Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“The Being”

The leader of this cult has convinced their followers that they are the only being in the world, and that all other creatures, and indeed the world itself, is part of their dream. As such, “The Being” is kept in comfort and waited on, lest they awaken and snuff the world from being. While the claim is that this is not a lucid dream per se, “The Being” promises that the dream rewards those who are loyal to it. True followers are fanatically loyal, as they believe that rough handling of “The Being” could result in the snuffing out of the entire world.

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Lines in the grocery store, carts laden
Men gesticulating before green screens
School is canceled the night before
Clear skies hold a menacing promise
A whisper of ice, a vapor of snow
Terror incarnate for those who can’t
Who won’t be prepared for the freeze
In the commotion of schools and storms
The temperature falls 40° in 12 hours
We are all so worried about ice that
No one notices the oceans are boiling

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He was the sort of man who
Would shoot you in the gut
And then expect plaudits for
Driving you to the hospital

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“The process was…painful…I admit, and there were many failures. But such is the light of discovery, is it not? One cannot perfect a true immortality like this without some sacrifice.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mellin, dully.

“In all those souls I experimented upon that survived, I sowed a small portion of myself. My memories and my genetic code. I knew that eventually all the pieces would recombine in the form of a being with my exact genetic structure and encoded memories, experiences.”

“Why the long wait, then?” Mellin said.

The child laughed, an almost comical sound. “Ha! Imagine what those dolts would have done if they’d known that a child with the memories and genes of Aisha the Executioner had been born within their lifetime? No, I had to wait, enough time that the memories had faded and those that had known me in the flesh were dead.”

“And what of me, then, and my men?” Ellen gestured to what was left of his troop. “We were promised a reward.”

“And you shall have it! I am not selfish, these sacrifices have not been in vain. When the time is right, I will release my gift to the wider world.”

“You’ll forgive me,” said Mellin, drily, “if the notion of this sort of rebirth does not excite my men.”

“My dear Captain,” Aisha said. “Now that I am made whole there is no need for such subterfuge. My work will now allow me to pass on my genes and memories unchanged.”

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“Hmph. Ask, then, and be out with it. I can’t stand formality for formality’s sake.” The hermit gulped greedily at one of his amphorae, coming away smelling strongly of alcohol and wet clay. “You don’t live my life if you like people’s nonsense.”

“I’ve been told that you know the secret, the truth, to what will hold back the Host,” said Trixie, as gravely as she could muster.

“What’s the Host?” said Bannister. Seeing Trixie’s shocked face, he laughed again. “Such surprise! How am I supposed to know what’s going on down there if no one comes to visit me–by my own request, I might add?”

“This was a mistake,” Trixie said, sadly. “I knew it was a long shot. But Cooperston is dying, and you’ll take a long shot if it’s your last chance and your last bullet.”

“Now, that’s more like it,” the hermit said. “Perhaps a bit cliche, but not a bad turn of phrase. Listen up, woman. This Host: they are a large force, well-armed, and strongly led?”

“Yes, yes they are,” said Trixie, excited. “They’re led by-”

“Tut-tut-tut,” said Bannister. “No details. Not necessary. This is an old problem, you see, one that was felt as keenly by our ancestors in squalor as it was before the collapse. How to protect the small from the large. Now: you can’t join with this Host? They are not amenable to negotiation?”

“They are murderers and slavers,” spat Trixie. “We’ve heard their terms and we’d rather die.”

“Well, then, you may get your wish,” laughed the hermit. “And this Cooperston, you’ve no hope of holding them at bay?”

“For a time, perhaps, but only for a time,” said Trixie.

Bannister hoisted his homemade liquor, following it with a meaty belch. “Well then,” he said. “You need another army. A power to match their own. Know of any?”

“Would I be here if I did?” Trixie said.

“Ha! Fair enough, fair enough. Now let me tell you something, woman. Before I decided to set myself on this path of solitude, I was quite the hoarder. Information, naturally, the only thing truly worth hoarding after the collapse. And I’m familiar with a force that just might be amenable to you. The Legion.”

“That old fairy tale?” Trixie snorted.

“Why yes,” said Bannister, both offended and grinning impishly. “You’ve heard of it too, the fully armed combat units kept in suspended animation beneath the Yucca Flats Complex, waiting for the computer order to reawaken them?”

“Well…”

“I thought not! To the unlearned, the Legion is just a once and future king, but once you’ve read the science behind it, it’s not so mythical at all. Soldiers enhanced mentally, physically, psychichally. Stored away for future need. And, I might add, very amenable to new members and fierce in its defense of its own. And I can recite chapter and verse from the relevent technical documents to back it up.”

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The mail boat had not come for weeks. The radio station had been destroyed by shelling, by the mysterious submarine that had warned the islanders in a heavy accent to steer clear of the blasts. And the Derby Allen, the only boat the islanders had capable of reaching the mainland in stormy seas, had not returned from its last fishing cruise and was now a week overdue.

All decisions on the island were taken collectively, by ‘parliament’ and consensus. But the Rev. Argyle had insisted that the blackout was a test of faith, and that a ‘parliament’ risked further helpings of the wrath that the sinful islanders had already brought upon themselves.

It was not until fuel began to run low and influenza broke out, taking Argyle and seven other able-bodied islanders with it, that the ‘parliament’ was finally gathered. And though they voted to ask for government aid and evacuation, the question remained: how would they make their request known?

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The differences are subtle, but they are there. Sometimes when you look at the house, there will be three dormers atop the roof. Sometimes there will be four. Balustrades are there sometimes, sometimes not. The paint varies in color, and people have reported siding made of wood as well as polyvinyl.

What is clear to me is that #663 Eastpoint Ave isn’t really a house anymore, even if it ever was. Rather, it’s something pretending to be a house, a camouflage of some kind. It’s hoping we don’t look too close and don’t connect the dots.

But that’s just what I mean to do.

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They say that she drives around town in a white hearse, an older one, from the 80s. It’s never carried a dead body, she ordered it from the factory, but no one is sure why.

When you see that white hearse on the road, with its meaningless silver bars on the side like folded wings, you slow down. You get over. Or she’ll bear down on you and run you off the road. Maybe that’s why she chose a hearse, because it’s solidly built.

They also say that if you accept a ride from her, you’re never seen again. I’m not sure I believe that, since the sort of thing that vanishes people without a trace isn’t the sort of thing that buys hearses from the factory. But I think it hits on a key point of the whole thing.

I think she drives a hearse so people will leave her alone.

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