The command was followed by a slap across his face that cranked his neck to the right farther than he thought it was designed to go. He tried to pull away as a back-hand followed and sent him toppling over backward. In trying to catch himself, he discovered that his hands were bound behind his back. His full weight crashed onto his wrists. He felt one snap. He couldn’t feel the other one at all. There was nothing he could do but scream in pain. Every kick he made to relieve the pressure only made the pain in his wrist worse.
“Get him up.”
He opened his eyes as the hand that had struck him down lifted him back into a seated position.
“Are you the Librarian?” The man that asked the question was wearing a stupid helmet with a bullet hole in the temple. Behind him was a shattered window that looked over the city below.
He didn’t answer. He looked around the room. There were several large men in colorful cloaks standing by. He wanted to see his dog. But he didn’t. What had they done to his friend? Had he gotten away after the crash? Did he survive the crash?
“Who are you?”
It was Invictus who spoke. It had to be him. This was the man who had taken everything from him. The man he had come to kill. He pulled at the ropes and the pain in his wrists nearly made him lose consciousness again. He grit his teeth against the pain and seethed, “I’m the man who’s going to kill you.”
“Of course you are,” laughed Invictus. “Are you the Librarian?”
He didn’t answer. He only stared, locking eyes with the man who had orchestrated the misery of so many.
Invictus turned to one of the guards. “Bring it in.”
One of the cloaked men nodded and opened the door to the room. “Bring it.”
Two more guards walked into the room carrying a wire dog crate between them. His best friend whimpered inside.
“Put it on the ledge,” Invictus said.
They did as ordered and the dog instinctively moved to the side of the crate farthest from the window. Slowly. He was hurt.
“What are you doing?”
“Are you the Librarian?” Invictus asked, and kicked the cage closer to the edge.
“Stop that! Leave him alone!”
Invictus kicked the cage once more. The dog yelped and tried to back away, but he had already reached the limits of the cage.
“Are you the Librarian?!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He screamed. He couldn’t lose his dog, too.
Another kick. Another yelp.
“Are you the Librarian?!”
He struggled against the ropes. He couldn’t feel the pain in his wrists anymore. He had to get free. “No! I don’t know who that is!”
Invictus backed away from the dog crate and nodded at the guards. “I believe you.”
Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, they hoisted him and the chair from the ground and tossed him across the room. He collided with the crate and both he and his only true friend in the apocalypse rolled out the shattered window and fell to the ground fifty stories below.
2
The joys of staying at a Days Inn had changed since the end of the world. Locating the ice maker and hoping your floor had both a snack AND soda vending machine had been replaced by the act of rolling the bed to make sure there weren’t giant scorpions hiding in the dirty sheets. Jerry had just finished giving the pillowcase a solid stomping when Chewy barked and ran to the window. The canine’s keen ears must have somehow picked up the first sounds of the disturbance on the bridge.
Jerry, with his far more inferior ears, didn’t look up until the first explosion.
He joined the mastiff at the window and together they stared out toward the river. A column of black smoke rose up from the bridge connecting the former nations. He raced across the room and pulled a monocular from his bag before returning to the window.
The gate was a twisted wreck and through the eyepiece he could see guards scrambling to confront the threat.
“That’s ballsy,” he said to the dog.
The dog woofed in agreement.
“Do you think it will work?”
The dog said nothing.
“I hope it works,” he said in a none-too-convincing tone and tossed the scope on the bed.
The dog shot him an accusatory look.
“What? I mean it.” He mostly meant it. Invictus and his allies deserved nothing short of eradication and as long as it happened, it would be a good thing, objectively. But, deep down, he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. He wanted to be the one who got to look the tyrant in the eye and accuse him of his crimes before taking revenge.
If he was being honest, the feeling wasn’t deep down at all. It was all he had thought about for weeks. Rage had consumed him, driven him since he buried his wife. He knew it was dangerous to let it control him. He knew it was foolish. It would lead to mistakes and it could get him killed. But he decided he didn’t care. For the first time in his life he embraced it and let it pick his path. And it had led him here, to a run-down Days Inn in Niagara Falls.
He dismissed the commotion on the other side of the river. A lone frontal assault was suicide. He knew it. That’s why he hadn’t tried it himself. He was at least able to convince his rage of that. The idea that someone else might deny him his revenge passed through his mind once more. He sighed and wished whoever it was Godspeed. They deserved that much.
“C’mon, Chewy,” he called. “We’ve still got work to do.”
It had grown cloudy while they were inside, and it became clear that the “glowing city on the river,” as Alasis liked to bill itself, was more marketing than it was truth.
Ever since Tesla harnessed the power of the falls, the city had provided electricity to a good portion of the Northeast, so it wasn’t a surprise it had been well defended against missiles during the end of the world. The city had survived the war relatively unscathed. But it hadn’t weathered the apocalypse well at all. The streets were filthy and the buildings were run down. People’s baser instincts had taken a greater toll on the city than Armageddon ever could.
The power was on. This much was true. It was the largest city left with reliable electric delivery thanks to the power stations that surrounded the falls. But with the clouds casting their gloom over the area, it was clear that not all parts of the city got equal treatment. Lights shone inside some buildings, but with a few notable exceptions, the lights outside weren’t lit. Streetlights were dark, and neglected exterior signage flickered at best. What had been the Canadian side of the river appeared much brighter. This was no surprise. The government of Alasis occupied that side and left its peasants in the dark.
In the dark, but not unwatched. There were enough posters around to make Big Brother green with envy, and every one of them reminded the citizens how good they had it. “Invictus is for us,” declared one poster featuring a majestic interpretation of the tyrant behind the city-state. He stood rigid, looking off to the right in a silver helm that echoed that of an ancient Roman commander. Another poster was a constructivist image of the hydro-electric dam with a glowing city in the distance that claimed Alasis as “The power of the North.” Others encouraged support of the Legion or demanded that citizens “Labor hard!”
The Roman theme was carried out all over town. Jerry identified two of the Alasis Legionaries by their polished metal helmets and the crimson capes that hung from their shoulders. They had traded their lances and shields for automatic rifles, but even these bore their tyrant’s crest. The soldiers’ appearance stood in stark contrast to the dilapidated buildings along the street.
One of the soldiers caught him staring and called him out with an all too predictable Halt!
“Halt?” Jerry mumbled to himself. “Really?” He halted and turned toward the soldiers.
The pair marched toward him with the confidence of a bully--that certain swagger that could only be bought with stolen lunch money. They stopped in front of him and studied him with a sneer. “I don�
��t recognize you.”
It wasn’t a statement. It was an accusation. It was clear from the way the Legionary spoke and the way he held himself that the guard was accustomed to being feared and respected. Jerry could only imagine how brutal the Alasis guards must have been to the citizens to warrant this expectation. Their tactics were no doubt ruthless, and their application of law and order must have been distributed swiftly and without mercy. It was the only way to explain why a man in a cape thought he deserved respect.
“I’m new in town,” Jerry explained. When that prompted no response, he added, “Just got in this morning.”
They looked at him without expression. Judging him, but giving no sign of their verdict. It was an awkward silence for those who were being judged.
“I like your cape,” Jerry said with a nod to the cape.
This got things moving.
“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked as he turned slowly toward the nearest wall.
The guard grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him into the bricks. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Jerry was able to put his hands out before his face smacked into the wall of someplace called Smoking Joe’s Indian Trading Post. This stopped him from hitting his face, but it was enough to trigger a reflexive thought that said, “Take his gun, use him as a human shield, shoot the other guard and then strangle this dick with his own cape. It will be funny.” His inner monologue had been rather violent ever since he’d been consumed with rage. But he wasn’t here to cause problems. Yet.
The frisking was a little rougher than necessary. The guard grabbed rather than patted and left bruises along his legs and waist. They found nothing. There was nothing to find. Alasis wasn’t big on having the underclass armed and had made possession of everything short of a spork a capital offense. And you had better have a good reason for carrying that spork.
Satisfied that he was unarmed but not content to stop the oppression the guard punched him in the lower back and Jerry dropped to the ground. Short of breath, he wheezed a command to the dog. She was fiercely loyal, and he could see her getting riled up. Even though the command sounded like a cough, the dog understood and remained still.
The guard grabbed him by the throat and pulled him to his feet. He leaned in close and snarled, “I’m going to tell you something about me. I don’t like change. I like things just the way they are. And you? You’re change. You’re something different in my life that I now have to adjust to. And, if you ask me, that sounds a little unfair. I don’t like extra work. Therefore, I don’t like you. Or your stupid dog. Do you get me?”
With the hand around his throat, Jerry couldn’t answer if he wanted to. He could snap the guard’s wrist and break his neck or gouge out his eye with a thumb, but that was his inner monologue talking again. All he could really do at this point was nod and let the soldier think he’d won.
“Welcome to Alasis,” the Legionary said, and buried a fist in Jerry’s stomach that doubled him over and made him consider throwing up.
The last bit of air exploded from his lungs and he collapsed to the ground once again. He struggled to get his breath while the guard walked away. It was all he could do to wheeze, “Thank you.”
The guard acknowledged the sound with a glance over his shoulder but never broke his stride as he and his partner walked on down the street to find another victim.
Chewy padded over and licked his face.
“I’m fine, girl. Just a bit of acting,” he said, though he sat against the wall for a full minute or two before even bothering to stand. The compliance and kindness had been an act, but the blow to his stomach had been a little too method for him. The guard had a mean right sucker punch and even though he knew it was coming, it really did knock the wind out of him.
After that the pair encountered several more patrols on their walk through town and did their best to avoid them. From the number of troops on the streets, it was clear that Invictus didn’t trust his peasants to keep the peace, or their allegiance to him, all by themselves.
Most of the troops walked their beats, but he spotted several others in patrol vehicles driving up and down the streets. There was no consistency in their make or model, but each had been treated to a matching paint scheme with the Alasis crest painted on by someone possessing a high degree of skill. At a distance the crests looked like decals. It wasn’t until one drove by him that he saw that the vigilant eagle insignias were hand-painted. A vulture would have been more fitting, but the eagle looked mean enough.
The guards certainly looked better than the people on the streets. They milled about with no apparent destination in mind—if they milled at all. Many sat huddled on the stoops of the old homes or in the entryways to the former businesses. Jerry and Chewy passed through several crowded shanty towns that filled the parking lots and alleyways. No one seemed eager to talk. Not even to beg. They looked hungry and defeated. A few toiled away, hammering and cutting at pieces of scrap metal. But, even with this din, the general demeanor of the people and the roar of the falls in the distance made the town eerily quiet.
His destination was less so.
The first person to ever go over the falls in a barrel was a woman named Annie Taylor. After testing the contraption on a cat, she survived the plummet and walked away with little more than a slight gash on her head and a really pissed off cat. The first man went over ten years later and broke both his ankles, but otherwise figuratively walked away unharmed. The third person to go over the falls was Charles Stephens, and they only found his arm. Just one. Still strapped inside his custom-built barrel. There was a good chance the bar, Charlie’s Arm, was named in his honor.
As Jerry approached he could hear the pounding of the odd drum and the occasional feedback of an electric guitar through the walls. Flyers posted in the windows informed him a band would be performing later that night, so he assumed he was hearing the sound check. It had been years since he’d heard electric instruments.
“Harmeggedon,” he read aloud. He looked at Chewy. “Harmeggedon. They could have called themselves anything. Shit, they could have called themselves the Beatles and gotten away with it. But they went with Harmeggedon. Kind of makes you think we were asking for it all along, doesn’t it?”
The dog said nothing.
He opened the door and a wave of sound and smell hit him hard in the face. The singer was giving the microphone a run-through, and Jerry was glad to know he wouldn’t have to be there for the show.
“Strike the match!” the singer screamed. “Set the blaze! Watch it grow! Make them—“
“Okay,” the sound man interrupted. “I think we’ve got it. You can stop singing now, please.”
Harmeggedon’s singer threw the horns, gave a whooo and wandered off stage.
The meager crowd in the bar applauded his departure. It wasn’t as large a crowd as Jerry expected, and he attributed the low number of loiterers to the building-sized bouncer that greeted him inside the doorway. The man said hello and had him against the wall for another rough frisking before Jerry could even return the greeting.
“He’s okay, Doorway,” the woman behind the bar called across the room.
The call had caused only one or two of the patrons to look up from their drinks. The light crowd looked well fed and sturdy, unlike most of the people he had passed on the street. If they had money to buy drinks it must have meant they were some of the few in town with work.
Aside from the few patrons and the bouncer, there was a man and a woman tending the bar and a kid mopping up something nasty in the corner.
Jerry sat down at the bar, wondering how, after living through the actual apocalypse, people could find so much fascination with it. Maybe embracing it or making light of it was their way of dealing with the pain and misery it had wrought upon the Earth. In Harmeggedon’s case, however, it seemed like a cheap marketing gimmick.
“You want a Posthopocalypse?” the woman t
ending the bar asked.
“I’m sorry, a what?”
She pointed to a sign above her head. Posthopocalypse was a 90-minute India Pale Ale. Its name was written in a mushroom cloud stemming from a beer bottle. Beneath the bottle was another line promising that the beer would “Blow his mind.”
“You want one?” she asked again.
“Do you have a lager?”
“Sorry. But I did just tap a blonde you might like,” she said with a wink.
“Give me two,” he said, ignoring the terrible joke, and the bartender headed off to the taps.
Unlike just about everything else, the apocalypse did not destroy the craft beer trend. In fact, it made it worse. After the end of the world, everyone was forced to make their own beer so they figured why not capitalize on it. Every town had at least one person with some home brewing experience and a penchant for puns, so the trend continued through the chaos and killing and thrived on this side of Armageddon.
The bartender set the beers in front of him and he took a sip.
“What do you think of the old Ablondic Tom, there?”
“The what?”
She pointed at the beer in his hand.
Jerry took another drink and gave her a thumbs-up in hopes it would be enough. He had to admit it wasn’t a bad beer. Actually, it was one of the better beers he’d had in a while. Still, part of him longed for a simple, shitty Budweiser. But he dismissed those cravings as nostalgia.
“So are you going to keep pretending you don’t know me?” Jerry asked the bartender.
She grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar in front of him. “That’s usually what you want.”
Jerry picked up the second beer and set it on the ground. Chewy gave it such a cautious sniff that he thought she might be part mastiff, part hipster. The Ablondic Tom passed her sniff test and she started lapping it up. He left her to her beer and turned back to the woman.
“A lot of things have changed, Liv.”
“Oh,” she mocked. “Then you should buy me a beer and tell me all about it.”
Revenge of the Apocalypse Page 2
