Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) (21 page)

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ecovering from a late evening of spiced rum, loud music, and doughty, round women, the three friends shared a late morning table. Cy looked the worst for wear with puffy eyes and tousled hair yet uncombed. He slumped in his chair, clearly hung over, his hands trembling about his coffee cup as he raised it to sip frequently.

“What, pray tell, does that mean, anyway?” asked Cable. “I know not. Those words, ‘I’m a cowboy… on a steel horse I ride,’ means naught to me.”

Cy ignored him.

Looking thoughtful and maybe still inebriated, Edge chewed his sourdough slowly. He appreciated the salty butter on the tough bread.

“I know not. Tis an old song. Could be a reference to times past, I would suggest.”

“Criminy, how long shall I wait for a refill?” Cable’s coffee had not lasted long. “The song be good with adequate rhythm, but the words they make no sense.”

“It’s a metaphor.” Finishing his own coffee, Cy offered, “It’s saying that men used to drive machines instead of use animals.”

Not realizing the other two had no idea what a metaphor was, he waved his arm, indicating either the world in general or something blearily undefined.

“It’s like those little machines we see here in town. From what I gather, they were pretty common. I mean, we all see the remains sitting around. I s’pose the song was written to be about those days long ago.”

“Indeed,” agreed Edge. “They sung the song because they pined for their machines.”

From behind, a voice offered, “I think you’re all full of bull. People don’t ‘pine’ for machines.”

Carefully swinging their foggy heads about, the three men found Jody and Olivia smiling smugly, arms folded across their bosoms.

Making room, Edge pirated a chair from an adjoining table, and the women joined the group. Olivia was careful not to sit next to Edge. He had finally made his interest known, and she was receptive, but she wanted to keep her options open. She was making an effort to entice Occam, as well. Not knowing which was the more attractive or which would succeed in the long term, Edge, Occam, or someone else, she wished to take her time.

More than a month into her philosophy class, Jody was excited about what she was learning. The only one of the group to pay a fee for formal instruction, she often informed the others about her studies and kept them advised about the evening lectures they attended when weather permitted.

As winter wore on and snow accumulated, the professors had moved the free entertainment into a space heated with a large, iron wood stove. By custom each attendee would bring a stick or two of firewood to be added to the stove as necessary, and the lecture would commence.

Last night’s lecture had been given by Angus, and the boys had missed it. The class involved the philosophy of law, and Jody had developed a particular interest in the way law and government worked. She described the high points of the lecture as she remembered them until interrupted by a booming, deep bass voice.

“Stealing was a science taught in the most prestigious schools under the field of economics,” interjected Angus as he brought another chair with him.

“May we join you?” he asked, as he and Occam sat without waiting for an answer. Chairs scraped the floor to make room, smiles on the young people’s faces.

Without missing a beat, he continued, “Giant corporations were run by select people educated at what they called Ivy League schools. Two of the best were Harvard and Yale. One of the greatest and most blatant thefts in history was committed by a company called Enron, and that company was full of Ivy League educated executives.”

“Be it true that there be more people in jail in the old United States than in any other country?” Edge butted in. “If it be so, I cannot understand why there be people committing such crimes. I mean, wouldst any commit a crime if expectation to get caught persisted, and that led to jail?”

More than one of the group had heard the same thing about the numbers in prisons and wondered what Angus would have to say.

“That’s true, there were a lot of people incarcerated. More than was good for the country. But the top echelon of those in power managed more than their companies… they managed the courts and elections and the flow of money as well. These people, known as the big cats, big dogs, big cheeses, for reasons I don’t fully understand, were often not only the richest people in the world, but also the most notorious thugs. They were ruthless and calculating beyond what the average citizenry could comprehend. It seemed the more they stole, the less likely they were to go to jail.”

The waiter approached with a tall glass of water for each of the newcomers. After handing them to his patrons, he asked if anyone required anything, and getting a negative response he settled into a seat to listen. His morning was slow by this time, and in this town the professors were allowed to cultivate an audience.

“So these men of wealth and privilege, some rising from poverty, still avoided responsibility for criminal acts. It was accepted as inevitable by the populace even though they grumbled.”

Thinking, Olivia shot a question out.

“Did these people not compete, one with the other? Did they not want criminals within their ranks jailed, if for no other reason than to rid themselves of competitors?”

Angus nodded but said, “Power is an interesting thing. Two hundred and some years ago people were scrambling to survive in a crowded world, doing their best to climb to the top of a very large heap. Once at the top of the heap, they insulated themselves from the rest and did their best to maintain their position in any way they could. Usually it was by placing obstacles in front of those below them or by placing responsibility on those below them, avoiding it themselves, but once in a while they fed on each other. A man in the media world named Murdoch was one of the few examples where a top-of-the-food-chain elite was held accountable and chastised effectively. He made the mistake of not only spying on those below him but on the rest of the upper crust… and he got caught. He lost almost everything, not because he was guilty of a serious crime, although it was serious, but because he committed that crime against his own.”

Questions flew, answers were given, and minds at the table fed on the richness of the discussion.

The only one at the table to notice the short man that came in, a man looking as though worn by long travel and hard use, was Edge. He was positioned toward the door as the man limped in, the light from the storefront windows to the stranger’s back. The misshapen newcomer noticed the group, took stock of them, and selected a seat at the bar by the door. Edge looked at him several times, thinking there was something familiar about him that he could not quite place. In the ruined face there was something about the eyes.

The peaks of the Rockies bore the brunt of winter weather as they had for millennia. Snow accumulated and filled the bowls, blowing from high places exposed to wind. The occasional avalanche contributed. What remained of the unoccupied winter destination ski resorts, Aspen, Telluride, Vail, and Steamboat Springs, lay hidden under feet of crystalline whiteness.

Perhaps unoccupied was too harsh a term for the upper valleys. Wolverines were back in a breeding population. Never plentiful, individuals paired up for brief encounters in their preferred high country and after two centuries were back to naturally occurring numbers.

Wolves stayed where the elk were, down in the lower foothills. The lower eastern slope wintered as always, with bitter cold, winds that built massive drifts, and bare places where local fauna pawed through to forage on freeze dried vegetation. Wolf-killed livestock was seen as loss but accepted as a natural happenstance. Besides, those owning animals had more than they could use. Meat was cheap. Even the poorest could eat well if they could afford ammunition.

The activities in the east slope town of Boulder changed to suit the season. Those who had stocked up firewood charged exorbitant prices as the season advanced. People who managed greenhouses well and kept their plants alive charged increasing prices as time passed. The Smithies were marginally busy with repairing cold-brittle, cracked wheel rims but not much else.

Cabin fever invaded the small community and made study and learning very attractive to those with not much else to do. Any ranchers or farmers close to town, which most were, came to learn whether they paid for classes or not. The school appreciated all of them, accepting anyone interested.

In the midwinter lull, when temperatures rose as expected, the college opened up a score of days to be used for a field trip. Lectures dealing in architecture, sociology, archeology, and anthropology prepared the students for a trip into the big city to the south. Denver was claimed to be unoccupied, but there were stories….

With a few sleighs and most people mounted on horseback, the nearly two hundred people investigating the crumbling ruins moved quietly through jumbled streets. Most remained silent or whispered as though afraid to break the stillness. Many looked about suddenly at small sounds as though expecting to see apparitions in the empty windows.

Time had not been kind to Denver. Human activity was not a factor, long ago or recently, but each area of the country had different rates of deterioration depending on local climate and geology. The winters in Colorado, the melt and freeze cycle, worked at the buildings and brought them to their knees, some faster than others. Most succumbed to caved-in roofs, then floors giving way one after the other with the walls continuing to crumble at a slower pace, but a few had collapsed from their base. These structures tilted into the streets, blocking the road as they settled against the buildings opposite. Strangely, those that only tilted slightly survived better than the upright structures. The tilt shed water.

A few buildings stood structurally intact from all appearances. Creaks and groans emanated from sources unseen and gave the people touring the feeling they were in danger of being crushed suddenly or in the presence of spirits playing hide and seek with them.

Many of the visitors inspecting the city had never seen an intact vehicle from the age of mechanical transport. What they viewed in the streets was no better preserved than what they saw in other outdoor locations, but within some still-standing structures there were petrified remains with little deterioration. Most were four-wheeled and much heavier and larger than the little solar vehicles seen in Boulder.

In a few places large trees pushed through what had once been streets or sidewalks. One especially massive pine poked through the window of a tall building still upright. The hoary trunk bent from within before seeking the light above and outside. If it grew much more and the window frame remained intact, the tree would soon be girdled.

Two streams cut through where no stream of water should be. In the past the natural waters had been diverted underground and funneled into cement beds, but those had become plugged with flood-carried debris, and the streams cut new channels through streets and even buildings. The banks were steep and undercut due to the still remaining concrete, asphalt, and building materials inhibiting erosion.

Universally there was a lack of color. The monuments to man existed in shades of rust-stained grey or black. There was nothing bright to invite anyone.

With a strange heaviness to their retreat, even the animals seeming fatigued, the company made their way home. The following weeks would be filled with heavy thoughts and vigorous discourse. There were few who relished a return to the ghost city, only those with an idea of salvaging something of little value.

A growing insistence on being noticed informed Olivia as time went on. There was a new person growing in her womb. Making the mental calculations, she knew the child to be her late husband’s. Increasing her presence in Occam’s vicinity, delivering a homemade pie or inviting her presence to his table as he dined, Olivia worked herself into his thoughts. Despite her interest in both of her suitors, Olivia recognized Occam as the one better positioned to care for her needs.

In turn Occam recognized Olivia’s growing belly for what it was and welcomed her gladly. He understood more than she imagined. Weighing heavily on his thoughts, Muffy was gone but not forgotten. Occam was confident that she would approve of this young woman becoming part of the family. So, too, would the three wives waiting back in Roseburg. After some time in intimate conversation, getting to know one another, he initiated a radio transmission back to his home and communicated his desires to the rest of the family. With their approval he proposed marriage, and Olivia accepted. The wedding would take place after they decided whether to wait until the baby arrived.

Occam knew he would fall in love with Olivia. She was a kind and gentle woman without a harsh word in her. Beyond that, she was round and firm and fully packed.

The child would grow up loved.

The universal currency of life in any society is labor. There is always work to be done, and it seems there is always someone willing to pay to have it done. What had killed the former civilization had a lot to do with human labor becoming unnecessary, becoming obsolete.

Arc did not know that. If he did, he would not have cared. His concern was with his own desires, his own need, his own intent. With his priorities changed he had little regard for his success, pride, or future. He was focused only on living and wreaking havoc on those he targeted.

Presenting himself at the door of a freighting establishment, the little man convinced the owner that he knew drayage. The “Help Wanted” sign came down to be used as necessary in the future. Just as truck drivers in the past had been prone to changing jobs often, current bullwhip artists were transient as well.

To a man wishing anonymity but requiring information, the town offered both. As a trading center Boulder had almost a quarter of the population in some kind of constant limbo, some arriving, some leaving, and some hunkering down for the season. Once arrived and employed, Arc would be one of the ones to hunker. He found a stable that needed the stalls mucked and agreed to trade that labor for a place to sleep in the hay.

Normally tight fisted, Arc intended to accumulate every coin he earned. The only expense he allowed was for essential sustenance, and the rest was kept in reserve to be used for ammunition or bribes if they became necessary. He already knew where the wagon train was housed.

One thing remained to be tested. He needed to know if his appearance would cloak his identity. After entering a café where his nemesis sat at a table, he found the answer. His nephew looked at him quizzically more than once but without recognition. He could barely contain his satisfaction. It was worth the pain.

In seeing his image for the first time after rising from the mud of the creek, he had not recognized his reflection. The revelation of his survival and the damage done was jarring to his crushed soul. The eyes spoke to him as he peered into their depths. They told him he could right the wrongs against him. They told him that blood must flow. They spoke to him….