A Most Courteous Apocalypse
A new era was dawning. The Fallow Lands stretched wide, past the distant horizon and the Bleakness darkened the sky. In all of the cities and villages and townships and burgs, tall figures appeared. They swept through the streets on black shiny boots with legs like stilts. Their skinny bodies were covered in long, starched black coats and they wore top hats on their heads. Leather masks made to look like crows and ibises and other, more fantastical birds covered their faces, all with long beaks and shiny, blood red goggle eyes that twinkled and sparked as they nodded and inspected and hissed and crackled to one another from some hidden microphone tucked away inside their masks. Over their shoulders they carried scuffed leather messenger bags with shiny silver buckles. People all craned their necks out of various windows and doorways to watch the strangers march through their streets and thoroughfares and byways and lanes and town centers and parks. People listened to the buzzing of their microphones and the click of their heels on pavements and cobblestones. People looked out curiously as the strangers stopped at various doorways and public monuments and utility poles. The strangers undid the shiny silver buckles on their messenger bags and took paint brushes and pots of glue out. They swabbed little squares of pale, sticky glue over which they placed brown, thick paper handbills with black scrollwork borders printed in the language of the lands in which they traveled. This is what the handbills said: O-------------------------------------------------------------------------O Attention: This sad, tired world is finally breathing its last gasps Soon: Bleak sky and fallow earth will swallow up the civilizations you have worked so long to build. There is Hope! A panel of judges has been appointed to select candidates to pass on into the next, fresh world. This world is new minted, green and will soon be ready to be inhabited by people and societies. To Apply: Follow the Plague Doctors as they finish their last rounds! Warning: The selection process is very strict and only the best need apply No Drug Users, Asthmatics, Bad Eyes or Nail biters! -Transworld Committee O----------------------------------------------------------------------------O Many people simply viewed the handbills as an oddity and continued about their lives but soon the strange people with masks like birds (who people assumed correctly to be the Plague Doctors) were followed by a a few curious souls hoping for a crack at that fresh new world. Followers attract followers and in no time at all there was a long, shuffling throng snaking away behind the traveling doctors. Whole villages and towns were abandoned in their wake, and the snake transformed into an undulating sea of people all looking at one another suspiciously. In each of the converging mobs it happened the same way. Small acts of vandalism began to appear in their path: The handbills were all torn down, food and clothing disappeared. People were beaten and shooed off when they tried to follow along behind the crowds. Even still, more followed behind; not knowing where they were headed but knowing instinctively that their world was ill and knowing also that wherever this many people were headed had to be somewhere important. The tide only ballooned even further until a vast crowded ocean swept along behind each little group of Doctors. Soon, the criminal acts were more noticeable: bodies began to litter the streets like the slimy trail of some vast bloated slug. Stores and homes were broken into. There were riots and fights. Local authorities tried to turn away the mobs but all of them were far too huge to stop. Still, people were arrested and detained, chunks of mob were severed and left behind. So it was that the first culling, the first selection process happened without any input from the specialist judges. Soon, there were no towns or villages or burgs or cities. Millions of feet shuffled over cracked, dusty hardpack. Heavy clouds muted the sun, casting everything in a dirty orange pall. The days were hot, and the nights were cold and still a trail of bodies laid down the path taken by the little groups of Doctors. The various crowds began to merge as the Doctors converged on one another. Everyone was tired and footsore and hungry, and now the trail of dead was littered just as much with those who simply could not continue as with those who were removed by competition. Longer still, and the murderers no longer had the strength to slit the throats of sleeping victims. Days and nights slid across the bleak lands like thieves, silent and unnoticed. People turned away, but many would not make it home again. The Doctors maintained a slow, steady pace but they never slept, never tired. They did not speak to those who followed and many suspected that they were leading everyone into a trap. More cullings, more people turning back, until with a shout those at the front spotted a clear and sunny sky. In a few brief days, the crowd, close to one billion people in size, reached a high brick wall and stood blinking in the rays of a warm, bright sun. There was a feeling of hope, of joyous rapture, and those who had frequently considered murdering one another now hugged and kissed and felt that all of the suffering they had endured would soon come to an end. The red brick wall was fifty feet high, with curved metal blades mounted along its top to keep people from climbing over. It was pierced every hundred feet by a shiny bronze grillwork gate, and though it could be seen neatly trimmed hedges and little flowerbeds. Little white stone paths moved among the trimmed grass, but the high hedges made seeing too far inside to be impossible. Birdsong and the quiet burbling of fountains could be heard, as well as the quiet rustling of the leaves in the breeze. Now, the first real culling began. After a few weeks of taking blood and swabbing cheeks and inspecting tongues and teeth and fingernails, the Doctors finally allowed someone inside. Immediately, there were riots as the mob surged against the little gates with their Plague Doctor vanguards, but the struggle was worthless. The skinny creatures with their black coats and bird faces were inhumanly strong and those that struggled against them fell dead at their touch, covered in sores and weeping wounds. There were more attempts whenever someone else would be ushered through the gates, but none of them succeeded. Eventually, a mere hundred people were ushered inside. The gates closed forever, and the horde was forgotten and left to starve. The hundred people were brought through a maze of hedges and fountains to a large central greensward. There was a brick pool in the center, overgrown with lily pads and duckweed, that sloshed as if some large creature moved beneath the surface. Birds could be heard in the manicured, cottonswab trees and the weather was always warm and pleasant. One whole side was a solid wall of hedge pierced by a small wooden door. A card table with a plastic flower print tablecloth was set behind the pool, and behind that were four metal folding chairs. Across the greensward, on the side where the hundred people were brought through the hedge maze, huge red and gold tents had been erected. Into these the chosen were ushered. Huge, clattering brass spiders hunched in the dark corners of the tents, filling their space with slender metal legs and shining, gemstone eyes and puffs of steam and clicking gears. They explained that each of the chosen would appear before a panel of selected judges tomorrow. The spiders were Weavers, and could produce any clothing or jewelry the chosen desired. Their choices and ability to model said clothing would reflect their poise, spacial sense, and creativity. If the chosen were intimidated or confused, they quickly quashed these feelings and got to work perfecting their outfits. In the morning, everyone was brought out into the crisp, fresh air as the rays of the sun gradually crested behind the further hedge wall. Dew twinkled on the neat, trimmed grass and the slurping ripples of the pond were almost soothing. The chosen hundred were all nervous or tired and most of them both, but they posed with their nice, clean nails and straight white smiles pinned to their faces, taking in an expectant breath as the little wooden door opened. First through was Fear of Shadows, one of the cleverer and more dignified of concepts. He looked like a tall, vague figure in a loose black robe, but both figure and robe were the same jet black material. Wisps of shadow constantly trailed from his body, and the only distinguishing features were four glowing yellow eyes. He took his seat behind the cardboard placard bearing his name, trying to get the feet on his chair to be even as the door opened a second time. The next judge was Mr. Falsehood. He wore a fancy pinstripe suit with a wide paisley tie and appeared to everyone in form as an identical simulacrum of the opposite gender. His skin was bright neon yellow, as were his tie, the stripes on his suit and the triangle of handkerchief peeking out the top of his pocket. Everything else on him was jet black, including his featureless eyes, slicked back hair and straight, square teeth. He smiled and waved as he entered, and slouched in his chair until only the two back feet were touching the ground. Queen of Salt sauntered though next, pale, gritty and white. Her stiff gowns rustled as she walked and her thin, slender crown caught the morning light and sparkled. Her features were asymmetrical and smooth from erosion, and the gritty blue marbles that she had for eyes rolled this way and that in her head. As she moved with slow, dignified steps a glittering rain of white dust dribbled from her joints, the carved curls of her hair, and the folds of her dress. Everyone stood fidgeting, waiting for the door to open again. Fear of Shadows's chair squeaked as he kept trying to line it up just perfectly. Mr. Falsehood propped his feet up on the table, the spats and laces of his shoes bright yellow on black. Queen of Salt yawned and slowly waved a delicate crystal fan, depositing a little pile of salt on the table in front of her. The people in the front could see that the last cardboard placard had "Lady of Thorns" printed on it in marker. People's curls were coming undone. Some people were sweating. Smiles were becoming more strained as they were held in place. The sun was getting further up, and hotter. The pond sort of stank. Finally, the door was thrust open, and someone was pushed through before it closed again with a slam. The Lady of Thorns was naked from the waist up. Her skin was gray and pockmarked and her hair was greasy and brown. Below the waist was a mass of thorny vines, thick as a man's wrist and so green they were almost black. The spines were as wide as child's hand and shaped like sharks' teeth with long, red points. Thinner vines curled up and around her torso and arms, making a sort of living cage around her. Her bottom half moved with slow, sluglike undulations and as they watched her upper half shifted from human, to a mangy, jackal-like body, to a mussed, dirty crow, then back again to human. Only her eyes, yellow where they should be white, diseased and cataracted, stayed the same. She slumped over her seat to the sound of squealing metal, and almost instantly little vines snaked their way across her portion of the vinyl tablecloth as she leaned forward on her elbows. Fear of Shadows cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. He explained just how important and serious the proceedings were, and how lucky everyone was to be there. Each of them would be judged on a scale of one to ten, with the best fifty being retained for the next round. Everyone else would be exiled to the Blighted Lands. Mr. Falsehood stretched and yawned dramatically. Queen of Salt tittered at him behind her fan. The Lady of Thorns just stared forward, a few black, downy feathers getting caught in her thorns. All of the chosen twinkled and sparkled and strutted and posed. They wore spun silver, or emerald sequins, or even plain, white muslin cloth. Designs swirled across fabrics and out into the air behind them. The long spires of scepters, swords, diadems, earrings and eye patches twinkled in the sun. Fear of Shadows carefully considered each contestant before displaying his score. Mr. Falsehood winked and made catcalls at the women. If they winked back he gave them tens. He gave all the men ones. He joked with Queen of Salt behind her fan, and they laughed and high-fived in a cloud of glittering dust when a man would weep and the pair of ones they showed. Lady of Thorns gave everyone a five. The final scores were tallied, and the doctors appeared once again to escort the losers away. Many of the contestants bitterly protested as they were drug out of the clearing. Fear of Shadows fidgeted and wrung his hands, glancing sideways down the table in distress. He would protest and say that he, at least, was trying to take things seriously, but everyone got an equal vote after all. Mr. Falsehood just laughed, his hands on his stomach and his black tongue hanging out. Salt Queen laughed too, when Mr. Falsehood did, and kept glancing sideways at him to see when it was okay to stop. Lady of Thorns just sighed and rolled her eyes, picking between her crooked, yellow jackal teeth with a chipped, black claw. That night in their tents, the Weavers told the remaining chosen that they would receive the Weavers' venom and be able to change their shapes however they desired. The Weavers assured everyone that even though things seemed chaotic, this is how things were done and to try their hardest. Those who were still awake planning later that night heard the little door open and someone gingerly stepping across the grass. The next day, the judges were already sitting at their table before anyone was brought out. Fear of Shadows cautioned everyone to be a little more fair and really try to take this whole thing more seriously. One of Mr. Falsehood's hands appeared to be stuffed up Queen of Salt's petticoats, and her slender, gritty arm appeared to be hidden inside of his trousers. Lady of Thorns just sighed and rolled her eyes, flicking a bug off the end of her beak with a scaly, taloned finger. Many of the chosen had been cautious about just how far to take their transformations. They had altered their proportions, maybe added feathers or small, ornamental wings. Some turned their hair into moving, gossamer tendrils or make their skin to look like while others had bent their bodies into truly fantastical shapes. A fox woman tried to maintain a sultry walk on unfamiliar digitigrade legs. A sensuous naga wrapped herself into impossible shapes. There were giraffes and tigers, dragons and less easily defined forms. One competitor had transformed her skin into a mass of transparent slime in which her bones and organs floated. Lady of Thorns actually gave her a six. Then came the women, still completely human and mostly naked with red eyes and tousled hair. They spent most of their display winking at the judges and making rather suggestive gestures. Mr. Falsehood laughed and nudged Queen of Salt on the shoulder. He grew uncomfortable as she ceased to laugh with him, as if a sudden realization had sprung unbidden to her mind. She frowned. Every time Mr. Falsehood's card showed a ten, her's displayed a one. She was heard to mutter "fucker" under her breath. Whatever card he picked she picked the opposite, even for the other contestants, and as he tried to look anywhere but to the right of him, she had turned sideways in her chair and stared directly at his cheek, her pouty little lips stuck out and dribbling salt as she ground her teeth together. Fear of Shadows grew increasingly upset at this turn of events. Lady of Thorns just sighed and rolled her eyes, picking a scab off her elbow with a dirty fingernail. When the last contestant had finished displaying her masses of anemone-like tendrils and the suckers that ran up her arms, Queen of Salt gave her an eight, shouted "Bastard" and threw her cards all over Mr. Falsehood before stomping out through the door. Thirteen people were thrown out the gates, and the rest of the chosen were ushered into the rapidly emptying tents. Now, the remaining chosen were given power over the elements. How they entered the greensward and what they did before the judges would be the ultimate tests of their creativity, poise, concentration and imagination. The next morning, when the first contestant rose frothing from the pond, dripping pearls and bubbles that floated across the scummy surface, only Lady of Thorns sat at her seat. The contestant, once Penelope Underwood (who had studied classical Greek mythology) looked around in confusion. "Oh, they're all off fighting," Lady of Thorns sighed, rolling her eyes. "Here, let me do theirs for them. Did you let Mr. Falsehood put it in you?" mangy patches of fur began to sprout from her cheeks as her face stretched out into a muzzle. Once Penelope looked rather taken aback. "I'm going to guess 'no,'" Lady of Thorns growled, "You look just a hair too classy." She tapped a claw on her chin. Vines snaked across the table to the other judges' seats. She opened her eyes wide and waggled her head back and forth as black feathers began to replace the fur. "Look at me! I'm a stupid poof with a stick up his ass! I wish everyone was serious and hated fun." She squawked, before showing a six from Fear of Shadows's seat. "I think I'm such a player but I'm really a stupid bastard who just spreads around diseases to desperate fat chicks," she cawed, showing a ten from Mr. Falsehood's chair. "Oooh! I hate you so much! If only any man ever besides you had ever touched my cold, dry, abrasive, naugtybits I might have actually not turned out to be an enormous abrasive, cold, dry cunt," she crowed, her long beak clacking and showing a one from Queen of Salt's chair. Poor once Penelope just stood there, not really sure what to do, so she laughed. "This whole thing is just so ridiculous," she said, "I don't even know why anyone here bothers. It's all just so," she leaned forward, watching the longer feathers begin to transform into stringy brown hair, "ridiculous." "Are you allergic to poison ivy?" Lady of Thorns asked, her beak receding into a nose. "No," once Penelope replied. "Want to see a fresh, new-minted world?" Lady of Thorns asked, metal squealing as she disentangled her bulky mass of vines from the chair. "Sure," once Penelope said. "Okay, come on. Let me just scribble down some 'one's for everybody else." And so it was that once Penelope was chosen though fair laws and process by a democratically selected committee to inhabit that fresh new world.