It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion: Part One

Episode Date: October 8, 2023

In this first ever episode of the Cool Zone Media Book Club, Margaret Killjoy reads the first two chapters of her folk horror novella the Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion to Robert.  https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-lamb-will-slaughter-the-lion-margaret-killjoy/7104105See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hey guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. You should probably keep your lights on for

Nocturnal Tales from the Shadow. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of riot. An anthology podcast of modern-day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. Listen to Nocturnal on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. search better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose listen to better offline on the iheart radio app apple podcasts wherever else you get your podcasts from hey everyone it is it could happen here a podcast about things falling apart, about a little thing we like to call the crumbles, which is more or less the state of affairs we're all living in right now.

You know, hottest year on record, you know, unprecedented wildfires, smoke blanketing half the country, all that good jazz. It gets one in the mood for stories and not necessarily, you know, happy stories, but not necessarily sad ones either. 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, of, of fiction, particularly speculative science fiction, often with a dystopian bent to it uh i've written a book in that theme and then margaret killjoy a host of cool people who did cool stuff um 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 and were like,

you know what 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 but somehow we have not so we 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 how was that is that what you hoped for right for no that's good that uh that puts it more clearly than i would um that's good we're taking over sundays because there really wasn't anything to take over because there wasn't anything we weren't doing any sunday content yeah that's right now it's really a daily

show bitches yeah because no one there is no no one goes to church anymore but we suddenly still have sunday free and so we figured we can just sneak into sundays yeah are we saying that this is this is church for you now that we are your god yes essentially yeah why not yeah this story Why not? Yeah. This story does have things that are like gods in it. Yeah. Well, the first thing that we're going to do, the first several episodes are going to be one of my novellas. The general format is going to be that I'm going to have authors on to read me stories, but I thought that I would start with one of my own and bring Robert on to read Robert a story. I love stories.

The first story that we're going to read is a novella that I wrote called The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion. It was originally published by Tor.com, and you can read it in paper form if you want, or you can listen to it here. Margaret, what separates legally a novel from a novella it's a length thing it's a okay novellas are short novels it goes flash fiction short story novelette novella novel and honestly usually people just use the word counts of various um awards in order to determine the categorization of these things that makes sense and from that

point of view oh i don't have it in front of me but i think a novella starts at about 17 000 words and runs up to about 40 000 words and then novel takes over and this is at least i think for the hugo awards which this is not a winner of but it is the categorization that that people use i like writing i write short by default anyway and i don't know whether it's undiagnosed adhd or what i think it's it's just a matter of uh of skill and here's the thing, a lot of people who aren't in the biz may know, it's harder to write good short fiction than good long fiction. At least that's my opinion. It's the same reason why one of the things that was neat for a while about Twitter, it hasn't been this way for a minute, but back when there was an actual cap on how much you could post, 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 that's the thing i don't know i i it's silly to actually say like the 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. Yeah, no,

that makes sense to me. I remember in high school, someone told me that like cliche that every novelist is a failed short story writer and every short story writer is a poet. yeah and so i guess by that standards i'm a failed poet but don't worry i'm not subjecting you to that i'm only subjecting you to my fiction that's right that's right i will subject you guys to my poetry one of these days but uh I will subject you guys to my poetry one of these days, but,

uh, no, I won't. I didn't have a joke there. I was thinking I was, I was figuring one, but I, it turns out I don't have one. So let's,

let's just do the story. All right. So this book is called the lamb will slaughter the lion. It's the first book in the Danielle Kane series, which currently only has two books in it, but we'll see about me trying to solve that. Chapter one. Sometimes you have to pull a knife. It's not a good thing. I don't enjoy it, but sometimes you've just got to get a knife in your hands and make it clear which

way the stabby end is pointing. Let me out here, I'd said before the knife got involved. It hadn't been a question. Men always assume 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 hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere Iowa, but he wasn't nice enough to let me out where I wanted. That's alright, I said.

Just let me out. There'll be someplace better, a Walmart 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 jeans 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 28, I was getting old. Ten years ago, I'd talk to drivers about anything and love them for it. I loved the nice ones for their kindness, I loved 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 is 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 waist belt 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 on 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 ribcage 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 wildflowers 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 parked 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 guardrail 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 seeing 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 was an eye casting its longing gaze out over the river and Iowa. I walked up the cement steps to a large wooden patio on the side of the house and peered in through the sliding door, but it was darker inside than outside, and I only saw my own straggly short hair reflected in a silhouette in the glass. and straggly short hair reflected in a silhouette in the glass. I sat down on the porch chair and leaned back to ponder the empty town and my lack of luck. I had no idea how to find what I wanted to find.

I had 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 brontosaurus-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, unbearable 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 drowsowsy. It turned toward me, and its chest was a raw, red wound, its ribcage 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 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, 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. Wait, what's your last name? Kane. It wasn't my legal name, but it was my punk name you're danny kane 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 call 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 hell 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 of the house. While two full-size couches sat empty, the three people in the living room were crammed onto a love seat, lounging atop one another in the way that punks and puppies do. A man and a woman sat next to one another while another woman lay across them, tattooing the back of the man's neck by hand with needle, thread, and ink.

May I present to you Danielle, Vulture said, grandly gesturing. The Danny Kane. Danielle now, though. Just walked into 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 the tattooist, then held out his fists, hands together. He had the word Thursday tattooed on his knuckles, black against his brown skin. The woman sighed, then held out her pale hands, palms down. In the same font as Thursday's tattoo, but clearly more faded, was the word Doomsday. And this is Bryn, Vulture said. Bryn, the tattooist, looked up at me with pale gray eyes. An inch-thick black line was tattooed from the bangs of her hairline to the bridge of her 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. A 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 what brings you to this shitty little corner of the world, Brynn 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 kind of shitty, Doomsday said. By the look on his face, not talking was probably one of Thursday's least favorite things. All done, Brynn 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 Bryn 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? Brynn 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 start dinner, happy to see if making food could 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, Bryn said. I'd enjoy it, I said. I love cooking for groups, hated cooking

for myself. If it's just me, I'll eat fucking protein bars for dinner. Bryn turned on the lights, a series of bright LEDs wired into a wooden strip screwed into the ceiling. Where'd he get power, I asked. Solar, Vulture said, still staring at his phone. Don't use it for much, just some lights and 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 Bryn ran outside to turn on the propane for the stove. Where'd he get the gas, I asked. We, uh, Walter 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 their 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 turned the city water back on, he said. You can buy basically anything on the internet. Got it shipped to someone in Chicago. Vulture had this grand way of gesturing with every word he spoke, imbuing 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 aimed 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. Bryn set down the spoon, Vulture set down his knife, and we all met each other's eyes. The shout was soon a scream. We ran for the door. Chapter two. I'm going to do two chapters today everyone is listening you're gonna get to hear the first two chapters today that's how many that's how much i love you yay yeah i uh i read both of these a while ago uh and i'm eagerly awaiting the third but i i think the thing that like i found most enticing about this is like about,

about the Danielle Kane series in particular is this kind of like the, it takes the occult cryptid sort of milieu that I've always loved. And provide it's the first like procedural I've seen in that kind of genre. That's, that's like punk focused. Yeah um 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 in this series and like the um 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 uh 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 yeah like that's that's the actual horror um and the the monsters the the occult stuff is you know those are those are all 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 yeah i don't know uh is a unique vibe so no i appreciate that yeah hey guys i'm kate max you might know me from my popular online series the running interview show

where i run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. You know that rush of endorphins you feel after a great workout? Well, that's when the real magic happens. So if you love hearing real, inspiring stories from the people you know, follow, and admire, join me every week for Post Run High.

It's where we take the conversation beyond the run and get into the heart of it all. It's lighthearted, pretty crazy, and very fun. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me as the fire and dare enter? Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonorum. An anthology of modern day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters,

to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple podcast or wherever you get your podcast.

Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Chapter two. The sun sat fat and low on the western horizon. At the top of the street, and the last light of the day, lent everything vivid faded colors. White lambs, dappled with red and purple wounds, paced a circle around both lanes of the street, not twenty yards from where we stood. Geese dodged in and out between them, and a regal goat oversaw the parade. Each creature had only a gaping wound where its ribcage 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'd thought I'd dreamt. A fluttering above me caught my eye. On the power lines, hundreds of birds without ribcages, 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, Vulture said. He was near to tears. Brynn 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 hers slack at her side, a 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 stalked down the hill, the last remnants of the sun at his back, his 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 onto his back legs and kicked the man in the chest. His ribs broke loud like gunshot and 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 been 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,

hooves 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 plotted 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 with a 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 Ulyxie, Doomsday said. What the ever-loving fuck.

You knew Clay? You knew his magic? Yeah, I mean, he read tarot and shit. Sometimes he'd wave his hands around, say a couple words about chaos and endless spirits to, like, get our heads 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 teacups on a tarnished 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 alright. The wards 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 Ulyxie, 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, Bryn 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 just about everything. He did some good, scared off some dudes who were giving a shit, but he just... Power, man. Power does fucked up things to people, attracts 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 a 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. on our way out the door, guns in hand, before the first light of morning of summer solstice. Almost a year ago now. Clay caught up with us because he was gathering up the only people in town crazy enough to believe in his magic. Rebecca, she was the only other real witch. The man you saw die. His name was Anchor. The three of them came for me. In that early morning fog, we went down to the river right under the bridge. We each had a role. I was the innocent, they blindfolded me. Clay and Rebecca said their piece. Anchor drew blood up from his palm, let it run into the river and onto the stone. When the solstice sun rose, it drew Ulysses into the world. A spirit that turns the predator into

the prey. Ulysses hunts the vengeful, the hateful. As Clay put it, Ulysses hunts those who wield power over others. I wouldn't have 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 Ulyxie come out of the water. He staggered like a newborn colt, then looked hard at Desmond. Desmond stumbled back,

tripped, and Ulyxie caught him by the throat, dragged him over to the river's edge and held his face beneath the water, ripped open his ribcage, tore out his heart. Desmond's crew fucked off. Ulyxie 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 Ulyxie 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, straightened each other's collars and hair, then went out the door. Well, Bryn said, I suppose we're going to a funeral. it up straightened each other's collars and hair then went out the door well brin said i suppose we're going to a funeral there's not really a cliffhanger but you know that's what we got yeah i uh i i i find the uh the the the idea you're playing with here um particularly compelling because it's it's such again it's such like uh the actual conflict here is so grounded like a significant

chunk of our audience have have dealt with the problem of like self-declared security uh taking power and and radical activism like it's the it's like the easiest way to tell if somebody's a problem if they've like appointed themselves security um 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 um but when 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 the actual like the the quote-unquote monster in this 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, like, I can see the Tolkien in this story, right? Because, like, no matter 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 yeah whether or not it ever can be uh anyway i don't know i like your stories margaret yeah thanks well if people want to hear part two chapters three and four they're to have to wait a whole ass week. Isn't that just cruel? You assholes.

How dare you? Wait. Yes. Yeah. But we'll be back next Sunday for the second episode of the It Could Happen Here book club. Or is it the Cool Zone book club? What is this called? The Cool Zone book club. That is it the cool zone book? Yeah. What is this called? The cool zone book club.

That is you. That is your job to figure out. All right. It's the cool zone book club. Yeah. It rolls off. It happens here to your ear earbuds. So check back in next week where we will,

uh, we'll be doing more punk X files. I will say, I think, uh, modern David Duchovny would be great uh in as as an elder punk in the daniel cain series god one stick him in there one um one like wonderful brief week uh hollywood director uh who's like movies i've seen and shit was like messaging me on twitter looking into

adapting this and it didn't end up going forward but i had this moment where i was like i want to see this show so badly yeah well i also you could you could you could absolutely have molder in this just like molder as an adult when he's when his his life has finally collapsed around him just like living in a squat masturbating to not even studying pornography the way he always did on this show just like this week oh yeah that guy moved in here like a couple of years ago and he's like he's unsettling as hell but he seems like he might be the guy to go to about this monster situation everyone kind of puts up with him even though like he's not quite sure why he's there they're not quite sure why he's there. They're not quite sure why he's there. Yeah. Yeah.

Well, if you're listening, different Hollywood director than the last one who wasn't able to, you know, you can reach me. Yeah. But everyone else can reach me by waiting a week. That's not really reaching me. That's just waiting.

That's what you can do. Yeah. So wait. Hey guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast Post Run High is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my

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