by Eric Del Carlo
“Remember–before the Z Years? It was all stealth and tantalizing mystery. Does-he-doesn’t-he exist? Children believed, with driven-snow innocence. Then they’d get older and lose faith. Then, later still, they would be let in on the true secret. I’m real. Impossibly, deliciously real!
“Ah, that was charming.
“But the old business model became…frivolous. Under the current circumstances. In the face of the apocalypse. Besides, can you imagine these days trying to sneak into a Level Omega military lockdown? Or one of those fortressed apartment towers where the ten-year-olds know how to shoot an eye out at a quarter mile?
“We’ve had more urgent work these past four years. Relaying intelligence, carrying supplies. But our original mission statement stills holds true. I believe that.
“‘We deliver hope.’
“So it’s not baubles and knickknacks anymore. So what? The world has relied on us for annual joy for a long, long time. Now that merry consists of gross tonnages of MREs and all the hollow-points you can stuff in a stocking.
“And that naughty and nice shit? That’s done. That’s the past. All you got to be anymore is alive. Real alive, you know? Not shambling animated gobblers. Those bodies might’ve once held saints–and plenty of sinners too, don’t get me wrong. But I’d welcome back the worst degenerate and most inveterate miser if it meant there was one more truly living breathing thinking person in this world. Why? Because bad people can repent. But a romero is just mindless appetite. And they’re all on the bad list.
“So, we’ve got a responsibility. Different from our old quaint duties, I think it’s safe to say. For myself, I’ve done my best to keep this operation going. It’s been rough, running our game year-round. Jesus, look at me! I’m down to a middleweight again for the first time in I don’t know when. And everyone else has been driving themselves just as hard. It’s been brutal. It’s been…war.
“But what else did you expect from the Z Years?
“You hear that? That’s the last salvaged Black Hawk taking off. It had to be our factory personnel first. Those poor tiny bastards have been rolling shotgun shells and freeze-drying seal meat, and haven’t seen a toy in four years. I still don’t know if they really even understand what’s been going on all this time. But they’re loyal as hell.
“All this is my fault. I accept that. I didn’t see this coming, and I goddamn well should have. We seemed so safe up here. Maybe we got cocky. We didn’t think of the ice floes. I…I didn’t think of them.
“Now we’re overrun. Comet got chomped on the hind leg. I’m the one who put him down, just as he started to turn.
“So we need you. I know the crap the others have always given you, and I know I should’ve stepped in to stop it. I feel lousy about that. It’s not your fault you were exposed to toxic runoff from Arctic drilling. And you certainly didn’t ask for that exotic proboscis. We should have been kinder to you–decent, at least. I’m very sorry.
“Sorry enough, in fact, that I personally won’t blame you if you don’t want old Comet’s place in the harness. You should have been moved up years ago. It’s up to you, Rudy. Can I call you Rudy? Eight gets us airborne. Don’t do it for me, if that helps. Don’t do it for these other jerks either. Do it for everyone on the nice list. Do it for humankind.
“What do you say, Rudy?”
THE END