Novella draft

Chapter 1: And All the King’s Men

            The world turned white. The flash washed over the landscape and blanketed the soil with a bright heat. The sound of the incineration of steal, timber, and flesh radiated for a brief second before the gentle silence exploded through the room like an unwelcome guest. The beauty of the mushroom cloud was as gruesome of the melted flesh of its victims, falling off the bones like lamb meat. The trees were uprooted and thrown like titans tossing javelins. I was the rat underground, hiding. That’s where I was when the world changed. Where were you? Where are you?

            Holding his bow, Marcus crouches through the dry marsh grass. The soil is wet and rich and during the rainy season the grass grows so long that it covers even the tallest of men. The pack of deer has been feeding around his village for the past three days but none of the hunters have been able to track them until now. Off in the distance Marcus spots a lone deer. It is a young buck, not yet full grown, not yet able to live on his own. He knows that the mother is near by and if he’s lucky there will be more. He quietly scampers back to his makeshift canoe and paddles through the marshland to a closer location.

            He paddles through the maze of interconnected marshland waters and comes to an isthmus. Crouching like a sly predator he raises his head above the brush to spot the lone deer. There a four now. The largest an old buck, strong and bold, and he is looking over the young calf as it grazes in the bushes. Marcus grabs an arrow from his pack and places it gently on the nocking point. Getting onto one knee he lines up his trajectory through the sight window. As he slowly exhales, he releases. The arrow sails through the slight breeze and hits the deer slightly above its windpipe. The buck jumps and the other deer scatter and gallop away from Marcus. Marcus jumps into his canoe and paddles toward the land of his prey. The trail of blood leads up a well marked path that many hunters had been tracking for a long while. He sees the old buck lying down in the bushes, still alive, but only slightly. Marcus grabs his knife and puts it up to the neck of the deer.  “Be plentiful, for my people. The King shall not eat your flesh”, he recites, the blood spills onto the ground and Marcus carries the carcass to his canoe.

            By the time Marcus had arrived back to the village, the sun had already begun to set. The other hunters had all arrived back to the village a few hours ago. A large figured was standing at the docking point at the edge of the river.

“I see that you had success, friend.” said Niambe. “Looks like we’re going to have a great feast.”  Niambe was a well known hunter around the village. He was tall and well built. His sable skin did not resemble the kindness of his heart.

“How did the other hunters do?” asked Marcus.

“Some had success. Some did not. It is what it always has been, the veterans must be the most reliable, because the young cannot be counted upon.” Niambe laughed, and Marcus gave a sympathetic smile. Niambe helped Marcus carry his catch out of the canoe and into the village.

            The sound of the drums echoed in the distance, the feast had already begun. When Marcus arrived back at the village the sky was dark, but the village was bright with the fevering red glow of the bon-fire. Many of the villagers were dancing in circles around the fire while the masked drummers beat sticks upon the leather drum skins. When the villagers saw Marcus carrying the deer around his neck, they greeted him with cheers and many congratulated him with a slap on the back or a kiss on the cheek.

            Marcus brought the deer to the chieftain, Zion. Zion was a thin, old man. No one knew his real age, but he was certainly the eldest. He sat in a chair made of driftwood and reeds under a roof of mud and straw.  He was fair skinned and his face was wrinkled. His rustled hair flowed down his back and was knotted at its end. The only clothing he wore was a long fur coat that was tied with a rope around his waist, underneath was skin. Zion’s eyes could pierce human flesh like a thrusted spear. Marcus placed the deer at his feet and Marcus went to his knees and bowed his head. Zion examined the deer, putting his finger into the hole that arrow formed. Zion placed his hand on Marcus’ head.

            “Did you bless this creature?” Zion asked.

            “I did, chieftain”, obediently replying Marcus.

            “Then it is ready. Juveniles, take this creature and prepare it for the feast.” Three young men pick up the deer and carry it out of their presence.

            “Marcus, I trust that you did not venture into Kingdom Grounds when you were hunting?” asked Zion.

            “I did, chieftain. But it was only because I knew the deer were there and I did not know if the other hunters would be successful”, pleaded Marcus.

            “No.” Zion yelled slamming his fist onto the armrest, “You mustn’t ever go there. If they catch you, you will be killed by the king’s men! If you disobey again I will be forced to punish you.”

            “May I speak freely, forgiving chieftain”, said Marcus.

            “You may.” said Zion, slowly relaxing into his wooden chair.

            Getting to his feet, “The imperialists have invaded our land. They should make concessions to us. But, since they have not, I will continue to hunt on my land. I will not kill any creatures beyond the iron gates, but so long as my people need food, I will hunt on my land” argued Marcus.

            “Young hunter”, getting out of his chair and putting his hand on his shoulder, “I know your fever. Since the invaders of occupied these lands we have been like fish in a net. But we must live. We are small in numbers, but we are growing. But you, as well as I, know that we are a fragile village. We cannot afford to lose anyone, especially our strongest hunter. You must obey me, for the sake of the village.”

            Marcus knew he was right, he could not avoid the truth.

            “I apologize for my tone, chieftain.” Said Marcus.

            “Marcus, you need not to apologize…”.

            Suddenly there is a large yell from the villagers. Niambe came running toward Marcus with a bow in his hand.

            “Zion, the imperialists have entered through the gates and wish to speak to you”, said Niambe, nearly out of breath.

            “Tell them if they wish to speak to me, they can do so, but they must leave their weapons at the gates.” Said Zion sternly.

            Niambe ran off into the darkness. Marcus ran after Niambe to aid him in his confrontation. As he ran, Marcus noticed that the drummers were still playing, although no one was dancing. The imperialists appeared to be large, although it was difficult to assume because they wore so much armor. The Colonel and his five commanders were riding on their horses, the rest of them were on foot. They wore white helmets and metal plated chest armor. It was heavy and thick, no spear could pierce their plates. Their legs were just as covered, and their boots were polished black and had a steel toe. They had better weapons than the villagers, they had firearms. The Colonel removed his helmet. His hair was short but unkempt. Marcus looked down the short path toward the gates of the village. He saw Niambe give the message from Zion. The Colonel erupted into a hysterical laugher, his men followed his lead.

“Please, you termite, do not agitate me, bring me to your commander.” , demanded the Colonel.

“You can’t enter our village with your weapons”, exclaimed Niambe.

“Well we’re not going to leave our weapons with you, you may shoot yourself, and we can’t have that happen now can we”, mocked the Colonel. “I’ll make a deal with you, young villager. If you allow us to keep our weapons, your village will not have to work the mines when it becomes your turn. Does that sound good to you?”

Gritting his teeth, Niambe says softly, “Leave your weapons, or leave our village.”

“We shall do neither. We’re here to talk to your commander. Apparently someone was spotted killing one of the king’s deer without permission. We are here to detain this person and try them in the Kingdom’s Court”, said the Colonel calmly.

Niambe looked down the path and saw Marcus standing with his bow in his hands.

“Well gentlemen, I do believe we have found our convict. Officers, detain him!”

The officers charged down the path at Marcus, knocking Niambe to the ground and aiming their guns down the path. Marcus did not struggle. He gave up easily because he knew he would be killed if he had taken one step backwards. The officers dismounted and kicked him to the ground.

“Well, well, well. We meet again Marcus”, ridiculed one of the officers. Marcus had been cut on his face from the kick. Blood was pouring from his forehead down his garments. The officers tied Marcus to the horses and marched him down the path.

“Well, Marcus. I see that little has changed, eh? Still going where we shouldn’t go? Being a little rebel,” the Colonel’s tone intensified, “…being a stone in my boot? Look around, young Marcus, you may not see this place ever again.”

Marcus glanced around, looking at all the distraught faces of the villagers. Zion stood down the path at the edge of the bonfire. From where he stood, Marcus could see Zion’s tear reflecting the lit fire. Marcus turned to the Colonel. The Colonel had a wicked smile stretched across his face. He looked down at Marcus, and Marcus spat onto his face. The Colonel wiped the spit from his face with a cloth, and then spat onto Marcus’ face. Then Marcus marched away from the village, with his blood and the Colonel’s spit dripping down his face.

Chapter 2: Hindsight

            Coming from my shallow shelter, I surveyed the land that once was a world. Timber was ash, steal bent like string, fire spread like air, and the dead walked around like people. The society that had consumed itself with family values, political ideologies, and religious dogma had been stripped from is complexities and was now as barren as the building infrastructure. There were no skyscrapers, no tall, elegant buildings that architects prided their lives work to construct. Now they were bare, if they even stood at all.

            Walking around my neighborhood I searched for you, any sign that you were near. I wish you weren’t. I wish you were far away from this place. Children were screaming for their mothers, or just wishing they would die and end their suffering. A man walked up to me and asked if I was his father. I did think he could see because his skin had melted over his eyes. The heat was excruciating, it melted skin like cheese in a frying pan. Most people didn’t have eyes, they had been incinerated. I had never felt more helpless. I wish I had a pistol, and allowed myself to shoot anyone in the head who simply wanted to die. But I don’t think there would be enough bullets.

            Most people went to the river to drink. Bodies floated downstream like driftwood after a hurricane. It was almost as dark as the sky. I wanted to keep them away from the water, I wanted to save them, all of them. But who was I to tell them, in their suffering, they cannot drink water. It seemed trivial now, but all I could think was how polluted that water was with disease before, and how poisoned it was now. I sat there for a while, and watched the bodies float passed me like luggage at a baggage claim. Trying to see their faces, hoping one of them was not you. But in truth, I don’t think I would have been able to recognize you. People who I was called my dearest friends were the zombies walking among us.

I saw our neighbor, Mr. Jefferson, digging through the rubble of his home. He had been in his shelter too. And like me, he was alone, just him an d his guilt. I walked over to him and he asked me if he had seen his daughter. I didn’t, but I had a good idea of where she was. The school sat alongside the river. Now half of it was in the river, along with the students and teachers. I could not blame him for being hysterical, but he could blame me for being calm, I lament it to this day. She had been in school, with all the kids, hiding under desks in a feeble attempt to prevent the flash from raping their purity. After a while Mr. Jefferson realized her fate and he grabbed me and started to cry on my shoulder. We were the only two who could embrace without losing a piece of ourselves. So we sat down, amidst the fire and barren infrastructure, watching the bodies pass by until we could claim our luggage. That’s when the planes came.