Corn, Cows, and the Apocalypse (Part 1)

Corn, Cows,

and the Apocalypse

By Felicia Jedlicka

by

Felicia Jedlicka

NEBRASKA
APOCALYPSE TRIOLOGY

Corn Cows and the Apocalypse

*
Cow Tipping after the Apocalypse

*
Corn Husking after the Apocalypse

THE WARDEN SERIES

Successors

Rivals

Honeymoon

Time and Time Not Again!

Let My People Go

The Ring Bearer

If
Wishes Were Fishes

*
Beasts and Burdens

*Coming Soon

-This is the end, or is it the beginning?-

              So, the apocalypse came.

             
It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the religious gurus said it would be.  There wasn’t any fire or brimstone.  The seas didn’t boil, and the skies didn’t fall.  There wasn’t even a bad storm or an earthquake. If the four horsemen were scheduled for it, they must have gotten lost on the way.  Aside from 4.2 billion men, women, and children simultaneously falling over dead across the globe, there really wasn’t anything to mark the moment. 

             
It was on August 22
nd
at 8:46 a.m. if you must know.  Nothing significant about the numbers.  Nothing special about the day.  It was kind of a disappointment.

             
Don’t get me wrong, bagging groceries at the local supermarket and suddenly every last person in sight collapsing, definitely spiked my
W.T.F
. scale, and the deafening silence that followed caused an uproar in my brain that threatened my sanity.  But once the panic attack subsided, it was all just a matter of letting go of any preconceived ideas I had about the rest of my life. 

             
Post-apocalyptic life is a lot like retirement.  You don’t have to work anymore, you get to take lots of naps, and there’s no reason to worry about the future, because you’re probably going to die soon anyway.

             
The key to avoiding the suicide garnering boredom of a life without purpose, is keeping busy.  The saying goes, “idle hands are the devils playground.” In the Godless aftermath of the reckoning, that statement is gospel.  Or maybe it already was gospel.  Sorry I’m a little behind on my religious knowledge. 
Obviously
, I’m still here.

             
Religion had always ranked pretty high for my neighbors.  Sunday church, soup suppers, and fund raisers were the core of social networking for rural areas.  Since my region was almost all rural, it wasn’t a big shock that I spent a good portion of the first few months after the apocalypse lonely and depressed. 

             
Most of my home towns 20,000 population was lying in a surreal crystalline state right where they had died.  The bodies didn’t rot, but their skin took on a silvery sheen that was unmistakable.  The
apocagees
(apocalyptic refugees) started calling them the “crystalline dead,” the “silver saints,” and eventually they gained the name “glimmer grim.” 

             
I’m not going to bore you with the three months of emotional plateaus and speed bumps that led me to the realization, that I was not just
feeling
alone in the world, but I actually was.  I also won’t detail my intense flagellating prayer sessions, which let’s face it, was kind of like trying to un-bake a cake.  To sum it up—for those of you hoping for an honest, meaningful discussion about the trials and tribulations of someone dealing with the end of the world—I cried…a lot.

             
When I thought life couldn’t get any worse, the crystalline dead started to animate.  I’m not going to use the “Z” word to describe their behavior, but I will say that they did not have good intentions.  There was a good deal of talk about their sudden reemergence being a miracle—that’s when the “silver saints” designation became popular.  Unfortunately, soon after, it became clear that the mobile corpses were hosts to puppeteering demons that wanted to: kill, rape, maim, and—well you know—all that stuff that makes a devils playground into a carnival of carnage. 

             
It was around that same time that I met up with three crazy “
apocagees”
from Chicago.  On that particular day, I was in the process of having my arms broken by one of the glimmer grim.  No one I knew, but he looked to be a nice old man.  Had he not been dead and possessed by a demon, I imagine he might have offered me an ice tea upon passing his home, instead of tackling me like a Cornhusker in ‘roid rage.

             
I’d like to say that I was putting up a good fight, or that I had gotten a good hit in before he got the better of me, but alas I am not the heroine you seek.  I’m not even the sidekick in this one.  I’m not even the sidekick’s sidekick.  I’m the kickstand.  If our heroine rode around on a horse, I would be the one to hang out in the stables and guard it—which is funny, since as the kickstand rather than the sidekick, I wouldn’t even have the skills to stop said horse thief.   

             
Anyway, I digress.  One of the three apocagees, August Smith, came to rescue me from the glimmer grim.  It might have been the angle of the sun, or the fact that I had lost a significant amount of oxygen from screaming like a ninny, but August seemed to resonate light the first time I saw her. 

             
To thank her for her heroic gesture, I passed out against her.  When I woke up she was holding me in the bed of a pick-up truck on its way down Highway 81.  She smiled down at me petting the hair out of my face as it whipped into my eyes.  She said something—a greeting of some kind, but I couldn’t hear it over the rumble of the Dodge.  I didn’t say anything back, I just stared at her.  I looked into her eyes through my snarled hair, and I wondered if it was possible to have love at first sight in a plutonic version.         

             
When the formal introductions were over, I gave them the short version of my life story, and August, all but invited me into her group.  I didn’t even consider any other options.  She was now my heroine, and I was her third sidekick.  I may not have had any horses to guard, but I had damsel in distress written all over me, and August was always going to be there to save me.

             
Or so I thought. 

-
Road Kill
-

              The road from home from “the Big O” was littered with stalled vehicles from the people who died in transit.  I hung onto the roll bar for dear life, while the truck weaved in and out of the stilled traffic.  I let out a “woohoo” joining the cacophony of “woohoo’s” from my female partners flanking me in the back of the black pickup truck.

             
August, on my right, was the living incarnation of Xena: the warrior princess.  In addition to her height, the striking long chocolate hair, and facial features akin to a mulatto, she had muscles that would put a good number of men to shame.  She was the leader of our little group and we were all happy to follow her abjectly. 

             
Until I met her, I had no idea how much I needed a friend.  August was a strong woman physically, but socially she was a gentle, loving woman.  Despite her fighting skills, she exuded something undeniably peaceful.  She was what held us all together when the world threatened to pull us apart. 

             
Haden Summers, on my left, was for all intents and purposes August’s first sidekick.  She was an intense woman with stick straight muddy blonde hair.  She was loud, arrogant, forceful, and a little bit crazy, but she made things fun. 

             
The truck jerked around another car and Haden steadied herself on the wall of the truck bed to yell around to the driver’s side window.  “Is that the best you can do?”  She yelled loud enough to keep the wind from swallowing her words. 

             
She was given a meaty fist with a raised middle finger from the driver as her answer.  She laughed and pulled back.  August slammed her hand into the roof a couple times and the truck slowed down.                 

             
Devin Reed, our designated driver, was August’s second sidekick.  He was a brawny young stud that had probably made his living as a model in his pre-apocalyptic life.  His tawny waves and chiseled Kirk Douglas chin was too much to resist, let alone his disarming charm. 

             
Devin was a reckless thrill seeker with a knack for driving in the new world.  Speeding through the melee of traffic was his favorite part of our trips into and out of the city.  He loved dodging through the metal obstacle course as fast as his pick up would take him.  As he put it: “That’s what a
Dodge
is named for.”

             
Devin slid open the back window and handed out three football helmets.  August passed them down the line and we all placed the helmets on and inserted the attached mouth guards.  When we were all strapped in and securely clasping the roll bar, she hammered her fist on the roof once again. 

             
The truck picked up speed until it reached the off road section in the highway.  Through the many trips to the metro, we had managed to push or pull the most obtrusive vehicles out of our way so we had a clear path to and from.  Unfortunately, one particular spot on the highway was an absolute mess.  Too many over turned semi-trucks and not enough room to get by. 

             
Instead of weaving through, Devin veered off the road into a cornfield.  The field bore the tracks of our many trips.  The rutted ground sent vibrations through my arms, and it was all I could do to hold on.  Haden yelled and hooted as she released one hand to ride her bull like a real cowboy.  I admired her spirit, but sometimes I thought she had a death wish.

             
Truth be told, I think we all did.  There’s nothing quite so humbling, as losing all your friends and family because God didn’t choose you to move on with them.  I didn’t know much about the guidelines for inclusion in the end of days, but I was pretty sure I got the shaft.  Most of the people left behind were either outright atheist or devil worshipers in some form or another.  One of the exceptions to the
most
was me.  I can’t say that I was ever really religious, but I’m definitely not an atheist. 

             
I’ve learned though, that admitting you aren’t an atheist, is a bad idea.  People tend to look poorly on you, when you try to elevate yourself above them.  One could be stoned for such anti-heresy.  

             
Since God obviously does exist, and we were all clearly wrong, the only thing we have left is to embrace how wrong we were.  We do this by having as much fun as possible.  It’s as if we’re all trying to convince God that we were glad he didn’t choose us.  It’s the sour grapes theory at its best.  The key is to never do anything that can be interpreted as pious.  Nobody likes a suck up.            

             
Having fun really wasn’t a problem for us since the new world was basically the old world just with less people. There were just enough people left to keep basic utilities functional.  Driving was never an issue because the demand for fossil fuels plummeted to record lows.  Food was readily available at the super market as long as you were able to tolerate the smell of moldy vegetables and rotten meat. 

             
Shopping was a dream come true.  Money was no longer a functional exchange method, so we just took whatever we wanted.  Poetically, all the things I thought I wanted when I was a minimum wage earning grocery checker, didn’t matter when there wasn’t endless advertising telling me to want it. 

             
There was even a radio station that broadcasted rock music in addition to the witty repartee of Jimmy the Card.  He kept the tri-state area population up to date on the “glimmer grim” movements, as well as letting us know where we could get fresh fruits and vegetables.  His radio broadcasts had become as central to our lives as our favorite television shows used to be.

             
The truck came to the end of the off road path and we ramped back up onto the highway.  My feet flew out from beneath me and I let out a squeal that probably came off as a “wee,” but it was really an “eek.”  August laughed and helped me back up. 

             
Devin punched the roof and August pulled her helmet off to poke her head in the back window.  He told her something and she popped her head out to look down at the road ahead.  She turned to us and nodded forward.  “Grim straight ahead.” 

             
I peeked over the roof and saw the shiny skinned corpse standing on the highway.  Unlike the things that go bump in the night, the glimmer grim, were not opposed to making daytime appearances.  Though they generally did most of their major movements at night, they didn’t require sleep, so therefore they could pop up whenever the desire to cause harm to a living beings arose—which, was pretty often.  

             
“Oh, yes,” Haden said removing her helmet and picking up a baseball bat from the back of the bed.  “This one’s mine.”  She poised herself at the edge of the truck bed and tried a few practice swings.  Her face was contorted with the grin of a predator about to sink her teeth into her prey.  It was all a game to her, but I was still getting used to hunting the glimmer grim for sport.

             
As we passed by, Haden’s bat hit the head of the corpse.  The satisfying pink shards that erupted from the creatures head were met with cheers from August and myself.  Devin honked the horn in triumph and Haden raised her bat over her head for a boisterous “woohoo.”