Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga)

by C. Henry Martens

  Coming to the south edge of the tiled area, he looked across a wide street and into what had once been a parking lot. There was livestock across the way.

  Edge could not resist a quick look. There would be little of interest to the big Smith there, but Edge’s heart was in the animals. He passed into the area and felt at home. The booth with poultry caught his eye immediately. There were domestic fowl in Roseburg, but the variety here was overwhelming. Just as the flags and the vegetables were extravagantly colored, so were the birds. He thought chickens were white, red, or grey flecked and similar in size, but these birds were large and small and so varied in color that he could not count the different hues. Similarly, the ducks and turkeys varied. One kind of duck was so large that it vied with the turkeys in size.

  Horses and oxen crowded each other on long lines strung across so prospective buyers could get a good look front and back. Edge noticed that the oxen were smaller than their own. A point of pride in Roseburg, their animals were always larger than those in any of the trading communities they frequented.

  Noting with distaste that Arc had some animals Edge recognized in one area, he avoided them. So far on the train he had managed to stay away from his uncle, but there was someone here in this strange locale who had attracted the Ox Master’s jibes.

  Apparently there were two different teams of oxen that a buyer was contemplating. One was Arc’s, a span of his smaller animals, and the other team was being led back and forth by a young woman.

  The nasty little man was berating the girl and her animals, pointing out faults that were not evident to Edge.

  Not wanting to offend Occam and be late, Edge hesitated, noting that the girl was quiet and did nothing to counter Arc’s intimidation, though she shot him some vile looks. Her team was clearly sound, and if the buyer had any brains at all, she would prevail.

  Hurrying back, Edge happened on a person who looked like a local and a smart Trader and watched a transaction where he learned much about what silver coin was worth. As in Roseburg, there were several offers and counter offers before the transaction concluded.

  Muffy had arrived to help with the booth, and Edge was happy to see that. He felt less than adequate in being responsible for another man’s profit. With Occam’s wife there to oversee things, he was ready to do business.

  Placing the coins back in Occam’s huge hand, Edge told him what he had learned.

  Chapter 4

  Business, any place or any time, is done to seek advantage. The open air market was no different than any other, and neither was the jail. The two men, incarcerated more for having loud mouths than for any criminal action, learned that the hard way. They had two choices, being bailed out by the Wagon Master and be indebted for the money or pay their own tab. Neither had much of value and certainly no amount of cash, so if they chose to remain out of debt, they had to sell what little they had. One had nothing but his guns, and he chose to keep them and go into debt. Cable had his guns and the buckskin, and he needed his guns.

  Aside from the jail incident, trade in the marketplace had been good. Careful in what they purchased or bartered for, the members of the expedition now had lighter wagons for the most part. The one exception was the newly acquired raw metals wagon. After unloading a substantial amount of weight in finished iron and steel in barter for a well-used but solid wagon and a hitch of oxen that should have gone to the butcher, Occam filled it with scrap to be worked into finished pieces. Now Occam and his wife would split up to walk alone beside each wagon with Edge still working inside one. The extra space in the original wagon would provide room for goods to be bought and sold as they journeyed.

  The first metal scavenger that Occam tried to deal with had some disdain for foreigners, and he tried to push some worthless junk off on Occam. He should have known better. The second understood that the stranger was a professional, and still he tested Occam with some plate silver. The inferior metal was turned down politely. They had no good way to process it, and it was too heavy to carry if unworkable. Occam ended up with a few pieces of good silver and a light load of scrap steel. Both Occam and Edge would be busy. The market was strong for good, heavy hinges, among other things.

  The new oxen were a mess, and Occam asked Edge what he could do with them. Four of the animals were well past normal retirement age. Though that meant they would usually be sold for beef and the money used for younger replacement animals, that did not necessarily mean they were unfit. Edge told Occam that they would do. With the original six span that were working well together and the two span that would be useful, that meant they would only have three span in reserve to be traded out or to use in heavy pulls. Both men thought they would be enough. The extra two animals, a young but abused pair, could be sold or traded.

  One was lame and worthless for anything but meat. The other was too skinny for that but might fatten on good feed. Edge thought about what he would do if he were Arc. There was a way to mask the injured animal’s limp. He could have doped it, and it would have passed as being worth more. In fact, Edge suspected that Arc had done that very thing to get better prices in the animal market already. Edge would not do it. He would trade, barter, and finagle, but he would never lie or dope an animal. If he could out-bargain someone, that was one thing, but he would not cheat them.

  They would be leaving early in the morning, and Edge led the animals into the animal market to see what he could do.

  The first three people he approached brushed him off. The next was a butcher, and he made a low offer. Not mean or insulting, the man knew the situation and had no use for the boney ox until it was fattened. He kindly suggested that Edge continue around the area and see if he could do better. His offer would hold if there were no others.

  As Edge moved on, he heard Arc behind him.

  “What ho, young Mister Edge?” The man was speaking for all to hear. He was clearly cultivating an audience.

  Wishing he could disappear, Edge turned and confronted his ugly, unfriendly uncle. He had nothing good to say, so he kept his mouth shut.

  The silence did not sit well with Arc, and he pursued his intent. “So, what good beasts you bring to trade. Do you insult these fine people?” He squinted up at Edge as he saw the young man stiffen. “Would you see these people as a mark, sir? Howso you expect to turn a profit with people of enow wit to see the frailty?”

  He had to say something, and Edge returned his own jibe, although more subtle. “Fair enow, Master Arc, though I hide no faults like some.” The implication was clear and not just to Arc.

  The little man, slighted, found his own opportunity to fume. “So, you boldly make a play to harvest these pockets, admitting naught of value?”

  Ears were pricked to overhear, although by the volume of the exchange there was little need.

  “There is never value to a man that intends no interest in the first place. These beasts could be better and full well perfection, and you would have no urge. You are not a buyer in any case.”

  At this point Edge noticed a couple of those behind Arc’s back nod in agreement. Arc was making a fool of himself but did not care. Turning, Edge intended to lead the oxen away.

  The young girl from the other day stood in his path. The outcome of her going up against Arc in the sale of their animals had filtered through the camp, and Edge knew she had sold her team without any need to berate Arc’s. Edge smiled as he recognized her, but she glared, stone faced.

  She moved around him and approached the animal with the limp. Bending, she ran her hands down the leg and palpated the shoulder.

  “This can be fixed,” she said, eyeing Edge up and down.

  Behind her, Arc burst into loud, artificial laughter. “This be most entertaining. A woman would pretend to know methods to cure a failed leg. What next? Will she make the oxen into bulls?”

  The comment was lewd in the company of a woman, at least in Roseburg. Edge handed the lead to the girl and strode toward Arc. The man quailed and would have cowered or run
if not for the audience he had gathered. He was just about to say something derisive when Edge planted his fist against Arc’s mouth. Arc went to the ground but was not knocked out. Sitting on his rear, he wiped blood from his swelling lip.

  “The Wagon Master will hear of this, ye incorrigible droog. He’ll hear, and you shall pay the fare.”

  Arc got up and moved away, backing up as though he expected the younger man to jump him if he turned. By this time there were a few people standing in a circle, most expecting a fight. They parted in disappointment and let the little man through. He turned and slunk away, looking over his shoulder often.

  “Well, now you’ve stepped in it.” The words came softly from behind Edge as he stood with clenched fists.

  The phrase was something that would come out of the mouth of someone who appreciated cattle and grew up in a barnyard. He laughed as he turned to the young woman.

  For the first time he really looked at the girl. She was too slight for his taste. Darker than many, she had golden eyes and short, dark hair with some frizz close to her scalp. Her eyes were quite beautiful now that they were smiling instead of scowling.

  She led the oxen back toward her string of animals as she introduced herself.

  Jody’s father, Eider, stood watching with his arms folded across his chest and a frown on his face. When Edge introduced himself, the man reluctantly presented his hand and applied too much pressure, locking eyes. Between work with oxen, which toughened the hands, and the several weeks of working bellows and hammers, Edge gave as good as he got. Eyes widening, Eider backed off with new respect, but no lack of suspicion.

  The animals were inspected, and through the conversation the men realized they were both knowledgeable in animal husbandry. But Jody’s father knew things that Edge had never heard of. He was sure he could mend the ox. He said that by the time the leg was healed, the other could be back in condition as well. Respecting the man, Edge told him of the butcher’s offer.

  “Well, boy, that’s what they’re worth, as is. You’ve got a cripple and an animal that’s off its feed.” His bass voice rumbled. “I’ll give you the same because that’s what they’re worth.” He hesitated. “Or you might want to consider a trade. You know a decent ox is worth two good horses, and these aren’t decent. But I’d give you one good riding horse for the pair.”

  The offer was better in value, but not much, than the cash. Edge offered to look at the horse, making no promises.

  The horses were in another area, and Jody offered to show him. Her father narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. The two young people went to investigate the string of ponies.

  There was nothing spectacular to be found, pretty much what Edge expected. They were just average, well-used horses. In another string down the way, Edge almost missed the buckskin. The gelding was here to be sold for Cable’s debt. With some help from Jody and his well-used pistol thrown in as boot, a three-way deal was struck. Eider got the oxen, the seller of the buckskin got a nice but unremarkable sorrel and the old, but serviceable weapon, and Edge walked away with the big yellow dun with the black points. Edge was ecstatic but worried about the loss of the gun. He was left with only a rifle.

  Before completing the deal, there were some last minute questions from Eider about what the wagon train might need. As soon as Edge turned his back in leaving, the man put his head close by his daughter’s head to whisper quietly in interested discussion.

  §

  Occam was not terribly enthused with owning the buckskin. He liked the horse and had considered buying it to bail Cable out but had decided against it. He did not want the kid either mooning over the pony, trying to buy it back, or angry that he could not. Now the horse was his, regardless. Edge thought it better to keep the trade of the pistol to himself, but the big Smithy noticed the empty holster.

  The issue of Edge punching the Ox Master, a respected position in the train, was making the rounds. After speaking with Master Till, Occam was granted discretion in how to discipline his apprentice. He assigned Edge hard labor at the forge and in the wagon as they traveled. Arc fumed, as that was exactly what the young man would be doing anyway. He complained to both the Wagon Master and the Smith, and they both grinned as they turned away, one feigning that there was nothing he could do, and the other stating baldly that he was too busy in crafting ironware to lose his apprentice to other pursuits.

  Additional wagons from Reno joined the train. The agreement was that they became part of the whole, just as original members were, and they would split their profits in the same percentage at the end of the trip. Also, there was word that a scout had been hired, a man who knew the trail all the way to Denver. No one knew who the scout was. He would catch up by Lovelock, they were told.

  The old road bed of Highway 80 beckoned, and the growing wagon train moved out.

  §

  Rural plague survivors, in communities too small to have more than one, gathered into groups eventually. In the two hundred years since the plagues, the outlying people had completely different experiences than those in larger communities.

  Before, as the population of the earth had doubled and tripled and grown beyond reason, rural communities shrank. Small towns in the United States, after agriculture started moving to South America, lost significant numbers. Empty country homes became common, and small town business buildings rotted while people who invested in them died of old age.

  Many people in agricultural towns were born, lived their entire lives, and died within fifty or a hundred miles of their home. There was good reason. Comfort. They knew almost everyone, they knew almost everywhere, and if they were the type to gossip, they knew almost everything… within that hundred miles.

  When everyone else died within their home turf due to the plagues, the survivors held on to what they took comfort in. Most foraged much like their urban counterparts, but few traveled. There were so few survivors, the living often thought they were the last person alive on earth. Even those who searched for others did so within their comfort zone, and for some reason they rarely got the idea to advertise with signs the way urban people did.

  The attrition rate in urban populations was incredibly high after the plagues, mostly by self-inflicted means. In rural America the death toll was even higher, especially when mental illness brought on by great loneliness was factored in. In the cities people found each other, but in rural areas they rarely did except by chance. The solitude made people go crazy. Cannibalism did not happen in cities.

  Eventually there were chance encounters, and people began to travel in packs. Occasional urban travelers, often those who were banished by others, joined them. Naturally they tended to be the malcontents or social misfits. There was a complete reversal in the way mentality evolved in urban and rural settings. The urbanites, once known for violence and brutality, became more patient and forgiving while their country neighbors, formerly known as easy going, became feral and vicious.

  As groups formed over time and numbers grew, a nomadic, tribal society evolved. Some maintained or returned to civility eventually. They began to value kindness and generosity, protecting their young from harm while teaching them the values in social networks. Some went the opposite direction, becoming predators in a warrior society.

  The new rural Americans, once again known by tribal names, were genetically diverse but mostly of northern European stock. They were often blond and blue-eyed. Light hair and eyes in the tribal cultures became more likely than with the homogenized urbanites.

  People who traded between communities, moving between large tracts of unoccupied lands and occasionally running into these Nordic savages, noted the term “Indian Reservation” on ancient maps that they used. Although the practice would have been entirely incorrect in the past, the wandering traders began to once again speak of the tribal peoples as Indians.

  This was what the wagon train had to contend with in their journey from the west coast into the mid-western plains. Much like the settlers of the eighteen
hundreds dealt with the Sioux, Cheyenne, Apache, and Pawnee, the train would deal with new tribes. The populations were not many in number, but they were fierce.

  §

  The wagons approached Lovelock, and most of the people had forgotten the event supposed to happen there. The promised scout would be there to meet them.

  A rider sat atop a hill to the south, watching. Blood trailed down his thigh, but it was not his. The blood came from the fresh scalp hanging from his belt.

  Finding a thin trail of smoke, barely visible in the air of the early afternoon, the nomadic tribesman found the stranger from a hilltop, keeping just below the horizon. A man with a horse tied to the small tree shading him sat watching the trail to the west, as though expecting something.

  After watching the stranger for over an hour, the stalker crawled and crouched his way into the immediate area of the small fire. Surprise and an overwhelmingly violent rush did as intended. Much like the natives of old, close quarter combat counted for more than a long range attack and proved the courage of the attacker. Taking the scalp of the still breathing stranger in a quick and forceful jerk gave him bragging rights. He retrieved his hatchet from the stranger’s chest and scenting the hot blood, sheathed the handle under his belt. Life was good, and ending a life in combat reinforced that his was better than most. The horse and the weapons won were his due, and he relished their acquisition as he rode from the field of battle on his new pony.

  As the light haired, new-age native reached the top of the hill, he looked west and saw the approaching wagons. He would not have time to find and deal with the people he knew to be missing, those who had been traveling with the man whose hair now hung from his belt. Those people had gotten lucky. Surely the wagons would have scouts moving ahead of the train, and they would be armed. Close enough to hear the cow bells when the wind was right, he knew it was time to leave. He took one more look down the hill, searching for the people who had left so much evidence of their presence at the fire. Finding nothing, the tribesman spurred the horse away and disappeared into the rolling landscape.