When the Marauders Came
- Aug 23, 2024
- 4 min read
by Michael Czyzniejewski
When the marauders came, Abel made sandwiches. He knew soldiers were always hungry, and if there’s one thing that might save his skin, it was a good spread. He considered fanning out the meats and cheeses on his largest serving tray, letting the marauders pick what they wanted, but he decided to make and tag everything himself. The largest plate held ham and cheddar, surrounded by several turkey and Swiss, a few roast beef and jack, and a couple plain cheese, just in case there’d be vegetarian marauders. The veggies and condiments he left off to the side, offering a splash of autonomy. As the marauders knocked down his door — “It’s unlocked,” he yelled — he wondered if there were any vegan marauders, marauders who’d see no viable options and would be disappointed, perhaps become more murderous. “You made sandwiches?” the first marauder through the door said. Before Abel could answer, the marauder drove a humongous spear through his stomach, lifting and posting him on the wall of his breakfast nook. Dying an agonizing death, Abel looked down, thinking how perfect it would be if someone slid a giant olive onto the spear, his own personal toothpick with a little bit of garnish.
When the marauders came, Jackson was barricaded in his studio, laying down what would be the culmination of his genius, his defining work. He felt the walls shake, through the soundproofing, and knew the enemy had breached his defenses. He couldn’t rush — the tempo was the tempo — but was sure to nail it on the first take: He wouldn’t get another. Understanding his family was likely being butchered above made it harder to concentrate — he avoided picturing their faces, hoping their deaths were quick. Pounding at the door began, impromptu percussion, and Jackson knew his future critics would cite the source, footnote the authenticity. As soon as Jackson struck the last note, he submitted the file to his producer on the other side of the world and the marauders were upon him. They knew exactly who he was, he figured, how they went straight for his fingers, chopping them off one by one, passing them around as souvenirs. Then they set his neck on the bridge of his piano, told him to pray to his gods. Jackson anticipated the lid coming down, over and over, a brutal but fitting end. Instead, it was a blade, sharp and quick, his last song his own head bouncing across the wires.
When the marauders came, Caspar scripted a podcast. She started recording, planning to post as soon as possible, perhaps simulcast live. Her content spoke of the marauders and her impending death, fishing for views and likes, forecasting the inevitability of her and everyone else’s demise. When it became apparent how correct she was, that she was about to die and do so horribly, she delivered her most compelling episode, her wisdom, her emotions, and her gratitude for her followers all more sincere than she’d ever mustered before. Right as the marauders entered her apartment, she was able to upload and simulcast, the world watching, live, by far her highest-rated episode.
When the marauders came, Carys was releasing all her pigeons. The first dozen carried news of the marauding, warnings to neighboring cities: number of troops, artillery counts, air support; patterns of attack and level of ferocity. As the screams and fires grew closer, her messages grew shorter: number of troops, how much time they had. When they saw her leaning over the side of her building and rushed inside to climb her way, she scribbled for three birds one word: RUN. When she heard them outside the door to the roof, she opened all the pens, shooed her babies to freedom. As the savages took her by the shoulders and dragged her to the edge, she watched the last of her pigeons fly across the gray sky, safe, the siege’s only survivors. The marauders then threw her over, and for a moment, she pictured herself as one of them, spreading her wings, taking flight.
When the marauders came, Waylon opened the gates. He didn’t literally open a gate — this wasn’t a castle, but a real city, a multitude of roads and highways in and out, no wall or fence to speak of. Waylon instead rerouted all warnings of the barrage, cutting communication to the town at the key moment, his algorithm simultaneously feigning a blackout, cell outage, and downed wires. By the time anyone realized what was happening, they were facing death. Most regrettably, Waylon had to put down his affable officemate, William, William watching as Waylon downloaded his chaos, William denying the inevitable, William unwilling to switch sides, William attempting to run off and warn everyone in person. Waylon pulled his sidearm — never fired before — and shot William between the shoulder blades, then watched as the marauders took hold of the city, murdering and pillaging as they had promised. As they approached, Waylon wondered if they received news of the inside man, the techie spy, knew what he’d done for their cause, knew him. His contact would have told them, surely — he had sacrificed so much and had so much yet to offer. Waylon decided to meet the horde outright, standing outside city hall, waving the red and green flag of the conquerors, singing their national anthem. As they approached, Waylon could see the fervor in their eyes, their lust for death, and knew he had made a terrible mistake. As they tore him apart, rendering him alive, he thought of William, what he’d done to his friend, glad he’d shot so precisely, William’s death so painless and relatively quick.
Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has received a fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.
