C.J. Anderson's Blog: Beyond Ruinland , page 10

Safe Haven

"Put some fucking clothes on!" said Vasquez. She shined the gunlight in their eyes. The girls ran to a corner in the room and hid like skittish mice under a blanket.
"What do you want?" said the preacher.
"An exit."
"Exit to where?"
"Anywhere but here."
"There is nothing else."
"You are lying." She put the gun's barrel to his temple.
"Rumors. Talk of a safe haven. A group left to find it but we never heard from them again."
"Who has the intel on this?" She pressed the barrel deeper into his crumpled skin.
"Bishop!"
Bishop. The dead old man with the broken neck. The one she pushed down a metal staircase.
"Fuck!" she said.
"What? Did you kill him too?"
She stuck the rifle in his open mouth and pulled the trigger. The preacher ingested the bullets like some famished rawboned beggar. All of his lies and deception sprayed out on the wall behind him.

The Preacher

Burning Damascus Rose incense. Morbid church music from the old world. She caught him unaware in his private room. A lavish chamber stockpiled with the finest possessions the ruinland could offer. Coffee, liquor, narcotics. A sealed glass tank occupied by an emperor scorpion as black as licorice. A pair of nude young women to warm the holy man's bed and satisfy his lust. He preached to them purity but he was perverse as some Judas priest of Gomorrah.

How to ruin a perfect world

To ruin a perfect world no mass weapon or lethal virus or military invasion is required. The strategy is simple: Give the world two different religions with two different gods and two different plans of salvation. They will rip one other apart like bloodfed Rodentia in a deadfall.

Tranced

The religious gathered to deaden themselves to reality like chemical addicts in a divine drughouse. A hormonal trance spiked with psychosis. The volatile fix to forget all the pain and mayhem and pretend that humanity isn't hopelessly damned. Prayers and praise to an unseen god that had the power grant any desire like some Djinnestan spectral wishmaster.

Freedom

Freedom. She has felt it. Disconnection from all the darkness and depression and delusion. A dream in her heart that keeps her alive. I know life can be good, she thought. A life free of all this madness.

Tara

Sister of a slain soldier. Her brother defended Lexa's chamber with his lifeblood and last breath. Tara would not rest until his death was avenged. She despised the outsider Vasquez who gave nothing to their lives but took away everything. Within a single day this newcomer murdered so many of them. Survivors, friends, and family all laid waste by a stranger's wrath. Should I not kill her for this? Is she untouchable because she carries a child? No, thought Tara. I will not spare her. The soul of her son is on her own head.

Exit Ruinland

She must find an exit. A way out other than death. Maybe if she surrendered and submitted herself to the mercy of their religion she could be spared. She could live and see the birth of her son. But what kind of life? A life wearing a mask and pretending she didn't know God's terrible secret. Masquerading as a believer when she knew the truth. Her son would survive. But what kind of life? She could teach him in darkness but what if he listened to their lies? I would rather we both died than exist in that nightmare, she thought. If their reality is only a perverse delusion then they can have it. She will choose death.

Here they come

In they came. Tracking her location to the vents was not difficult. Now she would have to kill them. She aimed the assault rifle gunlight in their faces. Quick bursts. Three rapid shots into each set of vibrant eyes. She watched their defined countenances transform and melt into formless blotches of liquid red. All of them expected to see Heaven. None of them will ever see again.

Revenge

Volunteers to hunt the fugitive Vasquez. Men and women ready to kill in their god's name. Believers seeking revenge for the slaying of the abomination they called Lexa . Their hearts burned with anger like infected wounds for the woman who murdered their 'queen'. Lexa was an idol to them. A symbol of hope. She was a synthetic and she believed in God.

Chemstorm

Alarms of warning screeched within the cockpit. A chemstorm approached their location at blistering speed. The pilot slammed the throttle and pointed the airship away from the storm's path of destruction.Turbines moaned like pleasured swine as the cyclonic winds battered the ship and its precious cargo. The metal claw that secured Chiron slipped and clung to his face. The weight of his frame and the pressure from the storm ripped Chiron's head from his body.

"Goddamn it! There goes our salvage," said the pilot.
"Dump the rest?"
"Yep. A robot head ain't worth much."
The passenger released the magnet and the ship departed into the polluted sky. The death of a combat synthetic was not mourned.