The Salamander States
10-08-2004, 23:37
"A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it."
It was drizzling lightly that morning, the dark green clouds looming over the ruins. Had it only been six weeks since the War had started? Over twenty million dead already, but it didn't matter if you were drafted into service -- it was always the other man who died. Never you. People have committed suicide, been hit by cars, and have drowned -- but how many people do you know have actually perished in war?
Fractured. The war had fractured the nation and no one except perhaps a few cognizant politicians (and the Book People, maybe. But they're just anti-social bums, no one will pay attention to those slobs.) The west, the east, the midwest. All separate entities operating on their own. Communications had been impaired so badly that it was almost impossible to make a call from Chicago to someone St. Louis. But no one cared; they had their 'families' to comfort them and their Seashells to them what to think. The cities were still in their power, afterall. Their being fire. Clean-burning fire.
Rivers of blood flowed gently down the Mississippi and jet bombers boomed overhead. The war had only just started and there was plenty more bloodshed to be sugarcoated. Plenty of more anti-social lunatics to be doused in kerosene and then lit in a great orange flame along with the white feathers they had surrounded themselves with to keep the public entertained late at night. Lunatics, every single one of them. Insane, obviously. Elitists. Who were they to flaunt their intellect as if it was superior? As if everyone else was nothing?
****
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
One, two, three adventures.
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Four, five, six tragedies.
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Seven, eight, nine romances.
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Ten, eleven, twelve comedies.
Asimov. Stowe. Dickens.
Fiction. Nonfiction.
All engulfed in the pretty flames for them to gawk at. The flames crackled and the smell of kerosene floated through the sky; a perfume to some and a poison to others.
"You're under arrest."
****
"They can't be more than two miles from here. There's no where to run. We might as well turn ourselves in, Warner."
"Shut up you, fool. They're going to torch us anyway. They crave instant pleasure. We keep this race going on for long enough and they'll find patsies. Now. Run."
"You are under arrest. Turn yourselves in while you're ahead. You are under arrest," the monotone voice boomed.
They kept running.
"You are under arrest. There is no escape. Turn yourselves in immediately."
Run. Run. Run.
"If you do not surrender yourselves immediately, we will open fire. This is your last warning. You cannot escape the Hound nor can you escape us. There is no alternative. Surrender. Spare your lives. Now. One, two, three."
A burst of machine gun fire from above.
"Duck!"
Another burst came barreling down from the sky. Left and right. Right and left. The bullets pelted the ground in every direction. Scrambling, Warner stumbled. He hesistated as he fell to the ground.
"Get up!" cried his friend. "Now!" he pleaded.
One, two, three, four bullets. Five, six, seven bullets. Blood splattered across the street.
"Damnit," he said as he ran across the street, dodging the hundreds of bullets raining from the sky.
The Hound. Where is it? They said it was here.
There it was, barreling down the street towards him, its four-inch needle protruding from its muzzle carrying a deadly dose of procaine.
"Shit!" was all he could say.
The woods. Forty yards ahead. I can get away.
A mad dash. Bullets flying and a metallic canine from hell after him. Heaven, paradise, just forty yards away. A sharp piercing pain. His leg, two bullets. Cold blood trickling down.
Thirty yards.
Faster, faster, faster. The Hound did not feel fatigue, but he did. The needle stuck out of its muzzle, dripping with death. Its green-blue neon eyes flickered as it growled now. A mere ten feet behind him and not stopping.
Ten yards. If I reach the woods, maybe the Hound'll lose my scent among nature. Unlikely, but still, it's worth a shot. Besides, if they can't film me, the audience can't watch. That would be bad for them. Christ, he's nearly on top of me!
He jumped, hurling himself into the woods, rolling down a hill, and flying into the forest floor. Rolling, rolling, rolling. The Hound lept into the woods, its ravenous eyes flickering. He got up. How is leg hurt! There was a river somewhere nearby. It would provide ready means of quick transportation. But before he could run, the Hound tackled him.
PIERCING. PIERCING. The needle dug into his skin and into his veins. Its teeth tore and ripped. A deep scream. Its claws ripping his chest to shreds.
This is it. What's that?
Groping around with his one free hand, he felt a smooth, hard object. He picked it up and smashed it against the Hound's cranium. Sparks fluttered and the Hound fell limp. All he could hear was garbled segments of code repeating itself.
"Variable index002345 undefined. Return invalid."
The neon lights that were once glowing so bright were now dim. The procaine needle was still stuck in his shoulder. He pulled it out, wincing. His shoulder was numb. It had inject enough to numb him, but not enough to kill him.
Thank God. What was it?
He looked at the object he clenched in the palm of his hand. It was brown, smooth, hard, irregularly shaped.
What is it? I have its name on the tip of my tongue! R. Rock. That's it!
He was dizzy still so he sat down for a bit on a gnarled root. He took a good look at his surroundings. Trees, everywhere and a new smell he had never experienced. Several large rocks dotted the environment and orange and red leaves covered the ground like a large blanket. There was a bubbling brook directly behind with cool water running down it. He got up and took a little stroll towards the brook and dipped his hands (which were cupped) into the cool water. He splashed it on his face a few times.
Now. There's a river somewhere. I know it. I visited it here with Warner once. Oh, poor Warner!
Suddenly, he realized that there was something in his jeans pocket. He reached deep and pulled it out. A book! He had taken one with him before the chase. Subconsciously, of course, but he still had a book.
Tacitus it read. The Annals. The letters were in giant gold print on the black cover. He shoved the book back into his pants pocket. Later, he thought, later, I'll read it.
And then he suddenly realized that he had forgotten his own name.
It was drizzling lightly that morning, the dark green clouds looming over the ruins. Had it only been six weeks since the War had started? Over twenty million dead already, but it didn't matter if you were drafted into service -- it was always the other man who died. Never you. People have committed suicide, been hit by cars, and have drowned -- but how many people do you know have actually perished in war?
Fractured. The war had fractured the nation and no one except perhaps a few cognizant politicians (and the Book People, maybe. But they're just anti-social bums, no one will pay attention to those slobs.) The west, the east, the midwest. All separate entities operating on their own. Communications had been impaired so badly that it was almost impossible to make a call from Chicago to someone St. Louis. But no one cared; they had their 'families' to comfort them and their Seashells to them what to think. The cities were still in their power, afterall. Their being fire. Clean-burning fire.
Rivers of blood flowed gently down the Mississippi and jet bombers boomed overhead. The war had only just started and there was plenty more bloodshed to be sugarcoated. Plenty of more anti-social lunatics to be doused in kerosene and then lit in a great orange flame along with the white feathers they had surrounded themselves with to keep the public entertained late at night. Lunatics, every single one of them. Insane, obviously. Elitists. Who were they to flaunt their intellect as if it was superior? As if everyone else was nothing?
****
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
One, two, three adventures.
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Four, five, six tragedies.
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Seven, eight, nine romances.
"BURN! BURN! BURN!"
Ten, eleven, twelve comedies.
Asimov. Stowe. Dickens.
Fiction. Nonfiction.
All engulfed in the pretty flames for them to gawk at. The flames crackled and the smell of kerosene floated through the sky; a perfume to some and a poison to others.
"You're under arrest."
****
"They can't be more than two miles from here. There's no where to run. We might as well turn ourselves in, Warner."
"Shut up you, fool. They're going to torch us anyway. They crave instant pleasure. We keep this race going on for long enough and they'll find patsies. Now. Run."
"You are under arrest. Turn yourselves in while you're ahead. You are under arrest," the monotone voice boomed.
They kept running.
"You are under arrest. There is no escape. Turn yourselves in immediately."
Run. Run. Run.
"If you do not surrender yourselves immediately, we will open fire. This is your last warning. You cannot escape the Hound nor can you escape us. There is no alternative. Surrender. Spare your lives. Now. One, two, three."
A burst of machine gun fire from above.
"Duck!"
Another burst came barreling down from the sky. Left and right. Right and left. The bullets pelted the ground in every direction. Scrambling, Warner stumbled. He hesistated as he fell to the ground.
"Get up!" cried his friend. "Now!" he pleaded.
One, two, three, four bullets. Five, six, seven bullets. Blood splattered across the street.
"Damnit," he said as he ran across the street, dodging the hundreds of bullets raining from the sky.
The Hound. Where is it? They said it was here.
There it was, barreling down the street towards him, its four-inch needle protruding from its muzzle carrying a deadly dose of procaine.
"Shit!" was all he could say.
The woods. Forty yards ahead. I can get away.
A mad dash. Bullets flying and a metallic canine from hell after him. Heaven, paradise, just forty yards away. A sharp piercing pain. His leg, two bullets. Cold blood trickling down.
Thirty yards.
Faster, faster, faster. The Hound did not feel fatigue, but he did. The needle stuck out of its muzzle, dripping with death. Its green-blue neon eyes flickered as it growled now. A mere ten feet behind him and not stopping.
Ten yards. If I reach the woods, maybe the Hound'll lose my scent among nature. Unlikely, but still, it's worth a shot. Besides, if they can't film me, the audience can't watch. That would be bad for them. Christ, he's nearly on top of me!
He jumped, hurling himself into the woods, rolling down a hill, and flying into the forest floor. Rolling, rolling, rolling. The Hound lept into the woods, its ravenous eyes flickering. He got up. How is leg hurt! There was a river somewhere nearby. It would provide ready means of quick transportation. But before he could run, the Hound tackled him.
PIERCING. PIERCING. The needle dug into his skin and into his veins. Its teeth tore and ripped. A deep scream. Its claws ripping his chest to shreds.
This is it. What's that?
Groping around with his one free hand, he felt a smooth, hard object. He picked it up and smashed it against the Hound's cranium. Sparks fluttered and the Hound fell limp. All he could hear was garbled segments of code repeating itself.
"Variable index002345 undefined. Return invalid."
The neon lights that were once glowing so bright were now dim. The procaine needle was still stuck in his shoulder. He pulled it out, wincing. His shoulder was numb. It had inject enough to numb him, but not enough to kill him.
Thank God. What was it?
He looked at the object he clenched in the palm of his hand. It was brown, smooth, hard, irregularly shaped.
What is it? I have its name on the tip of my tongue! R. Rock. That's it!
He was dizzy still so he sat down for a bit on a gnarled root. He took a good look at his surroundings. Trees, everywhere and a new smell he had never experienced. Several large rocks dotted the environment and orange and red leaves covered the ground like a large blanket. There was a bubbling brook directly behind with cool water running down it. He got up and took a little stroll towards the brook and dipped his hands (which were cupped) into the cool water. He splashed it on his face a few times.
Now. There's a river somewhere. I know it. I visited it here with Warner once. Oh, poor Warner!
Suddenly, he realized that there was something in his jeans pocket. He reached deep and pulled it out. A book! He had taken one with him before the chase. Subconsciously, of course, but he still had a book.
Tacitus it read. The Annals. The letters were in giant gold print on the black cover. He shoved the book back into his pants pocket. Later, he thought, later, I'll read it.
And then he suddenly realized that he had forgotten his own name.