Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (A Duck & Cover Adventure)

by Benjamin Wallace

  Other modifications were more crucial.

  Larger water reservoirs ensured hydration in the wastelands and poisoned areas of the country. Solar panels and battery racks powered essential emergency systems that included the halogen bars that blinded light sensitive mutations. A beer fridge kept his beer cold.

  A large plasma screen TV had been discarded in favor of turning its retractable housing into a weapons rack. Here he kept the majority of his larger weapons: assault rifles, shotguns, and a couple of submachine guns that he had come across over the years.

  The second plasma screen was still in place and hooked to a DVD, VCR, and extensive sound system. Lining a media shelf nearby were the essential reference materials for those in his line of work. The DVD collection was comprehensive, including everything from A Boy and His Dog to Zardoz.

  Everything that he and Chewy could need in the new world was carried in the Silver Lining. It provided the perfect post-apocalyptic existence; diesel was easy enough to make and the head was easy enough to dump.

  Often, he felt like a cheat. No post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior in any pre-apocalyptic film or fiction had traveled in such luxury. Most traveled on foot or in a beat up muscle car. Custom military transports were the ideal mode of transportation, but they were the exception, even in Hollywood.

  The Silver Lining was practical. He always argued with himself that if he was better prepared, he could be a better ally to those in need. Besides, it was better to be a rested post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior that slept in a queen-size bed, than one with lower back pains from a bedroll and rocky ground.

  Chewy snored. Her face smeared against the window, drool streaked down the glass, collected on her mighty paw, spilled over, and dripped into the map pocket collecting in a disgusting pool at the bottom.

  Sunlight faded behind oncoming storm clouds, pulling the world into a darkness that it had not known before Edison’s epiphany. Jerry made no move to turn on the lights. Instead, he reached into a console beside him and pulled out a pair of night vision goggles and strapped them over his head.

  Using lights were iffy at best.

  While the halogen system on the roof of the vehicle was installed to repel mutants with sensitive eyes, they tended to attract others with less squinty vision. Clouds of mutant insects could descend upon the coach in swarms so thick that all forward motion would be a ding-filled game of gas and bump.

  Rain lashed against the windshield moments later. Sheets of off-colored water flooded his line of sight. The wipers did little to fight off the downpour. Static filled the goggles. At first the haze was light, but, as the rain grew thicker, the lenses displayed only white snow. He removed them and signaled to pull to the side of the road.

  Cursing, he hit the signal lever to turn it off. It went too far and the left blinker engaged. He slapped it back down. The right blinker began again. Left, right, left, and then off. He grunted.

  Relieved that the signals had gone unnoticed, he chuckled to himself that, after several years of being one of the only vehicles on the road, he still signaled before pulling the Silver Lining to the shoulder and parking it along the curb.

  Outwardly he laughed, but he knew that it was small things like this that gave him hope for humanity’s resurgence. If we can remember to use a blinker, he thought to himself, we’ll remember everything else.

  He cut the engine and stared into the darkness outside the windshield. Pulses of distant lightning illuminated the roadside. Something caught his eye, even though he couldn’t make out what the object was. He moved into the passenger seat and forced his face into the corner of the windshield. He waited for another strike.

  Most highway signs had been blown over or salvaged for shelters, but not ten feet from where he had stopped one had been replaced. It had been propped up with a variety of wood and steel poles. The messaging had been altered. Fluorescent orange paint covered the exit number, but other words had been added: Vita Nova, food, drink, shelter, and hope. The final word was painted the largest.

  “Looks like we found it, Chewy.”

  The large dog broke wind and startled herself. Her head snapped around and she looked at her master.

  “It wasn’t me. You farted.”

  She didn’t buy it.

  The smell filled the cabin.

  “Oh, Chewy.” He moved quickly into the back of the coach. The odor followed him. “I can’t even open a window.”

  Chewy got up and moved to the door. She began to paw at the latch.

  “We can’t. It’s metal rain.” That’s what people called it anyway. It struck hard and stung like flecks of metal. It crashed on steel and tin with a clatter that led one to believe it would cut right through. Plus, the name reminded people of the 80s.

  The truth was nobody knew what was in the precipitation, but the common perception was that if it hurt like hell and caused electrical interference, it was best to stay out of it.

  Chewy’s bowels were not aware of this. She whimpered and began to huff. These small huffs from the large dog sent drool flying across the motor coach.

  “You know we can’t go outside.”

  The dog began to whine.

  “No. You’re going to have to hold it.”

  She snorted, stepped from her seat and into the rear cabin. It was not a pleasant night for either of them.

  Jerry was aware that Vita Nova was Latin for New Hope, but after spotting the town from a distance, he could tell that the name didn’t fit. Hope appeared to be as scarce as everything else in town. There was no activity. No movement.

  “That sign was false advertising, Chewy.” He scanned the walled town through powerful binoculars.

  “I don’t see anything. There’s nothing going on there.”

  He placed the binoculars in the case and climbed down the side of the Silver Lining to where the dog sat staring up at him.

  “Still, we should check it out. At the very least they could have some fresh supplies.”

  A bark of agreement set the dog on all fours, ready to greet new people and smell new things.

  “I’ll have to change.”

  One errant prediction about the apocalypse was that all retail and clothing warehouses would be destroyed and all humanity would resort to wearing patchwork robes and parts of old tires. Worst-case situations had forced some to wear homespun garments, but with a little planning, most colonies could send a team out to shop the racks of former malls, strip centers, or neighborhoods. With 97 percent of the world’s population no longer needing them, closets full of clothes were up for grabs.

  For some, the homemade clothes were a choice. Many towns had settled as isolationists. Fear compelled them to live within their walls, venturing beyond only in the direst of situations. Visitors to these communities were under constant supervision, if they were permitted entry at all.

  Others had taken a more wary approach to post-apocalyptic life and committed themselves to living off the land. Blaming technology and man’s materialism for the downfall of humankind, they chose to revert to a more simple existence.

  Towns like these never lasted long in the face of opposition. Primitive towns were also the most reluctant to accept assistance, if that assistance came with guns or machines. Some of these settlements, though only seven years from the apocalypse, had taken to referring to technology as witchcraft for the benefit of their children. Such language was to ensure that future generations would not become enamored with the trinkets of man’s destruction.

  Jerry wore a broken-in pair of Levi’s and a Captain America T-shirt he had pulled off the shelf at an Old Navy. The Silver Lining’s wardrobe held several changes of comfortable clothes that lacked tears, stains, or dirt. However, these gave the wrong impression when acting in the capacity of a warrior of the wasteland. Even if he was wrong about the settlement Vita Nova was, it was best to never knock on a gate overdressed.

  There was no need to pull a Michelin off of the spare tire rack and cut it into shoulder pads or a
crotch strap, but, when approaching a new town, appearances needed to be maintained. He stepped into the coach and pulled open the wardrobe.

  Task-specific clothes were kept in storage under the floor—winter wear, desert survival equipment, protective gear, even a radiation suit—but the wardrobe held everyday wear. T-shirts, jeans, and a couple of flannels hung beside his work clothes.

  The plan had not changed. He would introduce himself as a post-apocalyptic nomadic mechanic. But, with little sign of motion from the town, he thought it best to be prepared for trouble. His outfit was that of a drifter. Mechanics could be drifters, he reasoned. He didn’t want to show up at the gates in coveralls to find that he should have packed his weapons.

  Hanging at the end of the closet was a pair of jeans that was more worn than the rest. He pulled these on and stepped into a beaten pair of motorcycle boots. A gray linen pullover covered his T-shirt. He tousled his hair while draping a pair of leather safety goggles around his neck, and tossed the duster over the passenger seat.

  He settled back into the driver seat. Chewy jumped into the seat next to him. Jerry smiled and scratched the big dog on the head. “Today’s the day we change our lives, girl.”

  Chewy slumped over and went to sleep.

  He started the coach and they drove to within a mile of the town before parking behind what had once been a Dairy Queen. This led to a brief recollection of Blizzards that ended when he tried to explain to the dog how they would always invert the dessert before it was handed over. Chewy was disinterested and tried to go back to sleep.

  Jerry shrugged at his companion’s indifference and pulled open a hatch in the floor. Two nickel plated automatics sat inside. The distinctive .45s served two purposes. One, they were impossible to miss and hard to forget, ensuring that he left a mark in the minds of the town’s people. Two, they were match quality .45s, ensuring that he left large holes in the minds of things that attacked him.

  Tarnish-free, the pistols reflected the broken light that fell through the dirty windshield, amplified it, and released it back into the world. Each pistol sat on a hip with an empty chamber, safety on.

  He pulled the duster over his shoulders and pulled a shotgun from the coat closet next to the door. He slung it around his neck and let it hang across his back.

  “Ready, girl?”

  Chewy climbed from the passenger seat, yawned, stretched, and moved to his side without enthusiasm. She half huffed, half woofed her reluctance to going outside.

  He opened the door. Once exposed to the air, Chewy became excited, broke heel and darted past him, colliding with his knee. He spun and grabbed the counter to steady himself.

  “Dammit, Chewy.”

  SIX

  Gregory Emerson swore as he struck his head on the collapsed roof of a Nissan Pathfinder. He rubbed his head as he examined the item that had prompted him to stick his head in the wreckage in the first place.

  The frames were bent, but the lenses were free of cracks and scratches and thick. He held the glasses up to his eyes. Instantly, a headache began to creep from the top of his spine to his temples.

  “Shit, Magoo. I’ll bet you got teased a lot.”

  He blew on the glasses to clear the dust and a bit of rotting flesh that had stuck in the bridge. Pawing through the wallet, he tossed aside cash and credit cards. These were useless; but if the driver had a condom in there, it was as good as a drink in the next town. He held out the driver’s license and chuckled.

  “Sorry, Mr. Jenkins. Looks like you were an organ donor. If it makes you feel any better, your nerd glasses will help someone see again. And help me get a meal.”

  Emerson moved across the massive pileup that had occurred several years before. Climbing to the top of an overturned FedEx truck, he surveyed the field of twisted metal. Giddy, he made his way toward a minivan/F-150 combination.

  “Virgin ground. Virgin ground.” He danced towards the mash-up of family vehicle and work truck.

  The expansive traffic accident had remained untouched since the end of the world. Every vehicle he peered into held a trove of personal belongings that had been gathered in haste for an evacuation that saved no one.

  His best guess was that The Creep had been the end of the gridlocked evacuees. A viscous blue fog, The Creep had been a surprise to even the military. Not quite a fog, not quite a liquid, this plasma weapon blew like a tumbleweed across landscapes.

  Those unfortunate enough to be downwind of the eerie blue vapor would become enraged and impatient. Lashing out at others, many who had been stuck in traffic turned the crowded roads into demolition derbies. This continued until they were killed in the crashes or succumbed to The Creep itself.

  Patches of the notorious weapon still drifted across the landscape as the weapon seemed to refuse to dissipate. Prolonged exposure would cause death. Even those caught in a high wind, whether man or animal, would become clouded with rage.

  Only the insanity resulting from exposure could explain the pileup. No order could be made of its severity or its location on the otherwise empty stretch of highway. Emerson guessed that they might have even been moving in a caravan since many of the vehicles seemed well supplied.

  This mother lode could keep him in business for years. Provided he could keep the cache’s location a secret.

  He shoved his head through the passenger door of the minivan and checked out the occupants. At least the family had been together when the end came. The family of four had piled the van full of belongings. He would get to all of them in time, but he always went for the glasses first. Their size and weight made them easy to carry and corrective lenses were prized commodities. This combination made glass picking one of the most profitable professions in the new world.

  The dad had contacts or 20/20 vision. Gregory found this disappointing, but he delighted in finding designer rims on Mom.

  The scavenger pulled at the frames. What was left of her flesh held them fast to her head and he had to tug to remove them from her face.

  A quick glance through the glass confirmed that they weren’t bifocals. Single prescriptions were easier to trade. When trading in bifocals you had to find that special someone whose sight matched the previous owner. Nearsighted was nearsighted; single prescription lenses could aid a wider range of customers. If they needed bifocals, he would just sell them two pair instead of one.

  He checked for wedding rings next.

  Gold was everywhere now, but he firmly believed that soon it would be valued as currency again. No age in recorded history had seen the metal worthless and he knew that history was due to repeat itself. When it did, he would be one of the richest men in the new world.

  Two children in car seats stared back at him from the back seat, their gaze empty. A Texas Rangers ball cap covered the little boy’s head; in his hand was a baseball mitt. Shreds of a pink dress were the only indication that the other child was a little girl. Grasped in her arm was a blue hued teddy bear. Decay had robbed her body of muscle, but the grip on her beloved toy was unmistakable.

  Blue mold had grown on the toy’s fur, but, still, the bear looked familiar to him. He looked back at the driver and to the mother in the passenger seat, viewing the bodies as people for the first time in years.

  Gregory Emerson had scavenged countless bodies in the past seven years. What he found he traded for necessities and luxuries. He made a better living in the aftermath than he had before the world blew up, but it had hardened his nerves, robbed him of a conscience, and, with each profitable trade, he had swapped a little more of his humanity. Over the years, empathy had left him a piece at a time. Now, it rushed back to him in an instant.

  Tears filled his eyes as he backed out of the minivan. Deep breaths could not fill the pain in his lungs as he wiped the dirt from the designer glasses. Sputtering, his nose began to drip. Tears flooded his vision. Sobs shook his entire body, but he reached back into the passenger window and placed the glasses back on his sister’s face.

  Collapsing
to the ground, he drew his knees to his chest as the salt of the tears filled his mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” he cried to no one and everyone. He stood and began to scream at the decaying drivers around him, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry you’re all dead. It sucks. It sucks and I wish I could make it all go away.”

  He sputtered as he spoke.

  “I wish I could just wave my hand and make it all go away!” He swept his hand at the pileup. At the distant end of the massive wreck, two cars went flying into the air.

  It rumbled, turning sod to dust as it plowed across the shoulder and onto the road. Desolate cars long abandoned were thrust from its path by the steel plow mounted to the grill of the armor-clad semi.

  Black with a blood red band down its crest, diesel smoke belched from the extended stacks as the truck barreled down the road. Every part of the truck had been blacked out. Its matte finish absorbed the daylight, swallowing it whole and giving nothing back.

  The rig hauled four trailers; two tandem pairs rumbled side by side. This configuration consumed both lanes of the blacktop from shoulder to shoulder and formed a moving wall of darkness.

  Jagged teeth lined the plow in front of the truck. The metal barricade extended well beyond the cab and stretched wider than the width of the trailers. On each side of the cab, housed behind the thick-gauged metal of the plow itself, machine gun turrets were poised for action. A gunner in each turret kept vigilant watch from behind thick, tinted goggles and twin .50 caliber machine guns.

  More firepower was positioned on top of the trailers. Parapets lined the trailers and men brandishing assault rifles and combat shotguns paced behind them. Each gunner was well trained and ready to discourage any attacker by killing them to great degrees.

  The great machine belched huge plumes of smoke as it guzzled homemade diesel fuel and accelerated to clear a small hatchback from its path.