Free American Apocalypse by Nova Page B

Jackson was hopefully sleeping. At this point I didn’t care if he was there or not: I would find him eventually. I lifted the saber, pushed the point through the plastic, and let the weight of the blade and gravity pull it down, slicing through the tarp. I used the tip to push aside the plastic and took a look inside.
    Nice! My two old friends from my previous visit were stretched out and asleep, sharing the same blanket and a special love, no doubt. Both slept with their mouths open—one to snore and the other to inhale the snores. The smell was decidedly ripe inside the tent as I stepped through the rip. I wondered how it would feel to me this time. I decided to take the older one first, as he wasn’t snoring. I slid the point of the blade inside his open mouth with just a bit of angle to it. His eyes snapped open as the tip grazed the inside of his mouth. Then I leaned on the blade and punched it through the back of his head where it joined his neck. He gurgled and twitched as I withdrew the blade. Unfortunately, he was loud enough to disturb his soul mate, who was quick. The second guy went from snoring to trying to grab the blade with all his strength as I centered it on his face.
    It’s been repeatedly proven throughout history that grabbing a razor-sharp, carbon steel blade with your bare hand is a mistake. This time was no different. Four of his fingers left his hand when I thrust. I could feel the bones almost popping as they came off. One finger dropped into his open mouth, smothering an unvoiced scream. While he choked on what I believe was his index finger, my thrust cut his throat.

    Well, that was two. I felt really great. There were no flashing strobes, like when I had done the Fat Man. I felt happy and peaceful—relaxed, like I was swimming in warm water. I stepped back through the hole in the side of the tent and paused, listening for any disturbance in the force. That is exactly what I thought to myself, too.
    I slipped the blade into the next wall of plastic and slid it down. Once again, I flicked the tarp aside enough to view the inside: an empty sleeping bag and an equally empty bottle. I guess the boys had not been going out together long enough to move in with each other. I stepped back out and began moving toward Jackson’s tent. This was going to be a little trickier. His tent, being the executive model, had plywood sides. I thought about it for a second or two and decided What the hell .
    I stood off at an angle from what I figured was his front door.
    Then I knocked. Nothing. So I did it again but louder. I was rewarded by a roar of “Who the fuck is that?” followed by the sound of a loud, ripping fart.
    I didn’t say anything. My guess is, the smell of that long, ripping, cheesy fart made him stick his head out the door—and he immediately lost it. I swung that saber like a bat, putting my hips into it. His head actually bounced—very cool, especially as it landed eyes up. I wished I hadn’t worn the mask. I would have liked for him to have seen my face. I looked cautiously into the tent. The girl was gone—just as well. That might have been awkward.
    Using the saber and my hands, I dug a shallow hole in the bushes near my bike and then wiped the hilt with my shirt to make sure no prints were on it. I had already
wiped the blood off the blade on Jackson’s shirt. I put the sword into its sheath in the gym bag and then buried the saber in its grave before I picked up my bicycle.
    I kicked myself for not remembering to bring a plastic bag with me so I could have sealed it against moisture. I was going to have to hope for the best. With luck, I could come back and dig it up. I rode back to my room picturing an archeologist digging it up someday and getting excited because he imagined it coming from a bloody Civil War skirmish. I returned without incident, rolled the bike into my room, and took a hot shower. Afterward, I quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning I woke