THE APOCALYPSE Voucher’s precise location is hazy, as are specific details about it. Doesn’t matter. You can’t apply conventional logic. The ones who’ll take charge at the end won’t play that. There will be a knock at the door and a demand like: “We understand you purchased a Number 8 Combo from Popeye’s Chicken on November 7th, 2003.” It’s all arranged and cataloged. Every vital document is there. “Give me minute,” he’ll answer. A short time later he’ll hand it to them. “Here! Here’s the receipt!” Everybody calls him a hoarder. But when the shit comes down, he’ll be ready.

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GERDA HAS exceptionally cheerful hair, whimsically layered in an asymmetrical cut tinted a vivid, deviant red, with gold and ginger highlights. It frames a Spartan face, frozen in eternal despair, and skin scrubbed raw daily to eradicate makeup traces applied decades ago. Worn, cracked work boots are the only accessory to her drab, ill-fitting, man clothes. Gerda is a zombie with merry tresses. Who you gunna believe?

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