Nothing But The Rain
Chapter Eleven: It's In The Water Baby
By: Jondy Macmillan
-Kenny-
I know what Kyle hides behind his determined smile. I know that he thinks he's out to change the world. He thinks he's noble. He thinks he's revolutionizing what's left of Park County. He thinks he's the savior.
I know he's one of the only ones in this town who feel that way.
What Kyle doesn't get is that people like their lives. They like being controlled. They like not having to think for themselves.
I don't leave my nest much, but I have customers. One came in and told me about a redhead preaching on the street corner like one of those homeless dudes with a sign reading 'The End Is Nigh'. He tried to rouse the townsfolk's interest.
No one listened.
My client seemed to think the problem was that people are happy. They're fed, the disease is kept at bay, and they don't have to worry about things like work, school, and responsibility. Not if they don't want to. It's an ideal life.
It's fucking utopia, man.
Only a small minority gets screwed. Like, say, the whore on Main Street. Or the idealist who realizes we're backpedaling into the dark ages. People don't want to be free from a cage they can't see. They're not going to thank Kyle for disturbing their peace.
In the morning I wake up, and he's not there. I knew he wouldn't be. He's not the cuddly type, and I'm not Pretty Woman. I didn't make love to him thinking he'd take me far away from all this. We're surrounded by a wall; there's absolutely nowhere to go even if we tried. Not that he would. Kyle's not my Prince Charming, and I don't believe in fairy tales.
That doesn't mean it's not some kind of bittersweet. I can't say I didn't imagine what would happen if the person I wanted most wanted me. If he came into your life again for real, like a whirlwind; how good would that be? In my head I build an imaginary life together with him, and sure I feel pathetic about it afterwards, but the looming question still exists. What if?
What if nothing. A knock sounds off on my door, and I come back to reality. I'm in the service industry, and it's time to get my act together.
Sometime around one I hear the news. Craig Tucker and Clyde Donovan tried to blow up City Hall. They made the attempt while the vampire kids were out; I guess it was supposed to be less of a full out attack and more of a warning. Half the place looks like a failed bomb shelter, according to the John who tells me. The other half is intact; Tucker failed. They strung him up outside the building as a warning. It's the Middle Ages again; we're sticking heads on pikes and burning women for wearing red ribbons.
That's what happened to Wendy Testaburger, anyway. They caught her fleeing the scene, and they burned her in town square. You gotta give our sicko government credit; they're not squeamish. I guess watching the plague monsters rip into people on the street gave us all a taste for blood.
I have trouble coping with Craig's death. Christophe was a mercenary. Him dying didn't come as a surprise. But Craig? Hell. I ain't seen him in years. We were friendly back in high school, before he started dating Clyde Donovan and fell into his own little world. We'd sneak cigarettes behind the school during our lunch break. Sometimes we'd talk about what we wanted to do with our future.
Craig wanted to be a veterinarian. Never once during those conversations did he say, "Hey, I'd like to have my throat slit and be hung by my big toes outside a government building so I could be an example, dude."
Poor Craig. It's no big loss, now. He never would have made it as a vet in this regime. All the dogs in the neighborhood are being cooked up and served as delicacies. There's a reason I never eat out.
I'm going to miss him, I guess. As much as you can miss someone you haven't seen in a few years. Death doesn't hit as hard as it used to. There are worse things. Turning people into brain-eating bogeymen because you're using tainted condoms, for one.
Or here, here's something worse. Knowing what the attack means. Knowing it's not the last.
No one in town knew Christophe DeLorne, and that worked to the so-called-terrorists' advantage. Everyone knew Clyde and Craig. Everyone knew Wendy. Everyone knew they spent a lot of time at the Broflovski home.
What came with news of this attack was knowledge, like a punch in the gut.
I have to wonder if I'm ever going to see Kyle again. Not just because of his secret, or the fact that They are going to be on his tail as soon as they figure out he associated with the dead.
No, there was another indicator I just didn't want to admit until this second.
I've only had sex like last night once in my life; angry, frustrated, passionate, and hopeless. Fucking a man who knew he was going to die.
It was with Christophe, the night before he became a suicide bomber.
A/N: Haha, ohmigosh guys, thanks for all the support with the last chapter! I do want to ask one anonymous reviewer (Muslo) what they mean about my stories and structure- this might be a moronic question, but are we talking beginning-middle-end type structure, as in development, conflict, resolution structure? I would love elaboration with that, (it's been about five years since I took a high school English course, mind you). Are we talking beginning-middle-end structure or what? Don't get me wrong, I adore the crit, as I'm always trying to improve, but I just got a little confused. –puzzled face- If you're reading this, let me know!!! To whoever that anon reviewer was, and to everyone else, another HUGE thank you! I feel so much better now!