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

by Benjamin Wallace

  The Coyote placed the hat back on his head, opened the door and stepped into Charlie’s Arm.

  The place was dimly lit by a host of neon signs for beer brands that didn’t exist anymore. It was packed with men and women who were already halfway to tomorrow’s hangover. The noise from the crowd was a combination of false bravado, lousy pickup lines and the distinct sound of someone hustling at pool. It smelled like spilt beer, stale cigarettes and poor choices. He really liked it.

  He had grown up in places just like this one and the nostalgia hit him pretty hard. He hadn’t seen a place like this since before the shit hit the fan, and the memories came pouring over him. It felt like home.

  They were serving that fancy beer that always ended in letters or time. He never knew what they meant, but beer was beer and since he hadn’t seen a Lone Star in years he ordered whatever they had from the attractive lady bartender.

  Coy set the box on the bar and rested on a stool. He watched her pour the drink. She had long dark hair that looked like it had recently been washed. Dirty hair had never been a deal breaker for him but only now did he appreciate how much better shampoo made a woman look. She wasn’t trying to hide her figure like so many girls did out in the wasteland. The world may have changed a whole hell of a lot, but the service industry still relied on tips.

  She set the beer on the bar and nodded to his hat. “That’s some hat.”

  The Coyote smiled and nodded. He didn’t agree, but maybe that’s why Christopher wore it all along.

  “It could get you into some trouble around here.”

  Coy’s smile grew. He was counting on it. “I’m looking for work. Know where any can be had?”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I figure Alasis could use a new bounty hunter. Since they seem to be missing theirs.” The Coyote ran his fingers along the brim of the hat and winked at the bartender.

  The bartender backed away and Coy assumed he had used the wrong wink. He had intended to use the “you get my meaning” one but realized it could have been the “want to show me what you look like without pants?” wink instead. He was about to explain that he wanted the bartender to remain in her pants when he realized it wasn’t the wink the woman was backing away from.

  “I said, you really blew it this time, Christopher.” The statement was said as if it had been said before—probably while Coy was worrying about the wink.

  A thick and calloused hand landed on his shoulder. The unwelcomed touch agitated the ball of rage in his stomach.

  “I guess you aren’t quite the badass you think you are,” the voice at the other end of the hand said.

  The Coyote turned. The man wasn’t as big as the bouncer, but he was big enough that the Dalton quote about knees popped into his mind again. This one wasn’t alone. There were two more men with him. They were half the other’s size but twice as ugly. The scars on their faces said they weren’t unfamiliar with a fight.

  The biggest one realized his error but felt no shame in it. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “You probably thought that because of the hat.” The Coyote lifted his beer and took a sip.

  “Yeah, I know a guy that wore one just like it.”

  “Knew a guy. You knew a guy,” he said with a smile. “Named Christopher.”

  The man nodded. “That’s him.”

  “Well, that’s why you thought you recognized it. It was his hat. But I killed him. And now it’s my hat.”

  The three men were skeptical. Coy could tell that even the woman was giving him doubtful looks from behind the bar.

  The biggest of the bunch laughed. “Bullshit. You didn’t kill him. He was a little punk, but he was way too smart and slippery. There’s no way a little bitch like you could have killed him.”

  “Is that so?” The Coyote asked.

  The bartender set three beers on the bar and each man in the gang took one. The biggest took a long drink, but never took his eyes off of Coy. He finally pulled it from his lips and wiped the foam away with the back of his hand. “You know what I think?”

  “If you had more toes you could count higher?” Coy asked. It was something Willie had said. As he remembered it, the knot drew tighter in his belly.

  “I think you bought a second stupid hat and made up this whole story to impress a bunch of losers.”

  “Not quite. I came here to take his place.”

  This made all of them laugh.

  “What’s your name?”

  “The Coyote,” he said it low and with a rasp. They laughed even harder. They started calling friends over to join in the laughter.

  “And you think people are going to believe you just because you’re wearing a stupid hat?”

  “Not really,” The Coyote replied.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “That’s why I’ve also got his head in that box on the bar.”

  “Bullshit,” one of the others said.

  “Yeah, that’s bullshit,” the big one agreed. “Let’s see it.”

  The Coyote shook his head. “No. I’m pretty sure you’re not the losers I need to impress.”

  The big man reached for the box and The Coyote’s hand shot out. He grabbed the big guy by the wrist and knocked it away.

  “Reach for it again,” The Coyote said, “and I’ll kill you.”

  “You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”

  “You don’t know crazy.” Coy had disappeared completely now. Only The Coyote stood before the man. He growled low and slow. “Not unless you’d been forced to eat Willie fried up as bacon.”

  The sudden shift in Coy’s demeanor caught the trio off guard. His words hadn’t helped.

  “What’s he talking about, man?” one of the smaller ones asked.

  “Forget this guy,” the other added as he began to inch away. “Please.”

  Even the big one’s expression had become less callous and a little more cautious. “I’m not sure what you’re saying, little fella. I don’t know how to respond to that.”

  “It’s not something I recommend,” The Coyote continued as if they had said nothing. “It makes you a completely different person. Couple of weeks ago, you touch my stuff and I can’t say I would’ve done much of anything. I would have tried to talk you out of it maybe. But, now, you reach for my stuff again and you’ll come back short a hand.”

  There was fear in the big man’s eyes. But there was also a bruised ego to defend. The Coyote could see him weighing the two emotions. Pride finally won out and the big man reached for the box.

  The Bowie knife flashed neon red, yellow and green reflections as it cut through the air. It turned solid red as it cut through the man’s hand.

  The man pulled back his stump, screaming with a pain and fear he had never known. He turned to his friend for help and covered his friend’s face with blood as it pumped from his arm.

  The other member of the trio rushed forward and caught the blade in his belly. The Coyote plunged the blade deep and dragged it out slow before stabbing several more times. Every plunge of the knife fueled his anger further.

  The other man had wiped the blood from his eyes and charged into the fight.

  The Coyote stepped to one side and pinned the man between the bar and the blade. He didn’t die quietly.

  The knife dripped with blood and The Coyote turned to face the big man once more. It was then that he realized the man had more than just the two friends. Several of the bar’s patrons had stood from their tables. The two men playing pool had stopped and stepped forward with their cues at the ready. The entire bar rushed him and the rage inside him exploded. It burned and made every decision for him. It told him when to stab, to duck, to drive a man’s head through the jukebox glass. It made his every move faster and more powerful. These were things Coy could never have done. The Coyote was in charge now.

  He snapped a man’s arm and drove a broken pool cue through another’s eye. It wasn’t revenge. But it was another step on the road to justice for
Willie. For Coy.

  The fight didn’t die down until The Coyote ran out of people to stab. He let many limp away with nothing more than a few cuts. But many didn’t. Coy still held the blood-red Bowie knife in his hand when he sat back down at the bar and resumed drinking his beer.

  The bartender stood up slowly from her hiding place beneath the bar and surveyed the damage.

  “The Legionaries are coming!” Came a shout from near the door.

  Coy paid it no mind and enjoyed his beer. It was no Lone Star, but it wasn’t half bad.

  “They’re coming for you,” the bartender said.

  Coy leaned over the bar and refilled his beer from the tap. He sat back down and took another long drink. “I think I’ll wait for them right here.”

  TEN

  At some point he had been put on a boat. Or shoved in a washing machine. He had been tossed violently about and splashed with the coldest water he had ever known. The hood over his head had become soaked, making it difficult to breathe, though he couldn’t tell if it was the wet or the cold that made it so. Even with some overdramatic gasping, he got little sympathy from his new friends and was forced to roll his head around until the fabric fell from his mouth.

  They were near the Falls, that much he knew. The roar was deafening. But the noise coming from the natural wonder was so loud he couldn’t say exactly how close they had been. They could have been right under them or a mile downstream. He didn’t know.

  There was also no telling how long the tossing and soaking had gone on, but he knew it was getting dark. What little light had passed through the hood was now fading. Between the wet, the cold and the blindness he was starting to wonder if he really needed the Resistance. He coughed up a mouthful of frigid water and swore because he knew that he did. Invictus was too well established, too well guarded for Jerry to take on alone.

  The rocking finally stopped. Or, rather, he was thrown from the rocking boat on to solid ground. They led him inside somewhere equally cold and down a hallway. It was tight. He could sense the closeness of the air. A heavy door shut behind him and the sound of the Falls were dampened. But not by much.

  An escort held him by each elbow and guided him through a labyrinth of turns across uneven floors, up and down stairs, and through a few puddles until they finally shoved him backward into a waiting chair.

  It hurt when they pulled the hood off. The wet fabric caught on his face and wrenched his head back. The lights hurt, too. Several powerful work lights were mounted on stands and pointed in his direction, blasting him in the face. He had to squint to stop the pain but enjoyed the heat they were putting off.

  “What do you want?” The voice was straining to sound more intimidating than it was, as if it was trying to reach lower tones than it was capable of. The question ended with a cough.

  Jerry shifted in his seat, trying to lean forward and take the pressure off his arms. The zip ties were digging into his wrists and he could feel that his skin was on the verge of bleeding. Repositioning did little to alleviate the discomfort and he hung his head to get out of the light.

  The floor was covered with cables that snaked around the room. He made a show of shifting his weight in the chair and worked his foot under one of the bundles. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Well, you’ve seen us.” This statement also ended with a cough.

  Jerry sighed and pulled on the cables with his foot. Two of the pole lights fell to the ground. One shattered, the other turned its blinding rays elsewhere and he could finally see again. There were three of them in the room. A woman, that he assumed was the one that pulled him from the streets, a slender man of average height that was doing his best to hide his averageness behind a hipster beard, and a large black man that smirked when the lights fell.

  “Now I’ve seen you,” Jerry said.

  “Dammit,” the bearded man said. It was the voice that had been doing the coughing. “Fahrenheit, get the hood back on him.”

  “Don’t use my name, man,” the large man said.

  If they had asked Jerry, the big guy had the better interrogator voice. It was warm and friendly, but deep and could easily be turned cruel. It seemed obvious, really. When things didn’t make sense it usually came down to politics. Chances were the smaller guy liked to be in charge.

  “It’s a codename, stupid, it doesn’t matter.” Another cough.

  “Fine, Gatsby,” Fahrenheit shot back with a fair amount of satisfaction.

  “Don’t use my name!” Gatsby growled in that stupid voice and the coughing fit took over.

  “Stop using that stupid voice,” the woman said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Gatsby finally stopped coughing and switched to a much less intimidating voice. “Put the hood back on.”

  Fahrenheit laughed. “He’s already seen you, man. I told you the lights were a dumb idea.”

  “They weren’t dumb. They were— Next time we’ll run the cords along the wall. That way the prisoner can’t do…this.”

  “Both of you knock it off,” the woman snapped. Both men stopped arguing and she hadn’t had to do anything to her voice. She addressed Jerry next. “What do you want? Why are you in Alasis?”

  “I’m here to kill Invictus,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, you are?” Gatsby stepped closed and leaned in. He was right in Jerry’s face and he let out a raspy whisper. “Well, join the club, buddy.”

  Jerry was confused by the man’s delivery of the line. He may have been attempting sarcasm, but it came out as an invitation. “Is that all it takes?” Jerry asked.

  “Is that all what takes?” Gatsby asked.

  “Joining the club.”

  He turned to the woman. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Do you even listen to yourself when you talk?” the man they called Fahrenheit asked.

  “What?”

  “You said join the club, dumbass,” the woman said. “And you did it in your stupid tough-guy voice so it sounded sincere instead of sarcastic.”

  “I did not.”

  Fahrenheit backed her up. “You totally did, man.”

  Jerry joined the others. “You did.”

  The woman turned to Jerry. “No, that’s not all it takes. First of all, who are you?”

  Here it was. He’d been running from his reputation forever. It had been a bane on his existence for years. It had caused more suffering than he ever would have imagined. It was about time it did some good. He looked the woman in the eye and said, “I’m the Librarian.”

  The name hung in the room for a moment. You could almost hear the weight it carried. Then everyone laughed.

  “Bullshit,” Gatsby laughed. “Good try, though.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to give you credit,” Fahrenheit said. “Most guys that try this crap at least look the part. But you really went for it.”

  “I am the Librarian,” Jerry insisted.

  “Do you have any idea how many people we’ve had waltz in here claiming to be the Librarian?” Gatsby asked.

  The woman answered for him. “You’re the third one this month.”

  “And we sent them all packing,” Gatsby said.

  “But they weren’t really him…I mean me. I’m me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Gatsby said. His sarcasm was much clearer this time. “We didn’t realize you were the really real Librarian. We didn’t realize you were THE Librarian who single-handedly brought down an Alasis Death Truck.”

  “Well, it wasn’t single-handedly, but yeah.”

  “And you were the man that liberated the Kingdom of the Seven Peaks?” Fahrenheit asked.

  “Yes. That was me.”

  “And you were THE Librarian who fought the Man-Beast of Manatauk to a standstill with his bare hands?” the woman asked.

  “Well, no. I’ve never even been to Wisconsin.”

  “Well then. I guess you’re not THE Librarian after all,” Gatsby said and spit on the ground.

  “Man, I’ve asked you to quit spi
tting in here.”

  “Oh, shut up, Fahr. It’s already wet.”

  “Yeah, but with water. No one wants to walk around in your spit.”

  Jerry had to raise his voice to be heard. “I did rescue a child from a Gatorman in New Orleans.”

  “Now you’re just making things up.” Gatsby was done with the conversation.

  “It doesn’t matter what you’ve heard, or what you believe. I am the man they call the Librarian. And even if I wasn’t, what does it matter?”

  “It matters a whole lot,” Fahrenheit said.

  “Does it? You say you’ve had three people in a month claiming to be the Librarian. And you turned them all away? Three men willing to fight the injustice of Alasis and you sent them packing. Why not welcome them in? You’d be all the stronger for it. What kind of resistance turns away help?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what kind of resistance it is,” Gatsby shouted. “It’s our resistance and we’ll do with it what we like.”

  Jerry sagged in his chair. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Afraid of what?” Gatsby asked.

  “You’re exactly the kind of resistance that doesn’t resist shit.”

  Gatsby grew visibly angry at this and shot a look at the woman. She gave a nearly imperceptible shrug while Fahrenheit tried to hide a chuckle. It was clear this man thought of himself as the leader of this group. It was also clear that he was wrong.

  Jerry pressed it, looking directly at the man with the beard. “I’ve seen this before. You gather in secret. You give yourselves codenames and signals and mantras. But you never do a thing. You stand around telling each other how brave you are and pat yourselves on the back for your sacrifice, but you’re risking nothing.”

  “We saved your ass.” Gatsby’s voice was full of rage now. He raced across the room and put a finger in Jerry’s face. “If not for us, you’d be dead in an alleyway or a helpless prisoner in Invictus’s dungeon.”

  Jerry leaned back with a sigh and placed his hands behind his head. “Whatever would I have done without you?”

  Gatsby backed away quickly. “He’s free. Fahrenheit, tie him up!”

  “Why, man? I think it’s obvious he’ll just get free again.”