So You Survived the End of the World
Contents
Title Page
Newsletter Sign Up Page
Dedication
Begin Reading
Craving More?
BTDubs…Who Wrote This Book Anyway?
Copyright
SO YOU SURVIVED
THE END OF THE WORLD
K.C. CORDELL
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Dedicated to my awesome family
who has been amazingly supportive.
To the friends and family
who read so much of my writing
(not all of it spectacular)
that came before this.
And to my nieces and nephews
who inspire me everyday.
Life after the end of the world ain’t so bad when you got the right music.
And that’s why Sebastian Yun queues up Queen.
“Next up on So You Survived the End of the World,” he says, knowing the mic in his data cuff captures every word, “a solid hour from one of my all-time favorite bands. ‘Cuz you done earned it, my loyal listeners. For making it one more day in this living hell we humbly call home. But first, what’s this?”
He sits a little straighter. Or as close to straight as he’s willing to get without sacrificing his deep slouch into the generous cushion of the large passenger seat. Not moving is his current life choice.
His insides are no longer attempting a coup as they had been when he dragged himself up this morning, and his head’s no longer pounding like the pissed off drummer of an especially aggro metal band. Still, not moving is pretty awesome.
“Doth my eyes deceive me,” he asks his listeners, rhetorically of course, “or do we have us a caller?”
The blinking notification on his round holo-interface doesn’t go away. It isn’t a trick of his eyes, and maybe not even a weird glitch.
“Well, ain’t that a treat?”
From day one, he’s had a standing policy to take every caller he gets. They’re too rare for him not to. Rare as in this is the very first time it has ever happened.
He has plenty of listeners out there. He knows that much from the welcome—good and bad—he receives every time he pulls up to a town in his distinctive ride.
But even as more and more people in the Midlands tune in, folks still tend to be a bit gun shy when it comes to the casual use of technology. Something about tech’s role in the fall of civilization rubs people the wrong way. So they listen, but actively transmitting a signal out is a bridge too far for most.
Sebastian flicks the flashing icon on his holo-interface, allowing the maybe-a-caller-maybe-a-glitch to join the live broadcast.
“Howdy do, listener?”
“H-hi, Sebastian,” says the actual caller and definitely not a glitch.
Sebastian is tempted to not only sit up straight, but to do a little happy dance. But then he remembers his whole not moving agenda. He settles for a wide grin instead.
“Got a name?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian waits.
Crickets.
“So this here’s a guessing game, eh?” Sebastian says. “Alrighty…Adam. Kenny. Bobby. Larry. Curly. Moe. We might be here a while, but I’m sure the listeners are riveted.”
“Oh, sorry. J-Johnny.”
“So, J-Johnny. Calling in to tell me what a kick-ass job I been doing? Or you got something you wanna share with all the fine people out there?”
“Well, I been thinking an awful lot.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Pardon?”
“I said, please, tell me what’s been keeping you up at night. You know, besides the fact that everything on this godforsaken planet is actively trying to exterminate the human race.”
Feet kicked up on the dashboard, Sebastian reclines in the second best seat that exists anywhere in this sad excuse for a world: the passenger chair he’d installed on Her Royal Majesty, his lovingly and painstakingly restored double decker tour bus.
Of course, the very best seat that exists anywhere in this sad excuse for a world is directly to the left of him. Nothing beats the view from behind the wheel of HRM as she devours the road. But when they’re parked and settled for a day or two, Sebastian likes to stretch out his legs while doing a show. So second best seat it is.
“Well—” J-Johnny says. “Um… I mean—uh…Sorry.”
“Take your time, J-Johnny. Putting yourself out there to a bunch of strangers takes balls.” Sebastian’s first broadcast had been fueled by what Meza would have called an unhealthy amount of liquid courage. Had she been around at that time. “Besides, what are the good listeners gonna do? Turn to the other only radio show out there?”
“All my life, I been a’wandering…”
“Yeees?”
“Why’d I have to come into the world after the fall of our greatest civilization? Why I gotta deal with savage hellions and bodysnatching sludgebrains and conniving flatliners?”
The warmth leeches from Sebastian. His stomach turns to stone.
It’s just a word.
Push it away.
“Why do we all bother fighting so hard to make it through each miserable day?”
“I hear you,” Sebastian says, thoughtful. “But counterargument. Why not?” He shrugs even though no one can see him.
“This is the worst time in history to be alive,” J-Johnny barrels over Sebastian’s contribution. The guy has finally found his nerve. Good for him. “Our grandparents’ grandparents didn’t know nothing about hunger, illness, violence. They lived in big ol’ cities that catered to their every whim. Our ancestors built utopia.”
The dusty town on the other side of HRM’s giant windshield is a far cry from the fabled cities of old. Talk about going back to square one. The shabby collection of structures behind an admittedly impressive, patchwork metal wall probably doesn’t hold enough people to be called a town. If anyone wanted to get technical about it.
Sebastian wonders if its tiny population made it a village. Technically speaking.
No. Too medieval.
Hamlet?
Definitely not. That made it sound entirely too cute.
J-Johnny is still talking.
And sobbing?
“…And it was your show—listening to you everyday done helped me realize all of this. Thank you, Sebastian Yun. Thank you. Because of you, I got purpose like I ain’t ever had before.”
“Right, right,” Sebastian mumbles. “I was totally listening the whole time. Didn’t miss a word. But for the folks out there who weren’t paying attention—shame on them—repeat that whole thing. Sorta from the beginning.”
“I—I said that I understand our purpose now. Because one day we’re gonna get back to what we had. We already started rebuilding civilization. I mean, a little. So it’s only a matter of time before we get utopia back. I probably won’t ever see it, but I can keep fighting. Not for me. For the future.”
Sebastian unmutes his mic, which he’d had to silence when he failed to stifle a great big yawn. “Well, this is awkward.”
“What?”
“I get the feeling you’re waiting for me to co-sign, but that just ain’t gonna happen. My apologies.”
“But…ain’t that why you broadcast your show? To remind us all that we were once great and can be again?”
“Not even kinda.”
“But…But...”
“I sense your brain is having a h
ard time with this, J-Johnny, so let me explain the world to you as it actually is. Might be hard to hear, but it’ll save you a whole bunch of heartache in the long run. You might wanna grab something to write with. You got something to write with, J-Johnny?”
“Um…”
“Here it is. The super important conclusion I’ve come to about our place in all of this. You ready?”
“Uh…”
“That whole perfect civilization thing, it was a blip in the way things always have been and will be for us humans. You got more in common with most of mankind throughout history than those pampered utopians ever did. We weren’t meant to live perfect, easy lives. That’s all there is to it. And if we lie down and give up, wouldn’t it be a big slap in the face to all the generations that came before us and survived their versions of hell on Earth so that we’d have a chance to do the same?”
“Then why you broadcast your music everyday?”
Sebastian shrugs to no one again. “I like music.”
“But—But that ain’t enough.”
“Ain’t enough? That’s everything. That is the most stupendous nugget of insight you could ever hope to receive. Feel free to pour on the gratitude.”
J-Johnny’s silence does not feel like the grateful type.
“Heavy sigh. Let’s make us a deal, J-Johnny. How about we stop dwelling on what once was and live for today? Why not steal bits of happiness where we can, you know? Find joy in the little things. Because, yeah, most of us will probably suffer horrible, bloody, untimely deaths, but does that mean we can’t live it up in the meanwhile?”
“I guess not.”
“Darn tootin.’ And listen, J-Johnny. In about two seconds, I’m giving you a solid hour of Queen. One of the greatest rock bands to ever grace this planet. Then tomorrow, on top of my Anything Goes block and the Most Requested hour, you gonna get a bangin’ block from Rick the Ruler himself. That’s right. Slick freakin’ Rick. Then the day after that, we’ll see what happens. Maybe we’ll take a deep dive into the Best of Bollywood. And I know Kumar Sanu singing Chand Sitare hits you in the feels just like it does me. Does it not?”
“It does.”
“If that ain’t worth surviving another day for, I don’t know what is.”
“Building a brighter future for the next generation?”
“Pssh! Let’s focus on things that can actually happen. Like you tuning in tomorrow. You gonna tune in tomorrow, J-Johnny?”
“I guess.”
“You guess? I reckon you don’t quite comprehend how many hours I put into curating these here playlists. All so that your ears are treated only to the best of the best of all the music in all of existence. Here’s a hint. A hell of a lot. So I’m gonna ask you again. Are you tuning in tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t hear that. Are you tuning in tomorrow?”
“Yes!”
“And the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes!”
“And what about the day after that?”
“I’ll be listening, Sebastian.”
“Damn right, you will. Now. Any shout-outs?”
“What is a shout-out?”
Sebastian is used to people having no idea what he’s talking about, but he sighs anyway. It isn’t easy being born in the entirely wrong century.
“By the way,” he says to his unseen audience after disconnecting with J-Johnny, “those cities turned against humanity in the end, so they couldn’t have been all that great. Those uptopians did know how to build a lasting infrastructure, though. I guess you oughta thank them for access to the data streams, otherwise your lives woulda been devoid of this gem… ”
He flicks an icon and the snippet of an Old World song plays. A high feminine voice sings that she’s a doll while a deep male voice invites her to party.
“Barbie Girl” stays queued up on Sebastian’s sound clips. Because he knows what the people need.
“And speaking of reasons to live,” he says after the seconds-long clip ends, “if you’re near the charming…town of Hope today, be sure to swing by and check out my Itty-Bitty Carnaval de Mécanique Curios, a limited time attraction set up just for you, by me. You’re welcome very much. Which charming town of Hope, you ask? Good question. Not like every place out here didn’t decide to call itself ‘Hope’. It seems people think that if they keep using the name, more of it will magically appear.”
Sebastian taps the door at his side, prompting it to slide open.
“Meza!” he calls out, placing a hand over his data cuff to block the mic. “Hey, Meza!”
“What?” her muffled shout comes from somewhere outside Her Royal Majesty.
“Which charming town of Hope is this again?”
“What?”
“Where. Are. We?” Sebastian hollers, even louder.
“What?” She sounds irritated. But what’s new?
“Never mind!” Lowering his voice, he addresses his audience again. “I’ll hafta get back to you about our exact location, fellow post-apocalyptizens. Or just look for Her Royal Majesty. Can’t miss us. Now, here’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’. But try telling that to a hellion. Ha.”
Before dismissing the holo-interface, Sebastian turns off his mic and starts the Queen playlist he’d put together last night. It really had taken him hours to decide which songs to include and which to leave out. Not an easy task by any measure.
Clambering out of HRM through the front door takes a bit of skillful maneuvering, especially with an NX-84 Waster holstered at the hip, and a literal leap of faith every time.
The former band tour bus hadn’t included a passenger seat for a reason, as Meza had pointed out when he’d giddily installed it. And putting in the tall seat had taken up the space of what should have been an unimpeded entrance to HRM. But whatever, they make it work.
“Hey, Meza!” After leaping out of the bus, Sebastian secures his second weapon across his back. An 18-inch FT-K Devastator he christened “Captain”. “What do you call a place too small to be considered a town, but too not-cute to be called a hamlet?”
“That what you were bugging me about?”
Sebastian digs a data ring out of his pockets. It’s small, and limited compared to capabilities of a data cuff, but it’s pre-configured to receive his broadcast. He flicks on the device and is rewarded with the reinvigorating sounds of Queen. Setting the ring on a nearby tablet, he meanders in the direction of Meza’s voice.
An enormous, roll out awning extends from the double-decker bus, casting a generous pool of shade. Though the air’s so hot and dry it barely makes a difference.
There’s no good weather anymore. Not in the vast majority of the Midlands, at least. Sebastian has watched Old World shows and movies that take place during spring and autumn, but they only get two seasons in these parts. If Sebastian’s skin isn’t tanned and rough from too much sun and dust, it—at least for a brief period of the year—is red and rough from too much cold and sleet.
Laid out across several small tables in the shade, the Itty-Bitty Carnaval de Mécanique Curios is a roaring success. Only a few townspeople—hamletspeople? Nope, doesn’t sound right the moment Sebastian thinks it—mill about in the shade. It’s mostly kids. But considering how everyone here is in constant “work is survival, survival is work” mode, this tiny crowd in the middle of the day has exceeded his expectations.
The children of Hope laugh and point at the tiny, ancient mechanical animals that make up Sebastian’s Carnaval. Each critter whirs with motion on its own little, light up platform.
A seal bobs up and down with a ball balanced on its nose. An elephant rises up on its hind legs, falls back to all fours, then rises up again. A dog chases its own tail in an endless circle. There are twenty-two in total. Each one a unique, handcrafted masterpiece no bigger than a toddler’s fist, created back when people wasted time and talent on useless things.
Sebastian hits pause on his search for Meza when a small troop of young ladies venture through
the big, open gates of the town—that’s so the wrong word for this place. He strolls away from the small collection of tables to meet them.
As he approaches, he oh-so-casually rakes a hand through dark hair overdue for a haircut. It’s a gesture that draws attention to what, in his humble opinion, are biceps worthy of a little attention. He may or may not have spent some time posing in front of his reflection to confirm this.
“Well, hello there, Jo, Winona, Hope, Hope, and Hope. Ain’t you all the prettiest girls I ever did see.”
With an eye roll, Meza is usually quick to point out that he says every girl he meets is the prettiest he’s ever seen. But this time it really is true. Or maybe the girls of the world are getting prettier. Has Meza thought of that? Who are they to say it isn’t happening? Neither of them are scientists.
“Hi, Bazzy,” the girls chorus sweetly, all coy smiles and glances through eyelashes. Or at least, mostly all.
Blonde, a little thick, and impassive, Hope #3 meets Sebastian’s gaze. “You used that line yesterday.”
His grin widens. “Don’t make it any less true.”
He’d crossed paths with her several times in the previous day. With the population behind those walls so minuscule, how could he not? During each encounter, regardless of what was happening around her, she’d worn the same inscrutable expression that she wears now.
Alas, what is it about unsmiling girls that causes his heart to pitter-patter so?
With a grand wave, he pivots back toward the Carnaval. “Step right on up. Feast your eyes on mechanical whimsy and genius the likes of which you have never before seen.”
“Hm.” Hope #3 spares the curios a cursory glance.
“Lemme guess,” Sebastian says. “This ain’t stirring much excitement in you, Miss Hope.”
“Nothing personal. Ain’t much that impresses me.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
Her eyes travel languidly down the length of him and back up again. Aloof as ever, she arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is.”