by R. B. Tetro
“Tell you what, you don’t ask me about me… I won’t ask you about you,” he suggested.
Again, the cave was filled with not uncomfortable silence.
“I thought all the true American soldiers were killed in the Freedom war?”
Daniel’s first thought was to tell her to leave it be but the truth was, it’d been a while since he’d shared his campfire with anyone.
“They didn’t kill all of us. Some of us escaped… fought back.” He was staring at something far away that only he could see.
Chloe propped herself up on one elbow. The wool blanket slipped off of her shoulder, revealing one, well- shaped breast to him.
He turned his head modestly, forcing himself not to look, while she rearranged the blanket.
“I knew you were military, even before you killed those guys,” she said smugly. She turned her back to him and the fire, before he could respond; promptly falling asleep.
Daniel sat in silence, enjoying the precious cigarette, staring hungrily at the swell of her hip. It had been a long time since he’d laid with a woman and it weighed heavy on him. He snubbed out the half -finished cigarette and slid it back in the pack, leaning his broad, aching back against a small rock formation behind him, trying to get comfortable, but not too comfortable.
He didn’t know what to do about the woman. He couldn’t leave her in the mountains. He thought briefly about putting her out of her misery while she slept. She damn sure couldn’t go with him. He pulled his grand-father’s stag handled Bowie knife out from behind his back, watching the reflection from the fire dance across the razor sharp, blood-stained steel.
She turned over, facing the fire; still asleep. The wool blanket fell from her hip, revealing her to him.
His throat thickened. His pulse began to race. Shaking his head, he put his knife away before gingerly reaching over and pulling the blanket back over her nakedness. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought that she almost smiled.
What the hell, I can drop her off at Fortress when I stop to re-supply…she might not be that bad to have around. He smiled to himself, taking out the other half of the cigarette and lighting it.
It was going to be a long ass night.
CHAPTER THREE
Before it rained nuclear bombs… Magnus’s name was Albert Penny Wise Chesterfield.
He’d been named Albert, because that was his great grand-father’s name. His middle name, Penny Wise, was bestowed on him in honor of Stephen King, the murdering clown that made almost everyone afraid of clowns.
In some families, athletic ability is genetically passed down from one generation to another. Some families are great craftsman, some masterful chefs, some lawmen, others writers and so on. Unfortunately, Albert’s genetic hand me downs, consisted of, insanity, and murder.
Albert was seven when he watched his uncle Siros methodically kill and dismember somebody with a blunt axe in their basement, while he puked and cried like a newborn baby in the corner. That seemed like an eternity ago to him now, as he sat on his throne made out of human bone in the center of a massive cavern, deep within his Keep, pretending to listen to the general of his Army.
General Blood was telling him that Fortress was well fortified, and would not be easily taken.
Magnus shushed him with an outstretched hand, taking a hand-sized, blood-red bell from one of the inside pockets of his black, floor length, leather duster. He smiled and raised his eyebrows at him, before winking and ringing the bell.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, off to his right, the biggest snog the general had ever seen came lumbering up and began to hiss at the ground at Magnus’s feet. General Blood was shocked. He gripped the handle of his well- used broadsword, watching the massive creature nervously.
The snog paid him no mind.
“You see, they belong to me now, all of them. Our army has just gotten an upgrade,” exclaimed Magnus.
The general stared at the snog in disgust, shaking his head. “How is this possible?”
Magnus’s psychotic, blood red eyes bored into him. General Blood could see him toying with the idea of letting the giant, half snake, half pre-historic dog loose on him.
But Magnus didn’t. Instead he wagged his index finger at him, shaking his head. “Oh no… you don’t get to know about that General. Just know that they are under my command…. and your command… as long as you do what I command.”
The general licked his razor-sharp teeth. “I will do as you order, but if they turn on us… I’ll kill every last one of them.”
Magnus got a kick out of that. He laughed loud and long; the sound echoing off the cavern walls ominously.
General Blood tried not to let Magnus see his disappointment, but it was evident on his broad, sweating face. He’d been patiently planning to takeover Magnus’ territory for years. There were countless, government-placed snogs roaming the free lands in the territory. If they were all united under Magnus, it would make him so powerful that no one would be able to stand against him.
Magnus smiled at him. He knew what his backstabbing general was thinking, and he liked it, like he liked a good human brain pie.
“We’ll attack Fortress first light,” growled the general.
Magnus nodded, “Of course you will…send in your berserkers first, then attack them with the main force. Wait until Fortress has spent all of their resources, then send in the snogs.”
Blood frowned and nodded. “How many snogs will be at Fortress?”
Magnus looked at the giant at his feet and the snog looked up at him. The General shuddered while he watched them communicating somehow. “My new friend says for you to worry about your own numbers.”
Blood’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
The snog sensed his anger and coiled its five-foot-long neck tightly to strike.
Magnus let the impromptu pissing match play out. Just before it exploded into violence, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, the alpha snog relaxed, licking its hundreds of needle like fangs with its foot-long, barbed tongue at Blood, before settling down at Magnus’s feet.
“The berserkers are impossible to control. Last battle they started eating our own soldiers before we could get them contained,” General Blood argued.
Magnus looked at him and chuckled. “Your berserkers are under the same spell as the snogs. I control them now. They will do as you say, as long as you do what I say. Send them in first, then send in the troops. Fortress will be easily taken.”
Blood saw red for a moment, actually taking an unbidden step toward the throne, before catching himself.
Magnus raised his eyebrows, whistling softly. The snog lifted its stop sign sized, swaying head, preparing itself to strike.
The General managed to get himself under control and step back a few paces. He’d created the berserkers himself, by taking the blood of children and giving it to his mentally insane Blood- eyes. The results had been- as they say- off the charts. There were hundreds of them now, locked away, far down in the deepest caves. The General had been saving them for his coup attempt and now that they were under Magnus’s control, he damned well didn’t like it, one damn little bit.
Magnus stared at him, smiling. “Are you displeased General Blood?”
The General stared back hard at Magnus for a moment before answering. He wanted to tell him, hell yes he was displeased, but he didn’t. He was smart enough to realize when he was playing against a stacked deck. “We’ll attack at first light,” he saluted and bowed slightly.
“Bon a petit,” Magnus chuckled, dismissing his General with a wave of his hand, watching him go with a gloating look on his face.
“He will try and rise against you, Magnus,” a reptilian sounding voice came from the darkness of the shadows.
Magnus smiled and nodded, settling back down on his throne. “I know, Uncle Siros. You’ll eventually have to put him and his loyal followers under the same spell you put the snogs and the berserkers under.”
“It
doesn’t work that way Magnus!” his uncle Siros snapped. “The snogs and the berserkers don’t have the mental capacity to resist.”
Magnus watched the black and red robed wizard step out of the shadows and approach the throne. He was short and hunched over with sallow skin and beady, blood-red eyes. He looked as if he’d crawled out of a radiation soaked coffin. Magnus had lost track of how many times his uncle had used dark magic and human sacrifice to prolong his miserable life.
The snog perked up immediately. His uncle looked past Magnus, smiling with his pointy, rotten green teeth, staring the hulking creature dead square in the kisser. Like it was his long lost friend… like they were going to swap spit or something.
Magnus watched his uncle stroke the hideous snog at the base of its great serpent head, while speaking to it softly in a language Magnus didn’t recognize. He stared at his uncle, smiling convincingly, while he pictured him struggling on the end of his broadsword.
Before the bombs went off, Albert Pennywise Chesterfield and his uncle Siros had been travelling killers with over thirty murdered and mutilated dead bodies to their credit. Serial killers, people used to call them. Now the territory was theirs and everything in it, because they were the first to be willing to kill for it, and eat anybody that got in their way.
Magnus had come on board with the One World government’s way of thinking right from the start. He liked the new way of things because it gave him license to kill and eat people without fear of reprisal. His orders had been to take Fortress first, then his unstoppable army of radiation mutated, insane Blood-eyes would march on Over Watch and the Cavern of the Light, until finally, he would take the ultimate prize, the Star Towers.
For all of his service and hard work he would be given Over Watch and the Cavern of the Light. Magnus chuckled, stood and stretched.
His uncle watched him carefully, warily backing up out of his reach.
Magnus was extremely intimidating, and by far the more physically powerful. He stood well over seven feet tall and weighed close to four hundred pounds, with waist long, blood red hair and radiation scarred ashen skin. Siros had once seen him rip a rock demon in half with his bare hands.
Magnus was the apex predator of the territory.
CHAPTER FOUR
Larry “Pops” Ford was listening for the sound of his middle son’s return to camp. He stood with his back to their cautious fire, scanning the tree line, while the other remaining members of his group scraped together enough provisions for a pot of hard luck stew. Hearing a branch break, he smiled. Moments later, his middle son, Jesse, stepped out into the open. Pop’s nodded at him as he came closer; proud of him but unable to say so.
The younger man came up beside him, turning his back to the fire as well; just like Pops had taught him. Stare into a fire at night and you lose your ability to see in the darkness. Only flatlanders made that mistake, and they usually didn’t get the chance to make it twice.
“It’s not good,” Jessie spoke quietly so that the rest of the group couldn’t hear him.
“How many…?” asked Pops.
“Too many to fight off… if they catch us here, out in the open,” answered Jessie.
Pops nodded, looking toward the distant mountain range longingly. “We’re still a day away from Fortress,” he calculated out loud.
“A day, if we push it,” added Jessie. He was looking at the mountains with the same longing look on his tired, young face.
“Might have to travel at night, make up some ground,” Pops reluctantly suggested.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,’’ Jessie said finally.
They chuckled at that. It had become their mantra since the world burned.
“Get something to eat, make sure everybody’s ready to go.” Pops touched his son’s shoulder as he went by. “Glad your back,” he managed.
“Me too,” Jessie said. He touched his dad’s hand and turned toward the camp to get something to eat.
Pops breathed a long sigh of relief, looking up at the stars. “…thank you God…keep us safe tonight… and tell Maggie, I love her…amen.”
The group’s battered transistor radio, crackled and sputtered to life. For a moment there was only a low tone, then the sounds of Pink Floyds “Dark Side of the Moon” filled the air of their meager campsite; holding them all in its melodic embrace as it played on into the vicious night.
Pops allowed himself to relax for a few brief moments, closing his grass green eyes, letting the music soothe his jaded soul. He smiled; thinking of his three son’s mother, before the Blood-eyes took her from them. They’d often danced to this song in the back of his pick-up, before making love, and falling asleep in each other’s arms with the stars as their blanket. Pops grimaced as the pain of losing her swept over him without warning.
The song came to an end, followed by a few, reality drenched moments of silence.
“This is the Red Robin, all you night walkers and big talkers, listen up out there… Fortress needs fighter’s… I repeat… Fortress is in danger and needs fighters.
Just make sure you wait to leave till morning. Stay in your caves until daylight and keep the fires burning. The only creatures stirring out there are the ones that go bump in the night, the one’s you can’t see… until they’re eating your family.
If you’re thinking about wandering around out there in the darkness, think again, because the odds are stacked in their favor… stay holed up, and listen to some rock and roll instead… because, when it’s all said and done…only the music remains.
Goodnight true Americans. Hold on, stay strong, and fight on.”
Silence again, then, ‘Turn the Page’ performed by Metallica came on; playing into the lonely night wind.
Jessie looked at his dad. Pops shook his head. They had no choice and they both knew it. They were sitting ducks out here on the open ground. They would have to do the very thing that the rebel DJ had warned against. They would have to travel at night.
“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t, right son?” Pops growled.
Jessie took a deep breath and blew it out before answering. “Damn straight…” He knelt down, checking his pack and weapons while Lucas, his hulking younger brother, kicked dirt on the fire.
The ragged group of wanderers, stood huddled together in the faint glow of the eerie moon. As ready as they could be; knowing that it was almost certain suicide moving in the darkness, knowing if they didn’t, they were already dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
Freedom sucked backwards through a jagged straw
Ripped and shredded
left to dangle in the wind.
Pride and country
gone to fail and despair
hope is but a fleeting memory
a whisper of the greatness that was once America
- Poet
Poet and the old lady sat on top of one of Fortress’s lookout towers, smoking a joint while they looked out across the valley at the large force of Blood-eyes gathering for battle.
The old lady took the joint from Poet, taking a hit, while she tried to count the enemy below. “How many, do you think?” she grunted, then coughed, handing the joint back to him.
“Bout five hundred…” he guessed, taking a quick hit before passing it back to her.
“More like a thousand… a lot more than last time…”
“Yes, a lot more indeed,” Poet replied; concern evident in his voice. Snubbing the joint out, he put it back in the pocket of his ragged, grey fleece, North Face jacket for after the battle; if they were still alive. He was visibly nervous.
The old lady looked at him and frowned. “We fought them off last time… we’ll fight them off again.” Pulling a flask from her back pocket, she took a swig before handing it to him.
“Last time, all of us were here, and there wasn’t so many of them. This time they brought the berserkers with them, and there’s a lot more of them,” Poet pointed o
ut.
The old lady didn’t argue with him. She knew he was right. She looked at the berserkers, at least a hundred strong, all with iron collars around their necks, attached to two, ten- foot- long steel poles held by two nervous, Blood-eyed soldiers a piece. When the order was given to attack, they would be released.
Frowning she pulled her waist length, straight silver hair back behind her ears, tying it there with a faded piece of green ribbon, before checking her long knives and her compound bow and arrows. After she was satisfied everything was in order, she winked at Poet, before drawing an arrow and firing into the mass of berserkers below.
He watched her arrow sink half-way into a burly, Blood-eyed berserker’s chest. The mortally wounded cannibal grabbed the arrow, trying to stop the blood from squirting out. The berserkers around him didn’t wait for him to fall before they started devouring him and the unfortunate guards in charge of holding him.
Poet nodded his head and chuckled, shrugging his shoulders before drawing his own bow and sending an arrow straight through the brain of another berserker near the one the old lady had killed. The berserker’s body didn’t even hit the ground, before he was ripped apart and eaten by the other berserkers around him.
“See, all you gotta do is make ‘em bleed. They’ll do the rest for you,” laughed the old lady. She picked another target, preparing to let fly when the Fortress alarm started to sound. They watched in horror as part of the wall on the east side caved in.
“It’s been an honor keeping watch with you,” said old lady.
“The honor’s been all mine,” Poet replied. He followed her down the wooden stairs of the thirty-foot lookout tower to help out below.
The Blood-eyed berserkers were pouring through the breach in the wall like biting water. The only thing stopping them from over running Fortress was their primal urge to stop and feed off of their own dead and dying in front of them.
