Pitch

 

(Old guy points to a chair.)

 

Great to meet you.

I grew up watching Mice in the Walls and E People.

 

Oh, 34.

 

As in the Sim Christmas Carol,

heaters have to be led through a nightmare

that ends at a grave.

 

The Day After and Dr. Strangelove showed

there’s no safe haven.

 

Right. Okay.

 

Valued members of society

head underground for tennis

till the dust of our time settles.

Earth will be transformed when they emerge,

grey oceans packed with jellyfish.

Only the most vicious beings survive on land.

As storms erase nations

a kind of high life

may go on under bone gophers.

 

One problem and they’re working on it,

how should trained guards serve

the fortunate after the doors close?

Money’s wishful thinking.

 

The elect and their foremost representatives

shelter in the deep Foxhole,

a converted salt mine far

from rising sea levels and starving mobs.

Here the climate’s controlled,

a pleasant contrast to harrowing scenes

armored vehicles traversed.

The gore’s hosed off treads and Shuck’s thanking

a big security chief for his transportation.

 

The bray that stirred millions elicits a thin smile

from hired help who long ago figured out

how to extend a sanctuary’s supplies.

Chief glances at amused associates;

Auntie Em’s a tibia in Mayberry.

“Might get some use from your friend

but we’ll need those clothes.”

Now Shuck’s stumbling naked outdoors

and hears barks and howls. In two steps

they’re on him. As he falls, a labradoodle

snaps on his crotch and the jaws of a mastiff

close on his face. Chief blanks a screen.

 

In a few years even the stores of the Hole

are gone, though the number of mercenaries

has been reduced by madness

and fights over slaves. The hurricane season

abates to endurable heat

and a trek to Canada begins. “Sorry, darlin’...”

 

The warriors (as in Walter Hill’s classic)

know they’ll have to fight their way

through people worse than themselves.

Boundaries are marked with the scorched

and gnawed remains of the weak and foolish.

Our guys husbanded their strength 

and firepower and the first deranged dregs

they meet are weakened by hunger.

The second lived well on survivalists;

that firefight costs three but provides

more food and weapons. Eight Xanax.

 

On we go, past empty Amish barns

and skirting signs of Rot.

They spend the night at a ruined villa

and Chief looks at a dog cartoon

in a moldy New Yorker. Morning comes

and they’re surrounded by cult members,

Church of Christ Capitalist,

in loosened ties. The boys use up

almost all their ammunition

sending believers to the Dow. Two chewed.

 

Guns are clubs in the next encounter,

with a wave of blue nudes bounding

screaming down a stony slope.

“Had to Noem that one, didn’t you?”

Four left.

 

Trudge wasteland, too spent to gripe,

as The Butthole Surfers’ Pepper plays.

 

America’s a distant memory

and where are the Canadians?

Le Hot’s supplanted by Peine Forte.

As days pass and food dwindles,

the last ones begin to lose hope

of finding another shaft of plenty.

 

Figures rise from shadows

or sink behind dying vegetation.

Chief’s not given to long thoughts

but speculates that snow’s disappeared

from the world. His companions are gone

or has he simply wandered off?

Can’t get chanting from an old soundtrack

out of his head. Think of Toshiro Mifune.

 

Unmoving children stand before him. 

Their eyes are blank. Something’s flying through the air.

 

Pull back from a wracked planet with dust clouds and lightning.

Right out of Kubrick

comes the Tiangong Space Station.

Zoom in on two dried scientists at a window.

Hank Williams and the vastness of space.

 

On the Beach lost money

because it lacked zest.

 

Death Trek’s the working title. 

 

That’s been used?

We Are for You, Jerk.

 

Losira goes after Shatner.

 

Solar and wind.

 

It’s about fellowship.

They don’t have to be blue.