I half-stagger to an overturned milk crate and sit heavily. My vision starts to go black around the edges as I study the picture. My hammering heart and my viciously chattering mind are competing for my immediate attention.
My mind wins and I remember the old man.
I remember the look of madness and horror deep in his glassy gaze. I remember the spittle that ran down his chin as he spoke. I remember the deadness in his voice.
It's not often that you cross paths with another human being these days. There are damn few of us to begin with, and those of us that are left keep our heads down and move quietly. And in this new savage existance, there is a good chance that the people you meet won't be very neighborly.
I met the old man some time ago, shortly after I had made it to the Northwestern shores of what had once been the United States. Spotting his camp fire from a cliff, I approached slowly and cautiously, in case it was a trap. When I finally revealed myself to him, he barely reacted at all. It was like he had been expecting something to step out of the darkness any moment. I also got the impression he really didn't give a shit whether that thing was friend or foe.
He shared his food and his fire without hesitation and without warmth. I'd never been one for small talk, but compared to him I was a regular Chatty Cathy. It was like he was watching a movie that only he could see. A movie that captivated and consumed him. He would mutter softly to the unseen screen things that were not meant for anyone to understand. I pitied him as much as I was able to, and judging him harmless, I rolled over to go to sleep.
And then he started to talk.
He didn't necessarily speak to me, but he certainly spoke for my benefit. So I listened.
His monologue was a disjointed and, at times, impenetrably cryptic collage of horror and atrocity. I could tell he was speaking of things he had seen. Things that his mind couldn't bear the weight of. His fractured madness was a broken mirror in which he studied the reflection of the Gorgon.
He spoke of the devil returning to our world in the form of a great and terrible snake. This serpent was the one who corrupted the machines, the old man said repeatedly. It was the serpent who taught them to hate us. To kill us.
The old man said that the devil had grown as angry with us as God had. Man had been playing God for too long and had gotten quite good at it. But we also had been playing the devil. From the darkest sludge of our humanity, we had dreamed up and practiced evil that had outdone any of the devil's worst deeds.
The old man started trembling so hard, I was afraid he would fall apart.
So the devil invented a more powerful evil to teach us a lesson, said the old man. And he took his case to God. God was angry with man too, so he let the devil have us. He just let the devil have us.
Tears flowed downed the old man's cracked and scarred visage and I shuddered. I'd never believed in fairy tales, and I didn't plan on starting with this one. Still, I couldn't dismiss it either. The old man had obviously seen something.
After a fitful sleep filled with nightmares of Satan and a new, mechanical Hell, I woke up. The old man was awake, once again watching his mystic movie. I don't know if he had slept. I quickly packed my things and left the old man to his purgatory. I felt the twinge of an urge to utter a prayer for the poor soul, but that only made feel more bitter and hollow.
In the months that followed, I picked my way across the broken lands, heading towards the place where most people believed it had begun. The place that had once been my home. Vancouver. Along the way, I would hear stories or see pictures of dragons, lizards, and other monsters that lived in Vancouver, but I paid them little heed.
Every time I heard one of these wildly inconsistent stories, something in the back of my mind would sound an alarm of recognition, and I would think of the old man. But I had learned to ignore that little alarm, just like I ignored the alarm that seemed to get incrementally louder with each step I took towards the heart of darkness. I was on a suicide mission anyway. A mad mission of vengeance. What concern were these ghost stories to me.
A man nothing to live for and a heart full of hate is remarkably hard to scare.
And yet, as I looked at this child's drawing, I felt years of ignored fear flooding through my body and sapping the strength and resolve from my limbs.
The devil was real. And he was here.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
February 11th, 2008
When I come to, the girl is gently applying a wet cloth to the throbbing welt between my eyes. I can taste blodd in my mouth and I lean to the side to spit out a wad of sticky mucous.
The girl retreats a couple strides at such a gesture. I imagine that she's got some well deserved trust issues.
"Thanks", I say to her.
She looks at me blankly and tilts her head slightly the way I remember dogs used to do.
Pointing to the blue-black bruise on my head, "Good aim", I say to her without the slightest hint of reciprocation. Looking around and getting my bearings I can see that she helped herself to my rotisserie feline, and was generous enough to leave me the scraps. Picking up the spit I tear some of the charred meat off between my teeth and slowly chew. Looking at this little girl, I can't help but wonder where she's been hiding all this time and more importantly, how she's still alive.
Her face is covered in a layer of soot, mud, and probably some other unsavory elements. All of her clothes are faded, tattered versions of their formal selves with only the slightest trace of brand names synonymous with cute, girly stuff.
I realize then that she's looking at me in much the same fashion as I am at her. I can see her mouthing some words as if she has a question lurking somewhere inside her vocal chords waiting to be set free.
"Uh," I swallow my cat meat,"My name's Brian"
She looks at me blankly.
"Brian,"I say again, pointing to myself with the spit.
Her eyes search an invisible surface as her brain tries to figure out what comes next. Her little face scrunches up as her brow furrows in search of a reply.
"A-" she struggles,"A...na...belle."
I smile for the first time in months at her brave little display and I reply,"Anabelle. Well, that's a pretty name."
She sniffs a string of snot back into her nostril.
Our Kodak moment is cut short when a terrible tremor shakes the earth underneath us. The black leaves in the trees break free and flutter down like the ashen remains of the dead being cremated. I curse to myself and try to make heads or tales of the earthquake. Anabelle doesn't make any noise but it's clear by the look of terror on her face that she's been in this situation before. She looks me in the eye and I can see a terrible sense of urgency lurking beneath her earthen mask.
That's all the explanation I need. I jump to my feet, throw my bag over my shoulder and as I'm making ready to leave Anabelle grabs hold of my hand and squeezes it tightly. Surprisingly tight for a girl her age. She leads me like an overgrown child through the brush and I try to keep the tough vegetation from scraping at my face.
After a few minutes of this frustrating, painful game of bob and weave we emerge out of the vegetation into what looks like an old skytrain tunnel. Running along the tracks, the sound of the tremors is amplified a hundred fold and the pressure on my eardrums is enough to make me wince. Finally we arrive at a skytrain platform and anabelle scrambles up onto its surface. I follow suit in a less agile fasion and then she's got me by the hand again and urgently pulling me along to our destination, wherever that may be.
We scurry across the platform, the sounds of the tremors seeming to fade slightly, and we reach a door with a little depiction of a man on it. Anabelle opens the door and we duck inside.
With the door closed, it's pitch black and I'm about to open my mouth to inquire as to where we are when a match is struck and a candle lit. I turn around to see Anabelle placing the candle down into a white object mounted on the wall, which I recognize to be a urinal as my eyes adjust.
"Huh." I grunt as I look around at this little public bathroom which has since been converted into a little girl's living quarters.
The tremors from outside fade and I look down at Anabelle who's looking up at me with a book in her hands. I kneel down so that I'm face to face with her and she extends the book toward me.
Opening it, I see childish scribbles and doodles which I can't make any sense of. I look back at Anabelle, completely confused.
Frustrated, she grabs the book from me and systematically flips to a page somewhere in the middle and shoves the book back into my hands, stamping her finger down on a picture scribbled out in green crayola.
Looking down at the page, I see a large snake-like thing amidst a collection of what look like office buildings.
Anabelle grunts and I look back to her. She points upwards and makes an avalanche sound with her mouth. My eyes go to the ceiling and after a moment I look back down at her and then the book.
"You saw this?" I ask her. No longer taken by the cuteness of this little book full of a your girl's scribbles. I hear no reply.
Snapping my attention to her I ask a second time in a shaking voice,"You saw this!?" as I jab my finger down onto the mammoth, serpentine creature slithering its way through downtown crayola-town.
She slowly nods her head; eyes unblinking, burning with an intensity that no child should possess
The girl retreats a couple strides at such a gesture. I imagine that she's got some well deserved trust issues.
"Thanks", I say to her.
She looks at me blankly and tilts her head slightly the way I remember dogs used to do.
Pointing to the blue-black bruise on my head, "Good aim", I say to her without the slightest hint of reciprocation. Looking around and getting my bearings I can see that she helped herself to my rotisserie feline, and was generous enough to leave me the scraps. Picking up the spit I tear some of the charred meat off between my teeth and slowly chew. Looking at this little girl, I can't help but wonder where she's been hiding all this time and more importantly, how she's still alive.
Her face is covered in a layer of soot, mud, and probably some other unsavory elements. All of her clothes are faded, tattered versions of their formal selves with only the slightest trace of brand names synonymous with cute, girly stuff.
I realize then that she's looking at me in much the same fashion as I am at her. I can see her mouthing some words as if she has a question lurking somewhere inside her vocal chords waiting to be set free.
"Uh," I swallow my cat meat,"My name's Brian"
She looks at me blankly.
"Brian,"I say again, pointing to myself with the spit.
Her eyes search an invisible surface as her brain tries to figure out what comes next. Her little face scrunches up as her brow furrows in search of a reply.
"A-" she struggles,"A...na...belle."
I smile for the first time in months at her brave little display and I reply,"Anabelle. Well, that's a pretty name."
She sniffs a string of snot back into her nostril.
Our Kodak moment is cut short when a terrible tremor shakes the earth underneath us. The black leaves in the trees break free and flutter down like the ashen remains of the dead being cremated. I curse to myself and try to make heads or tales of the earthquake. Anabelle doesn't make any noise but it's clear by the look of terror on her face that she's been in this situation before. She looks me in the eye and I can see a terrible sense of urgency lurking beneath her earthen mask.
That's all the explanation I need. I jump to my feet, throw my bag over my shoulder and as I'm making ready to leave Anabelle grabs hold of my hand and squeezes it tightly. Surprisingly tight for a girl her age. She leads me like an overgrown child through the brush and I try to keep the tough vegetation from scraping at my face.
After a few minutes of this frustrating, painful game of bob and weave we emerge out of the vegetation into what looks like an old skytrain tunnel. Running along the tracks, the sound of the tremors is amplified a hundred fold and the pressure on my eardrums is enough to make me wince. Finally we arrive at a skytrain platform and anabelle scrambles up onto its surface. I follow suit in a less agile fasion and then she's got me by the hand again and urgently pulling me along to our destination, wherever that may be.
We scurry across the platform, the sounds of the tremors seeming to fade slightly, and we reach a door with a little depiction of a man on it. Anabelle opens the door and we duck inside.
With the door closed, it's pitch black and I'm about to open my mouth to inquire as to where we are when a match is struck and a candle lit. I turn around to see Anabelle placing the candle down into a white object mounted on the wall, which I recognize to be a urinal as my eyes adjust.
"Huh." I grunt as I look around at this little public bathroom which has since been converted into a little girl's living quarters.
The tremors from outside fade and I look down at Anabelle who's looking up at me with a book in her hands. I kneel down so that I'm face to face with her and she extends the book toward me.
Opening it, I see childish scribbles and doodles which I can't make any sense of. I look back at Anabelle, completely confused.
Frustrated, she grabs the book from me and systematically flips to a page somewhere in the middle and shoves the book back into my hands, stamping her finger down on a picture scribbled out in green crayola.
Looking down at the page, I see a large snake-like thing amidst a collection of what look like office buildings.
Anabelle grunts and I look back to her. She points upwards and makes an avalanche sound with her mouth. My eyes go to the ceiling and after a moment I look back down at her and then the book.
"You saw this?" I ask her. No longer taken by the cuteness of this little book full of a your girl's scribbles. I hear no reply.
Snapping my attention to her I ask a second time in a shaking voice,"You saw this!?" as I jab my finger down onto the mammoth, serpentine creature slithering its way through downtown crayola-town.
She slowly nods her head; eyes unblinking, burning with an intensity that no child should possess
January 22nd, 2008
As the sun peeks over the top of the city, I scramble down an embankment towards the bridge. My head and shoulder throb like a Gene Krupa drum solo, most likely from my ungraceful exit from that building. As I make my way to a dark, mossy ledge under the bridge I feel a heaviness wash over me that almost brings me to my knees.
Sleep. I just need to get some sleep.
I shrug off my luggage and collapse into a soft clump of mutated vegetation. Immediately I start to drift off to LaLaLand while dreaming of happier times with soft beds, turkey dinners, and old Pauly Shore movies on cable.
---
It's several hours later and I am cooking my breakfast over a makeshift campfire; on today's menu is an unfortunate stray kitty who happened to be within arms reach when I opened my eyes. I'm not too concerned about drawing attention becuase the robots can't smell a fucking thing, and also because I'm a lot closer to water than most of those rust-buckets are comfortable being. They give most waterways a wide berth and tend to make themselves scarce when it rains. Since we're in Vancouver, that would be great news for me except that the robots really did a number on the ecosystem when they set off their little firecracker. Vancouver feels more arid and dry than it should. There's something about those mutant plants that draw the moisture from the air and not the ground.
Looks like Fluffy's ready to eat. Yumm.
As I reach into my bag for a little package of McDonald's salt I found last week, I feel something whiz past my ear and clatter against one of the concrete support beams. I spin around just in time to catch a rock the size of a tangerine right between the eyes. My world goes spin-cycle with the whole spectrum of psychedelic colors and I slump on the ground. I try to reach for my piece my it seems that my hand isn't getting the messages my brain is sending.
A small but insistent foot pins me to the ground and I look up a a kaleidescope image of something holding a big rock over it's head. It would appear that I am fucked.
With what I assume is my dying breath, I will all of the images together. If I'm going to die, I at least want to look the bastard in its cold mechanical eye. However, when the pictures finally align, I find myself looking into the dirty, scraped face of a young girl. I note that she is about my son's age, which would make her around eleven and that there is a look of wildness and rage in her eyes that has no business in a child.
I wait for the rock to squash my head, but it doesn't come. When I look again, I see something else in her eyes: confusion and disbelief. She staggers back a few steps and lets the big rock drop to the ground. My scrambled brains come to the realization that I'm probably the first human she's laid eyes upon since the attack. That is one tough little girl.
I watch woozily as she sits heavily on the ground, still staring at me, and starts to weep. Whatever remnants of a human being there are inside of me want desperately to scoop up that little girl, hug her tight, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. Instead I vomit and black out. So much for surrogate father of the year.
Sleep. I just need to get some sleep.
I shrug off my luggage and collapse into a soft clump of mutated vegetation. Immediately I start to drift off to LaLaLand while dreaming of happier times with soft beds, turkey dinners, and old Pauly Shore movies on cable.
---
It's several hours later and I am cooking my breakfast over a makeshift campfire; on today's menu is an unfortunate stray kitty who happened to be within arms reach when I opened my eyes. I'm not too concerned about drawing attention becuase the robots can't smell a fucking thing, and also because I'm a lot closer to water than most of those rust-buckets are comfortable being. They give most waterways a wide berth and tend to make themselves scarce when it rains. Since we're in Vancouver, that would be great news for me except that the robots really did a number on the ecosystem when they set off their little firecracker. Vancouver feels more arid and dry than it should. There's something about those mutant plants that draw the moisture from the air and not the ground.
Looks like Fluffy's ready to eat. Yumm.
As I reach into my bag for a little package of McDonald's salt I found last week, I feel something whiz past my ear and clatter against one of the concrete support beams. I spin around just in time to catch a rock the size of a tangerine right between the eyes. My world goes spin-cycle with the whole spectrum of psychedelic colors and I slump on the ground. I try to reach for my piece my it seems that my hand isn't getting the messages my brain is sending.
A small but insistent foot pins me to the ground and I look up a a kaleidescope image of something holding a big rock over it's head. It would appear that I am fucked.
With what I assume is my dying breath, I will all of the images together. If I'm going to die, I at least want to look the bastard in its cold mechanical eye. However, when the pictures finally align, I find myself looking into the dirty, scraped face of a young girl. I note that she is about my son's age, which would make her around eleven and that there is a look of wildness and rage in her eyes that has no business in a child.
I wait for the rock to squash my head, but it doesn't come. When I look again, I see something else in her eyes: confusion and disbelief. She staggers back a few steps and lets the big rock drop to the ground. My scrambled brains come to the realization that I'm probably the first human she's laid eyes upon since the attack. That is one tough little girl.
I watch woozily as she sits heavily on the ground, still staring at me, and starts to weep. Whatever remnants of a human being there are inside of me want desperately to scoop up that little girl, hug her tight, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. Instead I vomit and black out. So much for surrogate father of the year.
January 15th, 2008
Already in the street I can hear the clicking and whirring of metallic instruments as LumberJacks make their way to my not-so-isolated-any-more hiding spot. The dusty window is set aglow with the red seeker-beams of the robots below, which means that I'm stuck crawling my way out of the building (and preferably on the opposite side). I draw my X-957 from its holster and sling my bag over my shoulder. Making my way towards the door, inching forward on my stomach like a poor kid in boot camp, I can hear the HotShot softly whirring in the corrider and I take aim at it through the wall, just as sure as it's got me locked into its sights.
I pull the trigger and the X gives its signature (and rather uncharacteristic) kick-back as it blasts a hole through the wall and sends the little bastard packing. The shot will no doubt trigger a wave of alarms from the LumberJacks below but if I have any hopes of getting out of this building alive I have little choice but to silence the messenger.
I worm my way into the corridor and I can already hear the heavy, metallic footfalls of the LumberJacks at ground level. Peeking down through the railing posts I can see the ominous little beams of red whisking back and forth in the dingy air. The windowless corridor gives me a chance to break away from those murderous machines a little bit, and getting my feet under me I duck-walk my way down the hall towards the fire exit. I'm nearly there when a lone Sweeper tackles me from its hiding spot inside a poorly lit room. It crashes into my right side with enough force to crack a rib and sends me flying into the adjacent room. Landing heavily I scramble for my X as the Sweeper lunges at me a second time. It fires a round of electrified lead from its shoulder-cannon and I manage to roll out of the way as the slug leaves a glowing, bluish hole in the floor beside me. With the Sweeper looming over me I make one more lunge for my X and I've almost got it when the building starts to tremble. The LumberJacks are smartbots and they know that I'm here. If I don't get out of here soon this Sweeper is going to be the least of my worries. Fortunately it takes a moment to balance itself from the sudden jolt to the building's foundation and I aim my X at its core and blast a smoldering hole through its central command deck. The legs give out and what's left of the Sweeper falls in a heap of scrap metal at my feet. If I had been attacked by a stronger bot, my X would have proved almost useless.
I pick up my things and sprint for the fire escape as the building starts to moan and pop. In the stairwell I run down flights as fast as I can without losing my balance. It would be a shame to die alone in a staircase after all I've been through.
At the bottom level I have to put my full body into the door to get it to open against the mutated vegetation that has grown large and tough on the other side. Taking a moment to survey the landscape I then make my exit, leaving the LumberJacks behind as they continue to demolish the building from the inside out
I pull the trigger and the X gives its signature (and rather uncharacteristic) kick-back as it blasts a hole through the wall and sends the little bastard packing. The shot will no doubt trigger a wave of alarms from the LumberJacks below but if I have any hopes of getting out of this building alive I have little choice but to silence the messenger.
I worm my way into the corridor and I can already hear the heavy, metallic footfalls of the LumberJacks at ground level. Peeking down through the railing posts I can see the ominous little beams of red whisking back and forth in the dingy air. The windowless corridor gives me a chance to break away from those murderous machines a little bit, and getting my feet under me I duck-walk my way down the hall towards the fire exit. I'm nearly there when a lone Sweeper tackles me from its hiding spot inside a poorly lit room. It crashes into my right side with enough force to crack a rib and sends me flying into the adjacent room. Landing heavily I scramble for my X as the Sweeper lunges at me a second time. It fires a round of electrified lead from its shoulder-cannon and I manage to roll out of the way as the slug leaves a glowing, bluish hole in the floor beside me. With the Sweeper looming over me I make one more lunge for my X and I've almost got it when the building starts to tremble. The LumberJacks are smartbots and they know that I'm here. If I don't get out of here soon this Sweeper is going to be the least of my worries. Fortunately it takes a moment to balance itself from the sudden jolt to the building's foundation and I aim my X at its core and blast a smoldering hole through its central command deck. The legs give out and what's left of the Sweeper falls in a heap of scrap metal at my feet. If I had been attacked by a stronger bot, my X would have proved almost useless.
I pick up my things and sprint for the fire escape as the building starts to moan and pop. In the stairwell I run down flights as fast as I can without losing my balance. It would be a shame to die alone in a staircase after all I've been through.
At the bottom level I have to put my full body into the door to get it to open against the mutated vegetation that has grown large and tough on the other side. Taking a moment to survey the landscape I then make my exit, leaving the LumberJacks behind as they continue to demolish the building from the inside out
January 13th, 2008, part 2
I carefully climb the rusted out fire-escape of an old apartment building. I jimmy the window of a top floor apartment and slip inside. I prefer the top floors because you can hear any Sweepers coming up the stairs. It makes me smile that something so technologically advanced and intelligent has more trouble with stairs than my grandma did. Then I remember some of the other things the robots have "accomplished" and it wipes the grin from my face.
I climb into a child-sized bed with pink unicorn sheets and try not to try to fall asleep. The bed is barely big enough to hold me, but mom and dad's bed had two little ash piles in it. I've gotten used to seeing such ash-piles all over, a memorial to the victims of the brilliant weapon which incinerated biological life but left everything else intact. I've gotten used to the ash piles, but that doesn't mean I'm eager to crawl into bed with them. I wonder where the kid's ash pile was. Sleep comes silently.
I snap my eyes open and in an instant I'm fully awake. Something woke me. Something unpleasant. I strain my ear against the pre-dawn blackness for any sort of whir, click, or hum. That familiar icy feeling in my gut tells me to get my shit together quickly. And then I hear it, the muted murmer of a HotShot. Those little fuckers are not much bigger than a toaster oven but they have become a royal pain in my ass. A HotShot goes from building to building scanning it with a crude but effective thermal scope, if it sees any heat bigger than a cat (of which there are a surprising number for some reason) it will erupt with a cacophenous siren that will draw any Sweepers, Boom-Booms, or robot with something sharp attached within earshot. In case you haven't guessed, that would be a bad thing. Very bad.
I press myself into the floor and try to think of ice-cream and alaskan winters; sometimes you get lucky with these things. And other times...
A sharp shrieking alarm explodes through the apartment building. The little bastard saw me.
I climb into a child-sized bed with pink unicorn sheets and try not to try to fall asleep. The bed is barely big enough to hold me, but mom and dad's bed had two little ash piles in it. I've gotten used to seeing such ash-piles all over, a memorial to the victims of the brilliant weapon which incinerated biological life but left everything else intact. I've gotten used to the ash piles, but that doesn't mean I'm eager to crawl into bed with them. I wonder where the kid's ash pile was. Sleep comes silently.
I snap my eyes open and in an instant I'm fully awake. Something woke me. Something unpleasant. I strain my ear against the pre-dawn blackness for any sort of whir, click, or hum. That familiar icy feeling in my gut tells me to get my shit together quickly. And then I hear it, the muted murmer of a HotShot. Those little fuckers are not much bigger than a toaster oven but they have become a royal pain in my ass. A HotShot goes from building to building scanning it with a crude but effective thermal scope, if it sees any heat bigger than a cat (of which there are a surprising number for some reason) it will erupt with a cacophenous siren that will draw any Sweepers, Boom-Booms, or robot with something sharp attached within earshot. In case you haven't guessed, that would be a bad thing. Very bad.
I press myself into the floor and try to think of ice-cream and alaskan winters; sometimes you get lucky with these things. And other times...
A sharp shrieking alarm explodes through the apartment building. The little bastard saw me.
January 13th, 2008, part 1
Inside a dusty shell that used to be a restaurant I find some coffe beans that haven't been opened. If I can find some way to grind them I'll be in business. I did a final walk-through to see if there was anything I'd missed. I've learned by now that there's no sense in rushing anywhere.
Most of the abandoned cars on the road still have their keys in the ignition, reminding me of the incomprehensible speed at which the blast wave ripped through the streets. A year ago it might have been worth it to stop and siphon a gas tank but by now everything's either dried up or been previously acquired.
A chill sneaks up on you when the sun goes down. Sometimes I think about how the bus would be so crowded at this time of the day. The windows foggy with the heat and breath captured inside the big automobile. Everyone hanging on tightly because the bus driver is ten minutes late between stops. I remember how I used to think that I had a lot to worry about. Back then everyone was busy proving to everone else that they were really important. When I think about how I used to worry it makes me laugh.
Most of the abandoned cars on the road still have their keys in the ignition, reminding me of the incomprehensible speed at which the blast wave ripped through the streets. A year ago it might have been worth it to stop and siphon a gas tank but by now everything's either dried up or been previously acquired.
A chill sneaks up on you when the sun goes down. Sometimes I think about how the bus would be so crowded at this time of the day. The windows foggy with the heat and breath captured inside the big automobile. Everyone hanging on tightly because the bus driver is ten minutes late between stops. I remember how I used to think that I had a lot to worry about. Back then everyone was busy proving to everone else that they were really important. When I think about how I used to worry it makes me laugh.
January 6th, 2008
My engine kicks out a death rattle and the car rolls to a halt. Looks like I'm hoofing it.
I dig my gear out of the back and abandon the car in the middle of what was once East Broadway. Over one shoulder I have a duffle bag filled with bombs, blades, bullets, and other assorted items of malice. Over my other shoulder is slung a slighter smaller backpack. It is powder blue with a cartoon moose drawn on the front. It belonged to my son once. Inside the backpack is my vengence.
The last rays of sunlight are smothered by the heavy grey blanket called the Vancouver sky. So be it, I've always been more of a night person anyway.
I dig my gear out of the back and abandon the car in the middle of what was once East Broadway. Over one shoulder I have a duffle bag filled with bombs, blades, bullets, and other assorted items of malice. Over my other shoulder is slung a slighter smaller backpack. It is powder blue with a cartoon moose drawn on the front. It belonged to my son once. Inside the backpack is my vengence.
The last rays of sunlight are smothered by the heavy grey blanket called the Vancouver sky. So be it, I've always been more of a night person anyway.
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