"Blame those French infees for stealing our Pinnacle tricolors in the first place!"
- Lev David Borenstein when someone pointed out the similarities between the flags of Metropolis and France
"What Madness Is This?" Volume II: Prophecies in the Dark
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
- Lev David Borenstein when someone pointed out the similarities between the flags of Metropolis and France
Here's some food for thought: We know that Mexico is going to have a really distinctive Yankee subculture, but what about the rest of the country? New England sounds like it's pretty close to OTL, albeit probably like 5x as arrogant due to their image as THE region from which the Yankee Goliath has sprung. But what about the rest? What does the Midwest and West look like? Is Canada an extension of New England, or is it distinctive? What's up in the South?
I know that's a lot to think about, but the sneak peeks of Old Mexico's vibe after the war have my brain turning.
I know that's a lot to think about, but the sneak peeks of Old Mexico's vibe after the war have my brain turning.
I'd imagine the Midwest and West are even more hardline AFC, given that the earliest waves of pioneers were following a holy call to head West and build towns, as for former California given that it was essentially swept clean it would depend on who made up the first bastions of the postwar settler population. Canada is most likely culturally New England Yankee due to sheer proximity (and California levels of Immolation), though a regional variance in accent probably survives, as Oswald is mentioned to have developed his mode of speech in part to overcome the surviving stigma of having descended from Canadians. The South is probably furthest from Yankeedom, honestly, given the much higher population of surviving Southrons relative to Californians/Canadians/Mexicans. It's also the birthplace of the blues so it has its own cultural output strong enough to spread throughout the country.
Hey, uh, I'm typing this at nearly 1AM after spending hours reading this thread after dropping off months ago during TPF, but I have to say, despite not looking into much of the TPF thread or the talkiebox videos, this is an amazing continuation, and I'm looking forward to more of this hellhole.
Wonder what'll happen to the German diaspora in South America once the war is over, alongside similar supposedly pinnacle blooded ethnic groups like the Japanese and Anglos in the region?
Steel has shown that he is not shy about killing pinnacle people if they defy him but he won't genocide most likely they are reeducated in the correct way of thinking then.
Interesting thought for Firebreather cigs: Find a way to tie in Kilgharrah, the mythical dragon of King Arthur's legends, into the story or branding.
Wanna pull out the Sword in Stone? Buy Firebreather cigs, the most Pinnacle cigars in all the Free World. Make your heart and blood run so fast, hospitals will take you in after several grams...
RISE OF THE SECOND PROPHET: HELL ON RAILS
This is a soft rewrite of two TPF chapters and is actually set and threadmarked before the last chapter involving Pennington's Revolt. I consider this information still vital and thought there were too many good or world-building lines to just use narrative only. It only will get crazier from here as we head to the Miracle of 37 and we'll soon get a MAJOR, MAJOR revelation about Pennington that'll make your hair stand up. Also, this update introduces the main timeline to the Metropolitan tunnel network. Imagine brutal, savage fighting between RUMP and the Overtons in the dark, art deco underworld of the city. It'd be sheer chaos.
Billy Graham and Andrew Philips arrived in Metropolis on June 30, 1937, after witnessing a riot and being fired upon by mobs of refugees in the hamlet of Willoughby just hours before, 15 miles outside of the city. It was in Willoughby that Graham first took it upon himself to claim ownership of the pearl-handled revolver in Andrew's suitcase, stuffing the gun under his jacket. And it would be not long after they got off the train in Metropolis that they would need it. But that's getting ahead of ourselves. We must first look at Graham and Andrew's relationship with a certain Mr. Chick Sheffield, whom they met on the train.
Sheffield was a Michiganian-born Great War veteran of the Black Hand Front and real estate magnate who was on his way to retrieve his asthmatic wife and get her to safety. He was quite fearful that she had been killed by looters or worse, as the wealthy neighborhood they lived in would surely be a prime target for anarchists and desperate people. Sheffield was keenly interested in religion and philosophy and formed an unlikely friendship with the two young Bible students following a disagreement over Biblical matters.
"The beauty of the American Experience lies, in its purest and most pinnaclean essence, in its capability to raise up the most humble among us to unparalleled greatness," Graham said, between sips of coffee black as night as they were a few miles out from that fateful last stop at Willoughby. "Every Jehovah-fearing Patriot who believes in Christ and Prophet can attain the righteous bounties of heaven. The Blind Christian Gentleman was a mere mage of Jehovah, stumbling around in the darkness and in poverty before he became one of the Fathers of our Country. Many will pass peacefully in their sleep--Patriot-Saints all!--worthy of every stepping-stone on those ethereal Golden Roads. But! John 15:13, AFC Standard Edition, clearly states that 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his comrades.'" Billy thumbed through his Bible and found the verse and pointed for emphasis after he quoted it from memory. "The Martyr Arnold laid down his life for his friend, the Prophet, may both rest in peace, but so did scores of our boys when they were gunned down during the Great War. So too does every RUMP officer when he is killed stopping a criminal. So too does the firefighter when he burns alive saving children from an apartment inferno. Arnold was the first, an example for all to emulate, but he was not and will not be the last martyr."
Andrew could tell the gravity of their current situation was weighing heavy upon Graham and he was using religious debate to calm his nerves. There were only a few other passengers on the train, as it was mostly carrying mail and cargo, but the few who were within earshot sat and listened to the discussion with interest, likely also to combat frayed nerves and entertain themselves. A few might have been listening in for reportable heresy, but they seemed mostly innocuous. "Billy," Andrew began his reply, thumbing through Manifestum, the First Book of Manifest Destiny which discussed the death of Arnold numerous times, "While I agree that all who lay down their lives for kith and kin are to be regarded with the utmost respect, Arnold is the One True Martyr, as he gave his life for our One True Prophet. It is open and shut to me, Billy."
Graham's temper seemed to flare. Although Andrew knew they were still the best of friends, he took religious debate very seriously, almost life or death, and Andrew couldn't think of a single time when his roommate changed his mind on any major doctrine or belief he held to be not only true, but self-evident. His voice raising, he flipped his Bible shut and stared Andrew down with piercing eyes. "Andrew, confound it, I know I am right on this and I will go to my grave defending the doctrine of New Martyrdom."
"Doesn't that essentially create a class system in Heaven?" asked a nearby eavesdropper, a gaunt old fellow with snowy white hair combed back neatly under a freshly-blocked brown snap-brimmed hat. "If all those who you say are 'martyrs' are indeed martyrs, what of it? Do they enjoy more of the fruits of heaven than the rest of us? I myself am likely too old for any heroic bravado, and I suppose very much that my death will come peacefully in my bed. But I fought in the Great War in my younger days and am devout in my beliefs and prayers. Will I not spend eternity shoulder-to-shoulder with a Patriot-Saint who dies in battle?"
Billy seemed happy to involve another party and he smiled and answered, "Well, mister, I reckon Revelation 20:4 will answer your question!" He quickly found the verse and read aloud, "'Then I saw thrones, and seated on them were those to whom the authority to judge was committed. Also I saw the souls of those who had been slain for the testimony of Jesus and for the Word, and those who had not worshiped the beast or its image and had not received its mark on their foreheads or their hands. They came to life and reigned with Christ for a thousand years.' Mister, it is plain and clear to me that those who fall in the Name of Christ and Prophet ascend to these Judgment Thrones, and in the next life they shall be the executors of Jehovah's Will. Yes, you shall experience the wonders of Heaven, but it shall be the Reverend-Colonels and the Martyrs, one and all, who shall rule and dictate and lead in worship the souls of the Chosen."
The old man furrowed his brow and scratched his chin before he replied. "Well, sonny, you have a lot more book-learnin' than this old vet, I reckon, but I just can't stand the idea that those who have lived a good, clean life like me and done our part will be lorded over by those who, unfortunately and sadly, died before their time." He took a drag from a cigar and looked out onto the horizon after he said this, a contemplative and depressed look on his face. "I saw men, my friends and brothers, mowed down like grass in their prime. If this doctrine of yours is true, perhaps I should have thrown myself into the Californian guns to entitle myself to these honors you speak of."
Andrew felt bad for the man, likely a picture-perfect dictionary definition of "survivor's guilt," and asked him politely, "What is your name, sir? Why are you makin' your way down here? I trust you know of the sootstorms by now."
"Chick Sheffield. Real estate is the name of my game. Born in Michigania, but I own property from Oxacre all the way up to Pacifica. And... yes, I am aware of the sootstorms. My wife Betsy called me the day before yesterday when I was in northern Texas signing a land deal, just before they cut the phone lines. We live in Metropolis, y'see. I'm headin' down to pick her up and bring her to our vacation home in the Goodyear Islands until this disaster is over. The ORRA men at the station told me she would be fine in Metropolis and that the sootstorms are overrated, but she has been battling asthma her whole life, so I think it's a good decision for us to simply take a tropical vacation."
"Trust in the Lord, Mr. Sheffield," Billy said, gesturing up at the ceiling. "I will pray for you and your wife to have a safe journey. Hopefully this will all be over soon and we can get back to normal." I nodded in agreement.
This seemed to soften Sheffield's opinion of Billy. "Well, thank you, son. What are you two young parsons after going south right now? Going to minister to the masses?"
Andrew shook his head and replied, "Actually, no. I'm Andrew Philips. My father Abednego runs the Circle P Ranch, just south of Metropolis, and I got a call saying he's real sick because of the dust. So I'm coming to run the farm in his stead and oversee repairs while he's on the mend-like. My friend Billy Graham here elected to come with me and lend a hand. Mighty kind of him to cut class to help a friend."
Sheffield smiled and said, "Indeed. That's mighty proper of him. Say, you fellows smelling what I have been smelling? Smells like sulfur."
Billy nodded briskly, adjusting himself in his seat and straightening his red tie. "Yeah, we smell it. Have since we woke up. You can almost taste it."
After a few more minutes of pleasantries with their new companion, the whistle blew and the train began to slow down. A porter in a navy blue suit and dark red cap entered the car, exclaiming, "Hear ye! Mail stop in Willoughby! Mail stop in Willoughby! Please remain seated for the duration of the stop! Again, please remain seated until the stop has concluded!" At that moment, armed guards from the back of the train entered through the door behind our trio, wearing laced-up black oxford boots, gray denim jumpsuits, and with drum-fed automatic grinders slung over their shoulders. They joined the porter, had a short conversation, and walked toward the front of the train as the wheels completely halted and the sound of steam expelling from various stacks could be heard.
Andrew shot a curious look at Billy, who simply shrugged and turned to look out his side of the train. "Probably just some valuable mail. Maybe a jeweler or something is sending a diamond north or the like."
Not at all satisfied by this reasoning, Andrew fired back, "But why would they ask us to remain in our seats? And Willoughby is hardly the kind of place that merits priceless cargo. Metropolis is only 15 miles south and that's where they would ship out valuable stuff."
"I don't know, my man. Maybe--" he was cut off by whatever he was staring at outside his window. "By the Prophet!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat. The picture that was greeting them was like something out of a Lucky Duck war film. Hundreds of people were milling through the little farming town of Willoughby in sheer panic, many with masks wrapped around their faces. The train station, made in the last century to accommodate perhaps 50 people, was filled to bursting with several hundred people, some sitting on piles of suitcases while others carried simple bags or nothing but the shirt on their back. Many were covered in a dusty black grime, fear shining out from eyes which were reddened and irritated, some with clean streaks down their cheeks from extended crying. This was especially true for the children, many of whom were hysterical and desperately clutching their parents. Still more older children seemed to be watching over their younger siblings and trying to keep them under control. RUMP officers and railway security forces desperately formed human barriers to hold the crowds back from the boarding area as sacks full of white and yellow envelopes were rushed by employees to the armored car of our train, located right behind the engine. But far more numerous than mail sacks were the stretchers full of wounded and battered troopers and law enforcement. The train definitely wasn't just picking up mail.
It was like nothing they had ever seen, a portrait in human misery. Many were coughing, retching dryly and trying their best to expel the soot from their lungs. Some had streaks of blood running down their lips from irritation. Someone threw an empty whiskey bottle at the RUMP officers and a jeering, screaming crowd pushed forward against the line of law enforcement. Most were pleading to be let on board the train while others were begging and warning us to turn around and go right back north. A RUMP man just outside Billy's window used a bolt action rifle to smack a refugee squarely in the head. With a burst of blood, the man's forehead split open and he went sailing backward onto the ground before his friends pulled him back into the crowd. An officer in a rather bedraggled uniform with gold braid stood atop a shipping container, megaphone in hand. The braid indicated he was a local chief, but his untucked shirttails and the stubble and look of sheer exhaustion on his face probably meant he hadn't slept in a long while. "Attention citizens! Step away from the train and follow all instructions! By order of the Republican Union Military Police, this train is off-limits for non-essential personnel! Please remain orderly or we will be forced to employ harsher methods!"
"Fuck you, copper!" shrieked a dry-throated hoarse young man at the front of the line.
A rain of more trash followed the expletive and the chief was hit squarely in the chest with a full bottle of Horton's Brand Pounded Tomato Paste Product. He fell to one knee, picking bits of glass and tomato glop from his uniform and swearing profusely. He raised the megaphone to his lips once more and exclaimed, "This is your final warning, comrades! By the power invested in the RU Military Police, I order you all to step back and disperse! Show respect to the Law or we will be forced to beat it into you!"
A rock came crashing through a window in the train car, sending glass flying. Everyone ducked down behind their seats. Andrew clutched his suitcase with white knuckles and raised it over his head to defend himself against other possible projectiles. Never in his life had he ever been this scared. Not even the one time he was twenty feet from a mountain lion as a boy on the Circle P Ranch came close to the level of fear he was currently feeling. He thought at any moment that they would be swarmed like an anthill by angry, sick refugees.
On the other side of the aisle, Billy calmly sat with his back against the wall, right under his window. Pointing at Andrew's suitcase, he mouthed the words, "The gun!" and then pointed at himself. Catching on quickly, Andrew shakily unlatched the case and pulled the silver revolver out from his belongings. Carefully, he slid it across the aisle to Billy, who quickly checked to see if it was loaded and then tucked it under his jacket, finger on the trigger.
A horseshoe then came flying into another pane of glass, severely lacerating another passenger's face down the aisle. Blood pouring out of his nose and down his cheeks, the passenger screamed out in pain.
"That's it!" bellowed the RUMP chief. "Men, disperse this crowd!"
It was at precisely this moment that everything went to hell in a handbasket. Shots rang out. Screams and shrieks of pain and anger reached a fever pitch, almost impossibly intolerable to the ears. Through the cacophony of noise our trio could tell that many of the rioters were fleeing for their lives, stampeding each other in the process. A cry of "For the Union!" could be heard, followed by a gunshot and a scream. The pattering intonations of hands desperately scratching against the side of the train car made it sound as if the entire train was going to be tipped over, rocking it the heavy car back and forth on the track. That was when the automatic bursts could be heard, likely the railway security men seen earlier. The sound of meat being torn open by a hail of bullets joined the chorus of apocalyptic noise.
"Push them back! Push them back!" shrieked the chief into the megaphone. "Fire at will!" Billy shot Andrew and Sheffield a look of absolute horror. They all knew children were dying out there. Billy drew the pistol out from under his jacket and cocked back the hammer. They sat there for another five minutes before the roar of the locomotive greeted them once more and the iron horse lurched forward. Slowly, they stood up and slumped back into their seats.
"My God!" exclaimed Sheffield as he pulled himself up off the floor as well. "That was horrifying! What the hell is going on down here!"
The door of the car was flung open and medics wearing gas masks and covered in soot were bringing in stretchers full of wounded officers down the main walkway, heading toward the sleeping berths. One medic oversaw the passenger who had been struck in the face and bandaged him up before heading back to his comrades. The porter from before came back into the car, his hat missing along with a sleeve of his jacket, and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience during that unfortunate incident. Smithers & Sons Railway has forms located in your ticket book for you to file injury claims. We will be in Metropolis in twenty minutes! Please remain seated till we arrive and follow all orders from security to maintain our continued safety! Thank you!"
Judging by how bad the formerly quaint little town of Willoughby had gotten thanks to this apocalypse, they all found it unlikely that Metropolis was going to be anything but a deeper circle of hell. They would be proven correct. The Sootstorms were wreaking absolute havoc in New Canaan and the rest of Old Mexico, and everyone knew that it was going to just get worse the closer and closer they got to Metropolis. That last leg of the journey to Metropolis was truly terrifying. The sky was darker, the taste of ash in was in their mouths, and streams of refugees--both on foot and in vehicles--lined the Destiny Road alongside the railway tracks. Desperate people in their hundreds slogged on, many blackened by soot and the hot sun burning down on them, contrasting to the burgeoning eldritch darkness ahead.
Most of the passengers in the train had caught wise by this point and had fashioned crude masks for themselves out of available fabrics or handkerchiefs. Chick Sheffield instructed them to soak them in water, an old trick he remembered from his California battles during the Great World War. Billy still sat fingering the revolver under his jacket, gazing with sadness at the masses out in the desert.
"'Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me," Billy quoted Psalm 23:4 almost without thinking. He seemed eerily calm at this point, more depressed than scared. This was the precise opposite of Andrew's feelings, where his faith in God was still strong but the anxiety was becoming overwhelming. He began to doubt the entire trip and whether or not his family was a lost cause, and he expressed such feelings. Billy turned to him, shook his head, clicked his tongue and said, "Andrew, it's too late to turn around now. We are up the creek without a paddle, quite seriously. But I also see this as a test." When Andrew inquired what he meant, he replied calmly, "A test, chum, like Job in his sackcloth, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the Fiery Furnace, or Christ in the Wilderness. The character of every Christian Pinnacle Man is forged not through an easy, complacent life but through hardship and sacrifice. Jehovah and Prophet are watching us now, to see how we will handle this adversity. And they are with us, verily. Let us not be afraid. Let us use this moment of tragedy to serve the Lord and glorify his name. Andy, are you with me?"
Andrew was so proud of his friend, who was showing himself to be a great man in this time of crisis. Smiling under his mask, he shook his hand firmly and with conviction and declared proudly, "Let us prove our fluidation, brother. I am with you."
It was around noon when the train pulled into Metropolis Station. It was completely empty, much to our protagonists surprise, aside from a defending garrison of ORRA officers and a handful of Military Police. The air was intolerable even beneath the rag masks, and it was no surprise to see every nearby trooper sporting a military-grade gasmask. The floors of the station were littered with detritus and overturned benches, chairs, and equipment. Bloodstains, spent shell casings, and the subtle tinge of gunpowder in the air proved that fighting had occurred in the not too distant past. As the train finally lurched to a stop, they prepared to disembark, but they were left waiting awkwardly for several long, quiet minutes after two officers climbed aboard the main engine and quietly discussed something with the driver. Finally, the porter entered the room, visibly shaken. Sporting his own impromptu mask, he bellowed, "Last stop, Metropolis! Please follow all orders from security and government personnel. This is a civil emergency! Again, please disembark the train now or you will be forcibly removed to make room for wounded and essential personnel. Smithers and Sons Railways apologizes for this unfortunate situation. Our Board of Directors wishes to offer each and every single one of you a free train ticket of your choice at a later date if you mail in your current stub to the Smithers and Sons Customer Relations address found in the back of your ticket book. Thank you for riding Smithers and Sons Railways and always remember the jingle of the Dancing Frog, 'Smithers and Sons! Smithers and Sons! Affordable travel for everyone!'"
After that -extremely- awkward sing-song plug, everyone grabbed their bags and were headed out onto the concrete floor of the indoor train station. Immediately a line formed for the twenty-some passengers while several ORRA officers checked S.I.N. numbers and other information. Andrew took his wallet out and readied his papers and stepped up to the counter. A blonde-haired man in a dusty khaki uniform and a pinch-crown hat stare at him through the lenses of his gasmask. A name-tag below his small collection of peacetime medals read "CAPTAIN A. CARPENTER."
"All hail. S.I.N., please, sir," he said without emotion, almost as if he were an android from a Zap Zephyr comic. After a customary salute, Andrew handed him his papers, which he quickly approved. "Purpose of your visit?" he asked.
"Coming to help my father. He's gotten sick from the sootstorms and I need to help him run the family ranch."
His head cocked as if surprised. "Sootstorms?"
"Y-yeah," Andrew said, shrugging awkwardly. "You know, the reason we're all wearing masks and why the sky is gray?"
He straightened out as if still trying to mentally masticate what he was being told, as if he had said the moon was made of cheese. "There are no sootstorms, sir. Nosireebob. Not in Metropolis, the glorious City of Tomorrow."
Andrew stared at him dumbfounded. It was his turn to tilt his head and give a bewildered look. "What? Look, my good man, I'm not stupid and I'm not sure if you're all there right now. I know this has been a stressful time for everyone. But I am here for my family and I'm here to help them during this time of crisis."
Captain Carpenter didn't so much as blink. "Sir," he began again, "there is no such thing as a sootstorm. If the weather is anything but sunny, it is due to the sometimes volatile monsoon season of this region. Only defeatist Neuties spread disinformation about 100-foot tall walls of soot and these rumors are not only detrimental to the war effort but patently false and untrue. It is my duty as a patriot and Captain in the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs to inform you that the government of the Republican Union does not take kindly to the spread of demoralizing enemy propaganda, even if you may be a minister in training. My respect for your vocational calling is the only thing letting you walk out of here without being detained for spouting subversive heathen defeatism."
Andrew's mouth was agape with a combination of shocking realization and terror. "Of... of course, Captain. Thank you," he quietly murmured.
Behind the gas mask, Carpenter smiled. "Good stuff, pardner! Alright, sir, your information lines up and you are free to advance to the main atrium, where you will be briefed by security personnel before enjoying your visit to our rootin-tootin' city. All hail!"
Never so fast in his life had Andrew Philips returned a salute, his shaking, sheet-white hands desperately seizing his wallet and ticket book back and making way for Graham. Andrew proceeded, bag in hand, to the atrium, where the rest of his fellow passengers sat on wooden benches surrounded by armed guards. He noticed Chick Sheffield sitting alone so decided to keep him company. He nodded and seemed glad to have a friend. "You get the same speech I did, Chick?" the Bible student asked quietly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Chick turned his head, his face covered with a silk scarf and his eyes peeking out under the brim of his hat, and he replied with a slight tremor in his voice, "What speech?"
Wiping the sweat from his brow with a spare sock from his suitcase, Andrew answered, "The speech about there not being any sootstorms."
"Sootstorms?" he asked, sounding puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't seen weather this fine since last I visited the Goodyear Islands, my good man."
"Wha-?" Andrew cut himself off. He realized what was happening quickly and shut his mouth before he could even finish the first word. "Yes," he agreed, monotone. "Just lovely weather we have here. I'm not sure what came over me, sir. A thousand pardons, Chick."
Chick shot him another fearful glance and took a small bottle of pills out of his bag and popped the cap off, pouring three small white capsules out before swallowing them dry. "For my nerves. Doctors say my heart can't take much stress, and you know how stressful, uh... travel... like this can be. Not that there is anything wrong, of course. Why, this trip is veritably pinnacle. Say, would you and your other young minister friend need a traveling companion, by chance?"
Andrew contemplated for a moment. Chick seemed as if he were a genuinely nice old man, and he couldn't bear to say no to him. He knew he was actually asking for protection from whatever looters or rioters might lay outside the train station and quickly told him he could join the duo. The future Apostle caught a stone-faced Billy up to speed when he entered the atrium. He welcomed Chick with open arms. Looking back in later years, Andrew couldn't help but wonder if he just wanted a theological punching bag around to put himself at ease and make him still feel in control.
Little did they know at this time--and they wouldn't know until years later when they received high-level security clearances in Union government--that on the other side of the train station dozens of bodies from Willoughby were being unloaded from their former ride. Medics and ORRA officers were removing dogtags and personal effects and taking them down into the furnace room in the basement and hurling the bodies in feet-first. The cemeteries couldn't keep up anymore with the overflow of bodies from both Manifest Climax and those who died from the sootstorms, and refrigerator trucks and train cars were needed to transport essential food and medical supplies in the equatorial heat of summer. Those who were wounded and still possibly able to pull through were whisked away into the Metropolis Catacombs, a feature of the "City of Tomorrow" designed by ORRA themselves after the Immolation of Mexico late last century, and partially built from a series of tunnels dating back to the Aztecs. These secret passages were available only to government personnel and also led directly to hospitals and RUMP offices all over the city. A neat, modern system for quiet, quick arrests and patrols.
After all the passengers had been seated in the atrium, a gas-mask sporting officer with a megaphone addressed them. His face was sunken, and his right hand was a riding crop and silver concho spurs jangled against the floor. He addressed them all with a stern face. "All hail, y'all. Please continue to cooperate with law enforcement. There has been an unfortunate upswing in... violence by street thugs and, while we are definitely getting it under control, we ask you please stay on main thoroughfares and avoid back alleys or areas off the beaten path. We are also battlin' rumors that this here City of Tomorrow is being sub-jected to some kinda dust storm, which isn't true at all and is defeatist propaganda of the highest order. What we are experiencing is typical monsoon season conditions of a sunny, subtropical breadbasket. This is what you will convey to your friends and family and neighbors. This is what you will say over the phone or in your letters. This is God's honest truth. Over the last few days, this kinda bullshit has been piped along the information highway as part of an effort to undermine our boys in South America fightin' for our freedom and destiny. I don't need to remind y'all that the penalty for the uttering and publishing of enemy propaganda after being warned by government authorities of its origin is 20 years hard labor. Now, Jehovah bless y'all, and all hail! Sergeant Hodge! Open the doors!"
A husky young man rushed over to the giant doors, at least twenty feet tall, that led out of the station. With some effort, the portly sergeant unbolted the lock. Carefully, our heroes all began to walk out into the former bustling heart of Metropolis's main drag. They gasped at the sight before them. Metropolis was burning. Papers and ash were falling from the sky as several high-rises belched out black smoke to the heavens, not unlike the fiery sacrificial pyramids of the ancient savages who once dwelt in the same place. Groups of civilians ran hither and thither, seemingly trying to avoid attention. Cars were parked at all angles all along the garbage-covered streets and some vehicles were even tipped over onto their sides or showed signs of vandalism and fire damage. A tower not half a block from them was burning like a torch, and several firetrucks were parked here and there as their crews tried to extinguish the inferno. It looked like a scene from Revelation. The only thing absent was the roving gangs of active rioters our trio firmly expected to see. They guessed that they had already gone into hiding or fled the city. Little did they know that Metropolis had called in every available member of law enforcement in the state to the big city to fight them the day before, and hundreds had been killed en masse. The streets were empty, at least for now in the broad daylight hours.
Graham turned to Chick and said, "You said your wife is here in town? I say we find her first and then head south to the Circle P, if that's alright with Andy here."
Andrew quickly nodded in agreement. "That's fine by me," he stated. "I don't think an older woman should be out in this sort of, uh, 'sunny monsoon' weather."
Chick nodded. "Yes, all right. She's at the family home on 22nd and Johnson. God, I hope she's safe."
"Why wouldn't she be safe, Chick?" Billy asked through gritted teeth, his eyes saying all he needed to say.
Chick turned white. "Oh, yes, I'm sure she's fine. Just anxious to see her again and all." When the three comrades approached the stately mansion at 22nd and Johnson, Billy and Andrew looked at each other nervously. The side of the white structure had obviously seen massive fire damage. Several bodies of random looters decorated the front lawn. "Oh, God! Norma! My home!" Chick fell to his knees. "I'm too late."
"I SWEAR I'LL KILL THE FIRST SONOFABITCH WHO STEPS FOOT ON MY PROPERTY!" came a shrill battle cry from inside the house. Billy whipped out that single communal revolver and all three men hit the dirt. To their amazement, a young woman with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes stared out at them behind the barrel of an old bolt-action rifle, a relic of the last war. Her face was blackened both by the storms and the gunpowder from the battle she had obviously been fighting against looters for who knows how long. She was wearing a silver silk blouse that at one time would have been expensive and exquisite before the current stains and tears had ruined it. She paired it with some double-buttoned black sailor-style pants that came up high on her waist. When she realized who she was looking at, she lowered the rifle and sighed, slumping against the door frame. "Chicky-baby, you know what this kinda bull-hockey does to my asthma! Get me the hell away from this place!"
Chick wiped away his tears and went running as fast as his aging legs could take him toward his young wife. Billy and Andrew stared slack-jawed at each other. "Oh, Norma! Jehovah be praised, you're safe!" Chick blubbered, holding her tight as she dropped the rifle.
"Thanks to your old field piece, Chicky," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. "If you could kill some Californian Bonapartists with it I figured I could lick a few common criminals."
"Well, that's not what I was expecting. Pardon me and nothing against Brother Chick but I sorta expected to find a dead old grandmother, not this, uh... interesting young woman," Billy said to Andrew out of the married couple's earshot, his sandy-colored eyebrows raising as high as he could get them.
Andrew laughed quietly and told him, "I guess you don't run a massive real estate company without proving your, um... 'fluidation' in other ways, Billy. C'mon, let's get them packed up and get the heck out of here and find my folks."
"Amen, Andy," Billy said, once again packing the revolver away under his jacket. "Amen." He shot a strange look at Chick's wife, scratching his head. Andrew didn't like the look and it seemed uncharacteristic of him at the time to care much about women, especially gun-toting, cursing women, but the future Apostle instantly had a bad feeling about it. He sighed. He didn't think his life could get much worse, but he didn't want to test that theory...
RISE OF THE SECOND PROPHET:
HELL ON RAILS
The City of Tomorrow Train Station Atrium, circa 1935
HELL ON RAILS
The City of Tomorrow Train Station Atrium, circa 1935
Billy Graham and Andrew Philips arrived in Metropolis on June 30, 1937, after witnessing a riot and being fired upon by mobs of refugees in the hamlet of Willoughby just hours before, 15 miles outside of the city. It was in Willoughby that Graham first took it upon himself to claim ownership of the pearl-handled revolver in Andrew's suitcase, stuffing the gun under his jacket. And it would be not long after they got off the train in Metropolis that they would need it. But that's getting ahead of ourselves. We must first look at Graham and Andrew's relationship with a certain Mr. Chick Sheffield, whom they met on the train.
Sheffield was a Michiganian-born Great War veteran of the Black Hand Front and real estate magnate who was on his way to retrieve his asthmatic wife and get her to safety. He was quite fearful that she had been killed by looters or worse, as the wealthy neighborhood they lived in would surely be a prime target for anarchists and desperate people. Sheffield was keenly interested in religion and philosophy and formed an unlikely friendship with the two young Bible students following a disagreement over Biblical matters.
"The beauty of the American Experience lies, in its purest and most pinnaclean essence, in its capability to raise up the most humble among us to unparalleled greatness," Graham said, between sips of coffee black as night as they were a few miles out from that fateful last stop at Willoughby. "Every Jehovah-fearing Patriot who believes in Christ and Prophet can attain the righteous bounties of heaven. The Blind Christian Gentleman was a mere mage of Jehovah, stumbling around in the darkness and in poverty before he became one of the Fathers of our Country. Many will pass peacefully in their sleep--Patriot-Saints all!--worthy of every stepping-stone on those ethereal Golden Roads. But! John 15:13, AFC Standard Edition, clearly states that 'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his comrades.'" Billy thumbed through his Bible and found the verse and pointed for emphasis after he quoted it from memory. "The Martyr Arnold laid down his life for his friend, the Prophet, may both rest in peace, but so did scores of our boys when they were gunned down during the Great War. So too does every RUMP officer when he is killed stopping a criminal. So too does the firefighter when he burns alive saving children from an apartment inferno. Arnold was the first, an example for all to emulate, but he was not and will not be the last martyr."
Andrew could tell the gravity of their current situation was weighing heavy upon Graham and he was using religious debate to calm his nerves. There were only a few other passengers on the train, as it was mostly carrying mail and cargo, but the few who were within earshot sat and listened to the discussion with interest, likely also to combat frayed nerves and entertain themselves. A few might have been listening in for reportable heresy, but they seemed mostly innocuous. "Billy," Andrew began his reply, thumbing through Manifestum, the First Book of Manifest Destiny which discussed the death of Arnold numerous times, "While I agree that all who lay down their lives for kith and kin are to be regarded with the utmost respect, Arnold is the One True Martyr, as he gave his life for our One True Prophet. It is open and shut to me, Billy."
Graham's temper seemed to flare. Although Andrew knew they were still the best of friends, he took religious debate very seriously, almost life or death, and Andrew couldn't think of a single time when his roommate changed his mind on any major doctrine or belief he held to be not only true, but self-evident. His voice raising, he flipped his Bible shut and stared Andrew down with piercing eyes. "Andrew, confound it, I know I am right on this and I will go to my grave defending the doctrine of New Martyrdom."
"Doesn't that essentially create a class system in Heaven?" asked a nearby eavesdropper, a gaunt old fellow with snowy white hair combed back neatly under a freshly-blocked brown snap-brimmed hat. "If all those who you say are 'martyrs' are indeed martyrs, what of it? Do they enjoy more of the fruits of heaven than the rest of us? I myself am likely too old for any heroic bravado, and I suppose very much that my death will come peacefully in my bed. But I fought in the Great War in my younger days and am devout in my beliefs and prayers. Will I not spend eternity shoulder-to-shoulder with a Patriot-Saint who dies in battle?"
Billy seemed happy to involve another party and he smiled and answered, "Well, mister, I reckon Revelation 20:4 will answer your question!" He quickly found the verse and read aloud, "'Then I saw thrones, and seated on them were those to whom the authority to judge was committed. Also I saw the souls of those who had been slain for the testimony of Jesus and for the Word, and those who had not worshiped the beast or its image and had not received its mark on their foreheads or their hands. They came to life and reigned with Christ for a thousand years.' Mister, it is plain and clear to me that those who fall in the Name of Christ and Prophet ascend to these Judgment Thrones, and in the next life they shall be the executors of Jehovah's Will. Yes, you shall experience the wonders of Heaven, but it shall be the Reverend-Colonels and the Martyrs, one and all, who shall rule and dictate and lead in worship the souls of the Chosen."
The old man furrowed his brow and scratched his chin before he replied. "Well, sonny, you have a lot more book-learnin' than this old vet, I reckon, but I just can't stand the idea that those who have lived a good, clean life like me and done our part will be lorded over by those who, unfortunately and sadly, died before their time." He took a drag from a cigar and looked out onto the horizon after he said this, a contemplative and depressed look on his face. "I saw men, my friends and brothers, mowed down like grass in their prime. If this doctrine of yours is true, perhaps I should have thrown myself into the Californian guns to entitle myself to these honors you speak of."
Andrew felt bad for the man, likely a picture-perfect dictionary definition of "survivor's guilt," and asked him politely, "What is your name, sir? Why are you makin' your way down here? I trust you know of the sootstorms by now."
"Chick Sheffield. Real estate is the name of my game. Born in Michigania, but I own property from Oxacre all the way up to Pacifica. And... yes, I am aware of the sootstorms. My wife Betsy called me the day before yesterday when I was in northern Texas signing a land deal, just before they cut the phone lines. We live in Metropolis, y'see. I'm headin' down to pick her up and bring her to our vacation home in the Goodyear Islands until this disaster is over. The ORRA men at the station told me she would be fine in Metropolis and that the sootstorms are overrated, but she has been battling asthma her whole life, so I think it's a good decision for us to simply take a tropical vacation."
"Trust in the Lord, Mr. Sheffield," Billy said, gesturing up at the ceiling. "I will pray for you and your wife to have a safe journey. Hopefully this will all be over soon and we can get back to normal." I nodded in agreement.
This seemed to soften Sheffield's opinion of Billy. "Well, thank you, son. What are you two young parsons after going south right now? Going to minister to the masses?"
Andrew shook his head and replied, "Actually, no. I'm Andrew Philips. My father Abednego runs the Circle P Ranch, just south of Metropolis, and I got a call saying he's real sick because of the dust. So I'm coming to run the farm in his stead and oversee repairs while he's on the mend-like. My friend Billy Graham here elected to come with me and lend a hand. Mighty kind of him to cut class to help a friend."
Sheffield smiled and said, "Indeed. That's mighty proper of him. Say, you fellows smelling what I have been smelling? Smells like sulfur."
Billy nodded briskly, adjusting himself in his seat and straightening his red tie. "Yeah, we smell it. Have since we woke up. You can almost taste it."
After a few more minutes of pleasantries with their new companion, the whistle blew and the train began to slow down. A porter in a navy blue suit and dark red cap entered the car, exclaiming, "Hear ye! Mail stop in Willoughby! Mail stop in Willoughby! Please remain seated for the duration of the stop! Again, please remain seated until the stop has concluded!" At that moment, armed guards from the back of the train entered through the door behind our trio, wearing laced-up black oxford boots, gray denim jumpsuits, and with drum-fed automatic grinders slung over their shoulders. They joined the porter, had a short conversation, and walked toward the front of the train as the wheels completely halted and the sound of steam expelling from various stacks could be heard.
Andrew shot a curious look at Billy, who simply shrugged and turned to look out his side of the train. "Probably just some valuable mail. Maybe a jeweler or something is sending a diamond north or the like."
Not at all satisfied by this reasoning, Andrew fired back, "But why would they ask us to remain in our seats? And Willoughby is hardly the kind of place that merits priceless cargo. Metropolis is only 15 miles south and that's where they would ship out valuable stuff."
"I don't know, my man. Maybe--" he was cut off by whatever he was staring at outside his window. "By the Prophet!" he exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his seat. The picture that was greeting them was like something out of a Lucky Duck war film. Hundreds of people were milling through the little farming town of Willoughby in sheer panic, many with masks wrapped around their faces. The train station, made in the last century to accommodate perhaps 50 people, was filled to bursting with several hundred people, some sitting on piles of suitcases while others carried simple bags or nothing but the shirt on their back. Many were covered in a dusty black grime, fear shining out from eyes which were reddened and irritated, some with clean streaks down their cheeks from extended crying. This was especially true for the children, many of whom were hysterical and desperately clutching their parents. Still more older children seemed to be watching over their younger siblings and trying to keep them under control. RUMP officers and railway security forces desperately formed human barriers to hold the crowds back from the boarding area as sacks full of white and yellow envelopes were rushed by employees to the armored car of our train, located right behind the engine. But far more numerous than mail sacks were the stretchers full of wounded and battered troopers and law enforcement. The train definitely wasn't just picking up mail.
It was like nothing they had ever seen, a portrait in human misery. Many were coughing, retching dryly and trying their best to expel the soot from their lungs. Some had streaks of blood running down their lips from irritation. Someone threw an empty whiskey bottle at the RUMP officers and a jeering, screaming crowd pushed forward against the line of law enforcement. Most were pleading to be let on board the train while others were begging and warning us to turn around and go right back north. A RUMP man just outside Billy's window used a bolt action rifle to smack a refugee squarely in the head. With a burst of blood, the man's forehead split open and he went sailing backward onto the ground before his friends pulled him back into the crowd. An officer in a rather bedraggled uniform with gold braid stood atop a shipping container, megaphone in hand. The braid indicated he was a local chief, but his untucked shirttails and the stubble and look of sheer exhaustion on his face probably meant he hadn't slept in a long while. "Attention citizens! Step away from the train and follow all instructions! By order of the Republican Union Military Police, this train is off-limits for non-essential personnel! Please remain orderly or we will be forced to employ harsher methods!"
"Fuck you, copper!" shrieked a dry-throated hoarse young man at the front of the line.
A rain of more trash followed the expletive and the chief was hit squarely in the chest with a full bottle of Horton's Brand Pounded Tomato Paste Product. He fell to one knee, picking bits of glass and tomato glop from his uniform and swearing profusely. He raised the megaphone to his lips once more and exclaimed, "This is your final warning, comrades! By the power invested in the RU Military Police, I order you all to step back and disperse! Show respect to the Law or we will be forced to beat it into you!"
A rock came crashing through a window in the train car, sending glass flying. Everyone ducked down behind their seats. Andrew clutched his suitcase with white knuckles and raised it over his head to defend himself against other possible projectiles. Never in his life had he ever been this scared. Not even the one time he was twenty feet from a mountain lion as a boy on the Circle P Ranch came close to the level of fear he was currently feeling. He thought at any moment that they would be swarmed like an anthill by angry, sick refugees.
On the other side of the aisle, Billy calmly sat with his back against the wall, right under his window. Pointing at Andrew's suitcase, he mouthed the words, "The gun!" and then pointed at himself. Catching on quickly, Andrew shakily unlatched the case and pulled the silver revolver out from his belongings. Carefully, he slid it across the aisle to Billy, who quickly checked to see if it was loaded and then tucked it under his jacket, finger on the trigger.
A horseshoe then came flying into another pane of glass, severely lacerating another passenger's face down the aisle. Blood pouring out of his nose and down his cheeks, the passenger screamed out in pain.
"That's it!" bellowed the RUMP chief. "Men, disperse this crowd!"
It was at precisely this moment that everything went to hell in a handbasket. Shots rang out. Screams and shrieks of pain and anger reached a fever pitch, almost impossibly intolerable to the ears. Through the cacophony of noise our trio could tell that many of the rioters were fleeing for their lives, stampeding each other in the process. A cry of "For the Union!" could be heard, followed by a gunshot and a scream. The pattering intonations of hands desperately scratching against the side of the train car made it sound as if the entire train was going to be tipped over, rocking it the heavy car back and forth on the track. That was when the automatic bursts could be heard, likely the railway security men seen earlier. The sound of meat being torn open by a hail of bullets joined the chorus of apocalyptic noise.
"Push them back! Push them back!" shrieked the chief into the megaphone. "Fire at will!" Billy shot Andrew and Sheffield a look of absolute horror. They all knew children were dying out there. Billy drew the pistol out from under his jacket and cocked back the hammer. They sat there for another five minutes before the roar of the locomotive greeted them once more and the iron horse lurched forward. Slowly, they stood up and slumped back into their seats.
"My God!" exclaimed Sheffield as he pulled himself up off the floor as well. "That was horrifying! What the hell is going on down here!"
The door of the car was flung open and medics wearing gas masks and covered in soot were bringing in stretchers full of wounded officers down the main walkway, heading toward the sleeping berths. One medic oversaw the passenger who had been struck in the face and bandaged him up before heading back to his comrades. The porter from before came back into the car, his hat missing along with a sleeve of his jacket, and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience during that unfortunate incident. Smithers & Sons Railway has forms located in your ticket book for you to file injury claims. We will be in Metropolis in twenty minutes! Please remain seated till we arrive and follow all orders from security to maintain our continued safety! Thank you!"
Judging by how bad the formerly quaint little town of Willoughby had gotten thanks to this apocalypse, they all found it unlikely that Metropolis was going to be anything but a deeper circle of hell. They would be proven correct. The Sootstorms were wreaking absolute havoc in New Canaan and the rest of Old Mexico, and everyone knew that it was going to just get worse the closer and closer they got to Metropolis. That last leg of the journey to Metropolis was truly terrifying. The sky was darker, the taste of ash in was in their mouths, and streams of refugees--both on foot and in vehicles--lined the Destiny Road alongside the railway tracks. Desperate people in their hundreds slogged on, many blackened by soot and the hot sun burning down on them, contrasting to the burgeoning eldritch darkness ahead.
Most of the passengers in the train had caught wise by this point and had fashioned crude masks for themselves out of available fabrics or handkerchiefs. Chick Sheffield instructed them to soak them in water, an old trick he remembered from his California battles during the Great World War. Billy still sat fingering the revolver under his jacket, gazing with sadness at the masses out in the desert.
"'Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me," Billy quoted Psalm 23:4 almost without thinking. He seemed eerily calm at this point, more depressed than scared. This was the precise opposite of Andrew's feelings, where his faith in God was still strong but the anxiety was becoming overwhelming. He began to doubt the entire trip and whether or not his family was a lost cause, and he expressed such feelings. Billy turned to him, shook his head, clicked his tongue and said, "Andrew, it's too late to turn around now. We are up the creek without a paddle, quite seriously. But I also see this as a test." When Andrew inquired what he meant, he replied calmly, "A test, chum, like Job in his sackcloth, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the Fiery Furnace, or Christ in the Wilderness. The character of every Christian Pinnacle Man is forged not through an easy, complacent life but through hardship and sacrifice. Jehovah and Prophet are watching us now, to see how we will handle this adversity. And they are with us, verily. Let us not be afraid. Let us use this moment of tragedy to serve the Lord and glorify his name. Andy, are you with me?"
Andrew was so proud of his friend, who was showing himself to be a great man in this time of crisis. Smiling under his mask, he shook his hand firmly and with conviction and declared proudly, "Let us prove our fluidation, brother. I am with you."
It was around noon when the train pulled into Metropolis Station. It was completely empty, much to our protagonists surprise, aside from a defending garrison of ORRA officers and a handful of Military Police. The air was intolerable even beneath the rag masks, and it was no surprise to see every nearby trooper sporting a military-grade gasmask. The floors of the station were littered with detritus and overturned benches, chairs, and equipment. Bloodstains, spent shell casings, and the subtle tinge of gunpowder in the air proved that fighting had occurred in the not too distant past. As the train finally lurched to a stop, they prepared to disembark, but they were left waiting awkwardly for several long, quiet minutes after two officers climbed aboard the main engine and quietly discussed something with the driver. Finally, the porter entered the room, visibly shaken. Sporting his own impromptu mask, he bellowed, "Last stop, Metropolis! Please follow all orders from security and government personnel. This is a civil emergency! Again, please disembark the train now or you will be forcibly removed to make room for wounded and essential personnel. Smithers and Sons Railways apologizes for this unfortunate situation. Our Board of Directors wishes to offer each and every single one of you a free train ticket of your choice at a later date if you mail in your current stub to the Smithers and Sons Customer Relations address found in the back of your ticket book. Thank you for riding Smithers and Sons Railways and always remember the jingle of the Dancing Frog, 'Smithers and Sons! Smithers and Sons! Affordable travel for everyone!'"
After that -extremely- awkward sing-song plug, everyone grabbed their bags and were headed out onto the concrete floor of the indoor train station. Immediately a line formed for the twenty-some passengers while several ORRA officers checked S.I.N. numbers and other information. Andrew took his wallet out and readied his papers and stepped up to the counter. A blonde-haired man in a dusty khaki uniform and a pinch-crown hat stare at him through the lenses of his gasmask. A name-tag below his small collection of peacetime medals read "CAPTAIN A. CARPENTER."
"All hail. S.I.N., please, sir," he said without emotion, almost as if he were an android from a Zap Zephyr comic. After a customary salute, Andrew handed him his papers, which he quickly approved. "Purpose of your visit?" he asked.
"Coming to help my father. He's gotten sick from the sootstorms and I need to help him run the family ranch."
His head cocked as if surprised. "Sootstorms?"
"Y-yeah," Andrew said, shrugging awkwardly. "You know, the reason we're all wearing masks and why the sky is gray?"
He straightened out as if still trying to mentally masticate what he was being told, as if he had said the moon was made of cheese. "There are no sootstorms, sir. Nosireebob. Not in Metropolis, the glorious City of Tomorrow."
Andrew stared at him dumbfounded. It was his turn to tilt his head and give a bewildered look. "What? Look, my good man, I'm not stupid and I'm not sure if you're all there right now. I know this has been a stressful time for everyone. But I am here for my family and I'm here to help them during this time of crisis."
Captain Carpenter didn't so much as blink. "Sir," he began again, "there is no such thing as a sootstorm. If the weather is anything but sunny, it is due to the sometimes volatile monsoon season of this region. Only defeatist Neuties spread disinformation about 100-foot tall walls of soot and these rumors are not only detrimental to the war effort but patently false and untrue. It is my duty as a patriot and Captain in the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs to inform you that the government of the Republican Union does not take kindly to the spread of demoralizing enemy propaganda, even if you may be a minister in training. My respect for your vocational calling is the only thing letting you walk out of here without being detained for spouting subversive heathen defeatism."
Andrew's mouth was agape with a combination of shocking realization and terror. "Of... of course, Captain. Thank you," he quietly murmured.
Behind the gas mask, Carpenter smiled. "Good stuff, pardner! Alright, sir, your information lines up and you are free to advance to the main atrium, where you will be briefed by security personnel before enjoying your visit to our rootin-tootin' city. All hail!"
Never so fast in his life had Andrew Philips returned a salute, his shaking, sheet-white hands desperately seizing his wallet and ticket book back and making way for Graham. Andrew proceeded, bag in hand, to the atrium, where the rest of his fellow passengers sat on wooden benches surrounded by armed guards. He noticed Chick Sheffield sitting alone so decided to keep him company. He nodded and seemed glad to have a friend. "You get the same speech I did, Chick?" the Bible student asked quietly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
Chick turned his head, his face covered with a silk scarf and his eyes peeking out under the brim of his hat, and he replied with a slight tremor in his voice, "What speech?"
Wiping the sweat from his brow with a spare sock from his suitcase, Andrew answered, "The speech about there not being any sootstorms."
"Sootstorms?" he asked, sounding puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't seen weather this fine since last I visited the Goodyear Islands, my good man."
"Wha-?" Andrew cut himself off. He realized what was happening quickly and shut his mouth before he could even finish the first word. "Yes," he agreed, monotone. "Just lovely weather we have here. I'm not sure what came over me, sir. A thousand pardons, Chick."
Chick shot him another fearful glance and took a small bottle of pills out of his bag and popped the cap off, pouring three small white capsules out before swallowing them dry. "For my nerves. Doctors say my heart can't take much stress, and you know how stressful, uh... travel... like this can be. Not that there is anything wrong, of course. Why, this trip is veritably pinnacle. Say, would you and your other young minister friend need a traveling companion, by chance?"
Andrew contemplated for a moment. Chick seemed as if he were a genuinely nice old man, and he couldn't bear to say no to him. He knew he was actually asking for protection from whatever looters or rioters might lay outside the train station and quickly told him he could join the duo. The future Apostle caught a stone-faced Billy up to speed when he entered the atrium. He welcomed Chick with open arms. Looking back in later years, Andrew couldn't help but wonder if he just wanted a theological punching bag around to put himself at ease and make him still feel in control.
Little did they know at this time--and they wouldn't know until years later when they received high-level security clearances in Union government--that on the other side of the train station dozens of bodies from Willoughby were being unloaded from their former ride. Medics and ORRA officers were removing dogtags and personal effects and taking them down into the furnace room in the basement and hurling the bodies in feet-first. The cemeteries couldn't keep up anymore with the overflow of bodies from both Manifest Climax and those who died from the sootstorms, and refrigerator trucks and train cars were needed to transport essential food and medical supplies in the equatorial heat of summer. Those who were wounded and still possibly able to pull through were whisked away into the Metropolis Catacombs, a feature of the "City of Tomorrow" designed by ORRA themselves after the Immolation of Mexico late last century, and partially built from a series of tunnels dating back to the Aztecs. These secret passages were available only to government personnel and also led directly to hospitals and RUMP offices all over the city. A neat, modern system for quiet, quick arrests and patrols.
After all the passengers had been seated in the atrium, a gas-mask sporting officer with a megaphone addressed them. His face was sunken, and his right hand was a riding crop and silver concho spurs jangled against the floor. He addressed them all with a stern face. "All hail, y'all. Please continue to cooperate with law enforcement. There has been an unfortunate upswing in... violence by street thugs and, while we are definitely getting it under control, we ask you please stay on main thoroughfares and avoid back alleys or areas off the beaten path. We are also battlin' rumors that this here City of Tomorrow is being sub-jected to some kinda dust storm, which isn't true at all and is defeatist propaganda of the highest order. What we are experiencing is typical monsoon season conditions of a sunny, subtropical breadbasket. This is what you will convey to your friends and family and neighbors. This is what you will say over the phone or in your letters. This is God's honest truth. Over the last few days, this kinda bullshit has been piped along the information highway as part of an effort to undermine our boys in South America fightin' for our freedom and destiny. I don't need to remind y'all that the penalty for the uttering and publishing of enemy propaganda after being warned by government authorities of its origin is 20 years hard labor. Now, Jehovah bless y'all, and all hail! Sergeant Hodge! Open the doors!"
A husky young man rushed over to the giant doors, at least twenty feet tall, that led out of the station. With some effort, the portly sergeant unbolted the lock. Carefully, our heroes all began to walk out into the former bustling heart of Metropolis's main drag. They gasped at the sight before them. Metropolis was burning. Papers and ash were falling from the sky as several high-rises belched out black smoke to the heavens, not unlike the fiery sacrificial pyramids of the ancient savages who once dwelt in the same place. Groups of civilians ran hither and thither, seemingly trying to avoid attention. Cars were parked at all angles all along the garbage-covered streets and some vehicles were even tipped over onto their sides or showed signs of vandalism and fire damage. A tower not half a block from them was burning like a torch, and several firetrucks were parked here and there as their crews tried to extinguish the inferno. It looked like a scene from Revelation. The only thing absent was the roving gangs of active rioters our trio firmly expected to see. They guessed that they had already gone into hiding or fled the city. Little did they know that Metropolis had called in every available member of law enforcement in the state to the big city to fight them the day before, and hundreds had been killed en masse. The streets were empty, at least for now in the broad daylight hours.
Graham turned to Chick and said, "You said your wife is here in town? I say we find her first and then head south to the Circle P, if that's alright with Andy here."
Andrew quickly nodded in agreement. "That's fine by me," he stated. "I don't think an older woman should be out in this sort of, uh, 'sunny monsoon' weather."
Chick nodded. "Yes, all right. She's at the family home on 22nd and Johnson. God, I hope she's safe."
"Why wouldn't she be safe, Chick?" Billy asked through gritted teeth, his eyes saying all he needed to say.
Chick turned white. "Oh, yes, I'm sure she's fine. Just anxious to see her again and all." When the three comrades approached the stately mansion at 22nd and Johnson, Billy and Andrew looked at each other nervously. The side of the white structure had obviously seen massive fire damage. Several bodies of random looters decorated the front lawn. "Oh, God! Norma! My home!" Chick fell to his knees. "I'm too late."
"I SWEAR I'LL KILL THE FIRST SONOFABITCH WHO STEPS FOOT ON MY PROPERTY!" came a shrill battle cry from inside the house. Billy whipped out that single communal revolver and all three men hit the dirt. To their amazement, a young woman with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes stared out at them behind the barrel of an old bolt-action rifle, a relic of the last war. Her face was blackened both by the storms and the gunpowder from the battle she had obviously been fighting against looters for who knows how long. She was wearing a silver silk blouse that at one time would have been expensive and exquisite before the current stains and tears had ruined it. She paired it with some double-buttoned black sailor-style pants that came up high on her waist. When she realized who she was looking at, she lowered the rifle and sighed, slumping against the door frame. "Chicky-baby, you know what this kinda bull-hockey does to my asthma! Get me the hell away from this place!"
Chick wiped away his tears and went running as fast as his aging legs could take him toward his young wife. Billy and Andrew stared slack-jawed at each other. "Oh, Norma! Jehovah be praised, you're safe!" Chick blubbered, holding her tight as she dropped the rifle.
"Thanks to your old field piece, Chicky," she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. "If you could kill some Californian Bonapartists with it I figured I could lick a few common criminals."
"Well, that's not what I was expecting. Pardon me and nothing against Brother Chick but I sorta expected to find a dead old grandmother, not this, uh... interesting young woman," Billy said to Andrew out of the married couple's earshot, his sandy-colored eyebrows raising as high as he could get them.
Andrew laughed quietly and told him, "I guess you don't run a massive real estate company without proving your, um... 'fluidation' in other ways, Billy. C'mon, let's get them packed up and get the heck out of here and find my folks."
"Amen, Andy," Billy said, once again packing the revolver away under his jacket. "Amen." He shot a strange look at Chick's wife, scratching his head. Andrew didn't like the look and it seemed uncharacteristic of him at the time to care much about women, especially gun-toting, cursing women, but the future Apostle instantly had a bad feeling about it. He sighed. He didn't think his life could get much worse, but he didn't want to test that theory...
Last edited:
Praise Jehovah! Excellent work as always, Comrade-Patriot! To celebrate, I'm eating a pound of SPUD and washing it down with a gallon of Sweet Victory! ALL HAIL!!!
I'm terrified already. I've given up trying to predict most things outside of Corea and the Cackalackies because I don't have creative firepower to anticipate the eldritch mechanics of Napo's mind.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Napo, I really have to thank you. Reading this stuff again has sent lots of cold chills down my spine, which is helpful to fight the summer heath.
I have a theory about Pennington's secret, but I won't say nothing because maybe I end up spoiling you.