“No, Rick, what was the worst?”
“Their touch. If a smoker touched a person for a long period of time, that person became a smoker instantly. It's horrible. One day Bill and I found ourselves inspecting an old gas station. Bill was a young boy from the Kansas area, I don't think he'd ever left his village, and he was checking the pumps for gas and then I smelled them. When that happened, problems started to take place. I remember that conversation: ‘What... what...? What's up, Rick,’ stammered the good Bill who sensed the problems in the air. ‘They're here,’ I replied. ‘You're... you're... Are you sure?’ ‘Yes. “How... How do you know for sure?’ poor Bill kept replied incredulously. ‘Because of the smell, Bill, because of the smell’. ‘Smell, smell of what? Rottenness?’ ‘No, Bill, nicotine’.”
Rick looked at the place on the floor where he had deposited the faceless doll and continued talking.
“Then, without warning, a smoker came out of the shadows. Bill fell to the ground. He rolled and rolled across the ground. A brave boy is able to hurt. I missed the first shot to the head of that smoker; both were very close. Bill couldn't get the smoker off his back. Finally, I fired an accurate shot, the bullet pierced the smoker's right temple, but that wasn't enough. Smokers could resist worse injures. After all, they never had brains, and that smoker was so small that a single shot wasn't enough for anything. The smoker continued to fight the desperate boy, without giving him any truce. The smoker's hand rested on the face of the poor, frightened Bill. He fought with all his soul, managed to kick the monster out of the way and shot him twice bluntly. But it was too late. Then I noticed the first symptom in my companion, he started crawling like a desperate little dog on the floor, looking for some cigarette butt or something remotely similar to put in his mouth.”
Rick put his right hand to his chin, scratched his beard hard, as if trying to remember something.
“Then the second symptom appeared. Bill had never smoked in his life, but he began to intone the words a thousand times cursed: ‘Giiiiive me a liiiiight...’. He had already been converted. Luckily, I had three nicotine patches in the pocket of my jacket. I shot a porous patch right into his hand. That gave me a vital time. Bill, or what was left of him, started desperately sucking on the patch. He was eager for nicotine. It's the last thing he saw before I shot him with an accurate gunshot between the eyebrows.”
Rick fell into a deep silence, swinging his body slowly in the wheelchair.
“Rick, why did you say this was a truce before?”
“I repeat. They're out there. They're waiting for us. They're just giving us a break. Humanity never learns from its mistakes. In every region, country, habitat, there is a place; a place of nightmare enveloped in a thick fog that is not such. The NON-Zone.”
A masculine voice interrupted them.
“Excuse me, it's time for medication. You must leave. Rick must rest.”
Corinne and Peter slowly left the room. The boy dressed in a white robe kindly accompanied them to the exit.
“Is he always like this?” Peter asked intrigued.
“Oh, no. There are worse days. Some days he thinks he's Superman or even God.”
“How could our great world hero look so bad?”
“The last great battle in Dallas. A fight to the death against Patrick Swuaize.”
“Wow...”
“Yes, Patrick, the King of smokers was superior in everything. Style, movement, strength, performance... He was the only smoker capable of dancing, singing and putting a cigarette butt in his mouth all at the same time.”
“How could he...?”
“Beat him? He only had one chance. He grabbed his old Texan hat, and throwing it towards Patrick's face, he managed to create a little distraction. If Patrick fell, the rest of the smokers would be history, the gregarious instinct of the smokers encouraged them to choose a leader, so if Patrick fell, the smokers wouldn't know where to go. Smokers have always needed icons to continue to exist. And Patrick was the greatest of them. Our great hero knew it, so he played his last card. Humanity's last chance. With his perfected Karate technique, he made one last flying kick less than a meter away from Patrick's face. And he did it. The body of the famous smoker fell to the ground, but the smoke intake had been excessive. Anyone else would have died, or even worse. But not him. Not our great hero. However, his mind, filled with all that crap, simply broke. Since then he is in neuropsychiatric treatment, away from all those he saved in life.”
“Oh,” said Corinne in distress. “Poor man.”
“Yes, that's right. Mr. Norris sacrificed his life and sanity for us.”
Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police
A giant building stretched out before Peter and Corinne, the rectangular shape resembled an old warehouse and a gigantic fence surrounded the entire perimeter. A very large stone arch welcomed them and in the apse of the arch it could be read some sculpted letters: Defending the law.
An Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Policeman waited for them under the arch of the entrance.
“Welcome Corinne and Peter. This is Fort Dufferin. My name is John Alexander and I will guide you through the main building of the world's most important headquarters. Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters. The world's oldest safeguards.”
The speaker wore the typical officer costume, a red jacket with a black belt, sky-blue puffy trousers, and flawless black boots. In addition, the man wore an elegant brown hat that elegantly highlighted the whole.
Corinne painted her nails carelessly, while Peter recalled his childhood youthful dream of being an ex-cop on horseback. A broken dream at an early age by his inability to open easily legs, a prerequisite for horseback riding. For this reason, as a young man, he was considered unfit for ex-police service. Peter still remembered the words of his teacher Paquita Johns from pre-school: “Peter, you are no good to be a member of the Ex Canadian Mounted Police, but quiet, you can always devote yourself to some easier job for your skills, as a journalist for example.”
John abruptly pulled him out of his daydreams.
“Please don't record anything in the whole room, but you can take notes. We will begin our tour shortly.”
It was normal for Corinne to be absent in this situation. Everyone knew the strong celibacy of the famous police force. An Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Policeman vowed not to engage in any sexual activity while serving on the corps. Add to that the fact that he couldn't record anything with his camera at all, and the only distraction for the camera operator was to paint her nails. A couple of former mounted policemen passed in front of them and greeted John Alexander.
“Hello Mountie.”
“See you later Mounties,” John Alexander politely replied to the former mounted policeman couple who had just crossed his path.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Corinne boringly, “what does Mountie mean?”
The former policeman smiled with a correction typical of the ancients.
“Mounties is what we call each other. The origin of the word was lost some time ago because of the Great Smoke, that cruel war against smokers that took place more than fifty years ago. Unfortunately, the smokers burned all the books and only the oral tradition remained.
“What about computers?” Corinne said, not without a certain reluctance.
“The computers of that time had great deficiencies. Since there were no humans to maintain their archaic data systems, they soon became volatile. In addition, they had different operating systems that were incompatible with each other. The few devices that survived the Holocaust showed unconnected, ambiguous or even contradictory data.”
“Didn't they have the SOS system?”
“No, citizen Corinne, at that time they didn't own our beloved SOS. Humanity was not as united as it is now and they only thought of their own.”
“Sorry,” Peter interrupted, “and, who gave them the necessary information about what a Mountie was?”
“With regard to your question,” the former policeman smiled, “the clowns gave us the answer, for they possess an astonishing collective memory, not in vain were from antiquity great travelers and great guardians of oral transmission. The word Mountie comes from an ancient group of clowns called Monthy Pailton. After the Great Smoke, and thanks to our heroic acts, the clowns decided to nickname us the Mounties, in honor of this group of ancient clowns. All members of the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police take this nickname very seriously. And after this subsection, if you will please follow me.”
John Alexander guided them through the first floor of the main headquarters. Very stripped-down offices governed the decor. The second floor, with large wooden beams, had a pre-smoking style. The Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police led them to a large room with many seats, in the middle of which was a gigantic round table with letters carved in an ancient language.
“It is English. I studied it,” said Corinne as she gladly patted her hands as she came out of her silence.
“This Corinne is a strange woman. Who learns English which is a dead language? She is ridiculous, being able to learn the Newspeak”.
“It says something like. T... H... E…R... F... O... R... C... E... What does it mean? Don't I know that word? Is it some kind of hair shampoo?
“What I thought. You have no idea about English. What a phony.”
“I'm glad you asked me that question. It's the old doctrine we follow in the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police. Jediism contemplates The Force, an energy underlying every being or object in the universe.
“Oh! Yes! He really knows English. Now you have impressed me Corinne.”
“I didn't know that the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police followed a religion,” struck Peter in amazement, “especially when years ago it was mathematically proven that God doesn't exist.”
“But The Force is no God, citizen Peter. The Force unites us all.”
“Like string theory?” Peter asked.
“Like Paterson nail polish?” Corinne continued.
The Ex-Former policeman looked at them very seriously.
“Much more. Infinitely more. The Force unites everything. Even the Force itself is united by itself of how strong it is.”
“Unbelievable, more than string theory,” exclaimed Peter.
“Unbelievable, more than Paterson nail polish,” added Corinne.
Peter and Corinne looked at each other with a certain skepticism, although this initial reaction soon disappeared before the voice of John Alexander, who possessed a surprisingly captivating voice. Both Peter and Corinne had fleeting daydreams about the entity appointed by the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police, although their personal ramblings differed greatly from each other.
Peter mentally ratified the words of his former teacher Paquita Johns. He could never have been an ex-cop.
“Look at him. How he arches his legs as he walks.”
Corinne, for her part, thought that the members of that police force were very boring characters, not one of them had deigned to look, albeit out of the shadows, at the deep neckline she carried for that occasion: “Are they blind or dumb?” thought the disillusioned Corinne.
And again, being moved only by the most atrocious boredom, Corinne in the middle of that room again asked a question.
“Why were the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police the only police force that survived the Great Smoke?”
John Alexander took a penetrating look into Corinne's eyes.
“By a simple rule not possessed by the rest of the police forces of that time,” John Alexander knew how to use silences well. “It was the only defense corps that banned smoking.”
A prolonging “wow” arose from the throats of Peter and Corinne.
“All the old police forces allowed…” John made another deliberate pause, “smoking among their ranks. Poor puppets of disease. All these entities were struck down by the Great Plague. All but us.”
John Alexander stared at them.
“Please follow me. I have one last surprise for your documentary.”
Peter and Corinne went down to the basement. A place carved in stone with strange marble columns that joined the floor to the ceiling. Many galleries with different tunnels made their way from the center of the room to which they had descended by elevator.
“Do you have a 3D documentary screening room down here?” Peter's astonishment was genuine.
Meanwhile, Corinne showed her particular face of disenchantment at the prospect of being a passive spectator. She was still enormously bored with those former policemen and her nail polish was running out.
“No, citizens, still better,” continued John Alexander with a laugh. “They're in the information room. The Stone Room. Paper is an extremely volatile material, as our ancestors discovered for their misfortune, as well as a powerful food for compulsive smokers. Computers are also really fragile machines, no matter how much we improve, in the face of a new catastrophe, their circuits and lack of energy would turn them into useless material. Humanity cannot rely on paper or silicon to preserve its legacy, our valuable historical heritage. So, what is the only thing that lasts? The only thing that survives the passage of time?”
Peter and Corinne didn't know what to answer.
“The stone. A robust material, highly resistant, which also has the attraction of being in large quantities on our planet. Since we won the war, the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police has been carving the history of mankind into stone. These stones contain in newspeak and pictorial drawings the history of humanity since the Great Smoke. This will survive a catastrophe. The disease of smokers, the Great Smoke, the rise of clowns to power, the contribution of the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police. All that and more is carved here.”
Peter looked around, trying to write down what he had just heard.
“And this is the end of our journey. If you are so kind, I will accompany you to the exit, not without first commenting to you, citizen Peter and citizen Corinne, the sale of gift products made in Fort Dufferin at the exit. If you want, you can take with you a lightweight stone book weighing only four hundred twenty-three ounces, or a beautiful necklace pendant made of seven stones, the latest in fashion. Think about it, Peter and Corinne, because with the second purchase we make a significant discount.”
Pepa Frank's diary
“Corinne, everyone thought he was a legend, but Pepa Frank existed.”
Corinne, sitting peacefully on the co-pilot's side, looked at Peter without any trace of effusiveness. The van continued at good speed along the road on its way home.
“It's incredible, we have the only copy of Pepa Frank's diary.”
“How interesting,” said Corinne in her usual tone of boredom. “I can't wait to read it.”
The van was advancing at constant speed along that secondary road in the Left Zone, a very torrid place.
“Let's stop for lunch. I can't wait to read Pepa Frank's diary. I'll read it to you aloud.”
“For my sake, don't bother.”
“This dude is silly. One of the most important journalistic discoveries and look at her. As if we had found a pot of jam in bad shape.”
Peter stopped the van in a service area in that desert area which had not been passed by a single vehicle for a long time.
“It starts like this...” Peter began to read the newspaper aloud, ignoring Corinne's words.
~~~~~~~
Dear Daily,
May 3rd. My family and I have climbed into the attic of the neighbors' house. It's horrible, the bad guys who smoke passed in front of the house the other day... My dad said to be very quiet and quiet. Everything was a game. We had to be quiet and quiet, otherwise the bad guys who smoke would find us and we would lose. Dad thinks he can fool me. Maybe if I get it with my little brother Pepito, but I'm older, I know it's not a game.
May 20th. The neighbors have finally welcomed us in their attic. Mrs. Juarez didn't want to at first, she said 'there are a lot of mouths to feed', but Dad brought all the food from home and gave it to her. The safest place in the world is a good attic. Bad gentlemen who smoke don't like to climb stairs, or do sports because they drown from the effort, or at least that's what Dad says. We'll be safe here.
June 15th. Tonight, is especially bad. Dad made us shut up. Today the game became very dangerous. I looked out the window and saw horrible things. Lots of bad gentlemen who smoke, sad eyes, extinguished by the rain, cigars in wet mouths. And those brown and gray dresses because of the strontium. Strontium was to blame for everything, Dad always repeats. The bad gentlemen who smoke howl like a herd of hungry dogs. I think one has seen me. I hide. I'm very scared. Dad tells me to hide, otherwise the smoker will come and smoke me. Bad gentlemen who smoke are very scary, Dad laughs, says they are some ‘chacuacos comechingones’. I laugh so I don't know how scared I am.
June 28th. The meal is over. Mrs. Juarez is nervous and angry. Andresito, her son, is a very good friend of mine. But there is little food. There are no tortillas left and Mrs. Juarez gets very angry when there is little food.
July 3rd. Dad promised to come back with food. I didn't know that in Mexico there was so much bad guy who smokes. Mrs. Juarez says that God has punished all those drug addicts. But I think that if God is good, he couldn't have punished them. Every night I pray for Dad, so that he will come back. With him here everything will be better. The bad gentlemen who smoke howl at night. It's horrible. Glazed eyes. Grey and brown clothes. That lost look. One night I looked out the window again. I stared at them. I recognized one, he was an old neighbor of my parents. Mr. Velázquez was good when he didn't smoke. Why did good people start smoking and become bad?
July 6. Dad is back. It's an immense joy. He hasn't brought much food, but I don't care about that. Mrs. Juarez has reproached him that there was so little. I kept quiet because we are in her house and Mom taught me to respect our elders and that when we were guests in someone else's house we should keep quiet. But every day I hate Mrs. Juarez more and more. Dad is weird...
August 2nd. Many estimated daily days have passed. I'm still not over Dad. I'm sad. The day after coming back with food, Dad started to get sick. Mr. and Mrs. Juarez examined him. Dad had ingested a lot of smoke, they said. Soon he will become a smoker. One day I woke up and Dad was no longer with us. I couldn't believe it. Dad had always been good, why do good people always leave? First Mom with that bad disease, and now Dad, because of the tobacco smoke. I miss you so much, Dad.
August 13th. Yesterday I saw Cantinflas walking the streets. He smoked a great cigar. At his side Mr. Mariachi played a very sad song while smoking. Cantinflas touched his mustache while he extracted smoke from the great cigar. Dad loved the movies of Cantinflas, but to see him like this now, in the street, surrounded by smoke and ugly smell, surrounded by bad gentlemen who smoke. I became very sad. I couldn't help crying. Mrs. Juarez was very angry when she discovered that she was looking out the window and that she was crying like a spoiled woman. Didn't she know that she was putting them all in danger? I bit my tongue and swallowed saliva. I didn't want to put them all in danger.
August 28th. Food is scarce, we barely have enough to put in our mouths. Luckily, being an attic, the water is not lacking. Mrs. Juarez has a huge jerrycan of water on top of the roof. On the roof. But we can't open the windows, the bad guys who smoke could hear us, and the smoke from the street could get in. It is very hot. Cantinflas and Mr. Mariachi are always around the house. Would you hear me the other day when I cried?
September 3rd. Last night we were very scared. My brother no longer makes jokes. And Mrs. Juarez is no longer angry. Now she always looks raptly at the same point. Cantinflas was on the other side of the door. Sniffing. We knew it was him because Mr. Mariachi accompanied him singing and smoking.
“Oh, oh, oh, brunette. Ay, ay, ay, my love. Ay, ay, ay, tobacco of my heart”.
A dark, melancholic song. We listened to his sad howling. We were all very quiet, very quiet, very frightened. I was so scared that I peed on myself. Mrs. Juarez was looking at her husband, and has been looking at that same spot since last night.
September 9th. Mr. Juarez and I are on the roof. It was horrible. Last night... I was so scared. Just writing I'm not afraid. I don't want any of this to be forgotten. My little brother coughed, couldn't control himself, he had one of his attacks. But Cantinflas was on the other side of the door and heard the cough. Mr. Mariachi began to howl a very sad song. Then they began to scratch the attic door. Soon more bad gentlemen who smoke were on the other side of the door. “Giiiiive meeeee a liiiiight,” we could hear his hoarse lament. They broke the door, Mr. Juarez was shaking his wife hard, but Mrs. Juarez was not immutable. Mr. Mariachi entered first, behind the rest of the smokers, then grabbed Pepito by the hair and smoked my little brother in the face. Mr. Juarez, with tears in his eyes, wanted to save Andresito, but his son was already in the middle of three bad gentlemen who smoke and Cantinflas at his side. Cantinflas told him, with such a sweet voice, a story of good children and bad children who smoked. With his sweet, feigned voice, he attracted him to him. There are no good moustaches. My little brother was succumbed to by the irresistible force of the almost hypnotic voice of the now feared Cantinflas. Mr. Juarez with tears in his eyes walked in my direction, I was almost paralyzed, scared to death with so much bad sir who smokes, Mr. Mariachi, the evil Cantinflas, Mr. Velazquez, smoked and laughed. I don't know how Mr. Juarez and I ended up on the roof, there a huge fence closed the way to the bad guys. I couldn't stop crying. Mr. Juarez closed the iron fence behind us.
September 14. Mr. Juarez and I hadn't eaten in two days. The food stayed down in the attic. Luckily, we had the giant water can. But that wouldn't be enough. At night Mr. Mariachi sang. And Cantinflas spoke to us with that sweet voice of yesteryear. We couldn't go down. The attic was full of bad gentlemen who smoke. Mr. Juarez stroked my hair tenderly, like my father did. He picked me up sweetly with his hands and we approached the edge of the roof. Three plants separated us from the ground.
September 18th. I will never forget September 14, that day we were born again. In the distance, with helicopters flying through the air, we could see strange men. Mr. Juarez stood on the edge of the building not knowing what to do. Then a voice sounded from a megaphone, “We are the Mounted Police of Canada. Be still, sir. We come to save you. It was a giant helicopter, the bad guys who smoke started howling very loudly, the bad guys who smoke are really annoyed by the noises. Inside the helicopter some clowns with red noses held out a rope and told us to tie it under our arms. I was the first one to go up. In addition to the clowns and the Canadian Mounted Police, some men in brown skirts were looking at us. “We are Shaolin Monks, not small subjects,” that's what they told me. And then they picked up Mr. Juarez, who was crying a lot. I didn't cry anymore. At that moment I looked at those red noses of the clowns and I knew that the world would be a better place again.
Now I have to leave you dear diary.
I am in a safe place and the clowns will take care of us. Here I have many things to do.
Signed: Pepa Frank.
~~~~~~~
A chubby tear rolled down Peter's cheek. That was something unbecoming of a male with hair on his chest. He clarified his voice and tried to hide the best he could.
“It’s hot Corinne, isn’t it? Don't you think that this incredible story of survival and courage so authentic made me cry? It's this terrible heat. An emotional account of the first days of salvation. What did you think?”
“ZZZzzzz...” For every answer, a little grunt came out of Corinne's throat. Her posture seemed to indicate a deep trance in the country of Morpheus, neck slightly tilted, temple leaning against the window. She seemed really asleep.
“Corinne?” A new drop of sweat fell on Peter's temple.
“Well, at least she hasn't seen me cry.”
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