Cycling my aura, I pumped it through my body and let it start healing my burns as I dashed through the smouldering remains of the back door. The kitchen was a flaming mess, as were several walls where my railroad spikes had punched through the sheetrock. I quickly located my saddlebags in the living room and stuffed them with everything that looked like it was mine and yeeted them out the front plate glass window.

Kicking through a brazillion beer cans on the floor, I searched the house for anything else of value, turning up a dozen guns including old trusty, a PVC quiver full of arrows, and small case filled with jewellery and several grand in cash. I tossed the cash, kept the jewellery, and reclaimed my guns. They might not work anymore, but they were mine and by God, anything mine is mine. Rescuing my trusty spikes from where they had been nailed to the walls and unwilling to hang around in a house fire, I walked out the front door and left the house to burn.

The other corpses were drained in short order and I figured out that I didn’t have to convert the black motes if I didn’t want, I could just filter them out and let them float away. It wasn’t nearly as filling though.

I also recovered my knife from Brown-teeth and gave his corpse a good kick before drinking it into dust. Picking up my hat, I dusted it off and clapped it atop my burnt head.

Cycling the sparks after each “meal”, I whirled them around and around and directed them through my body, my muscles, pumped them through my veins and sent them spinning around the spark in my head. Jesus Christ it was a great buzz. I felt like I had snorted two lines of coke and chased them with a shot of whiskey. My head itched fiercely as the hair grew back at an accelerated pace. There was no reason for it to grow so quickly besides my personal vanity, so I wondered about the priorities of my subconscious that was directing the healing process. Am I so vain that I’d prioritise growing hair over healing a pizza face? Yeah, I probably am.

The horses clomped out of the woods with a twitch from our bond. “Good job, guys,” I whispered to them, scratching their whiskery chins. “You had one job to do and you did it excellently. I’m very, very proud of you.”

I really was happy with them staying put in the strand of trees by the house and not wandering off. This whole bonding thing was awesome. I could feel their unhappiness with being saddled and ridden all day and sent back a promise that they could rest soon. We just need to get down the road a few more miles.

I began organising my belongings and changed out of the bloody, burnt rags that covered my body, including the underwear I had somehow pissed in. No clue when that happened, but there were plenty of opportunities to piss myself in the last thirty minutes.

I had to tighten my belt another notch. When I started this journey I was a fat 5’10” and well over 200 pounds. Now, I’m maybe 190ish. I’ve burned away at least 20 pounds of fat on the ‘let people try to kill you’ diet. I’m not entirely unhappy about the situation though, another 30 pounds and I can fit in the acid washed jeans I’d worn in the 80s when I weighed 160 pounds. Still had them, still hoping to get into them.

A man should have goals, shouldn’t he?

Once I had things organised to my liking, I strapped the saddlebags back to the horses along with Red-caps bow and the quiver of arrows.

There was still one other matter to deal with though.

I took a deep breath and stared up at the aurora dancing overhead. Methuselah’s star was setting in the west, a glaring red eye watching from above. I’m not a white knight. I have no aspirations of rescuing damsels in distress. I’m certainly not going to be rushing in to rescue any maidens from a dragon. And to be 100% honest, I prefer my women to be strong, independent, and very insistent on paying the bill when we go out to dinner. I really, really like financial independence in a woman. It turns me on something fierce. Don’t kink-shame me.

So why is it that three times in one day I’ve found women in need of rescue? Is my life is a fucking trope, or is it the result of a society that places demands and expectations on people based on their sex?

I heaved another sigh and headed back to the RV.

Epictetus said, there is only one way to happiness and that is to cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will.

All I can control is the choices I make right now. And right now I choose to get to my daughter. Everything else is irrelevant.

I heard a muffled yelp as I rocked the vehicle climbing in, followed by frantic movement in the rear. I made my way to the master suite and stopped in the doorway.

“I told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”

She looked at me and gasped, covering her mouth in horror. I must look seriously fucked up.

“Are they dead? Did you get the key?”

“Yes to the first, no to the second, but I can probably take care of the lock. Maybe.” I said. “Stick your leg out.”

Her leg emerged from the thin sheet. I could see where she had been sawing at the lock with the file and I pushed out a tentacle, inserting it between the hasp and the chain. Increasing the pressure gradually, I expanded it like I did in the porcuweiler’s mouth. My tentacles were kinda ‘squishy’, not really made for slicing or being used as a prise bar. The tentacle deformed around the lock and I banished it.

I thinned it out inserted it into the lock and tried to pick it. I could feel the tumblers and move them, but I had no idea what I was doing. A video on lock picking would be really handy right about now.

Giving up on finessing the matter, I grabbed the lock with one tentacle and the hasp with another and pulled, increasing the pressure until it snapped open.

I cleared my throat and watched her stare at me, shivering.

“I’m not good at this kind of stuff,” I said, my raspy voice loud in the gloomy confines of the RV. “You need help and support that I just can’t provide.” I removed my hat and scratched my head, running my fingers through the itchy stubble of the new hair. “Everyone’s dead, the house is on fire, and I’m heading down the road. You should probably find some clothes and get home.”

I walked out of the RV and swung into the saddle, kicking Sparky into a trot. The house was a merry blaze against my back as I headed down the dirt driveway.

“WAIT! Please, stop!”

I spurred Sparky into a gallop, leaving the problems behind me. I’ve got my own problems. I’m not a goddamned white knight.

My psychic radar was cast far and wide as we approached the highway, seeking out anything that might even resemble a threat. I swore that I would never be caught like that again, kicking myself mentally for dropping my guard in the middle of an apocalypse. Stopping at the corner where I had ditched my other stuff, I quickly reorganised things and tied the bedding to the saddles. Climbing atop Sparky, I urged him into a fast trot before my very recent past caught up with me.

The remains of an old gravel pit sat on each side of the highway a couple miles past del Sol, creating two large lakes that were fed by underground springs and occasional overflow from the Chitto river. By the time I made it there, the sun was a bloody blaze in the western sky.

Checking the area with all my senses, I directed the horses down Lake Aldas road and through the half open cattle gate. There was a large house perched on the lake near the end of the road, about five hundred yards from the main highway. I’d cast envious glances at it every time I drove by, admiring its beautiful location on the edge of the man-made lake. I always thought it’d be a wonderful place to live.

It was cinders now.

Halfway up the dirt road I turned the horses north along a faint trail I had hoped would be there. Wright’s creek was a short distance away, and hopefully this trail lead to a good fishing spot on its banks. I ended up dismounting because of the density of the trees and underbrush, walking the last hundred feet or so until a sand bar revealed itself.

The horses drank noisily while I removed the gear from them and placed it by a convenient piece of deadwood. A small pit had been dug in front of the fallen tree and was filled with the blackened remains of previous fires. I scooped out the pit with my tentacles and scouted out some dry wood in the dying light of the sun.

Once I had a small fire going, I stripped and washed in the creek. My new skin was sensitive, a patchwork of a dozen shades of pink where the burns were healing. I used the coarse sand from the creek to scrub away the filth and grime before lathering up with a bar of soap I’d brought. It slipped from my hand and I snatched it back up with a tentacle, then had my first serious thought since this adventure had started.

Does anyone know how to make soap?

You can’t just google it anymore. The green lump of soap in my hand suddenly weighed a ton.

I had a shed full of stuff left over from my parents and grandparents — an old plow, a literal ton of tools because everyone in the family was a machinist or millwright, dozens of cookbooks from mum and her mother, along with some sewing and knitting stuff. I had no idea how to knit and only a vague idea of how yarn or rope was made.

How the hell do you jumpstart an entire civilisation?

Mechatronic engineer was a useless profession when civilisation collapsed.

Emerging from the cool water, I replicated my trick from the battle with Mike and pushed all the water off my skin using my aura, leaving me slightly damp in the humid summer night. The chemical heat pack included with my MRE never got hot, but instead warmed up just enough to be uncomfortable to touch and stayed warm far longer than it should have.

Spaghetti with beef and sauce, my favourite.

As the night deepened, the aurora became more visible, sinuous curtains of pastel blues and pinks that fluttered overhead and danced while I ate. Dinner and a show. All that was missing was a glass of whiskey.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as I was finishing up my meal, causing me to scramble and rearrange everything in preparation for rain. Locating a suitable patch of ground, I scraped it clean, dug a horseshoe shaped trench around it with my tentacles, then tied off one of my tarps between two loblolly pines. I dragged everything under the shelter then rigged up the third tarp for the horses. They didn’t really need it, but who the hell enjoys getting wet? I directed them to stay near the campsite and take shelter if they wanted.

Technicolour lightning bolts proceeded the storm, impacting the ground like artillery. Rain followed half an hour later, quenching the fires started by the lightning. Wrapped in blankets, I lay in my shelter and practised with my new abilities. Attempting to exit my body willingly was an exercise in frustration. I finally settled for meditating, just clearing my mind and observing my thoughts. Watching as they emerged from nothing, meandered around my head for a while, then wandered off into nothing. I existed in a peaceful space between dreams and reality.

I floated up from my body and into a world of muted greens. The woods were alive, trees glowing softly in my vision, tiny insects scrambling in the humus seeking shelter from the water. Even the rain itself was a psychedelic pattern of green, microscopic life contained in every drop. My forehead was a blazing beacon that would be the envy of every lighthouse keeper in America.

Turning away from my material body, I floated up the trail to the road, then over towards the highway, scouting for any signs of human life. A few rabbits were snug in their burrows, a coyote under a log, armadillos prowled in search of grubs, but no humans. Flying further up the highway, I pushed to the limits of my silver cord. When it became an uncomfortable pinch in my navel, I was over a mile away from camp. Siphoning some of the golden energy from my material body along the thread, the pinch ceased.

Silver motes sprang up around me, creating a strange pattern with me at the centre. A second later, energy began to course through my spirit, building like an orgasm. I fled the pattern just as a bolt of lightning smashed into it. Electric shocks tingled through me from the near miss. Looking back, I observed a strange fractal pattern burn itself into the asphalt and fade. [1]

Curious by nature, I pulled more energy from my material body. Moments later the silvery motes drifted up from the ground and that orgasmic feeling flowed through my spirit. I dodged away and a technicolour lightning bolt blasted the spot where I had been, burning the same pattern into the ground once more.

I debated on returning to my body at that point. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. But three times is enemy action, right? Was I willing to risk dodging a third strike to prove my hypothesis?

Why yes, Monkey Brain. Yes I am.

Besides it being an intensely pleasurable experience, I am currently covered in silvery motes — and they are absolutely delectable.

Should I push this energy back into my material body?

Naaah. Not today, Satan.

I repeated the experiment and it produced the same results. The lesson I learned is to never channel psychic energy during a thunderstorm because it’s probably lethal. I should probably reflect on the other lessons I learned today as well.

Sipping on the silvery motes, I floated further down the road and scouted all the way to the small town of Brush, nearly three miles away. There were people under the bridge already, but I wasn’t sure if they were indigent or simply camping. There were several horses with them, which reminded me that there was a horse farm somewhere in the area. Considering how valuable horses were likely to become in the future, I tried to think on how I might be able turn this into an opportunity.

Tugging the silver cord attached to my navel, I returned to my body and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Footnotes

1. The first clue to understanding magic and enchantment.

See Also: “The History of Magic” by Lilwin Carter

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