A new world

This is a short story, nearly half complete. I finished the confrontation with the man with the rifle today.

A New World
DavidDown

A bitter wind numbed my lips and ears as I sat on the stump. I’d have put up my hood to protect my face from its bite if it wasn’t for the damn handcuffs. The posse that had dragged me out of my home into the cold stood staring at me, as if they expected me to shoot myself and haul my own ass up onto the cross at the center of the village, just so they could get out of the awful wind.

“Don’t you move, Jackie. You stay right there, all silent-like on that stump. It’ll be over soon enough,” one of the men said, his name might have been Frank.

Maybe-Frank stood in a group of six men, all with rifles and shotguns. I’d seen them all before: One was a traveling trinket salesman. Another man, standing down on one of the ends, closely resembled the pastor who preached the day’s ninth sermon. It was the holy man’s son, probably. The men were obviously waiting on at least one more person.

It’s strange what you think about when your life is so obviously about to end. If I had considered my last thoughts before that moment I would have assumed that they would be profound; but I was thinking about sex, mostly. I was thinking about a stirring succession of large breasted prostitutes, and I was thinking about those lithe women in college and high school, and I was thinking about Jane. Mostly I thought about Jane: she had loved me.

It felt like I had been waiting for ten minutes or so before the man they were waiting for came stalking up to the tree stump. He approached muttering something under his breath, and his head was slightly bowed. He was gaunt, almost sickly looking, and looked much like a man from my childhood: the man who had inspired such fear of God into my young form. His shoulders were slumped like a man who had carried a literal burden his whole life, like Atlas might on holiday. He wore the collar and dark robes of a priest and had a large, extravagant bible tucked tightly under his left arm. In his right hand he carried a large, ugly revolver. At least that’s my perception of it now: Your mind plays funny tricks on you, sometimes. My mind knew that the gun he carried would mostly likely spit my death, and it was ugly and revolting to me for that reason.

On any other day it would have been beautiful. It was engraved with dizzying spirals and waves of black forest gold and there was a dark steel crucifix hanging from a chain that led from the end of the barrel to the bottom of the grip.

It hung loosely around his wrist from the chain as he put a hand on Maybe-Frank's shoulder and whispered something to him. Then he strode up to me with fire in his eyes.

“This the one who committed fornication with your daughter?” he asked, each word rumbling from him.

Maybe-Frank spoke up, “Yes, father.”

“Keep better track of Jane next time, child. This man is filthy,” he prodded me with his foot to accentuate his point.

“Yes, father.”

The priest let the gun hang by its chain as he opened his bible and read a verse out of the Old Testament. (I can’t be bothered to remember the verse, and I haven’t seen a bible since then that I wanted to flip through.) As he read his voice came at an even lower rumble like fire hidden by the walls of a furnace. When he finished the verse he extracted a bullet from the margin of the book, which had been cut to accommodate it, and placed it into the revolver.

He moved on, reading five other verses and placing five other bullets in the chamber. He clicked the chamber into place and closed the bible at the same moment, handing the book to his son.

“How do you answer, child? Did you commit fornication with Frank’s daughter, Jane?”

It finally occurred to me why I was out there. I guess I had known, because I couldn’t get my mind off of Jane: The feel of her breasts, the scent of her sex. I answered truthfully.

“Yeah, I fucked her,” I said, laughing, “a number of times, actually.” I couldn’t believe where I was, and my disbelief had left me stunned and brainless.

“Frank has brought this charge upon you for using his property against his own will, and breaking his daughter's purity vows,” the priest said, his voice cracking.

“You ruined her, you worthless-” Frank started, but the priest cut him off.

“Language, Frank. Let the heathen use the words of the heathen,” the priest turned back to me.

“The penalty for this sin is death.”

As the preacher's cracking voice sentenced me to death, my thoughts turned to my last day in England. The hope and promise I felt on that day were so silly. So God-damned silly.

“I commend your spirit to the Lord.”

I still had my plan for the trip written on a scrap of paper in my back pocket, "Write book about America. Me=Shakespeare"

“I pray that he recieveth you.”

My friends and family thought I was crazy. The American media blackout was in it's twentieth year, and there was speculation of the wildest sort about what was going on. They didn't understand; that was why I had to be there.

“I pray that he has the mercy that we do not.”

I joined the crew of a fishing ship heading to Nunavut Territory, in Canada. Nunavut was the only territory the Americans hadn't bothered quickly conquering in the first months of isolationism. Free Radicals fleeing United North America gathered in Nunavut with frightening speed, and I was sure they could get me into the country. They could.

The preacher cocked the hammer of his intricate weapon and pointed it at me.

It had all been going so well.

He crossed himself awkwardly with the weapon and closed one eye, looking down the length of the ugly gun. I heard a crunch, like the bombs at parliament when I was a kid, then I was in the air and the tree came at me so so fast, then nothing.

The next thing I remember is the roof of a pup tent and a man with a flashlight. He was talking but I couldn’t hear him.

Dreams

I had the worst dreams. I saw myself in a suit and tie, with a prospective law crumpled in my fist as I waved it in the air and booed and hissed. The prime minister was trying to calm us down but this new security measure was ridiculous. It was offensive! We let him know as a group and it felt damn good doing it. A muscled, grave man ran to the Prime Minister’s side and whispered in his ear. The larger man was sweating, and his lip trembled as he spoke. The prime minister turned and ran full speed from the room, and we laughed as he did. Than I heard the crunch again, like I had when I was a kid when they bombed parlia-.

Oh God.

The first crunch blew a hole the size of my limousine in the ceiling. We started to panic as bombs poured in through the opening. Before I could move everyone anywhere near the floor was dead. My seat was far from the carnage, and this provided me with exactly seven extra seconds of life. I had a view that almost no one else in the room could have had: I saw the last bomb crack the stone floor, sit still for almost a second, like a dud, then I saw white.

The first nuclear mortar round. I remember hearing about them on the news for years afterward. After the first one annihilated our government they started popping up in war-zones all over the world, in use by unscrupulous warlords and unaffiliated men with even less scruples. It seems silly that it was such a small weapon that brought the world to its knees. But that is often the way the world works- small things enact the greatest changes. America quickly closed its borders, and other countries started to fold to terrorist demands. My mind swam with these memories, and then I lived again.

I saw myself wearing a fine black suit and a blue tie, then. I had an American flag pin on my lapel and I was stepping out of a limousine. My breast swelled with pride at what America had accomplished after 4-7 and the border closing. Self-sufficient, proud, and enclosed while the world rotted away in darkness. I was happy to step up to my podium and open America back up to the world, increasing opportunities for trade and prosperity. It was time for a new era, I was sure.

I tried not to think of the Christians boycotting the elections, citing a lack of Christian values in all of the candidates.

“My fellow Americans,” I could hear myself saying, “I bring good news: It is finally time to open our borders to-” the rest of my speech would be forever lost to history as the cries of angry non-voters drowned me out. They rushed the stage and I stepped back, my confidence gone. I looked to my secret service agents and was terrified by the sight: They fell to their knees and called out to their god to cleanse… me. I turned to run but the mob caught me. They carried me to the ground and someone kicked me in the temple and I blacked out.

The death of a president. Some groups of Christians had mutated under the strange new way of life of UNA, thriving in the darkness that absolute security provided. Many grew violently supportive of the establishment, leading their followers down dark paths. The men that are produced by the strictest security conditions are not men you want leading your churches. Cults of personality soon sprang up, centered on the most deviant, manipulative men that American religion could produce. Those men killed the president of UNA with their frothing hate. This was the first thing I learned upon sneaking into the UNA. I wrote the first four chapters of my book on this very topic before I met Jane, and all of this started.

Then I was me but I was still dreaming. I was with Jane and we were moving into our apartment. I carried the printed pages of my manuscript carefully up the stairs, and I could hear her unpacking boxes. Being in that place and in love was intoxicating, and we made love. My dreams lost their order then, speeding up to a feverish pace as I dreamt of Jane and dreamt of each time we had made love. My dreams ended in that overwhelming revelry as I felt the bitter wind.

Unforeseen Consequences

I woke with a deafening ringing in my ears and pain emanating from my temple. I didn't mind either in the slightest, both being evidence that I was alive. I opened my eyes, expecting the tent roof I saw when I last blacked out, but instead I saw open sky. I sat up, giving myself a headache. I was alone in the same clearing as last time, sitting at the base of the tree I had rammed into, cracking the young birch clean in half.

Well, I was mostly alone. The explosive seemed to have struck my attackers from around ten feet behind, placing me within the blast radius, but outside of the bombs deadliest effects. Those were reserved for the men who intended to kill me, and they were strewn about the clearing in various states of disarray and dismemberment. Maybe-Frank and the priest took the brunt of the destruction, I assumed, because they were nowhere to be found. The other men's presence's were more evident. I was still dazed, maybe from the impact, or maybe because I was still alive and I didn't understand why. Either way, I wandered out of the clearing, having the presence of mind to walk away from town. I didn't get far.

"Hold it! You hold it right there, partner," the voice came loud and surprised from behind me. I turned, but couldn't see anyone.
"I'm willing to shoot you, friend. By which I mean to say, I have a gun. Turn your back, so I can get out of my hiding place and get decent. Yeah, just like that," I cursed my luck; one of those bastards must have survived. I turned around quickly and put my hands up, even though he hadn't asked.
The next thing I heard was the sound of a zipper closing, and I felt cold steel against the back of my neck not too many moments later. He was quiet.
The man gasped.
"Turn around, slow," he said, poking me lightly with the weapon. I did it, and sighed with relief. I didn't know the man that stood before me.
His eyes went wide. Obviously, he recognized me.
"You're supposed to be dead. You died! We tried to save you, then you died." I stared at him dumbly; I hadn't been conscious long enough to deal with what he was telling me. He met my stare, then lowered his weapon. I could see tears welling up in his eyes.
"Oh, no. You woke up in the woods, alone... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..." he trailed off, mumbling the words over and over again.
I didn't wait for him to regain his composure. "I'm cold, I'm hurt, and I'm starving. Make it up to me," I said. He was hurt, and I hadn't consoled him. That was fine with me. Right then, the headache floored me.
My new friend let me hit the ground before helping me up. He was vindictive. I had to keep that in mind. Through the deafening pain of the headache, I started to think like a writer again. Remember the way he walks, remember his ticks. I hadn't entertained the novel since Jane. He took my arm across his shoulder, and started to help me off the path. He was talking, and I had missed a good portion of what he was saying.
"... generally successful. We took some supplies and food. Best thing was that mortar hit. Killed more than half the warriors in town. Damn near killed you too," He stopped talking and looked at me. He was unsettled by what he saw. "They- ahem -they retaliated, but we took minimum casualties. Ow," He stopped and looked down at his feet. I stopped too, and looked over at him. He had stubbed his toe on something metal, glinting half buried in the dirt. I recognized it, and immediately endeavored to pull it out of the ground. I dug with my fingers until I cracked my nails, and pulled the revolver out of the dirt. I landed on the ground with a thud, and cradled it in my hands.
"It must have gotten buried by the mortar strike!" I said, triumphantly, "But now it's mine." I regarded my trophy fondly; it represented my survival. If I had the gun, it couldn't kill me. And that made it beautiful to my mind.
"Hey!" my companion said, who until then had been holding his rifle at ready and scanning the trees, "That's the old priest's gun. That gun has seen a lotta death around this place. Spat most of the death its seen itself. It's a potent symbol." The man was rambling, and after he stopped talking he stared at the gun for a moment. He turned quickly and pointed his rifle at me. "Give it to me," he said. I raised my head slowly, and looked into his eyes.
"I am keeping this pistol. I survived its wrath. It belongs to me now," I spoke very deliberately, because I wanted the stupid bastard to clearly understand my words, "You have no right to claim ownership." I noticed a lip curl then, just a quick twitch, and it showed me I was on the right track.
"My right to claim is this rifle, which I will shoot you dead with. Give me the pistol," he said in a deliberate tone, mocking my own. I sat up straighter.
"You left me in the woods to die. You owe me something, and I want this," I said, hoping that the tone in my voice betrayed my hurt feelings.
"You want it, but we need it. It will be a powerful symbol to attract others away from his church," he said. This was the first he had heard about rival religious factions. I probed a little, becoming more and more the writer I had been when I left England.
"Attract them away to what? What organization are you a part of?" I asked, hoping to get a long explanation from the simple thug.

"We are the Divine Order of the White Eagle, and we are the true church on this earth, here to raise United North America out of these dark times. Dark times caused by men like Father Peterson," he pointed the barrel of his gun at mine as he spoke, "With that, we could prove to the locals that they need to act and throw off his yoke."

I glared hard at the stupid man before me, willing him to yield. I had no more words to say, no more silver tongued petitions. I stood, making him nervous. He backed up a little, looking nervous and tightening his grip on his gun.

"Now that's enough. Give me the gun - don't make me take it."

There was only one thing in the universe I could hold to at that moment, one aspect of the situation I was in that made me alive, and it was that gun. He had given me one last chance to give him the weapon. I believe now that he should have shot me.

I shot him instead.