A Happy Bureaucracy, page 7
part #1 of Happy Bureaucracy Series
“I’m going to check our perimeter. We sleep in the van again tonight. We leave no sign of camp.” Rabia said, walking toward the entrance of the horseshoe, paying no mind to Arthur’s pen clicking.
Beneath the dread, and behind the deathly nervousness, there was something brewing within Arthur that only another bureaucrat could understand. This was not something that he could admit to Rabia, and in fact it was hard enough to admit to himself. This feeling, this terrible and almost evil feeling he’d had? Giddiness. Giddiness because there were blank forms to be filled out that would set in motion a new tax era for the United Wastes. It was like a burning sensation, one that would only numb once there were names and numbers written down in official black ink.
Druids of old wrote down sigils that would otherwise devour their psyche. The only difference here is that maybe the sigils were useful.
He and Rabia had more in common then he first suspected. It manifested differently, but without a doubt, they were both driven by a madness. And they both craved more of it.
Chapter Eight
The smell of morning dew had mixed with ash, because ‘wet dust’ was simply not horrifying enough for the United Wastes. Light had started to peek over the mountain, and rays shone through dead branches. The dead woods were like a series of skeleton hands, each reaching out to a sky as barren as they.
Once, the sounds of birds were reassuring. Once, it was a sign of danger if the birds had gone quiet. Now, the sounds of birds would be foreign, even wrong. Now, it was always quiet because there was always danger.
Reaching the very edge of this macabre forest, Arthur McDowell and Rabia Duke walked without uttering a word. They had left the van behind them hours ago. Smoke had begun to rise from the settlement ahead, some lights still flickering in the sleepy morning. Whoever was out there was likely making breakfast. The thought of a warm meal was at once pleasing, but was something that they could not risk. If they made it out alive, they would have to do so without the settlement knowing which direction they had come from. They both settled on a can of grapefruit.
Rabia led, grumpy from a hangover. It swam in her mind with a mixture of shame and anxiety, but not regret. Her shotgun was not slung over her back, and instead found itself held in her hands. It was used to being held in anger, even fear, but this was a new feeling for it: It was being held in uncertainty. This was not a posture Rabia had often.
Arthur was not far behind her. His black tie was neat, his hair combed. Despite two days of digging, he was still the face of the IRS and was as presentable as the United Wastes had let him be. Every agent of the IRS kept this in mind: they were likely the only federal employees that anyone would meet. They were likely the only federal employees left. They were not just representing the IRS; they were representing the United States government. No matter how the denizens of the wastes felt about being taxed, Arthur worked for them. He was, at the end of the day, a civil servant. Today he would meet any unknown terror with a smile, and he would be candid with those who grew up with only a vague understanding of what government looked like. It was his job to.
After clearing the forest, Rabia looked back at Arthur and tossed him a canteen. “Let's take a water break and watch them for a moment,” she said. “Our caravan always waited to go into a town until after the smoke settled. We wait ‘till they are done eating, they’ll probably be in a better mood, and less likely to want to eat us.” She sat down on a stump. Arthur walked toward her and thought about sitting on the stump’s other edge, but opted to stand instead.
“You remind me of my ex, Melody,” Rabia said after watching Arthur’s indecisiveness. “She was about as anxious to be near me as you are.”
Arthur gave a lighthearted chuckle. “Even your ex-girlfriend was anxious around you?” he smiled.
“Girlfriend? Christ no. Ex sex-slave,” Rabia corrected. Arthur looked back in mild terror. “I picked her up at a small slavers’ camp, traded an automatic rifle for her.”
Arthur responded with silence.
“She left me amicably. Freedom will do that . . . What about you G-Man? You got someone at home?”
Stalling, Arthur drank some water. When this didn’t suffice to lengthen his stall, he handed the canteen back to Rabia and waited for her to finish drinking as if it prevented her from hearing him. He could not tell if she was just merely curious, or actually interested. It occurred to him that maybe he was interested in her, and that was surprising to him.
“Office fraternization is frowned upon,” Arthur replied, finally, absentmindedly clicking the top of his pen.
“Bummer,” Rabia said with a half smile. She turned her gaze towards their destination and frowned sharply at it. “Don’t go dying on me today, G-Man, I like working with you. You’re polite, and fucking nobody is polite in this world.”
Arthur did not know how to reciprocate, so instead he hesitantly patted her back and said nothing.
After a minute’s rest, they were both back on their feet, and the distance closed.
As the sun moved higher into the blue sky, the dew began to evaporate, leaving no more moisture anywhere, save the canteens in their gear. The smoke that raged upwards in the village had stopped. There was nothing in the air but dryness. Rocks crunched under their feet, and when Arthur could not bear to look at their destination, he stared down at the ground. It offered him no hope.
They were close enough now to see the giant wall surrounding the settlement. It was a mixture of sheet metal, and cut trees from the forest, circling the perimeter of the area from end to end. There was an entrance wide enough for a four-lane road, which Arthur and Rabia aimed toward. Save for the occasional shattered looking roof from an old suburban building, there was nothing to see at their level.
It was impossible to see beyond the wall. What it protected, or hid, was anyone’s guess.
Despite its unnerving mystery, the wall was a comfort to them. Rabia saw a town that wanted to be protected; walls kept people out, and at the very least that meant that they were not raiders. To Arthur, the wall was exciting, because it meant at least one person in the settlement was employed as a carpenter. His finger itched to write down an official, and normal sounding, position of employment on form D-61.
Neither said a word while they walked, Arthur out of fear of being heard, and Rabia presumably because of a pounding headache from her hangover.
The settlement grew in size as they drew closer. They were now far away enough to see two men, possibly guards, at the entrance. It was a certainty that those men saw them as well. This was it. An Auditor, conscripted into a Census Administrator, and a surly, never-sober Enforcer had come to their first people in the unknown region to which they were assigned. Only the best Arthur repeated in his head, and then Godspeed.
The men did not look mean; they looked psychotic. The detached look of cruelty crept from the eyes of one, while the cold stare of poor intelligence leapt out of the other. Both of these eyes would be better housed in lizards.
The clothing that wasn’t scavenged was instead made from sheet metal and bleached human bones. They looked like they were wearing the feverish carapaces of beetles made from junk. The one with the cruel eyes clutched a rifle covered in duct tape at the grip, almost phallic-like; over his shoulder, the other carried a cricket bat with nails beaten into it. These two looked like the spirit of the post-nuclear apocalypse personified. If man was twisted before the war, it was a twistedness with a polished veneer that was foreign to these two. Violence was self-expression now, and these two? These two were artists.
“She’s mine!” the one with the bat said, staring lustfully at Rabia.“I like ‘em like I like my water, black and screaming.”
Rabia stared stoically, her sunglasses hiding a gaze more terrifying than either of these men were capable of.
The man with the rifle nudged the other.
“Oi! Remember what the Colonel said, ‘be nice to customers’. Ya can have her if they don’ buy anything,” the one with the rifle said, then looked up at Rabia. “You are gonna buy something, right pretty miss?” His mouth widened not unlike a smile, revealing rotten and missing teeth. The few that were still there had been filed to fangs.
One misstep here meant death. This was a bridge made out of thin china set across a poisonous ravine. This situation called for precision, wit, and a little bit of luck.
So instead Arthur administered the census.
“Yes! Hello! I am an agent of the IRS,” Arthur said, "I am here for a quick census.”
There was a quick look of recognition from the man with the rifle. The man with the cricket bat looked on with an almost violent stupidity.
“Whaz that mean?” the man with the bat said.
“A census probably hasn’t been done in this area in a generation, so no reason to be embarrassed if you have not heard about one,” Arthur said to two men who were not embarrassed. “The IRS is simply counting the populace for tax purposes, I am here to help you fine men fill out a questionnaire about your living conditions.”
Arthur’s nervousness was gone. Rabia looked on, surprised to see a wave of confidence wash over him. It was a suicidal confidence, but one she admired nonetheless. He was in his element.
The guarded posture of the men had eased. The one with the bat lowered his weapon. “You want to ask us questions?” he said in a childlike tone.
“Yes that’s right, just a number of questions for the IRS database. We can start now if you would like?”
Before the man with the bat could answer, a third man, shirtless and covered in poorly drawn tattoos of snakes walked by behind the gate. The man with the rifle called out to him. “Oi! We got ‘nother one of them sense-ass guys, see what the Colonel wants!” The man in the snake tattoos, which looked more like garden hoses with eyes, looked back and nodded, then disappeared back behind the gate. Rabia shifted her weight.
She could see better into the settlement now, but much was still obscured. She removed a flask from her back pocket and took a swig, then offered it to the guards as a peace offering. The more casual the guards became the better. The man with the rifle snatched it greedily and drank voraciously, then passed it to the other. They continued to look at Rabia, their gaze lingering on her naked legs with half open mouths, but the alcohol had simmered the intensity. No one here was friends yet, but this was miles better than where they were only a minute ago.
Arthur pulled out his clipboard and, with an official click of his pen, looked at the man with the bat. “Let me get your last name first and your first next with your middle initial last,” he said. This was met with silent bewilderment.
“Huh?”
“Ah, what ah, what is your name?”
“Dumb Dick Rick,” the man with the bat responded, with a wink at Rabia. She would shoot his dick first if this went down. Oh yes, she thought, you'll get circumcised with gunpowder you dumb Nazi fuck. She smiled at him with cruel anticipation.
Arthur filled out the form Rick, Dumb D. and was about to move on to the next question when two men carrying a large cage passed by the gate.
Smiling at the men, Rabia placed her hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Allow me a private moment with my colleague. Feel free to finish that whiskey,” She gently turned Arthur around. “Get the fuck over here,” she whispered.
She led him a hundred paces along the side of the wall, then stopped and looked at him with fear. “As your Enforcer, I advise that we get the fuck out of Dodge. These men are slavers. We won’t die here, Arthur, we will be caught and sold here. That is a future of brutal rape for both of us.” She cocked her red shotgun. “We walk along this wall to the corner until we’re out of their sight and then take a different route to the van.”
Arthur knew she was right. Slavers were worse than raiders, and even land pirates. Raiders would kill you, not always quickly but your pain would end. Slavers bought and sold people as workers, sex objects, and sometimes as food, but your life would go on without freedom and with a lot of agony. It was a future of the worst kind. This was absolutely the worse case scenario for their journey, if they went any further it would end here, and a life of random cruelty would be the only forecast ahead of them.
But Arthur’s form was not completely filled.
“No,” Arthur said. “I am a civil servant and I have a duty—”
“You OCD bastard! Those men were staring at you just as lustfully as they were at me, Pretty-lips! We go, now!”
“I thought you were a professional,” Arthur accused with his arms crossed.
“I am a professional, a freelance professional, and I intend to stay free.”
“The Revised National Emergency Operations guide stipu—”
“To hell with your guide, man!”
“I have to do my job,” Arthur finished. Rabia saw a commitment in his eyes; it was the same look she had seen in a wrist cutter a few years ago. Arthur moved past her, clipboard in hand. There was no arguing with a bureaucrat. She followed behind slowly, keeping a substantial distance. Her naked legs, a necessity for the outdoors suddenly made her feel vulnerable. She had grown up with a healthy fear of men and had learned to fight better than any, but when outnumbered by an entire town, well, then vulnerable is exactly as she should feel.
The two guards had multiplied to six.
Arthur’s hand began to tremble. Rabia’s breath was shallow.
“Sorry for the delay Mr. Rick, my partner and I were discussing how best to proceed to make sure that your experience of the census is a positive one,” Arthur said. The four new men looked no less savage. If they were a band, they would be the kind that threw cats at brick walls and insisted it was music.
The man with the snake tattoos was among them.
They spread out slowly, creating a u-shape around Arthur.
There was no time to turn back now. Arthur was at their mercy, and mercy was a strange word never uttered on their tongues.
The confidence that was once at Arthur’s command had peed itself.
Arthur clicked his pen and winced at the sound. The men looked hungry, with lust, for violence, and to fill every haunting desire of their id.
“D-Do you all live together? If you all have lived in the same place since before April—”Arthur stammered, his voice now bordering on a squeal.
The man with the snake tattoos cleared his throat, silencing Arthur’s ramblings. He slowly pulled a machete from his back and smiled. “Thas ‘nuff of your questions. The Colonel wants a private consultation with ya,” he said.
The man with the rifle pointed its muzzle at Rabia. “Alone,” he added.
Arthur’s pen clicked at a rapid-fire rate.
“We are a partnership,” Rabia said, shotgun raised. “If he goes, I go.”
“Nothin’ doin’, pretty miss,” said the man with the rifle. “The Colonel gets what he wants ‘round here in Slaver City, so put down your gun all nice like. The Colonel just wants to talk about your sense-ass.”
Rabia expected Arthur to turn around, but instead, pen and clipboard at the ready, he said “The Colonel, he’s your head of household, yes?”
Goodbye, you kind, polite, batshit insane bastard, Rabia thought helplessly as she lowered her weapon.
Dumb Dick Rick had a look of brutal confusion. “The Colonel is the colonel of Slaver City!” he barked.
Under NAME Arthur wrote: Colonel, under occupation he wrote: Colonel. Four of the six men had closed the u-shape, now surrounding him completely and cutting him off from Rabia. The other two stood in front of Rabia. The men behind Arthur pushed him forward ushering him away. He obliged without contest. Looking over his shoulder, Arthur could only see Rabia’s hat, the word ‘Professional’ written across it, through the wall of men behind him. She let me do my job, he thought. The phrase Guns go up? Don’t frown! Fall down! ran through his head like an endless scrolling marquee, advice that was totally useless now.
The four men pushed Arthur into the city, leaving the remaining two with Rabia. With his view no longer obscured by the walls, Arthur saw a large wooden pole, probably once used to hold up a school crossing sign, but which now had a new purpose. The top of it was sharpened into a spike, and it no longer carried the municipal safety sign it once bore, instead carried a new sign.
Punctured by the spike was the head of a red-haired man, his face frozen in a permanent scream.
It was the head of the agent who had delivered Henry S. Boyd’s coffee late.
Chapter Nine
It was a grim throne for an even grimmer king.
This was the sort of thing that CEOs before The War could only dream about making for a symbol of power. It was far more effective than a red muscle car and far more perverse than filling that car up with girls barely turned women. It was not something that anyone alive then with power had dared to make because it was simply too honest and overt in its symbolism. These men of power from old would have immediately been ousted as the psychopaths that they were had they sat atop this monster. They did not dare then.
Now? Now was an age where team building exercises meant killing wild dogs with scavenged junk. Now was an age where men literally chained young girls to the hoods of their ‘death-mobiles’. Now was an age where power play was simply a pull of the trigger. It was a renaissance for psychopaths, and this throne? Well, this throne was the motherfucking Mona Lisa.
An equal amount of human teeth and spent bullet casings spiraled up a concrete base. So tightly packed were these teeth and shells that one would assume that there was no concrete behind them holding it together. They would be wrong in this assumption, but only because the smallest amount of concrete that could have possibly shone through had. This base formed into a chariot, with the large molars of men and woman and the shells of high caliber bullets at the bottom petering up to the baby teeth of children and smaller casings at the top. Two long and thick chains lay limp at the side, and monster truck wheels that the base of the throne sat on were held in place by cinderblocks. The base was three feet high, and although teeth were easy to find in any of the many cities now turned into a radioactive crater, one got the very distinct feeling that the artist behind this beast had used only the freshest of ingredients.
