Chapter Four: Marion Douglass Wows With Post-Modern Art

Marion Douglass had the black thick rimmed glasses most adored by MFA students everywhere. This pleased the crowd at The Lit Snob. Marion Douglass look as they felt an author should look, acted as an author should act (well spoken but modest about her accomplishments, taking careful sips of a mocha-coffee related beverage), and was quite the "young talent" according to Todd via the all powerful New York Time Book Review.

She carefully annunciated a prose poem, "Factory" from her new book.

...

Make out a city quiet and deserted, stored with closed signs in the windows hanging from stretchy elastic strings that used to be white, homes with shades down over drafty old windows. Zoom in on a derelict factory in the part of town people don’t like to talk about, the part of town with supposed drug deals and girls in too tight skirts that are going to not make it because of fetuses and needles in veins, pushing in who knows what, hopefully not air. So, this derelict factory: chimney still standing, but just barely, standing obstinately against a dark night, dark without the pinprick on stars. White juxtaposed oh so harshly on black. The roof, not so lucky because it is caving in at parts, shingle by shingle crashing down into earth, dust to dust, returning to that Almighty Creator. (Did He forget?) Windows, where they were are mouths open to the night air that pours in and out, a rushing wind, crashing through the interior of the factory, propelling the dirt from the shoes of some worker from those better times, propelling the brown leaves that have become the sole denizens of this brick kingdom. In an unholy place, but why? A gate to Hell because Hell is all around us, here in the real world when Gillian from down the street gives it all up at thirteen and pops out a bastard child nine months later all alone. Mom kicked her out. All these little tragedies, and not lovely like in Shakespeare. The factory all alone, thrusting into the ebony sky, a triumph that here in Hell there are still small triumphs.

...

The crowd was pleased. Ah, how new. Ah, now fresh. Mrs. Darson daintily sipped her over priced beverage with happiness at both the drink and the young woman in front of her. Todd's interruption of thanks was jarring. His announcement about next weeks writer a local man apparently trying to get his book published and hoping this would be it was also unwelcome.

"And I am sure we will all be eager to hear what soon-to-be-published writer, David Cambera has to share with us. Next week then. Same place, same time." Todd lightly chortled. Mrs. Darson attempted to finish her beverage before having to go to her old and cup-holder-less car.

Chapter Three: Jillson's "History"

Thud. Thud. Thud - three quick jabs, then the sweet-sounding feedback.

"Is this thing on? Oh, yeah, alright. Well, welcome everyone to the second week of readings here at The Lit Snob. Glad to see so many of you here again this week, especially you, Mrs. Darson - can we get you another triple-twist latte? Alright, well you just let someone know...."

The sweater-man emcee, whose name is Todd, is wearing an odd combination of gold and purple argyle over a white button-down. He looks around the room nervously (it's only his second week!) and clears his throat.

"In any case, this week's reading comes from Gavin Jillson, the author of the recently-published A First Draft of History. He has been writing since his late-undergraduate years, when his professors encouraged him to send his work for publication - and now is here as a three-time New York Times bestseller. So without further ado, Gavin Jillson!"

The Snob crowd applauds quietly - some even chime in with their finger-snaps - as Jillson hops on onto the stage and takes his seat on the stool in front of the mic.

"How's everyone doing tonight?" he asks with vigor - the crowd mumbles a few bits of unimportance. He doesn't quite know quite what to make of their ... snobbery.

"Alright then, let's get to it. Here's a selection from the First Draft:"

***

The water seems to stand still - even as each tree, each branch, each leaf, lives and dies in a microsecond - the water seems unmovable, immutable. There's a shrill whistling of the forest passing by, and the ground pounds play a steady bass to the overwhelming, verdant melody. Underneath him, the beast's moist, coarse skin quivers with the tension and release of each muscle. Everything around him is full of life and movement - everything except for the water. He follows the river for what seems like a hour, until suddenly the forest bows away to reveal its prestige - the warm desert plain. Adam looks out onto the plane of his existence, feels his body processing the change in temperature and humidity, feels the hard breathing of his companion as the great lizard comes to a slowing halt. Adam runs his hands over the beast's back, thanking it in his own way - the only way he can. Leaning down, he speaks to his friend.

"Good run today, Ceres. I can't believe how helpful you've been - we caught so much food this morning. This should tide us over for weeks. Come on, let's get back home."

Ceres twists his enormous head - the two large horns point out towards the plain , the smaller one pointing straight up at the midday sun. Without understanding, he lets out a grunting howl and nods his head slowly once. The rider accepts this acknowledgment with another friendly pat on the back. Taking this signal, Ceres bounds off from the edge of the forest and out into the deserted land, always following the impassable flow of the great river. As the pair make their way out and into the afternoon world, Adam sees all of the life surrounding the twin banks of the river. Beasts of all sizes - the great, towering lizards dipping their long necks into the sweet watery deep; the much smaller bipeds licking at the shore's bounty; Ceres' family as well - gather at the water to drink and eat and live. It is this simple, Adam thinks to himself as he points out of the other three-horns to his friend.

This is how he wants us to live out our punishment.

After they have passed the large crowd enjoying their noon meal at the riverbank, Adam and Ceres continue on through the oppressive heat for two hours. The river continues to act as a guide, showing them the way home - leading them to the break. As they near the tributary point, Adam begins to make out the familiar smoke-coil of his home. He breathes in deeply, closing his eyes and imagining his wife - his mate, his other half - smiling and singing in the mid-afternoon shade that their bower permits them. A few more moments brings the lizard to a second stop - he knows that he is home as well. Adam climbs down off of Ceres' back and feels the hard earth under his bare feet. It is both a relieving sensation of returning home and a painful reminder of the desert oasis long gone now. Adam shakes his head hard - pushing thoughts of loss out - and walks towards the small habitation. He calls to his wife gently, full of the most intense love he can muster in his fatigue.

"Eve! Eve, are you there? I'm back, my love."

Hearing no response, Adam begins to worry - he's sure that she just didn't hear him, but he can't shake some of his newer feelings. He advances at a quicker pace, and pushes aside the makeshift door. Then he sees her. She is standing with her back to him, looking out of the natural window between two of the lone trees. She is wearing her white dress, her long auburn hair flowing to her waist. Adam approaches her slowly and guides his arms around her waist. He kisses the back of her neck. Then her cheek - she turns her head slowly and their lips meet. It is Paradise. She withdraws from him slowly.

"What is it, Eve? Ceres and I have returned from the hunt. We've collected enough food and water for a week."

"That's wonderful, Adam! No, it's nothing really. I was just looking at the sky outside. There's something strange near the eastern horizon."

"What is it?" Adam leans over and stares outside.

A large, dark object, hovers in the eastern sky. When he sees it, Adam realizes that he noticed it earlier in the day, before he and Ceres had entered the forest. Except then, it had been much smaller. He wasn't sure what to make of it - but he knew what they had to do to find out.

"Come on Eve, let's go to the altar and pray. Maybe he will tell us what this thing is."

Eve wraps her arms around Adam's shoulders. She pulls him as close as she can - she feels his chest against her head and the steadiness of his breathing. It has comforted her for many years, and it comforts her now.

"Adam, I have a bad feeling about that thing."

"I do too, Eve. But I'm sure that he will take care of us. We have not disobeyed him for many, many of our years. He must know that. He must care. He must still love us. So let's not worry - let's go outside to the altar."

Hand in hand, the pair leave their bower for the crude altar. The shadow of something far-less mysterious - something far-more real - hangs over their heads unmovable. Immutable.

***

Jillson closes his book slowly, listening to the sounds around him. He hears more quiet clapping, more finger-snapping, and he nods in thanks. Todd climbs up onto the stage and approaches the mic yet again.

"Well, thank you Mr. Jillson for reading this evening - that was wonderful. And thank you all again for coming to The Lit Snob. Next week, we're not completely decided on our author. What I can tell you is that either Marion Douglass or Richard Palmenack will be here to read their amazing poetry. So don't miss it!"

Chapter Two: The Opening Act

Collins entered the room wearing shorts, sandals, and an old T-shirt. He was carrying a very thin book in his hand - his latest work. Not exactly the stuffy dress and lengthy text the people in attendance had expected to see.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "This story is called The Rant. As you can see, it's a short story, something new for me."

...

Carlton was not American. It didn't matter "what" he was, or rather, what piece of dirt he and his ancestors were born on. But he wasn't American.

He was there though. He stayed with three different families while studying at a University in a place too small to be a city, but pretty big to be just a town, and just a few hours' drive from two major American cities.

When his own family asked him what he learned in America, he told them nothing of the University. Instead, he told them how different the families he lived with were from the families he knew in his homeland.

He told them they didn't act like families they way he knew them.

The first family he met was just a mother and son. There was another son, and a father, who live 45 minutes away in another town. The kids alternated houses every other weekend to see the other parent. They did not get along. Neither did the two parents. Carlton wondered the entire time how they ever loved each other enough to create a family, and then dissolve and fragment it.

All of them were extremely kind and spoke to him as an equal part of the family, and not nearly as separate a part as they did each other. Carlton enjoyed the six months he spent there, even if he was constantly confused by the relationships that surrounded him. Though he was strangely comforted by the thought that he was no more confused than anyone else.

He moved to another family when his first family moved themselves. The mother and first son moved another hour's drive away from the rest of their "family" in the opposite direction.

The second family was much more cohesive, though he never experienced that himself. They were much more religious than the first family. They went to church every Sunday, anyway, and had Bibles in the living room, the sitting room, the den and the office (it was a much bigger house).

Unlike the first family, the mother, father, and their two daughers and one son were much colder to Carlton, though indirectly, he thought.

They must have thought they were being very open-minded people, because they had such bright smiles that seemed to mask their fascinationv- like that of some zoo exhibit - with an feigned interest when they asked him strange, invasive questions about his "homeland" and his "people."

He had never thought about his "people," but he knew they meant his friends, family, and the people at home who were as much strangers to him as most people in the United States.

He answered their questions uneasily and asked nothing of the Bibles, chairs that weren't for sitting, towels that weren't for drying hands, or the father's obvious alcoholism. He realized he liked the first family better.

Still he was happy. He was still at a good school and more than provided for while far away from home. Again, though, he was moved to another family when the father's alcoholism became a problem and the family couldn't house him anymore.

The third and final family with which he stayed was perhaps the most normal, though Carlton wasn't sure what that meant.

Father, mother, son, daughter. They lived in a big house - big enough, though not as cavernous and cold as the last family's - and they had a large TV that let them watch any TV show any time, and a very nice cars, even the two kids, who were teenagers.

They seemed happy and were very accepting and inviting. Carlton felt comfortable there and liked his new, new, temporary home. But something once again was strange about the place, or moreso, the people. They seemed hollow, just empty. There was nothing too them. Conversations over dinner consisted of the past few days television broadcasts, blog posts, events at school and work, and plenty of weather commentary.

The part of the trip Carlton most looked forward to in the beginning was talking to real Americans about real issues. Finding out what they really thought, and dispel the hearsay that was previously all he had to go on for what regular Americans were like.

That never happened. He tried to bring up things like how to properly administer a representative government, the separation of church and state, modern parenting, even homosexuality. The most he ever got was a few echoed opinions the family had heard on Fox News or the Daily Show, when the conversation quickly dissolved to the last South Park episode, though never to the underlying social message, just outrageous gags.

They were jaded. Jaded by their things and what they thought they were expected to be doing. Carlton eventually gave up and focused on his studies. Sure, he found some of what he was looking for on campus, but he wondered if everyone else went home like he did and went back to the same jaded state.

...After finishing telling his story to his family, he sat in front of the new TV his parent bought while he was away and flipped one of the two or three stations that broadcast American shows. He decided there was nothing on, but watched anyway, thinking he was bored and should find a snack.

Suddenly he sat up and wondered, what had happened to him in America?

...

Collins closed his book and said to everyone, "I'm not going to take any questions. Not because I don't feel like answering them, but because I won't have any answers. I want this story to be taken as is."

..."Next week Gavin Jillson will be our guest. He'll be reading from his latest book, a fiction published just weeks ago and is already breaking onto bestseller lists. He has asked that all I say about it is that the title is A First Draft of History. I look forward to seeing you all next week."

Chapter One: Welcome to The Lit Snob

Tuesday Night at The Lit Snob various reading by great new authors! Eight o'clock sharp.

Zoom in on a new store front in educated suburban America. Books that are too cool for school line the front window beckoning with their wisdom and entertainment. Questioning, "Don't you want to be in the know?" Everything gleams with new varnish. The tiles on the floor are slippery and on Monday the aged Mrs. Darson almost fell to a shatter tail bone while transiting from the mystery to the biography section. The overly push, underly comfortable chairs have yet to be stained with the overpriced Starbucks-esque coffee sold with slightly stale muffins at the drink counter in the corner.

The place is packed with co-eds, middle aged people looking to have stimulated youthful minds, and Mrs. Darson who decided that after all she wouldn't sue.

An overly dressed man wearing a sweater and a jacket speaks.

"Welcome to The Lit Snob's first reading of the year. This Tuesday and every Tuesday at eight, local and visiting writers will grace us with their words of wisdom.

"Tonight, Bartholomew Fellow and Tri-Country Cobalt Metal winning author Donald Collins will read from his new work Into the Mud House. Donald's career has spanned two decades. He is heralded by the Local Herald as 'a new voice in this cold millennium.' The Hamilton Daily Troubadour hails Donald as 'a truly timeless, unique, and selfless voice in American fiction.' His new book, which he wrote while abroad in Italy, explores the American family from an outsiders perspective illuminating traits about modern humanity. So, without further ado, here is Donald Collins."

Chapter Sixteen: The End

Allyson could see Archer's words floating like plumes of smoke across the air in front of her. She felt somehow outside of herself, like she was witnessing the whole revelation from far away - from a safe place. How can this be? she asked herself over and over. These two men, the two people who seemed to care about her the most, were betraying each other over her. What had she meant to them?, she wondered as she watched herself shake her head, push her plate of rations away, get up, and run out of the cafeteria. As the door to the room slammed shut behind her, she was suddenly in herself again, feeling every beat of her heart, and every emotion flitting across her mind's eye.

She ran forever, through the twisting halls of the bunker. She needed to find Tyler - she needed to tell him everything that had happened this day. It had to end. One way or another, it was going to end. The Returners needed to survive and they needed to be strong - especially on the inside. This petty infighting would only cost them everything they had worked so hard to accomplish - what she had worked so hard for. In her emotional haze, she wasn't quite sure where the meeting hall was - she was sure Tyler was there - but her instinct fueled her and she felt that she was heading in the right direction. Around one bend, then another, and then the large metal double doors - she had arrived.

Allyson threw open the doors and entered with determination - tears welling up and threatening to uncover her inner turmoil. She took two steps and then stopped. Her eyes grew wide - there were no words for this - her body froze in terror and her throat closed in shock.

The meeting hall was devastated - the metal table was dented to the floor, papers scattered about in all corners. The hall was empty save two men. Tyler stood in the middle of the hall, his shoulders heaving and his breathing loud. He showed clear wounds on his arms and chest, but he was not faltering - adrenaline was staying his fatigue. Allyson was shocked to see Tyler in this way - she could only vaguely remember the last time he had returned injured with the scar - but she was horrified by what she saw next.

It was Dorian. He lay face-down on the cool concrete floor of the bunker. A small pool of darkness spread out underneath him. He wasn't moving. At all.

"Tyler!" Allyson broke out of her trance - she regained her breathing - and she hurried across the room to Tyler.

"Stay back Allyson!" He put his hand up to stop her, but he was not facing her. He was still transfixed by the scene in front of him. "Don't come any closer." He slowly turned his face to her.

"We need to get out of here. They're on their way."

Allyson's brow furrowed. "I ... I don't understand, I thought you said this place -"

"They know, Allyson. They know about this place. It was ... him." He pointed without feeling to Dorian's body. "I caught him leaving the communications room in a big hurry. He ... he didn't have clearance to be in there, so I was suspicious. I confronted him about it, and he suddenly attacked me. We fought our way in here, and then ... this."

"Oh God, Tyler - what did Dorian do?" She looked at Tyler. She waited with anticipation, but she knew what was coming. Somehow, she knew, and it secretly terrified her.

"Before he lost consciousness, he said 'They're coming, Tyler. You've lost. They know you're here, and they know Allyson' s here. Deiana's on her way.' That's why we need to go - we need to make it to Triss' by tomorrow. Who knows how close they -"

The bunker's alarm system punctuated his thought. Suddenly, the lights in the bunker went out, and the deep red alarm lights replaced them. Allyson looked around in terror, not understanding what this all was.

"Oh God, Tyler ... are they-"

"Yes! We've got to get out of here - come on!"

She felt his sweaty grip on her arm and then she was being pulled out of the destroyed meeting room - out through the double doors - and then back into the maze of corridors. Thoughts, questions, they were are pushing against her mind - her head felt heavy and it throbbed. It was overwhelming. She was swimming in her confusion and terror. She was drowning in it all. Allyson had lost track of where she was until she heard Tyler's voice screaming to her.

"Allyson, God dammit! Listen to me! You've got to keep up, we need to get to the southeast exit!" She looked into his hard eyes - he was trying so hard to be kind to her, and she knew it - and nodded quickly. The pair ran past armed men heading in the opposite direction, trying to head off the attack. The alarm sounding throughout the close quarters was deafening, along with the screaming of orders and the panic of the others. It was chaos.

"Just a little more to go, Allyson!" Tyler released his grip and she suddenly felt alone and scared, like a child. "Hold up here, I'll go on ahead and make sure the exit is clear."

"Hurry back Tyler!" She yelled after him as he disappeared around the right-hand bend.

She did not have to wait. All she heard was the shot fire. Then, everything seemed to go silent. All Allyson could hear was one sound. Footsteps. Unsure, precarious footsteps. Tyler's footsteps.

He appeared slowly from around the corner, still looking towards the exit. He didn't even have a chance to look at her as his body began to slump down towards the cold ground. Allyson felt herself scream, but she couldn't hear it. There was no sound now. All she could do was look down at Tyler's body, slowly writhing into death on the ground in front of her. As if to draw the curtain over him, shadows appeared, covering over Tyler and entering into the main hallway. She couldn't see anyone, but she knew they were there. Then she heard the voices.

"There she is, Williams - Allyson Rhodes - target acquired. She's the one General Wilson wants. Take her."

The shadows began to move up the walls as the figures began to approach Allyson. There were three of them - huge, superhuman - and they covered the entire hallway. As the lead figure grabbed her arm - and was not alone any longer - suddenly everything went dark. The hood flew over Allyson's head and was pulled tight around her neck. The voice spoke once more.

"Here's a message from your sister, Ms. Rhodes."

They were the last words she remembered hearing.

It was like being born into the arms of a concrete wall. Except less lovingly.

She could feel a bone break - or at least what she imagined a bone-break felt like. She was definitely bleeding, from her knees and elbows from being thrown to the ground at the very least. She knew that much, but little else. The hood over her head took more than her sight - she felt completely swallowed in its thick, suffocating fabric. This has to be a nightmare, she thought between nerve endings screaming from one end of her to the other. The feeling of many hands groping, clawing, scratching at her body, it was like an experience that no one knows, but everyone thinks about in their darkest fears. And just when she thought that she had to wake up - that it couldn't get any worse without her brain shutting down -

The night was dark - pitch black, stars looking away in horror and shame. The night was dark, and it was cold. Allyson could only feel the darkness - the cold she knew already. The night was dark, and it was cold.

And the dawn could only flicker against the horizon. The night was dark, and it was cold. And it would be long.

THE END

Chapter Fifteen: Revelations

Allyson quickly collected herself and answered the door. It was Dorian.

"I have to talk to you," he said.

"What's the matter?"

"It's Archer."

"James? What about him?"

"I think he's going to sabotage the plan, the Returners," he said.

"Why would he do such a thing?"

Dorian sat down in the one chair in Allyson's tiny room and explained what he had seen. He explained how Archer's behavior had been suspicious since before Allyson woke up from her coma. Random disappearances for days with no correspondence with Tyler, Anderson or Sandra.

He always said he was going into hiding, trying to stay under the radar while acting as a doctor at the Inn.

Allyson was shocked to hear this. More shocked than at any other point during this entire ordeal. She knew James. She knew she knew him. Of all the things that had happened, she was so sure he was someone she could trust.

Once again, her world was being shaken.

"I know it's difficult to grasp, I didn't want to believe it. But everything I've seen over these last few months has led me to this conclusion," Dorian said.

"My god, I don't know what to believe anymore. Sometimes I get some shred of my memory back and I feel so sure I've finally caught something concrete. For all I know, I'm not even really one of the Returners. For all I know, I could be a prisoner here."

"Allyson, you're a Returner. You're one of the first. People here looked up to you. They still do. But apparently Archer is not among them. I haven't told Tyler yet. He's got enough to deal with, but I wanted you to know, because I respect you most of all. I wanted to get your opinion of what I should do."

"Let's just see what happens in the next day or so. We can't prove anything yet," Allyson said.

"You're right. That's best. Thanks Allyson, I knew it was a good idea to come to you."

Dorian left quickly, and once again Allyson was alone in her room. She had begun to loathe solitude. She had spent so much time alone in a room by herself, alone in her own head. Somehow being back with the Returners, things hadn't changed as she would have hoped.

She decided to try to remember where the mess hall was and get some lunch. And also, to find out who else has been missing her this past year that she still can't remember.

She sat down at a table with the same minimal rations as everyone else. She wasn't there more than a minute before Archer had discovered her and sat down across from her.

"Hi James."

"Allyson we need to talk," Archer said with an air of urgency.

"What's the matter?" Allyson knew this was her chance to feel him out - try to see if what Dorian said could actually be true.

"It's Dorian," Allyson froze. She knew what he was going to say, and she couldn't believe it was happening. She knew there was tension between them. She noticed that in her half daze in the hospital bed.

"I don't want to believe it, but I'm beginning to suspect he's not one of us. I think he may be a mole for the Vanguard."

Chapter Fourteen: Left to Say

"You're not going," Tyler said plainly.

"What," Allyson was confused.

"You're not going. It's too dangerous. Not now, when you have just returned and are just remembering who you are. I am not putting you into that situation again."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you got to make my decisions for me."

"I'm a leader, Allyson. That's what I do. I make the choices that others don't want to make. It's too soon for you to be going out there again. You need to stay here and become reacquainted with yourself and all of us."

"So that's it then, you think I'd be a threat to the Returners. You think that I might give you up at a moments notice just because all of my memories aren't intact. I don't remember must, but you are all my family. I know that."

"It's not about that Allyson, and you know it."

"Fine," she paused, "I'm not a child needing your coddling, Tyler. I'm back, and I want to help."

"And you can, just not in this way. You can help us here, underground, but I'm not letting you out into the field, not yet, and that's my final decision."

She felt her throat constrict in disappointment, anger, and grief.

"So you rescued me for nothing," she said ungratefully, knowing it wasn't true but in anger, wanting to hurt Tyler.

She left without waiting for him to respond.

Alone in her room she did not cry, although she briefly thought about it. She felt useless. It was worse than the numb feeling, the lost feeling of not remembering. She would have to talk with Tyler again. She must convince him of her point of view, remind him of her reasons for being here, her need to do something. She had to approach this logically and systematically, not impulsively as she had done in the meeting room moments before.

She'd write a letter - it would prevent problems, reduce her anxiety. She moved toward her desk, fumbling around, unable to recall where she left her paper, her pens. The moment overwhelmed her. Allyson burst into tears just as a knock sounded on the heavy entrance to her room.