The Crest

Thousands of campfires scintillated in the darkness. Seen from high above, the bivouacs stretched through an arc of towns east of the Crest—with names like Madras, Antelope, Condon, Arlington. Within that anthracitic wasteland, the Antisis found elements of the wilderness of old, at least in their minds. No, these were not the scenes of wildland beauty that made a man cry. These insurgents embraced solitude, long silhouettes and intricate shadows, emptiness like the vacuum of space; desolation like the signs of the rapture.

The enemy turned on their AM radio. They waited for a message to begin the crusade westward — to initiate the quest to take down the Crest, that mythical fortress on the hill. They wanted the antichrist enclave and its den of the science heathens. The clusters of Antisis sat huddled around their fires, waiting, plotting, thinking of plunder, contemplating the soft flesh of a woman. The garments of the fighters were darkened with soot from weeks of marching through the burnt timberlands. Similarly, the dried-up streams made bathing impossible. They wore red head scarves with a black rose symbol emblazoned on the front. A black rose, the symbol of the anarchists.

These revolutionaries could have been 4th century Germanic tribes staring down at the Roman empire — improbably names like the Visigoths, the Vandals, the Ostrogoths. Or they could have been crusaders sent to recover the Holy Land. Barbarism then, or bloodlust now, the savagery remained the same, and as always, a curse upon the meek.

In one encampment, the ragged fighters possessed a sack of dead birds, mostly crows, a few scrub jays, and the occasional robin. They’d caught the birds by snares and nets and now roasted the birds on a stick, their usual fare in a landscape that yielded little nourishment. Theirs was a choreography of scorched trees, mile after mile in a canvas of black longing for a piece of greenery. After they plucked the feathers, now the small birds resembled a miniscule naked body, devoid of dignity, practically without meat.

“Those science bastards won’t know what hit ’em.” A fur-capped man grinned, rubbing his hands near the fire.

“I heard they have a wall on the Cascade Crest,” said another with a scar running longitudinally across his cheek.

His eyes darted around the fire wildly and into the darkness.

“Manned by kids. They’ll run when they see us,” Fur-cap said, poking the fire.

“I hear they have females,” Scarface noted, with a smile, and a tone of lust in his voice.

“I expect they’ll move their women folk away from the fighting.”

“Either way, we’ll track ’em down. What are they growing inside those walls, anyway?”

“Zombie trees, my friend.”

“What kinds of trees?”

Fur-cap paused; his lips tightened. He’d grown tired of the morons in his midst. “Mutants, man. Trees capable of nighttime strangulation, light absorption, dark waves that can paralyze a man, lunar blocking, and the worst of dark magic.”

“I say burn ’em down.”

“That we will. We’re God-fearing Christians, our ancestors built this land. Took the wilderness and made something of it, created civilization. I’ll be damned if I’ll have zombie trees being planted out on the land,” Fur-cap reflected sorely.

“Zombie trees, like the real zombies?” Scarface asked.

“It’s a manner of expression, but mark my words, those trees are the devil’s work.”

“We had real pleasant homes until everything dried up. What happened?” another anarchist with a long beard asked.

“Science happened. Experiments with mother nature gone wrong. Messing around with God’s creation.”

“What happened to the jobs?” Long beard asked.

“Science, my friend, science enslaved us into haves and the have-nots. A system of slavery, man’s always done that to each other. And remember the Crusades back in the Dark Ages. They recaptured the Holy Land. Our divine mission is destroying these science bordellos and the corporations. Only then will we have freedom, boys, true freedom, free from the vassalage of science.”

“Amen, brother,” came the replies.

“I sure as hell hope our divine mission gets us some new grub. Jesus, I am sick of eating puny birds,” Scarface exclaimed.

“Suck it up, son. Remember what you’re fighting for,” Fur-cap said with irritation.

“I know what I’m fighting for, I’m fighting for some grub and pussy and that’s a fact.” Scarface’s yellow teeth shone in the firelight.

Fur-cap said, “You better be fighting for the right reasons, young man and that’s a fact.”

“I know why I’m fighting, and I don’t need your preaching either. Tired of this fucking crow.”

Fur-cap looked at the other man with steely eyes. “What did you fucking say, son?”

“I’m just saying, crow is what we always eat. I can’t take it anymore,” Scarface said.

“You’ll eat what we hunt,” Fur-cap exclaimed loudly; his face flushed. Pointing his finger.

“What the fuck man. Can’t we have a few potatoes now and then.” Scarface grew irritated.

“You’ll eat what we can catch, and stop your complaining?” Fur-cap raised his voice, now clearly irritated.

“Screw you, man. We can do better than skinny birds every day.”

Fur-cap stood up and pulled out a large bowie knife. The rest of the people sitting around the campfire moved back a few steps.

“You want to take this to the next level, boy. I’m tired of your punk-ass lip.”

Scarface jumped to his feet and pulled out his long knife and held it out. “Bring it on on bitch, I’m ready.”

The two men were at it, cavorting around the campfire, jabbing at each other in and out of the flames while the others watched, amused, wondering if this display would end in bloodshed.

Amidst the dancing shadows of the campfire, the two men fought each other with knives flickering, pointed ahead, the other hand moving as a counterbalance to the knife thrusts.

Scarface drew blood first by slashing the arm of Fur-cap. Fur-cap looked at his bleeding arm and grew angry. He positioned himself in a wide stance and threw his Bowie knife at Scarface, impaling the man near his heart. The razor-sharp Bowie knife entered six inches into the man’s chest. Scarface paused a minute, his eyes widened in disbelief, and then he collapsed. After another minute, Scarface was dead.

Fur-cap paused, catching his breath and then he pulled his knife out of the dead man’s chest and wiped it on the ground before pushing back into its sheath.

“I guess he won’t be complaining about eating crow anymore.”

The other men looked alarmingly at the body of Scarface. Just then, the Commander’s voice burst on the radio.

“Soon, we will be upon the Crest, and we will show no mercy to the teenagers guarding that fortress. We are nearing the end of our mission. Soon, the spoils of the Greater Portland Enclave will be yours. In the meantime, you must maintain your strength. Nature’s bounty is everywhere. Use your cunning to hunt the abundant game like deer, elk, grouse, and rabbits.”

The Commander finished his broadcast. The men stared at each other and returned to plucking their birds.