Knights of the Apocalypse (A Duck & Cover Adventure Post-Apocalyptic Series Book 2) Read online

  Knights of the Apocalypse

  A Duck & Cover Adventure

  Benjamin Wallace

  Copyright © 2015 by Benjamin Wallace.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and, frankly, kind of embarrassing for you. Especially if you’re anything like Tommy.

  * * * *

  Sign up for Ben's newsletter to be the first to know

  about new releases and get a FREE short story.

  * * * *

  Prelude

  Just before the world ended, people hated the word moist.

  Poverty was still a problem. Terrorism was a big issue at the time. Genocide was always happening somewhere. But you had to be careful when using the word moist. It was acceptable if you were describing cake, but if you used it in any other sense you were sure to get a talking to.

  Most people didn’t know a terrorist personally. If we had, then maybe more of us would have told them off with stern words and clever slogans.

  You couldn’t yell at poor people at all. It wasn’t acceptable. You couldn’t even wonder out loud why they were poor without being an insensitive ass. You couldn’t even suggest a new solution to the problem without being labeled horrible things.

  Perhaps it was this lack of outlet that caused so much frustration regarding the word moist. We couldn’t do anything about international terror or rampant poverty, but we could always chastise a friend for using a word that made them uncomfortable.

  Maybe this is why so much effort was put into hating the word. They scorned their friends whenever it was used and followed the scorning with a two-minute rant about how much they hated the word. They spent time and creative resources developing flowcharts for when the word was appropriate and clever cartoons to express just how much it annoyed them when it was used outside of cake references.

  They shared all of this on social media and built a wall of criticism that kept people in check. We could shut out what we didn’t want to hear. We felt free to berate anyone who thought different than us. By doing this, we fought the good fight. We were activists despite our inactivity.

  Moist was a line drawn in the sand and we stood behind our walls daring anyone to cross it.

  It may seem silly now. It may seem that our outrage was misdirected, but it made us feel safe. We stood behind our walls fighting our own battles against the things that offended us most. Times were good as long as the real problems were well outside our walls.

  Things changed after the end of the world. The real threats were closer. Danger was more of a concern than emotions. Dead bodies were scarier than hurt feelings. Our walls became real and we fought like hell to keep the threats on the outside.

  But people still didn’t like the word moist. And there wasn’t any cake to talk about.

  An entry from the journal of the Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warrior dated “after”

  ONE

  Martha’s first thought was to complain about her hair. It was a mess and smelled like whatever had been pouring out of the train’s smokestack. She wasn’t happy and her husband deserved at least a little grief for getting seats on the gondola instead of one of the enclosed cars. Yes, it had been a beautiful view, she supposed, but it was hard to appreciate Mother Nature’s majesty when the bitch was howling through your hair.

  First, she would remind him how much a day at the stylist cost him. That always made him twitch. Then, she would point out how he should appreciate how much she looked after herself. Other wives let themselves go, but not her. The stylist, the salons, the shopping—she did for him, of course and he should be more grateful.

  Furthermore, she would suggest that, if he truly loved her, he would upgrade the return tickets to a passenger car with windows to keep the wind out of her hair.

  Finally, after she saw the town, she decided that they wouldn’t need the tickets because she was never going home again.

  Silverton was a perfect town in every way. Nestled in a valley between several snow-capped peaks, it was a place frozen in time. It was quaint. It was picturesque. It was postcard perfect. She confirmed this when she purchased several at a shop in town. This was where she belonged and she knew it. Martha didn’t tell her husband this right away. But she also decided not to complain about her hair. Not until later, anyway.

  Historical buildings lined the streets of the old mining town and they spent the day walking among them and browsing the gift shops while Martha formulated her plan. No one rushed about. Life back home was too hectic. She belonged here in this perfect little place where everything slowed down to the pace life was supposed to be lived. She deserved this.

  Bill was successful and she had been a part of that success. She had always supported him from the home—raising kids, keeping the house, and, of course, taking care of herself for him. But the kids were out on their own now, and the house was too big. They both knew it. Just the other week they had been talking about downsizing. It wasn’t coincidence that they came here now. It was perfect.

  All day she had thought of ways to tell him. There were a hundred ways to say it, but not many that he would listen to.

  A cafe on the edge of town was like a thousand other cafes they had seen. And she was certain the coffee wasn’t a special blend or prepared in any special way. Maybe it was the altitude that made it so exceptional. Or it could be the view. She stared out the window at the mountain peaks and her excitement got the best of her. “We should move here.”

  It wasn’t the subtlest way to bring it up, but she didn’t care. She was so overwhelmed by the idea—he had to feel it, too. It was perfect for them.

  “You’re being silly.” He slurped from his coffee cup the way she hated.

  “I am not being silly. This place is wonderful.” She put her chin in her palm and stared out the window. The air was so still. Even nature didn’t want to change a thing about the town. “I can’t believe you don’t think so.”

  “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Then why not?” she asked. “Why not move here?”

  The cup clinked as he set it back in the saucer and he turned from the mountain view to look at her. “What would we do here? This is a perfect example of being a great place to visit, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I hate it when you do that.”

  “The et cetera, et cetera?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you do.” He smiled and winked at her.

  “And what do you mean, ‘What would we do here?’ We’d do exactly this.”

  “Drink coffee?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She took a sip from her own cup. It was a perfect cup of coffee.

  “All day? Every day?”

  “Now you’re the one being silly,” she said. “Of course we wouldn’t just drink coffee. But we could start every day right here. We could just take our time and look at the mountains and not rush to do anything.”

  He looked back out the window at Little Giant Peak. “Those are some pretty mountains.”

  “So, there you go. You agree with me. I saw a real estate office just up the street. We’ll drop in and …”

  He slurped another sip and put the mug down with a clink. “But what would we do, Martha?”

  “What if we just did nothing, Bill? You’ve worked your entire life. I’ve always stayed busy with the kids. Maybe we’ve ear
ned some time to just do nothing.”

  “We’d kill each other.”

  “No, we wouldn’t.”

  “We’d go stir crazy within a week. We’d get tired of walking up and down Main Street and start staying home. Then we’d start doing things to get each other riled up because it’d be the only entertainment we’d have. Then one day I’d go too far—maybe I’d leave the toilet seat up and that night you’d smother me with a pillow.”

  Martha smiled. “You know I could never hurt you, dear.”

  “I’d straight up murder you,” Bill said.

  She smiled at him. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “I would. I’d murder you and I’d hide your body in one of the abandoned mines.”

  Martha pouted and crossed her arms. “You’d never get away with it.”

  “I would, too. I’d act really sad and just tell everyone that you went for a hike and most likely got eaten by a bear. I think they’d believe me. It probably happens all the time.”

  “Eaten by a bear? I don’t think they would believe that.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Bill raised his cup. “Mountain lion it is, then.”

  “You’ve really put some thought into this.”

  “Well, it was a long train ride and you were more concerned about your hair than talking. I had to think about something.” He smiled that damn crooked smile that appeared every time he wanted to make it clear he could read her mind.

  She hated that smile as much as loved it. “You think you’re so clever.”

  “I am clever. That’s why I know you wouldn’t like it here.”

  She put her coffee down. A drop of brown sloshed onto the saucer. “I would love it here. And you would, too. We’d find something to do. We could open up a bicycle shop and rent bicycles.”

  “They have a bicycle shop.” Bill pointed out the window and across the street. “It’s right there.”

  “I know. That’s where I got the idea.”

  “I don’t know if this town is big enough for two bicycle shops.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be a bicycle shop.”

  “I doubt they’d appreciate the competition. They’d probably ride us out of town.”

  Martha rolled her eyes and smiled. “Don’t start.”

  “Do you think they’d use our bicycles or their own to ride us out of town?”

  “Stop it.”

  Bill rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I’m not sure of the protocol.”

  “Stop it.”

  “They’d probably make you ride on the handlebars. There’s no reason to waste two perfectly good bikes.”

  “Now you’re just teasing me. I’m not talking to you anymore.”

  “Fair enough.” Bill turned back to the window and slurped his coffee.

  Martha stared at the mountains. “What if we …?”

  Bill sighed. “That didn’t last.”

  “Quiet. What if we opened a little cafe?”

  Bill looked around the little cafe and feigned confusion.

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Honey, the only business this town could support is another souvenir shop. And selling thimbles with tiny mountains on them would make me want to murder everyone—not just you.”

  “Well, if you’re so smart, what do you think we could do?”

  He leaned over his coffee and thought for a moment. “Now that I think about it … I think we’d do great giving wives guided mountain lion tours.”

  Martha gave him his own crooked smile back and said, “We’d make a killing.”

  “That we would.”

  “We could call it Widower Maker tours,” Martha said.

  “I can hear the jingle now.”

  They both laughed for a moment before Martha continued. “I know you’re joking, but it’s not a bad idea. I’d kill to live out here.”

  “I know you would, honey. So, I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.” Bill leaned back in his chair and slurped away.

  Martha leaned back, too, and looked out the window that faced Little Giant Peak. Her husband may be right. Perhaps one day she would grow bored. But, at this moment, she knew she could stare at the mountains forever.

  # # #

  He’d been staring at the damn mountains forever—four and a half hours, thirty-seven days, and two years by his count. Yeah, yeah, they were pretty. Snow-capped peaks soaked up the moonlight and spit it out across the town like some majestic night-light, blah, blah. And it was better than looking out across a desert like so much of the world had become. But when it’s your job to stare at anything for hours, you learn to hate whatever it is you’re staring at.

  And, in all those years, days and hours of staring, Lee Graves hadn’t seen a thing. Not anything worth yelling about, anyway. Once there was a mountain lion. At least, he thought it was a mountain lion enough to draw his sword and run the other way. But by the time he’d built up the courage to move closer, the creature had either scurried away or had been a shadow, or a log, or something else entirely to begin with.

  When they assigned him to the position in the Night Watch, they had told him it was a great honor. The Watch’s sigil was a fierce owl with eyes that shone green. He had draped it proudly over his shoulders and spoke the oath of the Watch: We look into the darkness of night so others may see dawn’s light.

  The Watch stood guard over the helpless, the innocent and the tired. It was a living wall that stood against the threat of cowards that would strike in the night and against any dangers the post-apocalyptic world might send over the peaks to threaten the kingdom’s peaceful inhabitants. The Watch was all that kept the town safe from sundown to sunup. They stood defiant against the cold and the darkness. It was an honor to serve. It was a privilege to serve. It wasn’t until his first moonless watch that he realized the owl’s eyes glowed in the dark and that he’d been conned into the most ridiculous job in the Kingdom of the Five Peaks.

  Lee exhaled and watched his breath trail off into the darkness. It was the first thing that had moved in weeks. He stomped his feet against the cold and snow crunched under his boots. He pulled the stupid owl cloak tight around his chest. The eyes had long since lost their luminosity and the glow-in-the-dark paint now cracked and flaked away whenever he moved. Like his own eyes, the owl’s had lost their keenness. As Lee Graves stared into the night, the only thing he looked for was a way off the Watch.

  This was simple enough in theory. All a member of the Night Watch had to do was hand his position off to another. Those that had served before him had simply handed their cloak off to the next person that had wandered into the kingdom seeking citizenship. Unfortunately for Lee, the walls of the kingdom had been closed for four and a half hours, thirty-seven days and two years.

  Making a deal with one of the others in town had proven difficult. Whenever he asked them to take his place in the Night Watch, they only laughed at him and made fun of the owl on his cloak. He was stuck watching the darkness for invaders that never came, for threats that never appeared. The only way he was getting out was to earn enough to buy his way out of the kingdom.

  That’s why when he saw something in the darkness for the first time in two years, thirty-seven days and four and a half hours, Lee Graves tapped the pouch at his side. It jingled and he looked the other way.

  TWO

  They say an apocalypse changes things. Which is fairly obvious and those that say it are hardly lauded for their insightful nature.

  It’s a bomb’s nature to change the landscape a bit. It makes green things brown, tall things short and living things dead. But, more than rearranging the scenery, it changes people.

  Those lucky enough to survive the apocalypse developed an odd relationship with the world that was before the blast. Ready electricity and running water were sorely missed. They missed the security of a world free from vicious mutations and roving gangs of bloodthirsty killers. Everybody missed ice cream.

  But, as much as they m
issed the world from before, they had come to hate it. For the nirvana they remembered had led to the hell they now knew. And no matter how nostalgic they were for their old life, they still blamed it for their new one. So they came to grips with the world as it was and adjusted. People were stupid like that.

  This love, but mostly hate, relationship led survivors to reject most of the old world in many ways—the least of which was the renaming of cities. Old names were discarded and ignored and new names more befitting the new landscape were chosen.

  New York came to be known as The Crater due to the devastation wrought by the multitude of nuclear weapons that made it through the shield and, also, the giant crater. New Orleans flooded in the end times and was renamed The Bowl after the smell that resulted. DC became the Slime Pit since it was generally believed that most of the politicians survived the end by escaping into underground shelters.

  Smaller towns faced the wrath of anti-reminiscence, as well. Most often they were named after the inhabiting society’s philosophy. There was no shortage of New Hopes, Democracyvilles or Equalitytowns in the wasteland. There were more than a few Republics and Peacetowns.

  Others were less welcoming and simply took their name from the despot in charge. Darian Savage ran Savagetown, Alexander Payne controlled Payneville and Brian “Bloody Fist” Bloodmoon ruled with cruelty over the citizens of Brian’s Town.

  Durango, however, retained its pre-apocalypse moniker. The name held the mystical ring of an El Dorado or Shambhala. It was the name of a Western hero—grizzled and respected. Durango was a role only John Wayne could play, had he ever felt man enough.