and with fresh blood in his mouth, Jason submissively dropped his gaze to the spiral notebook balanced on his lap. He heard a soft slapping sound and shot a glance at the hydraulic pit in the center of the room. When he realized what it was—the boy's hand smacking against the cloying surface of oily mud—he breathed a sigh of relief. If he didn't do what his brother wanted, this place would not only become his tomb, but the boy's as well.
"All right, let's see how you did this time." Marcus held out his hand for Jason's third attempt at writing the first entry of the New History. When the first two entries weren't up to Marcus's satisfaction, he beat him for it until his own knuckles had split and Jason's head swam with incoherent thoughts. Now, after nearly an hour of struggling against mounting fear and the gloom and oily stench of the service station, Jason hoped he'd finally produced what Marcus was looking for.
Jason hesitated, but realizing he had no leverage, he relented and handed over the notebook. "I tried, Marcus." He felt like crying, wanting strangely, to please him with what he'd written. He'd never felt so small, so used. "I really did."
"I have faith in you, Jason. That's why you're still alive."
"You're a fool if you think no one else is writing things down." He couldn't help pushing back a little.
"I'm sure there are. But they will be ferreted out and eliminated."
"So the Arkadium has a writing police?" It sounded so ridiculous saying it out loud. He also realized he knew so very little about Marcus's doomsday cult.
"Something like that." He chuckled. "Someday I'll tell you about the Anaki, that is, if we don't stumble across them first. They are gruesome motherfuckers, for sure. But now, let me read." Marcus began, his lips moving along with the words.
Jason sighed with a lump in his throat as he watched his brother. The other members of the group, numbering around three dozen as far as Jason could tell, had taken up strategic defensive positions outside the service station. They were all now well-armed with AR-15 assault rifles, courtesy of the Arkadium, and dressed in jungle camo and other dark clothing. When the supplies were being handed out, Hector had offered Jason a full complement of gear as if he were any other member of the group that had just taken down civilization. It wasn't difficult to turn him down.
"So…" Marcus looked up from his reading, "Jason, this is what you want future generations to read? This is you making your mark?"
Jason couldn't tell if he'd hit the right note with this rendition. He hoped so. He didn't think he had it in him to try a fourth time. "Yes?"
Marcus pursed his lips and nodded, his eyes falling to the page. "Very well. This is more the tone I expect from you. This is your talent shining through. This …" He held the notebook aloft like a revivalist preacher raising high his road weary bible at a tent gathering. "This is the New History."
The lump in Jason's throat grew, threatening to choke him. But as Marcus's expression softened and he looked at him with acceptance, with love , either a tear or a streak of blood escaped Jason's left eye and the lump in his throat eased.
Marcus looked again at the page littered with Jason's awkward, bunched script. He began to read: "But just as the great flood of Noah's age receded and he and his kin disembarked from the salvation of the ark given to him by God Himself, Marcus Grant and his people returned to the flooded plain as explorers and salvagers of a blighted world, the true believers and protectors of the One True Word, the unaltered, unassailable Book of Genesis—the Arkadium."
Marcus closed the spiral and smiled at his brother. "Like poetry, Jason. Like fucking Walt Whitman."
"Thank…"—his voice cracked—"thank you."
Marcus handed the spiral over to Jason and then raised his hand. Jason instinctively flinched. Instead of striking him, Marcus cupped his palm across the back of Jason's head, like a
"All right, let's see how you did this time." Marcus held out his hand for Jason's third attempt at writing the first entry of the New History. When the first two entries weren't up to Marcus's satisfaction, he beat him for it until his own knuckles had split and Jason's head swam with incoherent thoughts. Now, after nearly an hour of struggling against mounting fear and the gloom and oily stench of the service station, Jason hoped he'd finally produced what Marcus was looking for.
Jason hesitated, but realizing he had no leverage, he relented and handed over the notebook. "I tried, Marcus." He felt like crying, wanting strangely, to please him with what he'd written. He'd never felt so small, so used. "I really did."
"I have faith in you, Jason. That's why you're still alive."
"You're a fool if you think no one else is writing things down." He couldn't help pushing back a little.
"I'm sure there are. But they will be ferreted out and eliminated."
"So the Arkadium has a writing police?" It sounded so ridiculous saying it out loud. He also realized he knew so very little about Marcus's doomsday cult.
"Something like that." He chuckled. "Someday I'll tell you about the Anaki, that is, if we don't stumble across them first. They are gruesome motherfuckers, for sure. But now, let me read." Marcus began, his lips moving along with the words.
Jason sighed with a lump in his throat as he watched his brother. The other members of the group, numbering around three dozen as far as Jason could tell, had taken up strategic defensive positions outside the service station. They were all now well-armed with AR-15 assault rifles, courtesy of the Arkadium, and dressed in jungle camo and other dark clothing. When the supplies were being handed out, Hector had offered Jason a full complement of gear as if he were any other member of the group that had just taken down civilization. It wasn't difficult to turn him down.
"So…" Marcus looked up from his reading, "Jason, this is what you want future generations to read? This is you making your mark?"
Jason couldn't tell if he'd hit the right note with this rendition. He hoped so. He didn't think he had it in him to try a fourth time. "Yes?"
Marcus pursed his lips and nodded, his eyes falling to the page. "Very well. This is more the tone I expect from you. This is your talent shining through. This …" He held the notebook aloft like a revivalist preacher raising high his road weary bible at a tent gathering. "This is the New History."
The lump in Jason's throat grew, threatening to choke him. But as Marcus's expression softened and he looked at him with acceptance, with love , either a tear or a streak of blood escaped Jason's left eye and the lump in his throat eased.
Marcus looked again at the page littered with Jason's awkward, bunched script. He began to read: "But just as the great flood of Noah's age receded and he and his kin disembarked from the salvation of the ark given to him by God Himself, Marcus Grant and his people returned to the flooded plain as explorers and salvagers of a blighted world, the true believers and protectors of the One True Word, the unaltered, unassailable Book of Genesis—the Arkadium."
Marcus closed the spiral and smiled at his brother. "Like poetry, Jason. Like fucking Walt Whitman."
"Thank…"—his voice cracked—"thank you."
Marcus handed the spiral over to Jason and then raised his hand. Jason instinctively flinched. Instead of striking him, Marcus cupped his palm across the back of Jason's head, like a
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