Epilogue

Susie rolled over in bed, her brown hair spilling across her face. She gathered the sheets modestly around her breasts. The sun played warmly across her back. It was nearly noon and Josh was still fast asleep and snoring softly. He lay on his back. His mouth hung open limply framed by his shaggy black beard. Susie scooted so she was inches from his face and then tugged lightly on his beard. Josh snorted and jerked awake.
“What? What….. Yeah, mm hmm, okay, what?” he murmured still not fully awakle.
Playfully, Susie said, “Guess what?”
“What?” clipped Josh in the abrupt language of the half asleep.
“C’mon guess? I bet you’ll never guess,” said Susie in a mischievous voice that made Josh wake up a little more, and begin to take stock of the situation.
“What?” he asked a little afraid by her knowing smile. Women made him nervous when they looked at him like that, a cat eyeing a mouse. “What did you do?” He was almost fully awake now.
“Hmm hmmm,” she laughed softly. “You did it.”
“I did what?” he asked, knowing now that he was definitely in trouble.
“I’m pregnant!” she squealed happily and jumped up onto his knees bouncing the bed and pulling the sheets off of him.
“What?” said Josh numbly, at a loss for words. He suddenly felt a chill flash across his body. He managed to smile weakly.
“I’M PREGNANT!” yelled Susie at the top of her lungs. Her head thrown back. She let the blankets fall and spread her arms majestically.
Momentarily taken by her naked form, Josh forgot what she’d said, and then returned to himself and stuttered, “But…but…”
Pointing a finger at Josh, she said, “And you’re gonna be a daddy.”
“Oh vap,” breathed Josh with dread.

Today was the last day. They’d promised. Today, they’d remove his body cast. Jack Wendleton twitched with excitement. The nurses had been thoroughly on guard, patching him up daily and preventing any sort of escape. Jack wondered if they were briefed daily on his progress or merely trained initially for body cast victims. The news was finally unedited. Since he was deemed not contagious and all his nodes removed, he was moved from the military compound to the small, cheaply run Chinatown outfit, he’d been watched less and less and no effort was made to alter his surroundings to fit his mind-frame. They gave him plenty of painkillers intravenously and he enjoyed a variety of foods in liquid form. He wondered often if Professor Tell had survived the blast that had destroyed most of Manhattan. Tell had never visited him after his transfer. He probably was too deeply entrenched in the Pregnancy Plague, either that or he’d been atomized along with everyone else. His thoughts carried him through the day until it was time.
Jack was shocked to learn from the doctor that he was going to saw him out of his cast. Jack recognized the saw for what it was, a bone saw. He yelped in fright and thrashed unsuccessfully in his fixed form to get away, but only succeeded and getting put under for the whole ordeal.
When he came to, he was completely from his torso up. His hips and legs were in a new plastic and Velcro cast that looked like it could be easily removed. His skin was pink with a freshly scrubbed look to it. They bathed me, thought Jack in shock, without my permission. Offended, Jack decided to escape on the grounds of wounded dignity, and he began to prepare for the journey. He wrapped the thin white cover sheet around him with much fidgeting and squirming. He knotted it at the base of his right shoulder. It was dignified in a Roman sense Jack thought to himself. He located his wheel chair that he was supposedly to use for his restroom visits but never had the opportunity and instead opted for wetting the bed, because half the time the nurses were attractive and the cleanup afterward often provided the stimulation that got him through his day. With grunts and muffled yelps of pain, Jack finally positioned himself into the chair and experimentally moved around the room. He soon discovered that he was still tethered intravenously to his morphine dispenser which he was quite fond of. He considered fashioning it into some type of spear or staff of ceremonial importance but decided time was too short for that and instead tipped it over enough that he could retrieve the two IV bags and stuffed them into his shirt. Examining himself in the mirror it appeared like he’d gained mammary glands which didn’t jive with his afternoon shadow. He considered that the effectiveness of the morphine dispensation would be affected by their altitude, so he set about devising a hat of sorts like they use at the baseball games for beer. Jack snatched his pillows from the bed and yanked the pillow cases off. He tossed them back on the bed and covered them with the quilt, a lame semblance of himself sleeping. He then tied the two pillow cases together and slipped the IV bags into them. He knotted the opening off into a ring that he placed onto his head like a crown with tubes protruding from it. Jack wheeled his new wheelchair out the door hesitantly canvassing the hallway for hospital enforcers. Finding it devoid of authorities, he slipped out and attempted to act casual. He found his chair to be a pleasantly smooth ride. He wondered if perhaps all the swinging had made the morphine dispensation rate increase. She smiled at a visitor who looked at him wide eyed. He made it to the elevator unscathed, without even a question asked. He was on his way out without a hitch. The elevator doors opened and he had a clear line of sight to the outside world. The automatic doors were opening and closing smoothly admitting and releasing people indiscriminately. Jack wheeled his chair nonchalantly. He waved and smiled at people like a king. They all smiled back.
Outside the world was much as he remembered it. The sky looked strange, a halo of low clouds, and the sun looked strange, more yellow than orange. Must have something to do with that shield the anchors were all blabbing about, thought Jack. He didn’t waste time taking it in. He instead pumped with all his might away from the hospital that had kept him hostage for so many long months. He was no longer contagious. He was no longer a threat, and now he was no longer a prisoner.
He made three blocks before the cops picked him up.

Sly Louie sipped at his maté latte experimentally. He made a screwed up face in disgust. Terra laughed at the wrinkles it made across his scalp. She’d never dated a bald man and it was surprisingly expressive. He was a well-known crime lord and a gentleman. The combination had initially intrigued her and now she was thoroughly snared. At some point, she’d decided that she could turn him from his life of crime into an upstanding citizen. So far at least to her knowledge he had, for the most part. The battles for control were won by cunning and lethal strength, but control was quickly released and placed in elected hands. Crime was for the moment dormant in New New York. As head of Square One, Terra was a figurehead of progress and survival. The AG dome was a Square One accomplishment. Order and peace were a Sly Louie success. Together they were a well received and talked about couple. Strangely enough, both their names were on the ballot for mayor. The interim city government was headed by the district heads that had been lucky enough to be on home turf when the shield went up, and they were the ones who’d proposed the elections and were overseeing it, not to mention running in it themselves. Sly Louie was unconcerned with the outcome or at least that’s how he appeared. She took a sip of her own mate latte. It was delightful. It wasn’t authentic. The rainforests that produced the original crop had long grown wild and too dangerous to cultivate. The product probably still existed in some form naturally, but synthetic was still at treat, no matter how the unacquired tastes interpreted it.
“How do you drink this vile concoction?” asked Louie, still making a face, as he loudly chewed a croissant to rid himself of the flavor of dirt and grass that came to mind.
“You’ll get used to it,” laughed Terra. She leaned back in her chair and looked out over Chinatown, which was the main body of New New York, or as Louie put it New York. From his building’s balcony, they could see the length and breadth of the entire city.
“What makes you think I’ll ever try it again?” asked Louie with a smile.
“It’s good for you, so you’re going to drink it instead of that black goop you guzzle every twenty minutes!” said Terra in a mock warning voice.
“You mean coffee?!” asked Louie incredulously, his eyebrows arching and his eyes widening.
“I’ve already talked to the staff about it and they got rid of it all except the box that’s out. I’m gracious enough to let you wean yourself off it,” said Terra, fighting back a smile.
“WHAT?! MY COFFEE!” exclaimed Louie in shock, “Which one of them helped you! They’re all fired as far as I’m concerned! I’m the one who pays them. I can’t stand any more betrayals. First I’m not a criminal anymore, then I’m a interim chief of police, and now I’m holly jolly mayor of-“
“You’re not firing anyone. That’s not your job. It’s the wife’s job to handle the help,” said Terra pedantically.
“Wife? Who said anything about a wife? I-“
Terra leaned over the small table and planted a kiss on Louie’s lips, interrupting him. As she pulled back, she said, “I accept your gracious offer. I’ll marry you.”
With a sheepish grin, Louie blushed and said, “When?”

Real Estate Classified Section of the New York Times

Frederique Guillard’s Gallery has finally closed. LeMon Diamdemonde, the infamous artist who fled the country recently, held his last show there, killing any hope that its patron, Jean Guillard, of a home or a future here in New York. The famous entrepreneur’s son has left New York for good along with, rumor has it, the balance of the infamous and ghastly artwork that bankrupt him. Though purchases were scarce, there are reports that certain private anonymous collectors maintain some of his older pieces and at least one of the latest. The lot right at the cusp of the AGS Shield has a fantastic view of what used to be the rest of New Manhattan. It is now part of the desirable Waterfront District on Henry and West 2nd St. It has two floors (1000 sq. ft. each) and a basement (900 sq. ft.), glass front window and a backyard complete with real grass and two live trees. It is up for sale to the highest bidder. The auction will be held at the Buddha Bakery on Canal and West Broadway Tuesday March 15th at 11 am.

On the day of his baptism, Roto had been extremely enthusiastic. He hadn’t had a drink or a stimulant in 2 months. He’d been on the right side of the shield when the bombs hit. He couldn’t have been happier. His fiancée, Margaret Chadwick, had been rehabilitated and already baptized and through the temple. She had been just waiting on him to make that leap of faith, and as Roto dawned the white and was plunged into baptismal waters he truly felt converted. It was only later that he had grown concerned.
“What do you mean the ‘Reformed’ church?” he asked the Bishop testily, or as testily as he was willing to be to the highest ranking member he knew.
“Well, I’m no history teacher, but a long time ago there was a break in the church and we had to create some reforms. For instance, forced plural marriage that was something the original church was against but that’s why we created the reforms. There’s other stuff too, like Joseph Smith being part of the godhead-“
“I knew it!” cried Roto. “How could a man, even a prophet become part of the godhead! It makes no sense! No other prophets were made Step-Brother of Jesus! It’s madness!”
“Now Brother Roto you are bordering on blasphemy. If you recall,” the Bishop waggled his finger under Roto’s nose, “you signed a contract forfeiting your discretion, increase, and property. Sir, we are now in charge of what’s best for you. And what’s best for you right now is to obey your wives. Now if you want to have a rational open conversation with Margaret, Janice, Geena, Anne, Sariah, Beth, Vivian, and Tiffany, by all means bring them on down, but until that time quit your name calling and blasphemy or we’ll put you into re-education so fast your head will spin.” Smiling kindly, the Bishop made a shooing motion.
“One more thing, Bishop. What ever happened to the original church?”
“They’re around, an outpost of them survived across town, why?” the man’s eyes thinned shrewdly.
“No reason. Always had an interest in history,” said Roto dejectedly.
“Well let’s not let it grow into a passion. Stay away from those Latter Day Saints now, and stick to our version of the scriptures and listen to your wives and you’ll survive alright. You hear?”
Roto left the office convinced that he must escape what had become the most cunning counterfeit. He wondered how he could get eight simultaneous annulments and a dissolution of his forfeiture contract. He just had to find the real church. He started away from the church at a fast trot. By the end of the block, he was sprinting.

Joseph sat on an overturned paint can surrounded by a large gang of street thugs. A month ago, he’d been a scared child separated from his family, but now he was much, much more. His team, as he liked to call it, was slowly consolidating power in the Docks, effectively keeping the Makros zombies and fanatics out. The last thing they needed was a group of them asking questions or taking people off. John Makros was in charge by all accounts. Superficially, he looked to be as good as his word, but Joseph knew better. The man masquerading around as John Makros was as much the man as he was. It was the same zombie that’d led him to the Docks to be jumped only a short while ago. Joseph didn’t know why he’d decided to do that, but he knew he wasn’t a friend of his, and he knew as long as he was somewhere where the Makros cult thrived he would not be safe. That’s when he decided to persuade some others to join him. The others became more and more. Some even joined out of free will. Joseph hadn’t even had to convince them mentally. It was a measure of how much better Joseph’s methods were than John’s. He’d never remove someone’s self, he’d only show them how it was in their best interest. Smiling coldly, Joseph told them all mentally that he was thankful for their coming and their strength in the face of evil. He told them as he told them time and time again that what had happened those several months ago was not a revolution, only a power struggle between two different forces of evil. They were fighting to see who would dominate us entirely, and now we know who will try: John Makros.

President Walton stepped off the craft with as much dignity as he could muster. His staff followed after him hesitantly. Prof. Strongold’s AG craft was not made to specifications as he ordered, but it was a mechanical marvel nonetheless. Before leaving he’d been able to get the racing stripe removed and a small American flag embossed on the side. The patriotic flair was not lost on those that greeted him as he landed. ‘America the Beautiful’ was being played by a string quartet somewhere out of sight. Walton beamed at President Muenster broadly and shook his hand heartily. The man smiled at him like an old friend, and rest a hand on his shoulder in a friendly way. Things were starting off on the right foot.

Coasting over the jungles of Brazil, Albert scanned for the telltale signs with an eager light in his eyes. When he’d stopped to eat a mango for breakfast, he’d smelled the thick acrid scent of ozone. The jungle that he’d read about as wild and dangerous was tame and silent as if the strange animals and giant insects had all fled. It was eerie, but exciting. Albert knew he was close. Once during his breakfast he’d heard a bird cry. It was a solitary sound in an empty world of lush green and vibrant colors reds and yellows. He felt that he was nearing it now.
Five minutes later the undulating jungle gave way, to nothingness, true nothingness. It was as appalling as it was breathtaking. If Nietzsche could only see this, thought Albert in awe. The undoing of creation. The reverse of light. The opposite of matter.
Albert was so taken in his did not see the small aerial droids, even when it passed over him, because by that point there was nothing to see.