Under Pressure

[Sigmund Landers]

Day 475 Journal #2 (always write in red pen, never tear out pages.)


GERMS.

They're everywhere. In the air, the water, the earth. No-one ever listened. We needed to be more <strike>viligant, </strike>vigilant and now simple little germs have wiped out the human race...Tiny little germs brought down the once beautiful city of New York, hell, all of America for all we know.

Human beings are disgusting pigs, and part of me is glad that this virus was created. Fewer people, fewer germs, less chance of transfer through physical contact or breathing the same filthy air. Triple boil the water before it's bottled, cook all food throughly to kill anything that may be on it, mask and gloves worn at all times unless in the bunker. It's safe there. Clean. Smells like bleach and Lysol, with a hint of Pinesol. No contamination in the bunker, no-one knows it's there. I'm careful. Triple check everything, keep track of supplies. Lucky kid, I had good parents. SMART parents, who hated germs and kept them out of the bunker. Kept the bunker stocked, but sometimes things run low...Have to go out. Go out at night. Hate the sun.

Insanity laughs. Under pressure we're cracking. Sometimes I miss music...

I still look both ways when I cross the street. We should always use manners, even if the world is at an end. It's just polite, and politeness is good. Cleaniness is good. It's next to Godliness. Except the world is forsaken by whatever God is up there. Pure clean white clouds up there, I bet. I wonder if they smell like lemons.

[Boss Jah]

The first thing heard is the music.

It's an echo at first, rattling through broken skeletons of buildings. Later comes voice behind the music. The words are terrifying, and speak of bravado and violence. Those who play it feel invincible. Those who hear it feel powerless.

Somehow, as the noise becomes intolerable, another sound can be heard. An ancient Toyota truck's engine creaks and whines. Then another, as rocks and debris pop and skip under bouncing tires.

The penultimate sounds are the voices of children. A dozen voices, mutated by fanaticism, delirium, and drugs. They chant, no, they bark. They mimic the terrible words of the music, feeding on its power to transform into monsters. Glassy-eyed, lips curled into snarls, they hoist rifles half as long as they are tall.

Then comes the gunfire.

[Sigmund Landers]

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...

I hate them. I hate outside, but I hate them more. Junkie children, this worlds terrorists. Never find the bunker never ever, but not in the bunker. Needed supplies. Stuck in the shadows of a long abandoned shop, the windows shattering as they shoot their guns at anything that moves. I crawl slowly along the floor, coming face to face with a dead rat on my way. Almost vomit, remember mask and hold it in.

Maybe they'll pass, they probably won't.

[Boss Jah]

A gaunt-looking young driver popped out from a hatch cut into the roof of the up-armored Toyota's cab, and snatched a pair of goggles over a mop of greasy and matted blonde hair. Wiping his dirt-smeared face, he hoisted a cracked bull horn that was connected to a battery by way of duct tape.

"Citizens of Ninth and Fifty Fifth! Rise in fuckin' jubilation! We, followers of Jah and warriors of Zion, kill the motherfuckers that keep you down!

Jah be praised forever! Jah brings your hearts and minds together. Even now, he prays for you, and a cure is soon to be found.

Bring tribute to the Boss, and you get a mark. The Lion of Judah stains your skin as a child of Zion. You ain't gotta lie down and die like a dog. Jah heals all who obey!"

The swarm of young soldiers had bounded out of the technical, each glowering down the street in anticipation of killing whoever didn't show respect to the Boss.

[Sigmund Landers]

No-one comes out. Dead people don't walk, live ones too scared to do anything except hide. I keep crawling, trying to reach the back door and possibly freedom. Long way home tonight, unless I get caught.

Got caught once, by surprise. Kid scared the crap out of me, ended up getting my bat upside his head. Knocked him out cold, but didn't kill him (Thank God). No guns, just a baseball bat.

I'm crawling through the filth, finally reaching salvation in the form of a fire-proof steel door when I hear the boots coming. No tributes make the boys mad, thinking we're being disrespectful to Boss. I freeze in the middle of reaching up for the door handle as I feel something pushing hard against the back of my head.

Damnit.

[Boss Jah]

"Where ya goin', bug-eye? Whatcha got?"

What the kids lacked in size, they made up for in aggression. A maelstrom of rifle buttings and little stomping feet softened up their catch until Blondie climbed out of the Toyota. Like the younger kids, he too was a Chosen. A teenager, his sunken eyes and ash-colored lips were tell-tale signs of his dependence on crack. Even in the destruction of modern civilization, crack cocaine thrived. Hydroponics replaced coca farmers in South America or some far-flung place. Organic, local harvest, free range crack cocaine. New York's legacy.

"Whatcha got to hide from, behind that mask and all?"

Blondie fiddled with a lock of his long blonde hair that hung at his shoulders, watching the masked man expectantly.

[Sigmund Landers]

Ow. Ow Ow ow. Tenderized. The kids drag me to my feet, pulling off the pack I was carrying. Dumping out the few supplies I needed - old batteries, a few dented cans of expired food, random trinkets I found on my travels. All trash to them, treasures to me. Makes me angry. The bat hangs loosely from the makeshift holster attached to my belt. It won't be used, not around guns...Not around Junkie Jahs.

My voice is slightly muffled when I answer, years of the mask has taught me to enunciate and speak loudly.

"Got the virus. Germs. Nasty thing. Face all covered in sores, not pretty. No no no no."

[Boss Jah]

Blondie and the other Jah troops laughed at that.

"Ain't nothin' man. We're all chosen. You can be too."

The other children nodded in unison.

"Jah, you see, he's got a plan for us all. All we gotta do is follow him, and soon we'll all be the Chosen."

[Sigmund Landers]

Brows raise under the mask. No way. No cure, no way to be Chosen unless you're born into it.

"Germs don't care about plans, even good ones. Gonna die sooner than later, don't need plans. Need batteries, supplies. Not plans."