Pursuit of the Apocalypse

by Benjamin Wallace

  Amarillo had earned several nicknames throughout its history. It was called the Yellow Rose of Texas after its Spanish translation. It was once called the helium capital of the world when airships mattered. Later came the name Rotor City to honor the Osprey assembly plant. The only name that stuck after the fall of civilization, however, was Bomb City.

  As home to the only nuclear weapon assembly and disassembly plant in the nation, Amarillo was just as high on the enemies’ target list as it was on America’s don’t-let-this-get-blown-up list. Guarded by the most advanced missile defense systems, the majority of the city’s infrastructure had managed to survive the apocalypse.

  Inside the gates, a service station was still advertising a 64-ounce drink for an even dollar as part of their Gut Busting Bucks promotion from several years prior. Jerry pulled into the station and stopped in front of the pump as if the world had never ended. West Texas oil still flowed into the town allowing Bomb City to emerge as one of the more civilized city-states of the wasteland. This fueling and trading hub could eventually become a center of power if the ruler of Alasis didn’t get its hands on it first.

  The massive city up north was spreading its influence everywhere, reaching deeper into the country for supplies and resources. Alasis would make a play for the city eventually. Bomb City’s mining and refining made it a tempting target for anyone with a desire for power. But it wasn’t the oil that made it popular.

  Jerry opened the truck door and the smell of steak broke through the storm’s settling dust and filled his mouth. Memories of filets filled his mind and he could feel the texture of the meat on the tip of his teeth. Amarillo had been born a cattle town and would be a cattle town forever. Not even the apocalypse could change that.

  No vagabond could refuse to stop in the city. No one could. Not a single vegetarian survived the apocalypse with their convictions intact. Those that had quickly found that food was less about preference and more about availability. Not once in his years of wandering had Jerry seen anyone turn down a meal because it wasn’t on their diet. He hadn’t heard the word gluten in years. The picky eater was officially extinct, and the Bomb City Steakhouse had helped kill it.

  The attendant broke into Jerry’s steak-filled fantasy with a less appetizing offer. “Diesel?”

  The Librarian nodded and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to the attendant, adding a little flip for effect. The air was still thick with dust but it gleamed with what little sunlight reached the coin.

  The attendant caught it against his chest and let it drop into his palms. His eyes narrowed on the coin in his hand and he looked up with a smile.

  “Fill it,” Jerry said as he cracked the window and shut the door.

  The attendant paid little attention to the instructions, focusing instead on the coin in his hand. He held it up to the sky as this somehow authenticated the gold. “This is from that place out west, isn’t it?”

  Jerry nodded.

  “Those folks are crazy.”

  Jerry shrugged. “They’re not too bad if you get to know them.”

  “A bunch of lunatics dressed up like knights? Calling each other Kings and Queens? What’s there to know?”

  “They’re a democracy now. And, their gold is still gold.”

  “True enough.” The attendant tucked the money deep in his pocket and peered through the cracked window.

  Chewy greeted him with a low growl and bared teeth. The attendant backed away.

  “Mind the dog,” Jerry said and turned his attention back to the aroma of fresh grilled meat.

  THREE

  Inside the restaurant, the smell was even more overwhelming. Richer. Closer. He thought he could hear the steaks sizzling somewhere in the back and imagined the aroma rising up like a sultry hand beckoning him closer.

  The Bomb City Steakhouse was all but empty. The storms could last for days and most people responded by shuttering their doors, opening their bottles, and sleeping in. It would be a few hours before the post-weather hangover ended and the streets filled again. Only the truly hungry had made their way to a table.

  Two men sat at a table with little else to do but cast a wary eye on the stranger in their town. It must be their meal he smelled cooking. Another man stood behind a long, dark bar shuffling glasses and tidying up.

  The Librarian stepped up and slid a gold coin towards the bartender. “I’m looking for a man. He dresses like an idiot. White suit. White hat. Walks like he has a stick up his ass, but also like he kind of enjoys it.”

  The bartender smirked and a short laugh escaped through his nose. He looked at the coin but didn’t pick it up. Instead he grabbed another glass and went after it with a dirty rag. “Sounds like an outfit that would be hard to keep clean.”

  “But impossible to miss.” The smell of the cooking steak distracted him. It filled the room. His mouth watered against his will. He swallowed it back and continued. “Have you seen him?”

  “I imagine it would be more yellow than white. Or maybe a brown,” the bartender said. “Especially after that storm.”

  “I think you’re missing the point,” Jerry said and nudged the coin closer to the bartender. “He’s traveling with someone very dear to me.”

  The man smiled. “Stole your girl, did he?”

  Jerry did not return the smile. “Something like that.”

  The man set the glass on a rack and moved farther down the bar. “I try not to get mixed up in other people’s relationships. It’s rude, you know.”

  Jerry took in a deep breath. “That steak smells delicious. I’ll bet it’s pretty popular.”

  “It’s the best around. Everyone stops here.”

  “You don’t say. Then I’m surprised you haven’t seen him. He would have passed through sometime in the last couple of days.”

  The man showed him a big smile that Jerry wanted to put a fist through. Instead he slid the coin down the bar. “Cook me up whatever that covers. Medium rare.”

  The bartender picked up the coin, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

  The Librarian turned to face the room. The two other men sat at the table and continued doing nothing. It said something about the wealth and security of the town that two men could sit around and chat. Or it said something about the men.

  The men didn’t say anything. The man on the right was little more than bone and skin. His face hung from his skull, frustrated that it had to be there. Dirt from a life in the wasteland filled the creases in his skin giving him an illustrated look. It was like someone outlined him with filth and shaded him with grime. He was a person defined by heavy black lines and a stupid look on his face.

  The other man was stockier but no less dopey looking. A scar closed one eye almost entirely. This one looked like thinking would tire him.

  The men held his stare as Jerry crossed the room and pulled out a chair. He turned it around and straddled it. “What about you boys? Have you seen a man dressed in a white suit, white hat? Calls himself Mr. Christopher.”

  “That’s a stupid name,” the one with the scar said.

  The skinny one laughed. “He’s got a first name for a last name.” This made the other one laugh.

  “It is a stupid name.” Jerry smiled. “But, easy to remember.”

  “Oh sure,” the skinny one said. “I’d remember meeting someone like that. Because I’d think to myself, ‘That’s a stupid name.’ But it’s not ringing any bells. How ’bout you, Coy?”

  Coy leaned forward in his seat. “This guy you’re talking about ... is he about five ten, kind of skinny, drives a white Jeep?”

  Jerry nodded.

  “Nope. I’ve never seen anyone like that. How ’bout you, Willie?”

  “Nope. I’d have remembered that stupid hat he wore and everything.”

  The two men laughed.

  Jerry nodded and stepped away from the table. He looked around the room. The bartender was back behind the bar, bringing the total numbe
r of unhelpful people in the room to three.

  “Normally, I’m a pretty easygoing guy.” Jerry crossed the room to the entrance. “I figure, the end of the world was hard enough on everybody, so why make things harder than they have to be.” He reached up and slid a dead bolt at the top of the doorframe into place. “It’s been a long time since I looked for trouble.” He slid another dead bolt into place on the second door. “But, you see, guys. This prick in the white suit has my wife.” He turned the lock on the door. “And I just don’t have time to be nice.”

  This didn’t stop the two men at the table from laughing. It only encouraged them.

  “Hey, unlock my doors,” the bartender said. ”Who the hell do you think you are with this Coward of the County shit?"

  Jerry had never sought a reputation. They were dangerous. More often than not they made threats no man could keep. A reputation could get you killed for stupid reasons. But they did have their perks. "I'm the Librarian."

  The laughter stopped.

  "You're him?" asked one of the men seated at the table. “You’re really him?”

  The Librarian said nothing. He let the preposterous myths they had surely heard fill the silence. Against his own humility, stories of his time in the wasteland had spread, been embellished and made ridiculous. Now he embraced it all. The Bane of Alasis, the Bulletproof Bounty, the Wasteland’s Most Wanted, the Liberator of New Hope, the Liberator of that other New Hope, and also the Hero of New Hope. No. A different one. He had done bad things to bad men and escaped their revenge a thousand times. He’d let that sink in for a minute. Then he’d ask them again about Mr. Christopher.

  “You’re the Librarian?” Willie asked.

  “Hell.” Coy elbowed his neighbor. “I told you it was him."

  “You were right, Coy. I’ll give you that.” Willie turned and shouted into the back of the restaurant. “It’s him.”

  Willie and Coy stood up from the table as five more men emerged from the kitchen. There wasn’t a little man among them. They stood broad at the shoulders and thick-chested. Amarillo offered one of the few diets left in the world conducive to gaining muscle, and each of the men before him had benefited from a high-protein intake.

  "Oh," Jerry said as he counted the seven men to himself. “There’s ... there were more of you in the back.”

  The men laughed at this as the largest one walked across the room, grabbed one of the heavy chairs and dragged it over to the door as if it was nothing. This monster of a man stood a head taller than Jerry and leaned down to exaggerate the words when he said, “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.” Jerry stepped aside as the group of men laughed again.

  “Thank you kindly.” The man smiled and propped the back of the chair beneath the doorknob.

  “I should have thought of that ... with the chair,” Jerry said. His voice was weak and uncertain. “The chair is a nice touch.”

  The man chuckled. “You want to hand me another one?”

  “Happy to help,” Jerry stepped over to a table and dragged a wooden chair from its place at the table. He lifted it and spun back towards the man by the door fast enough to make the wooden legs hum.

  The chair struck against the giant’s shoulder and the wooden chair cracked like a gunshot before bouncing harmlessly to the floor in one piece.

  The group erupted with laughter as the giant man smiled and brushed at his shoulder as if nothing more than dust had settled on it.

  Jerry pointed to the upended chair. “That’s about what I figured would happen. It’s never like it is in the movies, you know. They make it look like they’ll just go to pieces, but ...” He shrugged. “There you have it.”

  The giant picked up the chair and struck it against the wall. The seat exploded and the various pieces fell to the ground leaving only the outer supports from the back of the chair in his hands. He handed the pieces to Jerry and crossed his arms with a delighted look.

  Jerry stared at the pieces in his hands. “Well, would you look at that?”

  “This is the guy?” A big man in plaid was pointing at Jerry from across the room.

  “Yeah, this is the guy,” Willie said.

  “This can’t be the guy,” the man in plaid said.

  “This is the guy,” Coy rolled his eyes. The one beneath the scar disappeared completely.

  “This is the Hero of Hell’s Gate?” another asked. He had a surprisingly high voice for such a big chest.

  Willie nodded. “I’m sure of it, dammit.”

  “Hell, it can’t be him,” another man joined in the conversation. He hid most of his head beneath a cowboy hat and most of his stomach behind a belt buckle. “He ain’t big enough. I heard the Librarian once beat three Super Smart Bears bare handed.”

  “Yeah, when he was only three,” the high-pitched voice added.

  “You’re thinking of Davy Crockett, you idiot.”

  “No, I’m not, Larry! And don’t call me an idiot. I heard the story myself from some guy who talked to someone else about it.”

  The giant looked down and poked Jerry in the chest. “Stronger than a bear? Faster than a rattlesnake? There’s no way this is the guy.”

  Jerry sighed and looked at the pieces of chair in his hands.

  There aren’t many upsides to being locked in a library basement for almost a year. Even if you love the smell of old books, the joy fades within a week or so of constant exposure. With little else to do but read, exercise will happen out of pure boredom. But roughly two months in, no amount of push-ups, pull-ups, or jumping jacks can break the monotony. At that point someone may go looking for some other way to stay active. And they may find it in a book about the art of stick fighting. Hypothetically speaking.

  The Librarian struck four times before the giant had a chance to double over in pain. Jerry brought his knee up into the man’s face, crushing the bridge of his nose and sending a splash of blood onto the floor. He brought the end of the stick down on the back of the man’s neck and let him crumple to the ground.

  He turned to the other six men. They weren’t laughing anymore.

  The bartender looked at him and back to the group of six. “I’m going to go check on your steaks.”

  “I’m only going to ask one more time.” The Librarian lifted the sticks into a defensive stance he remembered from page 32. “Where is ...”

  That’s when the men went for their guns.

  Jerry threw the first club across the room and struck Coy above his good eye as the man dug into his waistband for a concealed revolver. Blood ran down the bridge of his nose and he backed away from the group yelling something about his good eye.

  The second club hit the man in plaid on the top of the thumb as he pulled a dark automatic from behind his back. It wasn’t enough to get him to drop the weapon, but it forced him to pull his hand back to his chest.

  All out of chairs, Jerry dove for the floor as more guns came out. He hit the ground and rolled under a long table, turned and kicked the table up on its side as he dug into his coat for the handle of his own weapon.

  The gunfire began and the table quickly proved to be a terrible shield. Bullets tore through the wood leaving nothing but a shower of splinters and dusty rays of light hanging in the air. Jerry thumbed the safety off and rolled to his feet.

  Willie was trying to shout over the roar of the gunfire. After several attempts, the room was able to piece together what he was saying, which was, “Do not shoot him in the face, you idiots!”

  A faceless corpse was no good to a bounty hunter, and the shooting slowed as the men began to realize they had no idea exactly what part of the body they were shooting at behind the table. Several magazines slid free, and cylinders of spent casing were dumped to the floor as the men reloaded.

  “Where’s Mr. Christopher?” Jerry shouted as he squatted behind the table.

  “Don’t you worry none,” Coy said. “We’ll take you to him soon enough.”

  Jerry popped up from behind the table and fire
d three times.

  The man in plaid and the man with the high-pitched voice went down. The man in the hat took the third shot in the belt buckle, doubled over and fell to his hands and knees while the remaining three scrambled for cover. Once settled, they resumed firing.

  The acrid smell of gunpowder and ozone soon overpowered the smell of steak as the sizzle was lost in the raging booms of every spent round.

  Jerry grabbed a chair and lobbed it towards one of the men who stupidly tried to shoot it out of the air.

  To his credit, he hit the chair twice before it crashed where he had been crouching. The man stumbled back into the open.

  Jerry pulled the trigger again, and the man fell backwards over the chair with one more hole in his lung than he really needed.

  Willie and Coy both stopped firing and Jerry heard the mechanics of reloading in the sudden silence. It ended quickly and there was nothing left but the gurgling sound of air escaping a deflating lung.

  “Do you hear Wheezy over there?” Jerry screamed into the room. “That doesn’t have to be you. I just want to know where Mr. Christopher is.”

  He couldn’t hear their words, but he heard the two men whispering back and forth. Their voices never grew above that whisper, but he could tell the exchange became heated before it turned to insults. There was pleading and, finally, a decision.

  The two men stood up and screamed, “Screw you, Librarian!” They began to empty a couple of guns each as they ran for the front door.

  Jerry scrambled along the floor as the barrage of bullets moved throughout the room.

  Willie reached the door first and, forgetting it was locked, tried the handle.

  Coy reached it second at full speed and the two men crashed into the street. They were up and running before Jerry could get to the door, and they were around the corner by the time he stepped into the street. The whining engines of two motorcycles faded into the distance telling him he was too late.

  The Librarian stepped back into the restaurant. The whistling lung had stopped. Only the groans of the man in the hat could be heard. He couldn’t find the bartender anywhere.