***
Matthew Samson thought he heard something. He pressed his back against the vine-covered wall of the nearest apartment building, breathed slowly through his nostrils, and inched his way to the corner. The young man’s light brown hair appeared as gold when the morning Sun shined upon it, and his eyes were as blue as the clear sky above. It was June 8, 2261. The early summer mornings were colder than they were 100 years ago. It was for this reason that he was dressed in an old hooded jacket, plaid pants, and hiking boots. They were hand-me-downs from his father.
Everyone in his hometown warned him just how dangerous the ruins of Detroit were, so he knew he had to stay keenly aware of his surroundings at all times. He kept a knife by his side just in case. With a palpitating heart and trembling hands, he quickly stuck his head out, glanced down the grassy street, and went back behind cover. He caught a glimpse of an emaciated mutt. It was panting. The mutts, he knew, did not pose much of a threat, for they always tried to stay away from humans. It was the pitbulls he had to watch out for. He stuck his head out again. The dog was gone. Something glimmered in the grass and wildflowers. He ran towards it and picked it up. It was a 9mm cartridge, recently used. His smile vanished when he looked back up. Down the street he saw the head of a grinning clown painted on the wall of an abandoned office building. It was then he knew that he was in Killer Clown territory. He swiftly stuck the cartridge in his pocket and started running east.
The young man came from the walled town of Livonia, one of many which emerged in the suburbs of major cities around the world after the Great Collapse of 2222. Home to a little over 9,000 people, it was a safe and orderly community, a small refuge from the barbarism and brutality which pervaded the former United States. Matthew’s parents, Michael and Jill Samson, were tailors by trade, but they also had a small garden in their yard which was tended to by Matthew’s older brother Paul. They grew enough to feed themselves, but they always wished they could grow more. It was for this reason that Matthew hoped to make more money for his family by becoming a scavenger like his uncle Carl. Crazy Carl, the rest of his family called him, for he often ventured to dangerous places for months on end and always showed up bearing valuable gifts whenever they thought he was dead. Matthew began making preparations immediately after he turned 18 on April 8, exactly two months ago. On the night before he left, his mother begged him not to go, but he was persistent. With an uneasy heart, she eventually accepted his decision. She and Michael then provided him with beans from the garden and a canteen of water, which he stuffed into his backpack. After getting some sleep, he ventured off into the darkness of early morning.
To the east of Livonia was another walled town called Dearborn, which was populated by Muslims. It was filled with much turmoil after the Great Collapse, but then Ghulam Farid al-Sinjari, a Naqshbandi Haqqani Sufi from Flint, came along, pacified the place, and declared himself Sheikh in 2224. Its high walls were painted a bright green, and verses from the Quran were painted in white upon its broad face. Due to their extreme distrust of outsiders, they built watchtowers along the walls, which were manned by snipers. Matthew passed by the town earlier that morning. He was thankful they did not see him as a threat and get a headshot on him. They were much more concerned with Voodoo Cultists and Killer Clowns.
Eventually the young man reached a collapsed section of elevated highway. He climbed up it and went southeast towards the city center. Looking to his left, he beheld rows upon rows of apartment complexes, all of which had identical architecture. They were 50 stories tall, rectangular, and prioritized cold utility over pleasing aesthetics. The United Earth Government built them in 2127 with the stated goal of providing equitable housing to Detroit’s marginalized communities. It did not take long for them to become horrible, crime-infested hives. After the Great Collapse, they descended into bedlam. Things only got worse when the food ran out. Some of the buildings were engulfed in flames, and only their scorched shells remained. Many were abandoned and overtaken by plants. A few became strongholds for criminals who later joined Voodoo cults. Matthew then noticed another grinning clown face painted over an older piece of graffiti which depicted dancing skeletons and black spiders. A gunshot echoed in the distance, and the young man quickened his pace.
A crow began circling overhead and letting out its grating call. With every step he took, Matthew grew more irritated. The noises were silenced after an arrow pierced the animal’s neck. The young man watched as the black bird plummeted to the ground. A few seconds later, a black man in ragged clothes and strange white tattoos approached the slain creature. Matthew ducked behind the concrete safety barrier, for he could tell by the sinister tattoos that the man was a Voodoo Cultist. The black man grabbed the animal, pulled out the arrow, bit the bird’s neck, tore out a chunk of flesh, and chewed slowly. He was starving, so he did not bother to cook his kill or even defeather it. After much chewing, he swallowed, then looked up at the highway. He sniffed and squinted, keenly aware that someone else was around.
A loud gunshot rang out and the black man collapsed to the ground. Matthew slowly raised his head above the barricade and watched as a Killer Clown exited one of the derelict apartment buildings. His face was covered in black and white makeup. Around his neck was a gold chain, signifying his high status. His short blonde hair was fashioned into hedgehog spikes, and he was dressed in baggy clothes. In his hands was a rifle which had a few notches carved onto the stock. He approached the black man and, after making sure he was dead, made an OK hand gesture. A dozen more clowns came out of the building, all dressed similarly to the first. All of their faces were covered in black and white makeup, and each one was styled differently. Among their ranks was a young woman. Her hair was fashioned into long pink dreads, and her face seemed to be frozen in a deranged grin.
Leading them was Choppo. He was a giant man, standing more than a head above the others. His bald scalp was painted white, the black paint around his brown eyes gave him a skeletal countenance, and his gray beard was dyed a bright, fiery red. Five gold chains hung around his neck. His white tank top and blue jeans were stained with red blood, none of it his. In his hands was a massive meat cleaver, recently sharpened. He approached the corpse, knelt down, and raised his weapon high. The blade shined brightly in the Sun’s light. With a single swift motion, the cleaver cut cleanly through the dead man’s neck.
Choppo grabbed the severed head, stood up, raised his prize high, and chanted, "Whoop whoop!" The other clowns joined him. Matthew shuddered, but he did not dare scream. He carefully crawled away until they were out of sight, then he got up and sprinted down the highway.
After much running, he stopped to catch his breath and drink some water. Turning to his right, he saw a tall cylindrical tower, which was surrounded by four smaller towers. Most of their windows were broken, and their steel frames had turned red with rust. Many years ago, those buildings were known as the Renaissance Center. Those in charge gave it that name in the hopes that they would breathe new life into the dying city. Their efforts were in vain. To the southwest of those towers, past the entrance of the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel, was Hart Plaza. Its monuments and sculptures were either stolen or swallowed up by the tall grasses. Immediately to the northwest of this place were the bold, imposing skyscrapers of the financial sector. Impressive were they in their prime, but the many decades of rain had stained their white facades a dark gray. Among these stood the Penobscot Building, a surviving example of Art Deco architecture. Many of its reliefs were worn away with the passage of time, but it still stood strong. Equally marvelous was the Guardian Building just one block to the east. Another example of Art Deco, its red brick composition gave it the appearance of a ruddy wildflower growing in a rocky landscape. A peculiar pentagonal structure, known in the past as One Campus Martius, was located a short distance to the north. It was once used for conferences, social gatherings, and other events. A large portion of it had collapsed. Bushes hid the broken glass, vines crept up the bent beams, and moss carpeted the concrete floors. The other glass and steel skyscrapers were similarly dilapidated. Birds flew into and out of their broken windows, singing all the while. Though he enjoyed gazing upon the remnants of America’s past, Matthew knew he could not stand still for long. He remembered that Clown with the rifle. Not wanting to make himself an easy target, he kept moving.
Detroit had been in decline for many years, but the Great Collapse of 2222 was the final nail in its coffin. Stock markets crashed, global supply chains broke down, satellites stopped working, and the power went out. Since every source of social cohesion was deconstructed and demolished long ago, it was every man for himself. The streets ran red with blood. Most of the city’s black population either killed each other or fled to Dixie. Those who remained fell under the sway of Voodoo Cults. The leaders of these cults gave themselves morbid names such as John King of the Dead and Seth Skull-Splitter. They claimed dominion over the city and ruled with unholy terror, quickly earning a foul reputation for their cannibalism and human sacrifice rituals.
Then along came the Killer Clowns. They were formed in Southwest Detroit on September 8, 2228 by Ronnie Kohl. A trio of Cultists showed up to his apartment door on that night. He knew they were planning to kill him, so he intended to fight to the bitter end. But he also wanted to strike fear into their hearts should he live, so he quickly applied black and white makeup to his face and grabbed a meat cleaver. Once the intruders had broken down the door, he screamed, charged, and began swinging and slicing furiously. Two of the black men were dead in seconds, and the third ran away. Knowing they would come back for revenge, Ronnie abandoned his home and began lurking the streets. A few days later, he came across a fierce battle between a bandit gang and a mob of two dozen Cultists. He jumped into the fray, and by the time he was done, half the Cultists had been hacked to pieces and the other half had fled. The bandits respected his brutality. As an expression of their gratitude, they swore their fealty to him. He quickly drew others to his side, and they all started imitating him by painting their faces in clown makeup and dyeing their hair bright colors. And so they became known as the Killer Clowns, and Ronnie earned the nickname Choppo because of his skill with the meat cleaver. Thanks to their superior organization, they forced the Cultists out of the western half of Detroit and began pushing east. They also grew powerful enough to start exacting tribute from farmers outside the walled towns and shaking down merchants who wandered too close to their territory. The people inside the walled towns remarked that the Clowns were barbaric, but at least they did not sacrifice people to Satan and devour their flesh.
The interchange near Ford Field had collapsed sometime ago, so Matthew was forced to take a detour. After finding a ramp off the freeway and stopping near the parking garage next to the Comerica Baseball Stadium, the young man turned his attention north and spotted large grassy fields. Beautiful brick houses once stood there. His parents told him about how his ancestors lived in one of those houses and how magnificent Detroit once was. They said that even Parisians were envious of the city’s splendor. Like so many others in Livonia, he hoped Detroit would become great once again. He imagined himself rebuilding one of those brick houses, marrying a beautiful girl, and having children with her. He imagined his offspring playing with the other children in the quiet streets of the peaceful and orderly neighborhood. One day, he hoped, that dream would become a reality.
One block away from these grassy fields, next to an abandoned restaurant, was a small wooded area. In that spot there once stood a library. It was known simply as the Detroit Community Library, and it was built by the United Earth government in 2131 with the expressed purpose of achieving equity by providing books for the marginalized communities of the city. It was a glass and steel rectangle. The lead architect said he designed it this way in order to foster a welcoming and inclusive environment, but he actually did it because it was cheap. In order to cut down on energy usage and thus carbon emissions, most of its walls were windows, which let in an optimal amount of sunlight during the day. The interior was a clean, blinding white, feeling almost like a hospital, and all the furniture was devoid of elaborate detailing. The government hoped it would be a house of learning, but it instead became a house of debauchery. The homeless used the establishment as free housing, then prostitutes and drug addicts moved in. The floor became a minefield of condoms and dirty syringes. The library staff became too afraid to show up to work. Those in charge refused to do anything about it, instead declaring that anyone who complained was a bigot. They took no action until October 3, 2141. On that day, a junkie tried to steal the copper water pipes so he could pawn them off later. Through his foolish greed, he ended up flooding the place. The city shut the building down and said they would repair the damages at a later date. But later never came. Over the next few years, one group of looters after another came by and gutted it. The only things they did not steal were the books. The harsh Michigan winters slowly wore down the structure until all that remained was the concrete foundation, which was quickly consumed by plants.
As he got near that wooded area, Matthew noticed something peculiar in a hole in one of the trees. Assuming it to be a trap, he gripped his knife and approached slowly. There was a burlap sack in that hole. With great hesitation, he pulled it out. Examining closely, he saw that it was relatively clean and had little wear and tear. He determined that it was crafted recently; no more than a few months ago, by his guess. It held something rectangular. He opened it up and pulled out its contents. It was an old, beat-up copy of The Atlanteans by David Star Child. Matthew was vaguely aware of it. Some of the people in Livonia had read it before. They said it contained detailed visions of the lost empire of Atlantis, and that the Native Americans were descendents of the ancient Atlanteans who fled their home after it was destroyed in a great cataclysm. It also had a collection of prophecies at the end. The bright blue cover had faded with the passage of time, the once gold lettering of the title was now barely visible, and the pages were warped from water damage. As the young man continued to examine the book, he wondered who put it there, and why. Looking up, he saw that it was already past noon, so he stuffed the treasure into his backpack and continued heading northwest along Chrysler Drive.
Once again looking to his left, Matthew spotted Detroit’s many old hospitals. Their bottom floors were almost entirely covered in graffiti. They all depicted diabolical images, including pentagrams, inverted crosses, sigils, spiders, snakes, snarling pitbulls, skeletons, floating eyes, and sharp-toothed demons. It was obvious to him that Voodoo Cultists dwelled there. He shuddered as he imagined what sort of dark rituals they performed in those buildings. The young man picked up his pace, went under the freeway, and headed down East Warren Avenue.
After making his way through a dense bush patch where the Federal Reserve Bank of Detroit once stood, the young man found himself in what used to be an industrial area. Scrappers took all the large pieces of metal many years ago, so only broken bricks, concrete chunks, and tall grass remained. He did manage to find a few nails and screws hiding in the weeds, so his trek through there was not entirely fruitless. As he continued going north, he spotted several abandoned stores and schools. They were all vandalized like the hospitals, so he stayed away from them. Eventually he came across a grassy field far larger than the ones he had seen previously. In the center there stood a sprawling structure whose high walls were covered in thick vines, and wildflowers lined its perimeter like decorative trim. This place was once known as GM Factory Zero, a proud monument of America’s former industrial might. Matthew was in awe of the building’s gigantic size. In that moment he wondered if this was how medieval peasants felt when they looked upon the ruins of the Roman Empire. He thought about going inside, but he assumed it had already been picked clean of anything valuable, so he continued down Harper Avenue and then headed north.
A short while later, he came across a large factory he did not recall seeing on any map. Unlike all the buildings around it, this one had no sign of plant growth. No vines dared to cling to its rusted walls. No weeds attempted to grow from the many cracks in its concrete floor. Silence hung heavy over the land. Life seemed to consciously avoid the place, but something about it seemed to call out to the young man, as if there was something within that demanded to be discovered. He entered it as if in a trance. Before he realized what he was doing, he was inside.
The young man broke out of his trance and looked around. The air was unusually cold. Whatever heavy machinery was once inside was taken long ago. The roof sagged in several places where scrappers pulled out entire support beams. Dirt and dust covered the floor. A few specks of rust flaked off the ceiling and floated down. The setting Sun cast a red light through the broken windows. Looking down, he noticed a few nuts and bolts. He swiftly grabbed them and stuffed them in his pockets. He could not believe no one bothered to snatch them up before he did. He hoped to find more, but he was also wary of any threats that may have been lying in wait, so he gripped his knife and carefully made his way through the spacious interior.
Pebbles and dirt clumps crunched beneath his feet. A strange smell was in the air. Upon reaching the middle of the building, he came across a horrible sight. Five corpses were lying on the ground, burnt to a crisp. Their mouths were agape, their teeth gleamed white, and their limbs were hideously contorted. Crudely crafted voodoo dolls were lying nearby. In the center of the circle of corpses was a sigil, drawn in chalk. Surrounding that sinister marking was a ring, and around the ring’s circumference was written a name: Malthus. In that moment Matthew knew that these Cultists were summoning demons. His skin turned cold and he trembled. Then he noticed that just a few feet away was a pile of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, and other loose pieces of metal. It was just sitting there, ripe for the taking. Greed gripped his mind and forced reason aside. Frantically he ran towards the pile and stuffed as much of the metal into his backpack as he could carry.
Something growled behind him. It did not sound like any animal he knew. He spun around. A chill raced down his spine. Standing on the sigil was a humanoid figure in heavy black polygonal armor. It stood eight feet tall and its face was hidden under a cylindrical helm with a blood red visor, looking like an evil mockery of a great helm. Glowing infernally upon its chestplate was the same sigil which was drawn on the floor. Matthew blinked, and the figure was gone. The young man held his breath and stood as still as a statue. He heard the growl again, this time from above. Looking up, he saw that a ceiling beam had come loose and was falling down. He jumped forward just before the beam struck the ground with a loud metallic rattle. The entire ceiling began to sway and buckle. Like a panicked rabbit, he sprinted out of the building before it folded in on itself like a house of cards.
As the young man looked upon the cloud of dust which rose from the mangled mess of metal which was once the factory, he struggled to comprehend the unholy entity he had seen in there. Then he heard another growl. He slowly turned his head to the left and saw a black pitbull snarling at him. It seemed to have a faint red glint in its eyes. Lying next to it in a puddle of blood was the emaciated mutt he had seen earlier that day. Its throat was torn out and its stomach had been ripped open with sharp teeth. The black beast began barking furiously. With feline swiftness, Matthew began sprinting south and the raging dog pursued him. Retracing the path he had taken, he raced past GM Factory Zero and through the grassy fields of the industrial sector all the way to Chrysler Drive, then made his way southeast before stopping at the collapsed interchange near Ford Field.
Dread took a hold of the young man as night fell. The Milky Way revealed itself and cast an eerie blue light upon the ruins of Detroit. His muscles tensed, for he thought he saw Cultists skulking around in the distance. Then he heard rocks clinking up above and wondered if those nefarious men were also crawling around on the freeway. Not knowing what else to do, he took a risk by going southwest through the rows of old apartment buildings. He ran through the long shadows cast by the derelict structures. All the while, the Renaissance Center cast an imposing silhouette against the starry sky. The young man kept running until his legs started to wear out, then he stopped at an intersection. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. A dog barked ferociously in the distance. He recognized it as coming from the pitbull he had encountered earlier. The barking became a pained howling, then it fell silent.
"Got ’em," said a faint voice.
A female voice followed, singing, "Boogie woogie woogie woo."
Matthew looked around for a hiding spot and picked the apartment building that was more vine-strangled than the rest. He pulled away one of those thick vine curtains, climbed through the broken window it concealed, and ascended the stairs all the way to the 50th floor. Up there he found a quiet room and lied down in a corner. Silence hung over the streets far below. The vines and moss made for a strangely comfortable bed. The young man’s eyelids grew heavy. He closed them and drifted off to sleep.
At first the realm of dreams was dark and without form, then it erupted into an infinitely wide and tall wall of fire. Standing in front of the roaring, writhing flames was the demon Malthus. His metal feet clanked as he approached. He took his time, as if he savored every step. His red visor glowed with malicious intent. The evil armored spirit opened his clenched fist and slowly reached out. Matthew felt like he was frozen in place. Panic set in as he wondered if this horrible thing was going to drag him down into Hell.
The young man screamed, swiftly pulled out his knife, and began thrusting madly. When he opened his eyes, he discovered that he had killed a Cultist. The black man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, his large tongue hung out the corner of his gaping mouth, and his intestines dangled from the deep wounds in his abdomen. Matthew’s hand trembled as blood dripped from his blade. He had a feeling that if one Cultist was around, then so were several others. Panic seized him. He sprinted down the stairs and out of the apartment. He looked up at the starry sky. After examining the constellations, he ran west for many blocks. Once he felt he had escaped the reach of any potential Cultists lurking about, he stopped at an intersection, caught his breath, then let out a sigh of relief.
A loud gunshot rang out. Specks of dirt and dust flew up near him. He spun around and spotted a Killer Clown in a 4th story window of an apartment building. The Clown clutched his rifle tightly. His brow furrowed, his eyes squinted, and his lips curled down into an angry frown. As one who took pride in killing enemies with one shot, he could not believe he missed such an easy target. He pumped his fist in the air and called out, "Whoop whoop!"
Several Clowns emerged from nearby buildings and returned the chant. It was then Matthew knew that he had wandered into an ambush. He continued running west. The Clowns pelted him with rocks and chunks of concrete. A few of the projectiles hit their mark, but the young man ignored the pain and kept running. The female Clown he had seen earlier that day stepped out of a doorway, brandishing a pistol.
"Fill your head with lead," she said, "because I want you dead!"
She took aim and fired. The bullet missed his head by barely an inch. He took a right at the next intersection, heading northwest. His heart pounded in his chest. Choppo leaped from a 2nd story window of a burnt-out skyscraper and landed on his feet in front of Matthew. In his left hand was a torch, and in his right was his trusty meat cleaver. His mouth was stretched into a crazed grin, and his weapon shined brightly in the torch’s light.
"I’ll hypnotize you like a vampire," the giant man said. "I’ll bite your neck and set your head on fire!"
The leader of the Clowns swiftly swung his blade down in an arc. Matthew lunged to the side, rolled, sprung back onto his feet, and sprinted west. Choppo’s grin morphed into a scowl. The young man raced past empty industrial yards, abandoned stores, looted banks, and collapsed warehouses. Repeatedly he checked over his shoulder to make sure he was not being pursued. Once he felt he was safe, he stopped in the dark, ate a handful of beans, and drank the last of his water.
Lights began to glow in the nearby buildings, and out of the doorways emerged women and children. The women held torches and their children wielded knives and cudgels. Their faces were covered in clown makeup, and they scowled distrustfully at the young man. Matthew then noticed the mural painted on the wall of the building in front of him. It depicted a grinning clown juggling three black heads. Upon realizing that he had wandered into Killer Clown territory, he trembled.
"I’ll turn ya head into a lima bean and flick it off ya shoulders!"
Matthew spun around. Standing before him was a bald Clown in overalls wielding a chef’s knife. The bald man thrusted, striking as quickly as a rattlesnake. The young man leaped backwards, dodging the blade by a hair’s width, and took off running once again. The children were eager to chase after him, but their mothers held them back, for they did not want them to venture off into the dark. Looking over his shoulder, Matthew saw that the Clown in overalls was still pursuing him, laughing maniacally, his blade raised high. The young man’s legs ached horribly from the constant sprinting, but onward he continued, for he knew that stopping would mean certain death.
Then he spotted lights off in the distance. Drawing closer, he saw they were mounted atop tall green walls. It was Dearborn. Again he looked over his shoulder. The Clown was gaining on him. Turning his gaze back to the wall, he noticed a sniper in one of the watchtowers, and he was aiming his rifle. In that moment, Matthew did not know who would kill him first: the Clown or the sharpshooter.
A muzzle flash illuminated the surrounding area for a split second. The accompanying loud bang reverberated across the grassy fields and ruins beyond. Matthew stopped and was briefly frozen in place like a deer staring at a bright light. After taking a deep breath, he realized he was still alive. The sniper sat back down in his chair. Turning to his left, the young man noticed the Clown lying on the ground. The bullet had shattered his cranium into pieces like a potter’s vessel. Blood leaked out of the open cavity where the brain once was. The force of the projectile had popped the dead man’s eyes out of their sockets. A grin was frozen on his painted face. Not knowing if he should still trust the sniper, Matthew kept running west.
A few minutes later, after making his way through tall grasses and thick bushes, he came across another set of lights atop high walls. At last, he had reached Livonia. He approached the gate and called out to the guards in a voice rendered hoarse from exhaustion. Upon recognizing him, the guards let him in and he rushed home. He had completely lost track of time, but he did not care, for he was finally safe. A few seconds after he knocked on the door of his family’s house, his parents answered. They hugged him and told him how glad they were that he had returned alive. Being much too tired to tell them his story, he went to his room, took off his backpack, and fell onto his bed like a chopped-down tree. Before he drifted off to sleep, he thanked God that he had survived his many ordeals.
Malthus appeared in his dreams again. When he tried to reach out and grab the young man, his armored hand was repelled by an unseen force. Several more times did he try, and every attempt was thwarted in the same manner. Becoming enraged, the demon pounded his fists against the air, as if he were blocked by an invisible wall. Then he stopped, stood still for a moment, and vanished. The wall of fire went with him.
It was almost noon when Matthew awoke the next day. With aching limbs, he arose from his bed and went to the kitchen. His parents and brother were there eating pork and beans out of ceramic bowls. The heavy pot in which the meal was cooked was several decades old and rusted in a few places, but they felt it was still good enough to use. Same with the simple wooden chairs on which they sat, which were just as old and quite wobbly. The table was covered in a homemade plaid cloth. His mother knew it needed to be washed again, but she was too busy with other work to get around to it. She also knew she needed to clean the windows at some point. The Sun’s light poured in through those smudgy panes of glass and revealed tiny specks of dust floating in the air. Matthew did not care about the dust or the rust or the stains on the panes, for this was home and he was glad to be back.
He sat down with the rest of his family. As he ate, he told them about his venture through the ruins of Detroit, and they listened intently. Once he finished, he said he would go somewhere less dangerous the next time he went scavenging. The others sat in silence for a moment, not knowing what to make of the frightening things he had seen. The young man went back to his room, grabbed his backpack, put the old book on his bed, and showed his family all the scrap he had collected. They smiled when he told him he would use it to buy a bag of fertilizer.
Almost every family in America turned their lawns into gardens when global supply lines broke down. Matthew’s family mainly grew beans because his ancestors loved pork and beans. Although the young man enjoyed the meal too, he wished he could eat something else once in a while, like tomatoes or potatoes or celery or carrots, anything that could be made into a stew. He hoped the fertilizer would make the gardening easier.
After taking a deep breath of the warm summer air, Matthew began walking northwest. On his way he passed the mayor’s house, a two-story red brick building with white window frames and stained and varnished doors. In that large house lived Arnold Stettmann, who had ruled as mayor since 2222. During the chaos that followed the Great Collapse, towns such as Livonia dispensed with all notions of liberal democracy. They instead chose the most capable men and made them mayors for life, for decisive action was paramount. They were monarchs in all but name, but they still retained the old formal title of mayor. Livonia survived and thrived under Stettmann’s reign, for he organized the construction of the city walls and established connections with other towns such as Bloomfield, Ada, and Grosse Point.
Immediately to the north of the mayor’s house was the town’s Catholic church, which was also constructed with red brick. Its architecture was based on the Most Holy Trinity Church which once stood in Detroit. Matthew always felt the building had a stoic beauty. Surrounding the mayor’s house and the church were lovely homes which drew inspiration from Victorian architecture. All of these houses were owned by the richer townsfolk. Beyond these were more humble homes. A few minutes later, the young man reached the northwest corner of town. Situated near the city walls was a large brick building with a peaked roof and several smokestacks sticking out the top. Inside the structure were large furnaces which were used to melt down and recycle scrap metal. He greeted the manager and gave him all the scrap he had in his backback. In exchange, he was given a single ounce of silver. Surely, he thought, this would be enough to buy a bag of fertilizer.
A marketplace was situated in what used to be a parking lot near the town’s western gate. Farmers who lived outside the walls gathered there to sell their produce at small wooden booths. Surrounding the lot were larger wood and stone buildings which housed bakeries, butcheries, and other stores. Crowds went from one merchant to the next. Children played as their parents conversed with each other. The village idiot was screaming "Doom!" at people again.
The gate opened and into the marketplace came traveling merchants, whose wares were stored on wagons pulled by mules. One of the wagons was made of fine steel. It was painted a brilliant shade of blue, and the phrase "Long Live Texas" was written in black on one side. Inside it were canisters of biodiesel, as well as conventional diesel created from recycled plastic. Guarding the fuel was a tall, dark-haired man in heavy armor. His face was fierce and his mustache was trimmed, and in his hands was a heavily scratched AR-15. Standing next to him was a short and stout man. His mustache was large and bushy, and he was dressed in a pinstripe suit that had a few mud stains on it.
Sitting a few feet away was a covered wagon full of refurbished computers, generators, and associated electronics, all of which costed more than Matthew could ever hope to earn. Surrounding it were four broad-shouldered monks from the Technology Preservation Society, all of whom were armed with shotguns. Their heavy brown robes had tattered sleeves, their faces were stern and wrinkled, and their long beards were as gray as the city walls.
A small farm boy in dirty overalls ran up to one of the monks. "Are you a wizard?"
The monk shrugged. "A computer wizard, if that’s what you’re wondering."
The boy’s mother escorted him away and told him not to bother the bearded men. Arnold Stettmann, dressed in a three-piece suit, then approached. His face was heavily wrinkled and his bald head shined brightly in the Sun.
"Greetings, men of God." The mayor pulled a few tiny pieces of gold out of his pocket. "Do you have the laptop I ordered for my grandson?"
The monk nodded and put the gold in his pocket. After a brief search through the wagon, he found the requested item.
"May the Lord bless you and keep you," said the robed man. Arnold accepted the laptop and went on his way.
Matthew’s attention was then drawn to a thin man in a black hoodie and a gas mask. A rifle was slung over his shoulder and a pistol was strapped to his belt. His name was Gary Garcia, but everyone called him Gas Mask Gary. In his rickety wagon was a bright pink alarm clock, a moldy golf bag, a bent TV tray, a lunchbox with a large hole in the side, and a rock with googly eyes, among other oddities. Many in town dismissed him as a junkrat, but there were those who said that he always seemed to have what they were looking for. Sure enough, Matthew spotted a large bag of fertilizer squeezed in between a stack of hideous, large-headed vinyl figurines and a small statue in the shape of a Moon-headed man.
Gary noticed the young man and turned to him. "What do you want, kid?" His flat voice was muffled by his mask.
Matthew requested the bag of fertilizer, then pulled the ounce of silver out of his pocket.
The merchant looked down at the shining piece of metal, then looked back up. "Not enough."
The young man frowned and looked down.
"Well hey there, Matt. Long time no see."
Matthew recognized that voice. He turned around and saw an old man walking towards him. His unwashed white hair went past his shoulders and a leaf was sticking out of his thick and bushy beard. Multiple layers of ragged clothes covered his time-worn yet still rugged physique, his boots looked like they were about to fall apart at any moment, and his backpack was covered in many strange doodles. Several of his teeth were missing and his odor was a mix of dirt and mildew.
"Carl?" asked the young man.
"Yep. It’s me. What you been up to?"
Matthew told him how he wanted to buy a bag of fertilizer but could not afford it.
"I got just the thing." Carl turned to the masked merchant. "Hey Gary, I’d like to buy that bag of fertilizer for my nephew. I’ll throw in these mangoes along with that piece of silver he has." He pulled a stack of seven books out of his backpack and handed them over.
Gary examined them closely. They all had titles like How I Used My Encyclopedic Knowledge of Computers to Get a Girlfriend, and they all had cartoon women on their covers. He lifted his head back up, his quizzical expression hidden behind his gas mask. "Manga?"
"Uh, yeah, whatever they’re called. So will ya give us that fertilizer?"
"Okay, fine. Here." The merchant accepted the payment, gave them the fertilizer, mounted his mule, and departed.
"So Carl," asked Matthew, "where exactly have you been?"
"Well," said Carl, "I was scavenging around in this bookstore in Windsor. I found this real interesting book there. It was called The Atlanteans by David Star Child. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it or not. Then I got chased out by commies. Then, while I was in Detroit, I stuck that book in a hole in a tree. Then I went back to that bookstore in Windsor and snagged those pretty cartoon girl books. Then I got chased out by commies again. Then I wandered around Belle Island. Saw a bunch of ghosts there. Also saw the dead rising from their graves in Elmwood Cemetery. While I was sneaking through Detroit early in the morning, I spotted Choppo stomping around. He looked really angry and was grumbling about how some little punk got away. And now I’m here."
"Wait, you were the one who put that book in that tree?"
"You went off and explored Detroit on your own? Tell me more."
Matthew then told him about everything he had experienced on the previous day.
"Did you have fun?"
"I almost died several times, so I wouldn’t call that fun."
"You know what they say: there can be no opportunity without risk."
"I know that, but I thought about exploring somewhere less hazardous next time."
"You know that invigorating feeling you got when you got chased by those Killer Clowns?"
"Well, yeah, but that was more of a survival impulse."
"Let me tell you about another one of my adventures. About 20 years ago, when I was wandering around the forests of Canada, I spotted a Satanic cult. They were all dressed in black robes and wore deer skulls on their heads. They built a makeshift altar, and upon it was a giant ruby. I knew just from looking at it that it was worth a whole bunch, so I waited in the darkness, and when they weren’t looking, I ran up, snatched it, and hightailed it out of there. They soon realized what was going on and chased after me. I ran through the forests all night, and even after I lost them, I kept running. I must have run for a full 24 hours. I eventually got exhausted and fell asleep. Those cultists must have cast some evil spells because my dreams were plagued by demons. I woke up in a fright and saw red eyes glaring at me in the dark. Again I ran. By God, did I run. I sprinted through Windsor, then through Detroit, and eventually got back to Livonia. I collapsed just outside the city walls. A few hours later, a guard kicked me and said, ’Hey homeless, you can’t sleep here.’ Then he recognized me and let me in. Then I used that ruby to buy a steel pot for your mother. You might be wondering why I’m telling you this. You see, I was deathly afraid during that whole ordeal, but at the same time, I felt more alive than at any other point in my life. That is why I keep exploring and scavenging. That is why I venture into perilous places. I feel most alive when I am close to death. You’ll understand too once you’re old enough."
Matthew was silent for a moment, then said, "Well, I guess. By the way, why did you stick that book in that tree?"
"You know those moments when your gut tells you to do something and you don’t know why but you do it anyway? That’s what happened. Maybe that book was destined to end up in your hands. Hope you enjoy reading it. Anyway, I need to head out before people here get angry and tell me to take a bath."
The old man left the city and proceeded west through the tall grasses. As Matthew returned home with the bag of fertilizer, he began to realize that Carl had a point. Without accepting the ever-present possibility of death, humanity would have never spread out across the face of the Earth. There would have been no great sagas, no legendary heroes, and no immortal glory. It was then he knew that death was what gave life its value. He then began thinking about the treasures buried in the ruins and forgotten places of America, for he knew that if he wished to have a better life for his family, then he would have to go out and confront death wherever it lurked.
The young man’s family was delighted upon seeing the bag of fertilizer. They imagined the vast quantities of vegetables they would be able to grow with it. After eating a dinner of beans and bread, Matthew returned to his room, lit a candle, and began reading The Atlanteans. It spoke of an ancient seafaring empire of incredible might, one that held dominion over all the coastal areas on Earth. It spoke of magnificent cities that reached high into the sky, and of jade temples trimmed with gold. The people of Atlantis, it said, were holy and noble, but when they reached the height of their power, they began taking their prosperity for granted. Their hearts were overtaken by pride and they gradually turned away from the divine source of their power and wealth. As the millennia passed, they declined into decadence and depravity. They openly mocked their creator and committed every conceivable sin. God grew so displeased with their wickedness that he punished them by plunging their home continent to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. The Native Americans, the book declared, were the survivors of that cataclysm. They returned to more primitive lifestyles, and over the course of ten thousand years, their homeland faded into myth and legend. The last few pages contained a list of prophecies. One in particular stood out to him:
"Up from the ruins a flower shall spring, the laurel wreath of future kings."
When he read that passage, he thought of the wildflowers that grew among the grasses in the ruins of Detroit. He then imagined that one day a great man would arise, reunite America, rebuild it, and make it more glorious than it was hundreds of years ago. Detroit, he believed, would become magnificent once again.
***
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