Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (A Duck & Cover Adventure) Page 3

  It was true that almost every city that had not been wiped out during the apocalypse had at least one resident. More times than not it was a crotchety man that refused to leave his home. Years of solitude, however, tended to drive these hermits insane. Insane people made for poor company and were difficult to talk to as their imaginary friends kept interrupting.

  Chewy and the nomad had spent days outside of New Hope before he had mustered the courage to approach the town. He had considered a ruse, posing as a farmer, a douser, or scavenger—anything but a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior. It would have been easier, few resisted the help of a skilled douser, but it would not have been honest.

  So, now it was on to Vita Nova, another town, another chance to help, and another chance at fresh food and some company.

  Distance was no judge of time. It was hard to say how long the trip would take just by looking at the map. Vita Nova wasn’t far, but road conditions were unpredictable. Evacuations had been poorly planned and were sporadic at best. This left one to only guess at where the shells of rusting vehicles would be clustered on the roads. Bridges could be out. Barricades could be left intact. It could take a few hours or several days before they reached the town.

  Looking west, he determined that it would not be today. Threatening clouds were building in front of the sunset. Winds blew the red dust of the West in front of the coming storm. They would hole up on the road somewhere in a few hours, wait out the storm, and strike out again in the morning.

  There was no doubt in his mind that when they arrived at the town, he would find something very similar to the town he had just left: big walls, wary citizens, and a chance at redemption. He could draw a layout of the town, site unseen, and the sketch would be 90% accurate. All towns were the same.

  Parking out of sight, he would approach on foot to appear less threatening to the timid, and less of a target to the bold that saw visitors as a chance to resupply town wares.

  This time he wouldn’t wear the false confidence. It had failed in New Hope. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t comfortable with it, and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere. No, he would humbly offer his help to the people of Vita Nova and pray that they would accept his offer.

  “Come on, Chewy.”

  The large dog huffed and strolled ahead with a cautious ear to the wasteland. The nomad followed, thankful for his dog’s companionship. Having her as a friend made leading a rough life on the road a little easier.

  After a moment, he called ahead to her, “Girl, do you remember where we parked the Winnebago?”

  It wasn’t really a Winnebago. It was a Bounty Hunter motor coach that had been used by off-road enthusiasts before the apocalypse. He rarely felt the need to be brand specific; there weren’t many people left alive to argue the difference between the toy hauler and a Winnie.

  Motor homes had always fascinated him. Even before the world ended he had dreamed of epic cross-country journeys behind the wheel of a forty-plus-foot land yacht.

  He had traveled little growing up, his family always choosing to use vacation time for family reunions, weddings, and other general family visits.

  Dubbing these trips as “oblications,” he resented the fact that, even after graduating, he felt it necessary to join the family twice a year instead of setting off on his own adventures.

  Whenever he passed a large motor coach on the road, his mind wandered to the driver’s seat. He saw himself behind the wheel with a map stretched out in front of him. Destinations would dance in his mind. They appeared as postcards and bumper stickers to be earned and pasted with pride on the back of the luxury camper.

  Famous landmarks often topped his list: Mount Rushmore, the Mall in DC, and the Golden Gate Bridge. These and many more filled a hopeless itinerary of places he longed to see. After the apocalypse, he figured it was as good a time as any to get started.

  During one of the more severe locust swarms, the two travelers sought shelter in a storage facility in Oklahoma. The behemoth had been waiting there for them; the keys were hidden behind the visor.

  Chewy had claimed the passenger seat for herself and curled up before he had even turned the ignition.

  Regret hit him at every stop. Few of the landmarks retained their former beauty. If the apocalypse had not taken its toll on America’s greatest treasures, survivors had.

  The Golden Gate Bridge had been transformed into the town of Hope Gate. This sprawling shantytown marred the majesty of the former record-holding bridge. Though disappointed, he couldn’t fault the people of the town. They had little choice but to settle the span as most of the land around it had been consumed by the Pacific Ocean.

  On the National Mall, someone had stolen the head of Thomas Jefferson, chiseled the beard off of Lincoln, and scrawled ‘it looks like a penis’ on the Washington Monument.

  A surviving group of plane fanatics had taken over the Air and Space museum and spent their days sitting in the cockpits of historic aircraft making machine gun noises and talking about modeling.

  Due to the remote location of Mount Rushmore, he had been certain that it would have remained untouched. It was perhaps the greatest disappointment. The once impressive monument had been set upon by a clan of artists that had changed the likenesses of the former presidents into a massive tribute to the Muppets. From left to right were Fozzie, Beaker, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, and, the closest in resemblance, Sam the Eagle.

  When he had pressed the artists for a reason for their actions, they simply answered ‘irony’ and attempted to sell him a postcard.

  Carved into the granite in the middle of nowhere, he had always assumed that the monument would outlast mankind itself. His hopes dashed, he bought the postcard and a bumper sticker anyway. He never understood the irony.

  Traveling the country in the coach had given him ample opportunity to customize the vehicle to the demands of the wasteland. This included an exterior paint job that was designed to hide the massive machine in the shadows.

  Matte black paint covered the majority of the motor coach; the chrome bumpers had been removed and replaced with steel rails and brush bars that matched the color scheme. The only exception to the dull exterior was a high gloss script of the vehicle’s christened name, The Silver Lining.

  The christening was performed with a 40 of the High Life. He had given the Bounty Hunter the optimistic name before he had set out on his cross-country journey. His plan back then was to spread a little optimism on his tour. Now, he hid the vehicle before approaching any town.

  The old service station’s canopy had collapsed on one side. This post-apocalyptic lean-to had made the perfect garage. Shadows cast by the dilapidated building blended with the custom matte black paint and helped prevent the coach from being seen in a passing glance.

  The pair walked toward it under the beating summer sun. Chewy panted and quickened her pace as the pads of her paws bounced off the hot asphalt. She took refuge under every patch of shade they happened across. A tree or fallen road sign would cause her to run ahead of her master. There she would wait until he caught up.

  The nomad had removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. His hat was his sole protection from the relentless sun.

  “You know what’s wrong with this apocalypse, Chewy? It is nothing like anyone expected. Almost everyone is getting along just fine. There’s plenty of food, water, and even gasoline isn’t worth fighting over.”

  Fumbling in his pockets, he pulled out two knives and a grenade before hearing the familiar jingle of his keys.

  “I shouldn’t be complaining. It’s good for everyone, right? But it makes doing what we do kind of pointless.”

  Shuffling from foot to foot, the dog scratched at the door.

  “Still, I spent all that time training to fight injustice, to defeat impossible odds, and to drive really fast. Maybe I should have been a farmer. Or I could have been that guy who can build anything out of other things. Everybody likes that guy.”

  He knelt and reached under the carria
ge. By habit his fingers found a small metal switch and flicked it off. He stood and placed the key in the door. It resisted and he made note to hit it with some silicone. Dust, dirt, debris, and more were so prevalent in air that he spent hours each week maintaining the vehicle.

  “Let’s face it, girl. No one needs a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior. Especially one like me.”

  Whimpering, in part out of sympathy, but mostly out of a desire to get inside, his faithful friend nuzzled his hand.

  “That’s a good girl.” He stroked the brindled fur. “At the next town we’ll change our vocation. We’ll tell them I’m a mechanic. Every town needs one of those. We’re getting out of the nomadic warrioring game and we’ll settle down for good.”

  With the hidden switch safely set to off, he opened the door without it exploding.

  Chewy brushed by him into the coach and located a bone in the passenger’s map pocket. She curled up in the seat and set to work gnawing on the bone.

  Fear of knowing the truth had always stopped him from trying to figure out where the bone had originated. It looked like any other bone you would give a dog. But, in the world today, there was no telling for sure what kind of animal it had come from. If it had come from an animal at all.

  He stepped inside and set the duster on a table. Various clunks sounded as the jacket and the weapons inside settled into place.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he settled into the cockpit and inserted the keys. The diesel engine turned easily and the motor home purred to life. He placed his hand on the dash just above the vents.

  “I missed you, air conditioning.”

  Chewy sighed in agreement and chomped harder on the bone. There was a crack that sickened the nomad. He pushed the bone’s possible origin from his mind.

  “Ready, Chewy?”

  A steady stream of drool began to flow from her jowls as Chewy worked on the bone.

  The nomad held a button on the steering wheel. A chime sounded throughout the cabin’s surround sound system and he spoke, “Play playlist Jerry’s favorites.”

  The iPod beeped a confirmation and played Wonderlust King by Golgo Bordello.

  The gypsy punk sound filled the cabin and the two friends pulled into the afternoon summer sun towards the town of Vita Nova.

  FOUR

  “What does Vita Nova mean, anyway?” Roy Tinner sat with Mayor David Wilson and Logan, the post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior, in the mayor’s office.

  “It’s Latin,” said the mayor. “It means new hope.”

  Roy’s eyes widened, “What? They can’t do that!”

  “Do what?” Logan asked.

  “We’re New Hope. This is, this is ... copyright infringement.” Roy stood. “How could they do this? It’s an insult, it’s an, an affront.”

  “An affront?” Logan looked to the mayor.

  “Calm down, Roy,” he said, barely acknowledging the pacing councilman as he mulled over the warrior’s story and what he had seen on the camera.

  “They can’t ...” Roy stammered when he was agitated. He stammered often.

  “They’re dead,” Logan said. “Your pending lawsuit isn’t going to be their biggest concern.”

  Roy stopped pacing. His cheeks flush, he sat back down. The gravity of the situation had escaped him in his offense. He stammered, “Of course. Still, we should see to preventing this in the future.”

  Logan walked over to a large map on the wall, grabbed a pen and started marking towns and settlements. With each dot he proclaimed the name of the location, “Hope, Hopeful, Last Hope, Hopefulville, The Town of New Hopefulvilleness, The Town of Hope, Hope City, New Hope, New Hope, New Hope ...”

  Tinner winced with each location and squirmed in his chair. New Hope was the name he had championed during the drafting of the town’s charter. The moniker had faced stiff competition from Freedonia and Freedomville. Political favors and pure begging had helped him force his choice through.

  “The world is full of Hopes, Mr. Tinner.” Logan set the marker back down.

  “They’re all hope?”

  “I came across a Steve once.”

  “Steve?”

  “They figured it sounded warm and welcoming, because ‘who doesn’t like Steve?’”

  Roy nodded, but then added, “Why not Steven?”

  Logan shrugged, “Too pretentious?”

  “I don’t know. I knew a few Stevens, seemed nice enough.”

  The mayor jumped in, “Please, Roy. It’s not important right now.”

  Tinner dropped the issue, but decided that his first act as the new mayor would be to change the name of the town. A new flag would be needed as well. He decided to start sewing one up that night.

  Mayor Wilson sat, his head propped on his fingertips. Pensive, he stared not at Roy Tinner or Logan, but into the wall beyond them both.

  The video was disturbing. Horrific. The news that a similar fate could await his town had removed the always present, reassuring smile he had adopted since the apocalypse.

  Dozens of people looked to him for guidance and assurances that—even though the world had come to an end—everything would be okay. Men and women had come from all over to this town to be safe and, for the first time, the mayor wasn’t certain that he could promise that safety.

  “Well, this isn’t good.” The mayor looked to Logan and indicated the Flip. “How old is this footage?”

  “Yesterday. I arrived not long after the assault. Too late to help, unfortunately.”

  “And you’re sure that they are headed this way?”

  Logan shrugged. “They were headed south. New Hope is the next inhabited town.”

  “So they could be here any moment.” The mayor stood and walked to the map of Texas that hung on the wall. Logan had drawn in the approximate location of Vita Nova just across the former state line.

  “We should evacuate.” Roy Tinner was two steps toward the door. “I’ll have everyone start rounding up the supplies.”

  “Hold on,” Logan raised a hand to stop the councilman and turned back to the mayor. “You may have a few days. This entire road is lined with deserted towns.” Logan indicated the route on the map. “They won’t pass them up—no matter how fierce they are, they’re scavengers at heart. And, with any luck, the road may prove difficult for them.”

  “What do you propose?” The mayor was hesitant to abandon the town, but for once he may agree with Tinner.

  “Your walls are strong. Some of the strongest I’ve seen. With a few modifications and some arms for the town, you’d be able to make a stand here.”

  “Is that what Vita Nova did?” Roy had picked up the Flip and replayed the footage. “Evacuation is our only chance. And, if we leave, they’ll just pass by when they find nothing here. Then we can come back.”

  “Or, they’ll track you down and you won’t have a wall to hide behind.”

  “No, Roy,” Mayor Wilson turned his back to the map on the wall. “New Hope is where other people go when they need help. This is our home and we will defend it.”

  “David, this is a bad idea.”

  The mayor nodded. He couldn’t completely disagree with the councilman. Defending the town may be the biggest mistake he would make during his career as mayor. This was little consolation in the fact that it could also be his last.

  “It could be, Roy. But, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “You’re putting us in danger.”

  “Danger is being put upon us, Roy. Don’t think for a moment that I’m forgetting what’s at stake here. My daughter is one of the lives I’m putting on the line. But I would rather stand and fight and show her that true freedom is worth defending, than run and, most likely, be killed anyway.

  “We’ve worked too hard to build this town to abandon it to the will of savages and bullies.”

  The mayor stood and offered his hand to the warrior. “This isn’t your fight, I know. Still, is there any way I could convince you to stay and help us?”

  Loga
n looked to Roy. The fat man perspired in anticipation of the warrior’s answer.

  “Help us prepare our defense,” the mayor continued, “and you can take with you all the supplies you can carry.”

  “I’ll help. But I don’t want anything.”

  “Then why would you ...?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “David,” Roy’s voice bordered on rage, “we can defend ourselves.”

  “Every hand helps,” the mayor looked back to Logan.

  Logan nodded, “I’ll survey the town and start making plans.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “I’m not going to let you do this, David. Not like this. You’ll have to take this to the council.”

  Mayor Wilson nodded. “Of course, you’re right. We’ll take this to the people. Mr. Logan, would you mind addressing the council?”

  “If it will help.”

  Roy stammered something unintelligible, stormed out of the office, and slammed the door. The steel walls of the barn rattled a moment later as Roy slammed the outer door.

  “He doesn’t like outsiders,” said Logan. “That’s his problem, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said the mayor. “He’s an asshole. And it’s more our problem than his.”

  Logan tried not to smirk. He couldn’t do it.

  “By the way, Logan. Do you play kickball?”

  FIVE

  Roads weren’t much worse than before the world’s nations had seen fit to drop bombs all over them. With the exception of a few biological agents, it was rare that warheads contained anything that promoted the growth of plant life, or any life.

  Vegetation had survived, but its growth had seemed stunted and easily held at bay by the existing concrete or asphalt barriers. Road surfaces would crumble in time, but for now they stayed smooth where they had been smooth, rough where they had been rough, and shitty all throughout Arkansas.

  Traveling in the large coach had its benefits, large shock absorbers being one of them. Jerry had made extensive alterations to the motor coach, but he had seen little need to modify the suspension.