Star-Spangled Apocalypse Read online

  By Harmon Cooper

  Copyright © 2018 by Harmon Cooper

  Copyright © 2018 Boycott Books

  Edited by Andi Marlowe @ www.andromedaediting.com

  Narrated by Andrea Parsneau

  Cover by Dan @ covermint.design

  www.harmoncooper.com

  [email protected]

  Twitter: @_HarmonCooper

  All rights reserved. All rights preserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Just Another Tuesday

  Chapter 2: The Somali Pirates and the Jeep of Destiny

  Chapter 3: The Dream Mask

  Chapter 4: Shitty Roommate

  Chapter 5: Salvia Divinorum

  Chapter 6: A Newborn Journey with Wild Wolves All Around It

  Chapter 7: Coffee and Religion

  Chapter 8: Amita and Hope

  Chapter 9: Hope’s Mansion

  Chapter 10: Cheese, Wine, and Fugitive Phenomena

  Chapter 11: Arjuna and the Jiggaman

  Chapter 12: Nathaniel the Blind Elvis Impersonator

  Chapter 13: Cody’s Applejack Moonshine

  Chapter 14: Maggie’s Motel

  Chapter 15: Mika’il and the Emerald Feather

  Chapter 16: Gott Würfelt Nicht

  Chapter 17: Molly Meets Modafinil in the Wake of Virgil’s Dream

  Chapter 18: The House in the Middle of Nowhere

  Chapter 19: Truth or Consequences

  Chapter 20: The Mime Cowboy

  Chapter 21: Failed Destiny Line

  Chapter 22: James Draws his Sword

  Chapter 23: Eve

  Chapter 24: Hope Arrives in Denver

  Chapter 25: A Clean Break

  Chapter 26: Gabriel

  Chapter 27: Tomahawk

  Chapter 28: Armageddon Skills

  Chapter 29: Two Pigeons

  Author’s Note

  This was the first book I wrote, yet about the thirtieth book that I published.

  For story research, I actually took the very same cross-country journey as the protagonists take, lived in Austin, and was a barista when I wrote it. Parts of Star-Spangled Apocalypse were handwritten, other parts were typed, much of it was cut and pasted back together, and there was art in the original, which is why I included updated art in this version.

  I wrote Star-Spangled Apocalypse a decade before deciding to publish it, and spent six months tweaking, gutting, and revamping the manuscript you now hold in your hands. I ended up stripping about twenty-five thousand words in the process. Oddly enough, this book makes more sense now than it would have back when I originally wrote it, as it touches on huge themes that our society currently struggles with (and possibly, will perennially struggle with).

  I figured I’d get around to publishing it at some point, but I didn’t know how it would fit into my current lineup of books.

  I normally write science fantasy, cyberpunk, and LitRPG/gamelit books. How the hell was I supposed to fit an urban fantasy with post-apocalyptic and political undertones that relied on an alternative timeline into my cannon?

  The answer turned out to be rather simple– by publishing it.

  Enjoy,

  Harmon Cooper

  Prologue

  Virgil wore a sweat stained headband to keep his long hair out of his face, a freshly cut pair of blue jean shorts, and had just taken two hits of acid and one tab of ecstasy.

  Shit was about to get lit.

  He had a little less than one hour to find a comfortable place at Eeyore’s Birthday Party, a yearly celebration of hippie nostalgia and hijinks held at Pease Park. Started by a University of Texas English professor in 1963, the celebration had blossomed from an insignificant occurrence into a costume-drenched, music-filled gathering of weekend weirdos, drugged out drum circles, reggae bands, fairies, dreadlocks, hacky sacks, hula hoopers and pop-up shops selling everything from Jamaican flag colored bongs to free trade scarves.

  Virgil glanced down at his watch to note the exact time he had dosed.

  “Forty-five minutes,” he whispered to himself as he slipped past a man wearing a ballerina outfit, the curled hairs of his chest poking out the top.

  Virgil was quick to boast that he had nearly gotten the art of hallucinating down to a science.

  It took preparation, time management (hence the watch), a good night’s sleep, and above all, a fascination with the unknown. To kill time and to possibly prepare for the blossoming mind journey, he decided to check out the vendor’s section of Eeyore’s. He watched cautiously as a man who looked like he had just stepped out of the Matrix began to set up a balancing act.

  You can never be too careful.

  The man smiled slyly and pointed at Virgil.

  Some people just know, he thought, as he made his way into a shop that was selling clothing with cleverly hidden stash pockets. As he exited the shop, Virgil noticed a blue tent with a handmade sign.

  The Oracle of Delhi:

  Palm Readings, Tarot Readings, and Aura Repair

  …A member of the Amphictyonic-Vāsudeva Council...

  He glanced again at his watch and decided he had time to get a little reading done. A heavyset Indian woman wearing a turquoise sari looked up from checking the messages on her Blackberry as Virgil entered the tent.

  “You would like a palm reading,” she told him, as she slipped the cell phone into the top of her sari.

  “Would I?”

  The palm-reading Oracle had a red tikka between her eyes and her sari was so tight that it had squinched a large roll of fat beneath her bosom. She wore a pair of gold rimmed glasses that appeared to be a size too large.

  “Sit,” she instructed Virgil as her cell phone buzzed. The women adjusted her weight in her chair and pulled the phone out of her sari.

  “Hello?” she said before switching to what Virgil assumed was Hindi. Something rumbled in his stomach and he swallowed it down.

  He glanced at his watch again.

  Soon. Thirty minutes until everything kicks in.

  The Oracle placed her mouth over the phone’s receiver: “We don’t have much time, do we?”

  Virgil shook his head at her as she continued to talk on the phone. He noticed a pair of incense sticks swirling smoke around a metallic picture of Krishna that had been hastily affixed to one of the tent stakes.

  The distinct smell of sage and cloves tickled Virgil’s nostrils as he inhaled deeply.

  “Hare Krishna,” Virgil whispered.

  The Oracle looked up at Virgil, mumbled something in Hindi to the person on the other line, and hung up the phone.

  “Let me see your palm,” she said quickly.

  “Sure…” Virgil wiped the sweat from his palm onto his jean shorts. “Which one?”

  “Right hand.” As Virgil placed his right hand on the counter, he noticed a faint twinkle in the women’s eyes as she looked over her glasses at him.

  “Hmmm….” She peered up at Virgil as an aura formed around her body.

  “What?”

  “Oh, child…” the Oracle said mournfully, as she lightly pressed her fingers against Virgil’s palms. “I have never seen this before.”

  Chapter 1: Just Another Tuesday

  The morning of the explosion that would change the city of Austin, Texas, forever was of little significance to James Sinclair. Since moving to Austin, Texas, a little over a year ago, his life had been slow, dry, and above all, boring.

  Fucking liberal ass city.

  There was that too
. He came to Austin to escape Colorado, and it was definitely on the list of stupid moves he’d made, costly too.

  James Sinclair was originally from Prison City, Texas, also known as Huntsville, which was a city a little over an hour north of Houston that got its nickname from the five state prisons that sat on the city’s perimeter, reminding those that inhabited the relatively hilly area that the eyes of Texas were upon them.

  Indeed.

  As soon as James had set foot in Austin, the United States had reinstated the draft, something he was still upset about, but not for the usual reasons.

  Because of America’s demand for caffeine, the United States had entered a special clause in executive order 88021 that granted draft immunity for citizens skilled as baristas (provided that they had at least a year of experience under their belts). James had been a barista now for nearly ten years, so even if he had been a few years younger and in better shape, his barista skills would still have prevented him from going overseas.

  What a joke.

  James detested the fact that he couldn’t be off fighting some unknown enemy or traveling to exotic places in search of Russians or Jihadists. Sure, he could quit his job as a manager at the McStarbucks in Westlake, but then he’d lose his lifetime coffee benefits, and since he’d transferred in from Colorado, he made almost as much as the store manager even though he was only a shift manager, and shit, the war would end and then where would he be?

  Fucked.

  Yeah, he could probably take part in one of those veteran programs, or whatever amalgamation would come after the war, but he’d be competing against fellas that had actual experience at actual real jobs. Sure, he’d be able to land an interview, but would he be able to land a job?

  Likely not.

  So James was stuck keeping Austin weird, staining his black leather shoes with dried milk, slowly feeding the fiends their evening lattes, cleaning the gooey phlegm left on an overused steam wand, cursing and generally hating his life.

  No glory, no Churchillesque escapades, no quick pussy on the account that he could have been a war hero, and most unfortunately for James, no escape from his mundane life. His only moments of excitement had been reduced to watching recently steamed milk swirl down the drain, or getting so drunk that he didn’t recognize himself in the mirror.

  Even his Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu subscriptions were getting stale, the content even worse.

  “Fuck my life.” James closed his eyes, attempting to fall back asleep. He burped, and it tasted like whiskey.

  As he lay there rehashing his early evening binge-drinking session, a flannel landscape full of self-modulating cubicle lumps spread into his mind like an overworked parabola at its breaking point.

  An image of his estranged son took shape.

  The image flickered as dazzling confetti reflections sprinkled from the back of his mind to a small vortex above his son’s head. Gradually, more details faded into focus, the vision finally becoming clear and authentic.

  James and his son were sitting on a park bench near a tiny, velvety pond and waiting to feed two of the ducks that were drifting their way towards them. The sky was a pleasant blue and the water clear and pure.

  James smiled.

  This was what he had always wanted, just another moment to hold onto.

  James’ heart stopped when he felt the warm air of someone breathing on his neck. He looked left to see an emaciated woman with withering skin gnawing at her wrists, as if there were a chain holding them together.

  Her body was no larger than that of a child, her scalp red and infected.

  “I hate you, James,” the emaciated woman whispered, her eyes boring a hole through his very soul as she emerged from the pond.

  The sharp lines of her face began oozing a light pink sweat as she reached towards James, inching closer with her long fingernails and scratching at the air.

  Suddenly, she was at his feet, her teeth straining to tear into his flesh.

  He tried to kick the zombie bitch off as he turned to protect his son only to find that…

  James screamed.

  His son was gone, nowhere to be found. He looked left and right in a panic.

  Nothing.

  James glanced to the pond just in time to see the decayed female holding his son’s hand and leading the young boy into the transparent water, blood trailing after them.

  He fell to his knees and awoke from the terrible nightmare.

  “Fuck me.” James reached to the floor for his flask, or as he jokingly called it, Ol’ Faithful.

  Ol’ Faithful, his flask, had truly become his only friend since he had moved to Austin.

  Sure, there were a few people he worked with, namely an uber libtard shaman-wannabe-day-tripper named Virgil, but James wouldn’t really count them as friends – just prolonged acquaintances that he had grown accustomed to being around.

  Nobody knows who or what I really am.

  James took a sip from the flask, sighing as the liquor surged down his gullet. He wiped his mouth and tossed the flask back to the floor.

  “Stupid fucking dream.”

  He felt completely anonymous in Austin; he’d lost contact with virtually everyone he knew back home and longed to go back and change everything.

  What’s more, no one knew why James was in Austin, Texas, in the first place. And most importantly, no one knew why his eight-year-old son, Zane, lived in Denver instead of in Austin with him. Hell, most people didn’t even know he had a son.

  He slammed his fist on the mattress and groaned. His alarm went off, and the voice of BreitFox morning host Rush Hannity blared from his alarm clock.

  ~~~~ … And that, people, is why I, as a proud, flag-loving American, refuse to get my coffee at Crunkin’ Cronuts. The left wing mainstream liberal media won’t report that Crunkin’ Cronuts’ CEO gave $25,000 to the DNC since the start of the year. They’re too busy trying to pick this administration apart, but you know, and I know because I’m friends with the president, that our president is indeed one of the smartest men to ever walk the face of the earth. Einstein? You bet. Are we talking the next Reagan here? You bet your ass. But this is just me talking to you. I’m someone like you, just a hardworking American like our president, who built his companies from the ground up, no help from nobody, no help from the overreaching federal government, no handouts, no help from daddy giving me a million. Just like you. So next time that relative of yours says something about Russia, or foreign policy, or dementia, or fitness to be commander in chief, or Twitter, or grabbing “them” by the “you-know-what,” you remember what I’m telling you now: Crunkin’ Cronuts doesn’t deserve your business. You tell them that. Rush Hannity, out.~~~~

  “Will do,” James said as he sat up. He never liked Crunkin’ Cronuts much anyway.

  James reached for his flask again but quickly gave up trying to find it. As Rush Hannity rambled on about FEMA and how he’s not evacuating the next hurricane to hit Florida because hurricanes are liberal conspiracies, James stared briefly at a large katana that hung from his wall in front of his bed.

  He recalled sitting in front of the mirror three nights ago, sword drawn, and staring at the blur in the mirror.

  That blur is me, he thought at the time.

  In a moment, a moment which he’d never forget, James put the sword to his neck, intent on only one thing. A clean break; one fluid slice – no more suffering.

  Then something strange and unexpected happened.

  His fire alarm went off, which caused him to instinctively place his katana back in its sheath. A strange, musky smell entered his nostrils. He remembered looking around the room and sensing a presence.

  This prompted James to walk around the apartment searching for whatever triggered the alarm.

  Nothing.

  The last thing he remembered about that night, three days ago, was lying down on the floor in his kitchen and eventually falling asleep, clutching Ol’ Faithful like a baby with a pacifier.

  Life
is an empty flask, always waiting to be filled and consumed.

  “Just another Tuesday,” James mumbled to himself as he got out of bed. He looked at his cracked smartphone screen and turned it sideways, so he could read the morning message from conservative radio host Tucker Jones.

  Morning, patriot!

  Are you staying frosty? It may be spring, but the LIBERAL LEFT WING MAINSTREAM MEDIA is trying to limit your news sources. As always, we here at the BreitFox News Network are doing our best to keep these godless denizens from poisoning our great country.

  CAREFULLY READ WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY NEXT:

  They’re going to come for you today.

  They’re going to tell you they’re coming for your guns, or that women should be able to make choices about their own bodies, or that healthcare is a basic human right, or that trickle-down economics has never worked before, or that global warming is agreed upon by 99% of scientists, or that gay people should be allowed to marry, or that contraceptives decrease unwanted births (NO BABY IS UNWANTED!).

  But what they REALLY want (trust me, I know, I’ve worked with these devil folk for years), is to expand the federal government.

  BIG GOVERNMENT = BAD!

  BIG MEDIA = BAD!

  BAD! BAD! BAD!

  #Badlibtard

  They’ll use big words like “obfuscation” all while peddling fake news. AND IF YOU aren’t careful, you’ll buy into it! Fake news, alternative facts, you know the drill. Libtards are experts at what they are doing. They have degrees! They aren’t the forgotten man of middle America! They are ELITES!

  These snowflakes want to have a dialogue only so they can try to reason with you, so they can come to some mutual agreement.

  MUTUALLY BENEFICIAL DESTRUCTION if you ask me.

  This is what you get if you try to work with these people. So stay vigilant today! And if you see anyone that remotely looks like they could be a closet leftie (you know the type), you let them know that you are making America great again (#MAGA), and that if THEY WOULD JUST GET ON BOARD we could have a country that actually functioned. A country of laws and prosperity!