Genesis
1We all like to believe we all have one shared desire to be alive. 2One Idea that, yeah although everything is kinda fucked right now, the corporations and politicians are bound by some “good”, some “right”, to prevent us all from descending into shit oblivion for some fancy colored linen, some “one-up” over their dead parents—always their fathers—some name signed on their wall or piece of paper telling people what to do, some group of people that swoop in the final hour, and now that I’ve drawn your attention to it you think that idea is dumb naïve and will make some self-serving google searches or quick mental justifications, before forgetting how stupid and naïve it is and settle back into believing it.
3“Humans Are ___” statements are idiotic. 4They’re shortsighted and generalizing. 5Every time someone makes a “Humans Are___” statement on Instagram I want to take my leg off and shove it down their throat.
6That being said, Humans Are Lazy. 7Yeah yeah, I know I lied, but what are you gunna do about it? 8Yeah that’s right. 9Nothing. 10I’d wager that since you’re even reading this you’re most likely cross-eyed and nearsighted, poor hygiene, lover of none besides cheese, fuckin’ nerd. 11So the threat I’m feeling from you right now is the same if I was being charged by several angry earthworms. 12Bookworms.
13I say this not for any reason besides the fact that I am not. 14God herself has given me my task, and unlike the rest of humanity, I will not pretend to be deaf. 15If you are reading this I may not be dead. 16I may be in a coma, I may be someone’s slave, buried alive, I may be brain dead, I may be stuck, I may have both of my of legs crushed like when the bones stick through your skin and shins, I may have my eyes pulled out and pushed out into the desert, I may have my hair ripped out and be slowly bleeding from a million pinprick holes, I may have my toes sawn off so It’s really hard to walk, I may be chained to a rock but not with any safety escape locks in the cuffs, I may have my hands tied above me and have to cut them off to escape, I may I may, I may.
17But, what I mayn’t is tell all of this to you if one of those things happened. 18So
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Vaskya frowned and put down their phone. They couldn’t figure out what should come next. Recount my first kill? First kill. Second kill? First kill. Ten commandments? Mine should be 11, improve on the base model. But God said that She didn’t think that model was applicable anymore. The guy God gave the Big Ten to was alive like a billion million years ago. No, I don’t—excuse me—do not want no 11 commandments. Commands are too strong, too language of the imperialists-y. Not that there’s anything to imperialize. Imperialize? Impere? Vaska shook their head. Regardless. Their phone beeped. Oh shit I gotta get into a charging zone. They took off their faux leather jacket and threw on their headphones and goggles—Vaskya had been recreating the first scene from their favorite movie, Mad Max: Fury Road and had lost track of time. After packing away the wig, blow-up car, and very real double-barreled sawed-off shotgun, Vaska hopped onto their boogieboard and let gravity Wisk them downhill. Downdune? Downhill.
Vaska cut across the slopes of the dune, rocking back and forth to leave serpentine shapes in the sand for fun. They bent to a crouch and hopped, with whatever the sand-surfing equivalent of an ollie is. They landed rough, but that’s alright Vaskya liked it rough. They knew it wasn’t possible, but they always tried to jump into the sky whenever possible. The airtime they got was legendary and made them just want to keep on flying. They watched The Stacks grow beneath them. The Stacks were just a bunch of servers cobbled together for a few stories, covered by linen and plastic to try and keep out some of the airborne sand. There was too much technology for a proper apocalypse, so people just sorta clumped together around servers and whatever power sources are left. Wanted to live somewhere warmer? Go deeper into The Stacks. Want somewhere colder? Move closer to the outside world. Don’t want Wi-Fi? Die. Well, I mean there’s life without Wi-Fi and shit but honestly what’s the motherfuckin point. I’d rather take a header off a fuckin ledge than go back to board games, books, and talking face to face with other pieces of shit. Its all code and graphics for me. But not binary. I hate binary.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Vaskya kept thinking as they kept accelerating towards The Stacks. Mmmmmm I’ll write about first kill. Make it instructional. Show don’t tell. Love not War. Those fucking dumbasses. Now dead dumbasses.
Vaskya looked behind them and saw the sand-veil-contrail their boogie board was leaving, and, caught up in how cool they knew they were looking, hit a rock and tumbled head over heels for several yards. Much like their memory of their first kill there was…
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Dirt, flailing and screaming. Others? No one around. Dead air. Killed. Trying to struggle. Skin burning. Bacon. No mask, no poncho. No ozone. Hot inside poncho. Safe inside. Still struggling. Pink skin. Each execution comes through three simple steps, locate, immobilize, carry out. Training.
Located.
Expensive compound. Mile square. Four guards outside. One looking into the sun. Blind spot, dead. Second no flank watch, dead. Heard bodies drop. Hide under bodies. Distracted. Shot longer than point blank. Point blank is the only zone you should shoot from because statistically there is no significant chance of missing. Missed. Knew better. Charge. Guard fumbled the safety. Dead. Coming around corner headfirst, two shots, dead. Idiot. Conserve bullets. Knew better.
Metal door. Wood hinges. Defenses weak. Defender of marriage. Metal legislature, wooden logic. Radios? No noise. Guards inside? Dogs? No noise. Booby trap? 50/50 I die as I open this door. Never deal in chances, chances are for gamblers and you are nowhere fuckin near Vegas. Locked door? No resistance on the handle. Push dead sack of shit through the door. Falls forward, mechanical “Crunth”. Tripwire. Sledge from above. Second death. Second life. Dogs should be able to vote. Focus. Blood on clothes. Again. Shuffling. Coming to check who died.
“Олег! почему!? Что ты делал?!?”
Russian retching. Fear
“Алло? Ваня, Саша? Куда Пришёл?”
Enemy shotgun pump. If this were a game I could tell the gun from the reload sound.
“Uh—Где тбая мама Саша?”
Code. Don’t answer. Hold the angle. Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity is going to kill again. Head pokes around corner. Dead. Clean the door corners. Didn’t call for others. Titty trap is gone. Wide angles. No dogs. No cover. Pool. Water. Two hedges on either side. Large cover over pool against sun. Funny. Ironic. More like no-zone. Bridge over pool to front door. Large stucco house. Door open. Full audience. Four hookers, one woman, two cooks, a wife, and shitler himself. Slack jaws. Look down at my work. Uh-Oh baby pose. Finger on gasmask where lips would be. Cocked head in questioning. Hips trust out to the side, Other hand pointed down away. Kawaii. They don’t get the joke. Running. He slips and falls. Dropped poncho. Skin will suffer. Rest of the group gone. Ran. Fair weather. Cute punches. Never deployed. Chair force. Grab from behind. And push into the sun.
Immobilized.
Grab ass. Grab them right by the--testicles pop. Tide pods. Screaming. Virtuous Christian. Probably going to hell for touching his balls without getting hitched first. Probably the first one who wasn’t his pastor or himself to touch them. Alright. Cheap shot. #NotEveryPastor. #JustTooMany. Choke hold. Where’s weak? Toes manicured. This little piggy baked to black in the sun. Knees quivering from underuse. Too pale. Stomach bulging. Overstuffed. My stomach bulging. Haven’t eaten for days. Neck lumpy. Soft. Weak chin. Weak knees. Break like carrots. Haven’t had a carrot in years. A natural carrot at least. Frozen never fresh. Gordon Ramsey turns in his grave.
Carry out.
Golf. Fore. It’s a bridge breaker. Nose bleeds are most efficiently stopped with tampons which is why, among others, you all should carry them in the field. Lazy rivers racing into gaping gullet. Overflowing mouth. Too much blood. Platelets panicking. Doing their job. Just following orders. Heh. Work makes free. Release this one from life. Heard your parents died early. Brutal. I always like making fun of orphans because what are they going to do, tell their parents? Laughing. Choking. Good little platelets clogging. Snorting. Hold head back. Drowning.
Done.