After the Fall- The Complete series Box Set

by Charlie Dalton

  74.

  IT TOOK A moment for the Worm’s eyes to adjust to the dim darkness after the bright sun outside. Too dark for his taste but it was how the Mantis liked to live. Darkness, after all, was his nature.

  The Worm gained favor with the Mantis by bringing him little trinkets he found from time to time. In truth, it was usually the men who found them but he wasn’t about to let them take the kudos for their discovery. Often, they didn’t even know what it was they’d found.

  When the Worm entered, he found the Mantis lying back on a collection of pillows, a woman, naked, in his lap. The woman stopped in her gyrations and looked back at those who’d interrupted them.

  “Oh,” the Worm said. “My apologies. I wasn’t aware you were entertaining.”

  “I wasn’t,” the Mantis said. “She was entertaining me. As you can see.”

  His eyes shifted to the woman at the Worm’s side.

  “I found this beautiful lady outside,” the Worm said. “She was asking to be taken to you.”

  “Well, well,” the Mantis said, getting to his feet and ignoring Theresa’s naked body.

  Theresa was a beautiful woman but even she had nothing on the woman who had just entered. Even disfigured and burnt by the sun as she was, there was no hiding her obvious natural beauty. A supermodel in any era.

  “You are the leader?” the woman said, voice deep and sultry.

  “The one and only,” the Mantis said. “And your name is. . . ?”

  “I have no name,” the woman said.

  “Perhaps we can find you one,” the Mantis said.

  Theresa was beginning to feel a bit left out. She retreated and began to cover herself up, careful to keep the screwdriver hidden.

  The Mantis, no longer capable of containing his pent-up passion, put his mouth to the woman’s nipple, flicking it with his tongue, pinching it between his teeth. The woman gave no indication she could even feel it. The Mantis let the nipple flop from his mouth.

  “Boy, are you a sight for sore lips,” he said.

  He caught sight of the Worm, watching. Hungry.

  “What is this?” he said. “A peep show? Get out of here!”

  “What of your. . . prior engagement?” the Worm said, nodding to Theresa.

  “Take her,” the Mantis said. “Give her to the men.”

  The Worm seized her. Theresa was shocked she’d been so cruelly rebuffed. She’d been the warm-up act for the main attraction. The girl in the cindered dress.

  “As you command, my liege,” the Worm said.

  He led Theresa toward the flap.

  “And tell the guards,” the woman from the desert said. “No matter what they hear, do not enter.”

  The Worm nodded as he ducked under the flap and relayed the message to the guards. The guards unfastened the rope that held the flap open and let it fall.

  The Mantis was in for a wild ride with that one, the Worm thought. He had his work cut out this time.

  75.

  “HERE WE are, all alone,” the Mantis said.

  “I am looking for someone,” the woman said.

  “Aren’t we all?” the Mantis said. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “I am looking for a young girl,” the woman said. “It is crucial I locate her.”

  “No girls were found in the commune,” the Mantis said. “No children. I suspect they were sent away before we arrived here. It’s often the way.”

  The woman had a body to die for but wasn’t much in the way in conversation. The Mantis looked longingly in the direction of the tent flaps. Perhaps he’d made a mistake and ought to recall the other girl.

  “Where was she taken?” the woman said.

  “I don’t know,” the Mantis said, growing irritated. “Would you like to take a bath? I’ll have my men bring in hot water for you.”

  “No,” the woman said. “My appearance is of no consequence.”

  “Maybe not to you,” the Mantis said. “You’re not the one who has to look at you.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and took a firm buttock in each hand. He squeezed hard. Again, the woman paid no attention.

  “Then what use are you as a leader?” the woman said.

  The Mantis felt stung. He needed to defend himself. “I overthrew this commune. Just as I’ll overthrow you.”

  “You cannot overthrow me,” the woman said.

  Her tone caught the Mantis’s attention. Confident, self-assured. In control. It wasn’t what the Mantis was used to. Terrified, afraid. That was what he was used to. This girl was a real challenge. He felt himself stir. She reminded him of the women from the old world, the ones who thought they were better than him, the ones who’d given him the motivation he needed to get things done once the Fall had happened. New world order, new leadership. The paradigm had shifted and he had to shift with it.

  “Perhaps we need a new leader,” the woman said. “Would you like me to help you become more than you are?”

  “Yes,” the Mantis said. “Do it.”

  The woman pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was strong and passionate. She pressed harder, their tongues exploring each other’s mouth. The woman’s hand trailed up his back, neck, and gripped his hair in a fist. Man, she was a good kisser. Then the Mantis pulled back. The woman had her hand firmly on the Mantis’s head, pulling him to her. He struggled but she would not let go.

  How can she be so strong?

  He pushed against her, pressing with his impressive strength. It wasn’t enough. He was running out of oxygen fast. The effort of fighting for release drained him even quicker.

  He sucked as much oxygen through his nostrils as he could but it wasn’t enough. He screamed at her to let him go, muffled words with his mouth covered. He punched her in the stomach. There was no give. He tried again. No dice.

  Black spots danced in his vision with the onset of approaching unconsciousness. He jumped and put his feet on her chest, viciously kicking out, forcing himself away from her. They broke apart and he fell back.

  Blood seeped around his mouth where the woman had sunk her teeth into his lips. A clump of his hair from the woman’s clenched fist. She was already descending on him again. Her eyes burned green, caught in the sunlight that slipped through the tent’s flaps.

  “Now, we have our fun,” the woman said.

  For the first time in his life, the Mantis understood what it felt like to be on the receiving end of those words.

  “Help me!” the Mantis shouted in the direction of the tent flaps. “Help!”

  The woman fell upon him. The guards heard the screams of agony, the tearing noises, and snapping bones. They did not dare peek inside the tent. The Mantis was known for his wild predilections. Although usually, he wasn’t the one who screamed.

  76.

  A NEW WORLD order. That was what the Bay Butcher had always been striving for. A new world order where the strong reigned supreme and the weak quailed.

  Every member of the community had a past. There was no escaping it. Most of them would have been innocuous enough. The usual waking and working and getting on with life. There was nothing wrong with that. But Stephen had had something of a less conventional past. One he had never shared with anyone and never would. Not even with Donald.

  Stephen had a great deal of respect for the big man in charge of their commune. There was something somehow strong and stabilizing about him. The kind of leader they needed during these dark days. He never shared much about his past. Neither had he so much as asked Stephen about his past. The past is the past, Donald was fond of saying. Here, we’re only interested in your future. It was a nice way to think but Stephen believed not one of them didn’t carry their past around with them like a ball and chain. They were, after all, each shaped by the events of their past.

  Stephen had once been known by a very different name, and a very different persona to the one he now wore, every bit as artificial as his pseudonym ‘Stephen.’ The newspapers had once referred to him as the Bay Butch
er of Baltimore. Each of his victims became famous with their mere connection with him, splashed across the tabloid front pages like the latest sports results.

  He had come to the Mountain's Peak commune, living amongst the everyday survivors, and he’d lived and become the figure they all knew and loved and respected. But the Bay Butcher was always there, never really leaving him. He hadn’t needed to flip the switch and become that person again. Not since the world had shifted and the new world order had taken shape. The Butcher, if not at peace, was at least able to rest. The world was how the Bay Butcher had always wished it to be.

  Where the strong reigned supreme and the weak quailed.

  The Butcher had lost his purpose. His dream had already been realized. The survival of the fittest was how the world was meant to operate, according to him. Humanity had traversed down a bypass, circumventing that ideal for far too long, and now nature had brought humanity back to the natural order of things.

  In the midst of this peaceful commune was one of the most dangerous killers the east coast had ever known. When the axe had finally fallen and produced the Fall, all ties between the new and old world had been severed. The Butcher had scythed a path through the living and the not-so-living to reach the midwest, where he believed he could find a place of safety. Just when the fuel tank of his truck had run dry, he found himself in the middle of the desert, before this very community. It was a sign, and the Butcher took it.

  The Bay Butcher only began to stir again after the Reavers had taken control of the commune, right when the wall had been blown sky high. The natural order had once again been disturbed. Stephen could accept the Reavers were stronger than the commune members but he could never accept the Butcher being placed a rung below the motorcycle murderers.

  The thrill of slipping a knife between someone’s ribs began to filter into the forefront of his mind once more. He was surprised to find he’d missed that sensation. There was nothing quite like carving up a living person to get the adrenaline flowing.

  Juicy, succulent. Intoxicating and powerful. The Butcher was awake and looking for a fresh taste. Stephen opened the box he had hidden beneath the floorboards of his rooms. He was mesmerized with the design of his twin blades like a father with his newborn children. Hand-crafted pearl handles with matching jewels on the pommels, the blades straight and true. Too many carried blades that were too fancy, for show, and detracted from the purpose of the blade.

  He never lost his skills. They might have gotten a little rusty but he could feel the gentle strong movements his body was capable of. And who they desperately wanted to be used against. The leader of this Reaver clan. The Mantis. He couldn’t say he was altogether impressed with them. They were pretenders, a vague replica of the great Bay Butcher. He had developed his skills across three long decades.

  Reavers hacked and slashed with wide sweeping movements, morons with no idea what they were doing. Their victims might as well be a lump of meat. People were sophisticated machines, each one different from the next. The Butcher had a strong knowledge of the anatomy of the human body. Where Stephen was concerned with healing, with the removal of pain, the Butcher wished to inflict it. The most sensitive parts of the human body could be surprising to some.

  The Butcher was not the most physically powerful man. Neither was he the fastest. His strength lay in his precision. He could deliver his blow directly where he wanted and precisely how he wanted.

  Stephen felt a little giddy at letting the Butcher out of his bottle. And terrified at the same time. It had always been that way. The challenge had never been in releasing the genie from the bottle, it was always how he was meant to get it back in. The Butcher resided inside that ancient and most powerful part of the brain—the limbic system—that all humans possessed but very few ever directly accessed. A built-in supercomputer perfectly calibrated for the act of survival. When you could harness that god-like sensation you could become whatever you wished to be.

  The Bay Butcher began the way he always did—by observing and watching his target from a distance. He’d need to slip his guards before he could do that. It wasn’t difficult. He knew the commune infinitely better than the attackers. He took out a Reaver about his own height and weight and assumed the guard’s identity. Then he went about his information-gathering business. In the old world, he would have taken as long as necessary to do his research. Today, he was under immense pressure. But he didn’t need a lot of information. Only where the leader was going to be and an effective entry point.

  The Mantis had taken up residence in the council’s meeting tent. A pair of guards stood roughly to attention outside the front. They were talking amongst themselves. Easy enough to give them the slip. He moved around the buildings on one side of the tent and swept around the back of the leader’s tent and put his ear to the fabric. He listened. There was no sound. He would be alone. Perhaps even asleep.

  He removed the guard disguise and slipped his blade into a fallen stitch with the tip of his knife and brought it down, slicing through the threads like butter. He didn’t need a large hole. The moonlight was blocked by the large wardrobe immediately in front of him. A small pyramid of space gave him some room to maneuver. He slipped inside and got his bearings.

  The tent was silent, still. The Butcher’s heightened senses took over, breaking through the dim noise of the camp outside, letting the smells fill his nostrils and general ambiance pervade his mind. He edged forward into the darkness. He knew this place already. The furniture was mapped out in his mind. A huge advantage. It was always a major benefit to know your strike zone well. He scanned the room. The floor. The cushions. The leader would likely be sleeping in one of two areas.

  He approached the first set of pillows on the floor. The most likely place. The middle of the entire space. Where he would have chosen to sleep. It was the closest to the main entrance where he might quickly escape or call for help and be heard by the guards outside. He slowed. He might well be within a few inches of his quarry already, not that he could see him.

  He would spring while his victim was in that groggy state between wakefulness and sleeping. The delicious, but dangerous, space where the senses were dulled and movements lethargic. He’d taken out a good number of his victims when they were in that state. The level of ease was the signature of a powerful strategy. The Butcher prided himself on always catching his victim when they least expected.

  How would the Reavers react upon learning of the death—nay, the assassination—of their leader? Anger? Confusion? If he’d had time, he would have planted evidence of the murder on one of the other Reavers. The most likely contender. The most loyal Reavers to the Mantis would have killed him. That way, they would have been in total disarray.

  The Butcher reached for the lump that ought to be splayed across the pillows. He came up empty. Nothing was there. Then the Mantis would be on the cot in the corner, immediately to the left of the entrance. The Butcher approached in a half-squat and moved faster this time.

  He approached and saw what he was looking for. The lumpy sleeping figure of the man. The Mantis.

  Stab. Stab. Stab.

  Jugular vein, axillary artery, lung. Debilitating blows. All deadly if administered with enough force. But it was dark, and best to weaken his opponent first. The man grunted as he’d taken the blows.

  The Butcher ducked and rolled. An attack was likely to come at him from such close quarters. He rolled up onto his feet, knife extended and facing the entrance. There hadn’t been much noise but perhaps enough to get the attention of the guards. Still, his intended victim could shout, forcing his men to come inside. The guards would then have to be dealt with first.

  The Butcher calculated everything in the liquid lizard part of his brain. The other man inside his mind was only along for the ride. It was a symbiotic relationship, one that benefitted them both. One a killer, the other a disguise.

  He waited now, for the leader to shout for help or attack. But he didn’t. Not letting a split secon
d pass more than he had to, the Butcher moved aside, careful of the low coffee table he knew was placed there. Then he slowly moved further toward the back of the tent, into the dark shadows where he made his home.

  Was his target dead? He should be. He couldn’t leave, not until he knew his victim’s condition. The smart thing would have been to leave and return another time to finish the job—if he hadn’t been successful in his mission already. That was what the Butcher would ordinarily have done but this time he hesitated. Things weren’t the same this time. Others depended on him, others who needed for him to murder this sorry sack of shit fast and cleanly, for this first domino to fall and the remaining Reavers, leaderless, to be hounded from the community.

  The Butcher glanced up. A shadow stood against the bright glow of the moon that turned the tent’s skin a lighter shade. A fraction of difference, but enough. He was still standing. A silhouette of darkness. He couldn’t see the man’s face but he could smell his blood. He could be about to call to his men outside.

  Instead, he was silent. It was this that held the Butcher still. He sensed something, something no normal man could. Something wasn’t right.

  The man was standing. Upright. Not pitched over, not crying for help. He should have been doing one or the other. He should have been in extreme agony. Reavers were known for their reserves of pain tolerance. Could this be that? Maybe. Or perhaps the Butcher was rusty and missed his targets. Possible, but not likely. Time was dwindling. The Butcher needed to finish him and be gone before anyone knew of his nocturnal activities.

  He rushed forward, knife blade extending just beyond his thumb, to puncture the victim’s body hard and fast with multiple attacks.

  Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab.

  The man’s blood splattered across the floor, painting the Butcher’s hands and dribbling over his arms.