The Messenger (After Days Shorts Book 1)

by Medbury, Scott

  The Messenger

  An After Days Short Story

  Scott Medbury

  Copyright © 2015 Scott Medbury

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters and events depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A word from the author

  This little story, The Messenger, has been burning in me a while. While it is set in the After Days world, it is also a standalone work and can be read without having read the trilogy.

  It is set around twenty years after the events of After Days and shows a little of what that world has become and how it has molded one of my favourite characters from those books… Sorry, you’ll have to read the story to find out who.

  Please enjoy.

  Scott Medbury

  “And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts,

  And I looked and behold: a pale horse.

  And his name, that sat on him, was Death.

  And Hell followed with him.”

  – Johnny Cash, The Man Comes Around

  1

  The Messenger heard them coming from a long way off. They were noisy and careless. The kind of noisy and careless that only comes from supreme confidence. He was hidden in the late afternoon shadows cast by the thick scrub to the side of the road for exactly three minutes and fifty-three seconds before they rounded the bend ahead of him. He knew this because when he had heard them he had pulled his battered stopwatch from the pocket of his greatcoat and clicked it on.

  His mouth was a grim line, barely visible in his rust colored beard. He didn’t like the look of them. At first he thought they were Marauders, they had the same shaved heads and arrogance, but these four were different. In a way that he couldn’t make out from that distance and in that light. All four of them were armed, the one leading them with a hunting bow that was slung over his shoulder. The others carried an assortment of bladed weapons in their belts and slings.

  He examined them closely as they advanced along the road towards his vantage point. Each sported patterns of black tattooed around their eyes and running down their cheeks like tears of old blood. The bow carrier had an inverted cross carved into his forehead. He didn’t need further evidence to recognize what they were, but if he had, the shriveled human ears strung around their necks and the sharpened teeth in their mouths would have confirmed it. Cannibals. The bow carrier was their leader, the cross carved into his forehead his insignia of rank.

  He had only ever had two encounters with their kind in all of his travels into the far southern reaches of New Hampshire and over the old border into Massachusetts. They were secretive and when they weren’t hidden away, they generally only came out to hunt. The first encounter had ended badly for the two he had met on the road. The City’s council had ordered that where possible their kind should be summarily executed wherever they were encountered. The second time he had been travelling at night and had come upon an encampment of them. He had observed them for a few hours and despite the fact that they would have moved on by then, reported their position to the council upon his return.

  He spat in the dirt under the bush. Of all the raggedy, lawless bands of humans that had sprung up after the Chinese had been attacked with a mutation of their own virus, the cannibals were the most objectionable.

  He watched them receding into the distance and came to a quick decision. He would follow them for a while. He could afford a couple of days and if he was lucky enough they would lead him to their lair. If not, he would kill these four himself. A day or two was a small price to pay for such a golden opportunity to locate one of their secret lairs. When they were out of sight he scrambled silently from his shelter and padded lightly after them.

  Around an hour later he crouched in the trees, watching as the cannibals made camp for the night in a clearing by the side of the road. He knew that just over the hill was a small trading village. It was one of the few that had managed to survive outside of the two cities. It had its own semblance of law and the people there were poor but content. He had used it as a waystation for supplies when he was travelling in this part of the state and had been planning to visit it in a day or two. He assumed the cannibals were planning to do just that, the next day.

  Were they coming for supplies or to cause trouble? He watched them in the darkness. They were silhouetted by the light of a small fire and laughed and talked as one of them pulled meat from a sack and handed it around. He couldn’t see what they cooked on the points of the knives they held over the fire, but he knew well enough what it was. Anger licked at him like the flames licking the meat and he briefly considered killing them right then. It would be easy enough and certainly satisfying. They hadn’t set a watch and were preoccupied as they filled their bellies and talked. In the end, the chance of them leading him back to their base was too valuable to waste. Why kill four now when he could have the chance to kill a whole nest of them when he led back a raiding party from the City?

  He made himself comfortable, crossing his legs and watching them as he pulled a folded cloth from inside his coat. He unwrapped it carefully with one hand and began to eat the berries and nuts it held, spurning the salted beef, his appetite for meat spoiled.

  Eventually the cannibals bedded down for the night and their watcher did the same in the shallow dugout he had made, pulling the autumn leaves he had collected over him until only his face was visible in the patchwork of red, gold and brown.

  He awoke as the first tendrils of dawn were crawling across the dark sky. He ate more berries as he waited for his quarry to rise. They did, exactly thirty-three minutes and forty-three seconds later. He clicked off his stopwatch. People always asked him why he used the stopwatch. Every second counts, he would shrug and say mysteriously.

  He had no reason of course. It made no difference to anything. But for some reason, using the stopwatch comforted him and gave him a link to the past. Time was not the same in this new world. It was a relic of a past when people had made it an all-important commodity. Not enough time in the day, don’t waste time, I don’t have time, time flies… all of those phrases that meant something then, meant nothing now. Now there was nothing but time and every now and then he liked to measure it. It had become a habit like whistling, or singing.

  He waited until his quarry were on the move before breaking cover. They did indeed head onto the village and he was able to follow them at a discreet distance until they entered. Blending in with the village folk, he would be able to get much closer to them and maybe glean something of their plans.

  The village was really the remnants of a small New Hampshire town called Pelham. Its former inhabitants wouldn’t have recognised it in its current condition though. Nowadays it looked more like a medieval village, with livestock and human refuse in the streets. The only reminders of the past were the occasional rusting hulk of a car and the faded signs for half-forgotten businesses and brands on the dilapidated buildings.

  The people were as dirty and unkempt as the town itself, but still, given that its first inhabitants would have been no older than 16 or 17 at the most, it was a testament to the social and resolute nature of human beings.

  The Chinese genocide had killed off nearly every American man and woman over the age of 16, and when they themselves were forced to flee the ea
stern states, the Chinese invaders had left the survivors to their own devices. Many had perished, but others had come together with varying degrees of success. While this town had developed to a level akin to a Middle Ages village, the city the Messenger came from more closely resembled an early 1900s city. The City, as it was most often called now, was actually Manchester. Before the Flu changed everything, it was the biggest city in New Hampshire. It was the dream of the Council that one day, all of New Hampshire and its bordering states would be a safe and united place for all and Manchester it’s capitol.

  That thinking and foresight was the basis of his missions. They called him ‘The Messenger’ but in fact he was more like a recruiter. A gatherer of people. He ranged far and wide and would seek out people with the right attributes and attitudes and tell them of the city. He would then offer them a place and move on to find more. Once he had gathered ten recruits, he would lead them back to Manchester, stay a while and then head out again. He had done that for many years. Of course some refused, but most to whom he made the offer accepted, inspired by his stories of hope and promise.

  In the city there was running water, some electricity, law and order, rudimentary medical care, work and a standing army of 3,000. There was also the possibility of a final, bloody war with their neighbors to the north in Concord, but he didn’t advertise that.

  The Messenger’s ability to relate to everybody he met and paint a picture of the life that was possible in Manchester meant that he had been a major factor in the growth of the city since the original group had settled there 15 years before.

  Looking at the ragged and underfed individuals going about their daily lives as he entered the square, it wasn’t hard to see why the recruiting part of his job was easy. He rarely recruited anyone from Pelham though, their mindsets and patterns of living were too ingrained and lawlessness was rife here, even with the presence of local law.

  It wasn’t hard to keep up with the cannibals, the unwashed throng opened for them like the sea had parted for Moses and he deliberately slowed in case one should turn and spot him. While the tall, well fed cannibals could not be mistaken for villagers, he also would be easy to spot as an outsider.

  The Messenger was tall and rangy. Underneath his dark, dusty clothes he was all lean muscle. His straggly red hair was pulled back from his face in a top knot and even dirty, was a few shades lighter than the deeper red, almost brown of his beard.

  The cannibals surprised him a little, they didn’t cause any trouble and seemed focused on perusing the stalls of goods in the main square. Every now and then he would see them flick a coin and deposit purchased items into a sack one of them carried. After a few minutes he spotted two men, big for villagers and dressed in what looked to the Messenger’s eyes to be old state trooper uniforms. Both men carried small clubs. They were marshals, what passed for law in Pelham. They were following the cannibals discreetly, but even from across the square, he could see the apprehension on their faces and as he was watching, the bigger one cuffed his partner over the ear. Apparently he needed some encouragement to keep up.

  It seemed that the cannibals weren’t interested in making trouble, so perhaps their fear was unfounded. The Messenger began to think that they might even be occasional visitors to the village, the people they encountered didn’t seem quite as bothered by them as he had expected. He slotted that information into his memory bank, knowing it would be useful to the council if they decided to make an all-out effort to locate and destroy the cannibals.

  As they went from stall to stall on the other side of the square, he pretended to examine the wares on his side. Pretended, that is, until he stopped at a stall operated by a girl of about 12, his eyes widening when he saw what she was selling.

  “Are those candy apples?”

  She smiled at him, her rotten, black teeth marring what should have been a beautiful smile. He barely noticed, his disbelieving eyes not leaving the sweet treats he remembered from his childhood.

  “Sure are mister. A cent a piece.”

  He reached for one, half expecting it to disappear like a mirage as he grasped the rough stick. An unfamiliar emotion washed through him as he raised the ruby red treat for closer inspection. Joy.

  The girl tensed. The big stranger was odd and she got ready to scream like her momma had told her to if anyone tried to take one without paying. He didn’t. He just stood there like a big old dummy staring at the candy apple.

  “It’s a cent mister.”

  A long, lost memory came to him unbidden. A carnival. Laughter. His mom and dad. His favorite cousin, Kenny.

  “Mister! I said it’s a cent mister. Pay up or I’ll call the marshals.” Her insistent voice jolted him back to the present and he blinked away his first tears in fifteen years.

  He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and flipped her a half-dollar. The girl’s hand snatched it out of the air and she squealed in delight when she saw what he had given her. Her momma didn’t make that much in a whole month!

  He forgot about her as he bit into the toffee apple. The sweet crunch of the toffee gave way to the bitter taste of the stale fruit beneath. He didn’t care. It was about the best thing he had ever tasted. Almost in a daze, he savoured every bite and didn’t move until he had stripped it to the core.

  When he had taken his last bite he seemed to come back to himself. He turned quickly, scanning the square, the core of his candy apple suddenly lying forgotten in the mud. They were gone.

  2

  The sandy haired 11 year old followed his father from stall to stall as they filled their barrow with the supplies that would hopefully help them see out the winter. Kane Rand was tall for his age, footsore from their trek but excited to be on his first expedition to the village.

  His dad had always promised he could accompany him when he turned 12, but his mom had sided with the boy this fall, pointing out rightly that he was big enough to help bring back more and eliminate the need for another mid-winter expedition.

  “You nearly got yourself killed the last time you had to go out in the snow,” she had pointed out. “He is eager for it, just take him along Daniel, please.”

  They had argued for days, but eventually she had worn his father down.

  Father and son had set out at dawn that day, more than six hours before. A few hours walking was an eternity to an eleven year old and it would be even longer on the way back when the barrow and their backpacks were full. He felt the weight in his pack growing heavier with each item his father put in it, he began to regret his eagerness.

  Still, when they had arrived three hours before, he had been imbued with a new energy. The sights and the sounds of the village had assaulted his senses but they didn’t bother him like his dad had warned, they merely flavored his excitement at this new, wonderful experience. What really astounded him though, were the people.

  Kane could count on both hands the number of fellow human beings he had seen in his whole life, his own family of six and his grandpa, may he rest in peace. Now, here he was among hundreds of them, people of all sorts and he didn’t stop gawking until his father had given him a gentle swipe across the ear. After that he had been more circumspect when he was looking at those around him but was still inclined to stare if he saw someone that interested him.

  They filled their barrow with vegetables, dried fruit and salted meat and various utensils that his father thought would be useful. By the time they were done his father had nearly spent all the coins they had brought with them.

  “I’ll have to go out on another treasure hunt before the winter sets in,” he said to Kane. They were eating a lunch of sausages on sticks. Kane didn’t get to eat much meat at home and his mouth watered as he ate the salty, fatty goodness. “I might take you with me.”

  “That would be awesome Dad!” Kane said happily, around the half chewed meat in his mouth.

  A treasure hunt was what his dad called his bi-yearly raids for coins into the houses of the abandoned estate where they had m
ade their home. Kane had overheard his dad telling his mom that there was only one more block left for him to scout, and that sooner rather than later, he would have to go further afield.

  His dad smiled at him and took the last bite of his sausage before ruffling Kane’s hair and standing up.

  “Come on, we just have to get a treat for your mom and the other kids, then we can head home.”

  Every Fall expedition was marked by his father bringing home treats. Gifts for everyone in the family. Kane’s most prized possession, a pack of playing cards, had been given to him the previous Fall. He was eager to see what they could find for the others.

  He stood up and froze. His father’s face had gone as white as a fresh snowfall. Kane followed his gaze, curious to see what had spooked him. His eyes fell on four sinister looking men in black. They stood at the vegetable stall that Kane and his father had visited just before lunch.

  They looked creepy, they had tattooed black circles that ran down their cheeks like tears of black oil. As he stared, one of the men laughed at something the stall keeper had said. Kane was horrified when the laugh revealed a mouthful of pointed teeth, like those of the shark in his sister’s sea creatures picture book.

  “Come on,” his dad whispered harshly, grabbing his arm.

  He pulled Kane away from the men but not before the laughing one turned and looked directly at him. Kane stared at the man over his shoulder even as his father pulled him along. Still grinning the man licked his lips, his tongue a wet slug crawling over serrated teeth. The 11 year old’s fascination turned to fright.

  His father went to the front of the barrow and picked up the long arms and lifted it, taking off so fast that Kane had to run to keep up. The timber contraption was like a cart with two large arms so that a person could lift and pull it. Kane was surprised when his father turned in a wide circle and passed all of the stalls and headed for the open end of the square.