Revenge of the Apocalypse

by Benjamin Wallace

  A man sat down on the barstool next to him and smiled. “Must have been a hell of a fight, huh?” he said, surveying the damage in the bar.

  Jerry grunted his response. He was in no mood for a conversation.

  Apparently the man next to him didn’t speak grunt and continued with the small talk. “I wonder if it was the same guy that caused all the problems in town today.”

  “If you don’t mind, pal. I’m trying to get drunk before the band goes on. And I’m kind of running out of time.”

  “You looked determined about something,” the man said. “I figured you could use some company.”

  “I’m not looking for company.”

  “Sometimes, company finds you.”

  Jerry agreed with another grunt.

  The man smiled broadly and thanked the bartender for the beer. He took a drink and said, “I know who you are.”

  Liv cast a sideways glance at Jerry and he saw her tense up. There was no telling how she’d react if he’d been identified and they came for him now. Her sense of self-preservation would tell her to do nothing. And it would be the smart thing to do. But she might even surprise herself.

  He ignored her look and stared deep into his beer. Jerry said into his glass, “Well that’s a relief because no one else seems to believe me.”

  “You’re me,” the man said and took a drink.

  Liv breathed a sigh of relief and stepped away from the pair.

  “That’s not really where I was expecting you’d take that,” Jerry said. “And quite frankly, you’re going to a much weirder place.”

  The man smiled at that, but it wasn’t reassuring. He set his drink down and continued. “I can tell your story just by looking at you, because it’s mine.”

  “Well then there’s no reason to tell it,” Jerry said with a smile as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “But I doubt that’s going to stop you.”

  It didn’t.

  “I was pretty average before the world ended. I wasn’t famous. I wasn’t rich or powerful. My golf game wasn’t too bad, but nothing too exceptional. I had a bit of a slice I was working on. Just like everyone else.”

  “Yeah, I often get nostalgic for my slice.”

  “My point is, I was boring.”

  “You still are, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “There was nothing about me that made me a candidate for this new world. It was just chance that I survived. I didn’t bug out or have anywhere to go. I wasn’t prepared. I was in the middle of a business trip when all the bombs started dropping. I was caught on the road with no home to return to. So what did I do?”

  “I don’t care,” replied Jerry.

  “Nothing. I pulled over on the side of the road and did nothing for six months.”

  “I’ll bet you really had to pee when that six months was over.”

  The man wasn’t listening. He was lost in his own story. “I found an abandoned farmhouse. I have no idea where the owners were. I don’t know where they went. Maybe they were the Bizzaro me. Maybe they were in the city while I was on the road.

  “I felt like a burglar for the first couple of weeks. I kept expecting them to come home and shoot me for trespassing, but after a while I realized they were as dead as everyone else and I began to help myself to what was in the house. They had food and supplies enough for me to live on comfortably for quite a while.

  “Survival was my only thought. I didn’t look for anybody. I didn’t try to contact anybody. One day I saw a group of people on the road. And you know what I did?”

  “Bored them with this story?”

  “I hid. I hid and let them pass. I made no effort to contact them or help them for fear that they would put me in jeopardy. And I could have probably lived there in that farmhouse forever.”

  “Yet, here you are.”

  “About a week later, one of those people came back. Just one. A woman. She was beaten and filthy. She could barely walk down that road. I couldn’t ignore her this time and I brought her into the house and helped her as best I could. You should have seen the terror in her eyes when I first approached her. I had never seen such fear.

  “The entire group had been jumped by raiders a few days up the road. Several were killed. Others taken as slaves. She was the only one that got away. Maybe if I hadn’t hid from them, maybe if I would have reached out and invited them in, it never would have happened. I was ashamed of my actions and I did everything I could to make it up to her. I promised to keep her safe.”

  “But…” Jerry helped him transition.

  “But then the raiders showed up looking for her. And that’s when something inside me snapped. I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to hide any longer. I could no longer ignore the injustice that had overtaken the world.”

  The man grew quiet and took a long drink. He stared at the back of the bar, but he wasn’t looking there. He was looking back in time. When he spoke again there was a haunted quality in his voice like he was telling a ghost story.

  “I’m not proud of what I did to those men. They deserved every bit of it, but I’m not proud. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I acted out of blind rage.”

  Jerry understood. He always told himself he was doing good but sometimes good looked pretty fucking cruel. He knew the feeling all too well and felt he had to say something. “You did what you had to do to protect her.”

  “Nope. She died in the fighting.” He slid the empty beer glass away. “I tore those men up but it still wasn’t enough to keep her safe. She died in my arms. In agony. In pain. I buried her in the dirt and I left. I came out of hiding and confronted evil and injustice head on. Ever since then I’ve done my best to help people. And I’ll bet your story isn’t any different.”

  “It’s a lot shorter.”

  He laughed at the comment. “You’re no different than me. Sure, I’ve got a few years on you, but that just puts me in the unique position to offer some advice.”

  The man went on before Jerry could decline.

  “It’s a lonely life we’ve chosen, this post-apocalyptic nomadic thing. Sometimes we think we’re the only ones that seem to know the difference between right and wrong anymore.”

  “The definitions got a lot more flexible. Didn’t they?”

  “They did. But right and wrong still matter. Even if it’s not a popular outlook anymore, it’s definitely a necessary one. But it can be a lonely outlook.

  “In some ways we think it’s smart to stay alone. By insulating ourselves, we think we’re protecting people but we’re just hurting ourselves. A man needs friends.”

  Jerry looked at Chewy, who looked back at him like she wanted another beer.

  “You’ve had enough, girl.”

  “That’s a nice dog.”

  “She’s the best.”

  “See?” he chuckled. “You and I are the same.”

  “Hardly.”

  The front door of the bar opened and a flood of silence entered. Several soldiers stood in the doorway surveying the room.

  “Do you think they’re looking for you or me?” the older man asked.

  “It’s usually me,” Jerry said and set the glass on the bar.

  “Well, I guess you could fight them. Though you seem to have made good on your goal to get drunk. Or—”

  “Or we can fight them together as kindred spirits?” Jerry said. “And bond over a brawl? Just like that?”

  “Or we could sneak out the back and I can show you that you’re not as alone as you think you are. That’s what I was going to say.”

  Part of Jerry wanted the fight. His meeting with the Bookkeepers had pushed him beyond reason. He had let his optimism get the best of him in thinking that they would be the answer to his problems. Discovering that they were a resistance in name only had been the final blow. He really wanted to hit something.

  But the old man was right. He was in no condition to fight. Even Chewy looked a little tipsy. He stood, dropped a gold coin on the bar, and followed t
he man out the back door into the alley.

  13

  She was dripping wet and freezing cold when she got back to their headquarters. It’s not like she needed any more motivation to overthrow the corrupt and tyrannical government of Alasis, but never having to set foot in their ridiculous secret headquarters ever again could certainly be added to the list of reasons.

  The meeting was already underway when she returned from dropping off the latest in a long line of fraudulent Librarians. Gatsby was talking, Fahrenheit was ignoring, and the others sat around the round table feigning different degrees of interest. Pride took her seat and listened long enough to know that the leadership council was talking about nothing important as usual.

  Gatsby wasn’t wrong when he said that they weren’t waiting for the Librarian to come in and rescue them. They wouldn’t know him if they saw him, but it was true that the stories of the man known by that name inspired the Resistance. When news about the Texas town of New Hope first reached them, they had begun to organize and plan. It wasn’t the first time someone had stood up to Invictus and his forces. But it was the first time someone had stood up to them and lived. Allegedly.

  Separating myth and fact were all but impossible in a world where people were so disconnected. Stories took on a life of their own, and people were so desperate to be accepted by strangers that they were more than happy to embellish any tale if it made for a better tell.

  As much as everyone wanted to believe that a blow had been struck against their oppressor, they had been trained by disappointment to never get their hopes up.

  But when other reports of this nomadic hero began to surface, some people started to believe. Could it really be true? turned to it could happen. An alliance Alasis held with a kingdom out west was shattered by someone they claimed was the Librarian. He had brought the king to his knees and liberated the people. Next to Alasis, the Colorado city was one of the greatest powers in the new land. And if this man could bring change to the West, there was hope he could bring it east.

  More rumors came in about heroics in the Deep South, the Northwest, south of what was once the border. There was no way all of the stories could be true. But it didn’t matter. People began to believe. The stories were impossible, but the Resistance seized onto that flicker of hope and stoked it with more stories and promises and rumors that he was coming to Alasis. Rumors that he was going to overthrow Invictus and free the people living under his rule.

  It didn’t matter if the Librarian was real. He had already served his purpose. The whispers had grown to an organized system of communication. Signals and codes now flew freely across the city and into the wastes, where allies lay in wait for that one command that would bring everyone to arms. He had united them in spirit and served to help them form an identity and a purpose they could all rally behind. He didn’t have to be real.

  But she wanted to believe he was.

  She shook her head free of the idea. Even if the Librarian was real, the chances of the stranger being him were next to nothing. Countless men had wandered into town claiming to be the legendary warrior and exactly zero had turned out to be telling the truth. They wanted access to their army, their cause. They wanted to lead the Bookkeepers against Invictus for their own ends and glory.

  She didn’t blame them for trying. Invictus and his army had caused misery across a large portion of the country. From Alasis, their network stretched out across the wasteland. They killed, raped, pillaged, looted, burned, and obliterated thousands in their quest for power. There was no doubt that Invictus and his underlings were at the top of countless enemies’ lists. They’d make up any story to get their revenge. Why would this man be any different?

  But there was something about this one. First of all, he didn’t approach them with the claim. Oliver had overheard a conversation at Charlie’s. The man hadn’t said a thing. Also, the others had protested when called on their identity. They had crafted stories and gone on forever trying to convince the Bookkeeper leadership they were the Librarian. They had agreed to every claim anyone had ever heard about him. This man denied some of the stories. In the end he didn’t seem to care if they believed him or not. He just wanted to help take down Invictus. And they had turned him away.

  With the latest pretender gone, the council now turned their attention back to bickering about flags and slogans and government positions. They discussed these things as forgone conclusions, skipping over the fact that they still had to seize power from the greatest villain the post-apocalyptic world had ever known. That part, they treated as a mere formality. It was merely step one in a much larger plan. That plan was written on the whiteboard.

  Typee was an older man and was polite enough to raise his hand before he spoke. Once acknowledged, he pointed to one of the bullet points on the board and said, “I want to talk about elections again.”

  “What’s to talk about?” Gatsby asked. “We’ll have them. Six months after we take power. Just like we agreed.”

  “Just like you agreed,” Fahrenheit corrected.

  “Look, it’s going to take at least six months to transition,” Gatsby said. “The people wouldn’t accept a change in leadership twice in less time. But a call for elections will be my first—”

  “You?” Omoo, Typee’s wife, laughed.

  “Yes, me,” Gatsby said. “We decided this.”

  “When did WE decide this?” Typee asked.

  “I volunteered as interim leader and there were no arguments.”

  “We all laughed at you,” Fahrenheit said.

  “A laugh isn’t a no, Fahrenheit.” Gatsby explained. “We were pretty clear on the voting procedure.”

  “We all thought you were kidding,” Omoo said.

  “About being the interim leader?” Gatsby sounded hurt. He probably was. That was the price of not being self-aware. “Why would I be kidding?”

  “How could you be serious?” Fahrenheit asked.

  Gatsby gasped and searched the room for an ally. “You’re with me on this, right, Pride?”

  She heard her name and snapped back into focus. “What?”

  “There you go,” Gatsby said with a small clap. “Pride is with me and you all respect Pride’s opinion, right?”

  Typee pulled his glasses from his face and pinched his nose. “I don’t play these games, kid.”

  “Are you saying you don’t respect Pride’s opinion?”

  “I’m done here,” Typee said, and stood to leave. Omoo stood with him.

  “Wait, we can table the leadership discussion for later. The more pressing issue is the uniforms.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Fahrenheit asked.

  “No, I think it would make a lot more sense to repurpose the Legionary uniforms rather than create our own.”

  “They’re symbols of oppression and evil,” Omoo said, reluctantly sitting back down. She gestured for Typee to join her.

  “But they’re already-paid-for symbols of oppression and evil. Fiscally it would make a lot more sense.”

  There was a chorus of grumbles at the table but eventually they all agreed to keep the Legionary uniforms as long as they didn’t have to wear the helmets.

  “Good. We’re saving money already,” said Gatsby as he crossed an item off the board. “These are the kind of ideas our leadership is going to need.”

  As he called for the next issue, Pride realized she would rather have a mythic figure in charge of the revolution than Gatsby. What if this new stranger was The Librarian? Could he lead them? Could he inspire the group to action instead of going over all of these to-eventually-do lists? They had plans, but those plans had been in place for months. Would it take someone new to enact them? He probably wasn’t the Librarian, but like the man had said, did it really matter?

  She rolled her fingers across the card table they had dragged into the headquarters “war room.” Could someone else lead them to victory? If victorious, would that leader give up power? Had any other revolution in history met aro
und a floral-patterned card table with one wobbly leg?

  “Pride?” Gatsby asked, as if he had asked it a couple of times already.

  She stopped rapping the table and looked up. “What?”

  “Is all of this boring you?” he said, and pointed to the board.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Gatsby was taken aback by her honesty. “Yes, it’s boring you?”

  “Yes, it is boring me. All of this is boring me.”

  “Well.” Gatsby was briefly at a loss for words. He found them quickly in the form of sarcasm. “I’m sorry we can’t make our little revolution more exciting for you.”

  “What revolution?” she fired back with equal, if not greater, sarcasm. “All we do is plan.”

  “We need to be prepared!” he fired back.

  “We couldn’t be more prepared. Now you’re, what, designing costumes? Last week we decided on the insignias of the letter senders. Before that we agreed that it would be bad to continue calling the Death Squads death squads. And, in a surprisingly productive meeting, we also agreed that skulls shouldn’t be used on any of our banners going forward.

  “We have everything in place to take down Invictus. We have people in the power plant. We have people behind the wall. We have people outside the city. We have everything figured out. Lelawala is ready. We have everything. But you’re here talking about the most trivial things.”

  “This is not trivial. If we take power without—“

  “If!” she stood up from the table. Her outburst surprised even her. “I didn’t join this revolution for IF.”

  “Fine. I meant when we take power. The people won’t accept us if we don’t have the systems in place. They’ll have questions and we need to have answers ready.”

  “Invictus didn’t.”

  “Enough!” Gatsby pounded the table for effect. The wobbly leg had finally had enough, and it collapsed. He stared at it for a moment as the last few snacks slid onto the floor. “We are not Invictus, Pride.”