After the Fall

by Darrel Sparkman

  The man sat on the ground, vainly trying to hold his stomach together, looking at Trent with a shocked expression as his heart pumped his life away through his fingers. The big raider tried to say something, but ran out of time. He fell over sideways into the leaves, his final breath leaving in a long sigh that rustled the grass in front of him.

  Panting heavily, Trent quickly looked around him, while retrieving the Ruger and wiping dirt and leaves from the action. A flicker of movement, away in the trees, drew his attention. He froze, watching and listening. Nothing. Slipping his Ruger into its holster, he mounted the gelding, pulling the SKS from its boot as he settled in the saddle.

  The encounter had left him unhurt, except for the shallow cut on his side. He glanced back at the raiders. Some might think him lucky, but he knew it was more than that. Like the ancient Berserkers, who went wild in battle, bare-chested when others wore armor, this fury was with him, even as a child, fighting with pointed sticks. Those sticks hurt, and more often than not, Trent would lash out in fury unleashed by a stinging wound from an opponent. Sometimes people called his fury bravery, but he could never accept that. Anyone who was not scared spitless in a fight was a fool.

  Trent looked at the men who had attacked him. Young, dirty, and getting no older. Looking at the boy, he felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Even the young ones caught the raiding frenzy. Trent had killed many times in the past. Always, the young ones bothered him the most.

  With most of the country returned to a virgin wilderness, no one seemed to want to put out the effort to settle it again. You would think people could find something better to do with their time than prey on what survivors were left. But after the Fall and the collapse of civilization, the killing and fighting had become a way of life. When would it end?

  John Trent looked around the clearing one last time and suddenly felt tired. The one thing he wanted most from life was peace and quiet. With a sudden burst of clarity, he knew he was not likely to get either. He was in the wrong business.

  * * * *

  The man standing at the window was so large he blotted out the sunlight. His mottled black and green uniform was severely pressed, the creases straight and sharp. The gold clusters of a colonel in the United States Army adorned his shoulders and glittered in the light.

  His gaze lingered on the street below, noting nothing in particular, but acutely aware of all that passed below him. It had become a ritual for him. Always hoping for change ... but never finding any.

  The street below appeared to be controlled confusion at best. It was busy at this time of day, choked with horses, wagons, and an occasional motored vehicle whose type and looks were limited only by their owner's imagination.

  "Look at all this, Fred.” The colonel spoke to his adjutant standing behind him. “When we first came here, this street was full of transport trucks, and all-terrain armored vehicles. And tanks. Hell, we even had tanks! Our men controlled the town, the countryside, and all the roads in and out of camp. We were in charge. Now look at it. Horses and wagons, for God's sake. It looks like the 1800s all over again. The civilians are better armed than the soldiers. We are losing men from our units every day, and we don't know if they have been killed, or if they just got tired of it all and walked away."

  "How did we lose it, sir?” The lieutenant's voice was close to sounding bored, a dangerous situation because the colonel would not tolerate boredom.

  Colonel Bonham did not turn away from the window. There was not any doubt of what his adjutant meant by the question. He and Lieutenant Fred Saints had discussed this subject many times before. It haunted the minds of those men who were in power. Then ... and now.

  "It was easy, Fred. You know that. It was so damned easy and predictable. The American people just would not believe it was happening. Europe, sure, they were fighting all the time anyway. China, maybe so, with the billions of people they have, but not to us. Not to the good old U. S. of A. What has it been since the Fall? Twenty years?

  "It started out like a bad Sci-fi movie. The economy was a bust, businesses folding up by the thousands. The value of the dollar was dropping like a rock, and congress did not have a clue, Fred. Not one damned clue. They were so anal retentive, the whole bunch looked like a chocolate donut."

  Smiling, Lieutenant Saints interjected, “And the rest of the world?"

  "Jesus, what a mess,” the colonel responded, never missing a beat. “Every country in the world got mad at somebody. Europe, Africa, Asia, South America, and we had to send troops to all of them. Trying to police the world. What a waste. The United Nations was an impotent bunch of backsliders afraid of their own shadows and corrupt to the man."

  "It was the anger then?” Saints said.

  "Oh yeah, that and the floods and plague, and every other damned impossible thing that could go wrong."

  "Speaking of which..."

  The colonel finally turned from the window. “Jesus, Fred. You have been waving that paper around all morning. I give up. I surrender. What is it? My discharge?"

  The adjutant's haunted gaze held the colonel's for a moment and he ignored the old joke that usually resulted in a laugh.

  "We got this by courier. There have been fresh outbreaks of plague back East. They say a lot of the water is bad. The whole thing may be starting over again, at least among all the people who drifted back to the big cities."

  "Oh, that's just wonderful.” The colonel glanced sharply at the adjutant as he stomped toward a map on the wall. “I'm really glad you shared that with me, Fred."

  "Sir, the dispatch does say the GDCC is working on a vaccine."

  "Right, the Government Disease Control Center.” Colonel Bonham's hard sounding voice oozed sarcasm. “With what, for Christ's sake? There have not been any pharmaceuticals made in twenty years, Fred. What are they going to do, throw sticks at it? Bring in some witch doctor and scare it away? Cut open a chicken and look at the entrails? The scientific community never solved it twenty years ago, and they will not now.

  "Look at this map, Lieutenant. This Ozark Project has to go through. It may be our last hope. We're sitting right by one of the few safe areas left in the United States."

  A pointer appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he began to lecture his adjutant. “Do you see this section of the Mark Twain National Forest? It is a wilderness in there. Mountains and hills covered with forest and grass. The water is clear and cold with the hills full of all the game you want. Some settlements even have their own electricity. Run it from old gristmills on the rivers. It is just sitting there, ready and waiting for us. It is the best chance for our people to survive and start again. Over the last year, we have been gathering some of the best people we can find. The best minds, people with the talent to rebuild. We've got at least fifty families that we can put in there."

  "Then what is the problem?” Saints said.

  The colonel stood lost in thought. Finally, he said, “Now that they are assembled, I'm afraid to send them in. I am not too sure they would go anyway."

  "Raiders."

  Nodding, the colonel turned back the map and pointed to northern Arkansas. “We have Big Springs right here in the middle and it is a perfect spot for a settlement. They have their own water supply, electricity, and the works. They raided some hillbilly theme park nearby called Silver something or other, and from the old technology saved from the past, they now have leather working shops, bakeries, a place to cure meat, and enough farm land around close to raise wheat for bread."

  He paused for a moment. “The area also has more raiders per square mile than a dog has fleas. The place is getting crowded."

  "I'm surprised the raiders haven't taken everything over."

  The colonel grinned at his adjutant. “They have the same problem we do. Those red-necked Ozark hillbillies are stubborn as they come, and they do not move easy. Their places are isolated and hard to get to. And generally, they are well defended."

  The Colonel pointed with his marker to the top o
f the map. “Jeremiah Starking has close to five hundred people here on the Upper Jacks Fork, northeast of Big Springs. Men, women, and kids. Maybe a hundred of them fighting men. He is ex-military and knows what he is doing. His people have not turned raider yet, but they are not far from it. If anyone takes over, he would be the one. I do not think it will be long before he decides to move into the area. Trouble is, it will not support all of them, and us too. He has some of his mercenaries in there now, stirring up things, seeing who is in charge and who they need to get rid of. From our last dispatch, we also know Pagan Reeves is there, and no one seems to know which side he is on. The last report we had, Reeves was completely out of control."

  "We have enough troops to..."

  "That is not an option, Lieutenant."

  "What about the other Regional Commanders? Can't they send in troops?” Saints asked, stubbornly.

  The colonel glared at his underling. “You still don't understand. We have lost two patrols in the last month. Our soldiers are not woodsmen. The raiders are. We are like the English going against the American Indian. They are eating us alive in there. But what a company of soldiers can't do, might be done with just one man. If he is the right man."

  "It would be suicide."

  "Maybe, but he might buy us enough time to get our men trained. If our man can keep them busy long enough..."

  "I suppose you have someone in mind?” the adjutant said reluctantly, as though he already knew the answer.

  "Sure. John Trent. Do you remember the plan that passed through here last month about reinstating the United States Marshal Corp? I think we have our first recruit."

  "But, sir, begging your pardon, I know he was your son-in-law for a time, but do you think that's wise? Some people say he is worse than the raiders. Remember Caplinger Mills two months ago? He killed four men, and wounded two more. The people will never stand for it."

  "Oh, they'll stand for it. They will have to. No matter what you have heard, Lieutenant, John Trent is an honest man, and fair.” The colonel's voice sounded grim. “From the message we got, all that the people at Big Springs want is protection from the raiders. Well, they will get their protection."

  The colonel looked at Saints with eyes that appeared hard as steel. “You don't know what kind of man we're dealing with, do you?"

  "You mean Trent. Guess not, sir, other than I think he is a cold-blooded killer."

  "John Trent is a throwback. Somewhere in his genes are instincts and skills we couldn't begin to understand."

  "You mean, like in the 1800s. Western frontier?” Saints asked.

  "Not even close, Lieutenant.” The colonel strode to the window again. “All these people you see out there, the traders, the soldiers, even the mercs and raiders to a certain degree, still tie to civilization in some manner. As bad as the Fall was, there is still enough left of modern technology to shape us. We need things to survive, like tools, shelter, and survival equipment. And we all need other people."

  He paused a moment. “Trent doesn't need any of those things. You strip him naked and send him out in the wild, he'll come back fat and sassy, and tear your heart out."

  "I don't know much about him except he was married to your daughter, sir.” Fred Saints laughed. “I've even heard the rumor he does not like to fight."

  The colonel turned and looked directly at the lieutenant. “That is correct. He does not. Left alone, John Trent would not harm a fly. He is a man who is very slow to anger. However, given cause, lieutenant, the fire inside him shows no mercy. You have heard the expression ‘cold fire'? When angered he can become a killing machine and makes the old SEAL teams, Delta Force, or our Enforcers look like choirboys. He simply does not need us. He is totally self-reliant."

  "So, you think Trent will get pushed too far by the raiders and take care of some of our problems."

  "I'm counting on it.” Colonel Frank Bonham chuckled mirthlessly. “The town of Big Springs wants a company of soldiers. What they will get is one man. They'll get John Trent."

  "Well then, if all you say is true, God help them.” The adjutant shook his head ruefully.

  Colonel Bonham snapped around and stared at his assistant. “No. God help the raiders."

  * * * *

  The wind through the trees was a whispering rustle as the man on the roan gelding gazed across the hills making up the Ozark Mountains in southern Missouri. The nearer hills appeared sharp in the morning light; a mural etched in different shades of green and brown, broken by gray limestone outcroppings, cliff faces, and an occasional abandoned farmhouse. Dark, successive hills gradually faded away in the mist. The fresh breeze would soon push away the haze, revealing deep valleys and high mountainous hills choked with so much scrub brush and vegetation it was nearly impossible to pass through unless you knew the way. The oak and maple trees spread a canopy over the forest, while pine and cedar tried to soak up what sunlight passed through the leaves above.

  John Trent felt at peace as he relaxed in the saddle, sitting well back from the cliff face, close under the shade of an old gnarled oak. He idly reached out and touched the dark, crusty bark, feeling its texture through fingers as hardened as the tree, and wondered how many of natures denizens made their home in this one old tree. The tree had taken all the punishment time could give it; its bark twisted and hardened by the forces of nature, yet still keeping its uniformity in shape and size. For over a hundred years, judging by its size, the oak had stood, benignly watching the parade of humanity pass through these hills. Of course, there was not much of a parade anymore. Nature had taken care of that too.

  It was much the same with the man, for his body too had stood the test of time. It had been hardened and tempered by the fires of survival until he was as much a product of nature as the oak. The difference was ... he could feel and see, and because of those things ... know regret. The oak would never feel regret, or get tired of its life. The man envied the oak for that simplicity.

  The tiredness often slumping Trent's shoulders was not physical. Mostly, it was a mental state. On occasion, in somber moments of reflection, he marveled at the senselessness of what the world had become. He could feel the emotions coming up in him, a gusher that, even when capped, still let rivulets escape. It was like trying to stop the leaks in a dam with your fingers. At some point, you ran out of fingers.

  He understood how the raiders felt, which was one thing separating him from his peers. The other scouts and couriers in the Combined Armed Forces, USA, just reacted, without caring, to whatever happened to be going on. The raider did not feel despair or remorse of any kind. It was anger! Theirs was an impotent rage at the world for becoming such a place. Anger, because the world had lost so much. Anger, because death seemed to be the easy, if not only, way out. In death, you were not hungry, or cold, or so damned tired you couldn't stand up. In death, you were not afraid to close your eyes at night to rest, fearing some other raider who was just as scared and cold as you, may sneak up and cut your throat for the blanket were wrapped up in. Raider! The very word brought fear to the eyes of army and settlement people alike. Their mantra was simple, in that they had no plans, other than to just live for the day. Anyone not in their group was an enemy. Do not trust anyone, and never ... ever ... show weakness.

  John Trent had been on the fringes of this for years. He had joined the Army at the age of seventeen. Like so many people, all he wanted was a guarantee of a place to sleep, and food to eat. He got his wish. But, the price he paid was involvement in more border wars and peacekeeping missions than he cared to think about.

  The remarkable event known as the Fall had started years before, like a slow growing cancer, then spread like wildfire through the country. No one knew or cared what started the plague. Trent did not even want to know who to hate. It just did not matter anymore. Back East they were slowly rebuilding. West of the Mississippi River however, the land was lawless and brutal. Death could come at any moment ... and often did.

  John Trent had been around
, and at thirty-six was already older than the new adjusted life span of the American male. Riding dispatch for the Provisional Government, mainly between Army posts, he could do what he did best. Couriers were about the only means of communication left for the Army. It took a skilled woodsman to navigate the forests infested with raiders just waiting to kill a lone traveler for whatever he was carrying, especially weapons.

  To survive, Trent lived by his own rules.

  Rule one: Remain unseen and cover a lot of ground.

  Rule two: Never forget rule one.

  John Trent had a natural ability, born in the gene pool of ancestors he never knew. As a child, he lived close to the woods, and would always retreat to the cool confines of the forest whenever he needed to get away. Once in the Combined Forces, all his assignments had been in the jungles of Central America, South America, and Southeast Asia.

  Now, on the new frontier of his own country, Trent rarely ventured into the settlements and left the Army camps he had to visit as quickly as possible. But trouble was always near. No one could avoid it entirely. Lately, he did not try as much to avoid it. It seemed like, at some inner level, he was beginning to welcome it. Some perverse part of him knew just how good he was, and just how much better than most others at the business of survival. He had eye-hand coordination that dazzled ordinary men. And, worst of all, he could feel himself becoming more callous to death and suffering every day

  Years ago, before the Fall, one of his instructors had talked to Trent about killing.

  "Soldiers expect to have to kill. It is their business. They should not expect anything else. Yet, even the most hardened of soldiers will one day find himself thinking too much about death, and his part in administering it."

  The instructor continued with a strong warning.

  "It's not the quantity. It's the quality. Some people just need killing. You cannot reason with them and you sure as hell cannot change them. They are rotten to the core, so you go after them for God and country or any other reason that floats your boat. When they are dead, you toss them aside with the rest of the garbage, because that is what they are. Problem is, if you are good it starts getting easy. The killing becomes automatic and you find yourself taking less and less time to decide. Then, one day you will kill someone of whom you are not sure. You start doubting and hesitating. All the black and white in your world will turn to gray. You will start second guessing yourself, and when that happens, it is time to get out. Otherwise, you die. Probably killed by the same people you were trying to protect."