Revenge of the Apocalypse (A Duck & Cover Adventure Post-Apocalyptic Series Book 4)

by Benjamin Wallace

  “A lot of things have changed, Liv.”

  “Oh,” she mocked. “Then you should buy me a beer and tell me all about it.”

  Jerry nodded with a smile as she grabbed a beer of her own and slid over the bar.

  “What do you want?” she asked, taking a seat. There was no it’s good to see you or how have you been.

  “We need to talk.”

  She wrapped a hand around the glass and took a drink. With a swig down, she set the glass on the bar and smiled. “So. The legendary Librarian. In my little old town.”

  “When you told me you were heading this way I kind of figured you’d be running the place by now.” He was only half kidding. She could talk almost anyone out of anything. Possibly even an empire.

  “Who says I’m not? I may not have a fancy red cape, but who’s to say I’m not the one pulling the strings around here? And just to keep everyone fooled, instead of living across the river in the relative lap of luxury, I’m hiding out in this shit hole to throw everyone off.”

  “If that were the case, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I wouldn’t say it’s the best likeness, but your face is plastered all over town between the words WANTED and DEAD. There’s no OR anymore. They took that off a week ago.”

  “I’m here to kill Invictus.”

  Liv had a thousand laughs in her vocabulary, and each one was designed to do one of a thousand things. Break a heart or make it dance. Sway a vote or stay a hand. But this was the first time he’d heard this particular one and figured it might be the first time he heard her laugh betray actual amusement. “Is that right?”

  Jerry stared at her with dead eyes and took a drink of his own.

  “Just you and that dog of yours?”

  He shook his head and set the glass down. “No. We’re going to have some help.”

  “You’re the most wanted man in the city. Who’s going to help you?”

  “You are.”

  This laugh began genuine and turned sarcastic somewhere in the middle.

  “I’m not kidding,” Jerry said.

  “I know you’re not.” She slapped a hand on his knee and shook it. “That’s what’s so funny.”

  “You owe me, Liv.”

  She raised the glass for another drink. “I don’t owe you that much.”

  “You owe me, Liv.”

  “I owe a lot of people. And if you get me killed, they’re not going to be too happy with me, or you. So quit being so selfish and get out of my bar.”

  “You owe me your life.”

  “That’s right, and it isn’t worth what you’re asking.” She stood up to leave. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Sit down.” His voice was cold. Colder than even he expected. It stopped the woman in her tracks and she turned back to him with a raised eyebrow and a tilted head.

  “Oh my,” she said with a hand to her chest. “There’s that big bad Librarian all the girls talk about.”

  He just gestured to the barstool.

  She sat and smiled. “It always makes me laugh, the way they all talk about you. Especially here. On one side of the river you’re a monster. The greatest threat to everything Invictus has built. They blame you for everything that doesn’t go right. Over here, on this side of the river, you’re a damn Davy Crocket. You should hear the way they talk about you, some kind of icon of liberty. If either side ever met you they would be greatly disappointed.”

  “Liv—“

  She slammed the glass down on the bar. “Do you have any idea how much better my life would be if I turned you in?”

  “You know better than to cross me.”

  She smiled and nodded in agreement. “I do. But this town is full of people that don’t. Liberty is one thing. But a ticket to the other side of the river is something else.”

  “We’ll see about that. I just need you to arrange a meeting for me.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “You know, I could never tell if you were an optimist or an idiot.”

  “In the end, does it really make a difference?”

  She shrugged. “I guess not.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

  “Oh, that’s a hell no. I’ve got a good thing going here. But don’t you worry. Your secret is safe with me, O’ Hero of New Hope. Besides, no one would believe me if I told them it was you.” She stood and turned to leave once more.

  Chewy sneezed and knocked the glass of beer over. Jerry wasn’t worried about the mess. First of all, it wouldn’t show in a place like this, and the dog was sure to lick it up. He looked for the kid with the mop to tell him not to bother, but the child had disappeared. He turned back to Liv. “You forget that I know more than a few secrets of yours.”

  “See, that’s just it. You can threaten me all you want but I know you. And that’s not you at all. You’re not going to like hearing this since you’re out for revenge and all, but you’re one of the good guys, Jerry. Hell, you may be the last good guy left on Earth. And good guys don’t blackmail. They can’t go around threatening the innocent. If they did, they wouldn’t be so good anymore. So no, I won’t help you. But I will tell you this: If you really want to kill Invictus, you'd better hurry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say you’re not the only person looking for revenge.”

  THREE

  Mr. Christopher sat cradling the stump of his left arm in his remaining hand. He could still feel fingers that were no longer there. They itched. And having an itch he couldn't scratch was almost as annoying as the raspy breath that was coming from the man sitting next to him wearing the bear mask.

  “Do you have to wear that mask?” he asked as he shifted in his seat trying to find some way to hold his arm that didn't hurt.

  “What? You got a problem with bears, Stumpy?” The voice was muffled by the mask but the sarcasm came through loud and clear. And the sarcasm stung a bit more coming from a bear. “You mad they ate your hand?”

  Christopher fought the urge to strangle the driver with his one good hand and answered instead. "It wasn't the bear, it was the bastard with the ax," he explained for the third time. "So, I have no problem with the look of your mask, it's the sound your rank breath makes coming out of it.”

  "Do you want a ride or don't you?" the bear asked.

  "Just drive, Teddy Ruxpin."

  "My car, my rules. The mask stays on. You don't like it you can walk your crippled ass back home."

  Christopher sighed and tried to pull his hat down to shield his face against the wind. He couldn't decide if the lack of a windshield bothered him more than his chauffeur wearing an animal mask. In the end, he decided that both were horrible.

  And he hated to admit it, but the bear had a point. He was lucky to get a ride back to Alasis at all. The Librarian had taken out most of the men and women Invictus had sent against him. The rest had been chased off by a biker gang that had found its way to Tolerance. He had given up finding a ride and started walking when Winnie the shithead came across him on the road north.

  He was also lucky to be alive. After being shackled to the Librarian and put in a bear fight, he should be grateful that he only lost his hand. That he wasn't killed in the crossfire was miracle enough. Yes, he realized he should be grateful, but he was pissed. His left arm throbbed, his head ached and all he could think about was getting back to Alasis and finding a way to get his revenge.

  It wasn't just that the man had cut off his hand. The Librarian had proven to be the only mark Christopher could not deliver and if he didn't rectify that, it could put his standing in the city in jeopardy. No one wanted to be seen as a failure in the eyes of Invictus. Mr. Christopher knew he could run, but he would be found. His best chance now was to limp home with a plan to make the situation right and if that meant being driven home by an asthmatic bear, so be it.

  He did his best to block out the raspy breath and the hacking cough and pulled his hat down over his f
ace to try to get some sleep. He had finally found a corner where the wind wasn't horrible when the car lurched and the bear screamed.

  Instinctively he reached for a gun that wasn't there with a hand he no longer had. A second crash knocked the hat from his head and he sat up in time to see the pickup truck ram them again.

  The man in the bear mask growled and swerved left, aiming for the truck. But the truck slammed on its brakes long enough that the bear missed and their car turned sideways on the road. Having been modified with an emphasis on scariness over performance, the car quickly lost control and began to roll.

  Christopher did what he could to stabilize himself as he was tossed around. His right hand found part of the roll cage and grabbed the support, while his left arm flailed about as the car rolled down the highway before it came to rest on its right side. Christopher could feel the cement on his back and the driver on top of his chest. The man in the mask was still alive and struggling to stand up. Mr. Christopher shoved at him with his good hand and tried to free himself from the restraints. The Winnie’s wheezing was worse than ever, but the man managed to get to his feet and crawl out the driver side door.

  A gunshot sounded and the wheezing stopped. The man fell back in the car and landed on top of Christopher with blood pouring from under the bear’s face. Christopher did his best to remain calm and was able to wiggle out through the missing windshield onto the road. Getting to his feet proved much more difficult. His legs fell from underneath him as he tried to rise and he still wasn't used to not having his left hand to support him. Every time he tried, he drove the stump into the ground and pain shot up his arm. He stumbled backward toward the edge of the road, searching desperately for his attacker.

  The pickup truck just sat there in the dark with hazard lights flashing, painting the road a sickening amber.

  He couldn't see the driver. He couldn't see where the shot had come from. All he could see was smoke coming off the wrecked car. Everything was silent. Even the pickup truck had turned off its engine. He stumbled as he backed closer to the shoulder and fell to the ground. The pain was overwhelming. His legs hurt, his arm hurt and now his head hurt. He wasn’t sure he could trust his senses. He strained to hear anything and thought he heard footsteps, but he couldn't be certain. He tried to pinpoint the sound. It had to be coming from the truck but he couldn't see a thing. He couldn't say if it was his own mind or a voice from out of the darkness, but it came as a hoarse whisper. One word. "Run."

  Mr. Christopher rolled over backward, off the shoulder and down to the ditch that ran alongside the highway. Somewhere along the way he found his feet and began to run. He dashed through a drainage pipe to the other side of the road hoping that he could shake the mysterious assailant. The pipe was filled with branches and other trash that the storm waters had brought over the years, and they tangled his feet and drove him to the ground several more times before he cleared the pipe. Once on the other side, he turned north and ran through the ditch. He desperately wanted to look over his shoulder but was afraid of what he would see.

  He ran up the ditch, across the service road and found himself in the parking lot of a restaurant that had been known for its Southern style and older clientele. He scrambled up the porch and ran to one of the windows, picked up a rocking chair, tossed it through the pane of glass and followed it inside.

  Tripping over a display of painted rocks, he stumbled through the bric-a-brac that had filled the shelves of the restaurant’s old country store. He looked for anything he could use as a weapon, but the only thing of substance was a metal sign that said “Live. Laugh. Love.” Swung hard enough, it could leave a gash. He shook it to test its strength and it gave off a nice wobbly sound that assured him he was screwed.

  The wooden porch out front thunked as footsteps fell across its planks. Christopher set the sign down on the counter and raced out of the country store and into the dining room. It was a mess of overturned tables and chairs, as if there had been an Old West gunfight or an irresistible early bird special. Getting around the solid furniture wasn’t easy or quiet, and he couldn’t hear anything over his own escape. When he finally stopped, he could feel eyes on him.

  Whispering. This time he knew it wasn’t in his own head. It was low and ragged but not forced. His attacker wasn’t trying to sound scary. He just was. "Christoph."

  His name wasn't Christoph but it was close enough to scare the shit out of him. His heart stopped. His palm sweat. “Who's there?"

  He could hear the footsteps moving through the store scattering the kitschy crap that had fallen from the shelves to litter the floor. The whisper repeated itself.

  “Christoph."

  "Show yourself!" He stumbled backward and tripped over a chair. By the time he looked back up, the figure was standing in the entrance to the dining room. The shadow wasn’t tall, but it was broad enough to be a threat.

  "What do you want, you coward?” he screamed in a shaking voice he would never have recognized as his own. He was always the one in control. He pulled the strings. He set the traps and he did the scaring. He wasn’t used to being alone or being unprepared. He had made his reputation by being cold and calculating. Now it was all he could do to pull himself up straight and not tremble at the knees. “Who are you?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t remember me.”

  Christopher's back was against the waiter's stand and he felt around behind it for a weapon. All he could find was a piece of silverware and he couldn't tell from the handle what it was. He gripped it tightly in his hand and silently hoped it wasn't a spoon. It wasn't much, but it was something and it gave him some sense of control. "I forget a lot of people."

  "Yeah," the shadowy figure said. "That seems like your style. But I thought you might remember me. Because of you someone very important to me is dead."

  Christopher had killed a lot of people. And when you broadened it to include people who died because of him, it certainly didn't help narrow down the shadow's identity. "That doesn't give me much to go on.”

  "How's the hand?"

  No. It couldn't be him. Christopher's list of enemies wasn't short, but few people had as much reason to hate him as the Librarian. From what he heard, the girl his bounty had been traveling with was killed by the Skinners. The man had already left him to die once at the hands of a bear or the outraged citizens of Tolerance. Why would he bother tracking him down now? How could he know he escaped? He gripped the eating utensil tighter in his hand as the shadow stepped forward into the light.

  It wasn't him. It wasn’t the Librarian. It was one of those damn hillbillies he'd hired. The short one with the scars on his face. "Oh thank God it's only you, Willie."

  The man responded with a scream and grabbed one of the chairs from the floor. He yelled as he hurled the chair across the dining room, "I ain't Willie!"

  "I'm sorry. Look—"

  "My name is Coy!”

  “Look, Coy–"

  Coy growled as he came closer, "I mean, I was Coy. But now you can call me…The Coyote."

  Mr. Christopher couldn't help but chuckle as he asked, “Why?"

  "Because, eating Willie changes a man.“

  The words rolled around Christopher's head for a moment before he stammered, “You can't mean what you just said."

  "Oh, I'm afraid so, Christoph. You see, your friends made me eat my friend. They cut him up and cooked him like bacon and fed him to me strip by strip."

  "But, why did you eat him?”

  "Because they told me Willie was bacon!" Coy grabbed another chair and smashed it against the wall. "And I like bacon! And I was hungry! And you can't blame a man for wanting bacon when he's hungry!"

  Christopher held up his stump in an effort to calm the man. “Look, Coy—“

  “The Coyote dammit!”

  “Coyote—“

  “The Coyote!”

  “The Coyote, I’m sorry you ate your friend. But that wasn’t me. That was the Skinners! You can’t blame me for that. They
’re the ones you want.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a whole list, Christoph. It’s long and the spelling may not be 100% all the way right, but your name is on it. If it weren’t for you, I’d have never gotten into this whole mess. Willie would still be alive and I’d be back home doing sweet jumps on the Coy-O-Te.”

  “I… I thought you were The Coyote."

  "I am The Coyote! My bike is the Coy-O-Te. Are you stupid or something?”

  “I’m sorry, but you can understand my confusion. Both those things sound the same.”

  “But, they’re spelled different. Completely different!”

  “You always were an idiot, Coy.”

  “Maybe. I don’t win a lot of arguments. But that’s not my fault. I was better at arguing back when we had me mes to help.”

  “Me mes?”

  “Yeah. Little pictures with words on ‘em. I was never the best with words, but Ole Spongebob…he always knew what to say.”

  “Memes? You mean memes?”

  “Are those the pictures?”

  “Yes. Memes.”

  “Then that’s what I mean.”

  “So, Spongebob made you smarter?”

  Coy rushed forward and got in Christopher’s face. The breath and spittle were horrendous. “Watch what you say about—“

  Christopher stabbed Coy in the chest with the silverware.

  It was a spoon.

  Dammit.

  The Coyote grabbed Christopher’s hand, twisted the spoon free and sent it clattering to the floor. Christopher tried to punch him with his other hand, but it only caused him pain. Coy caught him with a backhand, kicked out his legs and knocked him to the floor.

  Mr. Christopher coughed in pain and cradled his wounded arm in his free hand as The Coyote squatted down in front of him.

  “A week ago, that would have worked. Coy would have fallen for that or been scared. But not The Coyote. You see, Chris? I didn’t just change my name. When you feed a man his friend, it has a certain affect.”

  “You mean effect,” Mr. Christopher winced. “Nothing’s changed, Coy. You’re still a moron.”