Category Archives: Post-apocalyptic

THE NEIGHBORHOOD WARS by Sal Buttaci

 

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“Not anymore,” Giosif said. “Remember? It’s 2212. Nobody needs no permit to fire one of these.”

The old man shook his gray head as the boy tapped his thumb on the hammer of the gun.

“We gotta defend Dartmouth Street, Gramps. Ain’t no other way.”

“Don’t go out there. It ain’t safe,” he said, but even as he spoke the words, he knew warning him was a waste of time.

Great-grandpa Alowishis remembered when he was even younger than the boy. Porch-chair afternoons found his ears glued to the stories his own great-grandfather recounted of Old America when the national pastimes were baseball, football, hockey. It was a happy time when spectators in sweating shirts came in droves to cheer their teams.

Now the pastime was fear, a wave of quaking civilians cowering indoors behind their conviction that life was a brief candle. Still, the unwritten gang law of “Tutum Domi,” (safe at home) declared them untouchable. It was only a matter of time before home became a cell and death by escape seemed preferable to life by containment. A step outside meant leathered delinquents on the streets would snuff out that flickering flame.

He felt sorry for the twelve-year-old. The boy had lost his parents in the Neighborhood War. They had ventured from home onto Dartmouth Street, claiming some false sense of courage compelled them. The old man knew better; he called it reckless bravado, an agreed-upon pact to take that final walk.

Giosif’s father made light of the gunfire deafeningly flashing overhead. “We’ll pretend it’s a rainbow,” he joked. And Giosif’s surrogate-mother added, “Or an arch of flowers above us as we walk.” The two held hands but the old man could detect, even with fading eyesight, both their hands trembling.

They never came back.

Giosif and the old man. Prisoners in their stone house, nibbling rationed morsels unfit for rodents. How much longer? he wondered.

Suddenly, the stars and stripes of Old Glory waved proudly in the old man’s memory. He bit his lip to dispel it. He remembered placing his hand on his chest like school children of old who for so long recited allegiance to one nation, this nation, this home of the free and the brave and now the center of siege. Foreign oppressors he could have predicted, even in his youth. They stormed the skies, bombed the cities, planted their dark flags as they burned ours, but instead of freedom fighters banding together to save the nation, street gangs grew in numbers and strength. Their objective?  Retake the cities for themselves.

“Life’s different now,” Giosif said without looking up from the green Spetzer in his hand. Hypnotically he ran the chamois up and down the green triple barrel. “We gotta show them.” Show them what? the old man thought. That we could possibly put a stop to this? To these neighborhood terrorists? Even the Radical Armies are afraid to march down our streets!

“Ain’t a crime no more.

Then the boy walked towards the door, released the deadbolt, yanked down the chains, and stepped into the light of machinegun fire. He raised the shiny Spetzer, aimed it with a cool hand and fired at Clara somebody from Arbor Lane, Jacksonville Jack’s woman who co-led the Z-Ford bikers up and down city-block streets. Clara fell, her bike spinning where she lay.

“Stay your ass on K Street,” Giosif shouted at the dead woman.

Alowishis gasped and called to him. “Cold-blooded murder.” But the boy laughed, reloading for Jacksonville Jack. He’d take no chances. He vowed he would never make the mistake his close friend Daveed did. Turning his back on the street, heading back into his Dartmouth Street home, Daveed was shot dead by a survivor from a Harris Road family he was so sure he had wiped off the asphalt face of their street

Giosif walked backwards into the dark house. He shut the door, chained it, threw the deadbolt, and puffed his thin lips into a full-of-pride smile. Then someone knocked on the door. The only sound Giosif offered was the click of his Spetzer’s hammer.

“It’s me, Giosif. Your neighbor here on Dartmouth. Margie. Margie Pederson. You knew my dead husband Sam. Please let me in.”

His inner voice said No, let her die out there; that ain’t Sam’s widow, but tough boy with gun was still boy with a heart full of street honor. He unchained the door. Slid the deadbolt free. Expected Margie to dash inside quickly enough for him to slam the door behind her.

Instead, he saw Jack. Margie was gone. Armed with a Thompson-Abdul M9, Jack forced his way inside.

Straight off, he sprayed the peeling walls, then shot the boy. Giosef lay crumpled and bloody on the faded green living-room carpet, his unfired Spetzer clenched tightly in his hand, blue unblinking eyes locked open as though in rapt attention to what Jack had to say.

Alowishis furrowed his stubbled face into waves of wrinkled skin. Jack had set down his machinegun, then removed from his leather jacket a Ruger pistol, plunking the barrel hard against the old man’s temple

Giosif lay dead at his feet. Through the still-open door Alowishis could see the sun, so many years a stranger, sting his eyes. He shut them. Filled his mind with happier times. The Independence Day Parade up and down Dartmouth Street. The neighbors from every street and avenue marching proudly to patriotic tunes. Ice cream cones and blue cotton candy. Mayor Billy Quince shouting to visitors, “Welcome, neighbors! Welcome! Welcome!” Old Glory filled with the promise to wave forever.

The old man sighed at the volley of first fireworks.

Jack squeezed the trigger.

  * * *

Salvatore Buttaci is an obsessive-compulsive writer whose work has appeared widelyHe was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award.

His short-short fiction collections, published by All Things That Matter Press, are available at Amazon.com:

Flashing My Shortshttp://www.amazon.com/Flashing-My-Shorts-Salvatore-Buttaci/dp/0984259473

200 Shorts: http://www.amazon.com/200-Shorts-Salvatore-Buttaci/dp/0984639241/ref=sr_1_1?Ss=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1314991699&sr=1-1

A Family of Sicilians, his book portraying a true image of what it means to be Sicilian, is available at https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?keyWords=A+FAMILY+OF+SICILIANS&type=

Sal Buttaci lives in Princeton, West Virginia, with his loving and much loved wife Sharon.

Searching for More by Cynthia B Ainsworthe

Road to dead city

Carla ambled on the smooth black asphalt over to Richard, who sat on the gray concrete bench. Color had been absent in her life from birth. Not because of any hereditary defect, but due to the world she inhabited. She accepted this fact, as did the others. She had been taught not to question the leaders, and she knew Richard had the same upbringing. She gazed up at the gray towering buildings—the cityscape that made up her world.

He didn’t look up as she sat down. He kept his eyes straight ahead with a vacant stare. “In a couple of hours we’ll have to return to our quarters. I don’t want to be quarantined for missing curfew.”

“I know.” Carla sat down beside him. She studied the tattooed numbers on the inside of his arm. “I see you’re an odd. I’m an even.”

“Too bad.” Richard turned and looked at her. “We won’t be allowed to couple. They are strict about enforcing those things.”

“My roommate told me that when I first moved out of the children’s home.” She twirled a strand of her long brown hair. “Odds go with odds, and evens go with evens. I wonder if it was always this way—rules governing everything—even the way we’re supposed to think.”

He looked up at the blue sky. “There was a time, eons before us, before the Global Federation, when life was very different—full of plants, trees, flowers, people wearing colors for clothing instead of our gray protective suits. There was entertainment. People moved to music, known as dancing. Eating food that came from trees and the soil, and not the nutrient cakes with water we are served. They were allowed to choose their mates. There were places to which people could travel, too.”

“How do you know all these things?” I hope he’s not a subversive. If he is, I could be punished for talking with him. “Have you been snooping in the forbidden library vaults? You could be banished to the outland and never heard from again.”

“I have the elders’ trust.” A grimace thinned his lips. “I’m not about to start a revolution …. Have you ever wondered why we all look the same? Same color skin, eyes, hair, body type?”

“No. I just thought it was always the way it is now.” Her fingers lightly touched the top of Richard’s hand resting on his knee. “Don’t tell me more if it will get you into trouble.”

“From what I could tell from the archives, there were a series of massive wars between countries, all fighting for power and global control of resources as the population grew and food and water became more precious. Great scientific advances were made and would have benefited mankind if there wasn’t one last battle that ended most of life—plants, animals, and man. The few that survived were able to pull together and create what we have now.”

“Is what we have now really that terrible?” She lifted his chin to look into his almond eyes. “All you’re doing is creating a want inside yourself. That can’t be good. Certainly not good for the commune.”

“I’m thinking of how it might have turned out for us now if the actions of others, all those eons ago, were different.” He sighed, noticing the shadow elongate on the sidewalk from the setting sun. “I might have different features, skin color, or talent for something, instead of working at the same task every day.”

“What’s the use of thinking this way? I learned in school that the old leaders forced people of different races to mate until there was only one skin color—that was the goal—to stop prejudice.” What is he getting at? There’s no way to change things. “Remembering all those old history facts have nothing to do with us now. The elder leaders know what is best. We get a televised notice every morning in the common room.”

“But, we don’t know if that leader is real. All we see is an image on a screen. We never have the opportunity to ask questions—never allowed to ask questions.” He paused as his eyes roamed over her face. “Don’t you ever wonder what will happen to you when you can no longer breed? Wonder where you are shipped off to?”

“I believe what I’m told—a better place where I can relax and not worry about tasks.” Were the elders lying to us? “To have the freedom to talk with others as much as I want, instead of only a few hours each day.”

Richard sighed with a heaviness as if he held a deep dark secret and dare not reveal it for fear of an unknown retribution. “We’d better head to our quarters. We don’t want unnecessary punishment.” He offered his hand to Carla as he stood. “If you want to believe the others end up in a better place after they’re shipped out—go ahead. Nothing will change, unless …”

© 2016 Cynthia B Ainsworthe

Cynthia has longed to be a writer. Life’s circumstances put her dream on hold for most of her life. In 2006, she ventured to write her first novel, Front Row Center, which won the prestigious IPPY Award (Independent Publisher), as well as garnering numerous 5-star reviews, one from known Midwest Book Review. Front Row Center is the first book in the Forbidden Series.

This novel is now being adapted to screen. A script is in development by her and notable Hollywood screenwriter, producer, and director, Scott C. Brown. Remember?, and Forbidden Footsteps are books two and three in the Forbidden Series. She also contributed to the award-winning anthology, The Speed of Dark, compiled by Clayton C. Bye, published by Chase Enterprises Publishing. Cynthia enjoys retirement in Florida caring for her husband and their five poodle-children.

https://www.amazon.com/Cynthia-B.-Ainsworthe/e/B00KYRE1Q8

https://www.cynthiabainsworthe.com