Episode 2.6: "The Donkey Harbinger"

“Ed? Ed wake up! We need to talk outside.” It was Maxine’s voice, and she sounded unexpectedly excited. As I stood up, Maxine took my hand and led me outside, which was mercifully stench-free. I could hear Randall and Elvis speaking quickly, along with a braying sound that was completely unexpected.

“Is…is there a donkey out here?” I asked, fully aware of how stupid this question sounded.

“Yeah! And it brought all our stuff from the bus with it!”

“That ain’t all,” Elvis sounded amazed, “It brought this shiny-lookin’ amp along too. We were wonderin’ if it was yours, since it don’t belong to any of us.”

“Uh, I didn’t bring an amp with me,” I replied, “Just my guitar and my bag.” My weird dream suddenly came back to me.

“Wait. Let me touch the amp.” Maxine led me a few steps and placed my hands on the amp’s outer casing. Smooth like glass; grill like a surface covered in cool water. I let out an audible gasp.

“What is it?” Asked Randall inquisitively.

“This is going to sound nuts,” I began, “But I think this is some kind of weapon. I dreamed about it.” There was a moment of mutual silence. I could tell each person was trying very hard to deliver a reply. Elvis was the first to speak.

“Weapon? Against what? Old folks?” He didn’t seem convinced.

“I know it sounds crazy, but I had a dream last night, and this amp was in it.” Randall soon joined the conversation.

“Let’s just back up a bit,” He took a deep breath and continued, “First, do any of you find it strange that not only are we the only survivors from that damn bus, but that we’re all musicians? I mean, that crazy shit that went down last night brought us al together. Maybe there’s a reason for it that we don’t completely understand.”

“What’s to understand?” Elvis replied sharply, “Survival’s the name of the game now. We gotta start thinkin’ about what we’re gonna do for food and water and shit. I’ll be down with startin’ up a band with y’all right after we answer the important questions!” From here, the conversation deteriorated into a series of rhetorical questions and smug comebacks. A long, terrifyingly close scream ended the argument, however. Sweat coated my forehead as I began to notice a small, fiery blob taking shape in my field of vision.

Episode 2.5: "The God Amp"

Every impulse in my body was telling me not to sit on this nasty bathroom floor, but I could already feel my legs stiffen and ache as they struggled to support my exhausted frame. I moved my back against the wall and slid down to the floor, making sure my hands came nowhere near it. I felt Maxine sit down next to me. Her perfume mixed with a slight hint of perspiration, providing me with a much-needed reprieve from the noxious fecal stench that dominated the small room. Randall sat down across from me, his back to the door. I heard the click-clack of a deadbolt sliding into place.

“G’night everyone,” he said quietly, “If you can call it that.” I was positive that I wouldn’t be able to sleep, considering the madness that we had just experienced. Not to mention the fact that I was sitting upright in a restroom that was long overdue for a cleaning. All the same, I felt myself nod off. It had been a long, bizarre day, and that tends to take it out of a person.

My slumber was plagued by strange dreams, the most vivid of which found me in the middle of a vacant interstate somewhere in the desert. I could feel the hot sun beating down on my exposed neck and arms while I walked the length of this uninhabited freeway. Soon, I could feel a brief respite from the scorching sun, as if a cloud was passing by. I tripped on something hard, and bent down to examine it. It was the size and shape of a guitar amp, but something was strange about it. The outer casing was smooth like glass, and my fingers slid across the grill as if it was a surface covered with cool water.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stood up to greet the hand’s owner, but there was no one there.

“Hello?” I called, hoping for a reply. I waited for what seemed like several hours until I heard the unmistakable strumming of an acoustic guitar. The sound eventually took the form of an achingly familiar voice.

“Welcome to the fifth dimension,” said the voice quietly, “You’ve been brought here to gain important knowledge that will help you in the days and months to come.”

“What knowledge?” I asked. My voice felt thick and dissonant, and it disrupted the natural harmonies that I could hear blending around me.

“The object at your feet is a weapon.” Where had I heard this voice? It was right there at the tip of my memory, but I couldn’t recall the name.

“What exactly is this weapon?” Again, my voice sounded harsh and grating.

“It is called the God Amp. With it, your music becomes weaponry. When the time comes to use it, you must not hesitate,” I detected a change in the background music, “I must go soon. Do you have any other questions?”

“Yeah,” I blurted. For some reason, questions like “So what is this God Amp?” and “Enemy? What enemy?” were pushed to the background.

“Who are you?” There was a pause, as if the voice was debating whether or not to provide an answer.

“I have inhabited many forms and taken many shapes. I travel through the strum of the electric guitar, and through the deep throbbing beat of the bass drum. I am your only hope.”

Episode 2.4: "Introductions"

There’s something about puking in front of people that makes you feel somehow ashamed…like you don’t want others to see what food looks like after it's been in your particular stomach. I decided to take the initiative and break the awkward silence that had settled in our smelly bathroom sanctuary.

“What exactly happened on the bus?”

“Shee-yit! You didn’t see it?” the twangy voice replied.

“Well, no.” I pointed to my sunglasses.

“Why you wearin’ shades? You can’t see shit wearin’ those when it’s dark out.”

“He’s blind, dumbass.” The black dude replied.

“Oh, damn! Apologies, man. Given the pure, pants-pissing terror of the evening, I’d say bein’ blind is an advantage, if it’s any consolation.” Twangy-Voice sounded skinny and lean, like some kind of wild dog.

“After…I didn’t get your name?” The woman had begun speaking, addressing the black dude.

“Name’s Randall.” He replied.

“After Randall took the wheel and stopped the bus, there was something waiting out there in the dark for us. All I could see where chains made of razor wire slicing people in half when I saw you two take off.” Her syllables came out in short bursts, like a semi-automatic weapon. I pictured her with short hair and pursed lips.

“You told us to run, man,” Randall said to me, his voice painting me a mental picture of a soldier or a cop, “How’d you know something was coming if you can’t see anything?” This was a question that I was still trying to answer myself.

“I dunno," For some reason, I felt compelled to lie about what I 'saw,' "I just…I thought I heard something from that direction and didn’t want to find out what it was.”

“Well, it may have saved our lives, so I guess we should be thankin’ you. What’s your name?”

“Ed. Ed Devlin. I’m traveling to Boston from Toomsboro, Georgia.” I reached out my hand, which Randall enveloped in his. The dude must be huge.

“I guess after sharing a near-death experience, introductions are appropriate.” The woman replied, “I’m Maxine Gunn. I’ve been living in Baton Rouge. What’s your deal, truckstop?” I assumed she was talking to the dude with the twangy voice.

“Name’s Elvis Wickham. Came out from Dodge City, Kansas, and this has been the absolute weirdest day of my entire life.” I heard the sound of water running and quick, slurping gulps as Elvis drank deeply from the faucet. I hoped it wasn’t the one that I puked in.

“How about you Randall?” Maxine asked.

“Yeah, Randall Cobb. I’m from Morristown, New Jersey.”

“Well,” Elvis began as he sat down on the floor, “Now that we know each other’s names and have nearly been flayed alive by sadomasochists, I guess we’re ready enough to spend the night in a filthy bathroom together.” We all murmured some form of agreement.

Episode 2.3 "Bathroom of Solace"

“Something…something’s coming,” I muttered and pointed in the direction of these three shapes that I could see for some completely unknown reason, “We’ve got to get out of here.” At this point, the shapes broke into a full sprint, and the screaming started up again. I heard the sound of a jagged knife cutting through steak (not chains ripping through what was left of the passengers), the man next to me grabbed my shoulders and yelled, “Move!” once more.

We ran for what seemed like hours. My legs didn’t want to cooperate, and my lungs burned. I kept looking back towards our bus and felt somewhat relieved that the blazing forms had subsided, leaving me to my familiar blank vision.

“Quick! Let’s duck in here!” I heard a panicked woman gasp. A door hinge squeaked open, and I was taken inside with the rest of the survivors. The thick smell of stale air freshener mingled with human waste led me to believe that we had just ducked into a rest stop bathroom that was in dire need of some maintenance. The stench nearly caused me to gag, but on the plus side, I wasn’t getting sliced in half by razor wire.

“I bet some weird shit has gone down in here!” Another voice, nasal and twangy, echoed out against the restroom walls.

“Did you guys see those…things? What the hell were they?” This was the woman again, speaking in a slightly more calm tone of voice that revealed a subtle Southern drawl, “Oh shit! And what about those people’s heads popping like zits! I’ve never seen so much blood!” Her description confirmed the grim suspicion that was gnawing at me. Instinctively, I ran to the sink and turned on the cold water so I could rinse what I now knew to be blood off of my face. My heart felt like it was trying to break out of my chest and I was having trouble breathing. What in the hell was going on? Exploding heads? Fiery creatures wrapped in razor wire? And I swear this must be the filthiest rest stop in the state.

“You doin’ okay, Shades?” The Southern woman spoke, “You’re lookin’ greenish.” I placed my hands on the edge of the sink and breathed in a cloud of toilet smell. I thought the oxygen would help clear my head, but it didn’t. It made me barf. I did my best to guess where the sink was, but I heard some of it splatter on the ground at my feet. Amid surprised shouts of disgust, the woman grabbed my shoulders.

“Oh, dude! Here, let’s have you sit down for a bit. Come on. It’s okay.” She led me to a bench that must have been bolted to the wall. I was grateful for this puzzling addition to the rest room. The guy who yanked me off the bus didn’t seem to be fazed by my sudden surge of puke. He was talking quietly to himself, working out the events that had just transpired.

“They looked like people, but they moved way too fast…and the chains…they were almost like…a part of their body?” I couldn’t tell for sure, but he sounded black. Based on the voices and breathing that I could hear inside the slightly cramped bathroom, I guessed that there were only four of us, including me. I felt dumb for puking all over the place. Now we had that awesome smell to deal with. In order to occupy my mind, I thought about my dad. I hope he’s okay.

Episode 2.2: "What Could Be Worse Than Exploding Heads?"

Whoever took the wheel managed to bring the bus to a shaky halt, and I heard frantic footsteps racing to the exit. I followed suit, making my way through the aisle as best I could. Every other seat that my hands touched was covered in the same sticky fluid that I could feel running down my neck, and I kept tripping over some lumpy obstructions that were splayed across the aisle. Even though I had no other explanation for it, I kept telling myself that I wasn’t touching blood, and that I wasn’t tripping over corpses.

Eventually, I called out for help and someone grabbed my shoulder crying “Move! I gotcha, just move!” as he led me outside.

“What…what’s going on?” I panted as our feet hit the hard interstate asphalt.

“The driver,” he spoke in a baritone that was shaking to keep control of itself, “his head…it just splattered all over the windshield. Then…other passengers…their heads just…burst like water balloons. Don’t know why…” The remaining passengers rallied around us, frantically panting while shouting out unanswerable questions.

During this roadside pandemonium, something started to take shape in the area behind my impotent eyeballs. My blindness has been with me since birth, so I don’t even know how to describe it, but three separate forms started to insert themselves into the familiar blankness that usually covers my eyes. The forms looked the way that a blazing campfire feels when it’s too close to your skin. They started to gain intensity until they began to take on the shapes of people, as I understood them. Two arms, two legs, one head…but there was something slightly not human about these fiery shapes that were materializing before me. Where their eyes should be, there were two painful looking slits; thin and sharp like razorblades. Strands hung from their arms, legs, and shoulders and as they drew closer, I could see that they were chains. Whatever the hell happened on the bus was just the beginning.

Episode 2.1

EPISODE 2: "I'M WITH THE BAND"
STARRING: ED ON LEAD VOCALS
SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE PROVIDENCE, RI



The rain started up on the way out of New York and had been pelting the top of the bus ever since. Thunder rumbled and growled in the distance, and I could hear the germinating dread in the sighs and whispers of the other passengers. Despite the fact that storms come and go all the time, there are certain manifestations of nature that remind us of our place on this hostile planet. It’s all tied into that same primordial part of our brains that, thousands of years ago, motivated our ancestors to sacrifice their fellow humans on altars dedicated to the torrential chaos of nature.

Anyway, back to the bus. I’d been riding in this cramped metal box for close to three days now. Seat F3. Greyhound. Atlanta to Boston. I could smell the different cities on the clothes of each passenger that shuffled past me to their seats. As a blind dude, the way people smell kind of takes the place of the way they look. Occasionally I’d catch a whiff of some exotic type of perfume and assume it belonged to a beautiful woman, and then sometimes I’d inhale the stench of rancid breath and picture some kind of freakish vagrant.

I’m on my way to Boston because of a fairly mysterious message I got via MySpace. I’ve played a few gigs around Georgia, and apparently some booking agent liked one of them enough to invite me to an indie showcase up in Boston. I can strum a decent guitar, but it’s the blindness that people pay to see. Folks like a blind musician. Makes them feel all warm and fuzzy, especially when they’re getting drunk.

I did the math, and playing a show in a city with more than 600 people could significantly increase my chances of becoming a well-known singer/songwriter. It meant leaving my dad alone for a week or so, but he assured me that he’d be able to make ends meet. I had a feeling that dad just wanted me to have a chance to visit Boston. He’s damn proud of his Irish roots, and he’d be happy to drink any of those Boston micks under the table.

The bus careened through the storm for another hour or so when things unexpectedly and abruptly went to shit. From the very front of the bus, I heard a popping sound that reminded me of a piece of meat that has spent too much time in the microwave. Then screaming. Loud, panicked wails that caused me to dig my fingers into the seat in front of me and clench my teeth as I waited for the inevitable impact of the bus crashing into who knows what. The bus started to slowly veer to the right, but someone must’ve grabbed the wheel and corrected its course. A few more pops echoed through the bus, and I jumped as something warm and sticky splattered across my face. The screams were going full throttle, like a church choir speaking in tongues.

Episode 1.10: "Marla Manslaughter"

“Um…I should…I should get going then…” At this point, I regained most of my composure. I didn’t want the only other capable human being that I’ve met so far to ditch me because I laughed at his stupid name.

“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.