Pursuit of the Apocalypse

by Benjamin Wallace

  “And what are their crimes?”

  A nearby toady pulled a sheet of paper from inside his shirt. “Mostly Fair Share violations. One for, umm, denouncing your name. And, several for High Treason against the state.” He tucked the paper away.

  “And the Prairie Dog?”

  The toady turned the paper over several times as if the information would appear. “I ... I don’t see that on the list, Lord Invictus.”

  The Great Lord turned his head. It was difficult in the ceremonial garb and the pain entered his voice as anger. “And why would it be on your list?”

  “I ... I don’t know, Lord Invictus. I ...”

  “Praetor,” Invictus called.

  The man that answered the call was built solid and strode through the room confident that every man present would move from his path. He, too, wore a crimson cape, but in a more practical fashion. It hung from a single shoulder and fell only to his waist.

  He said nothing as he joined Invictus at the shattered window.

  “Is he on board?” the Great Lord asked.

  “He is.”

  “And he never talked?”

  “No. Name, rank, blah, blah, blah. Nothing else.”

  “Seems like a perfectly good waste of torture,” Invictus said.

  “This should make the other one talk.”

  “It had better. I want to know where they’re coming from. They keep sticking their heads up thinking they still run the world. I run the world.” Invictus grabbed a lackey by the shirt, yanked him close and screamed in his face. “I run the world!”

  He shoved the lackey into a group of toadies and delighted as they spilled across the hotel room floor. Invictus stepped toward the shattered window and spoke. “Turn it on.”

  With this command, a spotlight boomed to life twelve stories below, the cameras activated and the Great Lord Invictus filled a screen thirteen stories tall on the exterior of the hotel.

  Beyond the lights, beyond the falls, they were out there in the streets watching and listening. His image was on a thousand screens and his voice was broadcast to every street. When he spoke, his voice drowned out the roar of the falls themselves.

  “Loyal citizens of Alasis. We gather tonight to celebrate the passing of the old. What once was teeters once more on the precipice of tomorrow. The old ways are gone. Swept away by a violent progress that has left only the most capable of mankind to continue on. This is good. And so once again we celebrate the passing of the age of ignorance.”

  The colored lights on the falls vanished and were replaced by several spotlights that focused on the derelict ship at the top of the falls. Invictus’s image faded from the screen and was replaced by live footage of the ship.

  Invictus could not hear them cheer. But they always cheered. Though they didn’t always cheer his policies, and they didn’t always cheer his rule, everyone enjoyed watching a ship plummet over the falls.

  It was the same every time. As soon as a ship entered the channel, festival preparations began. Parties would occur all week as scavenger crews captured the vessel and stripped the hulk of any valuables. Cargo, engine parts, wiring; everything that could be used was taken from the ship.

  The new “crew” was then placed aboard and it was set back into the current to await its fate at the edge of the falls.

  “With this passing comes a new judgment,” Invictus continued. “As you know, the crew of this vessel are men and women accused of transgressions against the new world. Our world. They have chosen themselves over others. They have committed crimes against the greater good. But we are not monsters here. As we all survived the fall of the old world only to rise up and prove our worth to one another, they too shall be given the chance to fall and rise again. For he who survives the fall is worthy of our favor.”

  He let his words hang in the air for only a moment before whispering into the microphone. “Let them fall.”

  Fireworks exploded over the falls. Bright reds, brilliant whites, and somber blues burst in quick succession as the cannons once used for New Year’s celebrations fired into the sky. Thunder ripped above as each rocket exploded. Then there was another blast that did not belong to the display.

  The explosive charge severed the cables that held the ship back from its final voyage and the vessel began to move.

  “Give me their terror,” Invictus said to a man behind a control board.

  A second later the mammoth screen displayed a close-up of the men and women on the deck of the ship. For many, their first instinct was to run aft. Others clung to the rail as the ship tipped nose first into the horseshoe.

  The panic grew as the rear of the ship towered over the bow. Those that had run began to fall free of the deck and into the mist below.

  The ship followed and twenty thousand tons, give or take an engine’s weight, dropped into the mist. The bow drove a hundred feet deep into the plunge pool and brought the ship to a sudden stop, causing steel to scream and the hull to buckle.

  Those that were left on board were torn from the railings and thrown down to the waters to meet their fates.

  For a moment everything stopped and the ship hung propped against the falls as if it was there to stay. But the river always gets its way, and the current built up behind the wreck and shoved the ship sideways. Gravity took it from there as the vessel collapsed into the pool and took its place in the pile of wreckage.

  Invictus turned the microphone on and let it give a squelch before he spoke. “We shall now look for the strong.” He turned the mic off again and turned to his director. “Show me the applause.”

  The man in charge of the video board hesitated. “Lord Invictus, I ... I can’t.”

  Invictus stormed across the room and backhanded the director across the face. “Show me!”

  The director hung his head and hit the switch.

  Invictus strode back to the window and looked at the board. The crowds were there. But they were not cheering. The raucous applause that naturally followed such gleeful destruction was not there. The masses stood silently with a finger to their lips.

  “What is this?” Invictus shouted.

  “You know what this is,” the praetor said.

  “That fucking librarian,” Invictus whispered. “I thought we settled this. They’ve been told!”

  “They have,” said the praetor.

  “They carried books so I burned the books. I burned all the books.”

  “Do you want us to start burning their fingers?”

  Invictus was on the praetor before he could respond. The Great Lord crushed the man’s nose beneath a fist. He grabbed the strap that held the man’s cape in place and dragged him to the open window.

  Invictus struck him every time he tried to pull away. “You know what I want. I want that piece of shit here. I want his head in a bucket to show all the people down there that I am not to be challenged.” He forced the praetor off balance and held him from the abyss with a single fist. “And I want a praetor that gives me what I want.”

  “We sent men. We’ve offered money. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Invictus grabbed the man’s jaw and twisted his head to the right so he could see the silent crowd on the screen. “Does it look like we have time? What about Christopher?”

  “We haven’t heard from him since he found the Librarian in Texas. He’ll get him. He’ll bring him. He’ll be here. Please don’t let me go!”

  Invictus pulled him back in the window until they were face to face. “Texas is gone! Alasis is all there is! I am all there is! I am the master of our fates!” He leaned the man out the window. “You’ve forgotten too much, praetor.”

  The praetor screamed as Invictus opened the hasp of the cape and let him fall to the concrete below.

  The room was silent as Lord Invictus stood at the window with the crimson cape flowing in his hand, but the room was not still. The toadies, lackeys, aides, and assistants quietly shuffled around the room. Some moved closer to the man at the window whi
le others inched closer to the door.

  When Invictus finally turned, he pointed to the praetor’s second in command and held out the cape.

  The soldier stepped forward and accepted the garment and the title, responsibility, and repercussions that came with it.

  “It’s time to put this issue to rest, praetor.” Invictus walked towards the door. “Send out the Skinners.”

  The orders were given, and within an hour a column of vehicles left Alasis. Battlewagons, War Chariots, Fight Cycles, Stick Ups, Murder Machines, Slug Bugs, minivans, and sedans of all sizes drove out of the city.

  Alasis had declared war on the Librarian.

  TWO

  The Librarian had parked the truck between two upright Cadillacs somewhere in what use to be the state of Texas. Bombs had a tendency to throw things around, so after the world had tried to kill itself, it was hardly worth mentioning any kind of vehicle turned on end. Many were stuck in trees or even set on buildings and were only worth noting if they were being used to give directions. Even then, one would have to be very specific about which car on which roof to make the directions of any use.

  These two Cadillacs, however, had not been thrown but placed on end on purpose and were currently saving his life.

  It had been a handful of years since the last weather report had been broadcast. Records weren’t available and memories were fading, but most people liked to remember the weatherman saying, “It looks like a great day to get outside.” As the bombs fell and the Earth turned from green to a charred brown, people realized that it wasn’t that nice a day after all and the weatherman had been wrong again.

  Had meteorology not been obliterated as an occupation that day, Jerry was sure they’d be breaking into regularly scheduled broadcasts to talk about the maelstrom of sand and lightning that raged outside his truck’s window at the moment. Frightening graphics would fill the screen as the howling of wind, crashing of thunder, and an orchestral score teamed together to terrify viewers at home. A severity scale would be used to compare the deadlier elements of the storm to food items. And some poor bastard from the station would be standing in a raincoat in the middle of the murderous tempest doing his best to out-yell the wind while smiling and secretly hating the assholes that were safely back at the studio.

  But with the death of the old world came a new kind of storm, and there had never been a graphics package for what roared outside. Perhaps, before the end, in the depths of the Sahara, lightning had flashed through swirling sand with such intensity that it turned the particles to glass. But not here in the Texas panhandle. Not until recently.

  Once covered in graffiti, the Cadillacs had since been blasted to bare steel by wind-whipped sand. In the sun, they gleamed. Their reflections could be seen for miles. But in the storm their metal bodies glowed red as they caught the frequent lightning strikes and channeled them into the ground. They pulsed with heat and barely had time to fade back to steel before they were struck again and again.

  The Librarian had been parked between them for more than twenty-four hours watching them pulse with the energy of the deadly strikes and hoping it would end soon so he could be on his way.

  The road through Texas wasn’t the quickest route to his destination, but it was the only option when travelling east. Long before the end of pretty much everything, people liked to joke how there was nothing in the American Midwest. They did it in jest with cruel assumptions and dismissive stereotypes. They joked about corn and often broke into the only lines of song they knew from Oklahoma. Then they would get to the chorus and realize they were talking about Oklahoma. At that point the laughter would turn into a discussion of whether or not Oklahoma was in fact a part of the Midwest or the South. That would usually turn into an argument, because that’s what people did when they didn’t know better.

  After the war, everyone knew better.

  Missiles aimed at other missiles had been the opening phase of the war and America’s heartland took the brunt of the first strike. The locations of thousands of silos buried beneath the elephant-eye-high corn had been programmed into war computers for decades, and once the launch codes were entered, America’s breadbasket quickly became America’s night-light.

  Venturing into the region now was one step short of suicide as one could now literally die from boredom.

  Knowing the dangers in cutting across the heart of the country, the Librarian made his way across the Texas panhandle faster than he probably should have.

  The truck’s engine didn’t protest the speed. The shocks and the rest of the suspension were more than willing to absorb the road beneath him. Off-road tires rolled over the smaller debris left in the road with little problem. But, he was heading full speed into a trap, and he knew it.

  For the last three days his instincts had told him to slow down, and for the last three days he told his instincts to go to hell. There wasn’t time for caution. Time was everything. He had begun a day behind.

  The truck had needed repairs. And, while they were made as a gift by a grateful kingdom back in the mountains, generosity and haste rarely went hand in hand. The repairs had cost him a full day.

  He had torn through what used to be New Mexico in short order, but was stopped by the storm outside of Amarillo. Sand, rock, and God knows what else blew around him reducing visibility to nothing, and he was forced to find shelter in the middle of the desert wherever he could. He spent a full day parked between the two Cadillacs. Their steel bodies had taken the brunt of heat and wind for decades and did all they could to protect the Librarian from the post-apocalyptic weather now. Jerry spent the hours watching the electric blasts dance down the fins and into the sand as nature funneled its wrath through the cars and turned the earth around him to glass.

  Every minute he wasn’t moving was torture. He didn’t fear the storm. As long as he stayed in place he would be safe. Stepping outside would result in the skin being stripped from his body in a matter of moments—if the lightning didn’t get him first. But the interruption in his pursuit made him restless. It was impossible to sit still.

  The full length of the truck was at his disposal. It had an extended cab and covered bed that he could access through the window. But, sharing the space with a mastiff that didn’t like thunderstorms made it less than tolerable and more than a little rank.

  Still, more than the smell, it was the lack of momentum that frustrated him the most. Every minute lost was a minute Erica and her abductor gained ground.

  He knew little about his prey. The mysterious Mr. Christopher had plagued them for months, but always from behind the shadow of hired guns. The man in the stupid white suit sought the bounty on the Librarian’s head and had, so far, been denied his prize at every opportunity. The bounty hunter had seized an opportunity during the confusion of war and grabbed Erica in an attempt to turn the tides of his own fortune.

  Jerry kicked the truck’s console in frustration for the thousandth time. Chewy whimpered and moved into the backseat of the cab. Setting her massive head on her paws, she sighed and tried to sleep.

  Jerry looked at his watch. He swore, tore it from his wrist and threw it across the truck. It hadn’t been five minutes since he’d looked at it last.

  Chewy let out a single, low woof, and Jerry looked at the dog. He knew it was her way of trying to comfort him, and he did his best to let her.

  “There’s still a chance, girl. If they got caught in the storm, too—there’s still a chance.”

  The truth was there were a thousand things in the wasteland that could slow someone down. None of them were good. Travelers in the wasteland weren’t pulling off to the side of the road to read a plaque, stand at the intersection of state lines, or pose with a fiberglass dinosaur so they could snap a selfie and tag it #roaringgoodtime. Raiders, robbers, and rogues plagued the highway preying on anyone foolish enough to let their guard down or let their tank run dry. He prayed that he would catch up with them before they made it to Alasis, but he also had to pray that no
thing else had stopped them. The horrible storm was his best chance.

  A bolt of lightning struck the Cadillac in front of him. The storm had thinned enough that the flash lit up the cab of the truck. Chewy whimpered and dug her head deeper into her paws as Jerry leaned forward and tried to peer up into the sky.

  “Is it finally letting up?”

  He stayed perched behind the wheel for another minute as the visibility outside the window increased. Black changed to dark brown. Dark brown to light.

  “It is letting up.” He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. Tires spun on the glazed earth and the truck launched out from between the cars. The highway was close. He dug ruts into the dirt road getting to it. The tires found the asphalt and the truck got up to speed.

  He continued fighting doubts as he drove on. Was she still alive? Was she even still with her kidnapper?

  He shook these thoughts off. Erica would still be alive. He knew this. For all his annoying traits, Mr. Christopher appeared smarter than the average bounty hunter, and he would know better than anyone the risks of letting Jerry escape again.

  As the Librarian, he had a reputation. Jerry had never wanted one. He knew all too well that a reputation could get a man killed. All he ever wanted was to help people. But good deeds could earn you a bad name with the wrong people. The myth of the Librarian had grown too big and spread too far for those in power to let him live. Mr. Christopher would keep the woman alive as bait for his trap for as long as he could.

  Erica was too smart to run. Not while they were in the desert. She knew fleeing across the barren stretch would be the same as suicide. She would bide her time and wait until escape led to survival and not just a different, horrible fate.

  The light brown air turned to blue skies as he approached Bomb City and the storm faded away to nothing, revealing the defensive gates.

  The massive steel doors towered thirty feet above the road and shook the ground as they opened. Two guards looked over the vehicle and waved him through with the point of a rifle barrel into a small paddock where even more guards eyed him with scrutiny before letting him pass into the city.