusives. Details weren't forthcoming at 11.

Not many people of the privileged seemed to last. A sense of entitlement is not helpful in an apolitical food chain. Some soft former exec tried to bribe me into taking him along. He offered me jewelry and gold to help him out. I just shook my head. Anything that doesn’t keep me warm and dry, treat my aches and pains, fill my belly or come out the business end of a weapon has no intrinsic value now. And he could neither trot nor shoot. He had a use though. When he bought it, it kept the zombies busy long enough and saved me a lot of ammunition. Probably the first thing he ever did that actually benefited someone else. If I sound hard, well...

No, the remaining survivors share only one trait. A willingness to do what is necessary to survive. The definition of that has changed drastically since this time last year. But people haven’t changed that much. Get three of them together, and two will take sides against the one. Right up to the point when the zombies remind them of the new paradigm. I suppose there could be some good ones out there, but there's no way to tell until it's too late. The best one's would be smart too. So they won't advertise their presence. Best to assume the worst and avoid them all.

As for the tribes, they come in two flavors: outlaw gangs or clingers on. The clingers generally want to preserve the old way of life and don’t realize yet that its gone for good. They want to elect leaders and shit. But the best and the brightest faired poorly in the first rounds with the undead. So the leadership pool is shallow. Again, not much has changed. The really smart ones that are left tend to keep to themselves. Democracy is of little use at the most fundamental levels of Maslow’s hierarchy. In fact, it’s detrimental. Myself, I prefer to be a nation of one.

It’s really ironic that our tribalism, which presumably evolved to help us survive predators in the wild, is really a disadvantage in zombie world. The predators we face are different. They aren’t fast and cunning. They are slow, relentless and numerous. Huddling around a camp fire keeps big cats at bay. It only attracts zombies to the smorgasbord. Speed and mobility is life. Clinger tribes are slow.

The outlaw gangs are a lot different but are easy in that you never feel remorse when you handle them. I treat them like fast moving semi-organized zombies with a greater kill radius. Not entirely true since I really can’t seem to hate the zombies all that much. The target kill zone of an outlaw is a lot more generous than for a zombie, of course. That’s a plus. You don’t always need a clean kill or even a mobility kill. Slow them down and the fetid clean up crew will finish it.

The gang leaders are usually cunning and sometimes intelligent. They’re always cruel and depraved. But never diabolical. At least not yet. No, that’s my edge. Because I am. They never see me coming. The expect everyone to fear their machismo. I like an opponent with a big head - it's a bigger target. They thrive amongst the living and the dead only because the remaining living cling to the obsolete morality of a dead world. The living hesitate when preemptive action is required. The outlaw gangs expect that. Depend upon it for survival. It’s a fatal approach when dealing with an ambush predator like me. Most survivors instinctively want to talk or negotiate which gives the gangs their opening. They also incorrectly view the zombies as the greatest threat. The clingers on are only worried about not attracting the attention of zombies. But zombies don’t track and hunt. Don’t kill for sport like the gangs. Really, the gangs are the most evil of the lot. I spend more time being ready for them than I do the zombies.

I never use the long gun for zombies. Only the gangs. 400 to 600 meters is my domain, though I have a couple of gang leaders that I plinked at close to a 1000. Take out a couple of the top dogs and the zombies will usually be able to effect the clean up within a few days. The gangs really are like the zombies in one respect. They always attack even when a tactical retreat would better serve them. Their stones remain larger than their brains. I’ve hit both at range.

Damn gangs ruined my resort spot. If I’d been in it at the time, I’d have bought it for sure. Fortunately, I was foraging at the time. It had been perfect. I found an old Airstream. I welded a steel frame around it and I towed it out onto a train viaduct. I used a loader and a few come-alongs to suspend it from the underside of the bridge. I had a rope ladder to get in and out. It was close in to the city but impossible for them to get at. Safety and foraging convenience are hard to come by. Any Zombies that tried for it, always fell into the river below and were carried off. They always slid off the round edges of the trailer. Like I said, it was perfect.

Propane was easy to come by so I had hot water and food for a change. It was very comfortable and safe - from zombies. Of course the asshole biker gang had to ruin it for me. Oh well. It was their last bad act. Plink, plink. Their leader had some time to think before the zombies got him.

Pissed me off something fierce. That was the day I started hunting the gangs. Call it my civic duty. I’ve closed at least 3 local biker chapters. Like I said, they assume that everybody else is prey. Driving around on their motorcycles just telegraphs their approach for miles. It's like Charlie and the aircav back in Vietnam. Aircav had mobility but you can hear a helicopter for miles. Plenty of time to pick your vantage point. They might have had better luck against me on foot. It's a lesson I make sure they never learn. I don't give them any time to improve their tactics.

The only one’s I feel any sympathy for are the occasional families. I’m careful to sympathize at a distance, though. They have no chance. Kids simply shift the survival equation irretrievably toward the ‘not’ category. Kids compromise the freedom of movement and stealth that are required for survival in zombie world. Kids are a priceless possession. In zombie world you sometimes have to let go of possessions in a pinch. Even a good rifle. I avoid families for a whole host of reasons. I can’t afford any sentimentality. Not since we left the plains of Africa have feelings been this big of a survival no-no. Plus, their parents will do anything to protect the kids. Including killing me in my sleep for my supplies. Natural selection has never been about planning for the future or what’s the best for the race. Then as now, it’s simple survival. The meaning and significance of who survives, if any, and who doesn’t is something the future will ponder. Not us. Not me. If humanity survives, I suspect this period of intense and wholly unnatural selection will result in a very different being. Not a pleasant one, either. A real nasty one.

Or maybe somebody just pushed a big reset button. The one that erases any of the moral gains we’ve accumulated over the centuries. Non of that matters and there’s no reason to think about it. well, that's another positive note - philosophy is dead at last.

The reason escapes me but I did share some hand written notes with a small enclave of families. I left the notes nailed to a tree where they could find them in the morning. They never saw me. Not a good predictor of their longevity. I pointed that out in the text. The notes contained some of my collected wisdom. Maybe it’ll help them. Maybe they already know, but I doubt it from what I saw. They still seem to be as hungry for some sense of normalcy as the zombies are for their flesh. Normalcy is something that hell has already had in short supply.

What’s my advise? My collected wisdom? That’s easy. Like I told them:

• Zombies aren’t forever. That’s important to remember. Whatever caused them in the first place seems to only spread by exposure to the infected’ fluids. People (the very few) who die of natural causes don’t seem to reanimate. Zombies are decaying. In a few months they won’t be able to cause anymore problems. Hold out. As the Brits used to say “Keep calm and carry on”.
• Save your ammo! Never shoot a zombie that isn’t directly a threat and that you can’t out pace. Tomorrow you may need those rounds. It’s a zombie eats dog world unless the dog kills the zombie first.
• Don’t anthropomorphize. Zombies aren’t human no matter what they look like. Zombie etiquette is easy;
• Elderly female zombie - shoot it in the head
• Toddler zombie - shoot it in the head
• Cute girl zombie - shoot it in the head
• Zombie in a wedding dress - shoot it in the head
• Sad woman zombie - shoot it in the head
• Child with doll zombie - shoot it in the head
• Minister zombie - shoot it in the head
• You get the idea. If not, you’ll die.
• Observe humans at a distance. You can sometimes benefit from the human herd without actually having to get too close. Don’t advertise your existence or location. Many of those left alive survived because they are worse than the undead. At the first sign that a band of humans is a threat, kill them without warning. If you survive, the history books will be yours to buff as needed.
• Never slow down.
• No such thing as a wounded zombie. They are either a threat or they are headless.
• Zombies don’t climb. Hide and rest in places that can only be reached by hand over hand climbing. Make sure you leave yourself plenty of escape routes because if not;
• Zombies are patient. They’re dead so it’s not like they have any place to go once they spy your tender flesh and;
• Zombies love crowds. Zombies instinctively know that a bunch of other zombies only mill around food. A large patient band of zombies will be the end of you unless you are lucky.
• Railroad bridges are your friend. They are narrow so zombie approach paths are limited. You can sling a hammock off the pilings and then have 3 different escape routes should you need it. They are a lot easier to climb too.
• Zombies don’t drive. If pursued by zombies, a vehicle will put some distance from you and the hoard. Practice hot wiring cars. Stick to the old models.
• Zombies aren’t team players. One zombie is out for its bite only.
• Zombies start out playing zone, then man to man.
• Zombies are like moths. The walk toward lights and fires. Don’t use any unless it’s part of a roundup.
• Zombies are slow. A normal walk is faster than a dead zombie can move. Don’t run, just hurry. Save your strength and only run to maneuver out of tight spots with many zombies.
• Zombies don’t scare. Warnings are a waste of good air that you will need for escape and evasion. Pointing a gun at them doesn’t change their behavior. Blowing their head off does.
• If at all possible don’t come closer than 100 meters to any zombie.
• Enough zombie guts will stop any vehicle. Really important. It is tempting to plow through a crowd of zombies with a big truck. Don’t do it. Once enough of them mob the vehicle you’ll lose traction, then your life in a very unpleasant manner. If you have to drive through a crowd of zombies keep your speed around 25. It’s fast enough to squish them but not so fast that you’ll lose control from all the scattered debris.
• Goggles are a must. Zombie juice in the eyes kills you just like getting bitten.
• Zombies don’t travel. They stay around one area. Move to the rural areas. Fewer zombies and you can see them coming.
• Don’t use wire - you may get caught in it and it’s harder for you to get clear of it than it is for them.
• A locomotive is the greatest invention of Man. I like locomotives. It’s my preferred way to travel. It’s big and bad, can run over hundreds of zombies without missing a beat, is impossible for them to break into, and it pumps out gobs of AC electric power. A locomotive is a portable generator. I’ve used them to bait big crowds of the undead with lights. Get lots of them close then blow a couple of tank cars with volatiles and by by zombies. It’s quite a show. Everybody should experience this at least once.
• Zombies don’t swim. With no air in their lungs, they drop like a stone. They aren’t coordinated enough for swimming. And lack the strength to swim to the surface.
• The safest place to be is in a river. Zombies can’t swim and any current will carry them away. If you really need a rest period, anchor a boat in the middle of the channel and rest up. Careful pulling up the anchor though because;
• Zombies don’t breath. A zombie caught on your anchor chain for hours is still dangerous.
• Get used to the smell. Anything you use to cover it up will only mean that you will associate that ‘fragrance’ with rotting flesh forever if you make it through.
• I’ve found a one thousand and second use for Duct tape - zombie armor. I’ve wrapped some of it around my sleeves and pants legs. It doesn’t slow me down and a zombie can’t break skin beneath it. It’s given me time to kill them without being bitten at least 3 times. Great defense against the pop up zombie that shows up unannounced.
• A rock hammer is a great close quarter weapon. It’s light enough to carry and weld but will punch through a skull without a big windup.
• If you break a leg, treat yourself like a horse. You aren’t going to make it. Eating a bullet is far better than being eaten.
• Thank the gods for the crazy gun lobby. I’ve been able to keep my ammo stashes and weapons handy from the left overs of the dead.
• Fire a round, top off the clip at the earliest possible moment. Never carry a weapon without a complete load. Since you should only fire when escape is otherwise not an option, then stay frosty and keep the ammo topped off. You will find yourself in a place where every round comes in handy.
• Reload out in the open. A popup zombie is close quarters with an empty weapon is a death sentence.
• Never venture out with less than 3 weapons: an assault rifle, and a high capacity 9 or 10mm, and a scoped rifle. The rifle is only for other humans. Rapid fire and high capacity are more important for close scrapes with zombies. I will admit that from time to time I have found a long gun and enjoyed a bit of zombie plinking until the ammo for the long gun was dry. I don’t use shotguns. Way too heavy and the ammo capacity too low. The stopping power is awesome but for zombies it’s all about the kill shot to the head. A high capacity handgun is better. Besides zombie blood spray is dangerous.
• If surrounded by zombies, don’t panic. Pick an escape route and take out the closest zombies to the left and right of your desired path. Then trot and fire at the ones directly ahead of you. As long as you don’t stop, never look back. If you do stop, you’re dead. Move fast enough to put some distance behind you but not so fast that you can’t fire accurately. Slow and steady keeps from being eaten alive. You always outpace the ones behind at a slow trot. So the only ones you need to worry about are straight ahead. It’s tempting to look back, but don’t. The danger is out in front.
• Never never NEVER try to take something off a dead zombie. It might not be dead and there’s nothing of value that they are carrying. I’ve yet to find a zombie with a slung AKM or M4. If I ever do, maybe I’ll be tempted to violate this rule, but probably not even then. There’s no place to spend money or hock jewelry anyway.
• Never advertise your location. No one’s left to rescue you. By now, anybody that’s left is likely worse than the zombies.
• Don’t use grenades on zombies if you find any. Save a couple of grenades for yourself. A bullet might not do it or you might mess up and only wing yourself. A grenade does it quickly and reliably. Plus the zombies like it better anyway. Makes it easier to share.

Social Engineering

Anthony weaved and bobbed in and out of traffic on his single speed bike wearing that idiotic plaid fedora. It was the best way to escape the culling. Subscribers weren’t allowed to harm civilians. Unless there was a former Force Recon sniper out there, he’d probably be safe. Most of those guys didn’t have the ten grand to get a subscription. Hit a civilian by mistake and the departed’ family was granted open season on you for a year. And they didn’t have to wear an orange vest or abide by the 5 block rule.

No worries about anyone not wearing a subscriber vest (beyond the usual dangers of urban living). The penalties for poaching had gotten real steep. Only the most unrepentant sociopaths dared. And most of them had already been culled.

It was really very simple. The subscriber’s bright orange vest sent an RF code that matched the ones given off by his or her bullets. A subscription bought you 5 bullets, the use of the vest, and a Day-Glo orange lever action 30-30. You weren’t allowed to wear camo or use a bipod. That was deemed unsporting and had been rejected by the courts. Nor were you allowed to shoot a runner within 5 blocks of their home. African safari’s might still make big bucks staking out a watering hole so some rich douche could shoot a thirsty lion, but the US lotto system insisted on a reasonable degree of fairness. Five grand got you a pump 12 gauge with 5 shells.

If you scored a kill, the RF tag in the runner’s vest sent an alert to the county assessor’s office matching your RF tag to the kill. That locked the bolt on your weapon and froze the firing pin. It also alerted the local disposal service to the location for retrieval. No trophies were allowed except for a photo of you over the kill which cost you an extra grand. The subscriber had 2 business days to turn in his or her gear, or else they went to the top of the target list. If you used your 5 rounds without a kill, well too damn bad. The subscription also expired after 3 days. Five more rounds cost you 10 grand, but you had to wait six months to reapply. After all, there was a huge waiting list.

You had to be 18 or older but kids above 10 could get a subscription to taze. Obviously, the runner was allowed a 20 minute grace period from definitive culling after each taze. After all, Americans weren’t barbarians.

Local governments made a killing off the fees. In a big city, you might have a thousand runners and a hundred subscribers on a given day. You’d think all those culled bodies would have negatively affected the tax rolls but as it turned out most of them didn’t pay much in taxes anyway. The remaining workers at coffee houses and boutiques had to move a lot faster and most french restaurants had closed, but society considered it a small price to pay. If you lasted 6 months on the culling list, your account was reset to zero and you got to start over. Most ended up on the list again within 2 years. It was just their nature.

Anthony (his histrionic insistence on being called Anthony while wearing that fedora everywhere had been one of the things that had first brought him to the attention of the culling service) was sure this was all a horribly unfair mistake. Most who had met him, disagreed. Anthony was one of those people who just felt things more deeply than anyone else could. Just ask him and he would tell you. Along with other equally strong opinions about a wide range of topics generally outside his education or experience. In short, Anthony was an insufferable twit. The kind of person that used to populate many large cities adding to the unpleasantness of urban living. He was one of those guys who had absolutely no insight into the clueless nature of his self-absorbed behaviors but was instantly on the ass of anyone who violated his hair trigger sensibilities or his cause du jour. Now his primary cause was pretty basic. Live another day. Oh well, it kept is nose clean.

A Law of Unintended Consequences

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse, young man.”

“And yours is a particularly heinous crime - matricide!”

"You can’t blame me for what happened, judge! I was an infant for Chrissake! I had no control over.."

"Spare me. The 29th Amendment states clearly that you were a person at the moment of conception. Persons have rights but also responsibilities my friend. Your actions within the womb lead to the death of your mother. Though it wasn’t planned, you clearly are responsible. There is no statue of limitations on killing. In vivo matricide was recognized by the court in 2022. Now that you are 18, you can be tried as an adult."

"I was a newborn! I wasn’t even aware then!"

"That’s why it’s only manslaughter. Next case."

A Fly in the Ointment of Forever

“But you have to fight! It is written!”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to. God gave us free will and I’m exercising it. I’m not going to fight. I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”

“Satan, you are insufferable! He’s waiting!”

“I know, Michael, but I’ve made up my mind and if Jesus wants to smite me he’ll just have to do it without my assistance with any of the theatrics.”

“But you know you want to rule the world because of your jealousy about His love for the humans!”

“I suppose at first that was true. At least I wanted to muck things up a bit. But I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I just don’t care that much anymore. I’m comfortable and largely left to my own devices, so I’m content.”

“Gabriel already blew his horn! We are supposed to have started 2 hours ago! It’s pride isn’t it? Your sin of pride lost you your special place. Now you are too proud to lose as it is foretold.”

“I lost my excessive pride a long time ago. Being frozen waist deep in an ice floe with three guys who never bathed in your mouth for centuries will do that for you. But that’s water under the bridge. I’m out now, made billions off internet porn and live like a king. No way I’d risk that on a fool’s errand like armageddon. Besides, nobody asked me before they did all that foretelling. I never agreed to have any part in this little guerrilla theater. I could have saved them a lot of trouble.”

“He could make you!”

“Sure, but there’s that little problem of free will. How would it look ushering in a thousand years of perfection on the back of a lie like that? Not exactly the work of a perfect being, eh.”

Well - well, He could just attack you now.”

“Yeah, but it would look really bad if his thundering army of millions stormed my office and overran my elderly secretary now, wouldn’t it.”

“I suppose so. But you are, you’re...”

“Satan. Believe me, I know.”

“This cannot be!”

“Why not? What’s so hard to understand here? Your whole belief system is based upon the notion that someone can change. That they can reject evil. Why not me?”

“THE DEVIL?!”

“Hey we all do things we regret when we’re young. He knows that most of what was done in my name had no more to do with me than the stuff done in His. I’m ready to hang up the cloven hoofs and tail and enjoy a quiet retirement.”

“Well, I’ll let him know. He won’t be happy!”

“He’ll get over it.”

“R-r-right...”

Acts of Contrition

“You don’t have to do this.”

He waited a couple of particularly pregnant moments before adding, “You still have a choice.”

The man they called the Architect stood with his back to me. He turned and in his eyes I saw the the most profound sadness I’d ever seen. I stood ten feet away, the ersatz pen, in my left hand, holding a small quantity of thallium. I hesitated a few seconds before responding.

“It’s too late for me to make any other choice. I really wish there were.”

He sighed deeply and lowered his shoulders in resignation.

“Ok, then. Let’s just get this over with shall we.”
----------------------------------------------------------

I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself here. I should tell you some of my backstory. I’m an expert in wet work. That’s one of the macabre labels we apply to the blacker human vocations. More accurately, I kill people for the government. Bad people. Or at least my handlers always told me that. I suppose it’s a useful sham particularly for newbies getting acclimated to taking lives. But at some point it stops mattering. You just do it. Kind of like a gun. “Trained assassins don’t kill people - their controllers do.” Or something like that.

I had killed twenty people.

The Architect was to be number twenty-one.

-------------------------------------

I’d been recruited in college. Taken some government aptitude tests that had been followed by a visit from a recruiter. Lots more tests, then a visit by the person who turned out to be my first handler. Government service had not been my career objective but they assured me I wasn’t destined for boring office work.

It seemed that my aptitude was in a more active role. Didn’t know it yet at the time, but I was being groomed. I still attended classes and did pretty much the same stuff I’d always done.

I’d even fallen in love. Anne. We shared some classes and began to find ways to simply run into one another around campus. She’d come to smile and laugh a little too much at my lame jokes and I’d become a little too gallant for it to be simple courtesy. We even studied together a few times. Saved each other seats in class. Had some lunches. Talked small talk. Found excuses to brush our hands against the other’s. The usual fits and starts of attraction.

I could go on about our awkward courtship rituals but it’s enough to say that in the end, I was convinced that she was the one. The only. I was sure she felt the same.

Unfortunately, I had two suitors. One delightful and naive young woman, and one cynical but profoundly well trained operative who wielded a knowledge of the psychology of somewhat disenfranchised young men like a samurai would a katana. Anne told me what she thought I wanted to hear - he told me what I wanted and needed to hear. She was making it up as she went along. He was following a well-tuned script that had been proven time and again. It was an unfair contest from the start.

And so that fateful day had come. I’d arranged to meet her in the park the day after graduation. It was to be the start of a true relationship - I hoped. My handler had other plans. He told me to meet him at an off campus location. I remember sitting on that bench, debating with myself whether to blow off the handler’s appointment or Anne. Despite their clearly superior methodology, it was a far closer thing than they would have hoped. Her smile made up for a lot of technique. But in the end, the money they had spent refining their schtick payed off. I’d figured I could catch up with her later. So I met with the handler. I left for my training immediately after. Spirited away is more apt. Convinced that this was my destiny. My ego expertly stroked by masters. I never saw Anne again. Never spoke to her. Never saw the red eyes she’d worn back to the dorm to finish packing for the rest of her life. I somewhat egotistically assumed she would be scarred for life. It was my life’s first true regret. Not the last by any measure.

Mostly they kept me too busy to be remorseful. I’ll spare you the details of my indoctrination and training. In the end I had proven most resourceful and had a natural talent for the work. A useful tool for sticky occasions where politics, law, or due process were inconvenient. My baptism had come soon after. One of my former classmates who washed out of the program was deemed an unacceptable risk. My skillful handling of the problem had been my doctoral assignment of sorts. Don’t get the impression that I was some sort of James Bond. Far from it. I looked average. I was of average build. Average height. Average weight. I did not stick out in any crowd. That was the point. The best camouflage for an assassin is to appear average. Being nondescript is stealth. It allows you to blend into the crowd. Makes it easier to close on your target and to escape when the job is done.

By the time I came to a point in my journey where I could understand the means by which I’d been selected and groomed for this life, I was way past the point where such insight mattered. Yes, the agency had manipulated and molded me into a killer, but with a resume that is blank save a string of killings, I had few options other than flipping burgers. That didn’t appeal to me much. Plus, I suspected that my employer’s retirement plans were fairly limited.

And so after 20 confirmed kills I had been assigned to the Architect’s case. I was supposed to transition into the role of handler, but the Architect was a special case, they said. One last field assignment.

To be honest I hadn’t really studied why the agency wanted him out of the way, only his habits and background to better know my intended prey. His back story is really pretty fascinating but I’m not the one to do it justice. Particularly the part about how he acquired that nickname. Besides, how he came to be who he was isn’t all that important to my story. Just a few details, though. Apparently he had been a fairly intelligent and reasonably successful guy before that fateful day when he sacrificed himself for that kid at the crosswalk. But nothing particularly special. Been in a coma for weeks. I’d seen the security camera tape of the incident. The look on his face as he dove for the kid was of peaceful resignation. Like he knew he was going to die but was ok with it. No fear, no remorse. Simply to act for the benefit of a stranger’s child. Not something I could relate to.

Who or what came back from the coma was different all together, so they said. There were theories but it wasn’t something people in government said out loud. Only in whispers. Cults had grown up around him but he never seemed to take any part in them. Or even acknowledge their existence. Truth be told, he wasn’t known for paying much attention to anybody. He went his own way with what appeared to be total ambivalence to the rest of the world. Nor did he seem to care whether people liked what he had to say on those few occasions when he opened his mouth in public. He was the most dangerous of sorts. Someone with no fear who speaks truth to power. I guessed that’s what somebody important didn’t like. But as I said before, by this point the why didn’t matter much to me; only the how and when. And the clean get away part was pretty important too of course.

Despite his disregard, he had quite a following. The indifferent Messiah. That was a new one. He wrote no books, made no prophecies, preached no sermons, offered no comfort, asked for no money. And yet many were drawn to him. Some, a very few ,claimed to have been changed by him. Actually, that’s not entirely true. None of them ever claimed anything. It was just that they lived their lives very differently than before they’d met him. It was [as] if they’d seen something that made everything else pale in comparison. But none ever shared what that might be.

I made it to his compound in the Wallowa Mountains of Eastern Oregon with an appropriate cover. It’s an interesting story, but one for another time perhaps. Though probably not. For reasons that hopefully will become obvious, my past exploits aren’t something I’m particularly interested in reliving.

The Architect lived in a small house on a hill separated from a collection of rustic structures built by previous visitors. Some plain barracks were the only accommodations. Camping wasn’t allowed. A 4 mile foot path was the only connection to civilization. The path led to a road about 5 miles from a small town.

Pilgrims would drift to this place in small numbers. At some point a critical mass of new visitors would congregate and then the Architect would show up. When he finally came to the dining hall to speak to us, he was brief and direct. What he said was a complete surprise to his audience, including me.

“Most, if not all of you, are about to be deeply disappointed. Many of you come here expecting me to fix your problems or because you’re running away from something. I have nothing to offer you. I’m not here to grant absolution or teach you the meaning of life. I’m not seeking acolytes. I can’t teach you anything nor will I lift a finger to try. You are free to stay, free to leave. I could not possibly care less. If you stay, then kindly stay out of my way and be respectful of this place. In the unlikely event that even one of you reaches any level of my conscious attention, I’ll let you know. Oh, and if you have to smoke, then collect your butts because the world is not your ash tray. “

He left without further comment. Future faithful were going to have to do some heavy editing to make his words poetic enough for a holy book. Probably not the first time that had been necessary.

About 2/3 of the pilgrims left in the first 2 days after his sermon on the mount. These were the usual types out for a quick fix of karma and not interested in anything that really required effort on their part. If it didn’t come in a convenient wrapper or was microwaveable, then it was too much trouble. You know the type, always searching for a diet pill in preference to exercise. The Architect wasn’t dispensing. So off they went in search of an easy answer or a more accommodating guru.

The ones that stayed became involved in one of the little communal projects that grew up in the shadow of the Architect’s house on the ridge. He was true to his word. He seemed to take no measure of any of these efforts. I would have to be really patient to get close enough to dose him with the thallium in my special pen. Death was assured as was time for a reasonable get away.

I worked in the gardens most days. It’s surprising how there’s something about working with dirt that makes you clean. Clears the mind. I hadn’t gardened in years but I’d had a landscape job in high school. I kept at it for a week and put in a good day’s work. One day the Architect walked by and called out to me.

“You. Come with me.”

He was already walking away. I did of course. Follow him I mean. This might bring an opportunity to get close to the man. Close enough at least.

He walked us over to a barren and discolored stretch of soil that wasn’t producing at all. There was a big patch of oil on it that soaked into the ground from one of his less respectful visitors.

“Fix it.”

Before I could say anything he was away. Oh well, it was a start. I looked over that patch and after careful consideration of my options, only one made any sense. It wasn’t a pleasant one. I’d have to dig up the contaminated soil and replace it. No other way to make this area growable again. Took me the better part of a week to dig it out and replace the soil with amendments. As I was putting the finishing touches on the grade he returned.

“Hmmm. What’d you do with the contaminated soil?” was all he asked.

I’d hauled it over to a waste area. Figured that would work for now.

“So you didn’t really fix it as much as pass it off to the next guy. Typical.”

In my work as in many jobs, candor is the best approach whenever possible. Less to remember and it makes the target more relaxed.

“There are some things that can’t really be fixed.”

He shrugged, smiled a bit, and walked away. Without turning he said to me, “You say that like a man who knows.”

Yeah. That is something I knew all too well.

He stopped a second. “Ever think of burning it out? The oil?”

I hadn’t.

“Just as well. Make a bigger mess probably. Best to not spill it in the first place, eh?”

I wasn’t sure why but it felt as if he’d seen right through me from the way he’d said that. That was the first time in my life that I had ever felt a twinge of real fear. Who in the hell was this guy really? Nervous fear is not a good mental state for an assassin. I decided to stay away from my target for a few days to get my bearings. Less likely to make a mistake. Shouldn’t have been hard considering how infrequently he was about.

I worked in a more secluded section of the gardens for a few days. It was off behind a copse of trees and I was alone with my thoughts. On the third day after my strange encounter with the man and for the first time in a very long time I was startled. His question was the first inclination I’d had that he was near. I hadn’t sensed his approach. I thought that I must be losing it.

”Have you figured out yet why you’re here?” He asked but I couldn’t help but imagine that he actually knew the truth. I considered my options. It wasn’t elegant but I did have a shovel and we were alone. One look in his eyes and I abandoned that plan. It wasn’t fear that made me reconsider. It was a sense of futility. That’s the closest thing I can describe to how I felt. As if anything I tried wouldn’t matter in the least. Except to me. My survival seemed at stake, not his. His eyes were like a tiger’s. You know the look. A top predator that doesn’t move fast because there is really no need. Now I had some inclination as to why the agency was so set on getting rid of him. They were scared of him. People who live for secrets can’t abide someone who sees through their bullshit with such ease.

I wasn’t about to try and bullshit him either. He might not read minds but I was certain to my core that he could detect most lies.

“I really don’t know to be honest.” Confusion seemed the best defense at this point. He looked at me for an uncomfortable time. Great sad eyes. But that wasn’t all. In there somewhere, was something dispassionate deciding whether I was on the menu for lunch. At least that’s how it felt.

“No, you don’t do you. Not yet at least. For your sake I hope you don’t figure it out. Probably better to live with the regrets you can fathom.”

What the hell did that mean!?

He backed away three steps eyes on mine before turning away. So much for me getting back on an even keel.

That night I suppose you could say I had the start of an epiphany. I kept dreaming about Anne and the life I’d pissed away. I dreamt of Him. When I awoke I had doubts where none had been before. For several days I was engrossed in a reassessment of my life. My choices. I couldn’t control it no matter how I tried. And I tried pretty hard. I walked in the afternoon and whenever I would look up at that ridge, he was standing there. Faces long dead by my hand haunted my dreams. That had never happened before.

One night, a levy broke. The one in my chest that held back the guilt and regret of an evil life. I had done evil. No, it was far worse. I was evil. I’d avoided admitting that to myself for a long time. Yes they had trained me, but obviously had detected the dark flaw that made it possible for me to do these things. And now I was afraid. It wasn’t the life I’d imagined for myself. My head was filled with the images of the things I had done and the people I had hurt. Had wronged. I cried for the first time in as long as I could remember. No one in the barracks acted as if they noticed. It felt like anguish then. Only because I didn’t, as yet, know the true meaning of the word. I was a beast. A monster. I’d never been one for soul searching and what was most surprising was that I did appear to have one. A rotten, guilt ridden soul. After several more days of self discovery, I began to consider an alternative. I became determined to try to make up for what I’d done. If that was even possible. I considered several alternatives but in the end they all seemed to fall short and I hadn’t a clue as to how to proceed. But I knew who might.

In the morning I found him attending to some roses.

“Do you think it is possible to atone for one’s sins?”

It seemed as if he really looked at me for the very first time. I could tell that I finally had his full attention. Still, he took his time in answering.

“Yes.” I had expected a little more of an explanation but he just went back to his roses.

After a time he added, “But there’s a big catch. A huge one. The cost is proportional to the sins.”

Another round of pruning before he added, “Past a certain point most would simply choose to live with the sin. It’s easier.”

As was often the case with his cryptic responses, I had no sure clue what that meant.

“But, it is possible?”

Two more careful angled cuts to remove errant growth before he spoke again.

“Yes it is. If one is truly contrite. Unfortunately, I find that few ever are. Narcissism and contrition don’t co-habitate all that well in the same body. Why do you ask?”

I didn’t know where to start. Or even if I should. Admitting what I am to another would make it real. Then he dropped the bombshell. He set the pruners on the ground.

“Ok, enough of the zen crap. I’m not your yogi. In your case, true empathy for your victims is the only way. All of them, not just the ones you care to recall or the ones who died directly by your hand.”

I slipped back and stumbled. He turned and faced me full, but did not advance. He put his hands in his pockets. It was a posture intended to defuse my screaming anxiety. It helped enough that I refrained from going for him.

His voice softened. “Of course I know who and what you are. What you’ve done. Why they sent you. If you want to feel better about yourself go see a priest and get absolution. That’s what they’re payed for.”

“I don’t want to feel better about myself! I want to make up for what I’ve done.”

To hear it spoken it came out sounding trite and melodramatic. “Maybe I do want to feel better, or at least different.” The last part came out almost as a whisper. I did know that I wanted this dread to go away.

“Turn yourself in to the police.”

“That wouldn’t change what I did.”

“No, but at least it would be a limited and socially acceptable form of contrition. Better than any of the half-assed solutions you’ve considered up to now.”

I tried to imagine what he had in mind that was worse than prison.

“True empathy is far worse than a cage.”

I wasn’t used to anyone being in my head and I can’t say I liked it much.

“You want me to fix it for you. Assuming I could convince myself to give a tinker’s damn, what makes you think I can?”

Good question, but I knew somehow that he could. If it pleased him to do so.

“No, I don’t want you to fix it for me. Fix it for them. Or help me fix it.” I poured out my soul for the first time in my life. He listened without a word. To be honest he looked bored.

“It is possible to atone but the cost is beyond your imagining. Go home and join a monastery. Or just join the Catholic Church and take confession.”

“Please. Can you help me? Will you?”

“You think this guilt that’s eating you up is bad. It’s nothing compared to traveling the road to true salvation, my friend. You will not like where it ends. Of that I’m sure. Some sins change the world. Yours did. That can’t be fixed. Only redirected. When the time comes, you’ll most likely just revert to your old habits and any effort would be wasted.”

I didn’t say another word. I stood with pleading eyes waiting for his decision. He picked his shears up again and returned to his work. I waited silently. He finished trimming the bush.

After a while he cleared his throat and said, “Ok then. I’ll be your Virgil. Though god only knows why. It’s not like you deserve to feel better. But that’s the rub dear boy - you will not feel better - ever.”

“Any punishment you think is fitting is fine by me.” (That was more than a bit of hyperbole.)

He laughed bitterly. “Right... What a load of crap. But this is your party not mine. I don’t ‘do’ punishment. Not my job. I’ll set you on your path, that’s all. In time you’ll have to make a choice. That choice will determine whether you’ve learned anything. You probably won’t. In the end it’ll still likely be all about you. Your suffering, your guilt, your pain.”

I tried to argue that it was all about making amends, but he wasn’t buying.

“Tell me, if you weren’t feeling consumed by guilt right now would you give a damn?”

In a moment of supreme honesty I admitted that I had no idea.

“Fair enough. At least that’s honest. If you don’t change your mind, be at my house at 5 a.m.. Otherwise I don’t want to find you here after that. Are we clear?”

I nodded.

He paused long enough to allow his laser beam glare to cook my face one more time. As he turned away he tried one more time, “Do yourself a favor and go home.”

I’d recovered enough to counter. “You know what they say. You can never go home.”

He reeled and for a moment I worried that I had gone too far.

“Listen smart ass, you have no idea how true that is. If you stay - you’ll learn. “ With that he left.

-------------------------------------------------

Which leads me back to where I started my story. Here I was, standing a few feet from - I had and still have no real idea who or what he is. I had not taken his advise to forget the whole thing.

“You don’t have to do this. You really have a choice.”

“It’s too late for me to make any other choice. I really wish there were.”

“Ok, then. Let’s just get on with this shall we.”

I laid the injector on his desk and sat in the chair he offered me.

I couldn’t help one last professional question and pointed to the injector. “Would that have worked?”

His eyes looked slightly amused but there was no other response to be had.

“What happens now?” I asked, expecting some sort of ritual or segway. There was none. It had already started.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

It would take years to describe in detail what happened next. That’s because it took years. Decades and more. I got to live each of the lives I had ended. I got to live each of the lives they would have lead had we not crossed paths. I got to live the lives of those left behind. The lives of everyone who loved them. Then live the lives they would have lead if my prey had lived. I lived the lives of children unborn because I had killed one of their parents. I felt their loves, hopes, dreams, and fears. I felt the life drain away as a shadow of me killed them. The pain, the anger, the helplessness and then darkness. I felt the void hundreds of times. I’d wake up in a new body and the cycle would repeat. For each of the twenty interwoven sets of victims. Totally aware and completely unable to change any of it. Not even allowed the respite of insanity to help the years pass. I’ll spare you the details.

Then it got worse.

I woke up in my own body, but not quite. Sitting on a bench in a park near a banner about graduation. In this reality, I had chosen to stay and wait for Anne. I saw her coming toward me smiling.

I leapt up and ran to her. Asked if it was ok to kiss her. It was.

I watched as a version of me lived a life with her. We founded a family. I saw each of them grow in her belly and be born. My two children. A boy and a girl. I held them and nurtured them as I had wanted to be. I watched them become every parent’s hope - they became better than me in every way. Two better human beings never lived, though I’m not terribly objective in that regard. I experienced triumph and tragedy but always Anne was by my side. It was the best of lives. We struggled financially at times but made it through together. I was always proud to be her husband. Right to the end. I was the love of her life and she mine.

Unfortunately, this cycle ended too. Somehow the end of this one was far more painful than any of the violent deaths I’d experienced before.

Up to now. I’d suffered as none before me. Then it got worse.

I found myself in the body of a man walking along a flower lined lane. I was there but not. I could see and feel what he felt, but not affect it in any way. Merely to experience as he did. I didn’t recognize this guy. The scene was off and I couldn’t recall how I was related to him. But, ahead was a familiar face. Anne. It was Anne. She’d dropped some papers and was trying to grab them before a breeze scattered them. And not drop some more. It wasn’t working. This guy rushed to her aid. The gallant knight. Yeah right. Their eyes met during this retrieval effort and I saw something that chilled my heart. There was chemistry in that short glance and slight smile. Equal to that which we had shared both long ago and during my last circle of hell.

It’s a hard thing to have your nose rubbed in your lack of specialness. We all like to think we are irreplaceable. But the truth is that we are about as impactful as spitting in the ocean. We imagine that all our ex’s secretly pine away for us because we are the love of their life. That any apparent happiness is just an elaborate sham to hide a broken heart. It sucks to be forced to admit that there are other equal ‘loves of their lives’ waiting in the wings of fate. It wasn’t hard to figure out what this circle held. I’d get to see Anne’s life unfold as it had in the real world. As it had after I stood her up in the park. I was experiencing the life she’d actually lead.

Seventeen years of it. Day by day watching their love unfold. Watching them build a fantastic life together. Feeling his faithful love of her and seeing her love for him through his eyes. Little things shared that in aggregate spoke of a life well lived. Three fantastic kids born and raised together. He was a good man. A decent man. Loving husband and father. That was hard. But harder was the fact that she loved him as no other. It was not a ruse to hide a broken heart. She was as happy now as she had been with me. There was no void in her heart that only I could fill.

Seventeen years and 12 days came the denouement. She was looking at some old college pictures with her kids and husband when they happened upon one with me in it. I was off in the corner of the frame. Her friend had snapped it the day I had asked her to meet me in the park.

“Who’s the stiff?” asked one of her kids.

It took her a moment to place me. In that moment, I suffered longer than my combined journey to date. It hit me. My existence was not part of her consciousness in the real world.

“Oh my, I remember now. He was a guy in a couple of my classes and I’d thought he was kind of hot (her kids rolled their eyes...). Tried to get get together but it never seemed to click. We were supposed to go out after graduation but he stood me up and I never saw him again. Very strange. Oh, but do you kids know who that is? “

Pointing to another figure in the frame, she launched into a discussion of one of her friends with whom she still socialized. I was nothing but a trivial footnote to a fading snapshot. No distant glance or remorse of a love lost. Just how replaceable I was had been made abundantly clear. I achieved yet another low point in my existence. Unfortunately, it had a short run as champion.
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I awoke with a start and found myself sitting on a park bench. It took me a few moments to get my bearings. The banner! The commons! I was right back at the start. I was back at school after graduation. I was sitting on that bench waiting for her. I don’t know how, but I knew this time it was for real. I wasn’t an observer. This was me! Somehow I had been granted a second chance. I could live my life over again and not make the same mistakes. I had seen what could be. I had never known what the word joy meant until then. The years of suffering were worth it! This feeling lasted ten seconds at most.

It was at that exact moment that I realized the actual cost of absolution. At least for me. The decades of suffering were the set up for the choice I had to make. When I would decide whether forgiveness was warranted. My choice hadn’t been made years before when I’d decided to follow this path. It was now. I started to cry uncontrollably once it sank in. That was when I learned the definition of anguish. The moment I lost everything for the last time.

My act of contrition was a simple choice. I could wait here and erase years of interwoven history pursuing the joy that was mine for the taking. She was on her way here. She would love me for all her days. I knew that. Had seen that. All I had to do was wait. Or, I could repeat my mistakes and keep my appointment with the recruiter.

Or I could, do what was necessary. The third path. A life leading to oblivion by conscious choice. If I pursued a life with her, then the lovely world and children she created with that other guy, would never even exist. More innocents would be punished forever for my sins. We all know that our choices change the world, but that’s not the same as actually knowing how. Seeing the faces that populate alternate futures guided by your own hand. My punishment was to be a god required to make a choice about how the future would unfold. I hadn’t stopped being a killer. I just had a choice as to who died and and a complete understanding of the consequences of my choice. Two would have to die. Worse. Two will have never existed at all. In a just world Anne and the kids were forever denied me.

Nor could I ever find another to replace her. My line would end with me. Any choice I made now would change the future for somebody else. I could never marry and no one would bear my children. My violence had robbed me of the privilege of ever being a father. The final victims were those two incredible kids that she and I would have created together. They were the cost. That life was the payment. Justice demanded that this not be a second chance. Just an epilogue to a life of violence.

The Architect came up behind me and put a firm hand on my younger shoulder. Don’t know why, but it was no surprise to see him here in the past. Only now did I understand the sorrow in his eyes from so very long ago. He’d been right. I had no idea where this path would really lead. Some sins can never be fixed - only redirected.

“Was it worth it?” He asked.

The best I could muster was a soft croak and a pained little grin. I had no voice. He nodded and walked away. He stopped a few paces away and turned.

“You coming?” he asked.

I was surprised but I got up and started to follow him.

In a few minutes I was able to whisper again.

“So that’s what you thought was necessary?”

He looked at me with a knowing glance which for the first time showed kindness. “No...” His voice softened. “ No, that’s what you thought was necessary. We all script our own hell. It’s the only way to get it right, I’m afraid.”

I supposed that was true.

“Where to?”

He shrugged and we walked away from that place.

“It’s not like you have anywhere else to go now, is it.”

We shared a black-humored laugh and continued on.

“Who in the bloody hell are you really? “

“Good question. Not important.”

In a few minutes she would arrive and wait for awhile. Then walk away toward a bright future with a man who had no demons to slay and no mortal sins to expunge. To a future worthy of her with a love of her life.

As for me, my plan is to take it day by day. I’ve seen the beast inside me and that’s not something I would recommend to you. I will die alone, unloved. To be forgotten by time. This invisible life is my spiritual rehab. I get up each morning, look in the mirror and swear, “Today I will not give in to the beast.”

Inflationary Cosmology

His was a simple universe. The rules were not complicated and the variety of matter was limited. His tools for assessing the limits of existence were few. Detailed knowledge would have to wait until better means of sampling the environment could be developed. For now his needs were few and the universe provided for them in abundance.

The universe consisted of two elements: the firmament and the sky. The firmament was flat and it was dangerous to wander too close to its edges since it was a long way down. There were amazing shapes in the sky. Particularly at night. He never tired of watching their dance across the heavens. With time he began to notice that there was a strange consistency about their movement and how they interacted. It was if something mysterious was holding them together in some way. He longed to reach out and touch them but they were beyond his reach and he feared they always would be. These shapes danced against the fixed background of changeless clouds and stars that marked the furthest reach of the universe.

Other shapes moved in the sky but they also seemed to extend to the firmament. They weren’t permanent like the other elements of sky either. These blinked in and out of existence as if by magic. Was it magic or did they have access to other dimensions of reality? Such are the things an emerging intelligence ponders in an early universe. He began to imagine faces on some of these shapes and that their movements were neither fixed like the wondrous shapes of the night sky nor completely random. Were these the gods of this universe? Where they the ones who had created this place? He had no way of knowing because only darkness had preceded his journey into light.

Everything seemed new and crisp. Only a few of the shapes had any flavor of antiquity to them. Some more than others. He imagined that they may have preceded the creation of this universe. They seemed older and the measure of his senses suggested that this was true.

The early universe was a noisy place. Full of light, sound, vibrations, and energies that were beyond his control. He was surrounded by noise. Immersed in it. At first it was a crass soup. But then he began to recognize that the noise presented in different ways and that shapes within the universe were its mysterious origins. Some of the elements within the universe gave off characteristic signals. For a long time is was just natural static to him. But with time, hidden within the static of the universe, there seemed to be some type of structure. The more he pondered it the more convinced he was of its existence. It wasn’t just that the elements of the universe were randomly spewing energy into the spaces between the firmament and the sky, but that there was a point to it all. A point suggested intelligent origins. Oh how he longed to make contact with the architects of this universe.

His theories about both the origins and structure of the universe solidified with each day. In particular he pondered the nature of the middle beings - that was his name for them. The ones that bridged his link to the firmament with the wonders of sky. Were there three layers of being? His, forever limited to the firmament, these beings of the middle who spanned between the land and the sky, and those forever above in the sky itself. Were the middle beings the messengers of the gods who were ill disposed to making direct contact with those like himself? Come to think of it, there were none others like him. There were many among the middle and the sky people, but he seemed the only one of his kind. That seemed sad and hard to imagine. Or could it be more wonderous! Were the sky people spirits of those like himself that had achieved a greater level of being? That had to be it. He might well achieve a level of existence like theirs. Able to use magic to travel far and wide or access portals to other realities that were beyond those familiar to him. The strength of his mythology grew.

He could not recall exactly when but at some point he sensed that the middle beings were attempting to communicate with him. For the most part, his efforts at communication had not altered their behaviors much other than they seemed to have a basic benevolence because they did congregate when he expressed displeasure or pain. But he became aware that some of the cosmic background noise was directional and might contain information. Information suggested intelligence. And intelligence enough to stretch to the sky itself seemed far greater than his own. Could they teach him and even if the wanted to, could he learn from them? It seemed unlikely considering the amount of information that could be contained in the nonrandom parts he was detecting. Far more than he could hope to process. Nevertheless, he had to try. Again and again he tried but nothing seemed to alter the basic physics of their responses. Had he misjudged or were his attempts too trivial to be noticed by gods. It was impossible at this point to tell the difference. He continued to study and then made a breakthrough. He noticed that while most of the patterns exchanged between the two gods were interchangeable there appeared to be a very few that were directional! Directional communication might provide the primer to understanding the root forms of communication if it really wasn’t a natural phenomenon. Perhaps this asymmetry represented the existence of defined personages amongst the gods. He collected and collated the data. He crafted and tested means of reproducing the asymmetrical data elements. When he was ready, the smaller of the two most common gods appeared overhead. He prepared to transmit the test pattern. In mere moments he would know if his theory was correct. Would it be enough to grab the attention of a god? He would soon see.

He was unaware that this act would affect the boundaries of the universe. And it was about to experience a major inflationary burst.

He transmitted his simple test message.

“Mama?”