Apocalypse Anonymous

An average Thursday night played out in the battered town of Halifax. Well, as normal as you could get for two years post-apocalypse. A band of strugglers convened in the decaying local hub, the community centre. It was insignificant in appearance even in its golden years but was now dire by most standards. Still, chairs circled centrally in the main hall weekly for Apocalypse Anonymous. Secrets were shared. Problems were halved. This new world order care and consideration contrasted previous cataclysm.

“Twelve months ago, I was desperately attempting to free myself from Lynch’s holding cell, being forced to drink my own urine as my only means of survival. Losing weight each day I was spared a basic level of nutrition. I was treated like the monster when chompers roamed the outdoors. Now, my daily life consists of spreadsheets and the bi-hourly tea round in the office. I have this blend of paranoia and relief - like it’s too good to be true that it’s all over, but I’m so happy it is.”

Timothy tentatively tortured himself recounting his experiences from the darkest days the world saw, known to the masses as ‘The Rotten Age’. He squirmed, whether this was due to the lack of comfort from his skeletal seat or macabre memories, was yet to be determined.

“Processing this kind of adjustment is something even the most strong-willed of us are struggling with, Timothy.” explained Lucy, the group’s mediator. She employed an empathetic tone, like a mother consoling her child. Her maternal attitude and response put the group at ease.

The attendees of Apocalypse Anonymous simultaneously nodded in agreement with Lucy, calming energy in the air stemmed from the universal sense of community. The group may not have been the one size fits all solution to dealing with the harrowing scenarios to occur during The Rotten Age, but it provided the crucial helping hand in readjusting to normality. These were good people, wanting to live good, pure lives.

“She’s right, old Timmy.” a lone voice radiated from the far side of the community centre hall. The short-haired woman with a menacing presence propped open the exit door to the smoking corner outdoors. The group’s attention now drawn to her, she smirked with glee as she took a final drag from her ever-shrinking nicotine fix and tossed it to the unforgiving cobbles. “I’m Cadillac.,” she said, attempting to prompt any kind of reaction from the straight-faced attendees, killing the incandescent butt with one brutal blow from her sole.

“Hi, Cadillac.” the group replied in unison, a means of introduction they were no strangers to. Their only reservations in not verbally acknowledging her sooner being that Cadillac was unlike the group’s usual clientele. She made an immediate, if ill-advised impression, where the majority of attendees had initially blended into the background like the magnolia paint barely masking the cracked walls.

Cadillac turned her head to the outdoors, revealing a cross etched into the shaved right-side of her head. “Come on gang, get outta the cold.” The group had collectively assumed she was alone, they were wrong. Their expressions delivered a state of shock and awe, as the ragtag group of four misfits stumbled through, claiming empty seats with conviction.

Silence consumed the atmosphere for a brief moment, Lucy allowed her authority to slip through her fingers to avoid offending the strangers.

Sweet and sinister, shoulder and shoulder, opposing messages, and conflicting thoughts. Sweet proclaimed she do the right thing and welcome her recruits with open arms. Sinister insisted she curls up into a shell for defence. This mirrored war prevented any form of speech, regardless of her decision. A hot flush overcame her.

A bald, ghoulish misfit stared at the regulars. He was wearing a threadbare, ill-fitting denim jacket, one that he likely found during The Rotten Age and now can’t be without. His t-shirt underneath read ‘SORRY I’M LATE. I DIDN’T WANT TO COME’. Whether this was also an apocalypse garment or he bought it especially for this occasion, was anybody’s guess.

“I like your t-shirt.” Timothy muttered anxiously, seeking a positive first impression with their new guests, Lucy remained silent, observing the scenario unfolding in front of her eyes. “Let’s cut the shit.” Cadillac dominated. If any of the group members weren’t already silenced, they were now. Timothy locked his sights on the abraded hardwood flooring. It was time for Cadillac to call the shots. “We’re not here to talk about how terrible the apocalypse was and how the bad people made us drink our own pee.”. Firing a knowing glare at Timothy.

“Oh right, so you’re here to judge. Got it.” Graham perked up, finally finding his voice. He was the most senior member of the age of 45 and saw himself as Lucy’s sidekick, often sympathising with the younger members and consoling them regarding their parasitic memories. “You mean, the way you guys just judged us? Forgive me for thinking this was a safe space for airing our grievances.” Cadillac quipped, smirking that she had everybody figured out long before she even opened her mouth.

“This is a safe space. I guess it’s just hard to take you guys seriously when one of you is wearing a t-shirt saying he doesn’t want to be here.” Graham defended calmly, assuming Lucy’s role entirely as she remained in a meek state. “Oh, this? Don’t be offended by this, my man. I stole this from a TK Maxx. It’s the only men’s medium they had left” the bald man explained nonchalantly, latching onto the loose fabric and bringing further attention to himself.

“To say you got it in the apocalypse, it looks as good as new.” Timothy again attempted to remain friendly with their newest recruits. “It is new” the ghoulish character clarified. Graham turned to Lucy for any kind of response but she had shut down. He pondered how to ask what was the matter without bringing attention to her desolate shell.

“Wanna hear my story then?” Cadillac thrust the spotlight back on herself, almost as if she was eager for heads to turn and eyes to roll. “I thought you weren’t here to talk about how terrible the apocalypse is” Graham responded with a stiff upper lip, less than impressed with his new acquaintances.

“We’re not”. The bull-necked beast sat beside Cadillac uttered his first words to the group. He’d been quietly observing in the background up to this point, like the most obvious wallflower known to man. His visual presence loomed over the others. His wide-set, powerful frame plagued ambiance immediately upon his arrival. However, his verbal approach had been more calculated, so far. “We’re here to talk about how fucking amazing it all was” Cadillac finished.

“What?” spiralled around the room, from one struggler to another. In fact, the only person to have not yet said a word was Firefly, the youngest and most petite member of the misfits. Her appearance paled in comparison to her peers, given that she appeared to have seamlessly acclimatised to the new world order. Her participation in the misfit’s current activity seemed jarring as if she didn’t really belong. These were not her people.

“Yeah, myself, the lovely Viking next to me, little Firefly over there, and your pal Schizo, we want everything to just go back to normal. We’re here to vent about how this all this is” Cadillac confided, as she conceitedly beamed at new best buddy Graham. “This is a safe space, right?” again, Cadillac conceitedly called.

There was a brief silence, largely due to telepathic disbelief as the strugglers looked to each other for a way to digest this new-found information. “That’s a lot to digest” Graham responded, feeling more energised with each word to come from Cadillac’s mouth. “Why Schizo? Not very PC is it?”.

“Really, that’s what you’re starting with?” Viking interrupted. “Fine, why Viking?” Graham smirked, knowing the misfits expected they’d control the room for as long as they were there. He was going to go down, he would do it all guns blazing, protecting the strugglers was all that mattered to him after losing all his loved ones in The Rotten Age.

“Viking because he’s big, his favourite apocalypse weapon is an axe, and he was a right stinker back in those days. Schizo is affectionate, well, because you never know what kinda mood you’re going to find him in day by day. Firefly because she’s cute as fuck, and Cadillac because I’m the real deal, a luxury bitch” Cadillac formally introduced the group, in her own unique way.

“Vikings actually took a great deal of care in their appearance and cleanliness. So, the nickname doesn’t make much sense” Graham glowed, taking a great deal of pleasure in illuminating the misfits’ flaws. “Vikings actually took a great deal of care in their appearance” Cadillac mimicked him in a way you would expect a junior to mimic a parent, a pathetic attempt to mask evident insecurity. It was a cheap gag but it still managed to muster a giggle from Firefly, the likelihood of it being genuine was far smaller than the probability of it being a feeble attempt at moral support.

“Mature.” Graham’s eyes slipped back to face his brain. He checked his watch as Cadillac impatiently watched on. It was apparent she had expected to provoke a more emotive response, and by the darkness in her eyes, it appeared as though she would push harder. “You know you lot have this all wrong, don’t you?” Cadillac questioned, a fine imitation of a television detective. She lit another cigarette, ignoring all the discoloured ‘no smoking’ signs besieging her.

“You can’t do that here I’m afraid” Timothy explained courageously, given he was a generally quiet individual. Of the strugglers, he was the self-diagnosed loner, and the only one to spend the majority of The Rotten Age in captivity. He understood that Cadillac was likely already aware of the rules around smoking indoors but said it regardless. Alas, this did nothing to derail her. The wheels were already in motion. “Do you know how it feels to skin someone alive? I do” there was a twinkle in her eyes as she said it. She stubbed her cigarette on her forearm and beamed, leaning back on her chair. Somehow, she was comfortable. It was a perplexing notion. Pain presented pleasure. Freakishness formed felicity. The circus had strong-armed its way to town with a relentless performance. Tormenting the windows to each innocent soul inhabiting the space. Cadillac’s singed coating mustered a foul smell, but it was something that paled in comparison to anything experienced during two years or so prior.

The united band of strugglers maintained a robust silence in light of the vicious details unearthed.

“She’s a beast. That’s why she’s our Alpha” Schizo added. His face radiated satisfaction, he seemed to be at his happiest when speaking of the consequential brutality experienced. “Alpha? I’m the alpha of our group” Viking put forward his case. He puffed out his chest and edged his elbows, pitifully peacocking for those bothering to observe. At any other point in time, his grand physical stature would have struck fear into any opposition. Now, many were doubtful he actually presented any threat at all. After all, anybody who calls themselves an alpha, surely cannot be. Graham stumbled, allowing the moment of embarrassment and hilarity to take control. He laughed and showed no shame for doing so.

Changing the subject to spare Viking’s feelings, it was time for somebody to chime in. “Should I stop calling myself Schizo?”. “It’s probably for the best” Graham added, having been the one to initially bring this matter to light. Schizo pondered the notion. For the last ten years, he had been Schizo, it was a title he had earned, unlike his previous label. His real name was passed down from his father, and his father’s father. It was a name he had happily distanced himself from with the affectionate introduction of Schizo. He had first danced with the opportunity to change his name during his teenage years, upon learning of his father’s infidelity during his teenage years. The memory had savagely torn apart his teenage years in a way that still made him visibly uncomfortable just thinking about it.

“What is your real name?” Timothy politely posed. He was genuinely interested, if still a little hesitant, partially scared for what reaction his questions would be met with. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” Schizo insisted, curling into a hunched, rough shell. Arms crossed, head down, like a rebellious teenager being reprimanded.

By which time, Lucy was still in a questionable, curious state.

“I’m the alpha and you know it.” Viking aggressively ushered back into the conversation. Graham and Cadillac laughed in synchronisation, both pleasantly surprised they could finally agree on something. The pair grinned from ear to ear, with the other attendees watching on in confusion.

“What’s your story then, silver fox?”. Had Cadillac just given Graham an affectionate nickname?

“Wife dead. Son dead. Rest of my family dead before The Rotten Age. Any form of love I had left was torn away from me. It was a shit old time. But, these are my people now”.

“Well, we had a great time in the gold old Rotten Age. The murder, not all chompers, I might add. The looting. We want to go back to those days.” Cadillac argued.

“Well, actually, I don’t. I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t even want to come to this today. I stuck with you guys because you kept me safe. I put all those horrific things to the back of my mind. You did right by me, but nobody else.”

For the first time since their introduction to the strugglers, Cadillac, Viking, and Schizo appeared visibly upset. They were deflated, without words, and unable to see any way forward.

“What’s happening to Lucy? Timothy urgently quizzed.

Lucy’s condition had significantly worsened since the last time Graham had glanced over. For a split second, her quivering, perspiring upper-lip was the Mona Lisa of expressions. An inadvertent spectacle of shock and wonder. It seemed implausible that somebody could lose so much fluid in such a brief moment, yet this worrying incident invaded the spotlight. Her beautiful blue eyes clouded, an unforgiving storm was swiftly brewing. Her nutrient-rich brunette hair frizzed and frayed, leaving it reminiscent to that of a witch. Her skin leathered from top to bottom. Her teeth yellowed as she began to snarl. A once-motherly lady had transitioned to a rabid beast.

“Fuck yes!” Cadillac animated, springing to her feet with excitement. The strugglers had lost a cherished friend, a noble leader. Their loss was her gain. For the first time in two years, she was about to experience the exhilarating rush again. Her thirst for blood was about to be quenched. Dredging her trusty piece from her knee-high boots, the same blade she used to skin her victims, Cadillac was ready.

The leader of the misfits pounced across the bitter hall like an energetic, youthful feline. She oozed grace and style, severely contrasting her next move. With a flick of the wrist, the blade had smoothly penetrated Lucy’s soulless skull. Flick after flick.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

“Sorry.” Cadillac sincerely apologised to Graham, Timothy, and the others.

It was over. Lucy’s rich blood ran down Cadillac’s face. Moving on much in the same way a stud would from a one night stand, she proceeded to the exit before turning to the group for one final time.

“Who’s coming with me?” Cadillac was recruiting. “Fine, but I’m Alistair now.” Schizo reasoned.