Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (9 page)

Weeping.

“Hello?” The ash soaked up his voice as it swirled around him, driven by a light wind. He yelled louder, “Hello?”

He must have been heard, because the weeping stopped. Footing was hard to find on the ash, but he ran to where he thought the sound had originated. Slipping on the char and coals of the town, he tripped several times. Often he had to put his knee down to maintain his balance. Through his jeans he could feel that parts of the ground were still warm.

Despite the hazardous landscape, he risked twisted or broken ankles to find the source of the crying. Every step stirred a plume of smoke from the ground.

“It’s okay to come out. I’m not a threat.” He slung the shotgun across his back as he slowed his pace. “I want to help.”

There was no response but popping cinders from the town.

“Chewy, find them.”

The mastiff barked and began to sniff the air. She traced the scent into the shell of a building and began to smell the ground. Ash and smoke clouded her nose and she began to sneeze.

“You’re worthless, you know that?”

 
The mighty dog barked in disagreement and resumed her hunt. Taking shorter breaths, she overcame the tickling ash and made her way across the town’s courtyard to a small metal shed that had been spared by the blaze. Darting inside, she left behind a cloud of ash and a trail of excited chirps.

Jerry followed across the courtyard and came to the door of the shed just as Chewy emerged with a can of chili in her mouth. Drool coated the faded Wolf Brand label.

“Chewy, I said find them, not get dinner.”

The massive dog dropped the can of chili at his feet and stared at him.

“No.”

She whimpered.

“No. Find the person crying.”

The dog snorted and resumed her search. She disappeared behind the shed.

Jerry bent over and picked up the chili. It was cool to the touch despite the hot drool. The shed must lead to a cellar. It could hold stores of food and would be worth checking into once they found whoever had been crying.
 

“Don’t move, you bastard.” The woman’s voice came from behind him. There was nothing in her tone that signaled she had been crying. He feared that he had walked into a trap.

The duster covered his .45s. He lowered his chili-free hand towards the pistol while turning to face the woman.

“I said don’t move. Turning is moving.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from behind a rifle. Or a stick.

“Are you okay?” He stretched his hands out, away from his weapons.

“Shut up.” Her voice began to shake. So did the rifle.

“What happened here?”

“Everybody died.” There it was. The sob he had heard earlier entered her voice.

“I want to help.” Slowly, imperceptibly he began to bend at his knees. The duster hid the slight movements from her view.

“Then stand right there and let me shoot you.”

“I’m sure there’s something else I can do.”

“Fine. Who needs your help? I’ll do it myself.”

“Enough people have died here. Let me help you.”

On his right was a brick wall. It was close. Close enough maybe. If he could get enough bend in his knee there was a chance he could spring behind it.

“I’ll help myself.” There were tears in her voice.

If it threw off her aim enough, her sobbing might just save his life. He considered provoking the tears. Several things came to mind that he could say to encourage her hysterics: “Who did you lose?” “Was he/she a good person?” “But, you survived. That’s gotta make you feel pretty bad.” “Sucks to be you.”

He dismissed these as risky and just plain cruel.

She slid the bolt back on the rifle. A large round entered the chamber.

He dove as hard as he could and almost landed behind the brick wall.

The shot erupted a plume of ash where he had stood moments before.

He scrambled to get behind the wall, but he had landed face first in the ash. Soot filled his eyes causing them to water. Blinking frantically, he wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands and succeeded in making his vision worse.
 

She worked the bolt.

He dove.

She fired.

The world went black.

NINE

Before the apocalypse, there was a certain dignity in having a quiet drink in one’s office. The day’s work accomplished, laid out before you, and a shot of bourbon or whiskey was a celebration of a job well done.

Mayor David Wilson realized that all the dignity was lost when drinking a batch of grain alcohol—made in the town’s spare bathtub—from a Gerber baby food jar.

He slammed the empty bottle on the desk and looked at the next one. Baby Bogey stared up at him from the metal lid—judging him.

Damn that baby, he thought as he uncapped and downed the shot in one fluid motion. The jar clanged on the desk next to the previous one setting off a chain reaction of chimes from the empty jars before him.

For seven years there was no celebration at the end of the day. If everyone was alive, it was a job well done. However, the daily task of presiding over the well-being of dozens of lives was taking its toll.

Now, it seemed that the citizens’ well-being may be out of his hands and thrust into the fate of a merciless world.

He stroked his chin and considered the plan. This Logan seemed to know his stuff. The defenses that the warrior had laid out were sound in theory, but a lot rode upon the people of New Hope; people that had never had to fight for their very survival.

Another Gerber baby gave him guilty looks as he unscrewed the cap and considered Roy’s plan. The coward of a councilman could be right this time. Perhaps the best decision was to run, to take what they could and go. They could restart somewhere else. South, maybe. They had built New Hope from a single old barn and a desire to be free. They could do it again.
 

He shook his head and thought that maybe the answer was at the bottom of another jar of baby food. The door to his office opened without a sound.

When he lowered the Gerber jar, his daughter stood before him, her arms crossed, her eyes stern.

“I’ve only had a couple. It’s been an … interesting day.”

“Daddy,” she took a full baby food jar from his hands. “I want to talk about this stranger.”

Sarah Wilson looked like her mother, and the resemblance was uncanny when she was angry with her Daddy. Despite the lectures he would receive, the scolding he would take, he enjoyed every minute being told off because of the resemblance. His wife had been beautiful and his daughter was no different.

“I don’t trust him.” And, like her mother, she was never indirect.

“Why not?”

“It’s all a little too perfect, don’t you think?” She cleared off some of the empties and sat down on his desk.

“I’d hardly call the situation perfect.” The mayor realized that he had never questioned the validity of the stranger’s claims. The video had been proof enough. Hadn’t it?

“First of all, that other guy shows up. And he’s a moron—according to Mr. Tinner.”

“Sweetheart, call him Roy. It makes my skin crawl when you show him respect.”

“Roy,” she said through stern eyes that instructed him not to interrupt again. “Then this rugged man, a superhero by comparison, shows up moments later with news of impending doom. He all but forces us to let him stay. And then we put our safety in his hands.”

“I don’t see what you’re saying, dear.”

“It all seems too easy.”

He reached for another jar of booze; she moved it out of his reach. “Too easy? I’m exhausted by it. Besides, we asked him to help. He didn’t force anyone to do anything.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“You said that already.”

“Daddy!”

“Princess, I understand your concern, but these are desperate times. Should these raiders, these bastards come this way … it’s likely that I won’t have to live with the consequences. It’s you. They’ll be done with me and take you to God knows where to do God knows what. And God knows that I can’t let that happen.”

Sarah was quiet. She didn’t like being dismissed. Scooping the last few baby jars of booze from the desk, she made her way back to the door. It shook the walls of the partitioned office when it slammed behind her.

“I can’t lose you, too,” the mayor whispered after her. His head sunk into his hands, his fingers tore at his graying hair. With a broad stroke of his arm, he swept the empty baby jars from his desk.

They clattered as they hit the ground, but none broke. He sighed heavily and pulled a pickle jar from his desk drawer.

TEN

At first he was surprised that he came to at all. Soot covered him. His eyes were caked with the dried ash. Groaning as he rose, he pulled a handkerchief from his rear pocket and brushed the gray crust from his eyes. Once he could see, he realized that he had fallen inches short of the bulletproof safety of the brick wall.

“Your dog is a jerk,” she said. Her voice was close.

Pain shot through his head as he turned to face her for the first time.
 

She sat close, a few feet away; her legs were drawn up in front of her. Chewy sat across from the girl; the hunting rifle was locked in the dog’s mouth.
 

Fuzziness dominated his thoughts as he responded. “Yeah, but she’s man’s best jerk. Wait, that didn’t sound right.”

“Pervert.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was trying to say that …” He leaned against the wall to clear his head. The brick structure he had sought for protection collapsed under his weight. He fought to maintain his balance. His arms pinwheeled. He thrust his hips with a rhythm that betrayed his dance talents as somewhere between “pathetic” and “high potential for injury.”

It was a fierce but brief struggle against gravity; he lost by a slight margin. He stood back up and tried to act as though nothing had happened.

She rolled her eyes.

Take away the dirt, the soot-gray tearstained cheeks, and ashen clothes, and there would be no denying the young woman’s beauty. Fierce eyes blazed through the dirt and dust to reveal a sharpness that could see beyond the immediate, the misleading, and drill to the truth in any person.

He sighed and forced a smile that would put her at ease. The pain made it difficult, but he managed. “Can me and my jerk help you?”

“Me? You’re the one who’s bleeding.”

Feeling the top of his head, he discovered a paste of ash and blood beneath his hair. Grinding the mixture between his fingers, he looked at her. “Did you shoot me?”