Anno Domini

The train was dark and empty. There were only two lights both were flashing on and off. The smell in the air was of rotten eggs, or maybe sulfur. Whatever it was it smelt like vomit and I could feel my stomach churn at the scent. The only other person on the empty boxcar was a passed out homeless man. He was sitting in the seat across from me, his dirty, worn out army jacket spread out on the floor between us. I couldn’t help but stare at him and examine every aspect of his lowly disposition. His mousy, greasy, brown hair begged to be dipped into a vat of shampoo, and the dirt on his face suggested equally appealing hygiene everywhere else. Hanging out of his calloused, grimy hands was a half empty fifth of Bourbon, and even though I couldn’t see it I knew there was a crack pipe somewhere on his person. The thought of it nauseated me further. I wanted to get up and move, but the effort of that would be unbearable. This wasn’t the kind of train where it was safe to move around on without being thrown about. It was old and rickety, but probably the most reliable transportation you could find. Since the terrorists attacks that occurred on the bridges and public bus systems most people took to riding the subways and trains. Honestly I think that riding the bus would be a lot safer because an attack has already happened there, and the terrorists were probably targeting the trains next. I don’t really care if they blow me up though it might just be a welcome thing. There’s been a lot of suffering in the world lately. A lot of sadness and pain, and most of use just sit by because what can we do? The state of things has reached the point where most of us just don’t know what to do. Shaking our fists at the sky doesn’t seem to yield much of a result anymore, so what next? The shittier part is that no one knows and even though everyone has questions there isn’t a soul who can answer. When I walk off this train and back out into the real world this homeless man is going to be one of hundreds that I pass on my way home…

… When, what some in my particular circle, consider the “Last War” started about 100 or some years ago the changes we saw were so rapid and immediate a lot of people couldn’t deal with the mutations. It wasn’t something a lot of people noticed, most were just too busy to realize that the things they were feeling wasn’t just a little spell of depression. But the changes were fascinating if you looked at them on a larger scale, at the whole big picture. The rate of suicide jumped to fifty percent in that first five years, the rate of mental illness same story, the rate of high school drop out, the rate of teenage pregnancy, the rate of drug and alcohol abuse…etc. The rate of immorality up a hundred percent. Perhaps the most striking of the changes is the jump in homosexuality, and my has it become acceptable in the past several years. If you hear the word “fag” you are supposed to cover your ears and runaway. America doesn’t use that word. America accepts gays. America is the number one leader in immorality. Don’t agree? Fuck you…

The conductor announces the stop over the crackly loudspeaker as he pulls into the station. Home sweet home. I stand up making sure to grab onto the handrail for support as the train lurches forward to a stop.
“Whe’ a’ we?” I hear a thick, gargly voice coming from behind me and realize that the old fucked up bum has woken up.
“Valencia stop.” I mutter without turning around.
“Is da shelder he’?”
“What?” I rotate and face the bum who has taken to sipping off his Bourbon again.
“Da shelder? Is it he’?”
“I don’t know what your saying.” The doors to the train open and I grab my bag off the seat.
“He’!” The bum calls after me as I walk off the train. “Tel’ me is da shelder he’? I just ignore him as he continues to yell. You can’t help them all, and even if you can help one you have to put yourself first, especially as a woman. You can’t trust anyone not even someone you may have considered a friend all your life. Truth is when anyone is down and out they will do anything. Anything. Many people make the mistakes of considering people their friend. They make the mistake of wanting to help, but they can’t. 2162 Anno Domino, this year, this age, nothing is safe, and incidentally, nothing is sacred.
Walking back out amongst the living I always make it a point to stop at this little rundown market and grab some food. The dairy never lasts for some reason, so if you want it you have to get it the day it arrives in the store. There is only one kind of bread and it is the beautifully inflated price of ten dollars a loaf. They have a large section of military provisions like MRE’s and such. A large section of canned and boxed goods, and a large selection of tobacco products and liquor. No fresh produce. I pick out my box of rolled oats and a half-gallon of also beautifully inflated milk. A pack of cigarettes.
“Hey Nia.” Julio walks behind the front counter as I set my purchases down.
“Julio, hi.”
“I’ve been needing to talk to you.” Julio throws the rolled oats, milk, and cigarettes into a bag.
“About what?”
“I heard you were going to be needing some people for a job.”
“No.”
“You don’t need anybody?”
“Not you.” I take out twenty five dollars from my wallet and lay it on the counter.
“I need the money.”
“Its too dangerous.”
“Can I at least come to a meeting?” The look in Julio’s eyes is pleading. I know he supports this cause. I know he wants to help.
“Okay. My house, tomorrow night, eight thirty.” I grab my bag of items stuff them in my back pack and walk out of the market.

My apartment is above an old bookstore that is no longer there. When the war came the owners took off and left me the keys to the store and everything in it. The bookstore is the only thing that means anything to me in this world. Every night I go down there and turn on the lights in the back office only so nobody will notice anything. I had Greg, the Assassin, board up all the windows with wood to keep bums out. This is where our PAG meetings our held. PAG meaning People Against God. Just to clear this up right away PAG is not a satanic cult. Being against God has nothing to do with siding with the devil. Although some may see it that way. We are against both parties. We are against all religious deities. All bullshit…no Gods ever showed up to help us when we needed it. Millions of people died and are still dying from disease, drought, starvation, storms, floods, landslides…etc. Our coalition is here to save people from making the mistake of leaving the fate of their life in God’s hands. We protest outside churches, malls, schools, bus stations, train stations, airports…anywhere we can get people to listen. All across the country there are PAG groups operating and growing stronger everyday. Soon there will be enough of us to form a little army. Along with our protesting we also run several side operations to fund our programs. Most of these side operations have the potential to make someone very profitable if they don’t get caught. Trafficking isn’t a joke.
Greg is known as the Assassin for some reason that none of us knows. He just introduced himself that way and it stuck. He lives with me in the apartment above the bookstore, and he spends most days studying the books and forming plans and ideas. He’s a genius when it comes to dissecting history.
“Nia, your back.” Greg’s accent is very proper it almost makes him sound English. I smile at the familiar scene of him sitting hunched over his workbench in the corner of the living room with his long brown hair falling into his eyes, and his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose.
“What did you do all day?”
“Studied. Read.”


“Ah. Sounds productive.” I pulled the bag of groceries from the market out of my bag and laid them on the kitchen counter. “Hey, do you know Julio from the market by the train station?”
“The Hispanic guy with the long hair?”
“Yeah. He’s coming to a meeting tomorrow.” Greg finally looked up from his table. He pulled his glasses on top of his head.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? We would have a lot of heat on us if anyone was to find out.”
“I know.” I walk back out into the living room and flop down in my overstuffed love seat. Greg is still staring at me. I can tell he doesn’t think this is a good idea.
“I’m just thinking about your safety.”
“I trust this kid. Plus, he isn’t going to be doing anything to extreme for a while. I’m just going to test him out see where his head is at then place him.”
“We are running a serious business here with no room for error—“
“This is Manuel’s brother. I trust that if nothing else.” Greg’s eyes grow softer. He remembers Manuel. We moved bricks of heroin like candy, but some rat caught the upwind scent of Manuel’s ring, and snitched him out to some narc’s that were pressing on him. That rat was exonerated. Manuel ended up doing hard time in state prison, but was caught up in a fight and killed shortly after entering. It was a sad loss because we aren’t a bunch of thugs running this business. We started as just some kids looking to score some cash, but shit went sour in the legal system quick and all the sudden lots of things became lawful. More people with power and money started to take over all of our small time business creating new types of drugs. Synthetic shit that fucks you up harder, but really fucks you up harder.
“Julio is a good guy.” I restated my case, but Greg quickly grew agitated again.
“What if Don Phillipe heard about this! What if he lost another kid because of us? I couldn’t live with that, could you?” His eyes were wide and intense. Greg had a point; I couldn’t really be the reason why Don Phillipe lost another son.
“So are you saying that you don’t want him doing this?” Greg sighs and shrugs turning away from me.
“I don’t want him doing this.” He says his tone more serious. I have no choice but to comply.
“Okay, I’ll tell Julio tomorrow, but at least just let him stay for the meeting. I don’t want him to feel like we are keeping him out. We just don’t want him doing any work.”
Greg nods his head, “I can agree with that.”
“Okay.”
Greg turns back to his work hunching over the bench again. I look around the apartment at the mess that he’s created with his books of the day. Although books cover the place, they line the walls, the hallways, the stairwell…everything. It gives the room an academic feel although the acts that have happened in here have been far from the world of academia.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask Greg as I slide off the couch and start walking towards the kitchen.
“Nothing. I’m going to see a friend in a little bit.”
I smile. “What friend?”
“Just an old friend.” Greg keeps his head turned, focused on his books.
“What friend Greg?” I ask him again. He faces me looking through the opening in the wall.
“Why are you so curious?”
“Please. You are going to risk going out at night to see somebody. I’m just a little curious about who is that important to you.” Greg keeps staring at me. His face is serious, but he’s really to strange looking to ever look serious. This makes me smile.
“It’s Gloria.”
My heart stops.



A few years ago I was running a scam with some friends outside what used to be Fresno. When the scam broke, and we felt like we had milked the cow for all it was worth without getting into serious trouble we all took off our separate ways. I was still married to Val at the time, and he wanted to go to Las Vegas. So with a suitcase full of money we headed to Vegas, and stayed at the Taj because Val had a major obsession with the late Donald Trump. He would stay up until the early morning, strung out on spin, watching old reruns of this reality television show the Apprentice.