(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; Part Eighteen; Part Nineteen;
It begins. We are a quiet bunch and must be secretive, but we begin. Let it be put down in the history books that this day the…whatever day it is, now…late summer? Early autumn?…well, let it be put down, at least, that at some point during this season of growing night, at some point during these dark days, a collection of artists began to hone their craft in secret from within the clutches of the Great Darknesses, themselves.
I am assured, also, that the request for art has been ferried along to every open ear on the east coast. In the sewer hideouts of the DC rebels and the abandoned subway tunnels inhabited by the terrified survivors of New York’s zombie gentrification apocalypse, people will be making art. In the overpopulated Employment Camps spread across the northeast, ink and paint and blood will spill from the minds of the dispossessed and indigent and onto canvas and paper. Those few zed still possessed of enough brainpower to harbor free will…soon their bloodshot eyes will be brought to gaze upon Truth, and if the bare human truth captured in art is not enough to stir them from their corpse-like slumber, then it is already too late.
Their minds have been massaged by rapid-fire images seared through their eyes, projected against them by so many screens that they are uncountable. They’ve been numbed to questioning. The afflicted have been comforted and the comfortable have also been comforted. Sedatives and painkillers have been pumped through their skulls, the sole nourishment for their brains. Now we will change the picture. Or so we hope.
It’s a multi-pronged attack, of course. We still need the guerrillas in DC and the team in New York to stay active, to put pressure on, to make a show of force against the darkness…to prove, really, that there’s another option to take. We’ll need rebels and revolutionaries fighting tooth and claw every step of the way, bearing the most risk for the least historical reward. People with backs strong enough to carry the burdensome crosses of this battle. But while they take the fight to the streets and markets and parks and apartment complexes of this twisted, tormented nation, we will hack our way into the airwaves and distort the images purveyed by the mind-numbing screens until they disturb rather than dissuade, until they question rather than comfort. We’ll print the posters and post the bills and tag the Cyclopean halls of Wall Street with bright multi-hued graffiti. We’ll write essays and fictions and manifestos and poetry and multi-genre multi-media works that jerk the veil of comfortable illusion away from the eyes of the zombie class. We’ll wake them up.
Such is the goal. We shall see. I am torn, after what happened last night…I am flush with confidence and filled with terror. Simultaneously, I believe our victory is possible and impossible. You will understand when it is done.
For now: as Jim Morrison wrote, we will “[take] pills to stay awake and play for 7 days.” That’s right. I’m cranking into my vault of externally-abled courage. I will rest no more. Especially after what I’ve seen. For as long as my drug-induced confidence holds out, I will be unshakable…which I may need to be, considering how quickly these operations are likely to be discovered. In the battle of propaganda, and also just in literal terms, the Great Darknesses possess many watchful eyes. The Scanners were only the beginning.
One night ago: Mr. Baldwin approaches me after a 10-hour day of digging graves. All Employment Camp graves are dug in advance, I should mention, to a depth corresponding to the debt of the person who will one day fill it. One of my several rotating jobs at the Camp is to dig them. As you may guess, manual labor is not my favorite thing. But, hey, when you’re a prisoner in the clutches of Great Darknesses trying to subsist on the questionable leftovers handed down to you by the Cannibal Class, you do what you gotta do, right?
Anyway, Mr. Baldwin approaches me after a 10-hour shift. (Side note: fairly certain my “lunch” yesterday was a specific kind of morally discomforting veal…not to say all veal isn’t, in some way, morally discomforting, but it’s different when it’s likely your own species) — my apologies for the sidetracking, but there are some details of Camp life I haven’t gone into, as I have been drowning under a sea of existential malaise and general psychological malady.
Anyway, ahem, Mr. Baldwin approaches. In his hand is a small book, perhaps the size of a stack of 3×5 study cards. Its binding is stitched out of human skin and bat wings and the title is a symbol my hand can’t reproduce but that has been branded into the flesh with a hot iron.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, rightfully.
“One of the Great Dark Ones’ secrets. Come on.”
I don’t ask further questions. Instead, I follow Mr. Baldwin back through our self-dug cemetery to the plot of land reserved for his future corpse. He leaps inside and I follow. It seems one of the workers has dug a cramped tunnel leading from the bottom of his future tomb to some tiny earthen cavern. Once inside this cavern (no larger than, perhaps, two coffins sat next to each other, which makes it still larger than the Employee Lounge we usually meet in), he sets the book between us and opens it up. Strange designs draw my eyes–impossible geometries and bizarre lines. Escher animations and hideous Beksinksian landscapes. My mouth hangs wide.
“You speak their language, right?” Mr. Baldwin asks.
“I–no, I’m just a…a…” but I freeze. Because he’s right. I recognize some of these nonsense symbols–entire phrases, even! Entire paragraphs! I can’t make sense of every page, or even form a cohesive understanding of what I’m reading, but I speak the language, I know the tongue…how?
“Must have got to you young,” Mr. Baldwin’s voice is comforting, though I know it is an artificial comfort. It has the practiced execution of someone used to easing people into harsh truths. “I think that’s likely how it happened so quickly. The Great Dark Ones had half of America brainwashed before they even rose up out of the sea.” He shakes his head. “Goddamn.”
“But…but I’m a writer!” I scramble back into the hard dirt, shocked.
“A path you chose…but think back. How many messages were burned into your brain before you had a chance to fight back against them? How much propaganda did the Great Darknesses spoon-feed you before you were even off of Gerber? How often does your conscious mind have to fight back programmed thoughts?”
I stammer senselessly.
“Maybe that’s how they were able to use you,” Mr. Baldwin continues. “Playing on sleeping instincts programmed into your brain. Or maybe they just whispered to you at just the right moment…a moment when you had truly given up.”
I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off.
“You don’t have to trust me with the answer. I don’t know if I’d trust you gave the honest one, anyway. But just as they used you, so can we.”
He taps the top of a page.
He says: “I need you to read this. I need you to cast this spell.”Share This: