Sean E. Britten

I’ve always been inspired by music (I know, super original!) and music has always been a part of my writing. Way back in the days of burnt CDs, my mates and I used to put together CD mixtapes and I came up with the idea of a series of short stories based around pieces of music. Mixtape is all short stories sharing their titles with different songs and inspired, to various degrees, by their lyrics, artists, and vibe.

Currently Playing: James Taylor – Traffic Jam

The traffic jam stretches as far as the eye can see. As relentless heat, hunger, and frustration wears on drivers and passengers, tempers fray, desperation takes hold, and the fragile bonds of society begin to fall apart.

======

Like blood cells coagulating and clotting into a coronary, cars massed and slowed and ground to a halt. Within minutes, traffic stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. A few false starts, jostling for an extra half a metre of space, the final shudders of a dying beast, and then nothing. Engines wheezed and brakes squeaked, and a few horns echoed before a sense of futility settled over the six lanes of traffic.

“What’s going on?” Mel asked, roused from her nap.

Colin let out a long breath. “Traffic jam.”

“Daddy, daddy! Why are we stopping?” Braxton shouted from the backseat.

“It’s a traffic jam, buddy. We’ll get going again soon.”

Colin held on for a couple of minutes, his foot against the brake pedal, but the traffic didn’t move. Shoving the gear stick into ‘Park’, he pulled on the parking brake and turned off the ignition. The air conditioner kept blowing air although with the engine off it wouldn’t stay cool for long. All around them, other vehicles did the same. Three lanes stretching south, three lanes stretching north, a divider of scrub and rocks between them, nothing moved. Braxton, five-years-old, squirmed in his carseat. Next to him, his sister, Lita, drooled and chewed on her teething ring.

“Let me see if I can find out what’s going on.” Mel fished her phone out of her bag and swiped at it for a few long moments. “I don’t have any signal.”

Colin pulled his phone out of his pocket. “That’s weird, me too.”

Switching on the radio, Colin scanned channels and fiddled with the volume. Static fuzzed the reception. Snatches of conversation and music filtered through the snow but very little of it could be understood.

“Was that a traffic report?” Mel asked.

“I don’t know, I think it said something about fish?” Colin said.

“Daddy, why aren’t we moving? When are we going home?” Braxton yelled.

“I don’t know, buddy, we’ll get there soon.”

Drumming his hands against the steering wheel, Colin twisted and turned to peer past the cars in front of them. Braxton fussed. As the air conditioner lost power, the temperature inside the SUV started to climb. Outside, they saw people climbing out of their cars and wandering around.

“I’m going to go see if I can find out what’s causing this,” Colin said.

“Why? What is that going to do?”

“I don’t know, I’ve got to do something.”

A fresh wave of heat hit Colin in the face as he stepped out of his car, rising off the asphalt. Most surrounding vehicles had given up on moving any time soon but engine noise filtered through the six lanes of traffic along with muffled music and frustrated conversation. He started forward, shielding his eyes. Only a few cars ahead of them was an ice cream truck, bubblegum pink with white trimmings, ‘Mr Creamy’ written across its side. A fibreglass soft serve cone was mounted to its roof, gleaming in the sun. Already a couple of people were standing at the driver’s window, pleading with him to open while they waited out the traffic. Colin moved past, negotiating around a few tightly packed cars.

The highway continued straight toward the horizon, forward and back. Try as he might, Colin couldn’t see an end to the traffic or a cause for it. Off to the sides of the highway were flat, dry steppes and low scrub, no higher ground he could climb for a better view. In the very distance, he saw helicopters that flitted above a possible obstruction like flies over a vast, dead snake. Eventually, Colin came to a small gathering of men venting their frustrations.

“Hey, do you know what’s causing all this?” Colin asked.

“Some people are saying terrorists,” one of the men said.

“Terrorists?”

“That’s what some people are saying.”

“I heard it was China,” another said.

“No, North Korea,” a third man said.

“You think North Korea could be behind this traffic jam?” Colin asked.

“Maybe, that’s what some people are saying.”

“Al Qaeda,” the first man said.

“I haven’t heard anything from those guys in a while.”

“Stands to reason they’d be saving up for something big.”

“Any idea about what it might clear up?” Colin asked.

“Who do you think is going to clear things up? The government?”

“I mean, maybe, yeah?”

“Maybe the government’s behind this,” a fourth man, who hadn’t spoken yet, said. “False flag.”

“I won’t stand for that kind of talk, that’s commie talk!” the man who’d accused China said.

Colin returned through the ranks of cars. The ice cream truck vendor, Mr Creamy, had relented and opened the back of his vehicle. He and a couple of customers haggled over prices as he switched on some music. ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ followed Colin back to the SUV.

“Did you find out anything?” Mel asked.

“I don’t know, China maybe, maybe Al Qaeda,” Colin said.

“Anything about when it’s going to clear?”

“Not really.”

Braxton murmured in his car seat, playing some kind of game, while Lita nommed her teething ring. Their faces already looked sweaty. Colin turned the engine on just to run the air conditioner for a couple of minutes then turned it off and removed the key from the ignition.

“We’d better save the battery.”

They waited another ten minutes with no movement. More people, even kids, wandered between the rows of traffic. Pop Goes the Weasel filtered through the windows from the ice cream truck and hunger began sawing at Colin’s stomach as he realised he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Do you have anything to eat?”

“I think I have some stuff in the kids’ bag,” Mel said.

An overstuffed backpack sat between Mel’s feet. From within, she withdrew an insulated lunchbox. The kids had eaten most of their snacks but inside were two granola bars, a banana, and a sandwich bag with a few crumbly crackers in it. Colin and Mel ate the crackers then broke one of the granola bars in half.

Colin stopped with the granola bar halfway to his mouth. “Do these have seeds in them?”

“I think so, yeah,” Mel said.

“Maybe we should save them.”

“You think we’ll be stuck here for so long we’ll have to grow our own food?”

“I’m just saying, maybe we save the seeds.”

Shrugging, Mel plucked several seeds out of the surface of her half of the granola bar and Colin did the same. They stored them in the now-empty sandwich bag.

Mel turned in her seat. “Do you want a granola bar, honey?” she asked Braxton.

“I want ice cream!” Braxton said.

“What about a banana?”

“Ice cream!”

Mel looked at Colin and shrugged. “It is hot.”

“Alright, I’ll go get us ice cream,” Colin said.

Heat again pushed back as Colin left the vehicle. He made his way to the ice cream truck but was surprised to find a small crowd massed around its serving window, some holding aloft wads of cash. As he got closer, he was even more stunned at the prices he heard being thrown around.

“Fifty dollars!” one man shouted.

“One hundred dollars!” a woman said, pushing her way to the front.

“One-twenty!” added another.

The vendor, Mr Creamy, looked delighted with his new position of power. A short, plain, dumpy man in an apron and a hat like an old-timey sailor, his face shone with avarice.

“No cards!” Mr Creamy said. “No cards, only cash!”

Colin joined the back of the queue and shuffled forward. The sun felt hot on the back of his neck. His eyes scanned the menu, dozens of pictures of ice cream cones and ice blocks. It was obvious just from what he was overhearing that items were going for scores above what they would normally cost. Profiteering was illegal, he was pretty sure, but what good were laws when there was no one around to enforce them?

Some people gave up in despair or disgust but there were plenty of others to take their places. Most paid. Colin reached the front of the line. It was obvious that power was having a detrimental effect on Mr Creamy’s professional demeanor as he sneered down from inside his truck.

“What do you want?”

“Three soft serves, and a baby cup, please,” Colin said.

“That will be three hundred dollars,” Mr Creamy said, giving the impression he was making up prices as he went along. “Cash, not card.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Hey, you either want them or you don’t.” Mr Creamy turned to the person behind Colin. “Next!”

“Wait a second, wait a second! How about two cones and a baby cup?”

“Two-fifty.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“You want them or not?”

Colin rooted around desperately in his wallet. “I’ve only got seventy dollars.”

Mr Creamy’s eyes fell on Colin’s wrist as he held out the money. “What about that watch?”

“This was my father’s watch.” Colin looked down at the gold plated timepiece.

“Seventy dollars plus the watch, you’ll get your ice cream.”

Colin hesitated but then removed the watch, sliding the band over his hand. “With sprinkles, for the watch you’d better include sprinkles.”

Colin shoved his way back through the crowd, his steeply priced sweets already dripping onto his hands. Behind him, now realising it was an option, people began negotiating with bits of jewellery, phones, and other valuables. Making it back to the SUV, he shoved ice creams into the hands of Mel, Braxton, and Lita. He and Mel shared one of the cones while he watched, slightly resentful, as the kids made messes of their own, smearing ice cream and sprinkles over their faces.

“Do we have anything to drink?”

“Just what’s left in the kids’ water bottles.”

Mel removed two bottles from their backpack. Colin took a mouthful, swirling it around his gums and savouring it. He switched the car back on but only to roll down the electric windows as the car got warm again. The jam wasn’t moving and they couldn’t keep running the air conditioner. None of the surrounding vehicles seemed to be switched on any longer.

Suddenly, a pair of scabrous claws appeared at the sill of Colin’s window. He recoiled. Two sightless white eyes, thick with cataracts, stared back at him, surrounded by nests of wrinkles. An old woman, a shawl draped around her fragile shoulders, stood at the door.

“Please,” the old woman said in a cracked and broken voice. “Do you have any food or water?”

“Daddy!” Braxton said, startled.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Colin said.

“Please, any food or water for an old woman?”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Mel rooted in the kids’ lunchbox again. “Here, here’s a banana.”

The old woman pawed blindly at the fruit. “Bless you! God bless you, you are good people!”

Shuffling, her hands exploring the space in front of her, the old woman moved on. Colin looked back at Mel with disapproval.

“What did you do that for?” Colin asked.

“What? It’s only a banana,” Mel said.

“We need to think of ourselves first, Mel. We need to think of our family.”

“Surely one banana can’t make that much difference.”

“We don’t know that. And someone like her, do you really think she’s going to make it?”

“Make it?”

“She hasn’t got that much longer as it is. We have to think of the children.”

The afternoon wore on without change. From the SUV, Colin could see the ice cream truck serving a never ending stream of customers. Mr Creamy indulged in his greed and newfound importance. His wrists grew heavy with watches and bracelets, chains swinging around his neck, rings on his fingers. In spite of the outrageous prices, he sold out of every last ice cream, drink, and cone. Colin saw people who had spurned the ice cream man’s price gouging come crawling back, paying premiums that had inflated by many times again since when they’d first asked. Eventually, the incessant jingle from his truck’s speakers fell silent. He shut his serving window and retreated inside to count his riches.

For dinner, they split the second granola bar after picking out the visible seeds and placing them in the sandwich bag. Braxton refused at first and cried until he was red in the face but eventually he ate his third of the bar. Lita cried as well but Mel managed to breastfeed her, burp her, and settle her into an uneasy sleep. They drank the rest of the water. Fortunately, as the afternoon collapsed slowly into evening, the heat broke and a summer thunderstorm rolled out of the west. Colin took the kids’ water bottles, the lunchbox, and any other container he could find to collect water and placed them on the roof of the SUV. All around him, he could see other people doing the same.

Dark clouds closed over the deepening sky and rain lashed the six lanes of traffic. In the distance, lightning crackled and the booms of thunder echoed across the flat landscape. Inside, they rolled up the windows, watched, and listened to the rain. Even Braxton was lulled into silence and, eventually, sleep.

xXx

The next morning, Colin awoke before anyone else in the car. Golden sunlight filtered across the traffic. He collected their water bottles and containers from the roof, placing lids on those that had lids, and took a mouthful from one of the open ones. Raindrops covered the surrounding vehicles and the asphalt was damp. At that time of morning, everything remained gentle and silent.

Colin took the bag of seeds he and Mel had collected and moved furtively to the side of the highway. Stepping over the guardrail, he made his way down the shallow slope. He found a spot hidden beneath a shelf of rock that would still get plenty of sun as the day wore on and pushed the seeds into the soil.

Day two, the sky was clear and the sun dried the rain. Only that preserved in bottles or other vessels lasted to be drunk or used for hygiene. People roused and began to move around but none of the cars shifted. Makeshift structures began to take shape. Blankets or towels were draped over open doors, reinforced with random bits and pieces that people already had in their cars or trash from the roadside. Spare tyres were employed as makeshift seating in gathering areas. Hubcaps pried from wheels were used as hearths for cooking fires.

‘The Jam’ people started to call it. With a kind of emphasis to get across the capital letters. Scouts went forward and back and reported traffic stretching, unending, in both directions. Rumours spread like wildfire. That it was caused by China, by Russia, that the government had abandoned them, that it was an oil spill, a spill of nuclear materials. That anyone who went forward far enough found themselves looping back from the other direction. That people in some parts of The Jam had already resorted to cannibalism. From time to time, helicopters flitted in the distance but never came any closer.

Tempers grew short. Divisions began to take hold between the cars that had been headed north and those facing south. The dry and scrubby strait between the lanes became a kind of no man’s land.

“Stay on your side, northbounders!” someone yelled.

“You don’t own the centre of the highway, southie!”

Colin wandered the rows, hunting for news. He watched as the two yelling men came together, fists flying. More people from both sides dragged them apart. Fiery glares were levelled but the division returned to a simmer rather than a boil.

A couple dozen cars back from Colin and his family’s SUV was a food delivery truck with the word ‘FRESH’ printed down the side. Most people had water stored from the night before but food was running low and hunger began to take hold. The ice cream truck had sold out of all of its supplies. Colin had seen Mr Creamy that morning clad in all of his riches but looking a little lost. Now, a small crowd gathered around the cabin of the food truck.

“Come on, open the back doors!” someone argued. “We’ll pay you for it! We’ll give you money for the food that’s back there!”

“It’s not mine to sell! I could lose my job,” the truck driver replied.

“We don’t know how long The Jam could last! If it goes on, you’ll have to open up sometime and share your resources!”

“For all we know, it could get moving again in the next five minutes.”

“Hey!” Colin shouted from the back of the crowd. “I’ve got kids to feed!”

“Me too!” someone added.

“A lot of us do!”

“I’m not opening the truck,” the driver said. “It’s not mine to sell or to give away. I’ve got kids too, what happens to them if I lose my job?”

Grumbling, most of the crowd broke apart. A few people stayed to argue but most sensed that they weren’t going to get anywhere. Colin walked back to the SUV.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find anything,” Colin said. “No food, no info.”

“Daddy, I’m hungry!” Braxton said.

“I know, buddy, I’m sorry. We’ll get you something soon.”

Lita fussed as well and Mel fed her. They did the best they could to pass the day. High temperatures beat down on the cars and highway, and the makeshift shelters. Colin and his family sat inside with the doors open but no breeze stirred the air. There were no signs that another storm was on its way to break the heat either.

Colin was dozing when Mel shook him by the shoulder. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, there’s a group of people coming up the highway,” Mel said. “I heard some arguing, I think there might be trouble.”

Colin looked around and saw the people that Mel was talking about. A group of eight, six men and two women. Nothing was particularly remarkable about their appearance except it looked like a couple might be armed. A tyre iron was shoved through one man’s belt. One of the women carried a small bat. Several carried bags and he saw a man tuck a couple of candy bars into one.

“Hi, how’s it going?” the man leading the eight strangers said. “We’re doing a collection, food and water. Whatever you can spare.”

“Collection for what?” Colin asked.

“To put the resources to best use.”

The man was tall and well muscled, a little younger than Colin. He wore dark clothes and sunglasses, and on the street Colin would have walked past him without a second thought. But there was something about the way he held himself, and the way the rest of them bristled behind him, that made Colin nervous.

“We don’t even have enough for ourselves,” Colin said.

“You must have something,” one of the others said. “We’re helping you out.”

“Helping us out with what?”

“Protection,” their leader said.

Colin felt a chill in spite of the heat. “Protection from what?”

“From people who might want to take what you have by force. Southbounders, maybe. Or thieves.”

“Here!” Mel interrupted.

Reaching across Colin, Mel shoved one of the kids’ water bottles toward the group’s leader. It was half full of rainwater. Colin started to argue but a look from Mel made him hesitate and fall silent.

“We don’t have any food, but you can take some water.”

The man with the sunglasses considered the offering for a moment before taking it from Mel. He passed it back to one of his companions.

“Thank you, consider yourselves safe. For the time being.”

“What did you do that for?” Colin asked, once the group had moved on.

“That was a threat, they weren’t offering a choice,” Mel said. “If we hadn’t given them something then things could have gone bad!”

“Now they know we’ll just give in. Next time they’ll want even more!”

“We have children, Colin! We can’t be making stands.” Mel looked back at Braxton and Lita. “Hopefully it will have all cleared up by then. It’s The Jam, it is what it is.”

Afternoon bled into evening and evening into night with no change in the traffic. Campfires glowed up and down the six lanes. People gathered to tell stories, trade in rumours, and sing songs. In the darkness, the voices of the southies and the northbounders couldn’t be told apart.

xXx

Day three, Colin found himself awake again at dawn. There hadn’t been any rain overnight and the only moisture was condensation clinging to the inside of their windshield. He carefully rationed some of their remaining water then went to check on his makeshift garden beside the road. At first, he didn’t see any change. Looking closer, however, he saw hairlike threads of green poking through the dirt.

Hunger gripped The Jam. Throughout the morning, another crowd gathered around the truck marked ‘FRESH’ and this time they refused to disperse. Colin told Mel he was going to check it out and found himself on the fringe of a horde of over a hundred people that was beginning to border on a riot. Voices yelled and chanted. Fists drummed against the sides of the trailer. Rocks bounced off the truck’s windshield.

“Open up! Open up!”

“Give us the food!”

Dozens massed around the tail of the trailer. More people lined both sides and began to shove. At first they could barely budge the vehicle but soon they gained momentum and got the trailer squealing as it rolled back and forth on its wheels. Given time, they might have been able to knock the whole thing over. Colin didn’t join in but he found himself thrust to the front of the crowd by the force of the people lining up behind him.

The driver emerged from inside, struggling with his footing. Something stubby and black extended from his hand. A revolver, Colin released with a jolt. A ripple of fear went through the crowd but there was too much momentum to stop them now.

“Stop, back off!” the driver shouted.

The driver aimed his revolver at the sky and fired. The crack echoed into the desert flats. A stunned silence filled the yawning gap behind the retort and for a moment the crowd became a frozen tableau of itself. The seesawing trailer slowed.

“He can’t shoot all of us!” someone yelled.

Colin was shoved in the back as the crowd surged forward again. The driver didn’t want to shoot anyone. He hesitated for a moment but didn’t resist as the crowd pulled him from the cabin of his truck. The gun was wrenched out of his grip and spilled, bouncing and skittering under the truck itself. Invasive hands groped and hunted the man’s pockets until someone produced a set of keys.

“Keys, we’ve got keys!”

With everyone tightly packed around the truck, the man who’d found the keys tossed them toward the back of the trailer. Someone caught them and passed them on to another bystander near the doors. People poured toward the tail of the truck. Colin was pulled along with them but resisted. Everyone was so excited by the truck opening that they’d forgotten about the gun, including the driver.

Colin ducked and rolled beneath the truck. A forest of feet and legs moved past him. He scrabbled about on the asphalt and found the truck driver’s little five-shot revolver, one bullet used and the hammer still cocked above a chamber containing a live round. Easing the hammer back into place, double-checking and then triple-checking it, he shoved the gun into his pocket and tried to hide its bulge with his shirt. He kept crawling and emerged from the other side of the truck, clawing his way to his feet before he was stepped on. Amidst all the excitement, no one took any notice of him.

The rear doors of the truck were flung open and people piled inside. Stacks of boxes were ripped apart and passed into dozens of waiting hands. Filled with a fresh confidence brought on by his possession of the gun, Colin pushed to the front. A sizable but surprisingly light box was passed into his hands and he struggled free of the crowd again.

“Stop what you’re doing! That food belongs to us!”

Another eight people forced their way through the horde like a spearhead. The man in sunglasses and his cronies. All of them were now armed with tyre irons, makeshift clubs, even windshield wipers which they used to whip at the crowd. Since Colin had seen them yesterday, they appeared to have enhanced their outfits with makeshift armour. Hubcaps and battered license plates covered their chests and arms. A couple wore motorcycle helmets.

The group pushed their way to the front of the crowd and two of them climbed into the truck. Half of the boxes had already been looted. The new arrivals, however, drove people back with their makeshift weapons.

“We’ll make sure this is all distributed fairly!” their leader said. “We are the Asphalt Stompers, and we’re the new law in The Jam!”

Colin and those that had already secured their boxes of food hurried away before they caught the Asphalt Stompers’ attention. On the edge of the crowd, he passed the ice cream vendor, Mr Creamy, looking distraught.

“Hey, hey! I’ll trade you for some food,” Mr Creamy said. “Please, how much? I’ll pay you anything, how much? Five hundred? A thousand?”

Colin ignored him and returned to the SUV. Others scattered amidst the cars and makeshift shelters.

“What did you get?” Mel asked.

Colin checked the outside of the box. “Uh, corn chips, I guess? Corn chips.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

“Daddy, I’m hungry!” Braxton complained.

Ripping open the box, Colin hid bags of chips around the car and then disposed of the cardboard. They ate quickly, mashing some of the chips in water for Lita.

Over the rest of the day, Colin traded some bags of chips for other bits of food and water. He saw Mr Creamy wandering the ranks of cars as well but no one was interested in selling him anything for cash or trinkets from the old world. Meanwhile, the Asphalt Stompers hoarded the rest of the haul from the ‘FRESH’ truck. They appeared to be using the food as a recruitment tool. Soon, small gangs affiliated with them roamed the lanes, armouring themselves with bits torn from the vehicles and roadside trash, arming themselves with whatever they could get their hands on. Some adorned themselves with hood ornaments on chains, side mirrors, or bunches of air fresheners worn like pendants. By the time night fell, dozens of them rioted up and down the lanes while innocent civilians retreated inside their vehicles in fear.

“What are we going to do?” Mel asked, as they sat in the close, warm darkness.

“What do you mean? We’ve got food, we have water.”

“We can’t stay here!”

Braxton and Lita slept restlessly in the backseat. Outside, cooking fires glowed in the darkness, people burning cardboard or whatever could be burned. Crazed shouts echoed into the night, no more songs, no more music.

“We don’t have much of a choice, The Jam isn’t moving.”

“We could abandon the car and start walking,” Mel said.

“Walk? On foot? No, I won’t hear of it. It’s un-American.”

“There is no more America, only The Jam.”

“It will start moving soon. Tomorrow, maybe even tonight, I can feel it.”

Colin hadn’t told Mel about the gun. He tucked it away and tried not to think about it, like a guilty secret. Throughout the night, he tossed and turned. He kept looking out through the windshield, hoping to see empty space opening up before them and being disappointed.

xXx

When morning rolled around, Colin actually looked forward to his little ritual of checking on the seeds. There’d been a brief rainshower in the very early hours and a negligee of mist clung to the desert and the rows of vehicles. He rounded the car and started to walk toward the side of the road but stumbled to a stop.

Ranks of silent people filled the gaps between the cars. Those gang members who had taken control of the food truck, the Asphalt Stompers, adorned with licence plates and hubcaps and other random trash. They must have numbered over a hundred people by now. The man with the sunglasses led them. Several more pairs of sunglasses and someone’s rearview mirror dangled around his neck. A steering wheel had been belted to the back of his head to form something like a halo.

“Oh, the Asphalt Stompers, right?” Colin said. “Uh, I may have some chips left?”

“We are the Asphalt Stompers no longer!” their leader said. “You may call me Preacher, and we are now the Holy Order of the Unending Jam!”

Cultists spread among the lanes of traffic, banging on windows and doors. They woke people and forced them out of their vehicles, filling the rows of traffic. Blinking, Mel pulled Lita and Braxton out of the SUV at the cult’s insistence. Braxton, sleepily, gestured for Colin to pick him up.

“I have gathered you here to announce that The Jam demands a sacrifice!” the newly formed cult’s leader said.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. “You can’t be serious!” someone yelled.

“Blood is required to grease the wheels of The Jam! Only through sacrifice will the eternal traffic clear and allow us to move on to our rightful destinations!”

“Sacrifice! Sacrifice!” the cult intoned.

Preacher pointed suddenly at Braxton, nursed in Colin’s arms. “The boy, give us the boy!”

“No!” Mel yelled.

“Give us the boy!”

“Daddy!” Braxton recoiled as several of the nearest cultists closed in on them.

“Back off!” Colin shouted.

Colin grabbed at his pocket and wrestled free the truck driver’s revolver. Cultists leapt backward as he swung the gun in their direction. His thumb found the hammer. Holding Braxton with one arm, he extended the gun in the other. The rest of the crowd screamed and backed away. Even Mel was stunned and confused. Only the cult’s leader, Preacher, looked unshaken as Colin trained the gun on him.

“The Jam protects its own, you cannot harm us,” Preacher said.

“You sure about that?”

“Give us the boy and the rest of you will go free.”

“Back off!”

“Give us the boy!”

“I said back off!”

With a sudden lunge, Preacher reached inside his jacket. He produced what appeared to be a gear stick that had been broken off at its base and whittled to a jagged point. A makeshift sacrificial dagger. With it in hand, he threw himself at Colin and Braxton. Colin, without thinking, raised the revolver higher and fired. The shot punched the cult leader right between the eyes. His sunglasses snapped in two and tumbled away from his face. Hole smoking above the bridge of his nose, he staggered backward one step, and then another, and then fell to the asphalt with a smack.

Screaming, people scattered. Braxton covered his ears and buried his face in Colin’s chest as he started crying. Mel gaped.

“Where did that come from?”

“The gun? I took it yesterday, from the truck.”

“What are we going to do?”

Cultists quickly vanished the way they’d come. Their leader lay on his back, unmoving. Before they could really think about their next move, motion caught their eyes from ahead. The cars were moving. Both north and southboard, the traffic jam began to clear.

“Get in the car,” Colin said.

Colin and Mel, along with Braxton and Lita, piled inside the SUV. Colin considered the gun for a moment then tossed it aside, into the road, before shutting the door. He turned over the engine not a moment too soon as the cars ahead of them began to move. The lanes to either side rolled ahead. Behind them, he saw the body of the cultist sprawled and ignored.

“Uh, should we tell somebody about that?” Mel asked. “About what happened here?”

“Forget it, baby,” Colin said. “It’s The Jam.”

At the last moment before they started to pick up speed, Colin glanced off to the side of the road. Beneath the shelf of rock where he’d planted the seeds, he saw a tiny glimpse of green. Tiny, tender shoots of hope in the morning sunlight.

======

Sean: I’ve found myself on a bit of a post-apocalyptic bent when it comes to writing these stories. I mean the first one was post-apocalyptic, and the one I’m writing the first draft of right now is, and there’s at least one other coming up. I love post-apocalyptic stories and I default to them a lot, yet at the same time I feel like I didn’t write as many as I expected to when writing stories for All There in the (Monster) Manual. I mean, there was The Ooze That Ate Everyone… and there was Little Red Riding Hood… and Encounter is, technically… and Do They Know It’s Christmas? And I did write The Heart of the Princess… Okay, look, I’ve written a lot of stories at this point, it was bound to come up!

Parody is tough to write by the way. At least that is my experience. Like I’ve written a lot of things with elements of parody, but doing something like this which is straight up parody, it’s a question of how much weight you give things, and timing. It’s a genre I know very well but you wonder what to include and how much to include.

By the way, I love the Maybe Magic, Maybe Mundane trope and how it comes into play with stuff like the above. Someone says they need a sacrifice, that gets denied, but then the sacrifice kind of happens a different way and the promised effect does happen. Were they telling the truth or is it just coincidence? Who knows!

Next Track: John Parr – St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion)