Twisted All To Hell

by J E Moore

moral man who on religious grounds also refused to participate. Ironsmith considered their non-compliance to be an affront to his decision making so naturally he became the second sent. Then Calvin was selected... because Ironsmith thought I had some feelings for him? Yes, I admit I once had a measure of respect for the man but that was before we sealed ourselves in the living tomb. Respect fades swiftly when you're being victimized and used as a sexual outlet. And so on it went, Ironsmith paring them down, one every three months for a year and a half until only he and I remained. Finally, faced with no more expendable troops at his disposal he decided to wait an extra six months for the outside conditions to further improve before he would chance a peek for himself. Another winter passed, bringing us to the present and our turn to be confronted firsthand with God only knows what. She looked across the room at a dust covered window. Morning had broken but nothing was visible. "We'll be leaving soon," she wondered. "What will we find?" A chill ran up her spine. "Deadly radiation, poison gas... or something else just as fatal?" She heard him moan.

  "Get dressed," ordered the President - he didn't even consider asking or being forgiven for his transgression, after all he was the President - and she was merely a subject who should readily comply.

  Four hours and twelve miles later: Warren and Clare were journeying southwest on State Road 320. A wooded valley lined the highway on their right, foothills and the Appalachian Mountains graced their left. It was early Spring and Mother-Earth had begun to show signs of healing. Trees were budding, new grass sprouting: it appeared quite normal except for the absence of insects and birds... or any movement of any sort for that matter. Ironsmith's calculations had been correct, the atmospheric conditions were better on the west side of the mountains; they provided a natural barrier from the toxic eastern coastline.

  Travel was slow; the riding lawn mower had a top speed of three mph. The constant maneuvering around abandoned or disabled cars had made their progress snail-like but at least they didn't have to walk. Clare preferred the golf cart for its comfort but Ironsmith couldn't get it started or they would have taken both. The cart's battery had drained due to attrition and there wasn't any way to recharge it because of the loss of electrical power. As for having only the mower's use, Warren appeared quite pleased, saying it was the superior of the two for dealing with road obstacles primarily because the tires were solid rubber and couldn't be punctured like the inflatable ones on the cart and secondly because the mower's travel range was solely limited by gas and oil supplies. He felt both these items could be obtained from the abandoned vehicles, whereas and again, finding a recharging source for the cart would be impossible.

  Miss Hightower, being towed in a utility cart, sat snug behind the mower - wedged between two smelly five-gallon cans of gasoline and a cardboard carton of MREs. Under her knees sat a rusty tool box and in her lap she cradled the repacked satchel which now contained extra clothing, the heavy duty flashlight and Ironsmith's two spare .45 ammo clips. He kept the weapon itself tucked in his back waistband. Clare's neck and shoulders ached from the frequent jerks caused by Ironsmith navigating the numerous road hazards.

  She called to him, "Excuse me, sir. I'm tired and hungry. Can we stop for a little while?"

  He grunted, pulled to the right side of the road and parked parallel to a barren elm tree. "It's been a tough morning," he commented. "I could use a bite to eat and a nap before continuing."

  "Have you decided where we're going?" asked Clare.

  "Harrisonburg, for starters. It's roughly forty miles from here. If I find people there I can begin my restoration program."

  "Restoration program?" she repeated. "I don't recall you mentioning that before."

  "No?" as he dug into the carton for an MRE. He had discussed it with several other people on his staff but intentionally omitted her. After all, how could she possibly contribute? He became defensive and challenged, "What in the hell did you think I was going to do when I got out of the bunker? Go to the beach and work on my tan? Not that you'd have to worry about such things." She lowered her head: hurt by the callous discriminatory debasement and again ashamed of his insensitivity. "America needs rebuilding!" he declared. "Strong leadership, more now than ever. There is a great task at hand. And who better suited than me, the President, to carry it through?" Ripping the foil pouch open without reading the label, he smelled the contents, 'Italian.' Ironsmith tossed the precious package into the weeds and growled, "I hate damn Italian. I told you to leave this garbage back in the bunker," and glared at her. "Stupid woman, can't follow simple orders."

  Later, after lunch, Warren rested, sitting on the ground and dozed with his back leaning against the elm when sounds of scuffling jarred him awake. Looking up toward the mower forty feet away he saw a man with his left arm wrapped around Clare's chest... and pressing a knife against her throat with his right hand! He was trying to drag her to the other side of the highway. The woman's eyes were filled with fright as she held her arms outward toward Ironsmith in a silent plea for help.

  Warren bolted upright and sprang to his feet.

  The man saw his movement, "Stay right there," warned the attacker, "or I'll cut her throat!" Ironsmith, calm and collected with his hands at his side, studied the assailant. He appeared to be of medium height and wearing an Army field jacket. He had scraggly hair and beard, a thin, drawn face - ravaged by some sort of disease and seemed to be blind in one eye judging by the angle he kept tilting his head from side to side. "Take it easy, son. Let's talk this over." The man stopped pulling Clare and gawked at Ironsmith. "I see you're wearing a field jacket. Are you in the Army?" plied Warren as he ventured to take a step.

  "No! Stay there!"

  "Okay, whatever you say. You're the boss." Ironsmith withdrew his foot. "I'll repeat, are you in the Army, son?"

  "No... no. Not anymore," stuttered the stranger. "Once was... before this." He swept his hand at the devastation.

  "Look at me, soldier. Do you recognize me?" The fellow squinted with his good eye.

  "Huh...?"

  "I... I am the President. Your president, Warren Ironsmith," and gave his best politician's reassuring smile.

  Recognition finally washed over the assailant. "President Ironsmith?" His good eye started twitching; his facial muscles went into spasms. "I know you. You're the one who caused all this!" waving the knife in the air and then quickly returning the blade to Clare's throat. "You dropped them atom bombs on Iran and Egypt. You started the chain reaction. I should kill you right here, you no good son of a bitch!"

  Ironsmith whipped out his forty-five. "Watch your mouth, boy and don't get hasty. I had to drop those bombs. Those Arabs were saying some real bad things about the U.S.of A. I had to show them that Americans weren't going to sit on their hands and listen to threats coming from a bunch of Muslim rag-heads. But enough of that. Tell me, son, what do you want? Right now. What would make you happy?" Ironsmith raised his weapon and drew a bead.

  The attacker saw Warren taking aim and scrunched behind Clare for protection. He peeked over her shoulder and hissed, "I want her, you old fool." Then shouted, "And I'm taking her! Possession is nine-tenths o' the law!"

  Ironsmith replied in a soothing voice, "You can't do that. She belongs to me," and began inching forward.

  Dragging his prisoner, the newcomer yelled, "I told you before, back off or I'll cut her! I swear!" As he retreated his buttocks bumped into the mower's motor casing.

  Clare realized with horror Ironsmith had decided to put the man down in spite of her! The President's masculinity had been challenged and she was inconsequential. She became no more than collateral damage. To Warren she sobbed, "Please don't. Please don't shoot him."

  "That's right. Listen to the lady, Mister President Ironhead," and smirked at his own wit. "I..."

  'Blam!' The pistol's tumbling lead slug whizzed by Clare's cheek and ripped off half of the man's right ear. "Yaa!" he screamed and reflexively jerked his knife hand toward himself. The stainless steel tip dug deep
into her neck muscle - severing the carotid artery. He dropped his weapon and grabbed his ear. And that, was a split second too late for Clare, the damage had been done. Blood spurted from her neck, her knees collapsed and she slumped to the ground.

  "See what you done," accused the assailant.

  Ironsmith scooted three steps closer. "Eat death you low-life scumbag." 'Blam! Blam!' The rapid-fired rounds slammed home and spun the attacker around to face the mower engine. He flopped across the casing and lay stone dead.

  Warren approached the fallen man with caution, keeping his forty-five trained on the motionless figure. He grabbed the assailant's jacket between the shoulder blades and gave a mighty pull which sent the corpse sprawling into the dirt on his back. Satisfied, after kicking him in the groin a few times that he was dead and pleased with himself, Warren turned his attention to Clare who sat perched upright against the front tire of the mower. A puzzled look crossed his face; he didn't know she had been slashed.

  She was holding her neck with one hand; the left side of her coveralls were soaked with blood - she appeared glassy-eyed.

  Kneeling beside her he said, "Here, let me see," and pulled her hand away. Bright red erupted from the severed artery through the air and splashed on his thigh.