CZM Book Club: The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion: Part One

You know, this is normally a daily news podcast focused on collapse and things falling apart, but here at cool Zone Media, a lot of us are big fans of fiction, particularly speculative science fiction, often with a dystopian bent to it. I've written a book in that theme. And then Margaret Kiljoy, host of cool People who did cool stuff, and one of one of our favorite people is an author of numerous short stories, novels, novellas, all focusing on kind of

at least elements of the feeling of collapse. And so Margaret, you know, you came to us a while ago. Andre, like you know it would be neat, is starting a literary magazine that's focused on the same kind of stuff that we cover from a news basis in our daily show because basically fiction is has collapsed as a way for people to make a living, but somehow we have not. So we're trying to sneak our way into paying people for writing fiction. And that'll work as long as you

people listen. Margaret, that's that's what I got for an intro? How was that? Is that what you hoped for? Right? For?

there was a degree to which. One of the reasons writers liked it a lot, especially joke writers, is it kind of forced brevity, and like brevity is the soul of wit, you know. That's the thing. I don't know. It's silly to actually say like that short novels are harder than long novels, But as a general rule, I think the most impactful fiction I read tends to be short fiction, even though I prefer long fiction because it

gives me something to do with my time. But like when I think about stuff that's like hit me, like in the gut, real hard. It's usually been short fiction.

a question. Men always assumed that declarative statements like that are questions. This is a ghost town, he said. I hadn't caught his name. He'd been nice enough to pick me up pitch hiking in the middle of nowhere, Iowa, but he wasn't nice enough to let me out where I wanted. That's all right, I said, just let me out. There'll be someplace better, a wal Mart or something. I'll let you out there. Let me out here. I can't just let you out in the middle of nowhere, not

by yourself. It isn't safe, he said it without a trace of irony. He locked the doors. That's when the knife got involved. I slid it out from my Jean's pocket, clicked it open. Pulling a knife means going double or nothing. I was either going to get out of the situation or the situation was about to get a lot worse. Jesus, he said. He pulled over. I unlocked my door, grabbed my pack, and hit the gravel before he came to

a complete stop. Fucking bitch. I flipped off his car as he drove away, But at least he was driving away. The worst of it was he'd probably thought he was just taking care of me, that he was a nice guy. I hoped bad things were going to happen to him, and soon ten years of putting up with shit like that from drivers, it was getting old. Hell, at twenty eight, I was getting old. Ten years ago, I'd talked to drivers about anything and loved them for it. I loved

the nice ones for their kindness. I love the crazies for their stories. And sure I hated the racist pieces of shit, but if nothing else, I got to feel like I had the pulse of this racist piece of shit country. But a decade is an awful long time, and whatever shine I'd found on the shit that his hitchhiking had long since faded. Still it got me where I wanted to go. The town's welcome sign had been

painted over. Don't know what it used to say, but now, in clean, stenciled letters, it said Freedom, Iowa City Limits, unincorporated, an entire town, abandoned by a dead economy and occupied by squatters and activists and anarchists. It was the last place Clay had lived, the last place he'd spent much time before he'd found his way west, and his hand had shown his razor the way to his throat. No warning signs, no cries for help. I had a lot of questions. If there were answers, I might find them

in Freedom, Iowa. I shouldered my pack and clipped the waistbelt shut. It had been Clay's pack. I had his suicide note folded up in the smallest pocket. The road into town was two lanes that led away from the highway, paved with pale patched asphalt. The trees beside it climbed toward the sky, and I walked in the double yellow

with something of a spring to my step. After a hundred yards and a couple turns, when the trees were getting thick enough to cast the whole of the road into shadow, I saw a deer on the shoulder ahead, rooting at something on the pavement. The beast was crimson red, blood red. I didn't even know deer came in that color. I crossed to the far side of the street so I wouldn't disturb him, but I couldn't help staring. A rabbit was dead on the ground beneath him, its belly up,

its rib cage splayed open. The deer looked up at me, then his red muzzle dripping red blood. On the right side of his head, he bore an antler. On the left side of his head, he bore two Jesus. I said, I kept walking, because what else do you do? He watched me until I was around the next bend, and I couldn't help feeling his gaze on my back. The only sounds in the air were birds and the faint white noise of a nearby river, and wild flowers were

in bloom on the forest floor. Another quarter mile and I stepped out of the woods and saw the town on the far bank of a small, slow moving river. Half a hundred houses were set into the hillside along a single winding street. A few old cars were part along the curb and in driveways, but I couldn't get a gauge on whether they were in use or abandoned. A two lane bridge spanned the river. Clay had talked

about the place like it was paradise. I crossed over, pausing to look down over the guard rail at the water thirty feet below as it tumbled and tore its way over river rock. Just at the other end of the bridge, a boarded up gas station was covered in street art as good as any I'd seen in Oakland. It was a quarter mile farther up the hill to the first houses, and most were overgrown, more than a

few with caved in roofs. Others looked haphazardly maintained. I walked into town, but I didn't see any signs of life, no smoke or lights or motion. No one was out on the street or sitting on their porches. Maybe everyone had left when Clay had. Maybe the water was poisoned the same as it seemed to be in half of Middle America, and singing shit like that fucked up mutated deer with three antlers made everyone realize it wasn't safe to stick around. The first five or six houses I

passed were split levels set into the hill. Welded rebar statues populated one front lawn, a three antler deer amongst other woodland and farmyard animals. Even the statue seemed to bore into me with its stare, and the damn thing didn't even have eyes. The next house, alone on its block, was an old colonial. It was handsome, its wood siding painted dark. Its circular attic window is an eye, casting its longing gaze out over the river.

come here because I needed motion. Without motion, there was nothing without motion, I was probably as dead as clay. I kicked back in the chair, put my feet up on the table, and looked out over the town. I'd make it my kingdom for the day, I decided, and hit the road again tomorrow. I had canned food enough to see me through at least three meals, and if I got desperate, I had a jar of peanut butter somewhere in my bag that would keep me alive for days.

I took out my phone and headphones, put on black metal, and dozed off. I like the tiny little dreams I get when I sleep. In the afternoon that day, I was a very young goblin riding this bronosaurus like thing, and I was in love with a human boy, and I was afraid he'd find out I was a goblin. When I'm awake, I'm happy sometimes, but I don't know that I'm ever as happy awake as I am when

I'm dreaming. Awake, I've got all this nostalgia, this feeling that I'm separated from something I can smell but can't touch. I get these sudden, un arable realizations that I should have been more present during all those moments in my life, that I should have taken the time to be like, oh shit, man, this is my life and it's fucking awesome. Sometimes dreaming I just swim in the joy and the intensity and the nowness of life. Late in the afternoon,

I heard rustling and opened my eyes. Halfway on the railing in front of me, a rabbit cleaned its paws. I watched it, drowsy. It turned toward me, and its chest was a raw red wound, its rib cage and organs gone. It smelled like death and blood, and I don't usually smell much in my dreams. It hopped away, and I presumed it a nightmare and fell back asleep. Get your feet off the table. What I asked, startled awake, ripping out my earbuds. Can't have dirty boots on the table,

he said. I got my feet back on the porch and turned around. A gangly, handsome fellow was looking at me with a brown fist on his hip and a weird sort of smile hovering on his face. His septum was pierced. One side of his head was shaved. The rest of his hair was thick black curls. His short dress was clean, faded black, stitched up in a few places with dental floss. He was heavily tattooed, mostly black. Work Behind him, the sliding glass door was open. Obviously

I hadn't heard him walk out. And who are you, he asked Danielle, I said. He was looking me over, his head cocked to the side, trying to make up his mind about something. I uh, I didn't know anyone lived here. I told him, well, he said, someone does. There's at least four or five spots left if you want your own place, more than that too, if you know how to patch a roof. He stared at me as I tried to process this information. Oh, you're new,

like new, new, like don't know anything new. I just got here, I said, I was thinking maybe there wasn't anyone left. I'm vulture. He said, what pronouns do you prefer? She I said, I use He told me. I nodded, well, Danielle. I came outside because there was a strange woman sleeping on her porch. Everyone else there inside wondering who the hell you are. He started drumming his fingers on his chin. Wade, what's your last name, Cain. It wasn't my legal name,

but it was my punk name. You're Danny Kine. His whole body loosened up and a smile exploded across his face. I had rather Danielle than Danny, I said. I hadn't let anyone but Clay called me Danny. In years, Clay talked about you. I don't know. Maybe every day, come inside, eat with us, Welcome to town. There's a kind of hospitality found amongst squatters and punks that I'll never stop appreciating. When there's not enough to go around, that's when people share.

As far as I can tell, it's part of why us poor get taken advantage of so much. So I met a tattooed man in a ghost town, and I followed him into his house because he knew someone I knew. Sure, I had to give it some thought, but it felt a hole of a lot safer than getting in a car with a stranger. Outside. The house was rustic and kind of pretty. Inside it was astounding. I've spent plenty of times in squats in the US, and I thought

I knew what to expect most squats. They range from people who, honest to God, piss in the fucking corner, to kind of normal but pretty messy, to artists obviously live here. Jesus Christ, why is there a life size hippo made from styrofoam in the living room? But that house was something else. It was clean, for one thing, and every wall was painted gray, black or copper. Every fixture was gold or copper, even if half of them

were spray painted that way. Mirrors were everywhere, letting daylight reach into the corners.

town for her very first time. Well damn, the tattoo recipient, said, Miss Kane herself. That's Thursday and Doomsday. Sitting down proper, Vulture said, by way of introductions, we call them the days Freedom. Iowa's only power couple. Come on, do the thing. He clapped his hands giddy. I don't want to. The woman said, we gotta do it, the man said. He wrangled his arms free from underneath a tattooist, then held out his fists hands together. He had the word Thursday

tattooed on his knuckles, black against his brown skin. The woman's sighed, then held out her pale hands, palms down in the same fontday Today's tattoo, but clearly more faded was the word doomsday. And this is Brynn, Vulture said. Brynn. The tattooist looked up at me with pale, gray eyes. An inch thick black line was tattooed from the bangs of her hair line to the bridge for nose, which

where it met her glasses formed a hypnotizing geometry. She had the same military style belt I did, the same extendable baton worn in its holster on one side and pepper spray on the other that I did. Both weapons are better than a knife for self defense. Knives are only good for threatening, not for fighting. Pepper spray can actually disable someone. Baton can beat someone near to death without cutting them. Her eyes met. I try not to read too much into things like that, but her eyes met.

After a brief moment, she went back to tattooing. Thursday, so it brings you to this shitty little corner of the world, Bryn asked, without diverting her attention from her work. It's not shitty, Thursday said. Don't talk. Your neck moves when you talk. It's kinda shitty. Doomsday said, by the look on his face, not talking was probably one of

Thursday's least favorite things. All done, Bryn announced, she put the needle down next to the vial of ink on a rag on the coffee table and turned Thursday around so everyone could see. On the back of his neck was a stylized deer's head, three antlers sprouting from its crown and running up towards his hairline. I was about to ask about it, but a sudden fear shut my mouth. There was something more to freedom than I knew, and as much as I wanted to feel right at home,

I didn't. Vulture complimented Brynn on her work and Thursday on his taste, then took a photo of the tattoo with his phone. Vulture, you want to help me get started on dinner, Brinne asked. Thursday started clearing up the tattoo equipment. As soon as I find the right filter and post this, I can help. I said. I like cooking, so I followed Brynn to the kitchen to dinner, happy to see if making food he get my mind off the worries that raced through me. Vulture straggled behind us,

tapping and swiping at his phone. You definitely don't have to help cook, Brynn said, I'd enjoy it, I said, I loved cooking for groups, hated cooking for myself. If it's just me, I'll eat fucking protein bars for dinner. Brynn turned on the lights. A series of bright LEDs wired into a wooden strip screwed into the ceiling. Where do you get power, I asked solar, Vulture said, still staring at his phone. Don't use it for much, just

some lights in our phones. He set his phone down on the counter and started rooting through a produce basket, procuring an onion, which he set in front of me. I started dicing it as Brynn ran outside to turn on the propane for the stove. Where do you get the gas, I asked, We of Valter demurd We buy it at Walmart, only place to get pretty much anything within a two hour drive. I almost asked them where they got the money, but I figured I knew the answer.

Some combination of crime, seasonal labor, and working remote same as the rest of us travelers. And the water, I asked, used a water key? Just turn the city water back on? He said, you can buy basically anything on the internet. Got a ship to someone in Chicago. Vulture at this grand way of gesturing with every word he spoke and bewing everything around us with meaning. Brynn came back in whistling and swept up the diced onion into a frying pan.

She was taller than me, muscled, and handsome as hell. In any other circumstance, i'd probably be in love with both of them already. Instead, they were a mystery to me, a mystery I am to solve for Clay's sake and for my own. The Water's not like fucked up or something, though, No way, the water's great, Vulture said. I opened my mouth to ask about the mutated deer, but shouting from the street cut me off. Brynn set down the spoon, Vulture set down his knife, and we all met each

other's eyes. The shower was soon a scream. We ran for the door. Chapter two. I'm gonna do two chapters today. Everyone is listening. You're gonna get to hear the first two chapters today. That's man, that's how much I love you.

genre that's that's like punk focused. Yeah, and there's a lot of it fits really well because a lot of like there's a lot of themes, like early death is a really big theme just generally in your writing, but also in this series. And like the what's interesting is kind of taking that that milieu where usually you've got like I don't know, a couple of FBI agents or whatever combating these these horrors that are are kind of inexplicable, whereas with with with this series, the horror is always

very explicable. The thing that's actually frightening is always the way human beings treat each other, Like the way people are pushed out and edged out and crushed in the margins of society. Like that's that's the actual horror. And the the monsters, the the occult stuff is you know, those are those are something a little bit harder to define. But it's not the as in the real life. As as in the real world, I should say, like that's I don't know, uh, is a unique vibe, So.

cage had been, Yet they lived. They opened their mouths to bellow and squawk and bleat, but their organless bodies let out only strange rasps mixed in with the good summer scents, early summer flowers, a neighbor's barbecue, a campfire. Farther off still was the iron of dried blood, the rod of death, the same as the rabbit I thought i'd dreamt. A fluttering above me caught my eye on

the power lines. Hundreds of birds without ribcas ages, sparrows and finches, jays and pigeons, cried dry and unholy, an angry jury to the trial below. I was transfixed. I can't say if it was magic or shock. I can't say the two are wholly distinct. I stood on the lawn with my jaw hanging low, staring at the undead spectacle before me. At the center, a man stood bent over,

fighting for breath. He'd been running, he'd been screaming. Hints of white hair peeked out from beneath his sweater's hood, and he wore patched black jeans and the look of a man condemned. For a moment, I thought he was the master of those animals, some punk rock summoner. But everywhere he tried to walk, a barnyard demon blocked his path. He was trying to reach us, Doomsday, he called out, his voice hoarse from screaming, Tell Doomsday run. I started

toward him. Vulture put his hand on my arm. He was filming with his phone. We've got to help, I said, we can't. Bolter said he was near to tears. Bryn on my other side was as well. They knew this man, They cared about him. Thursday and Doomsday stepped out the front door a few moments after the rest of us, each with an identical handgun. She held her slack at her side at dead weight. He kept both hands on the grip, his fingers near the safety. Where the hell

had I found myself? Then I saw the deer, the blood red deer stalk down the hill, the last remnants of the sun at his back as three antlers and sharp silhouette. The beasts parted for their master, and the old man straightened up turned to meet his fate. The creature reared on to his back legs and kicked the man in the chest. His ribs broke loud like gunshot. My ears rang from the blow. The man collapsed without a sound, and the deer reached his muzzle into his

chest and tore out his heart. If I'd had a car, I could have run. I could have safe somewhere, anywhere if I'd had a car. The highway was too far to run, and I had visions of that monstrous deer chasing me over the river through the forest, hoofs in my back, antlers in my chest, my heart held aloft above my dying eyes. So I didn't run. I stood in company with Clay's friends, near to paralyzed with fear. The Sun's almost gone. Vulture whispered, it's powerless at night.

The beasts parted once more, and the hill walked off down the hill, down toward the river and out of sight. The animals plodded slowly after the birds were still just then and the man was still forever. What the ever loving fuck? I asked? I was sweating. We were back in the living room, but Doomsday was the only one sitting. I couldn't figure out if I felt safer near the door and away from these people, or far from it and away from the corpse that lay under a sheet

on the patio. Vulture had left the stranger shovels over their shoulders to dig the man's grave. A small crowd was gathering on the patio, well wishers, investigators, the curious. No one told me, and I couldn't figure it out. Brynn put her hand on my shoulder blade. I recoiled from her touch. The creature's name is Ulixie, Doomsday said, what the ever loving fuck? You knew Clay? You knew his magic? Yeah, I mean he read taro and shit.

Sometimes he'd wave his hands around, say a couple words about chaos and endless spirits to like, get her head straight before we do something stupid or dangerous. You've never seen one of the endless spirits. No, I hadn't seen one of the endless spirits because the endless spirits were fucking metaphors. All right, they're not Doomsday, said, no shit. I started tapping the heel of my palm on my outer thigh obsessively. It wasn't a nervous habit I'd ever

had before. I'd probably never been so nervous. We burned the hell out of dinner. But Thursday came in with cups on a tarnish silver platter, offered me a cup. I knocked it out of his hand. The porcelain hit the wooden floor and rolled away. If only the floor had been cement, it would have smashed like it should have. After all these years I'd lived outside of polite society, I'd finally fallen through the looking glass. I know you're freaked out, Thursday said, I would be too, But right

now this can't be about you. Right now, we've got to figure some shit out. No Doomsday, said to her lover. It's all right. The words will hold. The house is safe. I'm safe. The plush couch welcomed me into its embrace. Brynn sat next to me and I leaned against her. I let my nervous energy flow out of me into the ground, like Clay had taught me. I let a stranger support me. The people in the house, they probably weren't going to hurt me. That's about all I could

ever be sure about anyone. Doomsday met my eyes. She was a severe, powerful woman, heavy set, commanding and beautiful, not without a certain warmth, a certain flicker of something carrying at the edge of her eyes. The deer's name is Eulixe, she told me again, an endless spirit, a demon, a creature of vengeance that walks these woods, swims in this river, watches this town. He's been a guardian spirit until tonight. You worship it, I said. It wasn't a question.

I'd say people revere him. There's no worship why, Doomsday sipped her tea. We summoned him to kill a man last year on Solstice, to kill a man who'd made himself king. We summoned him to keep anyone from following in that man's footsteps. Desmond Brynn said. There were about thirty people who moved here at the start, Doomsday said two years ago, in early spring. Clay was one of them. After a couple of months, when it looked like the place wasn't about to be cleared out by cops, word

went around. More of us showed up, mostly from Chicago. It was hard living, and we were cold and hungry and overworked. For some people it was a free place to live. Other people a place where anarchist ideals could be put into practice. Some of us came for our own reasons. It worked all right until Desmond motherfucker managed to take power. Thursday said. No one was supposed to be able to do that, that was the whole point. But I don't know. He got himself running the security Council,

and he got himself running in just about everything. He did some good, scared off some dudes who were giving us shit, but he just power man power just fucked up things to people. A tracks fucked up people in the first place. So you killed him, I asked, No, we didn't kill him, Thursday said. Then he looked introspective.

Well eventually, yeah, but only after it got all animal farm up in here and Desmond fucking beat this kid to death right there on the bridge in front of ten people, caved in his skull, tossed the body into the river. Ben the nicest little crust lord you ever would have met, Vulture said. He slid the door shut behind himself and started to strip off his grave soiled clothes. You have any idea how hard it is to get friend's body out of a river. We didn't know what

to do, Doomsday said. There weren't enough of us to kick him out. He had too much sway. We could have killed him, but it would have meant civil war. We were going to leave. Thursday said, about half the town was going to leave. Desmond started saying shit about how we couldn't like if we left. We couldn't be trusted because we knew too much. If we left, he quote couldn't guarantee our safety. Clay was the one who

talked to us out of assassination, Doomsday said. Thursday and I were on our way out the door, guns in hand, before the first light of morning of summer solstice, almost a year ago.

river and on to the stone. When the solstice sun rose, it drew Eulixe into the world. A spirit that turns the predator into the prey. Eulxe hunts the vengeful, the hateful. As Clay put it, Eulxe hunts those who wield power over others. I wouldn't believed a word that she was saying had I heard it the night before. As she spoke, her voice fell in and out of confidence. Likely the times she'd told the story before, it had been heroic.

Desmond and his crew tried to interrupt us. One of his friends ripped my blindfold off, just in time for me to watch Eulxe come out of the water. He staggered like a new born colt, then looked hard at Desmond. Desmond stumbled back, tripped, and Eulixe caught him by the throat, dragged him over to the river's edge and held his face beneath the water, ripped open his rib cage, tore out his heart. Desmond's crew fucked off. Eulixe stayed damn,

I said, polysyllabic expression was sort of beyond me. So yeah, welcome to Freedom, Iowa. For the past year, we've had this benevolent, murderous spirit watching over us, which is weird, but it's gone fine, which brings us to tonight. Thursday said, which brings us to tonight Doomsday agreed. The last thing Clay said to me when I dropped him off at a truck stop about two months back was that Eulixe would turn on his summoners. I didn't really believe him,

not until tonight. There was a rap on the sliding door and I jolted Vulture, slid open the door and had a brief conversation with someone. They're ready, I guess, he reported, then slipped outside. The days stood up, strained each other's collars and hair, then went out the door. Well, Brent said, I suppose we're going to a funeral. Duh, there's really a cliffhanger, but you know that's what we got.

if they've like appointed themselves security and sort of this. Uh, but also like when you're the the the difficulty is like it's a double edged knife, right because not only is there the problem of like people putting themselves in a position of power, but when you start talking about like, well, how do we get someone out of power, how do we like remove the like, well, that's the effectively the same problem, just a different shade of it, and it

can go it's the same dark places again. I just love I love the I love that all of the the actual like the quote unquote monster in this isn't

isn't the monster I can definitely see. You know, we talk when we hang out, we talk a lot about Tolkien, and I can see I can even see a bit of Toll Like I can see the Tolkien in this story, right, because like, no matter how how kind of like grand the magic we're talking about here, the actual, the actual conflict is always power and how to use it and how it gets used, whether or not it ever can be Uh anyway, I don't know. I like your stories, Margaret.