Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (A Duck & Cover Adventure) Page 2

  “Not since elementary school. No.”

  Roy tapped the eraser against the metal desk and dropped the pencil. “Well, then, I think we’re done here. It seems we have little need for a non-kickball playing post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior here in New Hope.”

  “Maybe not now. But as soon as you ask me to leave, trouble will show up at your door.”

  “Trouble? What trouble? I don’t know if you’ve noticed this in all of your nomadic wandering or not, but the post-apocalyptic world isn’t all that bad.

  “In fact, we the people of New Hope kind of like it. Things are quiet. We’re all neighbors again. There is no TV to distract us, no rat race to frustrate us, and the weather has been fairly pleasant.”

  “Complacency precedes catastrophe, so they say,” the nomad said.

  “Who say?”

  “I say.”

  “You say?”

  “I say.”

  “Well, let me say this—we are hardly complacent. We have planted our fields to provide enough food to last through winter, medical stores to cover any ailment, and doctors to tell us what that ailment is.

  “We have shelter, a well and filtration system for endless drinking water. We’re raising livestock. We’ve formed a government. We are hardly complacent. We are prepared.”

  “That’s why you’re in danger.”

  Roy Tinner had been called many names in his life: fat, bastard, and fat bastard among other things. Some of these things dealt with hygiene issues, others with his tastes in clothes, music, and athletic proficiency. Once, he was called an ass in one language while someone else called him a hole in a completely different language. Of all the things he had been called, patient wasn’t one of them. Even nurses had found different ways to refer to him.

  He had a town to run, a campaign to manage, an election to win, and gates to seal against outsiders; this nomad was wasting time. Pounding the desk, he stood to the full height of his small stature.

  “Tell me who, stranger. Who poses us a danger? Psychos in hockey masks? Cannibals? Killer clowns from outer space?”

  The nomad hesitated to answer. “Some are, yes. But not the clowns, no, I don’t see that happening. That one you made up. But the cannibals, psychos and such, yes.”

  “Then our walls will keep them out. Until someone can show me proof that our lives our threatened, this town doesn’t need a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior eating its food and preying on its women. The only real threat we have here is strangers coming into town and trying to con us.”

  The nomad put up his hands in defense. “Okay, okay. That’s great. You say you have no troubles? Fine. Good.” Defeated, he stood to leave.

  The walls of the metal barn flexed and rumbled at the opening of one of the doors. It boomed even louder when the door shut, announcing the arrival of a beautiful blonde.

  Homespun fabric draped her body. It was apparent that someone in town possessed exceptional seamstress skills and this woman displayed them in the best possible way. The light fabric danced about her figure as she crossed the room to the mayor’s office. She paid no attention to the two men.

  Roy Tinner and the nomad watched her as she walked. The nomad sat back down and started to fill out the form. “Do you have any welding that needs done?”

  TWO

  Graceful until impact, the nomad glided through the air and landed hard on the ground outside the gates of New Hope.

  Chin up, chest out, feet arching behind his back to touch, for only a moment, the top of his ears, the landing would be considered one of the great pratfalls of history had it not caused such pain.

  Striking the ground with his face first did little to distribute the force across his body. Forced breath blew dust from the ground as the wind was forced from his lungs. After catching his breath, he began to probe his teeth with his tongue to make sure that all were still present in his face.

  Corrugated metal rumbled as the gate to the town bounced across the ground, digging ruts into the dry clay soil of the former North Texas prairie. It closed, rattling one last time as a solid piece of lumber fell into place sealing him off from the first fresh vegetables, fruit, and meat he had come across in weeks.

  The nomad rolled into a sitting position and stretched his jaw back into place. Finding the proper placement for his feet was more difficult than he thought it should have been, but he was able to stand and turn to face the town. Gritty earth fell from his palms as he brushed them together and knocked the dirt from the worn fabric of his jacket.

  The ringing in his head intensified as he yelled over the wall, “You’re going to need a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior sooner or later.”

  “We’ll get another one,” was the distant reply from the other side of the wall.

  It hurt to hear his own voice and for a moment he thought he might be sick, but he yelled back, “Oh, yeah? From where?”

  “Hello, Bookworm.” The voice was smooth, tempered, and made the nomad wince. He dropped his head and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. The nomad turned to face the man who had addressed him.

  “Hello, Logan.”

  The foundry that was the wasteland had forged many hardened men like Logan. Savage beasts, brutal men, and other dangers had given many a haggard look. Few, however, were able to convert the lacerations, beatings, and hardships into a look such as his.

  Hardly disfigurements, his scars wore as accessories instead of detriments. Each scar held a position on the rugged and handsome face that would place them on a wish list for leading men in any action film, rather than on a dermatologist’s surgical schedule.

  Even this man’s clothes had shaped the wasteland’s effects to his benefit. From his jacket to his boots, every tear, shred, and burn had the feel of comfortable jeans filled with marks that were stories, not stains. Tales, not tears. Each mark was a treasured memory—each was a chapter of a biography.

  Logan’s boots were beaten black leather that had never seen a shine and would reject any polish that dare come near the full grain leather. Hundreds of miles had pounded the soles to the point of repair several times over.

  He stood, his feet crossed, leaning against the side of a ravaged black Mustang GT that looked not unlike its owner. Sheet metal showed through the faded paint at all points of the car from unfortunate journeys through sandstorms, near misses with the debris, and untold battles across the wasteland.

  Despite the bashed body panels and rough exterior, a low roar rumbled from the dual exhaust pipes. Even at idle, the engine made its aftermarket work evident as its breathing swirled dust into devils and its power bounced rocks away from the tires.

  A dog of indistinguishable breed sat in the passenger seat, disinterested in the conversation.

  “Still having trouble convincing people you can help them, I see.” Logan placed a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips and lit it with a Zippo that currently used cologne as fuel. Even his lighter smelled manly.

  “There’s always another town,” the nomad said as he continued to dust himself off.

  “Give it up, Bookworm. You’re not cut out for this line of work.”

  “I’m not comparing résumés again, Logan. I’m just trying to help people.”

  “That’s what makes us different. You’re trying to help people. I am helping people.”

  “No. What makes us different is that ugly mullet you refuse to get cut.”

  “Hair jokes? Really?”

  “It’s no joke, Logan. No amount of nukes could bomb us back far enough in time to make that haircut cool again.”

  “Don’t be petty.”

  “You’re the one trying to be Petty or some other NASCAR driver. I could never tell them apart.”

  Logan took a long drag and exhaled the smoke before answering. “I’m not doing this with you. I’m here to help the good people of ... Where the hell is this?”

  “New Hope.”

  “Really?”

  The nomad nodded. “No marks for originality.”

>   Logan shook his head and chuckled. “Another great new democracy?”

  “I’ve seen greater.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m going to help them,” said Logan

  “They say they don’t need any help.”

  “No, Bookworm. They said they don’t need your help. I’m sure they’ll listen to me.” Logan reached into the Mustang and pulled out a satchel. Its leather was as worn as that of his boots. Slinging it over his shoulder, he whistled to his dog and started moving towards the town gate.

  Nails clicked against the sheet metal as the mutt scrambled out of the car and rushed to be at its master’s side. Mottled, gray, and missing the top half of one ear, the dog looked as if it had lost as many fights as it had won. It caught up to Logan and strolled at his side as the man strode toward the gate.

  As he passed by the nomad, Logan put a hand out and rested it on the man’s shoulder.

  “I’m serious, Bookworm. You need to find something else to do. This line of work isn’t for you. I say that because I care.”

  “You say that because I’m the competition.”

  “I say that because of Eternal Hope, Colorado! Do you want to lead more people to their slaughter?”

  “Colorado wasn’t my fault.” It wasn’t an argument, but a sheepish reaction, a defensive reflex. He didn’t believe it himself.

  “I was there. You designed the defenses. You said they would hold.” Logan dropped the hand from the nomad’s shoulder.

  “They should have held.”

  Logan’s voice calmed, “They didn’t hold. And we both know what happened next.”

  Transported back to the courtyard of Eternal Hope, Colorado, the nomad went silent; his eyes went blank. The screams of hundreds surrounded him. Men and women died at his feet. Children pleaded for help as they were carried away.

  Acrid smoke had filled his nostrils that day as he screamed commands and struck at everything within his reach. The explosives the raiders had used were crude, but effective at making things explode. Destruction surrounded him; shrapnel had struck his leg and limited his movements. Rage had carried him forward, fighting on, but his efforts could not stop the slaughter.

  “You’re no warrior, Bookworm. You’re a librarian. You don’t have what it takes.” Logan looked around. “It even looks like your own dog has left you.”

  The veil of memory lifted. The screams stopped. The nomad’s eyes focused. He looked around the area. “Where’s Chewy?”

  A sharp bang of metal rang out from the town’s gate. A yelp carried over the wall. Shouting followed. A low bark was the final sound from inside the town. Metal rumbled like thunder as town gates scraped open just far enough for a large dog to slip through. The gate slammed shut again.

  At 170 pounds and almost three feet tall at the shoulder, it was hard to tell if the giant dog had a piece of lettuce hanging from its jowls or an entire head locked within its jaws.

  Regardless, it was pleased with its prize. The canine pranced to the nomad and sat in front him. Brown eyes stared into his, looking for praise.

  Chewy was a mastiff mixed with something brown. She bore the size and stature of her dominant breed, but possessed a thinner jaw line than a pure bred mastiff.

  “At least your dog got fed.”

  Chewy turned and growled at Logan—the threatening posture was made less intimidating by the lettuce leaf flapping like a limp flag from her jowls.

  The gray mutt at Logan’s heel stepped in front of its master; its hackles were raised, its teeth gleamed.

  “Down, Chewy,” the nomad commanded.

  The mastiff ceased her growling and sat back down—quiet and content to chew on the lettuce. He placed his hand on the dog’s broad head and stroked it, making sure to scratch behind the ears.

  “Your dog knows when to quit, Bookworm. You should too. Get out of the game before it kills you.”

  Logan strolled to the gate and rang the doorbell.

  The nomad turned his back to the town of New Hope and, with the mastiff at his side, walked into the wasteland that had been North Texas.

  Logan watched the pair walk away as he waited for someone to answer the door. The gray dog continued to growl. Logan made no move to correct the dog.

  A loud groan brought his attention back to the gate.

  Roy Tinner peered through a crack in the door. “This door isn’t light. I’m not opening it without a damn good reason.”

  “You’ll want to see what I have to show you,” Logan said

  “I doubt that.”

  Logan placed a cigarette between his lips and said nothing. The councilman’s face hardened. His eyes narrowed—trying to stare down the man outside while struggling to peer through the crack in the gateway.

  Logan’s face held little expression minus the slight smirk of an upturned corner of his mouth.

  A muffled voice came from behind the gate and the man behind the door broke the stare. “It’s another one,” he said to the muffled voice.

  It was a boisterous muffle, but Logan could not distinguish the words being spoken.

  “He’s probably no different from the last one,” Roy responded.

  There was more boisterous mumbling and Tinner’s expression changed. The scowl disappeared and was replaced with a politician’s practiced smile. “Can we help you?”

  “No. But I can help you.”

  Patience had never come easy to the councilman and he had already used what little he had dealing with the fool who was now walking away. His smile disappeared.

  “Look, I already did this once today.” Roy thrust a thumb at the nomad in the distance. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I’m a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior. And you’re going to need my help.”

  “Look. I’m going to tell you what I told the last nomadic warrior that came through here. We don’t have any problems. There aren’t any roving gangs. There aren’t any sinister people out there looking to do us harm. The biggest problem we seem to have is that the damn doorbell still works.” Smiling, he reached out of the gate and hit the button several times.

  Logan smirked. It never ceased to amaze him how citizens felt safe behind their walls. Communities had banded together and labored to drive stakes, weld joints and fortify these barriers to feel sheltered, to define themselves as a people set apart from the rest, never realizing for a moment that they were building a prison for themselves.

  Explaining this could take hours and result in a slammed door. Today, Logan had no reason to argue.

  Without losing the man’s gaze, Logan reached into the worn leather satchel and withdrew a cracked and cobbled Flip video camera. Its case was all but shattered; duct tape held it together, as it did so many things in the new world. Spliced wires ran to several batteries that had been bundled together to replace an internal power source that had long since died. The patchwork of wires and Arkansas chrome wasn’t an elegant solution, but it worked.

  Logan pressed play.

  The councilman watched unmoved. A moment later he tore the device from the man’s hands, drawing the tiny screen closer to his face.

  “What town is this?”

  “This was Vita Nova. Not far from here.”

  The councilman strained to push the door open further. “Come in. Bring the camera.”

  THREE

  “Vita Nova ... sounds nice,” the nomad held the map page out for the dog to see.

  He had traded a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and an issue of Mad magazine for the worn atlas page when he came across a scavenger a couple of weeks prior.

  The scavenger had been covered in scabs and sores. The peroxide was what he needed, but he seemed more excited to do the fold in on the back cover of the magazine. Coughing and chuckling, he had scored the page and laughed uproariously when the image revealed itself.

  It was a toilet.

  Information was not given freely on the road. In a world where so few had so little, everything had become a commodity. Water sou
rces and the location of supplies, were the most valuable, if their existence could be verified. The location of towns was not as valuable, but he was still surprised to get the map for such a price.

  Only the eastern half of the state was included in the deal; it had been torn from a two-page spread in an old road atlas. By its very nature, any information on the hand-drawn map was suspect, but even general locations would help any one forced to travel the roads.

  Amateur cartography had fallen out of vogue long before the apocalypse, so he was surprised to see that this map’s maker included something as basic as a key. The scraggly drawn box in the corner indicated symbols that had become commonplace in the new world. Like a post-apocalyptic hobo code, scrawled symbols on rocks and roadsides warned travelers of poisoned wells, irradiated areas, and dangerous creature habitats. These symbols had permeated the culture and spread across the continent by roamers, scavengers, and people that crossed the great wastes in hopes of finding some mythical city that had survived the bombs.

  New settlements and unique landmarks were marked by hand: towns, trading posts, radioactive hot spots, and more were hashed onto the old paper. The nomad made a mental note of Vita Nova’s location, folded the map, and shoved it back inside his duster.

  Chewy barked.

  “Well, as nice a place as any.”

  The massive dog barked again, then whimpered.

  “I know. They didn’t even let us stay for dinner. At least you got some fresh greens.”

  He scratched the dog’s large square head. This affection was reciprocated with a moist tongue on his fingers.

  “Don’t worry. There’s food in the truck.” They had been walking for forty-five minutes and he began to regret parking so far from the town of New Hope. The walled settlement was no longer visible and they still had a fair distance to travel.

  It was quiet. Even the ceaseless sounds of the cicadas had ceased. Despite his dog’s presence, he felt very much alone.

  New Hope was the first real town they had found in weeks. Chewy was a good friend, but it wouldn’t hurt to talk to a person about the weather, the apocalypse, or some other manner of small talk.