(The New American Apocalypse
Table of Contents: Part One; Part Two; Part Three; Part Four; Part Five; Part Six; Part Seven; Part Eight; Part Nine; Part Ten; Part Eleven; Part Twelve; Part Thirteen; Part Fourteen; Part Fifteen; Part Sixteen; Part Seventeen;
I spend a lot of time in the Employment Camp. I don’t have the constitution to open myself to the memories of such horror, so the next bit will be transcribed from my old journals:
Nietzsche once said that any civilization whose primary goals were optimism, knowledge, and advancement would necessarily require a slave class. Sure, everyone wants to be a scientist or an artist or an academic or a philosopher or whatever, but at the end of the day someone has to grow the food, cook the food, and serve the food. Someone’s gotta take out the garbage. Someone’s gotta milk and slaughter the cows and someone else has to hold the buckets for all the blood.
Well, baby, here we are.
The Employment Camp is every bit as terrifying as I imagined. These ramshackle apartments are tenements clustered so tight I have an anxiety attack before I’m even stuffed inside. Human stench fills the air. We’re like sardines but somehow saltier. Men and women work their bodies to the bare bones in exchange for a pittance. It gets worse. Payment is made against our bail loans, which apparently have a 16% interest rate, and rent and food and water is taken out additionally, along with any penalties. After working a week in these hellish conditions, I wake up on payday to discover that I owe the bosses money!
We are wageslaves chained to our basic needs. The Darknesses know this. They made a wise bet…they know we will always choose life, no matter how painful and miserable that life ends up being. And the ones who don’t? The ones who choose death, nothingness, the ones who go mad or kill themselves? Fewer mouths to feed.
I exist, here, in a malaised despair. This journal cost me a day’s labor, and the pencils another half-day. It doesn’t matter. Like most of the populace, here, I’ve given up hope of digging myself out of debt. Until such time that a trial happens, lorded over by a Judge of the Great Dark Ones, I will rot here. Maybe there are no Judges. Maybe there are only Scanners and privatized bail loans and Employment Camps where prisoners work themselves to death…maybe this is all life has to offer, anymore…
And the bastards took my man-bag, of course. I’ve been reduced to moonshine the other prisoners make it bathtubs and toilets. Pray I don’t go blind…though maybe that would be a blessing in disguise…
I’ve noticed the daylight is retreating. Every day seems shorter, every night longer. The sun is dimmer than I remember it being. The Great Darknesses seem to be winning, whatever that entails. If they win, what happens to my words? Losers don’t write the history books, after all. With these pages mashed to dust, it will be as if I never existed at all.
A man named Mr. Baldwin (no relation) brings in the news from outside. How he gets it, I don’t know, but it seems grim. The eldritch abominations wreak havoc across the world. The M’Ra Cultists ride through city streets on chariots, swinging three-foot dildos like swords at the non-believers. The Church of the New American Jesus banned heretics from entering the country. The smarter atheists have already fled to Canada. Muslims make their way northward via an underground railroad system, hiding in attics like Anne Frank and waiting for a gap in Scanner security to move to the next city. The Cannibal Class has taken to open safaris, roaming the hellish cityscapes with their zed underlings hoping to scoop out the brains of artists and retirees and homeless veterans and urban youth. I’m surprised they still feel the need to use code…
There is no news of my old compatriots. Will I ever learn what happened to Mr. Swift and Mr. Conrad in DC? Did Ms. Bradbury and Mr. Ballard escape? What of those other rebels whispering across the airwaves? Is there hope still to smash this wretched system and rescue ourselves from the hungry abyss? Or is it too late for foolish hopes like those?
I tell Mr. Baldwin my fears over mason jars filled with moonshine. He makes no effort to hide his disgust. “So you would give up? Lie down and let them eat you? Be my guest, then. I won’t go out without a fight.”
How he maintains ferocity in such a place as this, I don’t know. To toil beneath the will of monsters, to return to our tenements broken and exhausted…and still to find the fire inside with which to fight…he is made from stronger stuff than I. But that seems obvious. After all, what lies within me other than “weakness?” Or the constant self-inflicted “cowardice?”
There must be drugs somewhere in this hellhole…and I shall sniff ’em out. Mr. Baldwin may get his fire from internal sources, strong of will and spirit, but I’ve always found my courage hidden in the apothecary’s shelves or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. To fight the good fight is easier when it’s done with a little intoxicant…
And I’m not beaten yet. Mr. Baldwin may look down on me for my weakness, but I’m digging his fire. I hope to find some of my own, even if I have to scoop it out of the bottom of a toilet bowl.Share This: