Truncated III: Born Against: Truncated, #3

1

ME AND THE Kid had really gotten ourselves into it. There are rules for a reason. For most of your life you grow up thinking your parents are idiots. I did. I thought they were dumb until I got close to turning thirty. So… recently. I don’t know if it’s some kind of genetic mutation that makes you think you’re smarter than someone who’s been at it twenty-five years longer than you, but you just do. There’s a number, I think, where they just give up trying as well. Like four hundred thirty five. They tried four hundred thirty five times to help you not do stupid shit, and there won’t be a four hundred thirty six. Four hundred and thirty five came, and they said, Don’t do that, or this will happen. I said, Sure. And did it anyhow. And then it happened just like they said it would. They just shrugged after that, and let the pain be the teacher. And never tried to stop me again.

Now, I’m sure they did it to their parents. Took years off their folk’s lives by thinking they knew just about everything, that they were adults at the ripe age of sixteen, and then at some point they gave up, removed their heads from their asses, and started actually calling their parents for advice. Probably around age thirty as well.

It’s a strange pattern. You hit your twenties, and the real world takes over. The high school relationships don’t exist. Where it’s all about this group or that, what music do you listen to, and kids picking on someone because they think they’re better, smarter, whatever, or the other kids were just weaker and it made the bullies feel good to cause them pain, and then you got into your college and suddenly the nerds are confident, banded together, taking over the world, and you’re having sex, and then shit starts to break down, breakups happen, you realize you don’t know what you want to do, that there’s a lot of people smarter than you, and different ways of thinking, and you get out and get a job, and have a few more relationships, and somehow on some nights you don’t even want to have sex or go out, and there’s bills, and humility in the face of watching your dreams circle the toilet bowl like that left over piece of toilet paper that never seems to go down and ends up sticking to the side, but you’re independent, you’re becoming an adult, but all the stuff you thought you knew became maybe not true, and then you can’t get a handle on anything that is true, that there’s so much more to it than you thought, that you were maybe… wrong about some things, that maybe… your parents were right about a lot of things…

Because, I wish I could have called my dad before we decided to get into this fucking van we had gotten into. I would have called him up and said, Hey, dad, how’s the apocalypse treating you? And he would have said, Hey, son, great to hear from you! I’m doing fine, just fine. How are you? Oh, I would have said, I’m good. I just wanted to get your thoughts on if The Kid and I and this dumb dog and sort of smart but stupid bird should hop into this van and drive it up to Mom’s. There would have been a pause. The older you get, the more time you take to speak, because you realize that what you say and how you say it is important. Then he would have said, Son. I don’t think that’s such a great idea. He wouldn’t have given an explanation because he didn’t need to. You see, dads have already been in a hundred, maybe a thousand vans that they shouldn’t have gotten into. And they survived. Sometimes barely. Or they knew a guy who didn’t make it out of the van. They’ve had twenty five friggin years of vans they had no business being close to before you were even a zygote.

So that’s what I was thinking as The Kid, Tripod, Odin, and I were stuffed together in the back of what was a white, probably early nineties Ford Econoline van, with a gray primered front fender and almost flat tires. We were still rolling along too, because when we started getting shot at, I was driving and didn’t take it out of gear when we all dove into the back. If it wasn’t for the stack of old wheels and tires in there with us, I’m pretty sure we would have been burger meat pretty quick.

The bullets just wouldn’t stop flying. I mean, from the west, there were some rays of sun poking through the bullet holes making a neat abstract laser light show, and from the east, where it was more shadowed, it looked like a constellation of stars. It almost looked like the Big Dipper but it only had five stars and so didn’t complete the shape of the intended receptacle. I don’t know why I think of that shit when I’m about to die, but I do.

I had myself wrapped around Tripod who was doing everything he could to get smaller, The Kid was wrapped around Odin, who was pissed and cawing and probably had no idea that we were getting shot at, or what that meant. Ow! Stop biting me, puto! Odin must have been beaking the shit out of him.

Who’s fucking idea was this? I yelled into my own chest.

No! Don’t blame me, ese! That’s fucked up!

Oh, come on! I said. And then in my best Ricky Ricardo accent, It started with, my tio had a bitchin van like that or something!

Ya, that’s how it started! Ya! But you said, I wonder if it still runs!

Because I knew where it was leading!

A bullet, about every second, was coming through the car. From both sides. It was shitty.

You were going to start pouting, then you were going to start arguing, getting all cranky —

When am I ever cranky, Rambo? You’re the —

Oh, I’m the cranky one? Who does this sound like? Dog food again, ese? I want a fucking burrito!

I didn’t say that! I said a chimichanga, ay, I didn’t say no burrito!

Does it matter what Mexican food group? Is that important?

The bullets stopped.

We looked at each other. Wide eyed. Curious. Pant shitting anxiety.

Plink.

We ducked.

They stopped again.

We did the same look sequence. Tripod whined.

We rolled along in silence.

Odin cawed.

We let out simultaneous breaths of we-just-almost-died relief.

All would be well.

Then we started picking up speed. Fast. Then we started bouncing. Lifting. Us and the wheels and tires, then slamming back down. The engine was pissed because it was still in gear. I didn’t know if it was helping to slow us down, or if it was helping to fuck us up, because we started just really launching. We would rise up off the floor. All of us sharing an Oh fuck look, then come slamming down in a spine shattering crash, only to rise up again. It had a nice rhythm to it.

I tried to look out the windshield to see where this was heading, but it was already destroyed. A mosaic of lines and squares and bullet holes you couldn’t see through. And then we slammed to a stop. The four of us funneling to the center between the seats and steering column. There were wheels on us and some other auto-parts and tools. It took me a while to put it together, but I think the van owner was a mechanic.

You okay?

I’m fucked up, ese. I can’t move my legs. I think my back is broken.

There’s a wheel on you.

Oh.

The Kid was face down towards the pedals. There was an old pickup-truck wheel on him. He was holding Odin above his head, sacrificing himself for a crow for some reason. He released the bird who disrespectfully hopped on The Kid’s back and out the broken driver side window. And let out a fuck you caw for good measure.

The van was pretty much almost vertical. It may have been all the way vertical. Either way it was pretty close.

Tripod was squirming. I was worried I’d smushed him. He was curled in a ball under my belly and had quickly grown tired of it. Probably had to do something with his buddy already being outside and leaving him here. Crows can be assholes like that.

Tripod wormed his way out from under me and ran across the back of The Kid who let out a grunt. I was getting anxious, thinking some band of strange Mad Max looking characters were surrounding the van, and were either going to light us up or wait until we exited and eat us.

Times were getting strange like that, I thought. I mean stranger than the apocalypse itself. But it wasn’t just some imaginary childish fantasy nightmare. It was a collection of things I had already begun to see. First, there was the Takers and the Gangsters. Now, for all intents and purposes, they pretty much stuck to reasonable apocalyptic fashion. The Takers had a casual military-ish look, like what some men wear when they go hunting. Fatigue pants, T-shirt, various caps, and black combat or hiking boots. The Gangsters just looked like gangsters. Dicky pants, wife-beaters, white T’s, buttoned at the top flannels.

But then there were the Beard Guys who had looked like how military operators were once portrayed in movies. Lots of gear on them, great equipment, long beards, some with man-buns. And then the Kooks who took to cape wearing and fur tied to their ankles in some odd barbarian symbolism.

I’m just saying it was getting weirder.

But you can’t blame them, I imagine. Birds of a feather and all that. But to die in a cape? Come on. You can do better.

So, yeah, I was getting that strange feeling on how things were going. With no social norms it was going tribal. And if it was going tribal, and there were folks like the Kooks sprouting up, then, if we exited the van and found ourselves surrounded by a tribe of people who had mohawks and football gear on over their clothes, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised.

But the image made me scramble. I tipped the wheel off The Kid and foraged for my gun. The Kid rolled on his back to look at me between his legs.

Get my bag, ay.

I threw his bag down to him, he rolled over and pushed it out in front of him and shimmied through the window. This made me work faster because I was the last guy stuck in a shit spot and I hated being the last guy stuck in a shit spot.

I pried my gun from under a box of brake pads, slid it down, threw down my bag, marveled at how it looks to be staring down to the front of a car when you are basically standing the way it’s facing, belly crawled, stuck my gun out, The Kid took it, my bag, then me.

I dusted myself off and looked around. The Kid stood holding my gun, Tripod was watching, wondering, no doubt, if he could have found a dumber can opener. Odin circled and cawed above. The van was almost vertical, face down, on the slope of a steep, rutted embankment on the side of the 101 freeway, just before a bridge outside of San Luis Obispo.

The Kid handed me my gun and took his out. We watched down the freeway, and saw nobody. Nothing. We looked at each other, not sure how it unfolded as it did and if we were going to be in a fight. We waited. Listened. The dog waited. Listened. Nothing. I shrugged. We shouldered our bags, took a few more looks back, crossed under the bridge and came up the other side.

Down the freeway there was only a few cars on the otherwise empty pavement. There were dense trees on either side that made a corridor. But there were no people. Baffled, The Kid and I stared down the road for quite a long stretch. You can never be too sure, and had to out-wait your enemy sometimes. Nothing happened. Nothing moved. Nobody shot us.

We shrugged in unison and headed north.

Evidently, there were some guys who didn’t like someone driving down their freeway in an Econoline van, and so they shot at it until it just went off the road. Problem solved. No further action needed.

So we walked.

I’m telling you, do not get into a fucking car during the apocalypse. Do not.

2

BEFORE WE SO smartly hopped in the van, we had been wandering up the 101 after my little incident, shall we say, with Absinthe. I had been in a state as well. It had been a fucked up few weeks. It may have been weeks. A month. A long day. I had been at it a while. With no schedule to keep. You lost track. I was really insecure about my hospital gown and boots for a really long time, finally culminating in worried stares from The Kid. It was like he had found me on skid row, drunk, a needle dangling from my arm, naked, with lipstick on my lips, and large red lipstick circles on my cheeks. That’s how he looked at me.

But I was so tired. Like when you feel like your brain isn’t a brain but a dirt clod. There’s a giving up. An acceptance. A thing where if a guy came at you with a ski mask and a chainsaw, you wouldn’t move. You’d just take it. That’s where I was at for a bit. Evidently, I slept for two days straight.

I had managed a good hike out of Pismo until the 101 got steep and snaked through the hills. There’s a pretty corridor of open rock and a neat tunnel you can honk your way through. It was cool walking it. I yelled, Honk! Honk! It scared Tripod and The Kid. I thought it was funny. They didn’t. But, like I said, I had managed the hike until you reach these sort of cool rest stops… if rest stops could be cool… where you’re tucked into the side of the freeway between rock mountain walls, trees and nature. I’m just saying if you had to take a leak, it’s a really good spot.

There were a few cars there, a few semi-trucks, and this nice RV with the lattice open on the side and actual chairs arranged in a semi-circle on astroturf. There was a cooler, empty, but a nice set-up none the less. I had plopped down in a beach chair. Stared up at the sky between the steep walls of rock on either side. Tripod had come around to stare at me. It’s like he knew I needed this and I saw only a slight twinge of judgment in his eyes. I could hear The Kid rummaging around in the camper, and then I must have fallen asleep.

When I woke, it was night. I had a blanket draped over me. The Kid had a small fire going in a mini Weber grill. He was seated on a beach chair, the light dancing on his tan face. Tripod was laying on a bunched-up furry blanket next to him. They looked so content I didn’t want to disturb them. But I did.

You’re breaking the rules.

He smiled into the flames. Small points of light flickered on his teeth. Fuck the rules, ese.

Yeah. This was nice. Fuck the rules.

How long was I out for?

Two days.

I stared. He was serious. Huh. I was never a great sleeper. Even before it all happened. In fact, I think I became a better sleeper after it all happened. There just wasn’t so much anxiety. So much future and past thinking. So much planning. It’s like things had become too easy before it all happened, and that’s what killed humanity in the end. We had conquered nature. Too much. We had shelter. For some of us, a really nice fucking home. We had water at our fingertips. I mean, it wasn’t like we were carrying buckets from the stream to clean dishes and do a bi-weekly bathe in. And all this abundance gave us too much time to think. Grocery stores? Have you ever considered a grocery store? I could see it as a strange futuristic fantasy now, not as my past, but there were these places where food is stacked to a fifteen foot high ceiling, and you just took a large cart and filled it up with whatever you wanted. You like steak? Sure. How many pounds do you want? Seven. Cheese? Why yes, I’ll have some cheese. This Dutch cheese is so creamy and smokey, it was hand massaged by goat herders while still in the udder. Yes, I’d like that. And what do the Italians have for me today? This Pecorino de Fosa was buried in the ground for months creating this earthy aged fragrance that will delight and tingle your balls. I’ll take two. And try it with our fine selection of French Bordeaux’s, they are lovely this year due to the drought rain ratios. Why yes, do you have any caviar? I like to put it on my hand-made frozen pizza found in the nine hundred types of pre-made frozen food isle.

So yeah, you could drive your fifty-thousand-dollar car down and get whatever the fuck you wanted, whenever you wanted it. Didn’t want to drive? No problem. Hit that little bring-me-food button on your iPhone and a car will pull up in twenty minutes and have it handed right to you.

We had technologied ourselves into ruin. Big fat lazy obese comfortable blobs of this-is-too-fucking-easy. We weren’t meant to sit in front of TVs and computer screens all day. Waking up to plop down at a table while eating a microwaved Hot Pocket for breakfast and thinking — what will they have to snack on in the break room today? I hope Cheryl brings in those butter banana muffins and I can get that Del Taco burrito for lunch with the sour cream and fake-meat chili cheese sauce, and then sit at my desk and pretend to be working as much as possible until I can punch-out and then punch-in at the TV and drink a soda mixed with Jack Daniels and watch some borderline effeminate bachelor make-out with twenty hot insecure neurotic Barbies who cry when they don’t get to make-out longer than the other better looking Barbie.

We weren’t meant for it. We were killing machines like the world had never seen. Fuck a T-Rex. With his pitiful little useless arms. Where was he now? We were the real monsters. And we hadn’t caught up yet to this new species of comfort. This species who was creating cars that do the driving, drones that deliver food, computers who think for them, and ads that end up buying for them. We weren’t these… things we became. We were still killing machines. Killing machines where nature probably had to create a God to create us crazy fuckers. We were the creatures who gave birth to the most helpless young on the planet but could take down a fucking mastodon with a tool we created and then cook it on a fire we built out of sticks and friction. It wasn’t that long ago in the big scheme of things. Fucking giant lizard T-Rex? Give me a break. I would kill one and eat it if they were still around.

So that’s just a long way of saying I had less anxiety now. And I was sleeping better.

Two days, huh? That’s crazy.

3

AFTER A FEW more days of