Liberation: A Post-apocalyptic Novel

by Peter Okafor

  “Take it and go.” She held the bow before Runner.

  He took it from her and drew the string to test its strength. The woman tore away the fabric that covered her right leg and revealed a decay that has made her thigh a purplish hue of dead tissues.

  “I’m already dead, kid. I caught this when we stumbled into the crater. The radiation there is out of the charts. I hope you have your gas masks because further down the road. Things only get worse.”

  Angie went ahead to grab the woman’s backpack lying on a wall opposite her. Runner stood up and held Angie’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  They walked towards the doorway, and Runner turned one more time to look at the woman. “What’s your name? So that I can remember you,” he asked.

  “Where I lived, they called me Sister Cooper. My name is Sharon Cooper, and I used to be a nun,” the woman replied.

  “Kid,” she called. “Watch out for the little one. Men these days have a thing for pretty little girls, which is disgusting if you ask me. I don’t know about your friends, but I saw some lads a few days back going towards a sheltered community called the Last House on the Left. Don’t know them, but they wore the same outfit like you.”

  Runner gestured a salute and walked through the door with Angie. He glanced at her and noticed her moody expression.

  “Is it what she said about men and little girls? I don’t pretend to know what you went through while held by Ishmael’s gang, but I promise you, if any of them try to take you again, I will chop his hands and legs off. We look out for each other, right?”

  Runner gestured a high five. Angie’s lips curled into a smile, brightening her face, and she slapped her palm on his.

  “Right,” she replied.

  “Now, let’s go find…” Loud roars of car engines cut his words short.

  Runner ducked along with Angie behind a window. He took a peek and found a group of men wielding hunting rifles jumping down the vehicles. They wore tattered jean trousers and jackets of lumbermen with face caps.

  There was something else. Something tied to…Oh god! It was Troy. They had him bounded and strapped like a dead deer on the car’s bonnet. Runner gazed at his wristwatch. It was almost 4:00 pm. Ten days left, and he hadn’t gotten anywhere yet. The clock was ticking, and so was his chance of freedom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rules of Engagement

  Day six

  After a long fruitless stare at Troy, Runner retreated behind the cover the window provided. He was out of ideas for a rescue. In every way he calculated, it all ended in their demise. The men out there were just too many for him to take on.

  Perhaps it was time to sever all ties. It was true that four hands are better than two, but there was another truth he knew. In the wastelands, four hands could just as easily be dead weight.

  Angie tugged at Runner’s shirt.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “Look.” She pointed outside the room.

  Runner moved with his back upon the walls, making sure no one saw him. He reached the doorframe and took a peek. Outside, he saw what Angie was pointing at. It was a black rat bike, parked behind the hunting trucks, looking dashing in its rugged state.

  “Bless you, Angie,” Runner muttered.

  He took a step along the wall and stopped again. There were men standing in front of the trucks, carrying hunting rifles like babies on their arms. The way they placed their guns at an unready position, it seemed like the armaments were the most precious things the men possessed. He could easily attack them in their inattentive state, but there was a problem.

  Runner was a bad archer.

  He sucked at the only weapon available to him. Other ranged weapons like throwing darts, knives, and makeshift axe—his favourite—he could perform magic with. But not the bow. Slowly, he unslung his bow and struggled to nock an arrow on the string.

  His hands were trembling. Angie crawled quickly to him and put her hands over his to calm him. She shook her head slowly to stop him, and Runner retracted the bow.

  He took a deep breath. “Thank god. I would have fucked this up. I need to find another way.”

  Runner stared at Angie, waiting for her to say something. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  She did not answer.

  “And here I thought we were bonding.” He smiled.

  Hearing the footsteps in the building, he was sure it was only a matter of time before the men found them. What he needed was to find what brought them there before they do. Thus, Runner went down hands and feet, crawling back to find the dying Sister Cooper.

  He found her still resting on the wall.

  “Sister Cooper,” he whispered.

  There was no answer.

  Runner crawled to reach her. He tried to touch her, but then he froze. The purplish patch that formed on the flesh of her thigh had grown all over her skin and to her face. An eerie sensation vibrated down his body, causing goose bumps to form on his skin as his gaze lingered on her face.

  Half the flesh on the woman’s face looked like it was eaten down to the skull by acid, and whatever it was still ate its way to the other part. Runner backed away from her slowly. He didn’t see her husband’s corpse that was still on the floor and stepped on it. He lost his footing and slammed upon the corpse.

  The bow snapped from the force.

  Runner rolled over and stood on his knees. “No…no…no.” He tried to gather the broken pieces.

  Something caught his gaze. It was a white paper rolled to the size of a finger and fitted into the hollow body of the bow. Runner opened it and gazed at the words written on it.

  Whoever reads this, I must have given my life to prove how dire this letter must reach its destination.

  To Bob Davis, chief enforcer of Section 5,

  My husband and I have embedded ourselves deep within the fold of the religious militants. They call themselves the Second Coming, and their leader, Pope LongJaw, truly believes he is the thirteenth apostle ordained by God to prepare men for the Second Coming. In his delusions, he has gathered more men that you won’t believe survived this harsh terrain and groomed them in shelters scattered across the wastelands.

  I must digress, for there is something else I discovered, something you must now know. We discovered a nuclear bunker believed to have been stocked with food rations and heavy ammunitions moments before the world became what it is. The priest plans to purge the wickedness of men by embracing those who would welcome him as their saviour and murdering those who would not. I have the secret to getting into the bunker, but I’m afraid he is after me. You must warn your leaders; get them to listen, or else, your domes won’t shelter you from the Second Coming.

  337744, keep your finger on the trigger.

  Your old ranger,

  Sister Cooper

  Runner’s racing heart only grew with fear as he read. He was tired of everything. It was beginning to dawn on him that the biggest problem was not food or water or radiation but his fellow human beings. In Rat Town, people rob you clean in broad daylight. In the big city, people use other people for testing drugs and turn them into freaks. In the wastelands, people eat other people or murder them to loot their corpse. Oh god! How much can a boy take? Now, another freak has decided to pounce on people’s dying faith and use it to seize power. It just keeps getting better and better.

  He heard light footsteps approaching him. Someone was coming. Runner pushed himself towards the wall and rested his back against it. A man in a red lumber jacket and a face cap came through the door with his rifle pointed to shoot. He went past Runner without seeing him.

  “Ha,” he uttered as he noticed Sister Cooper’s corpse on the floor.

  Runner watched him squat near the corpse as he began to search the dead woman’s pocket. “Where did you hide the code, you traitorous wench?” he said as he searched.

  The man was busy, and Runner took a step forward to slip away. His foot hit a brick. The man heard it a
nd turned.

  “Hey, you.” He picked up his rifle.

  Runner darted through the doorway.

  Bang! A shot followed seconds later.

  He hid from the man’s line of sight but chose to place his back against a wall to the entrance―a risk he took believing the man would come out any time soon. Just as he guessed, the pointed rifle came through first, and the man followed with his fingers on the trigger.

  He didn’t see Runner. As he took another step forward, Runner pushed out of his cover, using his right foot to sweep the man’s legs off the ground. Immediately, a shot went off in the confusion, but it was a stray that hit the ceiling.

  Runner pounced on the man, reaching for his rifle in the struggle and forcing the gun to fall far from his grip. The man kicked Runner on the stomach, pushing him off his body, and Runner fell back into the room, right beside Sister Cooper’s corpse.

  Instead of going back for the rifle, the man foolishly came at Runner with his hands tightened to a fist. Runner searched the floor blindly, where his bow had broken. He felt an arrow and grabbed it quickly. He lay still on the floor, and the man climbed upon his body, ready to unleash a blow to his face. Runner parried with his left arm and used the right to poke the arrow through the man’s eyes until it came through the back of his head.

  Blood oozed from the man’s head and stained Runner’s grey shirt. He pushed the fresh corpse off his body and staggered to his feet. Slowly, Runner turned around, only to see men in their numbers with hunting rifles pointed at him.

  Two men made their way through the gathered group of armed men, pushing along Troy and Angie whose hands were bounded behind their backs.

  Another man made his way through. He wore a black cassock with a rosary around his neck. He began to clap his hands.

  “Pope LongJaw, I presume?” Runner said.

  “The last anointed man of faith,” the man added proudly. “I guess I will be bishop of the wastelands now since the Vatican is pretty much in ruins,” the man murmured like a madman.

  “You see…” LongJaw paused. “Um…what was your name again?”

  Runner did not answer.

  “He doesn’t want to answer,” the priest shook his head and turned to his goon. “Devos, please ask him what his name is.”

  The goon walked to Angie and grabbed one of her fingers in his hand. He twisted it, and the girl cried out.

  “Stop it!” Troy yelled. “His name is Runner…His name is Runner.”

  “Runner, is it?” The priest began to walk around. “You see, I like you, Runner. I like what you did to my man down there.” He pointed at the fresh corpse. “You did what was necessary. It was either him or you, and you poked the arrow right through his brains.”

  “He was trying to kill me. I had to.” Runner defended. “I apologise for that, but please let us go. We have no value to you.”

  “Apologise!” the priest cried out. “Don’t apologise. Never apologise when you do what is necessary.”

  Don’t worry. I won’t when I shove an arrow up your arse, Runner thought.

  “You see, the wasteland is a jungle of chaos. There are no rules of engagement.” The priest continued. “The big guys eat the small guys. The small guys eat the smaller guys. Your governments built the domes to shelter themselves from radiation and pretend to be civilized. But there is no order, not anymore. God has shown me the way, and he wants me to prepare them for a prophetic end.”

  “But he wants you to watch over them.” Runner mocked.

  Pope LongJaw froze with his finger pointed at Runner. “Exactly…exactly. You understand me very well, Runner. He wants them all to embrace me, and I will watch over them till the second coming.”

  The priest stalked behind Runner and put both hands on his shoulder. “Will you join me, Runner? If you accept, I will lift you high when I take the big city from those slouch bastards that sent you here to die. If you refuse, well…you can still go. I take no offense on what you did to my man.”

  Runner pulled away from him. “No,” he said. “I understand doing what you must to survive. But I cannot fathom the need to kill senselessly.”

  “Well, then, you are free to go,” the priest said and waved his hand for his men to make way.

  Runner walked to a man and dragged Angie’s backpack away from him. He picked the broken piece of his bow and set them into the bag.

  He stretched his arm forward. “Come on, Angie. Let’s get out of here.”

  Angie moved away from her captors who had freed her and came towards Runner. He put the bag on her back and strapped it tight. Runner turned around.

  “Come on, Troy,” he called.

  The men held Troy still and refused to set him free. He struggled to get free, but the bounds wouldn’t budge.

  “You said we could go.” Runner raised his gaze at Pope LongJaw.

  “No, no, no, Runner. I said you could go. But it is only fair that I get back a life for a life taken from me. Remember, order, Runner! We will be nothing without it. Now, have you heard of something called quartering? It was used a very, very, long time ago before all this shit happened. Forgive my language.” The priest cleared his throat. “This decay we live in has gotten the best of me. But don’t worry, Runner. You are about to witness the re-enactment of an art long forgotten. Set it up boys.” He ordered.

  The men pushed Troy outside, and Runner followed quickly. Four men jumped on their rat bikes and kicked their engines, while another man strung a rope around Troy’s ankles and then proceeded to his wrists.

  When the man was through, he pushed Troy to fall to the floor and dragged the rope along. He attached each of the four strings to each bike and tested the strength to make sure it was tight and strong. He finished and nodded to signal Pope LongJaw.

  “You can’t do this to him. Please…don’t do this.” Runner pleaded.

  The priest gestured with a wave, and the men kicked their bikes to move forward. It stretched Troy’s limbs, and the boy screamed in pain. Another of the priest’s followers came with a bag of weapons. He opened it to roll on the floor, revealing knives, axes, arrows, and a bow.

  “I’m going to give you a chance.” LongJaw started. “Your friend is in pain with four strings stretching him out. You have four knives, four axes, and four arrows. Pick any you fancy. I tell you what, if you can hit each string that ties your friend to the bikes and free him, then I’ll be willing to discuss terms.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Third Law of an Outlaw

  Old Max always said, “To survive the wasteland, all brawn and no wit could make Jack a dead man.” Unfortunately, as the terms to Troy’s freedom were set before him, Runner needed little of brawn or wit but more of dexterity. He had four of each weapon. If he missed a single target, the rat bikes would stretch Troy until he was torn from each limb.

  What an awful way to die.

  He gazed at the weapon. Arrows were quick, but he wasn’t an excellent marksman to cut through a target as thick as Troy’s ropes. He was good with knives but preferred them for close encounters. The axes were perfect. They looked strong enough to cut a thick rope, and he always had one during his looting days in the wasteland.

  Runner stretched his hand forward and grabbed the first axe.

  Pope LongJaw glanced at him and raised his thumb in the air. “Kick it, boys.”

  The men kicked the engine of their rat bikes. Two at the front moved theirs to go forward until it stretched Troy’s arms to its limit and the other two at the back stretched his legs. Poor Troy! His cries were loud enough to reach the heavens and even make rocks crack.

  It filled Runner with uneasiness, making him doubt his throw. Nonetheless, Runner took position paces away from Troy. His hands trembled and grew loose with sweat. He pushed a leg forward and with one true swing, released the axe. It struck the first rope and broke it in two.

  “Bravo!” Pope LongJaw screamed, and his men exchanged subtle nods of approval amongst themselves.

&n
bsp; Runner put his hands over his face in relief. Mostly, he was happy to have reduced Troy’s pain, but it wasn’t over yet. He grabbed the second axe, moved to position, and swung it. The axe cut the rope holding Troy’s left arm, and his body slammed on the floor.

  Troy’s arms were now free. But both legs were still tied to two rat bikes.

  The priest clapped as he came towards Runner. “You are one of a kind, but now the rules have changed. You now have five minutes to free his legs, or the bikers will take him on a ride, dragging him throughout the wasteland.”

  Runner turned around hurriedly and grabbed the third axe. He moved himself to position. His heart raced as he glanced at his wristwatch. Slowly, he steadied his breath, but it wasn’t working. Beads of perspiration formed on his face. He was not calm, and the clock was ticking.

  He threw his arm forward and released the axe. It went past its mark, missing the rope by an inch and buried its head in the soil.

  “Yeesh! That’s not good.” Pope LongJaw stared at Runner.

  There was only one axe left with two ropes to cut. Runner closed his eyes in disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, Runner. But you got to admit this is like a movie with a good opening and bad ending.” The priest put a hand on Runner’s shoulder. “Your remaining two minutes will serve nothing now. Drag him boys!” he shouted.

  “Wait! I can still do this,” Runner held tight to the priest’s fabric.

  “I’m sorry. It is not possible anymore, and I must keep my word.”

  The men kicked their engines and moved the bikes. Troy caught a half-buried pillar and wrapped his arms tight around it. His legs were stretched to maximum length, and he screamed, “Runner!”

  Runner saw what Troy was doing. He did not just see his friend in pain, but he also saw an opportunity open to set him free. The bikers were pulling the rope hard, and Troy countered by holding the pillar, risking an unimaginable pain. All Runner needed was to sever the link, and destruction would follow.