The entire 500-line rough draft, which will be completely wrecked and rebuilt. Enjoy it while you can.
Cathartes Aura Part Three
Chapter One
On glazed asphalt, the
tank sits cored: slack treads
And scorched armor frame a
funnel of earth
Shined like glass from the
kiln. On wheels and doors,
Hoods and trunks, cars lie
scattered with spent shells,
A humvee and jeep, pools
of gummy blood
With clouds of fresh
flies. Walls pocked from bullets.
In a meadow up the hill,
six fresh graves
Hold wrapped bodies while
seventeen stand stooped.
A robed man scans them
with hickory eyes.
“Stand straight. You
look half in the ground yourselves.”
Hands clasped on his worn
leather book, James breathes,
Lifts his voice to the
trees. “I see Satan
On your shoulders, hissing
doom in your ears:
'You will die quick
deaths, live meaningless lives,
Accomplish naught but
fertilize the ground.'”
Three farm women weep
together, arms hooked
And faces stern. The old
woman wails, hangs
On the round man in
overalls. “Forked tongues
Caress your skin, tempt
you to sin. Who cares?
Live loose. This world is
gone. But I see God.”
Focussed, Max watches
James' brightening face
And uplifted palms. “I
feel His love glow
In the comfort you offer
each other.”
Al picks grease from his
nails. Sam stares glossy
At shifting clouds while
Val does toe-raises.
Bodhi sits close. “I
see Him where strangers
Stand
stalwart against intruders.” By Val
The bright-eyed girl lifts
her heels in time, beams
At James, his shoulders
now hunched, whispering:
“I sense Him so close I
can feel his breath.”
Two teen girls stand
blank, faces tired and streaked
With mascara, skirts and
blouses rumpled.
“Now is the time of
tests. Satan will tug.
Our Lord will pull.”
Dixie shuffles her feet,
Wrings her hands, looks to
the weeping women,
At the black-haired girl:
grim, flexed arms folded,
Face clenched. “Venom
will taste sweet on your tongues.”
James licks his lips. “But
we shall stay the path.
Parry strikes from snakes.
Rechristen this land.
Rebuild His church from
the bricks that remain.”
The teen boy pumps his
fist while Buck scratches
His beard, shakes his
head. “The devil will snap
His fangs and thrust his
fork. Hearts will stumble
From their rhythm.” The
teen pales. “But I know
By the fire within me, by
those poisoned
At Isidore, by the
world-wide billions
Dropped by war and
disease, by the triumph...”
James gestures over the
crowd and the graves.
“Of these souls against
invasion, I know
Our Lord will grind our
foes beneath his heel.”
Joe paces while the others
bow their heads
For one more prayer. He's
been watching faces
And feet, still trees,
empty windows, bare skies,
Squinting, fingers
twitching for a trigger.
He lifts a spade, joins
the men piling dirt
On the graves while they
all sing: “On that bright
Cloudless morning, when
dead in Christ shall rise,
The glory of His
resurrection share.”
Gritty
men nudge each other, pass a flask.
“When roll is called up
yonder, I'll be there.”
A few more silent moments
and the men
Splash soil from hands and
faces, share liquor,
Roll some smokes, change
out of funeral clothes.
“Time for the dirty
work,” Buck says. They split.
Half take axes and saws
into the woods,
Return with sticks and
logs. The other half
Hitch horses to wagons and
load corpses
From the pile under the
tarp. This morning
I peeled back one corner
and stole breakfast
While they dug graves and
did their best to wash.
They pile soldiers and
lumber together
In the median between
highway lanes
Half a mile south of the
mall and add gas.
James makes a cross in the
air, wishes them
Safe passage to their
judgement. The teen stares
With fish eyes. Buck sips
from his jar. “Nice try,
Little kids,” he says.
Max covers his grin,
Stifles a giggle. “Should
have brought more tanks,”
Sam replies. Al looks
down and shakes his head.
Joe flicks his cigar butt
onto the pyre.
With a whoosh, the fuel
ignites, then the hair,
The clothes and twigs in a
rapid crackle.
Greasy smoke curls as sap
and fat sizzle.
Green logs hiss, froth and
pop. Skin and bark peel.
A deep roar grows from
sharp snaps. The blaze feasts,
Vacuums oxygen, jerks
leaves and feathers.
Now a cone of flame
thunders, ringed by men
Leering drunk, faces
flickered, shadowed, gaunt.
A pit of orange embers,
skulls, and ribs
Tugs like tar, drags me to
its molten heart.
I flee. Flap manic for
clean air. I get
Out. It's coming again:
the purge, the cleanse.
They know not what they
do. They can't control
This voracious heat. Like
serpents and apes,
Felines, canines, and
beasts, they'll all be ash,
Steam and smoke from the
forge. This is no game.
I fly for the sun, safety
from this torch,
This cauldron, this
crucible of reckless
Random wreckage of hammer
and anvil
Until dizzy from the
thinness of air.
Chapter Two
Up where the air is free
of roasted sap,
Burnt meat, melted
blacktop, where dust won't cloud
My sight or clot my lungs,
where shouts, cackles
And bad breath don't crush
at me, I can soar.
I can see and breathe.
The pyre's just a spark
Low
on fuel, framed by pavement and live trees.
It
cannot roam. It soon starves. The men
load
Each other into carts and
roll back north
Toward smells of lunch
while James remains, head bowed,
Kneeling before the embers
for an hour.
He rises, face deeply
scowled, looks skyward
From the pit of ash and
skulls, hands open.
He sinks his fingers in
his beard, tugs fierce
Before stomping up the
road with a grunt,
Leaning forward, eyebrows
clenched, gaining speed,
Starting to snarl when he
trips on a stone,
Whirls for balance and
laughs at the clouds.
He approaches Woodcrest,
straightens his robe,
Smoothes his hair,
scratches the smirk from his face
And pastes on his best
placid angel smile.
After a lunch of scrounged
ramen, fig bars,
Jerky with warm soda, they
swivel chairs,
Adjust benches, encircling
the soldier
Chained to a picnic table.
James hangs back.
“Private Lance
Cartwright. Army First Armored.”
Joe shifts his panama hat.
“Assignment?”
“To guard the interstate
corridor, sir.”
“To protect the
highway?” Joe asks. “From whom?”
“Looters. Rebels.
Diseased. Keep the lines clear.”
Buck leaps to his feet.
“And which one were we?”
Buck's red as a brick.
“You came to loot us.”
The bright-eyed girl
stands, rubs her chin. “May I?”
Joe nods, waves with his
hat. She puts a hand
On Buck's arm. Both men
sit. “My name is Emme.
You may call me Inspector
Emme. I'm twelve.”
James hides his grin with
both hands. “Who ordered
The strike on our camp?”
She climbs the table
To stare down at Lance,
arms crossed. “I...” he glubs.
“We...” Clears his
throat. “Sergeant Gord, Inspector.”
“I see.” She smiles,
nods. “And his middle name?”
Lance looks at every face
but Emme's. “'Scuse me?”
From her tippy-toes, she
shouts: “Middle name.
Sergeant Gord's middle
name. That clear, soldier?”
He lifts his hands high as
the chains allow,
Pales and shrugs. “His
first name was Bill, I think.
I don't know.” Emme
climbs down, paces and smiles.
“So, you and the
Sergeant were not close friends.”
She returns to her chair,
sits halfway, stops,
Turns with a finger
raised. “Just one more thing:
What came first, Private
Lance, chicken or egg?”
Lance tugs at the chains,
fingers the padlock.
“What questions are
these? You can't have chickens
Without eggs. Eggs with no
chickens.” She snorts.
“No smart boys in the
army. Dinosaurs
Came from eggs eons before
the first bird.”
He stares into a space
between the clouds.
“I suppose you're
right.” She turns to the crowd,
Arms spread. “He
supposes I'm right.” She bows.
She sits. Al looks at her
queer, walks by wide
Before addressing Lance:
“So, why Army?”
Emme hops into a leather
high-back, twirls
A few circles while Lance
gawks. Cherubic,
She returns a grin. He
shakes his head. “Huh?
Oh, army?” He tells Al:
“Daddy was broke
His whole life. My
friends all slave at some dump
To bring pennies home to
girls they knocked up.
I want more. Be all I can
be, you know.”
Al scratches his whiskers.
“Been in that boat.
Got sent to war. All my
live friends are nuts.
I fix cars. Did it work
for you?” He sits.
Again Buck stands. His
round friend shoves him down.
“I know how you feel.
I'll handle this boy.”
He waddles toward Lance,
thumbs his overalls.
“I'm Gus. You'd best
call me 'Sir'.” Licks his lips.
“You're poor trash, son
of poor trash. Picked up guns
For the country to get
some G.I. Bill?
'Emptive strikes on some
bad guys before they
Before they become
enemies? Whole world
Hates us, wants us
stomped, stopped.” With a quick lunge
He pokes Lance in the
sternum. Chains jingle.
“Take these off.” Gus
shakes shackles, looks around
And back to Lance. “You
think I'm old. I'm fat.”
He lifts a gristled fist.
“Was whuppin' ass
Before your pa lost his
first job. Don't think
I won't crush you-”
Claps his palms together
And grinds them. “Like
a clod.” Max captures Gus
By the straps and tugs him
backward. “Cool it,
All of you.” He
straightens his spectacles.
“Plenty of unspent rage,
for good reason,
But let's sleep on this.
Way too much
today.”
Joe unlocks Lance, bolts
him back in the shed
While Sam grips the glock.
The tribunal turns
Toward smells of rice and
meat. Joe lights a joint,
Passes it with Sam. They
all stroll inside.
Alone, James rolls a chair
before the shed.
Through a slot cut for
food, he whispers: “Son?
Are you Christian?”
Lance replies: “Yes, Father.
A wayward one.” Puts
his hands through the slot.
James holds them. “Our
Lord will welcome you back.
Release your sins and they
shall be absolved.”
Chapter Three
Picking his teeth, Sam
rolls out of the mall
With Joe behind, who
belches like a boar,
Sparks and passes a joint.
“One day,” Sam says,
“When I find some seeds
I'll grow you a grove.”
Joe exhales, shrugs in his
cloud. “I got seeds.”
Sam grins. “Then it's
on, brah. Can't face this thing
Clear-eyed and minded.”
They pile twigs and sticks,
Flick the zippo as Buck
pours out the door
Sideways, jar in hand,
arm-in-arm with Gus,
Both belting: “I got
friends in low places...”
Buck sips, holds his jar
high. Two fingers left.
Hands it to Joe saying:
“Gottagetta
Get us a still workin'.
Armageddon
Gone hurt bad sober.”
He sits in the dirt
Before the infant fire.
“I got a still.”
Joe hands down his flask,
gold in the flame-light,
“In my '62 Jag E-Type
Roadster
Where the V-12 used to
be.” Buck goggles
At his concave face in the
flask
Then mentions: “Your
cart's fancier than mine.”
Joe pops a smoke-ring.
“Wanted that E-Type
At first sight. Retire
and drive that thing south.”
He glides his hand like a
winding coast road.
“Find a place in the
sun. House on the beach.
Peel some cash and buy
that thing. Government
Paid plenty. Was set by
forty.” Gives Buck
The roach. He inspects
it, every angle.
“But that pension is
digital dust now,
Don't hope to find gas
stations, but land,
Prime
waterfront land, just became dirt cheap.”
The doors open again, held
politely
By Max and Al. Ladies
exit, drag chairs
Around the sprouting fire.
The black-haired girl
Grips the sleeves of a
pale, aproned maid: “Sit.
Tell me your name. What's
wrecked you? Your terror?”
She smoothes her skirt,
reties her curls. “I'm Anne,
Wife of Jacob, mother of
Gail, Caleb,
Ellen and Gabe.” She
looks at her fingers.
Can't still them. “All
dead now. We're a good town.
Father James said Satan's
pawns were afoot.”
Anne looks up, forehead
asweat, eyes firelit.
“We met them. From
Disease Control. Lab-coats
And ties with a flu
vaccine. News outside
Of pestulent death. We
took our doses.”
She curls into an offered
XL coat.
Still shivers. “We
thanked them. They left, but soon
Came the spotted man.
Splotched, really, red sores
Where he wasn't sheet
white.” She laughs, brittle
Like crystal shattered.
“We were taught never
To turn back the sick.
Jesus loves the sick.”
She holds her chilled
hands to the fire, too close.
Flames lick them. She
won't blink. “Saint Marianne
Lived eighty years among
the lepers
By the Lord's grace. We
received no such shield.”
A woman brings steaming
tea, pulls Anne's hands
From the heat. “He
drowned in phlegm, the splotched man,
As we fell like leaves.
He called us a test
With his dying gargles and
said we failed.
They'd soon come with fire
to keep us quiet.
We waited, praying with
rifles ready.”
“They didn't come, did
they?” Anne shakes her head.
“But we had to leave.
Too much loss and pain.”
The black-haired girl,
arms folded, strikes a grin
Wide as the sky. “You're
safe. My name is Kaye
And you've made it.
You're one of the Billion.”
She intercepts the flask.
“We all made it.”
Kaye swigs and winces,
stifles her reflux,
Pets Anne's cheek.
“Thought it was a gag, at first.
A thing for morbid
tattooed goths like me.”
Shows her palm: a weeping
skull. “But it worked.
“They never burned your
town. They got derailed
By the Night of One
Billion Bombs.” Curses.
Dropped jaws. “'On the
night we reach nine billion,'
The fanatics said, 'hide a
bomb somewhere
In your city. Gather to
watch, rejoice,
Detonate at midnight. Set
the world straight.'”
Buck holds the roach under
his nose, sniffs deep.
“Our clique chose First
Beer Hill. First Kiss. First Joint.
Whatever. It's the same
hill. With a quart
Of Mom's whipped vodka, I
showed up at ten.”
Joe takes back the roach.
Buck is paralyzed.
Fingers before his face.
Eyes like marbles.
“A few kids there with a
cooler and a bong.
'You Billion?' one asked.
I said yes and claimed
To have a pipe-bomb in the
school dumpster.
'Me too,' he says. I'm
relieved 'cause I lied.
D in Science. I don't
build explosives.
But I had to be there. It
kept growing:
Mostly loners but some
rowdy vanfuls.
They all claimed bombs and
everyone had drugs.
“A few hundred. I hoped
they lied like me.
One kid claimed C4 in the
nursing home.
One said her grandma lived
there, threw a drink
In his face. First bomb
popped at eleven.
Some clowned but he
cheered. Midnight was mayhem.
Thunder. Cones of flame.
Then the web went dark.
A party full of teens with
no cell-phones,
Stoned, blowing up each
other's favorite spots.
I swiped a car, drove like
hell as someone
Blew the crowd and the
whole hill into dust.”
Chapter Four
The fire burns down.
Drugs and fatigue kick in.
They drag themselves off
to sleep. Gus and Buck
Crash in the dirt. Joe
snores with his camels
And his magnum. I roost
in the tower,
Dream of ants marching,
mandibles clicking
Chasing
their leader, stamping all six legs,
Tracking a trail of
pungent pheromones
Toward the horizon.
Bright whiteness. Clean light.
Solar power focussed by
the buffed lens
Of a detective's
magnifying glass.
The sun rises gold in a
sapphire sky.
Parvati and Shiva snuffle
and shove
Until Joe wakes, unties
them, gives treats.
They trot into the woods.
He coughs, shuffles
Toward the sound of new
fire. Rubbing his eyes
He spots Lance unchained
seated with James. Swift
Joe draws the magnum on
Lance, center mass.
Oatmeal, cups of tea, a
bag of dried fruit
On their table. Joe tips
his gun and head
Sideways, looks back and
forth, saying: “James? What.”
“The Private is a
Christian man,” James states.
“Raised by strong stock,
pulled to violence
By a need to survive,
drawn to attack
By a man drugged with
power, drunk on fear.
His sins he has confessed.
Placed in our flock
By God's hand, only Satan
would bind him.”
Joe takes a long breath in
and out, holsters
His gun, takes a step
back. “Okay, padre.”
He lifts two fingers,
crossed. “Your fates are twined.
He's yours. He hurts us,
you go down with him.”
Val is boxing ghosts, eyes
closed. Feints, dodges,
Sweeps and hooks. She's
knocked back, rolls to her feet,
Returns with combo
punches, an axe kick.
Emme watches, jabs the
air, kicks best she can
In a long dress. Ears
lifted, bodhi guards.
Val stops, wipes her face,
scratches her dog's chin.
They walk off toward
breakfast. Emme bounces behind.
“When do we start?”
Val and bodhi turn, squint.
“I'm not a teacher.”
Emme corrects: “You were
Not a teacher. This is a
different world.”
Anne puts eggs in water,
discards floaters,
Cracks sinkers in the wok
over the fire.
Sam whisks them with
vigor, serves scrambled scoops
Over rice to the line, one
at a time.
They add shakes of pepper,
dashes of soy,
Drink coffee from an urn
with powdered cream.
“With luck and a lake,”
Sam says, “I'll put trout
In the pan tomorrow.”
Dixie points west.
“Three miles of
switchbacks and you'll find fat browns
And cut-throats.
Craw-dads, too. And a rope-swing.”
James gestures Emme
beneath a tree to eat.
“Did you know of this
One Billion Movement?”
She pats her lips with a
paper napkin,
Folds it in her lap.
“Pure poison, Father.”
She nods. “Open license
for planned breeding,
Infanticide, euthanasia,
hate crimes.
'We Billion would be
better without you.'
Click, bang. A curious
college debate
Carried way too far by the
oppressed, crazed
And radical who wanted an
excuse.”
“How did you learn
this?” She's blowing bubbles
In her Kool-Aid. “The
web, Father. Knowledge
Exists not just in old
books.” Plates are cleared
For the hounds to lick.
Formal at Val's feet,
Bodhi watches their
slopping jowls, dragging
Floppy ears. Val gives
him her last spoonful.
The old woman shoos Sam
with a towel.
“No men in Baba's
kitchen. I clean up.”
They put a pot in the fire
filled with soap
And water. Dishes revolve
like clockwork.
Joe and Max snip a lock,
swing wide the gate
To the power-plant. Max
says: “Not sure Dale
Knew they had back-up.”
Joe taps tanks, sniffs lines,
Checks gauges before going
to the switch.
“Fire in the hole?”
Max shrugs: “Fire in the hole.”
Joe flips the switch.
Revving. Chitty-bang-click.
Cough of black smoke. It
lives. Lights, fans, Muzak.
Joe's radio squawks with
yesses and nos.
Max takes notes while Joe
looks it all over.
He nods and shuts it down.
The mall goes dark.
Baba guides as Anne and
Kaye restructure
The glass-front mattress
store. Some beds they drag
Outside, where Gus and Al
relocate them.
They circle ten beds,
nightstands and one crib,
Bring plush toys,
blankets, mobiles, thick books,
A nurse bag. Show it to a
plumping girl.
“We'll all keep watch,”
Anne tells her. “Will it do,
Darling May?” One hand
on her spine: “Yes, dear.”
“My money's on five
months,” Kaye whispers. “Four,”
Baba croaks, “In these
times, be set for two.”
The other men turn soil,
churn picnic ground
Into farmland. “Tired
already, Timmy?”
Buck takes a fork from the
sweating teen. Lance
Gives his to James. He
peels his robe. T-shirt,
Trousers, knotty arms. He
tests the fork's weight,
Twists the grip, swings it
like a baseball bat.
He and Buck lock eyes,
drive boots and tines, till
Turf under, worms over,
yard by square yard,
Spit soil like tractors.
James sniffs, twists his face,
Tells Buck: “You're
burning putrid fuel, Buford.”
Chapter Five
After a lunch of pasta
with canned sauce
Buck brings seeds from his
cart, sows them in rows.
Joe and Sam spread their
own, marking the spot
With a tie-died scarecrow.
Al searches cars,
Makes notes, extracts
batteries, wire and fans.
Tim loads them in a cart,
drags it bumping
To the garage where the
Jag's parked in shade.
Shiva snorts, lifts a
sneering lip at mares
And stallions tethered,
grazing just too close
To his regally reclined
Parvati.
Until the pounce, I don't
see the cat, black
Splotched grey and tan,
lurking under the hedge.
A feather-cloud.
Thrashing bird in her jaws.
Tail high, she trots to
the women's quarters,
Plops the corpse at Anne's
feet. “Oh, my Zephyr,
Thank you. This little
robin all for me?”
She strokes her fur, coos,
scratches her belly.
Zephyr turns the corner,
becomes shadow.
Face screwed, Anne takes
one wing in two fingers,
Flings it far as she can
then looks for soap.
I snatch the bird, swoop
to the tower roof,
Past Gus on watch duty,
cigarette butt
Stuck to his lip, snoring,
ash on his shirt.
Just a three-bite bird.
Need to find more fuel
For my furnace, get some
air, some distance,
Some space and a view.
Too much time near dirt
Dulls my edges, erodes my
fear of death.
Never saw that cat.
Slipping. Hurt is dead.
Must stay sharp. Back in
altitude the air
Flows clear in my lungs,
blood clean through my heart.
I taste the sky for fresh
dead. These dirt-foots
Scorch their meat, stew it
all to mush with plants.
Where's a road-killed
deer? A fat goat's back half
The bear couldn't finish?
I swirl and float
Until the mall's a spot in
the forest,
Skate north on the wind
over striped black-top.
I find just a thin man in
a big coat.
Gas can in one hand.
Crow-bar in the next.
Gun on his hip. He shakes
the bar at me.
“You can have me last,
you flying maggot.”
He sneers at the trees,
walks south, stiff but quick
In scuffed leather shoes.
He looks back often
Touching his pistol. He's
not dropping dead
So I fly back. Baba works
a wood spoon
With power through a bowl
of dough. “You girls,
Grew up with electric
stoves. My nana,
She baked with iron and
fire.” Dried berries
And raisins. She keeps
stirring. Max and Tim
Heft the dutch oven, hang
it over coals.
“Go now, boys.” She
shakes the spoon, flings pastry.
Joe and Sam roll shopping
carts, sagging full
Of solar panes, turbines
and inverters
To the garage floor, start
laying stuff out.
Sam asks: “Power a
walk-in with these toys?
We ever get food, I'd like
it to last.”
Joe frowns, looks over
calculator parts,
Shakes his head at
micro-copters, chuckles
At child-size wind mills
and coils of copper.
Rubs his face, groans,
peeks out through his fingers
At the oil-stained
concrete. “Absolutely.”
Unarmed, James escorts
Lance across rooftops.
Lance sketches buildings
and terrain, inspects
Cameras, piles of spent
shells. Kneels squinting
With a ghost rifle, taking
aim below.
Buck shadows them both,
nostrils curled like stink.
“What's he doin'?” he
asks James. Lance responds
But Buck lifts a palm.
“Didn't talk to you.”
They climb to the tower.
Gus jerks awake.
Cigarette rolls down his
gut, sears his thigh.
“Your boyfriend,”
Lance says, “is one sharp marble.”
Val exits the mall with a
box of books,
Bodhi at her heel with
Emme trailing, dress
Abandoned for new track
pants and jacket.
They sit beneath a tree
flipping pages,
Val pointing at pictures
before standing
Feet shoulder-wide,
pressing hands together
And sinking into stance.
Emme tries the same,
Grits her teeth. “Lower.”
She hisses. “Lower.”
She tips. Val touches her
head. She crashes.
Still crouched, Val says:
“Easier in ten years.”
Dixie and Kaye wrestle
picnic tables
Into a ring around the
fire. Baba
Stirs garlic, onions and
more in a pot
While ladies drape linen,
unpack china
And polish silver. From
plastic lemons
My squirts juice into a
crystal punch-bowl,
Tastes the crimson liquid
and adds sugar.
Anne builds a fragile
tower of glass cups.
Baba rings a bell. They
all come running.
Lance says: “Who's
getting married? Is it me?”
They line up, grab bowls
and spoons. Hunks of bread.
Ladles of stew. Buck
steps ahead of Lance.
“Inmates to the back.”
He stabs a finger.
Lance looks at his feet.
“Naw. I like it here.
Go shove that finger
someplace warm and dark.”
Val and Emme arrive,
stepping gingerly.
“But the polite thing
would be: ladies first.”
Palms up, Lance steps
backward, eyes drilling Buck.
Baba grips her spoon like
a club. “Besides,
You'd best not get too
close,” Lance grins, “Buford.”
