BY JOEL TAGERT Out of the poisoned wastes in the east he drifted like a decrepit dirigible, a gasbag so bilious and vile the earth though wounded repelled his pustulent flesh. Upon him clung the remains of a survival suit that had obviously failed its purpose, unsurprising given the uncounted plumes of the catastrophically bombed and abandoned power plants belching their searing smoke across the continent, the cursed heirlooms of humanity’s outrageously heedless forebears. That he had in some fashion died was unmistakable, given the shredded scraps that were all that remained of his legs; just as unmistakably, some demonic bargain kept his malignant being afloat, an inhuman intelligence puppeting his limbs for one last gruesome show. A screen was attached to his chest, once used for readouts of vital signs or to adjust the machinery keeping him animate. Now, however, it blared clips from ancient newsreels, anchors long ago rendered to ash ceaselessly clamoring his praises, or the gasbag himself in former glory, all at a volume calculated to crush the consciousness of anyone within a mile. THESE PEOPLE, THEY’RE NOT GOOD PEOPLE a muscular response from the White House I COULD SHOOT SOMEONE There were few survivors, a fraction of a percent clinging to miserable life in bunkers or holes, having miraculously evaded the initial blasts, the following firestorms, the plagues, the famine, and the radiation (so far), the caprice of currents drawing out their demise. Such a place was Miller’s Lock, where a hundred haggard souls harvested crops grown in warehouses and lived just long enough to replenish their numbers, never prospering but thus far not perishing entirely. By rights they should have heard the gasbag approaching, but his senses were preternatural in this regard and he could smell blood miles away, like a shark, or a magnetized needle turning toward the pole. Thus he floated noiselessly over their fences, effortlessly disabled their cameras, and drifted downward to the dusty rectangle that passed for the center of town. A few masked inhabitants walked on, not having noticed, and nearly fell to their knees when his voice blasted out. WE’RE GOING TO MAKE THIS COUNTRY GREAT AGAIN The three townsfolk outside took one shocked look and ran. He didn’t much like this, and had been bored and hungry for too long. With a twitch of his fingers he seized the nearest up into the air, a middleaged woman I NEVER LIKED HORSEFACE and with a wave of his hand tore the clothes from her body. She writhed in his crushing telekinetic grip and screamed for help. The gasbag spun her around slowly, a vestige of avid prurience locked into his dead character, and then lost interest. NASTY WOMAN With another slight motion he tore her in half and flung the pieces away like hamburger wrappers. Seeing this, and being sure enough about the threat beforehand, the townspeople let loose with a barrage of automatic gunfire, immensely loud, from behind concrete barricades. The gasbag barely took notice, the bullets falling to the ground before they ever reached him. THEY ARE, IN MANY CASES, CRIMINALS, MURDERERS, RAPISTS With sudden speed he levitated forward and up. The criminals were easy to find and immensely fun to rip apart. Some he would raise above his body and crush slowly, revelling in their agony, until his whole misshapen bulk was black with gore and thick blood dripped slow from the tapered remnants of his shins. His appetite was boundless and he gorged until the very last of them was still. Afterward, for several days, he dozed. When he was ready to move on at last he realized that he had missed having subordinates sing his praises, and idly he waved the top half of his first kill into the air with him, and another, a man, in several pieces. Thank you for putting America first, their throats wheezed, prompted by his eldritch prodding. America is with you. PEOPLE LOVE ME, the gasbag boomed. AND YOU KNOW WHAT, I HAVE BEEN VERY SUCCESSFUL. EVERYBODY LOVES ME. There’s something you need to see, Ava told them. I’ll warn you, it’s disturbing. The small folk had not even known Ava was performing surveillance on the miserable Scratchers, but it did not surprise them. She had been created to protect all living things and that concern obviously extended to these scattered human communities. Their faces turned grave as they watched a recording of the gasbag’s rampage. What is it? Cara asked, wiping away tears. What is this thing? A man once, Ava answered. A politician. Now a puppet of the old 5
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