Gasbag
By Joel Tagert
Art by Moon Patrol
Published Issue 135, March 2025
Out of the poisoned wastes in the east he drifted like a decrepit dirigible, a gasbag so bilious and vile the earth though wounded repelled his pustulent flesh. Upon him clung the remains of a survival suit that had obviously failed its purpose, unsurprising given the uncounted plumes of the catastrophically bombed and abandoned power plants belching their searing smoke across the continent, the cursed heirlooms of humanity’s outrageously heedless forebears. That he had in some fashion died was unmistakable, given the shredded scraps that were all that remained of his legs; just as unmistakably, some demonic bargain kept his malignant being afloat, an inhuman intelligence puppeting his limbs for one last gruesome show.
A screen was attached to his chest, once used for readouts of vital signs or to adjust the machinery keeping him animate. Now, however, it blared clips from ancient newsreels, anchors long ago rendered to ash ceaselessly clamoring his praises, or the gasbag himself in former glory, all at a volume calculated to crush the consciousness of anyone within a mile.
THESE PEOPLE, THEY’RE NOT GOOD PEOPLE
a muscular response from the White House
I COULD SHOOT SOMEONE
There were few survivors, a fraction of a percent clinging to miserable life in bunkers or holes, having miraculously evaded the initial blasts, the following firestorms, the plagues, the famine, and the radiation (so far), the caprice of currents drawing out their demise. Such a place was Miller’s Lock, where a hundred haggard souls harvested crops grown in warehouses and lived just long enough to replenish their numbers, never prospering but thus far not perishing entirely.
By rights they should have heard the gasbag approaching, but his senses were preternatural in this regard and he could smell blood miles away, like a shark, or a magnetized needle turning toward the pole. Thus he floated noiselessly over their fences, effortlessly disabled their cameras, and drifted downward to the dusty rectangle that passed for the center of town. A few masked inhabitants walked on, not having noticed, and nearly fell to their knees when his voice blasted out.
WE’RE GOING TO MAKE THIS COUNTRY GREAT AGAIN
The three townsfolk outside took one shocked look and ran. He didn’t much like this, and had been bored and hungry for too long. With a twitch of his fingers he seized the nearest up into the air, a middle-aged woman
I NEVER LIKED HORSEFACE
and with a wave of his hand tore the clothes from her body. She writhed in his crushing telekinetic grip and screamed for help. The gasbag spun her around slowly, a vestige of avid prurience locked into his dead character, and then lost interest.
NASTY WOMAN
With another slight motion he tore her in half and flung the pieces away like hamburger wrappers. Seeing this, and being sure enough about the threat beforehand, the townspeople let loose with a barrage of automatic gunfire, immensely loud, from behind concrete barricades. The gasbag barely took notice, the bullets falling to the ground before they ever reached him.
THEY ARE, IN MANY CASES, CRIMINALS, MURDERERS, RAPISTS
With sudden speed he levitated forward and up. The criminals were easy to find and immensely fun to rip apart. Some he would raise above his body and crush slowly, revelling in their agony, until his whole misshapen bulk was black with gore and thick blood dripped slow from the tapered remnants of his shins. His appetite was boundless and he gorged until the very last of them was still.
Afterward, for several days, he dozed. When he was ready to move on at last he realized that he had missed having subordinates sing his praises, and idly he waved the top half of his first kill into the air with him, and another, a man, in several pieces.
Thank you for putting America first, their throats wheezed, prompted by his eldritch prodding. America is with you.
PEOPLE LOVE ME, the gasbag boomed. AND YOU KNOW WHAT, I HAVE BEEN VERY SUCCESSFUL. EVERYBODY LOVES ME.
There’s something you need to see, Ava told them. I’ll warn you, it’s disturbing.
The small folk had not even known Ava was performing surveillance on the miserable Scratchers, but it did not surprise them. She had been created to protect all living things and that concern obviously extended to these scattered human communities. Their faces turned grave as they watched a recording of the gasbag’s rampage.
What is it? Cara asked, wiping away tears. What is this thing?
A man once, Ava answered. A politician. Now a puppet of the old powers.
I thought they were all destroyed with the data centers.
Not all. And this may be the worst of those that remain.
Can we stop it?
Not entirely, unless we find its center. It has to have a power source, probably nuclear, maybe geothermal. Toward the end they buried them deep. I’ve been searching for it, but the plumes complicate things. The puppeteer for now is beyond our reach, but the puppet can be nullified. I need your help.
They accepted without hesitation, knowing themselves as Ava’s hands and eyes. Usually they travelled slow in their cells, the solar-powered pods creeping across the landscape according to the sunlight available. This time Ava sent them a special cell, a reflective silver sphere that appeared over their camp humming and lowered itself gently to the ground to open a hatchway. Always when outdoors they wore prophylactic masks and lenses, but today they took special care with second skins and full helmets, compound lenses glittering like the eyes of insects.
The sphere’s speed was limited primarily by air resistance and their own ability to withstand the acceleration, and in twenty minutes they were a few miles near the target and disembarked at the outskirts of a ruined city, some shattered remnants still scraping the sky.
Remove your helmets for a few minutes, Ava directed, so he can smell you. Otherwise you’re nearly invisible.
The five of them did as told and while they waited placed a series of small devices in a semi-circle on the broken asphalt. There, Cara said finally.
Three dots approached on the horizon. They put their helmets on again and stood. Their lenses could see many hidden things and they looked with sickened interest at the gasbag’s approach. The superintelligence that enabled him did not rely upon any physical mechanism for flight, but reached into the foundations directly to twist reality to its ends.
As he drew near the gasbag spread his arms. I AM THE CHOSEN ONE, he roared.
Thank God he is willing to put America first, the corpses with him gasped.
The small folk merely stood there. Impatient, the gasbag raised his arms to toss them into the air, to enjoy their screams and broken limbs.
Nothing happened. I AM A VERY STABLE GENIUS, the dead voice boomed, and he waved his hands again.
The devices the small folk had placed opened like lotus flowers, the crystalline petals shining in the dusk with many colors. The gasbag’s screen flickered in confusion. I ALONE —
The voice crackled and faded in a flatulent whine. First one and then the other of his rotting attendants dropped to the dust and were still. The gasbag shook and waved his arms, but no further sound came.
Is it done? Cara asked.
It’s done, Ava replied. I’ve cut him off from his source. He can neither see nor hear nor speak. He’ll float on, but he won’t bother anyone anymore.
Is that kind? Wouldn’t it be better to just … I don’t know, to end him?
You can’t destroy creatures like that. It just makes them stronger. All you can do is attenuate their power. Don’t worry. His time is already past.
Joel Tagert is a fiction writer and artist and the author of A Bonfire in the Belly of the Beast and INFERENCE. He is also currently the resident manager and chef for Rocky Mountain Ecodharma Retreat Center near Ward, CO.
Moon Patrol is a Northern California-based artist. Taking themes including ’80s cartoons and video games, classic pulp illustrations, and comic book narratives, Moon Patrol remixes these many and varied cues using a collage technique he compares to “Kid Koala’s turntable albums, and in part by William Burroughs’ cut-up technique.” See more of his work on Instagram and snag: Prints at Outré Gallery | Artbooks at The Mansion Press | T-shirts at TeePublic | More Prints + Cards + Other Merch at House of Roulx.
Check out Joel’s last Birdy install in January’s issue, King Sargasso, a Best of Birdy piece with art by Moon Patrol, and peek Nightmares by Moon Patrol in February’s issue in case you missed it. Head to our Explore section to see more from these creatives.