James Funfer's Blog, page 3

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 19

I open my eyes, trying to peer through half-frozen lashes. It’s all a dark blur. Nighttime. Good news is, there’s a pain in my shoulder, my face is hot, and I can feel my ears, hands and toes. Not gonna die from exposure.

Dying from a bullet wound or infection might be the bad news.

I try to get up only to find that it’s not the pain in my shoulder stopping me. My arms won’t cooperate. I can feel them just fine, but something is holding me down. My heart rate rises and I blink rapidly, trying to shake off the fuzziness.

I’m moving. Lashed or strapped to something, possibly a sled. Were it not for the moonlight it’d be this weird sensation of drifting through the snow-capped trees like some kind of revenant. Someone is pulling the sled, though; a tall figure in furs trudges on, skis strapped to their back, rope around their waist, pulling me along like a two-legged Husky. I have a moment of heart-fluttering panic where I think it might be one of the creepy ski patrol dudes, but thankfully the clothes don’t match, as far as I can tell. I have only the moonlight to go by.

“Father?” I manage before breaking into a fit of coughing. Just breathing hurts the wound in my shoulder enough; trying to speak on top of that is agony.

The figure stops and turns around. Their face is completely covered by ski goggles and a dark scarf. When they crane their neck to look at me, the mannerism is awkward, hesitant. Not Father. The man or woman stares at me for a moment, then trudges on.

“I’m Regan,” I whisper. In the still of the winter forest, with only the crunch of boots on snow and my voice as noise, it is loud enough to be a holler. “Thanks for saving me.”

No response. The person, woman, man, whoever they are, marches on in silence. From my lying-down, lashed-in position, I try to gauge which way we’re headed. Kind of looks like it slopes upward, from what I can see. Makes me think this mystery skier might be the one behind the smoke and gunshots.

“You live up here?” I ask. “Me and my dad, we’re just passing through. Popped a tire, had to do some scavenging. You know how it goes. He’s down there at the base of the hill, so don’t get any ideas about me sticking around long. Just long enough to heal up this nasty stray bullet wound and…” I trail off. Most people interrupt me at that point. My rescuer doesn’t even seem like she or he is listening.

“What’s your name?” I ask. Trudge, trudge. No response. I sigh, praying that I haven’t stumbled across the only serial killer to survive the apocalypse. At least they’ll have medical texts handy if they are…

            “Okay, so…I’m probably good to walk. It’s just a flesh wound. You don’t need to keep me strapped in here.” I squirm a little bit, just to test the ropes. Yep, serial killer. Those knots are tight. “Plus I should probably check the wound. I’m sure you have medical knowledge and all, living up here by yourself, but I have a lot of experience in getting shot, so…”

“Bulleh ow,” a muffled voice grunts. Sounds like a grown woman or a teenage boy whose voice is still changing.

“I…you…took the bullet out?” I try to glance down but the shot was right up near my neck.

“Bulleh ow. Bannage. You live.”

Speech impediment or really tight scarf? I wonder. There is a smell of wood smoke and, when I turn my head, there is a log house in view. Somehow the sight puts me at ease. Surely a serial killer would perform their murders out in the snow instead of getting blood all over their nice cabin.

I am dragged inside, sled and all, while my mystery host lights an oil lamp and takes off hood, gloves, goggles and scarf.

Heck, she’s like the same age as me. I was never into the dreadlocked look though.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” I say, meaning every word. Father would be impressed. No decorations, no moose heads, not so much as a singing fish on the wall. Every inch of wall space is crammed with labelled containers. It makes the cabin seem much smaller, but it’s a survivalist’s dream. I mean, yes, everyone post-Doom is a survivalist after a fashion, but this girl is good.

Dreadlocks stares at me for a long, intense moment, as a number of horrific scenarios of my fate play themselves out in my mind. Serial killer chop suey experiment. Cabin dungeon sex slave. Forced manual labour. Some combination of the three.

She scrunches up her brow and opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, then abruptly leaves the cabin.

“That’s ok,” I call out after her, “I’m pretty comfy lashed to this sled, here.” She doesn’t answer. Maybe she’s got a chopping block out there. I silently hope it’s for logs and not necks.

Alone for a moment, I turn my head back and forth to take in as many details as possible and try to get a sense of this girl.

Her bed must be in the adjoining room. The kitchen looks like it’s been turned into more of a workshop, counter space being used for mechanical projects: taken-apart Winchester, pair of snowshoes being re-strung with gut…she’s even got some big pieces of cured leather draped over the counter. A big iron kettle hangs over the soot-coated fireplace. So she cooks, I’m guessing, but keeps her meat and veggies preserved outside in the wintertime.

I check out the bin labels and just about guffaw. They’re labelled, all right, but it looks like a five-year-old did it. The spelling is fine but the letters are blocky and sloppy, written in bright marker colours, like the kind with those fake chemical smells that are supposed to be licorice and blueberries and such.

I breathe in deeply through my nose to see if any further clues present themselves. The scent that greets me is musky, unmistakeable.

“Whoa,” I whisper. “That brings me…”

The cabin door is shut, but through the window there is a heart-wrenching sound, starting out low but increasing in pitch and intensity, until it reaches a keening, feverish wail.

It is the sound of human grief.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 18

“Gunshot,” Guy One says. He has a thick winter beard and appears slightly older than the other two. I nickname him ‘Captain Obvious’ in my head. The Captain lifts a pair of binoculars up to his eyes and looks in the direction of the smoke. “We should go back.”

“You can’t ski uphill, stupid,” Guy Two says, sweeping his automatic rifle back and forth as he watches the trees. I decide he’s ‘Sassypants’ and remain very still as his gaze sweeps over me. ‘Sassypants’ or maybe ‘Magoo’. You’d think he would find a way to keep that frizz out of his eyes.

“We should still go back and see if there’s trouble,” Guy Three says (nickname pending). Three takes a swig from what I assume is a canteen of water (unless these guys are simply well-equipped idiots on a vodka-binge hunting trip).

“Oh, ok,” Sassypants says, lowering his rifle. “Ski all the way down here to investigate one thing of smoke…”

“Plume,” Obvious says.

“Fuck off. One plee-ume of smoke only to turn around and hike back before we find the source, just because of one gunshot. They probably just shot a deer.”

“And you are willing to stake Jesse and Colin’s lives on that chance?” Obvious asks.

“If it was trouble, there’d be more than one shot,” Sassy reasons. “At least two, if we’re betting both lives. And quit saying gay words like stake and plume, already.”

“Jack has a point,” Three says.

“Just because I scavenged books with print instead of porn growing up…”

“No, he has a point about the…”

In the distance a second shot is heard. All three heads (four, if you count mine) turn toward the sound.

“Fuck,” the Captain says. “We’re going back.”

“Toldja we shoulda tried to find a snowmobile back north,” Sassy-Jack remarks. The three men begin un-strapping their skis.

Three looks up from his ski-boots and his eyes lock with mine.

Fuck. Don’t see me, don’t see me…

“Uhh, ahh, intruder!” he shouts, fumbling for his rifle.

“Where?” Obvious shouts, bringing his own gun to bear. He spots me in the snowdrift. “Hands up.”

“How about you let me clamber out of the snow first?” I ask. “And I’m no more intruder than you are, unless that’s your plee-ume of smoke up there.” Although they’ve all got their barrels pointed my way, they let me get to my feet.

“Sure got a mouth for someone with three guns pointed at you,” Jack says. He follows it up with a chortle. “She talks like you, Steve. Clamber.”

“Maybe I’ve found your replacement, Jack,” Captain Steve quips. He turns back to me. “You know anything about those gunshots? Friends of yours?”

“I’m just passing through. No idea who fired that shot.”

“Passing through alone?” Jack asks.

“No,” I answer. “Shoot me and you’ll have a lot of firepower coming after you.”

“We’re real scared, sweetheart,” Jack says.

“Shut up, Jack,” Three replies. “We should bring her with us. She seems like she could handle herself.”

“Not interested,” I say, wondering how steep the ditch is behind me if I have to jump for it.

“Wasn’t giving you the option, baby,” Jack says.

“I am,” Steve says. “Don’t be stupid, you two.”

“Sure.” Jack lowers his rifle and turns his back to me, looking at Steve. “Let’s start our new city without any women. Great plan. We can even call it ‘Sausagefest’.”

Behind the men, another skier comes around the bend, bundled in brown furs and toting a Mosin-Nagant rifle.

I point at the newcomer. “I hate to interrupt your creepy resettlement plan, gentlemen, but is that one of your…?”

The Captain’s head explodes before I hear the ringing of the first shot. Something stings my shoulder and I fall backwards, over the steep cliff-like ditch. Belatedly, as I scrabble to find purchase and break my fall, I realize that I, too, have been shot.

I hear more shooting as I tumble through the snow and brush. Then my head strikes something hard and I come to a stop in the deep snow at the bottom of the ditch.

“Fuck,” I mutter as my vision swims. “Don’t pass out, Regan, you’ve got a…”

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 17

I am infinitely thankful that the League didn’t steal the snowshoes. The hike to Odell Lake would be brutal without them. I take soft, slow, deliberate steps, lifting my knees as I trudge. I find myself missing the coastal rain. Wet cold? Sure. As long as there are no snowdrifts waiting to soak my socks every time I accidentally drag a heel.

Kinda miss a lot about the coast right now.

There is a crisp, serene, soul-settling beauty to a mountain winter, but I don’t know if I’d want to live through them every year. Desert life spoiled me.

The walk is mostly uneventful. I spot a placid elk begging to be shot, but I’m hunting for more furtive game. Hauling a big-ass tire back to Charlotte is going to be pain in the butt enough, even if I find a toboggan. Given my lengthy stretch of alone time, I go over a mental blueprint in case I need to build a makeshift sled.

Sure enough, dusk hits before I reach the lake. I blame my detours down the side roads; plenty of rustic summer houses and cabins to explore. If only I didn’t have a mission-critical item to find. I discovered several trucks and RVs going to rust, even some tires in the right size, but they were too deteriorated to be of any use. This after all the effort of digging through three feet of snow, of course.

Night falls and I decide to plough on. It gets cold enough to shatter the nipples off my boobs, so I opt to make shelter in the least dilapidated cabin I can find.

It’s downright cozy, if you like decapitated moose watching over you while you sleep. I consider bringing some warmth to the place.

It can be dangerous to start fires, depending on where you are, but given my remote location I figure I’m safe. Nobody in their right mind willingly lives in the cold all throughout the winter, considering how much free space there is in regions once considered ‘a tropical paradise’. I recall asking Father once why everyone didn’t just pack up and head south, and he gave me this mumbly answer about ‘sedentary mentality’ and ‘fear of the unknown’.

Sure, but what about us? I asked him.

I don’t know if his excuses about his lab were legitimate. Deep down I think he craves certainty. Sure, we’re on the road a lot, but it’s usually to remote places. Father has always understood nature better than people, despite his convictions about ‘pack mentality’.

I bring my scavenged kindling to the fireplace and nurse an infant flame. Trying to push Father from my mind, I fail. I’d rather think about kicking Mason in the junk one last time. It’s an easier, simpler kind of self-righteousness.

It never used to be complicated. I was an empty vessel waiting to be filled with the how and the why of the world. Father was more than willing to pour from his ever-flowing pitcher of knowledge.

But it’s not endless. I stare at the tongues of flame as they lick up from the kindling to the larger logs, and contemplate the end of hero-worship. Was I naïve? Did it come too late? In coming-of-age stories, there’s often that moment where the heroine or hero discovers that their parents are fallible, flawed, finite. Human.

I dine on a heart-warming Kawitzen preparation of bread with beans, heated by the fire.

Was it childish of me to ever think that Father was perfect, or does his mind consider consequences in some complex and far-flung way that my sense of fellowship doesn’t allow? I would never take back my choice to neutralize Father and save the victims of the League’s abuse.

As I retire to a mattress blessedly free from both Doom victims and bedbugs, covering myself in a warm woollen blanket, I turn over thoughts about genetics and upbringing, nature and nurture, and arrive at no real conclusions except for one:

I will get no answers from Father. There is only one other person who may be able to provide closure on my origins. I fall asleep thinking about how much I miss her.

***

When I wake up, my cheeks and nose are cold but I can feel the sweat beneath my clothes. I have a vague recollection of a dream about Connor.

Years of scavenging have acclimatized me to waking up in strange places, and there is no disorientation. I pack up my things, eat a late harvest apple courtesy the Kawitzen orchards and wonder what it would have been like if I’d asked Connor to come with me.

Regrets are only useful if you have a time machine, Father used to say. I like to think they’re useful for looking back and analyzing our past choices.

It feels warmer than yesterday, thanks to the direct sunlight, but according to my analog multi-function compass it’s colder by four degrees. I set out for the lake, feeling pessimistic about tires but optimistic that we will revert to alternate solutions if necessary. Supplies are just supplies, after all. Still, it would have been nice if we could have broken down next to a motorhome lot.

Waxing expansive, I even forgive Mason for my music being stolen.

Half an hour into my hike I’m sweating. I open up my jacket. When I look up from my zipper, I notice smoke above the treeline.

It burns clean and grey. Woodsmoke. Somewhere in the direction of the lake. I pull out the walkie-talkie, knowing that Father will have the CB radio running back at Charlotte. I hope I’m still within range.

“Trogdor to Charlotte. Come in, Charlotte, over.”

I wait. He might be working outside. I doubt he’d leave Charlotte unattended.

“Trogdor to Charlotte, do you…”

It’s far away, but I hear the unmistakeable, reverberating echo of a gunshot.

“Fuuuuck,” I mutter. I’m closer to the progenitor of that sound, and the woodsmoke, than I am to Charlotte. Hours closer. And out of range of the CB radio, due in large part to the slope and the trees blocking the signal.

At least it’s a single shot and not something semi-automatic, I think. Caution dictates that I should turn the hell around, but two things keep me rooted in place: a much-needed tire and a hell of a lot of curiosity.

Then I hear this swooshing, scraping sound from around the bend in the highway and my mind flashes back to an impromptu trip from my youth, when we had Aspen all to ourselves.

Skis. Someone around these parts is very prepared.

I dive into the snowdrift, burying myself and un-strapping my snowshoes before hauling them into the powder beside me.

I poke my head out to get a look around me, imagining a comically inconspicuous set of eyes in the snow. I’m guessing in reality I look more like a clumsy idiot who dove into a snowdrift.

A patrol of men in matching ‘winter camo’ parkas come to a stop from their downward journey along the highway route, scanning the area to get their bearings. They are well-armed, and I’m guessing they scavenged their cute matching outfits from the same department store. No insignia though, so definitely not from Novamerica, the Republic or the Burning Men.

I remain as still as possible. Several questions roil in the back of my mind concerning ownership of gunshots and woodsmoke. Foremost amongst my thoughts is this, though:

Who the fuck are these clowns? Anyone with a week’s worth of real training would’ve spotted me by now.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 16

December 19th, 2035. 14:11. Salish Sea, en route to Cascadia Nation.

Raining. Seas calm. Taking break from inventory; League plundered Charlotte. Still taking stock of losses. They blew safe with plastique. Assholes. If Lessing had wiped my drive, would’ve pissed on his corpse.

No serious damage to Charlotte; picked up truck on way to boat. Losses represent 1-2 months of scavenging work. Despite setbacks, Vancouver Island lucrative in unexpected way, moving research forward two years or more. Lessing had data I’ve been looking for; campus he’d set himself up in was working on cure during Doom outbreak. Other scavenging plans set aside in favor of lab work.

Many events to disseminate and log. Still processing. Will include separate entry detailing events. Everything since idiot kid named after canning company showed up.

14:24

Wind has picked up and sea is getting choppy. Still, has been good winter. Mild. Weather patterns still re-stabilizing after seventeen years of zero emissions.

Had been meaning to measure ice shelf. Will have to wait until I can test out cure. Certain Regan will not complain; she hates the cold.

She seems to hate everything lately, including me. Appears her teenage rebellion started late. Thought perhaps I’d been lucky to have daughter rational enough to control hormone-driven responses. Was mistaken. Her interest in boys is waxing. Suspect her refusal to see reason when dealing with League was more personal statement than careful consideration of facts.

Getting ahead of myself. League and Vancouver Island to be logged separately.

Regan is becoming independent person. Bittersweet feeling for me.

20:33 Dock along former Washington State coast.

Moored for evening. Regan still sulking. Not sure if brooding at me, or loss of music archive. Said she scoured League and couldn’t find. Reminded her of backup at home. Response was deep scowl. At least we are talking.

Inventory of losses complete. As follows:

Foodstuffs

Fridge contents
Potted plants: basil, tomato, onion, garlic, rosemary
Potato bed
Spice box
Seed box

Tools, etc.

Wire box
All duct tape
Battery box
3 gas cans (full), 2 propane canisters
Water purification tablets & filters
Toiletry box
Medicine Box & first aid kits
Tents
Portable stove
Mason jars (irony)
Gun oil

Weapons

Ammo box
Hunting knife, skinning knife, filet knife, chef’s knife
H&K MP5
M100
Ceremonial Katana

Clothes

Me: 2 jackets, 2 pairs boots, 1 pair cargo pants, 2 shirts, 2 pairs woollen socks, 1 hat (travel fedora)
Regan: 1 rain jacket, 2 pairs cargo pants, 2 shirts, 1 pair boots, 2 pair gloves

Miscellaneous

Emily Carr’s ‘Dream Picture’, originally scavenged from abandoned city of Victoria. Burned by League soldier.
Regan’s music archive

Gains

Teledart RD706 with 5 darts
Colt Magnum .44 with 2 bullets
AK-47 with 56 bullets

Note: donated remainder of weapon gains to Kawitzen.

23:01.

Regan fell asleep listening to Radiohead. Rain stopped. Sitting on roof of Charlotte going through events in chronological order. Will summarize here, picking up from last entry:

December 16th

Scavenging in small community north of Victoria. Area well-pillaged. No significant finds. Argument with Regan about trade vs. scavenging. Heard noise. Young man showed up (see note above re: Mason) and tells us he is with group called Kawitzen, fighting group called ‘League’. Turns out he is playing both sides, makes attempt #1 with his League pals to steal Charlotte.

Escaped League trap, ran into roadblock built by Kawitzen. Mason makes attempt #2 to sabotage us, claiming we are League. Kawitzen have wits and seem to know Mason well. We get invited to meet their leader.

Leader, Amelia, very capable, if a bit taken with the idea of her own self-designed neo-tribal religion. Village well-run, focused on small-scale sustainable farming. Invited to stay night. Argument with Regan ensues about meddling with tribal beliefs.

League, undoubtedly tipped off by Mason, attacked Kawitzen village. Bloodiest firefight I’ve seen in years. We were victorious but Mason managed to steal Charlotte. Let’s call it attempt #3, successful.

December 17th

Small group gathered to retaliate. Struck out north in APC, heading to old Vancouver Island University campus, adjacent to former Canadian Forces military base.

Old road mine blasted APC off its wheels. Minor injuries sustained. We decided to split into two groups and pincer-attack the base. While getting into position, received distress call from Regan. Attack compromised, Regan went radio silent, believed dead or captured. Despite desire to go out in blaze of glory, kept cool and re-formulated plan with Cale, Rusty and Connor to rescue Regan if still alive and subdue League.

December 18th

After camping out in abandoned city of Nanaimo, enacted stealth mission to enter League base. Mission compromised early as Lessing had been sending out scouts. Discovered thanks to a sneeze. Story of my life. Vicious firefight uphill to campus. Cale died, Rusty severely injured. Patched up Rusty and left him behind. Reached campus with Connor to find Regan had already killed Lessing and most of remaining League in chaos. Mason’s counter-sabotage moderately successful. Would have killed him, myself.

Would have killed all of them. Regan saw things differently. Hope she’s right. Kawitzen in much better position to take care of island and re-establish non-violent, sustainable civilization. If League re-forms, could be problematic.

Regan preferred to shoot me with dart rather than see reason. Waking up was worse than any whiskey hangover.

Remained at Kawitzen village for night. Witnessed funeral ritual. Discussed cure, future plans with Amelia. Made some suggestions based on long-term weather pattern projections. Left in the morning for the boat. Kawitzen gave us enough foodstuffs for 3X our journey.

December 21, 2035. 21:19. Former Oregon State foothills. Outside (mostly) abandoned city of Portland.

Left boat moored. Traded with Cascadia Nation (former Seattle area) for essentials – sold excess weapons and ammo for first aid/ toiletries. Can replenish remainder of stock at home.

Margaret asked about events on island. Had to be evasive. She asked if we could stay a while. Too much work to be done. Told her about cure. Reminded her I would be back with it. No real time estimate. Stayed one night.

Thought of Amelia. Woman who keeps things uncomplicated. There was temptation to stay with Kawitzen after cure. Regan likes a boy there, too. If she even travels with me again. Future of relationship uncertain.

Counterpoint, have good setup in Reno.

Counter-counterpoint, as per previous entries, actions of Novamerica President make me increasingly nervous. Will assess situation when we return home.

Fixed plow to truck in preparation for mountain drive.

December 22, 2035. 15:47. Deschutes region. HWY 58.

Minor setback. Truck transmission blew. Jury-rigged snowplow to Charlotte and continuing. Tire chains helping, but uncertain if Charlotte has enough torque. Still, easier than finding new transmission or fixing current one.

16:02

Major setback. Charlotte’s tire blew. Laughed harder than I should have. Regan’s response: “Really, Dad?”

Should have taken coastal road, but didn’t feel like shooting anybody for a while.

Regan, annoyed. Me, excited. No real opportunity to scavenge and hunt in remote area for some time. Main priority: 22.5″ tires. Snow+ice variety, preferably. Will take what I can get. Kawitzen packed us with food and water, so that is secondary priority, unless search for transmission or tire takes longer than a week.

Will try Odell Lake area to the NW first.

Asked Regan if preference is to stay with Charlotte or scavenge. Regan opted to scavenge. Not sure if good or bad sign.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 15

I return to the Kawitzen village ahead of the others and ignore all lines of inquiry, making a beeline for Amelia’s tent. I don’t even knock or announce my entrance; my plan is to be at sea by the time Father wakes up.

Amelia is reading by lamplight. Behind me, a growing cluster of villagers await news of the mission.

“It’s done,” I tell her. “Their leader is dead. The League is disbanded. We let the survivors go but we took all their weapons.”

She puts down her book and stands up. “Where are the others?” she asks, her concern written on her face.

“On their way. They had to scour the campus for weapons and find a working vehicle.”

“Did we suffer any casualties?”

I bow my head, knowing those behind me are listening. “Cale and Jen.”

There are a couple of sobs amongst the villagers, but to Amelia’s credit, she accepts the news with poise befitting a leader.

A time to mourn, I think.

“And…your father?”

“He’s fine, just…indisposed. We had a disagreement so he’s sleeping it off.”

“Oh.” She seems like she wants to say something else, but the words die in the air between us. Truth be told, I’m not in the mood to grant Father any favours, so I figure he can stand to miss out on a goodbye. It’s not like he’s hurting for girlfriends; he’s got one in every settlement.

I used to wonder, sometimes, if I had any siblings I never knew about. Now my entire lineage is in question.

The crowd behind me disperses to a mixture of sorrow and relief, and I suddenly want nothing more than to be off this damned island. It’s brought me nothing but angst and questions. As the Kawitzen survivors line up to shake my hand and thank me for my help, I can see a fresh row of graves off near the tree line. They dug enough for the League’s dead as well as their own. Instead of a headstone, each grave bears a sapling as a marker.

A time to reap, and a time to sow…

As the tears come, I realize that I won’t be leaving until tomorrow morning. There has to be a reason for all the killing.

Father needs time to share his findings on the Doom’s cure.

***

The Doom was a reset button.

Some, like Father, choose to collect the knowledge and relics of the pre-Doom world. They are our legacy as much as they are a reminder of our mistakes.

Some, like Novamerica and the League, seek a return to a past that never was: an idyllic promised land, the American Dream as it existed only in our minds. Capitalism without consequence.

Amelia and the Kawitzen see a third way. They envision a fresh start, a chance to return to the Palaeolithic days of hunter-gathering and small-scale farming. Their societal restructuring goes right down to belief. No haphazard and organic process this time; they are even building their own religion from the ground up, deliberately.

You can’t make me believe in something so transparently made-up, but damn me if I don’t still find it beautiful.

There are two stages to a Kawitzen funeral: mourning and celebration. Mourning is the burial, which is solemn and sacred, as friends and family place items of significance into the graves. Even the League dead are given gifts. I watch Father, who appears as little more than a gangly shadow behind Amelia, and can only imagine his inner turmoil at watching so many useful items get buried until the next plucky archaeologist comes along, thousands of years down the line.

The gifts are symbolic, Rusty told me before the ritual began. He said that although his own personal beliefs are different, the Kawitzen encourage the idea of reincarnation. Unlike ancient burial rituals, where the soul was thought to have a continuity of personality (Emperor Qin bringing his terra cotta army to the land of the dead to conquer it or whatever), the gifts are meant to symbolize the person’s good qualities in life. It’s not material wealth they carry with them into the next life. The gifts symbolise their virtues, to help make the world a better place.

It’s a nice sentiment, anyway. My eyes move from Father to Connor, who stands there with a carved wooden box cradled in his arms, and I wonder if believing would make me feel better or worse.

Then Father glances at me and my guts turn to ice. One look is enough to know he’s pissed off, but I stand where I am and stare back. I don’t care what he thinks; I made the right choice. The poor suckers taken in by Doctor Lessing’s ideals didn’t deserve his fate; being misguided isn’t the same as being an evil psychopath.

I was told that Mason decided to stay behind to ‘atone’ and help the remnants of the League rebuild. Letting him live is the only choice I would ever second guess.

Connor approaches his father’s grave, tenderly placing the box within. He weeps, unable to stand. My heart lurches. I just want to go over to him, to hold him, but I don’t dare disrupt the sanctity of the ritual.

Connor is the final gift-giver, it seems, and the Kawitzen raise their voices in song. It’s a haunting, ethereal funeral dirge.

***

Connor finds me behind the inn, trying not to cry my guts out after the beautiful Kawitzen send-off ritual.

“Were you gonna leave without even saying goodbye?” he asks.

“I…thought about it,” I admit, wiping my runny eyes on my jacket sleeve. Goddamnit Connor, don’t look at me like that. It was not my intent to be so fucking vulnerable around you. Or anyone.

He puts his arms around me. Shit. We both cry for a while, but in the back of my head there’s this selfish part of me thinking about how good it feels to be held, especially by him. Half of me wants to kiss him and the other half wants to run like a spooked cat.

“I can’t…do this,” I say weakly, sinking into his steady embrace.

“We could use you here, Regan,” he says. “I could use you, too. That…didn’t come out sounding like I wanted it to. What I meant was…”

I kiss him. What was meant to be a goodbye stretches for minutes. In the distance there is only the crackle of the bonfire, the soft patter of the rain and the lilting voices of the Kawitzen singing to their departed.

After a while, he breaks the embrace to look at me. “So…was that a yes, or…?”

I push one of his curly locks out of his face. “I’m sorry, Goggles.” He looks crestfallen, but I can tell he understands, because even now he’s nodding. I take his hands in mine. “I need answers, and there’s only one place I can find them. Well…two, technically, but one of them is being a secretive jerk, as usual.”

“So, who…?”

“Not who. Where. I need to go home for a while.”

He tilts his head. “I thought your home was the road.”

“Ninety percent of the time, yes.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“Father will need his lab to work on a cure.”

“Which is…where?”

I laugh. “I can’t take you with me, tempting as it is. Your people need you right now. A lot more than…we need each other.”

“I…I know. Not right now. Just…if I ever decide to, once I’m ready, if I ever…y’know, set out on my own. Just wondering where I might find you.”

I nod. Ok Regan, he’s serious. Not your typical village boy hoping for a one-night stand.

“Reno. On the edge of Novamerica’s borders. Not that you’ll find those on any map. You know where…?”

“…is it a pre-Doom place? Reno?”

“Yeah.”

The Kawitzen stop singing and someone shouts out for the booze to flow. There are distant cheers. Connor raises an eyebrow at me.

“Tell me you’re staying for the party, after all we’ve been through.”

“As long as you promise not to get too fresh.”

“I, uh…” even in the dark I can tell his cheeks are flushed. “Y-you’re probably more experienced than I am…”

I stare back at him, into those dark, honest eyes of his, and I know that, no matter what happens tonight, I’m going to be leaving a little piece of my heart behind.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 14

Father stands over Dr. Lessing’s corpse. There is a disappointed look on his face. By contrast, Herr Doktor’s expression is frozen somewhere between shock and fear. No-one has bothered to close his eyes. Here in the courtyard, the spent remnants of Operation Mandible remain: Father, myself, Connor (who is seated, recovering from a gunshot wound), and a world-weary June. Jennifer and Cale didn’t make it.

Connor and June stare at the rounded-up and shaking remnants of the League like it’s their fault. They are women and children, mostly. Only two League men surrendered, the rest having been well-indoctrinated by Lessing. Mason is between them, bound and gagged.

“I can’t believe you killed him,” Father exclaims, tapping the doctor’s body with his boot. “Haven’t I taught you to ask questions first and shoot later?”

“You also taught me to know when to make a judgment call, Dad. I was facing off against a madman with his finger on the trigger of a pretty fucking powerful gun!”

“But he knew things.”

“You got the research data you wanted, Dad.”

“He knew more. I could have extracted a great deal of information from him.”

I look at Father as though I’m seeing him for the first time. “What…through torture? Through the same horrible method he used on me? A truth drug? How the fuck are we any better than him if we resort to such methods?”

Nobody in our audience, Kawitzen or League, dares to speak or budge.

“It’s our goals that matter, Regan. That is where he and I differ. The methods…”

“…matter too!” I shout. “Jesus Christ, Dad, it’s like I don’t even know you sometimes. This isn’t what you taught me, that’s for damn sure. Somehow it’s ok though, that you’re heading to hell on good intentions.”

Father rolls his eyes. “Don’t paraphrase pseudo-religious proverbs at me, young lady. I can forgive you for killing their leader; you had to make a snap decision. I respect that and I’m sorry. We still have the rest of his people to deal with, though.”

“What do you mean, ‘deal with’? We won. They’re defeated and their leader is dead.”

“So is my dad,” Connor says.

“And Jennifer,” June adds.

“So we should go home and bury them,” I suggest, “or whatever your usual practice is. Leave these people to figure themselves out.”

“No!” Connor shouts, sniffling, getting to his feet. Somehow it seems less whiny coming from him than from Mason. Cale just bit the bullet, after all. “They need to answer for everything that they’ve done!” Behind him, June nods.

I gesture at the sad and broken lot on their knees. “Haven’t they already? Look at them. We won.”

“You’ve seen this before,” Father mutters. “This kind of cult. You know it won’t end with Lessing.”

“So, what?” I throw my hands in the air. “We kill them? How are we any better than them, if we do something like that?” I point an accusatory finger at Connor. “Are you prepared to do that? Shoot children? Hm?”

Even in his grief, Connor appears conflicted, but Father not so much. “Just the adults, then,” he suggests. “Integrate the children.” The League grown-ups stir nervously as Connor keeps his AK-47 trained on them.

“You’re acting like a monster!” I shout. “Aren’t we trying to make the world a better place?”

“Yes,” Father replies. “You’re just not taking the long view. The Kawitzen are the best equipped to turn this island into a stable, peaceful, productive and protected society.”

“Since when does your ‘long view’ involve mass murder? I have only ever fought out of necessity! If I had known this was the way you saw killing…I mean, fucking hell, Dad. Survival is one thing. Making snap judgments about the long-term effects of justice at the end of a gun barrel? What kind of cycle are we perpetuating here?”

“We’re breaking it, Regan. Not perpetuating.”

I prod Father in the chest. “No. What the fuck are we fighting and carrying on for, if we don’t even believe in forgiveness? What world are we trying to build?”

“I agree,” June says, adding her voice to my own. “Jen got her retribution; you can’t blame an entire people for…”

Father shakes his head. “Regan, I thought you knew better than this. Too much pre-Doom media consumption has given you an altruistic view of the world. This is not about revenge of any kind. This is about the long-term consequences of…”

“Who are you?” I demand. “Are you even my real father?”

There is an intense, panicked look in his eyes that I have never seen before.

“…where did you get this idea?”

In the crowd, Mason struggles to be heard through his cloth gag.

“Shut up, Mason!” June and Connor say in unison.

“Well?” I ask Father.

“I asked you a question, Regan.”

“And if you recall, he who never forgets a fucking thing, I asked you a question first.”

“This guy said something to you, didn’t he?” Father asks, prodding Lessing with his foot again.

“He implied several things…amongst them, an indication that I have special genes, and he hinted that you knew about it. What have you been hiding from me in your files? What are you hiding about me? About yourself? About Mom? Christ, I don’t even know a fucking thing about her and I’m seventeen years old!”

“I don’t appreciate this line of questioning, Regan.” He is as still as a scarecrow. Father often looks like one, but at the moment the resemblance is more unsettling than ever. “We have these people to deal with.”

“Fuck them,” I spit. “I want answers.” I grab his duster-style jacket. “I want to know who I am, Dad.”

“No,” he says. “You don’t. Are you going to finish what we started here or should I?”

I shake my head, fighting back tears. “You fucking asshole. Neither of us are going to finish it.”

I snatch June’s tranquilizer gun before she can protest and fire it at Father. The dart catches him in the gut. He clutches the feathered sliver, staring at it. Then he looks at me and laughs. I can’t tell if he’s pissed off or impressed. His eyes roll back into his head and he falls to the lush grass, unconscious.

“Regan?” Connor asks.

“Shut up,” I say, wiping my eyes. “We’re leaving. Untie them. They have enough resources here to survive but not to retaliate as long as we take all the weapons. If they still want revenge in a generation or two…” I shrug, thinking it much more likely that the last vestiges of the League will seek shelter and support from the Kawitzen before long.

“What about Mason?” June asks.

“Bring him,” I suggest. “I don’t trust him around gullible people.”

Connor gestures to Father. “And your…?”

“I don’t know if I trust him anymore either. I’ll bring him back in Charlotte.”

“Do you think he’ll forgive you?”

“Of course he will,” I reply. “He raised me.” I painstakingly hoist Father up over my shoulders and begin my fireman’s carry toward Charlotte, which is parked nearby. “The real question, Connor,” I grunt, “is whether or not I’ll forgive him.”

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 13

Despite the filthy disarray of the interrogation room (no doubt part-and-parcel of Dr. Less-Than’s intimidation tactics), the hallway is clean and bright, which is an indication of two things. The first is the presence of electricity (not an easy thing to maintain post-Doom; I assume Lessing has set up generators somewhere), doubly confirmed by the sickly-white lighting back where I had left Mason. The cleanliness of the League base, on the other hand, means that they like to pretend there is nothing at all wrong with the world.

That or they’ve got a lot of people with too much time on their hands. Maybe their women are only allowed to bake, breed and clean or something weird and regressive like that.

Thinking of the generators, it occurs to me that I may have underestimated Doctor Lessing’s leadership skills, even if he is a nutbar. Still, he tangled with the wrong tribe of not-so-passive hippies, not to mention a dangerous father-daughter duo.

“Father-daughter,” I mutter absent-mindedly. Mason starts squealing for help beyond the interrogation room door, reminding me to make haste.

From the numbered doors down the hallway, I deduce that I’m on the old university campus somewhere. My ‘torture-room’ may have well been a professor’s office once. Cork bulletin boards at intervals down the hall have been painted over with Normal Rockwell-esque depictions of Lessing’s post-Doom vision for the world: a mother breastfeeds a baby while jet fighters fly ‘protectively’ overhead. A man in combat fatigues shows a boy in a comically oversized military jacket how to fire a rifle. A fit and handsome version of Lessing delivers an address to the masses. The last painting bears an alarming resemblance to photos I’ve seen of Hitler’s rallies.

Hey, at least he’s giving post-Doom painters something to do.

As Mason’s howling fades, a more alarming noise takes its place: distant gunfire. I raise the pistol to shoulder-level and round a corner.

Blood is spattered on the walls, and a dead man in fatigues is lying on the floor, face-down. There is a bullet hole through the back of his skull. Whoever shot the man was in too much of a hurry to grab the tranquilizer gun partially hidden underneath his corpse. I don’t make the same mistake. I check the magazine; it’s still got plenty of darts.

“Score,” I whisper. It occurs to me that Mason may have shot the League soldier on his way to get me, which means that he was telling the truth about double-crossing the League.

I wasn’t prepared to entertain the risk of going back for him, though.

The tranq-gun is surprisingly light, and I’m betting it doesn’t have a lot of kick. I tuck the pistol into the back of my cargo pants again.

There are more muffled gunshots outside. I follow the sound, creeping down another corridor until I find myself at a courtyard door. I peer through the safety glass. No sign of League soldiers. Stealthily, I push the metal bar and slide through the opening. I make my way from tree trunk to tree trunk in the big empty space between campus buildings, on the lookout for any kind of movement. When I reach a far wall I peer around the corner.

Three men in League military garb are using a re-appropriated metal dumpster as cover. Across a sloped field, someone is returning fire. I take a good look around to ensure there aren’t any hidden soldiers before I ambush the dumpster-men.

Sure enough, there is a telltale gun barrel poking out from the rooftop right above me. League sniper. While I want very much to give a bullet surprise to the garbage guys, I know the Kawitzen will get popped as soon as they make it up the slope to the campus. I double back to find rooftop access.

Getting to the top floor isn’t a problem, but the door to the roof is locked and alarmed.

“Fucking fantastic,” I exclaim.

A loud bang makes me scream. I wheel around, gun raised. I see nothing but a long hallway, empty except for two metal filing cabinets, stacked sideways. I check my vitals for injuries, but there’s nothing. I hear the metallic sound again; the cabinets rattle slightly.

A barricade? I wonder. I decide to take my chances; if the League is trying to keep someone penned in, they’re probably on my side. The cabinets are brutally heavy and the sound they make scraping against the tile floor is worse than the yowl of a cat in heat, but I manage to move them away from the obscured door.

It bursts open a second later to reveal a fire extinguisher-wielding June. She does not look happy, but she is very much alive, despite the poorly-treated dog bite on her shoulder.

“Holy fuck, I’m glad you’re ok,” I blurt.

She bursts into tears, dropping the fire extinguisher so she can hug me. Only then do I notice the blood covering its base, and more importantly, the room beyond. There is a body in one corner, skull crushed in by what I can only guess is June’s impromptu weapon.

What once was a classroom appears to have been converted into a communal bedroom.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Jeh…jeh…”

Then I see the other body sprawled over a bed, face down. I notice a glint of silver in one ear. Jennifer.

“No…” I whisper. There is a brief moment of choking grief, but a sudden heat creeps up my neck and I can feel rage set in before there is time to experience any sorrow.

I have always assumed that I get my penchant for moments of unbridled anger from my mother, because I have never seen Father lose control. From her I must have also inherited another odd idiosyncrasy: when I am singularly focused, a soundtrack tends to play in my mind. As I release June from our embrace, I can hear an old Byrds tune.

I know there will be a time to mourn, but right now it’s time to kill.

I shove the tranq gun into June’s hands. “Wait here,” I tell her as I pick up the blood-slick fire extinguisher from the floor.

“Regan,” she calls after me, but I’m already down the hall. I shoot the alarm, then careen my body against the rooftop access door until the old metal deadbolt gives way. Ahead are concrete stairs ending in another door. I expect the sniper heard me coming; he will fire at me as soon as he sees the door swing open. I run up and give the door a kick, then dive back down the stairwell to take cover behind the top few steps.

I hear the shot, feeling concrete dust sprinkle my head from the ricochet. I bolt up the stairs and onto the rooftop as the sniper reloads.

It’s Herr Doktor himself, leaning against the low-hanging roof barrier to face me. I duck and roll just in time and feel a hot bullet graze my ear. The fire extinguisher clangs to the concrete as I whip out the pistol.

“Mother-Scion, wait,” he pleads, and I’m certain he knows I can pull back the trigger in less time than it will take him to re-chamber.

I let my gun do the talking for me.

Nine bullets later, I wipe the sweat from my brow as a rare glimpse of west coast winter sunlight graces the end of Lessing’s legacy. Below, the last vestiges of the League still trade shots with the Kawitzen. I approach the ledge and grab the doctor’s rifle, pulling back the bolt to chamber a fresh round. Below, I see Father and Connor coming up the crest of the field to find cover. As Connor dashes to an overturned park bench, I see him take a bullet and go down. I suppress a scream and look down, fighting back hot tears.

My eyes focus on the fire extinguisher, suddenly. Contents under pressure, it reads. I toss it off the roof and lift the rifle. By the time the League holdouts see me, perched above their ravaged home like an avenging angel, the bullet has already left my gun. It pierces the canister.

The explosion gives voice to my rage, cutting the men’s screams short.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 12

I come to with a hangover worse than that time I tried to keep up with Father’s Reno buddies. Someone is undoing the arm straps of my chair.

“Dad? Connor?” I open my eyes.

“Shh,” Mason hisses.

I freeze. Let him untie you before you say anything, Regan. As I watch him fumble with the ankle straps, it all comes back: my drug-induced interview with Blofeld-Hitler, him losing his shit and leaving, and his weird plan for me to be his Doom-proof baby factory. Only now that I’m in my right mind again, I don’t think it’s funny at all.

And I told him where Father was.

Mason finally gets the last leather harness off and I jump out of the chair before he can change his mind.

“Spare gun?” I ask, holding out my hand.

Mason shakes his head. “No time,” he whispers. “It’s all going to shit in here, we…”

“Good,” I say as I wrench Mason’s arm into a lock behind his back. With my spare hand I take his pistol from its holster and tuck it into the back of my pants.

“Ow,” he whines. “What the fuck are you doing? I’m here to rescue you!”

I slam his face into the interrogation chair. “The fuck you are!” He swings a fist wildly to hit me but he telegraphs the punch and I duck, kicking his legs out from under him. Then I’m seeing red, kicking wildly at his face, his ribs, his junk. “This is all your fault, you piece of shit!”

“Regan, wait…” he begs between kicks.

I stop. “What could you possibly say that will convince me to stop kicking your ass?”

He spits out a gob of blood and phlegm. “It isn’t safe here.”

“Ya think? You got us all into this shit-storm. You are not the least bit trustworthy!”

Mason sits up, clutching his ribs. “Look, I know his plans. Doctor Lessing. I’ve been trying to stop the League for years, but I needed them to trust me, and I had to find a way to bring someone in who would take them down.”

I fold my arms and shake my head, trying my best to quell the ire bubbling up from my chest. “Not good enough! For all I know, Jen and June are dead, possibly Father too, not to mention all the others on both sides of this conflict, some of whom I had to kill myself. Maybe if you had let me in on your plan, Jarhead, but now I have no choice but to assume this is another lie concocted to save your own chicken-shit life.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insists, propping himself up using the chair for support. “June and Jennifer are alive; Doctor Lessing has breeding plans for all the women, with the help of your foster dad’s research. When I stole the RV, I was expecting just you and him to…”

I interrupt him with a laugh. “He’s my real dad, Jar-Jar.” Mason winces and looks away. For a brief moment, I am filled with doubt. “What could possibly make you think otherwise? More of Herr Doktor’s crazy lies?”

“I…it’s not my place to…”

I take out the pistol and tap it against my hip. “What do you think you know?”

“Regan, we really need to get out of…”

I pistol-whip him. “Shut up! You owe me a lot more than answers! I can leave you for the merciful Kawitzen to deal with, or you can face my justice right here, right now.” The barrel is against his forehead. He does his usual shaking, crying, boogering and pants-pissing, but I’m way beyond pity.

“Just…just calm down,” he pleads, wiping off snot and blood on a sleeve. “I only heard it from the doctor. He was going to match us together because he said I’m a ‘good specimen’.”

“Ugh, gross,” I mutter. “Keep talking.”

“Well, I didn’t understand it all, but he was going on about you and ‘engineered chromosomes’ and DNA samples he took from the RV, and…”

“What the hell does this have to do with my father?”

“I…” Mason gulps. “Please don’t kill me, Regan!” He breaks down into a tirade of begging and blubbering.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I muse, more to myself than to Mason, who is on the floor pleading for his life. “Seventeen years ago, cloning and splicing were a thing, yes…but engineering?” I tap the barrel of the pistol against my chin, then glance down at Mason. “Well, you’re about as useful as you’ve ever been. Get up.”

“Are we…” sniffles and snot abound as he lifts himself to his feet. “Are we going?”

“I am. Sit down.” I gesture with the gun.

“But…”

“I’m giving you one chance, Mason.”

He sits in the chair and I strap him in, ankles and wrists.

“But…what if someone finds me?”

“Tough break; you’ve proven I can’t trust you at my back. So you’d better hope that anyone who finds you has the same sense of justice that I do. And while you’re at it, you’d better hope that everyone on the Kawitzen side is still alive.” I turn to leave.

“Regan.”

I don’t turn around. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

I grab the doorknob. “Don’t be sorry. Be a better person.”

I leave the interrogation room, hunting for Father, Doctor Lessing, survivors, and answers.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 11

Foam-panel ceiling. Bright fluorescent tube lighting. Running electricity. Strapped down. Can’t move head. Fuck.

Don’t panic, Regan. Try to take in as many details as possible. Oh wait, there’s a strap across your forehead, too. Let’s count the black dots above us, shall we? A nice, soothing precursor to interrogation.

My head feels funny, like I’m missing something.

“Yay, drugs,” I say. If there is anyone in the room with me, watching and listening, they don’t respond. Somehow the idea of another presence isn’t terrifying. That’s what’s missing: fear. A faraway part of me recognizes that it would be a beneficial emotion to feel right about now, but I am uncommonly relaxed, apart from an itchy scab on my hand that I can’t reach.

As I’m trying to assess how long I’ve been out for, I hear the creak of hinges.

“Sodium pentothal?” I ask as someone I can’t see shuffles into the room.

There is a short, crisp laugh and heavy-sounding boots. “Close.” His voice is mellifluous, smart. “A drug of my own design.”

He leans over me and any complimentary image I had in my mind is ruined. He’s old and bald, with a sweaty forehead, a dead white eye and some nasty burn scars on one side of his face.

“You’re like a Bond villain,” I giggle.

“Rare to meet a post-Doom child who is familiar with pre-Doom culture,” the Blofeld-double quips.

“Nice halitosis,” I quip back. “Ok, I take it back, you’re more of a burn-victim Hitler. You in charge of this League gig?”

His face disappears from my sight and I hear him adopt the classic villain back-and-forth pace. “I’ll ask the questions,” he says.

“One step ahead of you,” I tell him. “My real name is Jezebel Raptor Jones.” Might as well test out my ability to lie while drugged, I figure, since I cannot help but be glib.

“No doubt you’ve been trained for this,” Hitlertosis says, “but to be honest, there’s very little I don’t already know about you from that vehicle Mason was tenacious enough to bring me.”

“Tenacious? Mason is a sack of bright red baboon asses.”

He chuckles. “Mason has his uses, and so do you. I hope you hang onto that sense of humour; you’ll need it for raising children.”

“Um,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t take me alive so I can be your Nazi Nanny. I’m not the best with kids.”

The pacing stops. “He never told you, did he?”

“Mason? He was too busy being the human embodiment of an overflowing outhouse to let me in on your Babysitter’s Club side-business.”

“Not Mason. The man who raised you.”

“Where I come from, we call them ‘fathers’.”

“Well.” He leans over me again. “Your ‘father’ never told you about your immunity, did he?”

“Kind of the reason I’m still here, smart guy.”

“No, I don’t mean your antibodies.” His bad eye rolls in a funny way when he smiles, like Alastor Moody. “I’m referring to your genetic immunity.”

“Huh. Never knew I had that.” Then it hits me, what he’s actually implying. I think he sees the understanding in my eyes because his smile splits into a Grinch level of sinister.

“It’s expressed in both your X chromosomes. Any child you bear will also be immune to the Doom. You were made for this.”

“Where I come from, women also get to make their own destinies, chump. And do you mind backing up a bit? I wasn’t kidding about your breath.”

“You’re not in the Mojave anymore, Regan.” His pacing begins anew. I know I should be worried for my safety so I struggle, but the straps are asylum-grade. More worrisome is how much he already knows about me because of information gathered from Charlotte.

“It’s too bad I have to kill your ‘father’,” he continues. “I truly respect the man, though I’ve never met him. How could we ever bring peace and unity to the world if he cures the Doom? All those misguided groups like the Kawitzen out there, all those opposing ideologies, allowed to breed unchecked? The miracle of the Doom, our clean slate, will have been for nothing.”

I start laughing. With the drug suppressing my panic response, it sounds downright maniacal. I find it hard to stop. Hoping that it will buzz-kills the Führer’s rant, I strain my eyes to the side to try and catch a glimpse of his expression.

“First of all,” I manage between laughs, “stop making it sound like you’re putting air quotes around the word ‘father’. Second, you’ve got to be the most inept wingnut I’ve ever met. You’ve got…what? A breeding plan and some old army supplies? How many of you are there? Hmm? I’m being generous when I guess a hundred to two hundred, max. There are bigger, badder psychos out there with tanks, jet fighters, and sometimes even nukes. Curing the Doom would actually give you dipshits a fighting chance.”

“You don’t…”

“You can’t even tame an island when your only opponents are practically pacifists. I mean…what is your plan, honestly? Wait five generations and roll out with your ill-equipped army? Industrialize with the hope that you could somehow compete with the remnants of the most expensive military in the world? Because they’re still…”

“That’s not…”

“Look, guy. I’ve actually seen the post-Doom world. I know what’s out there, and you are a shit-eating maggot in the big scheme of things. If you…”

His fist cracks across my jaw. I laugh even harder.

“You punch like a drunk toddler.”

“Shut up!” He whips out a pistol, pointing it right at my teeth.

“You drugged me to have no filter, dumbass. You gonna kill your new babymaker? I give you a D minus for nerves, F for decision making.”

Shut up, Regan. He never had the upper hand; he’s a desperate crazyperson. You think he won’t hesitate to shoot you?

“Where is your father?” he demands.

“Looping around to attack you from city-side,” I tell him, before I can think up a lie.

He lowers the gun. “I hope you said your goodbyes to him. Someday, when you are the Mother-Scion of the United League of Earth, you will thank me for this.”

Then he is gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Mother-Scion,” I chuckle. “What a dumb title.”

I begin tugging on the straps, but they hold tight. As the drug starts to wear off, panic sets in. With most truth serums, the victim doesn’t remember a damn thing when they wake up. Plus I’m still strapped to a dentist’s chair.

“Be careful Dad,” I whisper.

Doom’s Daughter, Chapter 10

“My grandfather ran off the V-2 rocket film a dozen times and then hoped that someday our cities would open up more and let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we’re allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, someday it will come in and get us for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be.”

—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

I trudge over the slick moss and sword ferns of the island wilderness, flanked by Jennifer and June. Operation Mandible (the name was my idea – I couldn’t help myself after Father used the term ‘pincer attack’) is under way.

It’s a long, sneaky hike from the crashed APC to the gates of League territory, and the sun is falling by the time the rain lets up. Dappled sunlight lengthens the shadows of the trees and the winter birds begin to sing. Using my years of survival training (read: patience training), I remind myself to remain focused as we sneak through the woods west of the barren city which was once known as Nanaimo.

When your adrenaline is high, you pick up on incredible details during those long bouts of silence. June’s rattling breath, an indication of a lung condition. The glint of sunlight off the silver rings in Jennifer’s left ear. They tinkle slightly between damp, squishy footfalls. An old concrete foundation, overgrown with moss, pokes out of the ground to my right like a ribcage from a picked-clean carcass.

June points off to the left. Beyond the grooved bark of mature cedar trunks, a male elk grazes placidly. Jennifer sights the creature through the scope of her Remington, but does not fire. We are hunting a different kind of game. The elk dashes off suddenly, pursued by starving dogs. I assume it’s the same pack from earlier. The mangy creatures rush by, not paying us any mind.

Here and there we pass derelict rural homes, most of them demolished from an earthquake that rocked the area at some point between the Doom and now. My usual instinct is to scavenge, but we’ve no time so we press on. We carefully cross the highway, but there’s still no sign of any League scouts or snipers. There’s a lot of wilderness, though, so it’s possible we’ve just been lucky.

J & J’s burning questions hang in the air around us. I can sense them in the sidelong glances they cast my way. We’re in stealth mode, however, so the curiosity just lingers. I find myself hoping I have the chance to get to know these women before we all die horribly trying to rescue Charlotte.

We pass a fallen sign, nearly swallowed by the undergrowth. It reads: Colliery Dam Park. Jennifer nods like we’re close to our destination, and I note how our path seems open and smooth, suddenly.

Then my mind wanders, and I try to puzzle out how to explain a term like ‘stealth mode’ to someone who has never played a video game. The Kawitzen seem to reject anything associated with pre-Doom technology; I bet even Connor hasn’t seen one. His face materializes in my mind; he has that inquisitive look he was throwing my way as I enjoyed the cool rain back on the highway.

Hang on, I think. Did I miss something?

Jennifer signals for us to stop by holding up her fist. There is a steep slope up ahead leading to a section of road. We climb up the embankment as silently as possible. At the crest of the slope is a rusted-out, overturned pickup truck.

On the other side of the road is CFB Nanaimo. Behind a chain-link fence I can see two men in combat fatigues guarding the entrance to the flat, one-storey building. The area has been groomed of foliage, a clear indication of permanent post-Doom occupation.

“I could pop ‘em now,” Jennifer whispers, patting her rifle. June shakes her head, indicating that we should probably wait for Team Pikachu (that name was also my idea, obviously) to get into position. We hunker down in the bed of the truck and wait for the signal.

The tension of our mission draws out into an impatient sense of semi-alertness as the sun goes behind the mountains to the west. In the thickening darkness, June turns to look at me.

“Are you for real?” She whispers.

“Nope, I’m a complex 3D projection.”

“I mean your mission. Can you really make a cure?”

I shrug. “If anybody can, it’s Dad…he was a virologist before the Doom.”

J & J share an unmistakeable glance.

“He didn’t work on the Doom, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

June glances at the pink and orange clouds of sunset. “I just care about how reversible it is.”

“To be more accurate,” Jennifer adds, “what matters is pre-natal immunization.”

“The only kind of immunity that matters now,” I whisper in agreement. It hits me then: June has been pregnant before. This is the true horror of the Doom: not the near-extinction of the human race, but the stillbirths. If we didn’t try at all, however, the population would dwindle and decline sharply within a couple of generations. Only the fully immune would survive, scattered across the globe, forced to stabilize our numbers in a kiddie-sized gene pool.

I glance around the truck bed at the men standing guard, pondering the violence we’re about to commit against each other, blood for the sake of ideology, not even for food or shelter but because of this big frontal lobe that drives us to war in numbers that only the industrious and singularly-minded ants can rival. Sometimes, I think, it seems like this planet would be better off without us.

There is a deep growl from the slope below us and my arm hairs stand on end. The pack of strays appears to agree with my dour sentiment regarding humanity. Or perhaps they’re simply starving and didn’t catch the elk.

The skinny, slavering canines have fanned out, flanking us so that our only possible escape is toward the League base.

“Fuck shit,” I whisper as I flick off the safety on my shotgun. Rock and a hard place, I think, hoping against hope that Team Pikachu is in position.

There are five dogs. They stalk slowly up the slope in a semicircle, hoping to close us in before lunging. I have my machete, but I know there’s no way the three of us can prevent injury to ourselves without firing any bullets.

The alpha’s head explodes and its body tumbles back down through the trees. I pump another shell into the shotgun’s chamber. The other dogs, accustomed to the sound of guns, it seems, rush us. June and Jennifer each manage to squeeze a round off and kill a mutt before the remaining two bridge the gap, going for throats. I can’t risk hitting the women with buckshot so I drop the gun onto the grass and whip out the machete. I am distantly aware of shouting coming from the League base; our element of surprise is certainly blown.

Jennifer’s dog is much bigger, some kind of Malamute cross, so I jab the machete into the back of its neck before it tears all the way through Jennifer’s arm. It gives a gurgling yelp but doesn’t go down, instead whipping its head sideways to snap at me with its huge, bloody jaws. The teeth catch my left hand and rip off a bunch of flesh from my fingers.

“Motherfuck!” I scream, letting go of the machete. Jennifer backs up and, cradling her rifle in her uninjured arm, fires a round into the dog’s skull. I wheel around to help June.

There is a dead dog on top of her. June wheezes as she pushes the corpse away, revealing a knife pushed into its heart up to the handle. June doesn’t look much better than the corpse; there’s a big, jagged gouge taken out of her shoulder. The dog tore all the way through her jacket and shirt. The soil beneath June drinks in the blood as her skin pales and breaks out in a sweat.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper. “Jen, cover me.” I toss down my backpack and kneel beside June, busting out my first aid kit.

“You’re a good kid,” June says as I fumble for the gauze.

“Shh, try not to talk,” I say as I start awkwardly wrapping the bandage, tucking it under June’s armpit.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” Jennifer says, peering around the corner of the truck bed. “They’re massing at those doors. God, there must be…ten, fifteen of ‘em.”

I wipe some blood off my hands and grab the walkie-talkie out of my belt.

“Trogdor to Phoenix. Squirtle is naked. We have to Nixon. Sheen is HD, scene is crowded.” I look at Jennifer. “Can you lift her? We gotta…”

Six League men come up out of the woods and I curse myself for not seeing the diversion for what it was. The League had probably left a bug in the truck. In a split-second, I try to evaluate my enemy.

“Those are weird guns,” I say.

Great last words, Regan, I think as I grab my shotgun and make a run for the other side of the truck. With no safe cover, I know I won’t make it far. I manage to down one of them with buckshot before they return fire.

It feels like a wasp stinging my neck. I pull out a steel dart and stare at it as my legs give way. Sitting against the front fender of the pickup, my strength ebbs and I manage one last, hopeless, self-pitying laugh.

Not a tranq, I think. This is worse, way worse than a bullet.

As my vision swims I feel weightless, and I know they are taking me inside.