In honor of Blog Like It’s the End of the World Day, here is my “Hats of War” story from Viable Paradise X. This story doesn’t quite match the strictures of Blog Like It’s the End of the World Day — it’s not about my day today, it doesn’t actually have zombies — but eh, close enough.

The Story of the Story: the “Hats of War” was a writing exercise dreamed up by instructor James D. MacDonald. We had to write a story to be included in an upcoming SF anthology, “The Hats of War”. MacDonald had been lecturing about writing using various props, including a white model house. Our stories would have to include that white house, plus a gag gift we had been given on our first day (in my case, a bag of little rubber bouncy balls). I’m pretty sure he made up the exercise on the spot. As for the clothes-based theme — particularly the reference to linen — I think I just had fabrics on my mind, because I had been chatting so much with Barbara and learning about spinning and wool and linen and related topics.

Also because of her I can make a pen out of a feather. How cool is that?

I ended up writing this story fragment very late at night. I had just finished reviewing a couple of other people’s pieces for next day’s breakout session, and was about to hit the sack, when one of my roommates (Bart or Chris) asked me, “hey, how’s your Hats of War story going?” Wait, people are actually turning in this crazy exercise? I guess I have a bad sense about when James MacDonald is joking.

And no, it doesn’t have a proper ending. Hey, what do you expect for a Draft Zero story? Given the genre, I think you can guess how things are going to turn out.

And now… The Hats of War! (Rated R for nudity and cartoonish gore.)

The Hats of War

It was a happier time, a more innocent time. We went about our business – worrying about the war, yes, worrying about the election, yes, worrying about terrorism, nuclear proliferation, genocide, the meltdown of the only biosphere we have… yes, we fretted about all this and more.

But we never expected the nanopants.

Lynn spotted the house first. It rose from the snowy landscape like a godsend. A beautiful 19th century white house. Our sanctuary. Snowdrifts piled against the garage, and no lights shone. I approached the door, shivering.

Pound-pound-pound. Nothing. Pound-pound-pound again.

I could see the door was barred and the edges well-caulked.

“Hello!” I called. “Is anybody there?”

Nothing.

I checked my shotgun ammo. Just four more shells in the bag, plus the one I had loaded. In the store we had ransacked, the shells had been in the corner, buried underneath an overturned rack of marble-sized rubber bouncy balls. I should have taken a few for good luck. No matter. I patted the shells. In this brave new world, you made your own luck.

I circled to the window. It was boarded up and well-sealed. I couldn’t wait any longer for an answer. I took aim at the window.

A muffled voice called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Mark and Lynn,” I called out. “Please, for God’s sakes, let us in!”

There was nothing.

“I have a bag of shotgun shells,” I lied. “And a few backpacks of canned food.”

The voice called out, “Are you wearing linen?”

Lynn tugged at my arm as she shivered. “Does he think we’re idiots?”

“Well,” I said, “I, uh,”

“Are you wearing fucking linen?!”

“No!” I called out. “Jesus Christ, is that a crime?”

“Strip!” called the voice.

“What?”

“STRIP!”

We pulled off our jackets, wriggled out of our jeans. What else could we have done?
There was a wrenching noise, and the door flew open, tearing away the caulk. A middle-aged man stood framed in the door wearing overalls, a modified double-barreled shotgun pointed at us. A timid-looking college-age kid with sandy hair stood behind him.

“Look, mister,” I said. “We ain’t looking for trouble. We just need shelter…”
In answer, the man raised his gun and fired two quick blasts.

Behind us, a pair of black slingback stilettos splintered into fragments.

“They’re right behind your ass, MOVE!” He began reloading.

I looked behind me, and God help me, I froze.

An array of Ann Taylor tees and knits had trailed us all the way to the fucking farmhouse. A floral print silk Georgette tunic. A black pleat long white shirt with finished cut-away neckline. The trail of garments went on and on, floating towards us in the winter moonlight. A whole department store’s worth.
How could we not have seen them?

I froze, to my eternal shame, but Lynn didn’t. Lynn, shivering and naked, grabbed the shotgun out of my hands. She took aim and fired at the lead garment, a strappy little black dress. Her blast took a chunk out and twisted the tee around, but it kept coming. She reloaded, fired again. This one hit dead center. The dress fluttered to the ground and lay cold and dead in the snow.
The rest of the garments began to fly faster towards us.

Lynn looked back at me. “You can’t recaulk the door in time,” she said. She tossed me the shotgun. Stood up straight.

My brain unfroze as I realized what was happening. “No, Lynn!”

I love you, she mouthed. Then she turned and bounded into the horde of advancing apparel.

The clothes enfolded her, welcomed her. A gray herringbone skirt with back pleats wrapped itself around her middle. Lynn’s flesh instantly began to sizzle. The nanoparticles embedded in the skirt, originally designed to absorb and re-radiate summer heat more efficiently, discharged their stored energy into Lynn’s unprotected flesh. Lynn staggered. A gauzy scarf wrapped around her throat. A red Donna Vinci wide-brimmed High Fashion Hat settled over her head, her eyes. Blood began to ooze down as the hat contracted. Lynn sank to her knees in the snow.

I remember a strong hand yanking me in through the door. I must have been out only for a moment after that, because the next thing I knew, I was retching on the floor, still naked and shivering. I looked up, gasping like a landed fish, to see the younger man busy resealing the door with fresh caulk.

The older man had his shotgun slung over his shoulder. He put his hand on my arm. “She bought us time,” he said. “She died a good death.”

“No one,” I choked, “no one should have to die like that.”

“I know, son,” he said. “I know.”