Afterworld (The Orion Rezner Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“Hells to the yes sir, my friend,” I sang.

Boston is a city older than America herself. It is a beautiful testament to a time in history of trailblazing, and the epitome of the human spirit—and it is home to Samuel Adams beer. If anything in the Afterworld tempts me to believe in a higher power, it’s the fact that Sam Adams survived the apocalypse. I nodded a thanks at Paul and drank a quarter of the mug.

Johnny suddenly appeared, slapping me on the back and bringing me in for a one on one. “I just talked to Marcus Browman. The next search party leaves in two days. And guess who’s going?”

I pulled back from his bromantic embrace and gave him the cockeye. “Uh, who?”

“Jesus, Rez. You gotta take all the fun out of it? Huh? Guess, man!”

I rolled my eyes and drank my beer. “I dunno, the Mad Hatter?”

“Psht, you suck, Rezner. You know who’s going? Top witch in this year’s class, man—Melody Stone.”

“Big deal.” I shrugged and finished my beer. A nod to Paul had my mug refilling.

“Big deal?” Mushiro was exasperated. “Yeah, big deal—only best witch in her class. She is stronger than our class’s best wizard, bro—best battle witch that ever came out of Harvard. And she’s already successfully grown an entroot.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, bro.”

Witches flying around on brooms was one of those gross misinterpretations of magic. What people thought were brooms were actually Entroots, little staff-like trees with hundreds of thin roots at the base. The plants can be enchanted to not only follow a witch around when not needed, but also to fly with wind spells. Aside from their more arcane uses, entroots can be used quite efficiently as a weapon. The roots themselves can grow longer to grab or strangle, or bunch up into a tight, solid ball. The trees are still alive and can take to the ground easily when sustenance is required. Basically, they are some of the coolest things I have ever seen.

“She is gonna be one to watch, Rez. Count on my words, man.”

“
Mark
my words, bro,” Paul corrected him.

Mushiro waited momentarily for an elaboration and then impatiently said, “What?”

“Or—you can count
on it
,” Paul added, toweling dry the inside of a mug. “But
count on my words
is cool, too. Whatever works.”

I leaned in closer to Fracco. “Don’t correct him. I only hang out with him because it’s hilarious.”

“Screw you, Rez,” Mushiro said, and slapped my forehead. “Get in the game, you goddamned hippie. We want this witch on our side. With things moving so fast these days, her coven’s tripled its size in three years’ time.” He eyeballed Paul and added slowly, “Mark my words, mutha—”

“Dude! Slow down on the pickles," I yelled. “The last thing I want is to be lulled to sleep by vinegar ape-farts.” He stuck his tongue out and bounded off to mingle with the pub patrons.

“I don’t know, Mushi, how good can she be—like you said—the way things go these days? We only graduated so early because the council is desperate for wizards. Same goes for the covens. She’s just as green as any of us.”

“We’ll see, Rez,” said Johnny, giving up.

We spent the rest of the evening with our fellow grads, sharing tales of our Rites of Passage. But we didn’t make a long night of it—we were expected to report to USCG at oh something hundred. I stumbled out of Fracco’s with Dude in tow.

…And had the presence of mind to let him drive us home.

I
awoke at 6:00 a.m. to the sound of someone pounding on my door in time with the throbbing in my temples. After a lifetime, I stumbled from the couch and found the caller to be Father Killroy.

“You smell like the bottom of a vodka bottle, son.” He pushed past me and let himself in. I closed the door, and Old Ben walked through it.

“Drink does not drown care, but waters it, and makes it grow fast,” he said over his shoulder.

“Ugh, I know, Ben. I wasn’t drowning anything.”

Head down, I bumped into Father Killroy, who had stopped to regard me when I spoke to Franklin’s ghost.

“What did he say?” the father asked.

“Old Ben? You don’t believe in him, so who cares?” I stepped into the bathroom, took a few outdated aspirin, and swallowed them down.

“It doesn’t matter if I believe in him,” said Killroy. “You do.”

“He said I shouldn’t drink so much,” I yelled through toothpaste mouth. I didn’t have running water in my apartment, but I didn’t really care either—it’s easy enough to get through with a few gallons a day or so. All you really need is enough for George Carlin’s four key areas: armpits, ass, crotch, and teeth. I shamefully remember letting the water run the entire time I brushed, back before the Culling. That was how we all treated everything back then. We wasted as if all things were infinite.

“What about his quote, ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy’? And there are others I cannot recall,” said Kilroy.

I rinsed and joined him in the kitchen, to grab an apple, before heading off to the bedroom. “That’s an
old man
Ben quote, I think.” I looked to Franklin. “He gave himself a little leeway there in his last decade. I think going to France really loosened him up.” Old Ben chuckled to himself as he looked up at the ceiling, clearly enjoying memories of his time abroad.

“What else did he say, or does he always just state the obvious,” asked Kilroy.

“Well, actually, he only speaks in his own quotes.”

The good Father looked at me incredulously.

I continued. “But his words still ring with truth in recognition. We all know what we must do, but it’s the
doing it
that seems to elude most of us—and all of us at times.” I went back out to the kitchen, big-ass hockey bag in tow.

The father was beaming.

“What?” I asked, grabbing two more apples.

“You sound like a preacher, son. You would give a good sermon.”

“Yeah, but I believe I should do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. No disrespect Father, but I don’t need the threat of hellfire to do what is right.”

Father Killroy just sighed, and I followed him out the door. Out on the stoop I looked down to the street and froze. And then I chuckled. “You gotta be kidding me right now,” I said.

There, parked on the side of the street, waiting for us, was a black stretched limo. The driver opened the door for the father, and I could only shake my head.

“What?” Killroy asked. “It’s filled with baked goods from the church. We’re delivering all over town. C’mon.”

We made a half a dozen stops on the way to the briefing. Father Killroy offered me a warm apple pie and a spoon. My belly let me know just how good of an idea that was, and I thankfully accepted.

A few miles and a half a pie later, we reached the base. Heading into the complex, I realized just how nervous I was. I guess Old Ben had been right—I hadn’t drank so much solely in the spirit of celebration. But neither was I afraid. After the horrors I saw during the Culling, the old definition of fear no longer applied. I was broken, we all were, but it was seldom spoken of. To think that you are going to die along with the rest of the planet, and then to somehow survive, without rhyme or reason, is terrifying—makes you wonder why in the hell you lived while so many other good people died.

The apple pie threatened to wage a coup as we walked past the gates into the main building. A pair of soldiers stood like statues as we entered, not acknowledging us in the least. I was tempted to make funny faces in front of them, but we didn’t have time.

Inside were similar soldiers, all donning the same insignia, BM—Boston Militia. Many of Boston’s army are ex-military who survived and found their way here. For a few weeks after the Culling, the soldiers still functioned as US military, but when they were attacked by warplanes and tanks with army and air force insignia, we began to realize that our government was no longer on our side—or else didn’t exist anymore. It seemed that the Elites had infiltrated every corner of every crevice of humanity, and they were in full control. Life here in the Afterworld is like living atop a bomb. We never know if they will just nuke us into extinction on a whim.

We made our way into one of the briefing rooms and found ten chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of a projector. Three were vacant. Mushiro was there already, and when he saw me, his eyebrows shot up and then toward the woman on his left.

I assumed she must be Melody Stone, judging by his dorky demeanor, and leaned forward to get a better look just as she turned from talking to someone.

Our eyes met.

Shit
!

It was the woman who thought I called her a dude—perfect. She eyed me up and down, expressionless, and then glanced at Dude in the seat next to me. I’d almost forgotten entirely that he was there—it’s creepy how quiet he can be sometimes, like a ninja.

Our eye contact was broken as someone touched my shoulder. “Your ape,” said a guy about six four, and stacked with muscles.

I looked at Dude and then back at the son of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Xena Warrior Princess. “What about him?”

He deadpanned me for a moment and sniffed, as if containing himself. “Mind if I sit?”

“I don’t mind, but Dude might. It’s probably best to ask him.”

Dude perked up and hissed at Meathead.

He leaned closer to me. We had gained the attention of the others in the quiet room. “There is one seat for each of us,” he said, “none for baboons.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to stand, bro.” I smiled, and his nostrils flared threateningly.

“Rezner, quit stirring shit,” said Kronos. He briskly walked into the room to stand before us all.

I realized, to my dismay, that he was the party leader.

Sonofabitch

“Dude, get lights,” said Kronos, flipping on the projector.

The chimp eagerly leapt over the back of the seat, bounded to the wall, and shut them off.

Meathead gave me a contemptuous look and took the seat as a topographic satellite picture of a small lake appeared on the wall.

Dude returned and absently sat on Meathead’s lap, enthralled by the light show. He loves movies, but he gets a little carried away. He once watched the 2025 remake of
The Wizard of Oz
with me and Mushiro, and decided he was a flying monkey. It took us an hour to talk him down off the roof.

“Crystal Lake, Connecticut, seventy-five miles from Boston,” Kronos began, his thick accent making the place sound epic. “There was mayday signal intercepted night last from area. Could be trap, could be survivors. No way to tell. No matter, we go find out.”

As Kronos droned on in the background, Mushiro and I traded glances—he looked like a kid on Christmas Eve—and I got a better look at Wonderwitch. She looked to be about my age, mid-twenties. I couldn’t pinpoint her ancestry—somewhere between Italian and French. I was never good at that. She was short, no more than five five, but had the air of a giant. I don’t know if it was her inner strength or some kind of magical glow, but she seemed to shine like a supernova.

“We take I-90 till reach here.” Kronos indicated with a wand. “Four miles from freeway we begin search. Our mission, infiltrate lake area. If survivors, bring back. If not, load up truck with supplies.”

Master Kronos put his wand away and squared on the group. “Stand and speak names and titles. Then sit. You begin.”

He pointed at Meathead, who shot to attention, sending Dude flying. “Sir, Private Anderson, sir. Boston Militia infantry, sir!”

I smiled up at Meathead Anderson and realized I was already next. “Oh right.” I cleared my throat and stood. “Orion Rezner, Wizard of the Order of Franklin.”

Killroy rose as I sat. “Father Killroy. Many of you know me from Trinity Church.”

A nerdy dude next to him pushed up his glasses and stood clutching a laptop. “Bernard Macklebee, tech master at large,” he said, and gave a jerky bow.

“Doctor Dockson, Medic,” said the man next to him, who looked just like Bill Hicks. “Call me Dr. Doc.”

“Juggernaut, operator of all things badass, Boston Militia,” said the long lost brother of Mr. T. I found myself waiting in gleeful anticipation for him to say “Foo,” but it never came.

When the roll call came to Wonderwitch, she stood and regarded each of us in turn with a deep stare. “I am Melody Stone, newly appointed Witch of the Coven of Elzabeth, Keeper of the Word of Maliki, Sister of the Order of Franklin, of the Temple of Light,” she said with the authority of a queen. It was actually pretty cool.

After Melody was a woman in her twenties. She wore the same camo garb as Juggernaut and Anderson Meathead, and her watchful eyes were partially hidden behind a camo baseball cap. “Angelica Lopez, mechanical engineer, demolition expert, Boston Militia,” she said, concluding introductions.

Kronos changed the image on the projector to one of a crazy-looking war machine that could have belonged to Batman. “For mission, we use three machines. This is—”

Dude screeched and scampered over to the chalkboard by the projector screen, and wrote DUDE in big letters. He turned to the group proudly and put his hands on his hips, doing his best Superman impression.

“That’s Dude,” I told the room. “He’s a superchimp.”

Dude curled back his upper lip and gave everyone a big ape smile, before taking his seat once again on Meathead’s lap.

“Rezner, keep chimp under control!” yelled Kronos.

I shrugged and held up my hands. “I didn’t invite him, man. I thought you did.”

Kronos gave me a look that would make a baby cry and returned to his droning. I barely heard a word he said, being pretty nervous about the first mission outside the walls.

Dude didn’t seem to share my apprehension. He was stoked.

Kronos finally finished his spiel. “Any questions?” he asked.

I burped and felt some of the apple pie retaliating.

“What is it, Rezner?” He was annoyed.

“Huh?” I said, swallowing down the rebel pie forces.

Melody looked to me with slight disdain and addressed Kronos. “Is this a circus or a rescue mission? With all due respect, Master Wizard Kronos, I don’t feel that a clown and an ape will be much use on the outside.”

“Hey!” I yelled. “Don’t call Dude a clown. He has feelings too.”

Dude gave her fish lips as Johnny broke into laughter.

“Enough of horseplay!” Kronos slammed the desk. “If no questions, suit up. We leave on the hour.”

“On the hour?” I protested, suddenly sober. “I thought this mission was scheduled for tomorrow.”

Kronos laid the full weight of his heavy gaze on me and said, “We not get there first, will be no mission.”