\u201cWarning: martial law now in effect.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s what the sign said. It dangled to the ground from the single post that still held it, while the other post bent westward toward the eastern front of the Rocky Mountain range beyond. When he placed his large hand on my shoulder, pinching and pushing me to my knees, I felt the tip of his knife poke the back of my neck, unevenly tracing the bumps of my spine. His hands were large–bigger than my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s nothing personal,\u201d he said in a voice that scraped like one pack a day for forty years. I recognized it, though. It was really him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s just a matter of honor,\u201d I responded. The knife moved away from my neck. His hand loosened. He held his breath. I held mine, too, for a little while. But he remained still, until I asked, \u201cThat\u2019s what you used to say, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His hand left my shoulder and I heard footsteps. The danger had passed. I fell forward and placed my hands on the asphalt, before scrambling ahead and turning back toward him. He was just as I\u2019d glimpsed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The years had sanded him down. He had a thick, gray beard and black hair fell from his Tigers baseball cap to his shoulders. Even his intense, obsidian eyes were softened by fatigue. But he looked exactly the same, otherwise. The same tall, muscular build and taut, Cleopatran facial bone structure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
According to his bio, at 6\u20194\u201d and weighing in at 240 lbs, from the motor city, Detroit, Michigan, Barbarian was one of the fiercest heels in professional wrestling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When his beard was black and his hair was cut spartan short, Barbarian came out to the ring in furs and black tights, with a string of clay skulls dangling from around his neck. Sliding beneath the bottom rope to a Sitar-remixed Welcome to the Jungle<\/em>, he would cast off his furs and flex to display his bronzed front biceps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His persona was like his name. Barbarian made his reputation by a specific kind of brutality that cemented him as a heel, like setting mannequins dressed as his opponents ablaze or decapitating them with an Egyptian sickle sword. And then he would say the same catchphrase while peering directly into the camera: \u201cIt\u2019s nothing personal. It\u2019s just a matter of honor,\u201d followed by the kind of ululation that Muslim extremists did in movies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could kill him, probably. He was still fit, but he looked worn down like the rocks in the desert that stretched out before us from the parking lot of yet another abandoned grocery store. Nonetheless, my gun was still in my backpack, sitting in the rusted skeleton of a van that I stopped to rest and take shade in. He sat at the edge of where the backdoor once slid in, where I had left said bag in the shadow that he had found me in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat did you say, lady?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t respond.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo one said that to me for a long time,\u201d he said. He fished a canteen out from his duster and took a pull from it, before passing it over to me. I unscrewed the cap hastily. It had been six hours since I last tasted water, and I wasn\u2019t counting on the grocery store having any, but maybe something was still left in some of the old pipes. And if they still had coffee filters and scrubbing pads, I might be able to filter out any particulate. A good scavenger uses everything. A good scavenger isn\u2019t supposed to run out of water, though–they\u2019re not supposed to get caught off guard, either. But here we are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo, you\u2019re not going to rape or kill me?\u201d I asked. In my experience, you don\u2019t leave these sorts of questions in the air. You don\u2019t trust their answers, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA fan? No, I don\u2019t think I could,\u201d he said. I took another yank from the canteen and passed it back to Barbarian. Then I joined him in the shadow of the car\u2019s carcass, facing him but sitting. I could grab the knife in my boot a hell of a lot quicker that way if he turned on me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho said I was a fan? I liked the Roman Reigns,\u201d I said. He smiled. A molar had fallen out, and the rest of his teeth were brown. He used to have a perfect smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s been twelve years since I wrestled and you still remember my catchphrase,\u201d he said. That\u2019s how we all spoke. \u201cIt\u2019s been twelve years since…\u201d is how every conversation with a stranger starts. Next year, it will be thirteen, and then fourteen, and so on. It seems like everyone that wants to forget it just won\u2019t mention what actually happened\u2013the climate event or the Omnivirus that took the lives of seven out of ten Americans\u2013not until we\u2019ve forgotten it, anyway. He glanced me over and said, \u201cYou must have been a teenager.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Was he flirting? Either way, I had to laugh, and I answered, \u201cTwelve years ago? I was in my twenties. But the last time I watched you wrestle, I was a teenager. I stopped following you a year after your big league debut.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We let the conversation fizzle and made our way into the grocery store, together. He kept his knife out, I kept my gun in my bag. The less he knew about my inventory, the better. But it made more sense for us to go together. The automatic sliding doors had been shattered through ages ago, the glass from the frames either swept away by the winds or ground back down to sand. We entered silently. Immediately by the door, by a large chest used for holding ice, there was a pile of blankets browned by age or blood. They crunched when I kicked them and dust rose around my feet. It had been years since anyone had used them, but whoever had had left an open backpack with its contents spread about nearby in the enclosure for one of the front end cashiers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLooks like no one has been here in a while,\u201d I said as I glanced around. There were broken skylights dotting the ceiling, where the sunlight could reach through and allow for vegetation to take. On the opposite side of the entrance, the produce section had become a garden, probably started from the leftover vegetable seeds from old fruit and the cool, humid environment that persisted in the architecture. It took every ounce of willpower to keep from showing Barbarian how excited I was. He knelt down to inspect the contents of the backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah. This place was ransacked and abandoned pretty quick after,\u201d he said. He picked up a small black cylinder with a gold stripe in the middle, holding it up so that I could see it, and asked, \u201cYou wear lipstick?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGo fuck yourself,\u201d I said, making my way to produce. A small, skinny orange tree grew in the middle of the patch of fading sunlight, with squash and tomatoes growing around its base. The tiles and concrete had been broken, like the land reached through to cultivate the refuse leftover and nourish what life they contained. As soon as I stepped into the sunlight, I became momentously enraptured in the verdancy that surrounded me, and the smell of wet earth cleared the Colorado dust caked to my lungs. I coughed at first, but as I caught my breath, I shouted, \u201cCome over here, Barbarian.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t call me that,\u201d he said and groaned when he stood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOranges don\u2019t even grow in Colorado. Can you believe it?\u201d I said. He brought the backpack with him to collect oranges that he reached up to pluck from the tree\u2019s branches. I asked, \u201cSo, what do you want me to call you? The Iron Sheik?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy name is Darius.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour real name is Darius?\u201d I asked. Darius was also the stage name of his persona before he made it to national television.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I first saw Darius when he made frequent appearances on a public access wrestling program in my hometown of Aurora, just outside of Chicago. The budget was smaller, with less lighting and practically no pyro or holograms, and he only performed for a live audience of about a hundred people, but he truly embodied the historical magnificence of his namesake. In gold tights and a long robe with a golden lion on the back, Darius the Great was a modern Adonis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was chiseled, handsome with a shaved face and his hair trimmed short. In spite of his height, acrobatics were no issue–he often did complete back flips off turnbuckles to catch his challengers off guard. In fact, his signature move started as a backflip from a turnbuckle, followed by clothes-lining his opponent into the turnbuckle itself before they could turn back toward him. In his independent wrestling organization days, he called the attack the \u201cMarch on Babylon.\u201d After he got big, he still did the March on Babylon, but it became the \u201cSpilling the Blood of the Infidels.\u201d His catch phrase started in his early wrestling days too, but when he used to be Darius the Great, honor meant something\u2013like he were a samurai or something noble. I really used to like him, back then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He grunted and asked, \u201cYou\u2019re really not a fan? What\u2019s your name, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAzi,\u201d I said, and checked a green tomato for bugs before biting into it. As I chewed, I said, \u201cJust Azi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFarsi baladi?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The flesh of the unripe tomato was firm but giving and its contents were savory tart. I slurped out its juice guts and asked with a full mouth, \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever mind,\u201d he said and zipped the bag as he glanced upward, peering toward the purple sky through the roof. \u201cIt\u2019s getting dark. Whaddya say we make camp?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTogether? I\u2019m good,\u201d I responded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019ll be safer if we keep watch in shifts,\u201d he said. Carrying the backpack, he made his way for the store\u2019s entrance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you fucking kidding me? We\u2019re in the middle of nowhere. Denver isn\u2019t for another thirty miles and this isn\u2019t a main road,\u201d I said. We were a long way from anyone, although he wasn\u2019t wrong\u2014but I hadn\u2019t made camp with anyone in a couple of years for good reason. Other people get sloppy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow did you get here?\u201d he asked as he turned toward me. The way the shadow caught him, he really still gave off the savage presence of a raider or a barbarian. If I didn\u2019t know him already, the sight of them would have scared the shit out of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m a smart scavenger. We\u2019re hours from a trading settlement on an unfrequented route. It took me all day to get here. I know what I\u2019m doing,\u201d I countered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, and you left a hell of a trail. If I didn\u2019t get to you, some other raider would while you slept in here by yourself,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo that\u2019s why you are here,\u201d I gleaned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m a survivor. And tonight, I stand a better chance of doing that with your help,\u201d he insisted. He could have robbed or killed me if he wanted to by then. And he wasn\u2019t wrong, he did find me. I followed him, and we stepped back out through the door frames as he said, \u201cWe can scavenge this place tomorrow, together. Then you can go back to camping, alone. That sound like a plan to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t think I haven\u2019t killed bigger, younger men than you, before you consider touching my shit,\u201d I said. He didn\u2019t laugh or smile or say anything. He just nodded at me and then kept toward the street. I followed him to the parking lot\u2019s edge and across the road to a vacant gas station. The door had been pulled off the hinges and the shelves had been cleared of food and cigarettes ages ago. Some unused phone chargers and window scrapers still hung from a rack next to the register, over a row of empty candy bar boxes. The copper from the chargers might fetch trade, so I took them. Outside, we built a small fire in the shade of a gas pump, to disperse smoke as it rose. It was shielded from the street by abandoned cars and a good place to stay warm for the cold Rocky night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As we broke the skin of oranges, we sat close without touching on sleeping bags that cornered the fire, leaving our backs to the gas station as we faced out to the road. I mostly just gazed up at the stars though.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen was the last time you had an orange?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. It\u2019s one of those things that you don\u2019t realize you\u2019ve missed until you do. Climates must be starting to shift, dramatically,\u201d I said, slipping my worn boots off, then my socks. It was a luxury I was wary of permitting myself while camping. Although exploring barefoot had its advantages, you never know when you\u2019d need to run and post-apocalypse hazards include tetanus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The air was ripe with spoiled gasoline and the thick smoke of burning thrush repelling crisp from the night air. He asked, \u201cWhat do you miss?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was a stupid question, but if you sat with anyone long enough, they were going to ask it. Everyone was nostalgic. I said the first thing that I could think of: \u201cPomegranates.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed and said, \u201cOf course. We had a pomegranate tree on our farm outside of Tehran.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re not from Detroit?\u201d I asked. He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo. We migrated before I started kindergarten. My mother and sister wanted a secular life, away from what our home had become. Isn\u2019t that how you\u2019re here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about my parents. Sitting with my dad, who probably was then the same age that Darius was now, but Dad had already grown bald and round with pre-catostrophe middle age. His fingers were stained red from pulling pomegranate seeds from their fuchsia and white husk. The aromatic humidity of tahdig cooking on the stove came from the kitchen where my mother, draped in gold costume jewelry, walked in from. Kam, my brother seven years my junior, was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, watching his wrestling and playing with action figures of all his favorite stars. But that was ages before anything had happened to the world. Something that, at the time, I had intentionally left behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t say anything for a long, long while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was never going to kill you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust stop it,\u201d I said and swallowed an orange slice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDespite my TV character, I\u2019m really not a barbarian,\u201d he said. He used his knife to pull back the skin of an orange. I used my teeth. Like I said, the less he knew about my inventory, the better.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cObviously. You\u2019re a phony,\u201d I said. He stopped and looked up at me and I bit the skin off another orange, before I said, \u201cDo you even know what a barbarian is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOf course, I do. It was my name. It\u2019s a brutal warrior from ancient times,\u201d he replied and set the knife down, finishing the orange peel with his thick, callused fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s a slur that ancient Greeks, and later Romans, would use for foreigners. Specifically, Persians. They thought our language was so funny, like it was baby talk. Ba-ba-ba. So they called us barbarians,\u201d I said. I didn\u2019t realize it, but I was pointing at myself with my thumb. I was speaking too loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah? And Darius\u2019s real name was Darayavaus. Darius was just a Greek simplification for a great leader that united the Persian tribes. How is that any better?\u201d he asked. He tossed an orange peel into the fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou know, orange peels are pretty nutritious,\u201d I said, putting one in my mouth. It was more waxy and gummy than I had remembered it from the last time I\u2019d eaten fresh fruit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He gawked at me, disgusted, and responded, \u201cWe have plenty of oranges. Anyway, you don\u2019t speak Farsi, but you\u2019re going to teach me all about Persian history?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m pretty sure we\u2019re living in the American apocalypse, not the Iranian one. Who the hell do you know that speaks Farsi, anyway?\u201d I asked. The oranges themselves were tart and sweet and I couldn\u2019t remember when I last felt so full. He shared his canteen with me and finished another orange.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was in Cali after,\u201d he said and picked up another orange. \u201cAnaheim, when the state remained above sea level. I took shelter with a Persian community in a mosque there for a while, before the virus broke our peace. Last time I had oranges and pomegranates, now that I think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow do you think they\u2019re doing?\u201d I asked. My knees were pointed up and I laid back, staring into the shadow of our canopy. I squeezed my eyes shut but I wasn\u2019t ready to sleep, yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere did you come from?\u201d he asked and I was a little annoyed at how he changed the subject whenever posed with a difficult question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAurora,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo, you grew up around here?\u201d he said, and I heard the fibers of another orange peel breaking in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAurora, Illinois,\u201d I said and opened my eyes, glancing at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He stared at me and said, \u201cOh, yeah? I used to wrestle down there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He actually smiled, and said, \u201cYou really were a fan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, until you sold out,\u201d I said. He tossed another orange peel into the fire. It sizzled and cooked quickly and citronella-scented black smoke fell off the hissing flames.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I groaned. \u201cWhat were you supposed to be? A savage? A terrorist? When you were in the independent leagues, you were Darius the Great, Prince Darius. You were the shah of the ring, the king of kings. And then you do a couple of months in the pros, and you\u2019re supposed to be\u2013what? Cannibal Al Queda? The caveman terrorist? Did you have a jihad against bears? What was that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt wasn\u2019t up to me. Darius didn\u2019t test well with national audiences. I was barely doing matches on the weekend shows, let alone the prime-time programs and pay-per-views. But Barbarian\u2013he was formidable. Frightening but handsome, y\u2019know? But then they just kept turning it up, and before I knew it, I guess I was losing fans that I didn\u2019t know I had. But y\u2019know, I was getting title matches, selling hella merch, making really good money,\u201d he said. He seemed unfazed by my accusations, like he had used all his post-apocalypse leisure to make peace with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, yeah. Those are great reasons to perpetuate a stereotype. I\u2019m sure every little twelve or thirteen year old boy needed just that to believe in themselves,\u201d I responded. I was angry. Was this what it meant to be a survivor? Devoid of empathy, even to your own kin?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cListen, my kids were probably the same age as you. Hell, twelve years back, they had started having their own kids. I needed to support my family and they didn\u2019t want another ethnic babyface that wouldn\u2019t appeal to half their audience. That\u2019s just business,\u201d he said, like he was just proud to have found the work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned away and pulled the flap of my sleeping bag over me. I said, \u201cYou\u2019re full of shit. The fuck do you know about honor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your problem?\u201d he asked. I could feel him staring at me now. I finally sat up, though I kept the blanket over me. It was getting cold. I felt unguarded and unhinged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou found your tribe after everything fell, but what do you think happened to the rest of us? I had no one. A lot of us had no one, because people like you didn\u2019t give a fuck whether the rest of us would be considered human or not. You mocked all of us, and they rejected us then, just like they did in 1979 and in 2016. I spent my entire life in condemnation because your character became our cringe cultural identity then, and even now in this shitty apocalypse,\u201d I said. He looked stunned. There were orange peel fibers in his beard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWow, so according to you I\u2019m either as bad as the Ayatollah or fucking Trump? Was I responsible for 9\/11, too? I just wrestled, lady,\u201d he said, brushing his beard out on his shoulder. I wasn\u2019t even going to bother to try burning whatever straw man he had just foisted on me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stuffed my backpack under the head of my sleeping bag to be a makeshift pillow when his face and voice finally softened as he said, \u201cY\u2019know, they felt the same way that you do at the mosque I took refuge in during the onset of the virus. They said I was a bad example, letting Americans think that this was what we really were. And then after the climate event, anyone who recognized me thought I might be looking for a fight or trying to make trouble. Like I really was just a barbarian. I was alone for a long time, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBoo-fuckin\u2019-hoo,\u201d I said and settled in for rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat happened to you? Didn\u2019t you have any family?\u201d he asked. I thought about holding back the truth just then, because I wasn\u2019t sure he would even care. But if I wanted blood, I would get it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy little brother, Kamran. He was a fan of you. I had him for a while,\u201d I said. I paused to reach for his canteen, took a long swallow, and exhaled my frustration. \u201cHe got into you because I got into you, but I couldn\u2019t stand watching you after you went big. Still, he never missed a match. When I quit watching wrestling all together and started college, he would call me to update me on your title matches. It was so stupid, because you had become so stupid, but he was my little brother. I was the only one he had had, for a long time before we had no one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat happened to him?\u201d It was another stupid question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat happened to your family? Your wife? Your kids? Your grandchildren?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought that was the end of it. But he answered anyway, \u201cWe were quarantined in separate states because of the disease when the climate event hit. All communications were lost. The truth is, I never found out what happened to them, and now there is no Detroit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe they lived,\u201d I blurted out, instinctively. I think it was the most dishonest thing I\u2019d said to him up to that point. He was gazing off somewhere. I don\u2019t think he believed it anymore, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Now, I felt like the stupid one. I didn\u2019t know what else to say and he didn\u2019t say anything else, and already feeling exposed, I started speaking to fill the void that I hadn\u2019t meant to leave. \u201cA few years ago, we were passing through Nebraska on our way to higher ground. We survived by scavenging. Hunting together. We hadn\u2019t gotten that far out of Omaha before one of those tribes of white nationalist raiders caught up with us. The Turnerites. You must have seen them around some of the settlements, talking about starting a new confederation of American states.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah. Head-to-toe camo or red, white, and blue. They\u2019re still around. Not in the settlements as much as they used to be, since they\u2019re shit stirrers, but there\u2019s a hell of a lot more of them on the road, lately,\u201d he said. Then he paused, and without any inflection in his voice, he asked, \u201cSo, did they get him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid they get him?\u201d I asked. I think he saw the incredulity in my grimace, because he turned away from me and faced the ground, but I responded, \u201cYeah, they got him. We didn\u2019t have anything to trade, or any of whatever currency was popular there at the time, so we could only scrounge up enough for a couple of shells. About ten miles out of town, we stopped to make camp. But Kamran was just eager and hungry, and we survived by hunting. Even after the country went to hell, he would still collect furs to dress like you used to in the pros, no matter how impractical it was.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Darius put his knife away in the sheathe on his belt, and said, \u201cWhat happened next, Azi?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t really want to tell him anymore. But he was sitting up, leaning forward on his knees, captivated. And even though it had been so long, my anger had not subsided enough to be merciful. Not toward him. I finished, \u201cHe woke up early and took his rifle into the woods and the gunshot that caught a doe, the one that woke me, was the same one that woke them, too. I made it back in time to watch them call him a barbarian as they beat him to death.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThey called him Barbarian?\u201d Darius asked. He made eye contact with me, and I nodded. For a moment, he hesitated to say anything, but then asked, \u201cHow did you get away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you think revenge is honorable?\u201d I asked back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn\u2019t answer. I turned away from him and spent the rest of the night listening to the crackle of the fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I dreamed that I was there again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Every branch and bush caught me and then I was standing before seven men in the trappings of Dixie flag patches, scarves, and capes, and standing over my dead brother. I grabbed Kam\u2019s rifle, with one shot left loaded, and began my berserker rage. The rifle demolished the first Turnerite, and then I dreamed of emptying my pistol into three more Caucasian militia hicks, before stabbing the remaining three to death in the darkness of the wooded dawn. I pulled everything I had, and then I held Kamran one last time, before I followed the sun alone. I dreamed that I killed them, instead of just running away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I always dream that I killed them instead of just running.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When I woke, the sun had not yet crested but its halo was visible. Darius hadn\u2019t woken me for my shift, and he wasn\u2019t around either. He\u2019d left his sleeping bag, but there was nothing to indicate he would come back for it. I started rolling up mine and changed into fresh socks. Whether he returned or not didn\u2019t matter to me. I had no stake in him, anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The fruit backpack remained, though nearly empty. I had the last orange and used a small spade to bury the fire embers. Even if I wasn\u2019t going to find anything else to scavenge, I knew that the oranges would make good trade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As I made my way to the grocery store, I heard an unfamiliar sound. A clicking or a clapping, I couldn\u2019t be sure, but when I peered through the busted out window of what was once a hatchback, I could see them\u2013horses. I hadn\u2019t seen one since I was a kid, but there, in flesh and blood, were three stallions. Two black and a calico guarded the grocery store entrance, and with them stood a raider. He wore an American flag cape, with the confederate flag cropped over the stars. More and more of the Turnerites had traded in Old Dixie for Old Glory. It meant that they were organizing, but at least there were only three horses here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Which meant that there weren\u2019t many of them standing between me and my loot. Like I said, I was a scavenger. And I was a hunter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stuffed my gun in the back of my jeans and left the packs, before I flanked the building through a nearby field of rotted, dry corn stalks and skirted the store\u2019s edge in a crouched position. The sun was rising but I still had the element of darkness as it sat red on the edge of the horizon. As I peered around the building, I could see him–a face mostly beard, but slick as oil above the ears. He carried an assault rifle, one of those really loud numbers. If he fired even one shot, I was screwed. I retrieved the knife from my boot as I took them off. I stretched and curled my toes into fists, before leaning forward on them to peer around the corner again. He was turned away, so I moved quick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My footsteps were softened by my bare feet as I moved past the horses. They neighed in my presence, but the racist thought nothing of it. He just kept his eyes on the entrance, like he was waiting for his friends to come out. They must have followed me and Darius here\u2013it seemed like he suspected we were still inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was much bigger than me, so I took a running jump on to him, getting an arm under his chin and pulling back. With my other hand, I jabbed my knife into his neck repetitively. I didn\u2019t need to hold tight, because he fell to his knees quickly, bleeding on to me a little before planting forward. He seemed too big to roll out of sight, so rather than wait for his companions to leave the store, I took his rifle and made my way through the empty windows and into the supermarket again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n From the foyer, where they used to stack rows of carts, I could hear two voices from within.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh my God, is this lipstick? My mom used to use this!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was a woman\u2019s voice, soft and pleasant to the ears, but that of a raider concubine, nonetheless. I didn\u2019t know a lot about Turnerite culture, but I knew that the concubines didn\u2019t get a vote, and if she was present, her master wouldn\u2019t be far off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo way! Use it to touch up my war mask. I sweat through it all day yesterday,\u201d another woman said. As I peered around the corner, toward the registers, I saw them. They wore dirt-smeared, polka-dot printed dresses, like something out of the 1950s. And their face paint were skulls made of smudges of red, white, and blue. Their hair had been twisted into stick-up braids that stood out in every direction, like branches of an oak. Was this a costume or did they always dress this way?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wish Alicia could have come with. But she\u2019s so blessed to be pregnant again,\u201d one with blonde hair said to the other with brown hair. Their domesticity was horrifying. I tuned them out and peered around, looking for anyone else. It\u2019s possible they had come only with the man I had already killed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When one had finished the skull outline on the other, they both knelt down to rummage around the other stuff we\u2019d found beneath the empty backpack. I stepped out into the open with the rifle raised toward them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey, Karens!\u201d I hissed. They turned and stopped. They didn\u2019t speak, though. I asked, \u201cIs there any more of you in here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They said nothing. They raised their hands and whimpered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you have any weapons?\u201d I asked, and this time, they shook their heads and the blonde let out a fearful squeal. When I was certain they had nothing to reach for, I nodded toward the exit, and said, \u201cGet the hell out of here. Don\u2019t let me see you again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They hurried through the doors and I heard a stunted scream as they passed the man I had already killed. They were no threat to me and I have a sore spot for the defenseless, I guess. But if I could say I made one mistake, it was watching as they left. While I waited to see how many of the horses they planned to take with them, I felt a sharp pain impact with the back of my skull.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was temporarily blind and I could only hear a sharp ringing in my ears that accompanied the concussive pain. The rifle fell out of my hands and slid across the floor. My hand instinctively went to the back of my head and I felt wet there, before my senses started fading in and I lurched forward to try to grab the rifle again. I felt something metal and I wasn\u2019t sure what it was, but I grabbed where I thought I needed to and I turned around toward my assailant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As my vision corrected again, I saw him. Another beard in a camo shirt with a US flag pinned to the netting on his combat helmet. He held a pistol, which he had used to bludgeon me. But I was the one who held the rifle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Click.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing happened when I pulled the trigger and I still lay there prone. He pointed the gun at me and said, \u201cYou dumb bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed then at me. I tried to throw the empty rifle at him, but leaning on one shoulder the way I was, it barely made it past my feet. He said then, \u201cWell, look at this brown little scavenger rat. This white snake ain\u2019t goin\u2019 to let you scurry off, though. Not until he\u2019s done with you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He cocked the pistol and leveled it toward me. Though slick with my own blood, I clasped my hands together and willed myself to speak to someone, anyone. The first person that came to my mind then was Kamran. I just didn\u2019t know what to say to him, except that I was sorry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then, quite suddenly, the Turnerite jerked sideward and I heard a clang. A knife had flown through the air and clipped him, before hitting the ground next to him. It was Darius\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing personal,\u201d he said, standing with the light to his back at the store\u2019s entrance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou got to be fucking kidding me,\u201d I said, kicking the gun under a machine used for vending lottery tickets. The Turnerite winced and grabbed Darius\u2019s knife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s just a matter of honor,\u201d Darius finished. He kinda looked, well, glorious, I guess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly, from where I lay, it\u2019s like I\u2019m looking up to the ring at a wrestling match. The racist lunges toward him with the knife thrust out, but with a fluid snap of his wrist, Darius\u2019s hand clamps tight around the Turnerite\u2019s neck. The Turnerite is caught off guard and he drops the knife to clasp at the hand tightening around his throat, but Darius lifts him into the air. Though he tries scrambling, his face grows purple and swollen for lack of breath in Darius\u2019s grip, until Darius shoves the Turnerite by the neck into the linoleum floor. It\u2019s a choke slam!<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Turnerite quickly takes to his feet again, this time coming at Darius\u2019s midsection. He wraps himself around Darius\u2019s waist and attempts to push him back, but he isn\u2019t making much headway. Darius then reaches down and grabs the Turnerite by his hips, before flipping him into the air and slamming him, back first, into the ground. Unbelievable, a power bomb!<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a moment, it looks as if Darius is about to flex into his signature front bicep pose, but then he realizes just where he is. As the Turnerite staggers to his feet yet again, I hear the trample of footsteps coming from one of the nearby grocery aisles. I had been waiting for a third one to show up. Darius makes eye contact with me, and reaching back, I withdraw my pistol. I take cover at an end cap where I know he\u2019ll intersect, and wait as the steps grow closer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Meanwhile, the other Turnerite goes for Darius again, and as Darius turns away, he makes a dash for the corner where the wall meets the foyer. He\u2019s just out of reach of the Turnerite when he plants his foot into the wall, and it almost looks like he\u2019s about to do what I think he\u2019s going to do, but it can\u2019t be possible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just then, the third Turnerite starts to come around the corner. I turn my body and jut out my leg, and he comes flying out from the aisle after tripping over my swept kick. I catch a glimpse of Darius still fighting at the front end, jetting from the wall\u2019s corner into a backflip. I\u2019m standing over the Turnerite when Darius lands, the dust rising around him like in a Kung Fu cinema. Before I drop my eyes and the bullet exits the chamber of my pistol, Darius sprints into the Turnerite in front of him like a Persian cheetah, and brain matter splatters onto my bare feet with the resounding dissonance of a pistol shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I look up just in time to see the other racist\u2019s head get crushed with an audible crunch between the wall\u2019s corner and Darius\u2019s outstretched arm. With the way his body sags into the wall, it looks certain his neck is broken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHoly shit,\u201d I say through heavy breaths. Darius smiles as he picks up his knife, before leaning down to check the vitals of his foe. Finally, I ask, \u201cDid you do a fucking backflip?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Darius wrapped up my head with some supplies we took off the Turnerites. The remaining horse had a saddle, and I\u2019d filled the saddle bags with all the oranges that I could. There wasn\u2019t much else left there, but I still left fully packed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere will you go, now?\u201d Darius asked when we finished loading up the horse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBack to one of the Denver settlements, I suppose. This will feed me for a little while and the rest will fetch a pretty good trade,\u201d I responded. We stood peering at each other for a while, before I started out of the parking lot, practically dragging the horse behind me. When I turned to the store again, Darius still stood there, watching me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou know how to ride a horse, Grandpa?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot really,\u201d he said. He smiled, and for a second, he really didn\u2019t look so pathetic after all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, come on anyway. It\u2019ll be safer if we camp together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He helped me on to the horse and took the reins. He walked beside us as we strayed down the diasporic road and into the setting sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Behnam Riahi, formally of RUI and CCLaP, is a writer living in Seattle, WA with his cat, Valentine. He currently is working on a selection of genre fiction stories for future publication.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cWarning: martial law now in effect.\u201d That\u2019s what the sign said. It dangled to the…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":66,"featured_media":100042942,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[23,3292],"tags":[3311,227,3294,263,3312],"class_list":["post-100042937","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured","category-fiction","tag-behn-riahi","tag-fiction","tag-plague","tag-post-apocalypse","tag-wrestling"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100042937","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/66"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=100042937"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100042937\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":100042940,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100042937\/revisions\/100042940"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/100042942"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=100042937"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=100042937"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.neondystopia.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=100042937"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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