A Fortress of Pebbles

On the same day that Orion grew a small orchard on the eastern outskirts of Johnson Village, the cable news networks died. No warning or fanfare – there one minute, replaced by military news the next. When the changeover happened, everyone was sitting around the television eating apples and pears that he had grown. Keely was practically crying with joy at how good it tasted, and the Parrot King was practically dying from jealousy. But then, the town marshall said: “Everyone shut up.”

On the television screen, a woman in uniform was reading from a paper. Russia and China’s opportunistic operations in the Pacific were being swiftly dealt with. Major cities in North America were being secured, and the demon infestation in New York had already been reduced by fifty percent. A chemical compound to reduce the mutagenic bee population had been fortuitously discovered. All the invasive phenomena were scheduled for extermination by the end of the week. To everyone watching: shelter in place; help is on its way.

All of this, the woman said, had been possible due to a “new ally.” Footage of an island in the distance began to play. An unmistakable spire surrounded by a massive wall sat amidst endless waves. The footage was grainy and shaky, as if the camera had been far away. Orion tried to meet Dad’s eyes, but he was transfixed by the tiny Fortress inside the television screen.

When Orion looked back, the military woman was gone, replaced by a recorded message. A new woman began her solemn speech with the words, “Citizens of Earth, there are many who wish to end your world, but I am with those who wish to save it…”

“Nessassa,” said fake-Cassandra. “She must have docked the Fortress on Earth.”

“Pandora’s box has been opened,” said Nessassa. She had a rhythm speaking that was poetic and captivating – each word delivered with the seriousness of a doctor giving a diagnosis, but boiling with the passion of a coach in one of Dad’s movies about the underdogs. “There is no denying that creatures of darkness and decay have been unleashed upon this world.” A pause – like she was looking from the television into your soul. She went on to say things about fear and unity, about ends being new beginnings, about–

“Turn it off,” said Dad.

No one moved. Orion saw what no one else did – the imperceptible shift of his hand toward one of his guns. Before a bullet could punch through the television and ruin it, Orion scrambled to the plug and pulled it from the wall.

Dad nodded to Mom, who disappeared momentarily into the hallway and returned with a book that Orion recognized. Putting on her reading glasses, she flipped to a page near the end. People in the room murmured, but Dad shut them up by clearing his throat.

“The Fortress,” said Mom, “will return to its island amidst the waves, bringing lies that inspire hope. When this happens, prepare yourselves, and listen carefully – for the hoofbeats of the next horseman are already approaching.”

One of Keely’s parents inquired about the book, asking if it was “some kind of Bible.”

“Something like that,” muttered Dad.

Mom showed everyone the ancient gilded letters on the cover and said, “Cody’s father wrote it. He was a prophet – and I don’t use that word lightly.” She said it with such reverence that no one objected, not even Dad. For reasons Orion had never quite understood, she’d always been the one who got along with Grandpa, always seeming to “get” each other.

“But what does it mean?” said someone on the house-building team. “The hoofbeats of the next horseman?”

“We… all of us here in Johnson City…” said Mom, searching for the right words. “We’re at the epicenter of… everything. The whole apocalypse.” She glanced out the living room window, where hundreds of dragons of bone and trash were taking to the skies. They didn’t usually fly, and certainly not all at once. “The only reason we’ve been largely ignored is that the Horseman of Fear has been sewing fear elsewhere. No one cares about us yet except the military and a few scientists…”

But almost as if to contradict her point, the rumble of a jet could be heard flying lower than usual above the house. Actually, it sounded like more than one. Like a whole fleet of jets. Orion glanced at fake-Cassandra, who was looking out the window, mouth open. All he could see from where he sat was a light snow.

“But that island on the news – those so-called ‘allies’…” said Mom. “They know that this is a special place. A sacred one.” She flipped to a page where one of her many bookmarks protruded. “In the darkest hours, take heart – for your small home is the seed from which the new world will grow. I will protect you with all my heart, even from beyond the veil of death.”

Her eyes were misty, and Orion was willing to bet that she’d read aloud a note scrawled in the margins – a piece of Grandpa’s parting wisdom.

“In other words,” said Dad, “they’ll be coming for us soon.”

“But everything will be fine!” insisted Mom, as people began to shift uneasily. Just then, however, a shout came from outside, where some members of the gardening team were still harvesting pears. Some people ran to the windows, others to the door. Orion found himself carried along, deposited into his own front yard.

He followed someone’s finger and saw that the sky was full of trash, and most of it was on fire. It was hard to tell what was happening – except that hundreds of dragons, like schools of fish, were flowing through a great many smaller objects, incinerating them on the way down. Someone nearby said, “Holy shit, they’re fucking bombing us.”

But no – the objects appeared to be boxes on parachutes, not bombs. When they caught fire, they detonated like lame fireworks, releasing a rain of paper slips. Most of these ignited too, turning the light snow and mist into a rain of fire and smoke. Orion shivered as embers fell around him.

A single slip of paper drifted by, and he caught it. Although it was scorched and his hands were shaking, he could read it: Citizens, go to the refugee camp at the coordinates below. NOW. All invasive phenomena are scheduled for immediate extermination.

He read it twice. Then, just as he was handing it to Keely, Dad snatched it out of his hand. Orion had never seen his father’s face go white, nor had he heard him stutter or mumble. What came out of his mouth was almost inaudible over the roar of the jets and dragons overhead. “Get in the bunker,” is what it sounded like.

Orion blinked and looked at fake-Cassandra, who nodded gravely.

A moment later, Dad found his diaphragm again and bellowed, “GET IN THE DAMN BUNKER!” at the thirty two citizens of Johnson Village.

Once again, Orion found himself carried along by a flow of people – back into the house and down the stairs into a bunker barely big enough to hold them all.

Here, the citizens of Johnson Village stood. There wasn’t room for much else. Together, they inhaled the smell of dust, sweat, and smoke. Together, they listened to the strange music of Armageddon, a thudding bass that shook the walls and the terrifying melody of cracking concrete.