Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (14 page)

The major touched the patch that rest across his temple; his first encounter with the creatures had taken his eye. Now it served as a reminder to him and his crew that, despite the unrelenting power of their army, and their truck, shit still happened.

The rifle was not meant for people. Should any man, or overly muscular or hairy woman that resembled a man, happen to interrupt him on his excursion, they would feel the wrath of his knife. Worn at his left side and drawn by his right hand, the weapon was his own design. The draw had been inspired by the samurai. The blade’s shape was taken from the Khukuri, the legendary weapon of the feared Ghurka warriors. It curved like a boomerang and yielded fatal striking force. He designed the pommel as a lead skull. Struck upon a temple, the skull would render death, disorientation, or severe headaches.

Unsheathing the wicked blade would usually deter any small group of unfortunate opportunists that hoped to ambush him. If it didn’t, the sight of the knife’s first victim would cause the rest to scatter.

Large strides carried him past a former hobby store. His team would have scouted there to find casting tools and resin mixtures. The clothing stores would be searched for leather belts and durable clothes that could be cut and fashioned into uniforms.

A glance through the shattered glass of the sporting goods store window was enough to tell that it was all but empty. Hunting and camping departments would have been cleaned out first. Those arriving too late to grab a rifle or camp axe would have taken the baseball bats.
 

The golf section was void of bags. Clubs, now tarnished from exposure, littered the floor in the hundreds providing little in the line of defense or survival use. If the apocalypse proved anything, it was that golf skills were useless skills.

Football and hockey pads would have been secured by the more ambitious who planned to use them in crimes against their fellow man. Those with less sense, but the same intentions, grabbed Under Armour clothing, not knowing that there were very few armor qualities to it.

Next door, even dumber people looted the mobile store. Those people would spend the better part of a day screaming “hello” into a dead device and wondering out loud why no one was responding before finally giving up and blaming AT&T, as was the trend when the world blew up.

He continued on to the grocery store. It was a mess. Nothing lined the shelves, but, in their haste, the looters had knocked countless boxes and cans to the ground.

His crew would have sifted through the mess, retrieving anything that could be useful. The more days that passed between the apocalypse and the present meant the fewer useful items could come from a grocery store.
 

At this point, the scavenger teams only enter looking for non-grocery fair. Even food items with a long shelf life had expired years ago. His prize, however, had not.

Shattering glass echoed throughout the store as he kicked the last bit of the window from the frame. He stepped into the lobby and looked around. Even the glass panels in the two ice machines were shattered; looters had no time for doors.

A “wet floor” sign was sitting in front of it. He would never know if it was placed there before everything went to hell, or afterwards in an attempt at humor. Either way, he didn’t care.

The remnants of stock crushed, crunched, and squished under his feet as he moved across the front of the store reading the signs that still hung over the aisles. A couple of them were missing, some hung from only one chain, and one had been re-lettered to read Jack and Shit.
 

At the end of one row was a coffee bean dispenser. The plastic dispenser was, like everything in the store, empty and shattered, but it was a good clue to what the surrounding aisles had held.

Neither side had a sign. He glanced down the right aisle and guessed that his prize wasn’t there. He stepped to the left.

The creature had been quiet. Since losing his eye, the major’s hearing had become a more reliable sense. The massive beast had not made a sound as it sniffed the air in the grocery store, hunting for something itself.

The major stepped back out of view. The bear had not spotted him; the creature was too absorbed in its own quest. The gray-haired, one-eyed man drew the rifle from his back and slowly pulled back the bolt.

There was no indication from the beast that it had heard.

The major pulled the rifle to his shoulder and stepped into the aisle. Placing the reticule over the bear’s chest, he prepared to fire.

The massive bear sat. It no longer searched the floor and shelves. Its paws held what it had been looking for.

The major spotted the familiar plastic bear in the real bear’s paws. The honey container was unopened and unspoiled. He pictured the small plastic bear sitting on his old kitchen table next to her morning tea. The combination of the honey and the Tetley tea would fill the kitchen. The morning tea had always made her happy.

The bear looked up at the man with the gun and cocked its head—its eyes moved from the man to the weapon. It sat still, holding the honey in its grasp.

The honey, the same honey she had used every morning. Anger flashed in the major’s eye and he lowered the rifle. “I’ve come for the honey.”

The bear snorted. Its large brown eyes focused on the grizzled man. For a brief moment it stopped pawing at the honey. Then it turned its back to the major and resumed the struggle to remove the plastic cap that held the precious honey in place.

If not for the missing windows at the front of the store, the report from the rifle would have caused a perforated eardrum or permanent hearing loss. Neither the major nor the bear flinched.

The creature turned and examined the major.

Smoke rose from the rifle barrel and drifted up towards the hole he had just shot in the roof.

“I’m talking to you, bear!”

The bear swiped at the litter on the floor and sent the trash twirling in the air. A plastic container slid down the aisle at tremendous speed and slammed to a stop at the major’s feet. The major stared down; Mrs. Butterworth stared back.

He picked up the syrup bottle and hurled the old lady at the beast. “I didn’t say syrup!”

The bear roared and stood, but it did not charge. Its massive frame towered above the empty shelves that formed the aisles.

“I want that honey!”

The bear looked at the prize in its paw and turned his shoulder to the man, keeping the honey out of view.

“Now.”

“Roar!” The bear charged a few feet and stood its full height. Its massive jaws slew spit and rage. The sound bounced off the steel roof and back down to the empty shelves.

The major drew a finger around the patch. He looked at the small bear in the giant bear’s paws. It was his wife’s honey.

The rifle clattered across the floor and drew a puzzled look from the monster. The major drew his knife.

The lieutenant was an ambitious man. Before the apocalypse he had masterfully played the office politics game and risen to the level of director in a Fortune 200 corporation. His rise to power was all but historic in both speed and accomplishment. Promotions came in quick succession while he did almost no work.

Proving himself useful in the post-apocalyptic world, however, had been difficult. Beyond organizing raiding parties and storerooms, there was little that he could do. He had exceptional skill at telling other people what to do, but little ability to do anything himself.

When called upon to act, he had always managed, by design, to arrive a step behind the man in front of him. That man would take bullets and beatings while the lieutenant would take credit.

Not counting the major, he had convinced all of those around him that he was a worthy leader, a fearless killer with a strategic mind. He had worked for years at the deception and with the major’s absence he was set to make his move.

No one ever made a move against the old man. Even entering the major’s quarters was a stab-able offense. As of this morning, the lieutenant was past the point of no return.

“You wanted to be informed when the major had returned, sir?” The young soldier was a fresh recruit and was obviously nervous.

“Yes.” The lieutenant stood, strapped on his gun belt and fixed his collar.

“He’s returned, sir.”

The lieutenant appreciated the young soldier’s weak intelligence. It would make being the new major much easier. “Thank you. You can go now.”

The young soldier nodded, relieved to be relieved, and hurried out of the cab, leaving the lieutenant alone in the rig’s command center.

He drew his pistol and assured himself that it was loaded. Drawing on the major terrified him and he hoped to avoid it, but he had no idea how the old man would react.

With the pistol armed and holstered, he pulled several items from a box he had discovered in the major’s quarters. He laid out the Earl Gray Tetley tea bags on the desk in front of him. This evidence would be enough to accuse the major of code violation. The very code the major strictly enforced.

Standing at ease behind the damning evidence, he waited for his commander. Salutes from outside the truck carried into the cab and he knew the major was close.
 

Sunlight poured into the rig as he stepped through the door. The major’s silhouette seemed larger than normal. The lieutenant blamed his nerves for the impression and raised his hands to shield his eyes from the sun.

“At ease, Dan.” His voice seemed raspier than normal.
 

The lieutenant wanted to protest and explain that he was at ease. His hand was raised against the sun, not to his soon-to-be former officer, but he stammered and left the protest alone.
 

The major shut the door behind him and the cab was engulfed by the sudden darkness. His shadow, even in the dark, looked massive.

Once in the light, the perceived bulk became apparent. Over his shoulders the major carried a large bearskin. No doubt a kill from his most recent excursion.
 

The animal’s teeth were the first things he noticed. The fangs were nine inches long; scarred enamel gave them a jagged look. He started and had to remind himself to stay calm.

The major shoved the bearskin from his shoulder. Crashing onto the table, the paws unrolled and covered the tea bags the lieutenant had so carefully laid out. One massive claw came to a rest pointed at his waist. The pads on the paw alone were the size of catcher’s mitts.

The lieutenant swallowed hard.

“The scavenging crew is to be commended. They missed nothing on their patrol.” The major pulled the rifle from his back and placed it on the weapons rack.

“Sir, there is something that we need to discuss.” He tried to sound official. Maybe he did. He couldn’t be sure if the quaver he felt in his voice had been heard.

The major turned and leaned across the table to look his second-in-command in the eyes.

The lieutenant gasped. The patch was gone.

“Does it look that bad?” the major asked and leaned closer to give the man a better look.

Blood was everywhere. His uniform was a loss, shredded and stained red. Three long tears ran from the center of his face to his ear. Blood trickled from each claw mark bringing fresh crimson to the bloodstained face.

“I had to stitch them up myself. I couldn’t find a mirror.”

All the lieutenant could do was shake his head. His mouth gaped open. He was horrified.

“That’s a yes. It looks that bad.” He slid the knife and sheath from his belt and set it on the table. “Have it cleaned and honed. That bastard was a fighter. It took a lot of cuts.”