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

by Benjamin Wallace

  He dropped the rifle through the skylight and followed it into the coach. Barking orders at the passengers, he forced his way to the cockpit and pulled the coach into gear.

  “What’s going on?” Alex ran to the passenger seat. Chewy was trying to console Erica.

  “They’re on their way. We’ve got to hurry.”

  “The truck is coming?”

  “Worse. They’ve got bikes.”

  “So? What about the Silver Lining?”

  “Motorcycles are fast. Coaches aren’t. Plus, it takes a long time to do a three point turn on a post-apocalyptic highway.”

  It took more than a minute to turn the Silver Lining and get it up to speed. It took slightly longer for the bikes to arrive.

  “Everybody get down!”

  The brothers and Erica dropped to the floor. Chewy huddled with them.

  Bullets tore through the thin skin of the coach. Cans of food in the pantry exploded. Equipment and supplies fell from the walls.

  Jerry swerved left and right as he tried to knock the riders from their bikes. The riders were agile and easily dodged the lumbering coach.

  “Erica, take the wheel.”

  Huddled on the floor with her hands above her head, she hesitated.

  He pounded his door. “Erica. It’s bulletproof. You’ll be fine.”

  She crawled to his side and they switched places. Her arms shook as she grasped the wheel. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in close.

  “Just keep it on the road and don’t let off the gas.”

  She nodded and gripped the wheel tighter.

  Jerry dove to the floor of the cabin, lifted a panel in the floor and slid into the storage area.

  Four bikes had surrounded the coach, each armed with a submachine gun. Pulling alongside the door of the coach, a rider on the left sighted Erica behind the wheel. A shot through the shattered window of the cabin door would end the chase immediately. He raised the barrel of the weapon and prepared to fire.

  The lower panel on the motor coach flew open and struck the motorcycle. Letting the gun drop to his side, the rider grabbed the handlebar with his left hand and struggled to maintain his balance. The bike wobbled for a few hundred feet and steadied. He grabbed for the weapon again. Then he saw the man inside the storage compartment. The shotgun blast lifted the rider from his bike and dropped him on the concrete.

  Jerry fired at the second bike.

  The rider slowed and pulled up behind the coach.

  Jerry slammed the outer door shut and climbed back into the cabin. He slid into another hole in the floor. Unlike the first hatch, this compartment was full of gear, and it was difficult to maneuver around the boxes. He reached the door and kicked open the panel on the far side of the coach.

  The rider saw the panel begin to open and kicked back. The door swung shut and knocked the shotgun from Jerry’s hand to the road below.

  Rearing from the pain, he fell back into a box that simply said Chewy on it. Contents spilled everywhere, adding to the clutter in the compartment.

  Hissing, the hydraulics on the compartment door raised the hatch open.

  Kicking the panel had caused the rider to struggle for his balance. He regained it as the panel opened. He drew his weapon and waited for his shot.

  Chewy’s old leash was within reach. On the end was a pronged training lead. It was huge. It had to be to fit around the large dog’s neck. It was also heavy.

  The rider had to bring his left hand across the bike to fire. Jerry whipped the weighted leash to force him off-balance while trying to catch the training lead on some part of the bike.

  The rider leaned away from the coach to escape the grasp of the leash.

  Again, Jerry tried to hook the leash on the handlebars or the rider.

  Putting himself out of reach of the makeshift flail, the rider pulled the weapon across his chest.

  Out of desperation, Jerry threw the collar ahead of the bike. The lead caught in the spokes, the training collar wedged into the fork. Sparks flew and spokes snapped as the wheel ate itself. The bike collapsed, the fork drove itself into the road.

  The sudden deceleration threw the rider over the handlebars. He plowed face first into the highway. The bike followed over him a moment later.

  Jerry closed the panel, crawled back into the cabin and scrambled to the cab. He struck a switch on the dash that didn’t look as if it belonged there.

  “Brake!”

  “What?” Only the leather wrapping of the steering wheel softened Erica’s grip.

  “Brake!”

  She stomped on the brake. The coach lurched forward on its frame. The boys in the back grasped for something to hold onto as they slid forward on the floor.

  Jerry was thrown into the dash. Chewy, curled beneath the dash, whimpered as her mass shifted.

  There was a thud from behind the coach. A rider shot past them on the right.

  “Now, go!”

  She mashed the gas. “What was that switch?”

  “It turns off the brake lights.”

  The final rider slammed on his own brakes and turned to race back to the coach. He drew his gun.

  “Head straight for him.”

  “He’s not going to let me hit him.”

  “You don’t need to.” Jerry hit a second switch. There was a whirring deep inside the hood of the Silver Lining. Slowly a steel plate rose to cover the front of the driver’s windshield.

  The rider began to fire. Erica ducked. The coach began to veer.

  Jerry grabbed the wheel as bullets bounced off the plate. The passenger side windshield shattered. Jerry peered through a slit in the steel plate, and pulled a cable with his right hand.

  The Silver Lining’s grill dropped and revealed a solid line of barrels that stretched across the front of the motor home.

  The rider saw the threat and tried to swerve.

  Jerry yanked a grouping of cables that ran across the triggers of fifty-two shotguns mounted under the hood of his post-apocalyptic motor home.

  The rider didn’t explode, but disappeared into a misty cloud of blood. He caught the blast full on and flew backwards off his bike. The bike continued off to the side of the road and bounced harmlessly down the hill.

  “Slow down.”

  Her foot was glued to the floor.

  “Slow down, Erica.”

  This time she listened.

  “Is everyone okay?”

  “What was that?” The boys were bruised from the bumpy ride, but otherwise unharmed.

  “Fifty-two shotguns all fired at once. I put them there for barricades or zombies. But it seems to work for this too.”

  He hit the switch again and the armor plate retreated back under the hood.

  The boys looked at him in awe. Erica stared at him.

  “Take this exit. We’re going to have to cut through Dallas.”

  She responded slowly, but took the exit. The onramp was, for the most part, intact. She navigated it carefully and they merged on to the Interstate highway that would take them into the jungle city of Dallas.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The wheel wobbled. Bent out of alignment, it shook the rider who struggled to control the bike. He had one hand on the throttle and the other cradled across his chest; a bone protruded below the elbow.

  Two men rushed to steady the bike as the rider carefully pulled a tender leg over the frame. Limping, he approached his commander.

  Pacing the length of the trailer, the major surveyed the flattened tire and grumbled as he walked from one flat to another.

  “What do you have to report?” he wheezed as he knelt to inspect the bullet hole. The phosphorus rounds had not only torn through the rubber, but melted it as well.

  “They got away, sir. The others are dead.”

  The major didn’t react. He continued to study the tires. Placing a finger through the hole, he found that the tire was still smoking. “They shot my tires.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

&nbs
p; The major stood and turned to the rider.

  The battered soldier flinched. The major had always been gruesome and intimidating. Now he stared, patch-less, into the eyes of the fallen rider.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, sir.” The empty socket was filled with scar tissue deep inside the cavity. The healing wounds across his face puffed around the stitches. The rider backed away. The major’s pale blue eye didn’t waver.

  “The patch was aggravating the stitches. Hurt like a sonofabitch. It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Now,” the major stepped forward and took the rider by his broken arm, “let’s talk about how they got away.” The major dragged the rider down the length of the trailer.

  The limping caused him to lose a step to the major. The major responded by pulling harder on the arm.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  The rider bit back screams of pain, “The, the Winnebago was armored and there were guns everywhere.”

  The pair stopped in front of the prison car. The dirty masses inside peered out through the slats of the former livestock hauler.

  “I cannot allow failure in my command.” He twisted the rider’s arm at the wrist.

  The soldier screamed ferociously and dropped to his knees. Twisting his body, he attempted to move with the major to lessen the pain.

  “I gave you shelter, food, purpose, and you reward me with failure!”

  Crewmembers stopped their tasks and turned their attention to watch the reprimand.

  “You’re weak.” The major tugged on the arm again, exposing more bone. “My command is no place for the weak. This world is no place for the weak. The weak will only suffer. Only the strong will prosper.”

  He released the soldier’s arm and shoved him back against the truck. There he leaned, doubled over, cradling his mangled limb.

  “Stand up, soldier! Stand at attention when you stand before me.”

  The soldier grit his teeth and stood, painful as it was, with his arms at his side.

  “Be strong.”

  The soldier winced.

  “Chin up!”

  The soldier buried his pain and complied by raising his chin and standing at complete attention.

  “There you go,” said the major.

  With one fluid movement, the major drew his knife and sliced open the soldier’s trachea.

  Blood erupted from the slashed jugular and screams gurgled with air rushed from the soldier’s lungs as they expelled their final breath. He fell dead at the major’s feet.

  The prisoners gasped at the sight.

  He wiped the blood from the knife on a rag and called to one of the guards. “Send a group to retrieve their equipment.”

  “And the bodies, sir?”

  “Let the wasteland have them.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for my behavior when you first arrived.” Roy Tinner shifted from foot to foot. He spoke without hesitation as if he had practiced the spontaneous apology in a mirror. Which he had.

  “Don’t mention it, sir.” Logan instructed the townspeople as they strung barbed wire across the top of the walls of New Hope. Sarah worked next to him. Her smile could light the town.

  “You have shown through your actions to be an honorable and capable ...”

  “Really.” Logan placed his hand on the councilman’s shoulder. “You were looking out for your town’s best interests. That is what these people elected you to do. And you did it well.”

  Tinner wasn’t used to apologizing and even less accustomed to his apology being refused.

  “I ... I have to be sus ...”

  “Yes, you have to be suspicious. There’s no shortage of con men out there.”

  “Yes. Like the charlatan that showed up before you.”

  Charlatan? This guy was trying too hard, thought Logan. “You mean Jerry?”

  “Yes. A con man if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Logan laughed. “Jerry is no con man. Delusional maybe. But he’s no con man. He’s a harmless bookworm.”

  The puzzled look on the councilman’s face led Logan to explain.

  “Jerry was a librarian. He was stacking books in a storage room when the bombs hit. Lucky for him, the storage was in an old bomb shelter. He rode out the aftermath with tinned meat and seventy-year-old Cokes.”

  Logan turned to instruct a woman on how to fasten the wire to the support rods.

  “And there he stayed. A time lock on the door held him prisoner for a year. So what did he do?”

  The councilman shook his head.

  “He read. And read and read. He must have read every book in the place. The books made him smart. Too smart for his own good. When the door finally opened, he was convinced that he could help people.”

  “That kind of knowledge would be helpful.”

  Logan looked at the ground and his voice became distant. “They say that a little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing. And, whoever they were, are right.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Jerry and I were partners out west. I thought the same as you. This guy was so smart. We could make a difference anywhere. And for a while we did. We traveled from town to town. He taught the folks how to purify water, how to build generators ... that kind of thing. We were making a difference.

  “But, then there was Eternal Hope. A small town in Colorado. They had a different kind of problem. One that couldn’t be fixed with wells or crop rotations.”

  Logan looked off into the distance that he assumed to be west.

  “Jerry convinced me and the town that he could defend them from a gang of ruthless bandits. He prepared defenses that he claimed were based on sound military tactics.”

  “They didn’t work?”

  “They came right in the front gate and we were overwhelmed. Jerry disappeared. I did what I could. A few of us got away. No one else survived.”

  Roy turned red; the reverence disappeared. “We should have strung him up!”

  “No. I don’t know how a man can live with that kind of failure. But it can’t be easy. The screams are his burden to carry. That blood is on his hands.”

  “It’s dangerous that he offers to help people.”

  “From what I hear he doesn’t offer protection anymore. He’ll offer to run for supplies, solve various problems, find missing persons. He can’t offer protection. How could he? How could anyone after that?”

  Logan pulled on the taut wire. “Good job, everyone.”

  “You’re a good man, Logan. Thank you for saving Sarah. And for helping us protect New Hope.”

  Logan nodded without a word. The painful memories were written on his face.

  The councilman, his apology offered and thanks delivered, turned and walked back to the town hall barn. There was a list in the cabinet that named Personas Non Grata in the town. He had a name to add.

  Sarah turned to Logan. “You said people don’t come out of Dallas.”

  “What I know about Dallas, I know from Jerry.”

  “What’s in Dallas?”

  “The bombs grew more than a jungle there.”

  “How did he get out?”

  “Luck.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dallas had always sweltered. Summer heat mixed with the reflective properties of concrete and drove temperatures to miserable degrees. Even at night, the heat did little to dissipate.

  Since the world blew up, the concrete jungle of Big D had been consumed by an actual jungle and added humidity to the already uncomfortable atmosphere. Agent-filled warheads had mixed in unpredictable ways. The resulting compound had caused what little vegetation there was in the Metroplex to mutate and grow at accelerated rates.

  Elevated roads had remained relatively clear of the growth. The Silver Lining bounced on the occasional vine but made its way over the surface with a lumbering ease.

  Moving up 35 into the city, across Woodal
l Rodgers and down 45 would keep their path well above the undergrowth. Jerry quietly prayed that the trip would be uneventful, but his eyes darted constantly through the shattered windows of the cab.

  Erica watched him grow less and less comfortable the further they moved up 35.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Where’s your rifle?”

  “It’s in the back.”

  “Get it, would you?”

  She stepped into the rear of the home, picked up her rifle and gave the three boys a look that spread her panic to them. She returned to the cabin.

  “Here it is.”

  “Keep it close. And get in the back.”

  “What’s out there? Why are you so nervous?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You can hardly sit still.”

  “Just get in the back. And send Alex up here.”

  She made no argument as she moved into the cabin and told the oldest boy to step up front.

  He hesitated and looked to his siblings. They, too, had picked up on Jerry’s nervous actions. Alex clutched a beaten hunting rifle for comfort, not defense. Austin had placed his bear head back on and gripped Chewy tight around the neck. Trent could hear him weeping.

  Alex buried his own nerves and stood. He looked Trent in the eye, patted Austin on the bear head, and moved to the front.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Alex, I need you to ride shotgun.”

  “Yes, sir.” The teenager sat in the passenger seat.

  “Alex.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Grab a shotgun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The coach swayed as he steered around rubble in the road. Alex was tossed back and forth as he struggled to get to the gun rack. He pulled a semiautomatic 12 gauge from the former TV mount and climbed back into the passenger seat.

  Little traffic clogged the highways. Dallas had been one of the few cities to receive an evacuation notice during the apocalypse. Almost everyone complied. The joke in the wasteland was that everyone in the city had been waiting for a reason to get out of Dallas.