Alternative Apocalypse Read online

  Alternative Apocalypse

  Also from B Cubed Press

  Alternative Truths

  More Alternative Truths: Tales From the Resistance

  Alternative Truths: Endgame

  After the Orange: Ruin and Recovery

  Alternative Theology

  Digging Up My Bones,

  by Gwyndyn T. Alexander

  Firedancer,

  by S.A. Bolich

  Coming Soon

  Alternative Bedtime Reading for Progressive Parents

  Tales From the Space Force

  Windrider by S. A. Bolich

  Alternative Apocalypse

  Edited by

  Debora Godfrey and Bob Brown

  Cover Design

  Debora Godfrey and Cheyenne Brown

  Published by

  B Cubed Press

  Kiona, WA

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright© 2019 B Cubed Press

  Interior Design (ebook) Bob Brown

  Interior Design (print) Bob Brown

  Cover Design Debora Godfrey and Cheyenne Brown

  Print ISBN- 978-1-949476-08-8

  Electronic ISBN 978-1-949476-09-5

  First Printing 2019

  First Electronic Edition 2019

  Copyright

  Introduction © 2019 by Debora Godfrey and Bob Brown

  Future: Imperfect, Tense © 2019 by David Bernard

  The World of Bob © 2019 by Rupert McTaggart Brackenbury

  Live Tweeting the Apocalypse © 2019 by Ian Creasey, first published November, 2012 Daily Science Fiction

  Living in the Gleam of an Unsheathed Sword © 2019 by Andrew Davie first published 2017, Breakroom Stories, edited by Carl Fuerst

  The Janitor © 2019 by Tomas Furby

  Launch of the Sagan © 2019 by Henry Gasko

  A Pebble in the Data Stream © 2019 by Michelle F Goddard

  Sunset © 2019 by Debora Godfrey

  Night is the Forbidden © 2019 by Jean Graham, first appeared 2006, Firefox News

  The Golden Disks © 2019 by B. Clayton Hackett

  The Yes/No Machine © 2019 by Stuart Hardy

  This is Not the Apocalypse You Are Looking For @ 2019 by Philip Harris

  Back to Reality © 2019 by Larry Hodges

  That’s Not My Apocalypse… © 2019 by Liam Hogan

  End of Days © 2019 by Daniel M. Kimmel, first published 2018, CHILDREN OF THE SKY, Schreyer Ink Publishing, edited by Casia Schreyer

  Suppose They Gave an Invasion and Nobody Came © 2019 by Brian K. Lowe

  Behold a Pale Rider © 2019 by Christine Lucas

  Apocalypse © 2019 by Ugonna-Ora Owoh

  Releasing the Tigers © 2019 by Sandy Parsons

  The Last Dog © 2019 by Mike Resnick

  The Ten Stages of War © 2019 by James Rowland

  The Last And Greatest Vision of Saint Ethan the Obscure © 2019 by P. L. Ruppel

  The Vision © 2019 by Melvin Sims

  The End of the World © 2019 by J. J. Steinfeld, first published Fall 2015, Phantom Drift: A Journal of New Fabulism

  To a Soldier’s Mother © 2019 by J. J. Steinfeld, first published 2018, DoveTales, an International Journal of the Arts

  Sitting Here In Limbo © 2019 by Mikal Trimm

  Dancing on the Edge of Eternity © 2019 by D. S. Ullery

  Punxsutawney Eulogy © 2019 by Patrick Winters

  The Deserter © 2019 by Jim Wright

  Thirteen Things to Do Before the Apocalypse © 2019 by Jane Yolen

  Introduction

  Thanks all. An Apocalypse is always a challenge and so was this book. So many great stories, enough for three books and we had to choose. While our names are on the cover as editors, this would not have been possible without the other souls, who read stories and helped us through the decision making processes.

  Impossible without the tireless enthusiasm and recommendations from Rebecca Mcfarland Kyle and other readers, a team that will be employed more efficiently in the future. Thank you Shelby Gremel, the ever wonderful Wondra Vanian, Charles Boyd, and Susan Murrie Macdonald who helped read through the stories. And a special thanks to Ben Howels, our fabulous proofer.

  But mostly to the writers. You glorious souls who labor to perfect your vision and then subject it to the whims of editors and eventually the public where your soul is laid bare as you put forth your best for their judgment and wait, like actors on an extended stage, for the opening night reviews to roll in. Without you, we are nothing and to you, all of you in the book or not, we owe our gratitude both as publishers and readers.

  As a note, this is an international edition with writers from all over the globe, even Texas. For that reason we’ve left the English spellings for works from those parts of the world. Sometimes it’s best to let the words of the authors speak.

  Thank you all, and now, on with the Apocalypse.

  Bob Brown and Debora Godfrey

  Table of Contents

  The End Of The World

  J. J. Steinfeld

  The Deserter

  Jim Wright

  Thirteen Things To Do Before The Apocalypse

  Jane Yolen

  The World Of Bob

  Rupert Mctaggart Brackenbury

  The Yes/No Machine

  Stuart Hardy

  Apocalypse

  Ugonna-Ora Owoh

  The Janitor

  Tomas Furby

  The Vision

  Melvin Sims

  Punxsutawney Eulogy

  Patrick Winters

  Living In The Gleam of an Unsheathed Sword

  Andrew Davie

  Suppose They Gave an Invasion and Nobody Came

  Brian K. Lowe

  This is Not the Apocalypse You Are Looking For

  Philip Harris

  The Golden Disks

  B. Clayton Hackett

  Future: Imperfect, Tense

  David Bernard

  The Last Dog

  Mike Resnick

  Sunset

  Debora Godfrey

  Behold A Pale Rider

  Christine Lucas

  The Ten Stages Of War

  James Rowland

  Live Tweeting the Apocalypse

  Ian Creasey

  Launch Of the Sagan

  Henry Gasko

  End of Days

  Daniel M. Kimmel

  That’s Not My Apocalypse...

  Liam Hogan

  Sitting Here In Limbo

  Mikal Trimm

  A Pebble in the Data Stream

  Michelle F Goddard

  Back to Reality

  Larry Hodges

  To a Soldier’s Mother

  J. J. Steinfeld

  Night is the Forbidden

  Jean Graham

  Releasing The Tigers

  Sandy Parsons

  Dancing On The Edge Of Eternity

  D. S. Ullery

  The Last and Greatest Vision of Saint Ethan The Obscure

  The End of the World

  J. J. Steinfeld

  And w hen the world does end

  as it surely will, place your bets,

  either in cataclysm or listlessness

  I wonder who will hit the final home run

  in the bottom of the ninth

  or who will sink the final free throw

  in a schoolyard game

  where winning isn’t everything

  who will write the final poem

  in ink or blood or dancing electrons

  last painting or nearly last

  a few more brushstrokes

  almost capturing the beauty of sanctity

  last story, last novel, last kick at the can

  sing t
he final song

  off key or mellifluously

  and at the end

  what inspiration will there be?

  All those obits left unwritten

  all those apologies left dangling in the air

  and desperate prayers not quite right or finished

  all those acts of contrition unperformed

  pleas for forgiveness unarticulated

  not enough time

  never enough time

  especially at world’s end.

  The Deserter

  Jim Wright

  Once, long ago in arrogant youth, I attempted to wage war on God.

  For this foolishness, I was cursed—or perhaps granted a boon, depending on how you look at things.

  And now? I know things. This knowledge comes not in the usual manner of human knowing. I just know things, the past, sometimes the future, and always the terrible present. I don’t know how I know, or why—the purpose of it, the principles of it, those things are a million years beyond human comprehension.

  I just know.

  I heard them long before the sound of their march reached the meadow.

  “Someone’s coming,” the young man said. Michael. I only remembered because it was unusual. Nowadays people in this part of the world generally don’t name their kids for archangels.

  “Soldiers,” I told him.

  “Bloody USA.” Michael spat on the ground, then added reflexively, “No offense.”

  I shrugged. Bloody was hardly the worst thing I’ve heard my nation called.

  “There’s a warship arrived in Whittier. These ones, they come through the tunnel a week ago and they’ve been swaggering around Anchorage like they still own the place.”

  “You might have mentioned it earlier. For politeness sake, I mean.”

  “Sorry. I was...well.” Contrite, he clutched the shrunken bundle in his arms tightly. “You’re not surprised?”

  I shrugged, what was there to say? I know things. I knew when they left the ruins of Tijuana Antiguo, sailing up the coast through the Inland Passage. I knew when they left Anchorage and started up the mountain. I’d known Michael was coming too, long before he himself did.

  “Maybe you should...”

  “You can’t hide from your fate, son. Church Intelligence knows I’m here. I always knew they’d come for me—sooner or later. We are each granted free will. But the choices we make, or don’t make, always come round in the end. My destiny hasn’t been my own for a very long time.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “We don’t have much time. Tell me about your daughter.”

  He really didn’t have to say anything. I could see it in the little girl’s sallow sunken skin, in the wispy remnants of her blond hair, in her bruised hopeless eyes watching listlessly from the blanket—leukemia.

  “Give her to me.”

  “We tried everything.” He handed the child to me, she felt like a bundle of sticks, dry and weightless. “Chemo. Radiation. Hell, even prayer.” He spat into the grass again. Unlike the USA, there weren’t many believers left in Alaska. He must have been truly desperate to hike up here from the city to beg a cure from me of all people.

  “And now you need a miracle.”

  He nodded his head, shamefaced.

  So I gave him one.

  A genuine miracle. I put my hand on his daughter’s fevered cheek and the power flowed through my fingers. My vision dimmed to near black. There was pain, a moment of light and warmth, and it was done.

  My vision was darkness and fireflies, but I could still hear the hum of servos, the muted clank of ceramic armor, the tread of heavy boots. They were here.

  “You there!” A familiar haughty Southern drawl from the edge of the clearing. Vision was coming back, but I couldn’t see that far yet. I didn’t have to. I knew. No magic. No divine knowledge. No, I knew that voice.

  And, of course it would have to be him. Of course.

  Funny, my gift hadn’t seen fit to warn me about that. God is an iron.

  And worse.

  “You’re the faith healer?” the voice demanded.

  I handed the girl back to her father. Her skin was already turning pink.

  “Is she...?” His voice was terrible with hope.

  “Go.”

  “I can pay a little.”

  “Go. Now.”

  Miracles leave me weak and shaky, hypoglycemic. They must have forgotten to mention that, back when they were writing the holy books. I don’t understand how it works, no one does, but even angels can’t change physics. It’s basic thermodynamics: the energy must come from somewhere. So, I sat on the steps of the cabin and ate bread and cheese and waited.

  My vision cleared, the day turned bright again.

  And the meadow was filled with a company of hard young men and women in lightweight power armor, the Golden Cross and the Lone Star on their chests.

  The Major stopped at the foot of the steps, right hand resting suggestively on his holstered pistol.

  It was him. I’d know him anywhere. He looked just like his father.

  I might have said many things. “Hello, Diego,” seemed the safest.

  He stood, head cocked to one side, and regarded me intently. He was taller. Filled out. When last I’d seen him, he’d had two bright brown eyes surrounded by warm brown skin. Now the right eye was milky white like a boiled egg and flanked by thick scar tissue which trailed down his neck into the high uniform collar. An energy weapon had brushed across his face once. Men generally do not survive a fight with angels. He’d gotten lucky.

  “My God, it is you.” His voice was thick and filled with gravel.

  I’d changed too, far more than he had. Old and gray and twisted by the years, and the outside was nothing compared to the changes within. He almost stepped forward, as if to touch my shoulder. And for a moment I thought he actually would. I could see his muscles tense and relax, tense and relax, and his armor servos rustled with indecision.

  “I thought it must be you, from the reports, the rumors down in town,” he growled like boulders rubbing together; he must have breathed flame once. “I prayed I was wrong.”

  The Church hadn’t seen fit to warn him in advance either and we are all pawns of capricious powers in our own ways.

  “You’re a long way from Dallas, son.”

  “Yes, Captain,” he snarled, coming down hard on my former rank. “We are a long way from home. So are you.”

  “It’s good to see you, Diego. Really, I mean that. You have no idea how much.” And I truly was, though it filled me with sadness knowing what was to come. I didn’t need God’s prescience to see that. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to take your soldiers and your ship and leave while you still can?”

  “Not a chance” he answered contemptuously. “I am not you.” The righteous fire of conviction burned in his one good eye, just as it had once burned in mine. “You, what? Quit? Deserted? Became a, a, a witch doctor?”

  “Technically the term is ‘Virtue,’ but witch doctor will do. ‘Faith healer’ is closer.”

  “So, you ‘heal’ the sick and the lame.” He spat again. “How noble. They worship you here, do they?”

  “Worship? Hardly. And nobility has nothing to do with it.”

  These northerners, they hike, limp, ride, and crawl up the path from Anchorage stepping in moose shit all the way, and come to me because, like the young parents now hurrying away down the trail to town, they are desperate. Religion and science had failed them. All they had left was...me.

  “Where are your men?” he looked around the clearing, as if he expected to find them hiding among the fireweed.

  “Dead, most of them.” I’d arrived the same way he had, years ago, wearing the same uniform. And I faced the same choice he would soon. In the end, it’s always about choices. And the consequences, of course. “The rest? Well, like me, it’s complicated.”

  He wasn’t interested in complications. “We’re here to finish your missi
on.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “We’re going to kill the demon. And you,” he said, stroking his pistol, “you’re going to show us the way.”

  ***

  They had a mule.

  They must have badgered somebody out of it in Anchorage. Maybe they paid for it; gold isn’t as valuable here as it is in Texas, but we’ll take it in trade. The machine was nearly as old as I am. The paint was chipped and the Boston Dynamics logo had faded to near illegibility. It was bent and battered, patched with duct-tape, scarred by weapons fire. It tended to list slightly to starboard. Its power-plant wheezed like a dying thing, but it plodded gamely over the broken asphalt and followed the soldiers like a faithful hound. Our packs were lashed to its cargo frame.

  Clumsy and arthritic as the machine was, I wished I was half as spry.

  “You can’t witch-doctor yourself?”

  “No,” I admitted. Miracles don’t work for the miracle worker. I never asked why. Given human nature, the reason seemed obvious.

  Diego snorted in disbelief, not that I couldn’t heal myself, I suspected, but at the idea I might be able to heal anybody.

  “What happened to you?”

  I had to step carefully on the rough trail. In the early days of the Dark Rapture, something massive had smashed down from the heavens into the Knik Arm. Shock waves from the impact had shattered the road to rubble. The blast leveled much of Anchorage and the surrounding communities. The fault lines had let go all at once. The ground quaked and the seas rose and the angels followed and the interior of Alaska became dangerous to men—or more dangerous depending on your point of view.