efa book 2 pgs 1-4

I told you the story of how everything in my life went to shit. I told you the story of how everything went wrong and nothing could get any worse. This is the story of how everything got much, much worse, and then how it started to get better. When I left The Company for good, when I drove across that border, I knew nothing about The Outside. I knew rumors. I had heard stories from people who had heard them from their parents, who had heard them from THEIR parents, and so forth stretching back to the era when back-and-forth travel was permitted. I had heard there were no policemen. I had heard about pirates who would run you off the road and hijack your car. I had heard it was one bad-ass place, and you had to be careful.

I thought I knew a little bit about it, but I didn’t know a goddamned thing.

I drove all night, and in the morning, I pulled over to the side of the highway and got out of the car. I stretched my legs and lit a cigarette and watched the sun slowly materialize on the Eastern horizon. The road stretched as far as I could see in either direction, dividing in half a barren planet of dirt and rock. This is what the world looked like a long, long time ago. With the exception of that crumbling strip of asphalt, it’s what the world looked like almost since the dawn of time. For the first time in my life, there was not a single soul anywhere near me. For the first time in my life, I was completely alone.

I popped the trunk, rummaged around, and found myself a cereal bar. There was a cartoon bird on the wrapper. I sat cross-legged on the hood, and I ate.

My father always packed cereal bars when we went on car trips. I was afraid of him. He wasn’t cruel. He had good intentions. But he was stern and awkward. Partly because that was his nature and partly because that was his role. My mother was emotional, and my father was the one you went to so you wouldn’t have to talk. You could sit there with him, and watch TV, and just be. Sometimes that was nice, and sometimes it was weird. I wonder if I missed out on the opportunity to get to know him. We were both so quiet.

My mother was the softie. I could plead and cry, and she would give in. My father was the one who taught me that life is hard and you don’t always get what you want. This was an act. He didn’t have it all together, he didn’t have all the answers, and I’m sure there were days he wished he could have his turn to fall apart too.

But I imagine him planning his little outings with me. I imagine him going out to buy cereal bars because that seemed like what a good father should do. He should be prepared. He should provide for his child.

There have been many days since his death where I have empathized. There have been days when I’ve felt in over my head, that I felt I’ve been faking my way through life. There have been times I’ve sat quietly because I didn’t know what to say. And at those times I feel like I didn’t miss my opportunity to get to know him. I AM him.

I got back in the car and continued on my way. I drove for a very long time. Hours and hours. In all that time, I still hadn’t come upon a human being. The few buildings I saw had all long been deserted. Around noon I’d stopped off at one and took a look around. The walls had desiccated into tinder. It was held together by cobwebs.

By dusk I was in a panic. I grew bleary-eyed behind the wheel and was starting to imagine things. But worse than that, I was very low on gas. Turning back was not an option (not that they’d let me back anyway); I would never make it. And, going forward, it was seeming less and less likely that I’d encounter anyone before running out of fuel. The smart move would have probably been to pull over and think things through for awhile. But I trudged forward. Probably, in good part, because I was afraid to let myself think. I was getting an inkling as to just how fucked I really was, and I sensed that full awareness of the situation might cause me to become paralyzed by fear. How many days could I get by with the food and water in my car? Two? Ten? Twenty? I had no realistic concept of rationing, or what one’s bare minimal caloric threshold might be. And ultimately, did it matter? What if I could get forty days? Whatever number I chose to pull out my ass, the questioned still remained, what about after that? I had yet to see an animal I could eat. But extending the fantasy to its most optimistic, supposing I had. Supposing a coyote marched right the fuck up to me. Would I even know how to kill it? Would I even know how to avoid being eaten by it?

If I didn’t come across someone before very long, things looked mighty bleak. So I kept driving on and telling myself there’s GOTTA be someone. I know there are people out here, and if there are, they have to use this highway.

Some time after the sun went down and my needle swung far left of E, I saw it and I began to cry. A building, with lights on, surrounded by cars. At the next exit. I didn’t believe in God, but I went ahead and thanked him anyway. Out loud. Over and over again. I almost couldn’t breathe. Up until that moment, I had always thought I hated people.

everything falls apart 66 & 67, end of book one

That night I drove out to the edge of civilization. I had been there once before. As a kid. My parents drove me out. In the daylight hours, it's something of a tourist spot. There are telescopes mounted along the top of the wall. You put in a coin and find how far out into nothing you can see. They sell snowglobes filled with dirt and little plastic tumbleweeds. I went there with my parents and I was bored. I failed to understand the significance.

There was no one around that night, though. The empty desert is not very well lit, and if someone's going to pay good money to stare at nothing, they damn well want to be able to see it. I climbed the stairs to the top, turned my back on the darkness, and stared in at the city. The telescopes didn't swivel that way. They didn't want Peeping Toms going window to window in search of showering women. But even to the naked eye, the sight was breathtaking. A million points of light. Behind them, every person I had ever known.

I returned to my car and drove up to the guard on duty. He flagged me down excitedly, and I stopped.

"Can't go any farther, sir."

"I can," I said. "I'm leaving."

He seemed perplexed. "Leaving what?"

"Everything. The country. I'm out. I quit."

"You know, once you go out there, you can never come back in. I mean, never."

"That's the idea."


He scratched his chin. His training had never prepared him to deal with this particular situation.

"What do you think you're going to do out there anyway?"

"I really don't know. I'll manage."

"Listen buddy, I'm not a shrink. You got problems you're trying to run away from, I don't know how to help you with that. But I'll tell you right now, if you can't find a way to deal with them, you'd be better off jumping from that wall and ending it right here. You drive a few more yards, you're headed smack into a slow death, as sure as I'm standing here."

I wanted to say that we're all going to die. I wanted to ask him if he really wanted to die never knowing anything else in the world besides this. I wanted to, but I had a pretty good idea of what he'd say in response, and what I'd say after that. So I didn't say anything. I waved and I left.

I drove. No one chased after me. No searchlights or guard dogs. Nothing dramatic. Just a tired old border guard shaking his head in disapproval, getting smaller in my rearview mirror. I kept driving, and eventually I couldn't even see the Company behind me anymore. That's when it really started sinking in. I was inside that snowglobe now. I looked out into the emptiness around me and felt engulfed by it. Swallowed up. I had drifted off the edge of the Earth and was floating into outer space. A tiny speck receding, washing away out into the distance. Vanishing.

The End (for now)

everything falls apart 64 & 65

I grabbed him by the neck. I squeezed. I stared in his eye.

"Look, you old fucking retard. I am offering you a chance at life. I don't know what is waiting for you on the other side, but at least it's outdoors. It isn't a jail cell. I know there are birds and sunrises and all that other crap people write poems about. You are the most ridiculously stubborn human being that's ever walked the earth, and I suppose in some ways that's a trait that's served you well the last decade or two. But now it's blinding you. It's standing in your way. I'm offering you life, and all you know how to choose is death."

I clenched tighter and tighter, trying to get any sort of reaction from him at all, hoping his eyes would bulge a little, hoping he'd gasp or wheeze. But his body had become immune to pain. It lost the basic survival reflexes. He'd lived for so long on the edge of execution, it didn't know any different.

"Some day," he said, and I could fell his throat vibrating through my fingers as he strained to speak, "I will die. Maybe you'll kill me right now if you push a little harder, or maybe your leader will kill me tomorrow so he can try out a new button on his robot, or maybe I will linger on a few more years until my body shuts down of its own accord. But until that day comes, I will never stop dreaming of the chance to kill you, or your neighbors, or your cousins. That's what keeps me going. Not the birds, and not the sunshine."


I let go of his neck and he slumped down to the floor. I took a long hard look and assessed the situation. I could leave him in here to die, or I could let him out to kill, and what difference did it make? The body count would keep rising one place or another. Precious' kid would grow up hating the CLH, maybe end up working for the DEJ, torture some prisoners, and their kids would grow up hearing about it, the stories would get told back at the camp compound. They would want to be terrorists. The Company didn't invent the CLH, but would've had to if it didn't come about on its own. They need each other. And the people on each side needed to find something that they wanted to die for.

This sad little shell of a man was supposed to be my cause. He was going to be the thing I died for. I wandered on to the team like a fat kid at a kickball game, looking for whatever side would have me. And now that I didn't have something to fill that role, I felt empty and worthless. I kicked him in the ribs for no good reason. I felt nothing. He felt nothing. Then I walked out the door and I left him.

everything falls apart 63

"I think that sounds like some sort of trap or game, or some overly clever contrivance you people come up with when you have too much time on your hands. This is the secular mind's version of progress. You build supercomputers and mount armies to achieve what could be managed with a switchblade."

"Well, I'm not saying I'm going to do it. I'm just saying that I thought about it. So let's, merely as a thought exercise, imagine that I'm being sincere. Let's say I really do set you free, no ulterior motive. What then?"

"I don't follow."

"What then? Once you go back across the border, do you go back home? Do you have a means to get back there? Is it even in the same location it was however many years ago you left it?"

Isaiah stared off for a minute or two, giving careful thought to his answer.

"There'd be no need to bother with all that. I suppose if you let me go free, I would remain on this side of the border, I would go in search of materials for constructing some sort of explosive device, and I would complete the project I originally set out to do."

I was pissed. "That's a pretty stupid thing to tell me. Obviously I'm not going to let you go free if you say a thing like that. Why not lie and tell me what I want to hear?"

"I don't know what you want to hear, and I'm not interested in guessing. This is a thought experiment, so I don't see any purpose in lying. If you really were stupid enough to attempt setting me free, you wouldn't be smart enough to do it successfully."

message to my readers, whoever they may be

My ex-wife informed me the other day that she's planning to use the contents of my blog in court in an attempt to take my son away from me. Obviously this is an empty threat, and no judge in their right mind would consider that a work of fiction has any relevence to someone's capabilities as a father. If they do, then the makers of South Park, CSI, Saw, Hostel, the Sopranos, and any other graphic movie or program may need to flee the country.

However, what this HAS done is make it difficult for me to feel motivated to write. I don't make any money from writing--I pretty much just do it because it helps me forget about the bullshit in my real life. But at the moment I can't sit down in front of a keyboard without being constantly reminded of it.

So rather than write this as one big novel, I will write it as a trilogy of novellas. Next week I will post the last few pages of book 1, then I will take a break until I feel motivated to start writing again.

everything falls apart 62

The Boss had the same satiated look I must've gotten right before dozing off in the park. He gave my shoulder a little squeeze as he stood up to take his leave. I had the odd feeling I was being taken under the old man's wing.

"Hey, I'm heading home early," he said to one of the guards. Then, tilting his head in my direction, "This guy's in charge till the nightshift comes on."

When he exited, those left behind stood around, awaiting my instructions.

"Take me to Isaiah."

They brought me to his cell, and set up an extra chair. I dismissed them. I had them leave the keys with me.

I looked him over, wondering I could find any new scars that might suggest what more had been done to him the last few days, but it was hopeless, like looking for needles in a haystack.

For his part, he looked back at me with contempt, the same contempt he'd shown in our last meeting. But it wasn't intimidating this time around. I found it pathetic. I had assumed he hated me because he thought I was one of his captors, but it was beyond that. He hated me because I was, in a broader sense, one of THEM, just as he hated our gas station attendants, our toddlers, our citizens who didn't have the slightest idea that the DEJ even existed.

"I gave some thought to sneaking you out and setting you free. What do you think of that?"

everything falls apart 61

What loomed in that doorway was an engineering marvel, not because of its technological sophistication, but because of its primitivism. It looked like a refrigerator on stilts, with arms built from angle iron, the spare parts of a rusty carburetor attached willy-nilly for decoration. It looked like a toy a bored 10-year-old put together in the basement. It was completely ridiculous, yet somehow it worked. The Boss couldn't be prouder.

"I call it the SK3000."

And his eyes twinkled as he pressed buttons and shifted levers and sent his metallic child trudging, off-kilter, with a zombie's gait, towards its intended victim. The Christian boy took careful steps backward, luring it towards the room's center, then used his quickness to circle around the SK3000 and leapt onto its back. He hammered at it enthusiastically, but ultimately achieved nothing apart from bloody fists. The robot shook him off, pinned him down, and slit his belly open. Its claws were deceptively nimble, somehow managing to locate one end of the boy's intestine, fixing it to the floor with a large stake.

The boy's eyes went wide with shock, though he sat calmly, almost at a distance, as if he hadn't quite yet processed what was occurring. But when the mechanical claws caught fire, he snapped out of it. He jumped to his feet and ran, back and forth, around the room, as the SK3000 lumbered after with its mittens of flame. We each step he took, his guts unraveled a little bit more. Until he ran out of them, straining on his tether, roasted alive.

everything falls apart 60

That night I slept on the floor of my office. Or tried, I should say. I laid with my eyes shut and waited for 9 a.m. to roll around. Then I took the elevator down to the DEJ. The Boss was already in Room B, five-o'clock-shadowed. He'd been there all night. He gave me a little smile.

"Bright and early, bright and early. That's how I like to see you. Give me some good news. How's the article coming along?"

"Good."

"What do you have to show me?" He answered his own question, observing that my hands were empty. "You do have a rough draft at least…"

"Yeah. I mean, rough rough. I think tomorrow I'll have something you can look over."

"Remember, not too sympathetic. Details about the victims. You need to humanize the victims, dehumanize the prisoners. All that crap about Isaiah's family you dug up, forget all that. Well, we'll talk more after I read it. Hey I'm glad you're here. I've got something new to show you. Maybe you can work it in. Take a look."

He pointed to the other side of the two-way glass. A defiant CLH militant was pounding on the walls, slamming his body full-force up against them in a shot of bravado.

"Show me what you got, you heathens!"

He spat at the mirror, looked like it was coming right at me, though I knew he couldn't see us. The Boss held an elaborate remote in his hands.

"This is pretty cool…" He punched a large red button, opening an enormous door onto the interrogation room, revealing a 20-foot-tall robot.