Apocalypticon Read online

  APOCALYPTICON

  CLAYTON SMITH

  The Rules of the Apocalypse

  An incomplete list taken from the journal of Ben Fogelvee

  Rule #1: Survive.

  Rule #2: If it looks hungry, run away from it.

  Rule #4: Don’t talk about nice things.

  Rule #7: Money is no longer money. Food, weapons, shelter, and clothing are money.

  Rule #9: Everything is a weapon.

  Rule #10: Literally everything is a weapon.

  Rule #12: Err on the side of crazy.

  Rule #14: When food is scarce, eat anything green.

  Rule #15: Disregard Rule #14.

  Rule #18: Fuck time.

  Rule #22: Dying is bullshit.

  Rule #26: When in doubt, defer to entertainment media.

  Rule #31: Never fantasize about food.

  Rule #33: Vodka is doctors now.

  1.

  Three hard knocks, two soft knocks, one long knock, three short knocks, two and a quarter rapid-fire knocks, one flat palm slap, four knuckle taps, one palm slap, seven knuckle taps, two long knocks, seven left hand-right hand alternating slap-pounds, three short knocks, one knuckle tap, two palm slaps, three hard knocks, two soft knocks, three hard—

  “Wait. Shit.” Patrick closed his eyes and ran through the latest sequence in his head. He raised his knuckles again. Three hard knocks, two soft knocks, one long knock, three short knocks, two and a quarter rapid-fire knocks, one flat palm slap, four knuckle taps, another palm slap, seven knuckle taps, two long knocks, seven left hand-right hand alternating slap-pounds, three short knocks, one knuckle tap, two palm slaps, three hard knocks, four hard—

  “Dammit!” Patrick slammed his fist against the door, not quite hard enough to break it down, but hard enough to be able to claim later that he had. “Ben Fogelvee, you open this door right now, or I swear to all that is holy, I will rain down on you with blazing goddamn acid until you look like a Batman villain!”

  He waited, huffing, out of breath, for a few seconds, but heard nothing from 24C. He had just decided to go find an ax when the deadbolt turned, the chain slipped back, the padlock clicked, the knob lock fell, and the door creaked open four centimeters. A suspicious eye with a crystal blue iris pressed itself to the thin opening and scrutinized the tall, razor-thin aggressor in the hall. Satisfied, the eye relaxed. Ben pulled the door all the way open. “Oh. It’s you.”

  Patrick closed his eyes. “You make me so angry, you know that?” He pushed past him into the apartment. Ben shut the door and fastened the half dozen locks behind him.

  “Don’t project on me because your memory’s going.”

  Patrick kicked through the wrappers and crusty spoons littering the marble-tiled floor and plopped down on the stained velvet duvet. “My fist is about to be going into your mouth.”

  “I used to pay eight bucks a month for a website that’d show me that.” Ben picked up a can of Yankee beans from the floor, sniffed it, made a sour face, then tipped the can up and shook a few of the slimy legumes into his mouth. “You’ve got a lot of pent-up anger happening today. I don’t think this yellow air agrees with you.”

  Patrick sighed. “You know it’s me at the door. It’s always me at the door.”

  Ben scoffed. “That Knock Code is the only thing keeping me alive,” he said, channeling some long-dead Vietnam vet. “This is the apocalypse, Patrick. The enemy is everywhere.”

  “The apocalypse was years ago. If the universe wanted you dead, it would’ve put you down already. I think you’re gonna live forever, Benny Boy.”

  “The code works,” Ben insisted. “I haven’t had a single breach.”

  “Because it’s always me.”

  “Someday, it might not be.”

  “Yeah, and I can see why you’d be confused by who’s at the door when you hear my voice coming from the other side of it.”

  “So what if it’s your voice? How do I know you’re alone? Jesus, for all I know, some desperate lunatic’s got a window shard pressed against your throat ‘cause you’re his ticket in here. Did thirty years of Steven Segal movies teach you nothing?”

  “No one wants to get in here,” Patrick said, rubbing his eyes. Though, of course, there were plenty of reasons why someone actually would want to get into 24C. The previous occupant had been a loopy old widow with more money than Donald Trump (God rest both their souls) who had nothing better to spend it on than lavish comforts for herself and her mentally retarded Schnauzer. The old bat had been chronically paranoid, conveniently enough, which accounted for the attached panic room that had once been 24D. That little haven had certainly come in handy in the early days. Ben’s apartment was a penthouse war bunker. And it had a killer view of the lake.

  “Everyone wants to get in here!” Ben said smugly.

  “No one knows you live here, no one cares that you live here, and if anyone did know and/or care that you lived here, they wouldn’t care enough to climb through 24 stories of land mines to get here. Trust me. No one’s coming for you.”

  “You come.”

  “I can be persuaded not to.”

  Ben studied the piece of paper tacked to the inside of the front door. “You know, you almost had it. Four hard knocks, the little knuckle thing, and two more slaps, and you were in.”

  “I feel like giving two more slaps right now. Bring me your face.”

  “It’s not my fault they built this place with no peepholes. How hard is it to put in peepholes? Who doesn’t have peepholes? She has a 1,500 square-foot safe room with 18-inch-thick titanium walls, she doesn’t have a peephole?”

  “Can we just stop talking about this?” Patrick frowned. “I haven’t had my coffee grounds yet.”

  “Jesus, you’re still on those?”

  Patrick nodded. “I’ve sucked the stupid things so long, they’re turning white. Ah, Benny Boy. Remember coffee?” He smiled and curled up on the duvet, his bony arms enfolding his bony legs.

  “Stop it,” Ben said.

  “Steaming and black and always the start of a good ‘Like I like my women’ joke.”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Hot and sweet.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Black and bitter.”

  “I hate you.”

  “With two big lumps.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Ground up and in the refrigerator.”

  “I got it, I got it. Now stop it, you’re breaking Rule Number Four.” He pointed to a large, handwritten poster taped above the fireplace. But Patrick didn’t need to look at the Rules of the Apocalypse to be reminded about Number Four. He’d written that one himself: Don’t talk about nice things.

  “Sorry. I got carried away. Oh, but it’s a special occasion!” He bolted upright. “I came over to tell you some very important news.”

  “I thought it was a little early for a social call,” Ben said. “I mean, I didn’t want to say anything.” Rule Number 18: Fuck time. “But not speaking of time, it’s breakfast time. Want some chili?”

  “No, I’m good. I had some salt pork.”

  Ben’s eyes grew wide. “Damn, Pat. You porked up?”

  “I ate more pork than a fat kid who loves pork.”

  “Oh my God.” Ben’s face fell. “You’re really doing it. You’re committing suicide today. You’ve finally had enough, and you’re jumping out the window.”

  “No. But my news is of similar gravity.” Patrick smiled and waited for the joke to catch. It didn’t. “Get it?
Gravity? Come on. Get it?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Patrick frowned. “I hate that you don’t get things.”

  “I know you do. What’s the news?”

  Patrick smiled sadly. His eyes grew heavy at the temples, and for the first time since...well, since ever, probably, Ben thought he could actually see his friend’s age. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that we have entered Code White.”

  Ben’s heart fell past his ribcage. “Oh.” He sank to the floor like a deflated bounce house, his legs splaying out crookedly. He looked up at Patrick with confusion. “Really?” he asked, which was a stupid question to ask, because of course it was really. You didn’t joke about Code White.

  “As of last night,” Patrick nodded. “Sorry I didn’t tell you then, but I thought you could use one more good night’s sleep.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said absently, a million thoughts buzzing like static in his brain. “Thanks. I thought the stores were getting a little low.”

  The two men sat quietly for a few minutes. They gazed out through the balcony windows into the bright yellow haze, each dwelling on his own memories, or fears. They were plunging into unchartered territory now. Code White changed everything.

  It was Ben who finally broke the silence. “Does anyone else think it’s weird that you have this bizarre Pudding Cup Death Coundown Clock going on? No? No one? Just me? Weird.”

  Patrick shook his head. “It’s not a Pudding Cup Death Clock. It’s a pudding cup homage.”

  “I don’t care how French you make it sound, it’s still dumb,” Ben sighed. “So, Code White. Which is last? Vanilla?”

  “Butterscotch.”

  “Ooooh, butterscotch. More yellow than white, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but Code Yellow sounds like a citrus shortage. Code White has more gravitas.”

  “Yeah,” Ben agreed. “Man. I love butterscotch.”

  “Yeah, me too. So did she.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Wasn’t her favorite, but she liked it.”

  “I thought kids liked chocolate.”

  “Well, sure, she liked chocolate. She also liked butterscotch.”

  “Butterscotch is an old person flavor. You don’t start liking it ‘til you’re, like, seventeen.”

  “Seventeen is old?”

  “It was when I liked chocolate.”

  “Well, what can I say? She was a weird kid.”

  Ben sighed. His gaze floated through the decadent apartment, the Survivorman’s Shangri La, and he was heartbroken. He really loved that goddamn condo. “Well, shit.” He stood up off the floor and brushed the dust from his jeans. “Where we goin’?”

  “Ah! That is the good news.”

  “I was hoping for some of that.”

  Patrick stood up and stretched. He had slept fitfully the night before, mostly from worry, but partially from excitement. They were going on an adventure! He grinned as he popped his joints into place. “I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and here’s what I’ve decided. I survived M-Day. I lived on for three years in this crumbling urban wasteland. I beat the Monkeys, fought crippling depression, and learned how to eat canned tuna without vomiting all over myself. It’s been a long, cold, miserable, broken-down, yellow-haze road, and, if I’m going out, then by God, I’m going out with some dignity. Benny, my boy, we are going to Disney World.”

  •

  It didn’t take long to plan the journey. Not because it was an easy journey to plan, but because there just wasn’t much they could plan for. There was a time, not so very long ago, when getting ready for a trip meant typing a destination into Google Maps and loading up the Santa Fe with three more suitcases than were necessary, most of them filled with shoes. All one really needed to “be prepared” was a full iPhone battery and a spare tire. But M-Day had made things a bit more unpredictable. For starters, the Internet was little more than a smoldering pile of melted tubes. And cars! Ha! Cars were completely impractical. The vehicles of the dead choked the roads, at least in the city. Sure, the interstates were probably a little less crowded, but even if Patrick and Ben could weave a car out through the city limits, they’d be out of gas before nightfall. If the charred remains of the BP down the street were any indication, there would be no fuel along the way. Bodies of would-be gas thieves with dried blood caked from their slit throats? Sure, plenty of those. But gas itself? No way.

  Since Patrick was the marginally more responsible one and Ben was the King of Food Mountain, it seemed natural that Ben should handle the canned goods and Patrick should be in charge of pretty much everything else: can openers, utensils, rope, blankets, his Leatherman, pens, pencils, notebooks, first aid kit, and anything else he could get his hands on. They would each carry their own clothing, of course, and any weapons they could scrounge together. Also, one of them needed to be the expedition leader. They were certain to face extreme dangers outside the apartment building--murderers, thieves, treacherous landscape, starvation, inclement weather, maybe even a few surviving Jehovah’s Witnesses--and if they were going to survive all that, they would need to think and act as one person with one brain. “And I will be that brain,” Patrick explained.

  “Wait, wait, wait. Why do you get to be in charge?”

  “Because this is my trip. It was my idea.”

  “So? Maybe that puts you too close to the situation. Maybe you’re too invested in this trip to make logical, objective decisions. Maybe the fact that it’s your trip means I should be the one in charge.”

  “No, it absolutely does not mean that, and I’ll tell you why.”

  Ben crossed his arms. “Fine. Why?”

  “Because Disney World is south.”

  Ben snorted. “So?”

  “So why don’t you show me which direction that is.”

  Ben hesitated. Patrick had leveraged his greatest weakness. Damn. He had to make a confident decision, and he needed to act quickly. He took a chance and pointed firmly toward Lake Michigan.

  Patrick nodded. “That’s why I’m in charge.” The point was conceded with no further objection.

  “So Disney World. That’s where we’re going. That’s it,” Ben said.

  “That’s it,” Patrick agreed. “If by ‘it’ you mean ‘everything.’”

  Ben tented his fingers and shook them at his guest. “Okay, now I’m not saying Disney World is a dumb destination. But listen, Pat. Disney World is a really dumb destination. Seriously.”

  Patrick reached across and grabbed Ben’s hands in his own. “No, Ben. Disney World is the best possible destination. Decades of snappy marketing tricks have made it so.”

  Ben yanked his hands out from under Patrick’s. “Let’s make a list of destinations that are less dumb than Disney World. Ready?” He spread his hands wide, as if he were offering a magnanimous gift. “Las Vegas. Grown-up Disney World. Let’s go there.”

  “Pass!” Patrick slapped the coffee table with both hands, his eyes growing wide and bright. “Disney World or bust!”

  “No, don’t do that,” Ben said, shaking his finger at Patrick’s crazy-eyed face. “This is your trip; it’s your decision. All right, I get that. I understand. If you want to go to Disney World, well, shit. I guess we’ll go to stupid Disney World. But Disney World is for babies and honeymooning Christians. Not for real life grown-ups. And do you know the only thing lamer than Disney World? Burned out, rusted up Disney World full of charred baby skeletons.”

  Patrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I once knew a Ben Fogelvee who would have thought a burned out, rusted up Disney World full of charred baby skeletons sounded awesome,” he challenged.

  “Yeah, you know, it does sound pretty bad ass,” Ben mused. “I’m warming to the idea. But try this option on for size. Old Cliff in 13B says
he knows a guy who knows a guy who hosts a battle fucking royale once a week in this dirt circle arena in his backyard somewhere in Detroit. These guys, they come from all around with sticks and knives and bats and iron pipes and just wail on each other for three hours until everyone’s dead.”

  “Hmm.” Patrick pressed a finger to his lips and thought carefully. “Now, that sounds like something I would certainly like to play a video game about. But are you sure everyone dies? What about the last guy? He lives, right?”

  “Hell no, he doesn’t live! First place is the quick, painless release of death from this stupid post-apocalyptic life. Everyone dies, one just less painfully than the rest.”

  Patrick squinted and pointed a suspicious finger at his host. “Are you sure this is a thing?”

  Ben pointed back and met Patrick’s squint. “Here’s what I think. I think we find you a stick, and we make you a champion. If we’re going Code White, make it the bright, blinding white of nuclear self-destruction.”

  “I appreciate where your head’s at, Ben. I like your thought process. And it’s tempting. Don’t get me wrong, it’s extremely tempting. But we’re going to Disney World.”

  “Why?” Ben sighed. “Do you at least have a good reason?”

  “Of course I have a good reason. Because I’ve never been. And I read somewhere that you should go before you die.”

  •

  Patrick stood at the bank of windows in front of his balcony. These days, 24E was considered a river view apartment. The 30-story skyscraper at Grand and Wells toppled a week back, falling mostly east, thank God, where the HVAC roof units plunged to the depths of the lake. The base of the building still smoldered, meaning someone must’ve gotten ahold of some top-shelf explosives to do the job. This type of destruction wasn’t exactly uncommon, though things had certainly quieted down a bit after the Great Chicago River Bridge Explosions a couple years back. Still, buildings got bombed pretty regularly. As far as Patrick knew, the latest victim building was just another apartment bloc, and its destruction didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but sense wasn’t exactly the prevailing theme these days. At any rate, the building’s collapse gave Patrick a straight shot to the Chicago River, which he could sometimes actually see, when the wind whipped a clearing through the thick, and ever-present, yellow smog.