“No! Wait, don’t go, Max,” I panted, “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just been…it’s been a hell of a day.” Max shrugged, and I continued.
“Let me come with you, wherever you’re going. You obviously know how to handle these…interlopers, and I don’t. We’d have a better chance of surviving, don’t you think?”
“Surviving? Together?” He gave a sarcastic little snort and his voice rose slightly, “Listen, Marla. If sticking together actually increased humanity's ability to survive, do you think we'd be in this mess? All bets are off, Marla. Humanity’s getting flushed down the toilet as we speak. Civilization has made us weak, and governments have made us forget how to think for ourselves. Our leaders wound up betraying us, and we were too busy worrying about what was happening on Jersey Shore to give a damn. You saw how the military got chewed up back there. If we’re going to get rid of these things, we can’t depend on…on… hierarchies… and…chains of command…and…shit like that. No, Marla. It’s guerilla style from here on out. Every man for himself, fighting chaos with chaos.” I could kind of see where Max was coming from with this rant. He did show up out of the blue and take down an enemy that was straight up pulverizing the military.
“What about people who don’t know how to fight? Or people who don’t have access to experimental, four-barreled missile launchers like you? If humanity is waging a guerilla war against these things, shouldn’t they be prepared? Shouldn’t they be taught how to fight?” Max flicked his cigarette to the ground and lit up another, exposing more of his average-looking face.
“You’re right, Marla.” He stepped closer to me, and opened his duster to reveal a kevlar vest, combat fatigues, and a belt that sheathed the biggest knife I had ever seen. I heard the sharp, crisp sound of the blade coming unsheathed. I was still sitting on the cold cement as he held his gleaming blade inches from my face.
“Marla Killian,” he began, “On behalf of the planet Earth and her children, I hereby dub you Marla Manslaughter,” He quickly flipped the blade in his hand so the flat end was facing down, and lightly tapped each of my shoulders with it. I shivered slightly at the cold steel’s touch, “May you be guided to the survivors that will be ready and willing to take up arms in defense of our world, and may your encounters with the enemy be victorious and drenched in their blood.” As he spoke these last words, I stood up. Despite the obvious pomp with which Max had saturated this strange blessing, I couldn’t help but feel moved inside.
Max approached his ammo cart and flipped one corner of the flag over. He rummaged through the cart as his donkey vacuously chewed on a few tufts of grass.
“Here we are,” he said triumphantly. In his hands, he held a weapon that looked like a 12 gauge shotgun with a fat, cylindrical drum that hung between the stock and the barrel. Hanging from his arm were five different sized bandoliers fully stocked with shells, and a canvas belt attached to a leather sheath inhabited by a fairly large knife. He handed the gun over to me, and though it looked like it weighed about sixty pounds, it was surprisingly light and easy to handle. He draped the three larger bandoliers around my neck like explosive Hawaiian leis of black leather and red plastic. He clipped the two smaller belts to my right thigh while I wrapped the belt around my waist and buckled it. I slowly pulled the knife out of its sheath, and beheld a jet-black blade that must’ve been a foot long. I noticed a pair of aviator goggles attached to a worn leather cap. They happened to look badass, so I asked Max if I could have those too. He chuckled softly and nodded. The cap hugged my head comfortably, and I slid the goggles up so they rested above my eyebrows. Max took a step back, pleased with his creation.
“Not bad, Marla Manslaughter. You will bring many survivors to the light, and many foes will fall at your feet.” He smiled and took one more drag on his cigarette before he gathered up his donkey’s bridle and walked off into the gathering smoke and darkness.
Marla walked off in the opposite direction. Streaks of pink and orange had begun to bleed into the light blue sky. As she headed down the car-choked street in front of the still-flaming ruins of Fort Douglas, she heard a car door creak open. Her eyes found the source of the noise. A slightly chubby Japanese-American girl who looked no older than sixteen sat on the edge of the car seat looking around at the destruction. When her eyes met Marla’s, she stood up, cautiously reaching for the gun that she had been sleeping with. Marla noticed her apprehension and raised both of her hands to show that she was unarmed. She smiled, and waved the girl over. The Japanese girl kept her gun, but exited the vehicle and made her way to the sidewalk where Marla stood. The Japanese girl had streaks of pink and orange coursing through her long black hair.
“Why aren’t you dead?” Marla asked.
“Because I’m clever.” Replied the girl. This made Marla smile once more. She was no longer looking at a mere survivor. She was looking at her first recruit.
I diggz!!
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