Black Gate

NB: This story is available for free online, through the good graces of Fortean Bureau, an excellent webzine. You can read it here.

I got the idea for this story one day while wandering around my local fairground — a good pastime for a theme-park nut. There was an old-timers’ ragtime band there, a clarinet and a set of tubs and a guitar with a little amp and a trombone, and all in matching red jackets, not a one under 60. They swung their way through a bunch of my requests, but it was all cut short when the goddamn airshow started and they got buzzed and buzzed and buzzed by jets. They valiantly struggled through it for a couple numbers, but then gave it up.

I’ve always been obsessed by the apocalype (I grew up in the antiwar movement, three-quarters convinced that I was headed for nuclear doom), and with apocalyptic lit, especially John Wyndham and Nevil Shute. When relatives nag me about not saving up for my old age, I usually smart off with a remark about not needing a retirement plan, just a long pole so I can dig for canned goods in the postapocalyptic rubble.

The title, of course, is from a great old Andrews Sisters number.
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