4POCALYPSE - Four Tales Of A Dark Future

by Brian Fatah Steele

  Jasmine saved one clip from her sniper rifle, but used the remaining grenades, which made the cannon useless, and was close to running out of shells for her Mossberg and bullets for the Glocks.

  It was thirty minutes or more before the chaos ended and, other than the wind that picked up, the camp became quiet. There were faint moans but those ended quickly as Jasmine and Angela found the source and ended it with a bullet. Angela stood over one of the men that Jasmine had shot earlier and emptied her Glock into him.

  “Feel better?” Jasmine asked.

  “A little,” Angela answered morosely. “He was the one who took Carmen’s baby.”

  “Where do they keep the prisoners?” Jasmine asked.

  “In a fucking dungeon in Owen’s place, but it’s more like a torture chamber,” Angela answered. She then wiped tears from her eyes. “I have stories to tell you when you get back… You will be back.” She looked at Jasmine with tear stained cheeks. “Tank will make sure you’ll come back, you’ll see…”

  Angela then nodded in the direction of a building that stood at the end of the street. “That gleaming piece of crap, he called his palace. Follow me.”

  “You know, I think I heard Tank speak maybe a hundred words, and not once was there profanity.”

  “I inherited my mother’s tits and my father’s vocabulary, so sue me.”

  Jasmine laughed. “Proud of those, tits, aren’t you?” She was going to miss Angela. She almost wanted her to come with her. She was definitely a good fighter, and her sense of humor was good company.

  “Absolutely. Now if I had your tight little ass—Tank’s words, not mine—I’d never enlisted. I’d have married some fat old fart and took his money after he died.”

  Jasmine howled in laughter. Yes, she was really going to miss Angela, but she also knew Angela was going to make it back safely, and in the course of doing so, she would be promoted to Lieutenant and spearhead the opening of outposts between the cities, most of which would be supplied by Owen’s arsenal and food source in the beginning. After time the cities will see the importance and support them and even branching out to create outposts in all directions that will play a major role as people started leaving the underground cities to rebuild.

  “Take me there,” Jasmine said, walking in the direction of Owen’s house. “We save every last one of them…”

  Chapter 15

  The dungeon.

  Four stories beneath the palace.

  The palace was originally a library complete with a tornado/fallout shelter converted to a temporary safe house that would house the residents of the small town until after the impact. A small town with a population of around fifteen hundred people that didn’t believe the impact would be so devastating. It was nothing more than a bad tornado is what they expected. The residents would live there two, maybe three days, a week tops.

  Then the entrance collapsed, cutting the town off from all contact.

  Three months later the food ran out. Less than a week later they drew straws to see who would be willing to kill the first person that would soon be their next meal. They started with the infirmed, then those with medical problems where they depended on medical attention, then the elderly, and finally only the strong survived.

  Owen’s father was one of the strongest and he protected his son.

  While trapped beneath the library the men began digging not only up but down with the good intentions of building a better place: a city of their own based on the designs of the Underground Government City that was less than seventy-five miles away. The same city the small town didn’t want to go to for the mere fact of not wanting to be controlled by the US government. As Owen’s father, the town mayor had preached. Why, we have everything we need in our fair town. Why should we give everything we own and become a socialist when the impact will happen on the other side of the world? What he was really saying was, I don’t want to give up my position. Here, I’m a big fish in a small pond; there, I’ll be a small fish in a large ocean. And while the killing for food continued, Owen grew darker, hungrier.

  * * * * *

  “Oh, my, God!” Jasmine screamed out when she fell to her knees. There were over fifty women and children in the dungeon. All of them in various stages of health and well being; all of them contained in one method or more in confinement. There were jail cells that held all of the children like veal. They were suspended off the floor with bands around their arms and feet. The women were either jailed or shackled to the floor or walls.

  A couple women were strapped to various torturous devices that Owen used when satisfying his insane cravings. Except for Angela, a woman would only refuse once. The second time she became a meal. As for Angela, and unbeknownst to her, she frightened Owen. Through rumors, he had heard of Angela’s brother and his association with a gypsy, and Owen feared gypsies as he did witches and ghosts, and believed the gypsy would come for him. He was right.

  Angela helped Jasmine to her feet. “I’m so sorry,” Angela said. “I should have warned you.”

  As they awakened, the women began to cry along with Jasmine, all calling out to Angela. Then the children started, and finally everyone in the dungeon cried out.

  The wail sent chills down Jasmine’s back as she turned and slowly, pathetically climbed the stairs, all the while wishing she had not killed Owen so quickly, wishing she could have taken him out a limb at a time only to make him suffer long before she finally killed him. What is happening to me, Jasmine wondered as she reached the first landing. I’m turning into the people I hate.

  “Where are you going?” Angela called out in a panic.

  “To get the fucking bus and to kill every motherfucker from here to there and back.”

  Carmen’s baby lay in a hammock, alive, suckling on a bottle of mothers-milk, being prepped for roasting.

  * * * * *

  “You don’t have to go alone, you know. You could use a wingman… I could be your wingman,” Angela said just moments after the last woman and child entered the bus. “We can take him out.”

  Jasmine was silent for a long moment before finally answering, “No. You have to go back to Kansas and let them know what’s going on out here. Let them know about Owen and the new outposts.” She pulled her pack up and fastened it, then checked her weapons. “You also have to give Tank the cannon. Tell him it was great but a little too big for someone like me.” She looked at her nails. “I think I broke a nail.”

  Angela laughed. “He’ll be worried about that.”

  “Make sure you tell him how much I appreciated all he did for me,” Jasmine said while laughing. “He is a good man and I will never forget it.”

  “You come back for him, you hear.”

  “I will. I owe him my life and a dinner he’ll never forget,” Jasmine said, nodding. “And I expect to see you there before you go back to Oklahoma, okay?”

  Angela nodded her head and fingered tears from her eyes.

  Jasmine hooked a 250cc Honda dirt bike to the back of the BSA in case she needed it to cross the river. The BSA was good on flat land but she wasn’t sure if it would get across and up the rugged terrain that lay ahead of her. She then climbed atop and settled down. She turned the key and then cranked the bike over, and finally smiled. She loved this bike but the dirt bike would get her across the Red River and into Dallas.

  “You said you heard 75 was clear?”

  “I haven’t seen it but that is what I’ve heard. Most of the bridge overpasses have been cleared but I suspect you’ll have a slow go at it.”

  “And the other gangs,” Jasmine asked, nodding. “Are they thick along the way?”

  “Let me come with you, Jaz. We can do this. We can get this guy.”

  “Hawaii. A villa. You. Your old fart. Tank. My aunt and uncle. How does that sound?”

  “Damn it, Jaz,” Angela shouted.

  Jasmine got off the bike and hugged her. She then kissed her on the cheek. “If you come, we die—“

  “That’s bul
lshit—“

  “If you go back, you’ll do well, very well, and we’ll meet in Hawaii,” Jasmine continued. “This is the way it has to be. I have no worries.”

  Jasmine got back on the bike and slowly took off. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t look back.

  Chapter 16

  The ride to the Red River was uneventful. The weather held out, and if it weren’t for the golden-brown haze and horrible taste and smell of the air it would have been a pleasant run. She had seen two small hunting parties but neither came after her, which surprised her. Maybe they assumed she was one of Owen’s and left her alone. She was able to travel at one hundred miles an hour for nearly the entire ride, slowing only when she came upon an old vehicle or debris from one of the fallen overpasses. Although a single lane, she was amazed at how nature and some of the pathetic assholes were able to make a passage between any places that were almost livable; or at least a place to catch their next meal or get the drugs through.

  When she reached the Red River, her heart nearly fell to her stomach. The bridge was gone. There was nothing that would allow crossing. Down the side of the banks and into the river were cars, trucks, and other vehicles along with bodies in various stages of dead. Some even looked as if they were killed today but nothing like the skull and poles that she saw when she came out the City of Kansas. What she learned from the poles was that it was more of a scare tactic than anything else and she wondered if the government had placed the poles there to discourage people from leaving the cities.

  Jasmine studied the river, the canyon, and several places where people had tried to cross. She closed her eyes and listened, and then allowed her mind’s eye to reach out to those who died trying, looking for maybe a partner who might have made it across, and in her mind’s eye she saw the path. It wasn’t the view of the dead but the view of the killers and how they were able to travel from Oklahoma to Dallas. She also saw the drug runners and knew this was one of the routes. Not only would she stop the bastard but also she was going to learn how to stop his distributors.

  Far off to her right, a quarter of a mile, maybe, was an actual road, maybe a frontage road of such that had collapsed, but over the years the gangs rebuilt it. It was rickety, and definitely looked unsafe, but accessible, and from the looks of it they used bikes back and forth.

  That’s why they didn’t stop me, Jasmine thought. The rockets. They use the rockets to get back and forth between Dallas and Oklahoma, and once in the City of Oklahoma they’re able to get the drugs to the City of Kansas and elsewhere.

  She rode over to the entrance of the rickety bridge and stopped. She looked at it for a long moment, hoping to see how others may have crossed it. She kept getting the feeling that the best way to cross it was as fast as she could, wide open, she kept hearing.

  She left the dirt bike attached to the rocket and whipped across the bridge, nearly praying aloud that the bridge wouldn’t collapse. Not only did it not, but it was sturdy enough to even handle a heavier load. The bikes are pulling trailers.

  She came out from the ravine and hit highway 75 with the throttle wide open. At last she was creeping up on a hundred and ten miles per hour and feeling the rush, the thrill, and the warmth of knowing that she was getting close. Close to finding and killing the bastard who was responsible for the death of her father.

  Within a few minutes, the haze, like a mortician carrying away a body, blurred all traces of Jasmine’s tracks as if she had never stood in the grip of Death atop the Nine of Swords. As if she had never crossed the Red River, hurling past Sherman, McKinney, Alan, Plano, The Colony, and Carrollton. Neighborhoods that she remembered as a young girl, neighborhoods that she thought she’d never see again.

  As she sped south on highway 75 she saw the peaks of some of the remaining skyscrapers. Their facades ripped away leaving skeletal ironworks rusting away, never again supporting the life that had at one time walked the halls of employment. Some of the taller buildings disappeared into the golden-brown haze and she wondered if they were still intact or had their tops crumbled down to the once-crowded sidewalks and tarred roadways. She also wondered if anyone had taken residence in the buildings. According to the information she had gotten, the Last Pharmacist took residence in a medical facility near downtown.

  Chapter 17

  Jasmine pulled into an old gas station. The bay doors were down but looked fragile as if they were ready to fall with one good harsh wind. The plate-glass front was long gone with very little remains lying in or out of the building.

  She pushed the bikes in through the windows and into the garage. The lift was on the ground and the oil-changing hole was filled with debris. No dead left behind. Nor were there traces of violence.

  She pushed the bikes into a corner with the front facing outward in case she needed a quick escape and looked around, hoping she’d pick up a vibe that said she’d be better off elsewhere. She felt nothing, which was usually a good sign.

  Exhausted, she needed sleep, and looked for a place she could lie down for a few hours, and found an office or maybe a walk in pantry-type closet. It was bare, and had never given shelter to anyone after the impact. In fact, the small room was quite clean comparatively to what she had seen since she left home.

  She took her pack off and removed a sleeping bag that she knew would keep her warm; however, she moaned at the thought of having a nice soft mattress to lay on. “The floor will have to do,” Jasmine mumbled, and spread the bag in the corner where she could sleep sitting up, facing the door.

  She then tried the door and was ecstatic that it closed with no effort. In fact, the door not only closed, it actually latched. The lock, which was on the inside, bolted in place with no effort as if the impact had never corroded its parts. It wasn’t new by any means but had been relatively untouched.

  With a Glock in her lap and the Mossberg by her side she closed her eyes and within a few minutes she fell asleep.

  She didn’t hear the coyotes padding through the storefront. Nor did she hear the sniffing at the bottom of the door that led to where she lay sleeping.

  Five of them lay looking at the door. Waiting.

  * * * * *

  Something stirred. A dream maybe. Jasmine didn’t know but she bolted up, and as her body came up so did the Glock in her right hand. Her left hand rested on the Mossberg, ready.

  Then she heard the sniff.

  “Damn it,” She mumbled.

  A paw appeared beneath the door. Then a brownish-black nose.

  She stood, stretched and holstered both weapons. She had no desire to kill the hungry beast anymore than she wanted to open the door. She slept well, but not long enough and wondered if they had made a mark on the door.

  Foolishly, she checked the lock. Then lightly pulled and pushed on the door to make sure it was still secure. It was. She checked her pack for rations and found something what could keep them busy. She needed a few more hours of sleep and knew if that brownish-black nose stayed out there it would make a good sentry. If anyone came into the garage they’d have to fire on the coyotes first.

  Jasmine got to her knees and counted paws and noses and thought she counted four of the hungry beasts.

  She had power bars made of peanut butter, syrup, and shredded wheat and barley. Not an exceptionally healthy snack, but not bad either. She pinched five bars. Then slid them beneath the door. She waited until the sniffing, growling, and grumbling settled down and then went back to her sleeping bag, and returned to her corner.

  With a Glock in her lap and the Mossberg by her side she closed her eyes and within a few minutes she fell asleep.

  She didn’t hear the padding of paws across the garage floor. Nor did she hear the clumping of boots.

  * * * * *

  Jasmine held her father’s hand and smiled when she felt both the roughness of his fingers but the softness of his palms. She loved it when he ran his fingers gently across her cheeks, then tweaking her nose in the morning when he’d awaken her for school.
r />   Just like now.

  She felt the fingers caress her cheek, then her neck, and it wasn’t until she felt the fingers push against her right breast did she know she was no longer dreaming and was in danger.

  “You make a quick move, little girl, and it’ll be harsh. I might let you live but you’ll wish you were dead,” The voice said to her. Certainly not a voice she recognized and it was so close to her she felt his breath on her neck. “I haven’t seen someone sleep so hard in a long, long time,” The voice continued. “You slept through me chasing off the coyotes, jimmying the door open, taking all your weapons, then copping a feel.” He sniggered as his hand cupped her right breast. “Firm. I like that in a woman.”

  Jasmine kept her eyes closed. Using her mind’s eyes she looked for his weakness.

  “I know you’re awake, so you can open your eyes anytime now... I suspect they’re big—”

  “Better to see you with,” Jasmine answered. Faster than she had ever moved she hit the man in the throat. Then bounded to her feet as he fell back, gagging. In the fluid movements that she had trained so hard to perfect, she grabbed his pistol stuck it against his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

  The bang was loud but his scream was louder.

  Standing over him, she pointed the pistol at his forehead. “Never! Ever! Wake me up like that again!”

  The man laid clutching his throat and gagging, and trying to scoot to the door. All the while amazed at how fast she was able to hit, disarm, and shoot him.

  “If you move again I’m going to have to shoot you, so do us a favor and lay still,” Jasmine said. He froze with one knee pointing upward as if he ready to push himself again. She then picked up her weapons and holstered them. “Where’re my knives?”