AN: This is a sort-of rewrite of Cheating the Hangman. Hopefully this time, the computer doesn't shit out...
P.S. This chapter contains a suicide attempt, but in the future, I'm not giving any further content warnings. Reader discretion is advised. Use your better judgment. Here be dragons. All that jazz...
Music: Al Rex - Hydrogen Bomb
"Imam [Khomeini] taught us to reject injustice, and to never accept the barbaric America, which is trying to take over the world. Many people have come up with terms to describe America. But let me be frank with you, I haven't found any term more beautiful, lofty, and noble than the term "the Great Satan" to describe America."
–Naim Qassem
I. SIC SEMPER SATANĪS
In a shoddy little trailer home in… Let's be honest here, Whiskey Tango Jerry Springer country…
A young man with eyes far too old for his face rested upon a monobloc chair, staring out at his back porch, looking beyond toward the young saplings. It was no man's land when he moved in, but now… well he wouldn't quite say it was healing, but it was certainly scarring over quite nicely. Now ain't that just poetic?
Digging deep into his admittedly fucked up head, he had drawn a memory out of a rabbit's hat. A faint, almost irrelevant one, but one that stuck with him regardless. The memory took place not too long ago, but what was within was damn near alien to him, as it was from before it all went to shit.
That damned war lasted only a mere three years, yet it consumed so much, stretching the distance between now and then to be almost insurmountable. A black hole in his heart and mind.
An old ham radio buzzed with static for a brief second, "…marks one year since the signing of the Treaty of Lincoln and the formal dissolution of the United States of America. Governor Jayshawn Hendricks has declared a day of mourning, along with President Johnson of the Two Virginias, Executive Nguyen of Maryland, and Mayor Cortez of the Free District of Columbia…" The host tried to put a solemn tone to her words, but really, it just sounded like the producer was pressing a gun against her head.
A sharp exhale of air sufficiently expressed the mild humor of such a thought.
Good, she probably deserved it too, scumfuck bastards.
The pre-war corporate propagandists, podcast pundits, and network nitwit grifters on all sides were responsible for half of it, fanning the flames of hate and dogma for mere likes and views. He hoped it was worth it for them – dividing good American people over what once were minor political disagreements, brainwashing their fellow mothers and daughters, sons and fathers, brothers and sisters, into collective suicide in a self-fulfilling prophecy of oppression.
Fuck them all, and fuck those old lizardmen at Washington for standing by and letting it happen!
The memory grew clearer. There he sat, younger, skinnier, pimplier, on the third seat of the middle row in an overcrowded inner city classroom. Above, one of the lights flickered incessantly, doing its damnedest to distract him, while nearby, a ceiling tile looked ready to fall and ruin his day.
For a brief moment, the young man thought he was remembering junior high, but alas, he was wrong – that shithole was even worse off. No, this was high school, 10th grade Social Studies class to be precise. It couldn't have been anywhere and anywhen else; that outdated 2030s era map stapled on the rotting corkboard, they only had that for a week before the Appalachian Insurgency started.
Mr Farouk dispassionately pointed at the projected slideshow, as all around, the blossoming academics hung onto his every word, as he powered through the Carter Administration faster than you can say peanut, and leapt straight into the 80s…
…Just kidding, this was the Hood. Nobody, not even the fucking teacher, gave a shit!
Mr. Farouk just ignored them all while the students were all busy bullshitting about Who-Gives-A-Fuck's latest single or how So-And-So was a "bitch-ass nigga" or how that freshman girl in the other class got knocked up by some guy in prison, or who snitched on–
You get the point.
Yet strangely, he was paying attention to class that day. He didn't know why – perhaps 'Nam and all that was just that fascinating – but a single phrase buried itself into his stubborn skull regardless. It was a silly term, used by the denizens of Dirtcrackistans everywhere, who were understandably a slight bit pissy at Uncle Sam waving his ol' wrinkly johnson over their precious shithole:
The Great Satan.
Funny that… All those screaming towelheads and tin-pot tyrants hollering "Death to America!" got what they wanted in the end. And from the Great Satan's howling corpse came an endless army of little, even more fucked up, abominations from Hell.
A civil war was far from a pretty thing. It made demons, devils, and all-around sons of bitches of all whoever crossed its path, even the so-called saints. It wasn't only the California Commies, the Southron Klans, the Neo-Nazis, the Cartels, the Feds, and the Junta Wannabes that potshotted and dropped each other by the million – every crazy with a gun, a dream, and a half-baked manifesto popped out the fucking woodwork and made life just that little bit worse.
In the Second American Civil War, nobody was innocent. Not even Sergeant Ashley Morgenroth, formerly of the Pennsylvania National Guard, now on reserve in the Pennsylvania Army.
Yes, he did his duty to his state and was rightly rewarded for it, but it didn't wash away his sins. That was what the off-brand Chinese vodka was for, which he poured down his throat like Niagara Falls. It didn't make anything better, but the burn helped distract him a bit from the blame.
After all, it's the end of the world – who the hell had time to hate themselves?
"…Tensions between China's Sixth International and the Pacific Communes have reached a breaking point. A declaration of war is expected within a few hours unless First Secretary Juarez surrenders unconditionally. Chairman Yin maintains that 'Only a truly united revolution can bring about World Communism'…"
Another memory, even older. Little kids, running around in circles at an empty, overgrown part. The adults were absorbed into their own mobile world, rotting their minds with rage. But the children, they only played with each other, expressing their innocent joy.
Ring around the Rosie,
A pocket full of posies.
"…Grand Fuhrer Shetland of the Texan National State threatens nuclear retaliation if China 'takes one Red step on our White American soil'. His allies along the New Confederacy share similar sentiments…"
There he spun in circles and circles. Perhaps, there was still hope for them – that they might see a brighter future ahead.
Ashes, ashes.
We all…
"Breaking news! A Chinese Submarine has been spotted in the San Francisco Bay. It appears that–!"
EMERGENCY ALERT
Nuclear and biological missile attacks have been launched against the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania from both the Texan National State and the Second People's Republic of China. Please remain calm. More instructions will follow.
Fall down.
Perhaps, they were robbed of it.
"The Wumaos and Wignats finally got around to it, huh?" Ashley raised a glass, sardonically toasting the end of everything, "'Bout damn time – motherfuckers kept me waiting…"
Resigned, and ignoring the pain of his poorly-healed arm, a service injury that the VA vehemently refused to cover for, he reached for the loaded pistol left on the table. If there was something certain about World War III, it was that Ashley didn't want to live to see who won. After 23 years on this wretched Earth, he had his fill of life, and there wasn't anything worth living for here. Not anymore.
"Philadelphia, Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, New Kensington, Erie…"
Jordie… Jamal… Zeke… Aiden… Tyler…
Ashley knew it in his heart. He had already died in the war, his corpse just remained stubbornly moving.
Mackenzie… Mom…
It was time to stop pretending.
See you soon.
Opening his mouth, he pressed the cold, worn barrel to the roof, finger snaking around the trigger. He made sure it was pointed more toward the back, aimed at his brain stem; he knew a guy who made the mistake of shooting straight up once. He suffered a slow, agonizing death over seven months before finally meeting his maker, missing half his brain.
For better or worse, Ashley was a professional to the very end. He didn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
Click.
"Hrrmph?"
Click. Click. Click.
He pulled the barrel out, "Oh, you have got to be shitting m–"
In less than a millionth of a blink of an eye, a bright flash blinded him. His nerves didn't have time to feel any pain before everything other than bone was instantly vaporized. Out in the distance, a great mushroom cloud rose – one of the missiles intended for New York missed its target by around 300 miles.
The world just had to spite him one last time.
Thus always to Satans, both great and small.
…
…
…
Oh God, it burned…
His skin popped and sizzled. Flesh… Mud… Blood… It all burned to hell and back. And everything else tingled, as if he slept on everything wrong, pinching every nerve. The stinging pins and needles dug deep…
He rolled onto his stomach, triggering a new wave of searing pain, "Argh! Ahh!" An incoherent boyish cry stabbed his ears… Ears?
"Haagh?" No, it was coming out of his mouth, this voice, "Uhaaa…" He knew it. It was at the tip of his tongue, the voice… It was from long ago.
His voice.
Ashley pried his tired eyes open, piercing the blurry veil. A hand limply laid in front of him; soft, tiny, but splotched with burns and angry red skin. Not his hand, yet his all the same. It tingled like hell when he clenched it into a fist.
"Whath-tha-fuaahh…" His squeaky, infantile voice tried and failed to enunciate.
His fogged-over consciousness finally took the impossible hint. Flames nicked at his feet. He tried to pull his own body forward, but couldn't summon the strength; his hand sank deeper into the mud and blood.
Rustle… Rustle…
Beyond, into the dark woods, something emerged from the brush. A giant, looming figure emerged – a man. Ashley was helpless to whatever it was.
Squelch, squelch, squelch, squelch…
Boots upon filth. He awaited his fate.
"Brothers…" A gravelly timbre muttered, "One survivor and it's a damned animal. Just my luck…"
A calloused hand picked him up by the scruff, Ashley's chin rested upon a large, bony shoulder. A greyish-orange beard tickled his neck, mixing with his own red hair… Red?
It was warm… He was tired… So damn sleepy, he didn't bother to ask where the fire and brimstone were.
Truly, there was no justice in this Godforsaken world.