Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (7 page)

Gregory Emerson swore as he struck his head on the collapsed roof of a Nissan Pathfinder. He rubbed his head as he examined the item that had prompted him to stick his head in the wreckage in the first place.

The frames were bent, but the lenses were free of cracks and scratches and thick. He held the glasses up to his eyes. Instantly, a headache began to creep from the top of his spine to his temples.

“Shit, Magoo. I’ll bet you got teased a lot.”

He blew on the glasses to clear the dust and a bit of rotting flesh that had stuck in the bridge. Pawing through the wallet, he tossed aside cash and credit cards. These were useless; but if the driver had a condom in there, it was as good as a drink in the next town. He held out the driver’s license and chuckled.

“Sorry, Mr. Jenkins. Looks like you were an organ donor. If it makes you feel any better, your nerd glasses will help someone see again. And help me get a meal.”

Emerson moved across the massive pileup that had occurred several years before. Climbing to the top of an overturned FedEx truck, he surveyed the field of twisted metal. Giddy, he made his way toward a minivan/F-150 combination.

“Virgin ground. Virgin ground.” He danced towards the mash-up of family vehicle and work truck.

The expansive traffic accident had remained untouched since the end of the world. Every vehicle he peered into held a trove of personal belongings that had been gathered in haste for an evacuation that saved no one.

His best guess was that The Creep had been the end of the gridlocked evacuees. A viscous blue fog, The Creep had been a surprise to even the military. Not quite a fog, not quite a liquid, this plasma weapon blew like a tumbleweed across landscapes.

Those unfortunate enough to be downwind of the eerie blue vapor would become enraged and impatient. Lashing out at others, many who had been stuck in traffic turned the crowded roads into demolition derbies. This continued until they were killed in the crashes or succumbed to The Creep itself.

Patches of the notorious weapon still drifted across the landscape as the weapon seemed to refuse to dissipate. Prolonged exposure would cause death. Even those caught in a high wind, whether man or animal, would become clouded with rage.

Only the insanity resulting from exposure could explain the pileup. No order could be made of its severity or its location on the otherwise empty stretch of highway. Emerson guessed that they might have even been moving in a caravan since many of the vehicles seemed well supplied.

This mother lode could keep him in business for years. Provided he could keep the cache’s location a secret.

He shoved his head through the passenger door of the minivan and checked out the occupants. At least the family had been together when the end came. The family of four had piled the van full of belongings. He would get to all of them in time, but he always went for the glasses first. Their size and weight made them easy to carry and corrective lenses were prized commodities. This combination made glass picking one of the most profitable professions in the new world.

The dad had contacts or 20/20 vision. Gregory found this disappointing, but he delighted in finding designer rims on Mom.
 

The scavenger pulled at the frames. What was left of her flesh held them fast to her head and he had to tug to remove them from her face.

A quick glance through the glass confirmed that they weren’t bifocals. Single prescriptions were easier to trade. When trading in bifocals you had to find that special someone whose sight matched the previous owner. Nearsighted was nearsighted; single prescription lenses could aid a wider range of customers. If they needed bifocals, he would just sell them two pair instead of one.

He checked for wedding rings next.

Gold was everywhere now, but he firmly believed that soon it would be valued as currency again. No age in recorded history had seen the metal worthless and he knew that history was due to repeat itself. When it did, he would be one of the richest men in the new world.
 

Two children in car seats stared back at him from the back seat, their gaze empty. A Texas Rangers ball cap covered the little boy’s head; in his hand was a baseball mitt. Shreds of a pink dress were the only indication that the other child was a little girl. Grasped in her arm was a blue hued teddy bear. Decay had robbed her body of muscle, but the grip on her beloved toy was unmistakable.

Blue mold had grown on the toy’s fur, but, still, the bear looked familiar to him. He looked back at the driver and to the mother in the passenger seat, viewing the bodies as people for the first time in years.

Gregory Emerson had scavenged countless bodies in the past seven years. What he found he traded for necessities and luxuries. He made a better living in the aftermath than he had before the world blew up, but it had hardened his nerves, robbed him of a conscience, and, with each profitable trade, he had swapped a little more of his humanity. Over the years, empathy had left him a piece at a time. Now, it rushed back to him in an instant.

Tears filled his eyes as he backed out of the minivan. Deep breaths could not fill the pain in his lungs as he wiped the dirt from the designer glasses. Sputtering, his nose began to drip. Tears flooded his vision. Sobs shook his entire body, but he reached back into the passenger window and placed the glasses back on his sister’s face.

Collapsing to the ground, he drew his knees to his chest as the salt of the tears filled his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he cried to no one and everyone. He stood and began to scream at the decaying drivers around him, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry you’re all dead. It sucks. It sucks and I wish I could make it all go away.”

He sputtered as he spoke.

“I wish I could just wave my hand and make it all go away!” He swept his hand at the pileup. At the distant end of the massive wreck, two cars went flying into the air.

It rumbled, turning sod to dust as it plowed across the shoulder and onto the road. Desolate cars long abandoned were thrust from its path by the steel plow mounted to the grill of the armor-clad semi.

Black with a blood red band down its crest, diesel smoke belched from the extended stacks as the truck barreled down the road. Every part of the truck had been blacked out. Its matte finish absorbed the daylight, swallowing it whole and giving nothing back.

The rig hauled four trailers; two tandem pairs rumbled side by side. This configuration consumed both lanes of the blacktop from shoulder to shoulder and formed a moving wall of darkness.

Jagged teeth lined the plow in front of the truck. The metal barricade extended well beyond the cab and stretched wider than the width of the trailers. On each side of the cab, housed behind the thick-gauged metal of the plow itself, machine gun turrets were poised for action. A gunner in each turret kept vigilant watch from behind thick, tinted goggles and twin .50 caliber machine guns.
 

More firepower was positioned on top of the trailers. Parapets lined the trailers and men brandishing assault rifles and combat shotguns paced behind them. Each gunner was well trained and ready to discourage any attacker by killing them to great degrees.

The great machine belched huge plumes of smoke as it guzzled homemade diesel fuel and accelerated to clear a small hatchback from its path.

Steel twisted as the Honda’s frame collapsed upon itself. The import shot from the road leaving shattered glass and rusted panels to be crushed by the truck. Rolling end over end, the small car fell apart as bolts loosened and snapped. Peeling body panels littered the ground as it crashed to a stop in the field to the side of the road.

The rig’s sleeper cabin had been gutted and converted into a command center. Maps covered with hand-drawn notations hung from the walls. Binders lined spot welded shelves. Inside each was information on fuel levels, food stores, and ammo stockpiles.

A table stood in the center of the small room. There, a man pored over a manifest making notations in a spiral bound notebook.

“There’s a pileup up ahead, sir. All lanes blocked.”

“All stop.” Nails, gravel, and shards of glass shaken in a tin can made a more pleasant sound than the voice that came from the man in charge. His skin was like leather, but pale. Lines worn into the face from years of hardship did little to cast shadows. Even the contrast against shock white hair did little to give the skin color. Only the black patch across his eye gave his features definition.

Mechanical systems popped and hissed as the rear air brakes triggered and brought the brute of a vehicle to a stop.

“Get the crew on it. I want the road cleared as soon as possible.” The commander’s voice was calm, quiet, and terrifying. “I’ll be in my cabin.”

“Yes, Major.”

The commander disappeared from the cab through a fabricated connector that led to the trailers.

The navigator spoke into an intercom on the dash.

“Wrecking detail, dismount.”

The command echoed through the trailers of the goliath. Men burst into action. Hidden panels burst open and armored men took up position on the roadside. Each held a rifle and peered down the sights as officers began to give the all clear.
 

Several more men stepped from the truck brandishing pry bars, steel posts, torches, axes, and more. They set upon the wreckage, prying, bashing, and busting apart the mangled vehicles.

Emerson saw the team emerge from the truck. Dressed in black, they wore the first uniforms he had seen since the bombs fell, the gases hissed, and the bugs were released.

Not long after everything went to hell, there had been rumors that the government had been evacuated safely to Cheyenne Mountain and other shelters. Many had been hopeful that they would return. Others blamed the government for whatever it was that had happened. Either way, after seven years, there had been no sign of the United States of America.

Gregory had always fallen into the second camp. He damned the government for all he had lost and cursed them for hiding like cowards in a hole in the ground, waiting for the suffering to end before reclaiming the country.

Finding his sister’s family had changed all of that in an instant. Deep within him welled a longing for order. A longing for the world he had known. He wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be.

These men must be the government. Governments offered stability, order, and, from the looks of it, matching uniforms. He wanted no part of his former life as a scavenger. He craved the order of civilization and a chance to make amends.

He climbed to the top of a rusting sedan and waved. “God Bless America!”

Sparks brushed his pant leg as a bullet ricocheted into the wasteland.

“Don’t move.” The booming voice came from a sound system on the rig.

“Okay!”

Within minutes he was brought before the truck. They had all but stripped the clothes from his body. He had never been so thoroughly frisked without trading a substantial amount for the pleasure.

A guard held him under each arm, while a third kicked at his knees to keep him off of his feet. They dragged him before an open doorway at the side of a trailer.
 

He protested, “Guys, it’s okay. I’m happy to see you.”

No response came from the guards.

A man with white hair appeared a moment later. His massive build filled the doorframe.

“What’s this?”

“A scavenger, Major,” one of the guards said.

“What’s your name?”