Brendan Peveril . net

It’s why I’ve been quiet for the past few days. My gang of writers, creators and degenerates and I have been kicking around ideas about a massive collaboration project that will be such a goddamned mess that everybody will have to love it. It’s knd of a scifi-journalism thing. It’s awesome. I’ll post some more details later, when I’m less exhausted. I’ve put off the planning for tonight, though, so I can get down to the best part, the writing.

Dig it.

Jimmy’s sitting on his stoop now, cleaning rifles. “I’m almost done, I can talk to you when I’m done.” We’re in the isolationist micro state (though, they resent the label) Chalmerton, North of New York. Defense is a big concern in this farming community, and Jimmy, nine years old, who cleans rifles and stands watch every two weeks, is a model citizen.

“It’s us and the wilderness here,” Mayor Francis Wilson Jr. tells me. “The government can’t protect us from the rebels and the bandits, so we do what we can.” Efforts are being undertaken to improve fortifications around the town proper while outlying farms are assigned nightly sentries. “Three hostile contacts reported in two weeks!” Wilson slams his fist down on the arm of his porch swing, “We killed one, we think he’s French.”

“The Fed’s come by every couple of months, say we owe them taxes, our guns are illegal, and whatnot. They’ve got no teeth left.” Wireless communication has rcently been re-established, but, only a few hours drive by back roads from the relative order of the big cities, Chalmerton is still very isolated. “They’re still trying to run the old red-tape machine, when leaving that all behind and getting things done ourselves has kept us alive. Only about a dozen people even got their tax papers last year, we haven’t even seen a mail truck in two weeks. They’re not helping us any, we don’t need to help them.”

These colonies are living in a state of constant paranoia; invading rebels, bandits from other states and New Quebec, Federalist troops commandeering what they seem to think is theirs by right. Jimmy shows me the body armour he wears while on patrol. “My mom makes me put old newspapers behind it, for a little more padding so I don’t get hurt so bad if I get shot. I can’t run too good with them, though.”

Wilson doesn’t see an end to it either. “I remember the good old days, I was born in the last damn century. Seems like that’s never going to happen again, at least not while I’m still alive. We’ve given up on waiting for the police to come back and clear the road blocks, or the army to chase those bastards back to Canada, but we’re not just going to roll over and die. We’re figuring out, day by day, how to get by, so maybe my grandchildren’s grandchildren can be happy and safe some day.”

Jimmy’s not a big child, by any means, but he straps on his armour and picks up his rifle anyway. As we’re walking to his post for the night, a family farm nearly a mile from the outermost stockade, he does his best to keep up with Keller, his step father.

“Sometimes I get afraid, but Keller told me that being brave is just being afraid but not crying. Keller lives with my mom and me now, ’cause bandits burned down his house.” Wilson’s initiative in organizing a militia and proper defenses has greatly reduced the number of raids. Though the bandits are usually motivated by simple robbery, stealing food and supplies to survive, there have been several incidents that looked like no more than random acts of violence, vandalism, murder, kidnapping, rape. “I have to help, just like everybody else does, because there’s crazy people out there who want to hurt us.” Wilson became the mayor three years ago when a family was attacked in their home just outside of town by six men and held hostage for two weeks before anyone found out. The parents both died after a couple of days of torture, but the children were still alive when rescuers stormed in. Having exhausted the stored food in that house, the bandits had been eating, and feeding to the children, the family’s dogs. When his predecesor decided to lock up the only bandit that survived and wait for the proper authorities, Wilson raised a mob and lynched the mayor and the vagrant, side by side.

Later that night we startle a rabbit, and Jimmy shines his big flashlight at it while it runs off into the underbrush. Despite his manly trappings and grand aspirations, he’s still just a scared little boy. “I’m not afraid, but it sure gets dark sometimes.” Hardly the words of someone who is ready to kill, or be killed. The greatest crime in this whole fucking mess is that he’s never known any life but this. Children have always peered fearfully into the night, but how can the world be cruel enough to have a night so dark as this one?

Now, I asks you, is it overdoing it if i tack this on?

I wonder just how dark they can get.

I think that might be too much. I don’t know. Anyway, more details as they become available. If you think you might like to be added to the list of “writers, creators and degenerates,” you know how to get ahold of me.