After the Fall- The Complete series Box Set

by Charlie Dalton

  And yet. . . The man stood stock still, unmoving. The Bay Butcher of Baltimore, unbelievably, inconceivably, shied back, shocked by what he was witnessing.

  He hesitated.

  It was all the Mantis needed. He grabbed the Butcher by the neck in a powerful grip and lifted him off the floor. The Butcher wasn’t finished yet. He stabbed wildly, targeting the key body parts and areas of most weakness. The flabby, fleshy part of the arms. The base of the neck and throat. The blades extended out the tips of his boots. He kicked, striking at the man’s internal organs and his crotch. The man had more holes in him that a piece of Swiss cheese and yet he was still standing. He hadn’t budged an inch.

  The man’s fleshy arm muscles, lacerated beyond recognition, hung from his bones like spaghetti. They ought to have lost their power. And yet, they hadn’t. The Butcher was, once again, shocked by the current states of affairs. The Mantis dropped him, letting him crumple to the ground.

  The Butcher gulped, gasping for oxygen. He scrambled backward. The body was capable of a great deal more than most people realized. If you could train yourself to be unemotional and focus on the immediate cause of your discomfort, there was no reason you couldn’t have the countenance of the Terminator. Right now, he was gasping, breath rasping in and out of his lungs. His body needed more oxygen. If the Mantis was reacting the way he was now, there was no reason to suspect he would react any differently to other attacks.

  He had to escape. The Butcher, inconceivably, was on the run.

  As the leader bore down on his position, foot rising to slam into his body, the Butcher rolled backward and pressed his left foot against the sofa. He pushed off it, using the momentum to throw himself forward in the direction of the wardrobe.

  The leader was ready for him, catching him in midair. He grasped him by the shirt and slammed him onto the floor, knocking what little oxygen the Butcher had left in his body. He shifted his body, preparing to roll to one side but the figure’s grip didn’t relent.

  The Butcher tore his shirt open, letting the buttons ping off, and rolled out from under him, folding his arms underneath himself.

  Slam!

  The blow snapped the right half of his ribcage. Another blow in the same spot, faster than the Butcher could react to it, and the broken shards of his ribcage were driven into the soft flesh of his internal organs. In the old world, with all its modern technology, he might have been able to recover from this ordeal but with the way it was now, he had no chance.

  He was doomed.

  The Mantis picked the Butcher up again. This time, the Butcher’s broken body didn’t react to his commands. The figure’s face was dark, cloaked in shadows. He saw what the Butcher wanted to do, and took hold of one of the blades in the Butcher’s boots. He cut through the roof of the tent. Moonlight spilled over him, revealing the Mantis’s face. Not smiling or grinning. There, a flicker of enjoyment in the corner of his eyes.

  It was the look the Butcher usually had on his face after a successful kill. Happy and triumphant with a sinister veneer of restraint.

  “What are you?” the Butcher said in Stephen’s voice.

  “I am your end,” the Mantis said.

  He placed the blade under the Butcher’s chin. The Butcher didn’t do him the honour of screaming in pain. That was what the man locked away inside him did. Everyone eventually succumbed to the greatest assassin of all time. Death.

  The Butcher watched as the Mantis peeled the skin from his bones. He watched with more than a little appreciation.

  A new world had indeed been ushered in. The strong reigned supreme and the weak quailed.

  77.

  THE MANTIS exited his tent and surveyed the commune. His guards stood staring at him. He was drenched in his own blood.

  “Sir!” the Worm said, alarmed. “What’s happened?”

  The Mantis glanced at his wounds with little interest.

  “Bring me the leaders of this community,” he said. “They have something hidden away of great value.”

  The Worm couldn’t take his eyes from the Mantis’s flesh, hanging loose from several locations on his body.

  “As. . . As you command,” he said.

  The Mantis’s eyes shone bright green as he turned and marched back inside his tent. The Worm, as always, never missed a thing. It wasn’t his obvious wounds that had grabbed his attention, nor his lack of apparent interest in his own wellbeing. It had been the distant look in his eye.

  Something was afoot. And he wasn’t entirely sure it was something good.

  78.

  THE CELLS were small and cramped. They’d never had much cause to keep people prisoner before. The commune had been a calm, relaxed place and the people inside it tended to behave themselves. Oh, there were times when they had to lock someone up for having drunk too much or a trader attempted to steal one of the locals’ daughters but, in general, these rooms hadn’t been much needed.

  As time went by, the number of cells they required diminished. They were turned into additional storage units. They’d been built with iron bars in the front and sides, basic brick walls on the back. They reminded Donald of the prisons often seen in old western movies. The council had been crammed into four cells, one against the other.

  The Reavers ought to have left at least one guard on duty to watch them but the thrill of victory had made them over excited with the spoils. Food, water, and women.

  The best they could muster was a guard checking on them at regular intervals. Each time the guard entered, the council ensured not to be doing anything but sitting or staring at the ground. The guards turned and left.

  The first thing the council did after they’d been put away was to open the stored boxes. The items weren’t, unfortunately, weapons, but backup items they used on a daily basis. Things like extra cups, cutlery, and plates. Extra sheets and blankets. Kids’ toys and gardening tools. But everything could be a weapon if the mind was willing to bend.

  The council members removed the bedding sheets from their protective packaging and soaked them in the puddles that formed at the back of one of the cells. Many of the boxes in that cell had been damp for a long time, with green moss claiming them. Once the sheets were wet, they wrapped them around the prison bars. With enough pressure, they might bend them enough for the occupants to slip through. But that was the final stage of their plan. First, they needed weapons.

  They smashed the ceramic plates and kept the pieces that most closely resembled daggers. The knives in the cutlery collections were blunt and not of much use. But the prongs of the forks could pierce flesh easily enough.

  In Donald’s own cell were boxes of toys. He was surprised by how dangerous a lot of children’s toys were—or could be—if the right kind of mind was interested in such things. A small multi-coloured plastic knife from a child’s First Kitchen set, although not sharp, could be driven easily enough into a Reaver’s belly. Donald tucked it in his belt and covered it with his shirt.

  Once they were out of their cells they could walk around easily enough. None of the Reavers would recall what they looked like, save Donald. Which was why he was going to stay in the holding cell area along with a handful of the larger council members. They would subdue any Reaver sent to check on them.

  Their mission was to capture the Reaver leader and hold him hostage. They knew precious little about how the Reavers operated but it was reasonable to assume the Reavers valued their leader and might leave the commune if he was threatened.

  And if they didn’t react the way they expected?

  Then they would kill the leader. Slit his throat ear to ear. Then watch as the Reavers descended into anarchy over who should be their new leader. Fighting amongst themselves would give the community the perfect opportunity to fight back and push this evil from their bosom.

  Donald didn’t like to think how many more of their number would die from that fight. He was conflicted. It wasn’t the first time he’d considered simply waiting for the Reavers to leave. The Manti
s would stick to his plan, no doubt. It was all good for him. They would pay a donation every week. It would give Donald and his community time to rebuild and come up with a plan of how they were going to hold the Reavers back. If they didn’t prepare correctly, the battle would likely end up the same way this one had.

  The walls they’d built were meant as a sign of strength. With the failed defense against the Reavers, the walls were a prison. What other choice did they have? They wouldn’t get far on foot if they tried to run. The Reavers would hunt them down in a matter of hours. It would be a slaughter.

  Their best chance of success was right here and now. To force the Reavers into a position which they controlled.

  “Do it,” Donald said.

  The men in the third cell picked up the damp sheets and began to wrap them around the cell bars.

  “Wait,” the Council Member for Trade said. “Someone’s coming.”

  The men hastily unwound the sheets and dumped them in a box. One man sat on it, the others stood, leaning against the bars. Then another noise, an unfamiliar sound. Jangling metal. Keys.

  Someone was going to open the cell doors.

  Donald’s mind raced. This might be their chance.

  The Reaver entered. He was immediately followed by half a dozen others. They kept an eye on the prisoners, hands on the guns at their thick waists. No. They would not attack. They cast an eye over the councilors. Not looking for anything suspicious. Just wary.

  A greasy figure, much smaller and less assuming than the others, stepped forward. He carried a clipboard that looked like a part of his arm.

  “Where’s the leader here?” the Worm said.

  Donald took a moment before he stood up and stepped forward.

  “Here,” he said.

  The Worm didn’t have to say anything. The two men on either side of him stepped forward.

  “The rest of you, stand back,” the Worm said.

  The councillors didn’t move a muscle.

  “Do as he says,” Donald said.

  Slowly, the council members did. The Worm unlocked the door. The Reavers grabbed Donald and dragged him out. They hastily shut the cage door and turned the key in the lock.

  The Worm ran an eye over the councilors in their cages. He pursed his lips, sensing something was off.

  “Keep a guard posted inside this room at all times,” he said. “Make sure he’s well armed.”

  And just like that, their plans were scuppered.

  “Where are you taking me?” Donald said.

  “The Mantis wishes to speak with you,” the Worm said.

  Soon, Donald would be within range of the Mantis. And more importantly, so would his plastic toy knife.

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  79.

  THE REAVERS were taking no chances. Two men held Donald firmly, arms behind his back. Any higher, and they would either dislocate his shoulder or break his arm entirely, whichever gave way first.

  The community was a mess, even worse in the early dawning light. Today was the day they’d have begun tidying up this mess. If they’d won. But they hadn’t won. They’d lost. Categorically.

  Donald lost his footing after a hard shove and fell flat on his face, skinning the skin from his chin.

  “Get up!” the Reaver who’d shoved him said.

  Donald curled his legs under himself, already sensing the incoming blow that would act as encouragement for him to get a move on. He pushed himself up, onto his feet, almost losing his footing again. Only one man grabbed him from behind this time. Still far too large for Donald to deal with by himself. At least, not in his current state.

  They led him to the council meeting tent, passing the guards on duty. They didn’t even check him. Donald tripped on a fold of carpet and hit the ground again. The wind was knocked from his lungs. He panted, struggling to breathe.

  “Leave us,” the Mantis said.

  He stood with his back to Donald, silhouetted against the tent wall that burned fiercely with the glowing sun. The Reavers backed out of the tent, goaded into fear. Donald grunted as he pushed himself to his knees, then sat back on his heels. He massaged his arms, shoulders, and hands. Sore, but functional. He flexed his stomach to feel the knife tucked in his belt. The weapon was still there.

  A thick fetid stench clung to the room, a cloying odour that choked Donald’s throat. The stink had been strong outside but even worse inside the tent. It was the stench of death. The place reeked of it.

  “You are the leader of this place?” the Mantis said.

  An odd question, considering they had already met once before and he’d asked the exact same question.

  Donald nodded.

  “Some time ago, you came across a young girl,” the Mantis said.

  “A girl?” Donald said.

  “A young girl,” the Mantis said. “I understand she was taken away from here.”

  With the recent spate of events having befallen the community, it took Donald a moment to remember what had happened before the community had been overrun with Reavers.

  “Yes,” Donald said.

  It felt like a dream. Jamie and his friends heading out into the desert to find Bernard. Had that really only been a few days ago? And they’d returned with Nester, infected with the virus, and a young girl. Lucy. That was the name Jamie had given her. A sweet girl.

  “What do you want with her?” Donald said.

  “That is none of your concern,” the Mantis said. “Is she here?”

  “I don’t know,” Donald said after a brief pause—a pause that condemned him.

  “Where is she?” the Mantis said.

  Pointless playing with the truth now, Donald thought.

  “You’ll never find her,” he said. “Or any of the other children.”

  “You have no idea what I’m capable of,” the Mantis said. “What I came here to do.”

  The Mantis turned. Facing Donald. The irises of his eyes glowed green in a dark face. He had been afflicted with a significant number of wounds, wounds that should have killed him. For the first time in a long time, Donald was afraid.

  He’d only ever felt that level of fear three times in his life: The night his wife had given birth to Jamie. It’d been a long, difficult process of childbirth and it wasn’t clear if she would pull through or not. He had held her hand as she’d given her final push, birthing Jamie. Just two weeks later, the Rages had paid their visit and she had died.

  The second time was when the Fall happened, when the world had descended into madness and chaos and the people attacked one another. He was faced with protecting those he loved from the monstrosities they later referred to as Rages. Then, once again, he’d been terrified when a new force began to attack them with their motorcycles and guns. The Reavers.

  Each time, a new danger, a new threat previously unknown, one he wasn’t sure he could overcome. Each challenge had been hard. Luck could have taken him down either route. Success or failure. He never stopped fighting. Now, here was the next challenge.

  Whatever this Reaver leader was, he wasn’t human. No eyes shone like that, save of a Rage, and he clearly was not one of those. It wasn’t the same man he had dealt with the day before. That man at least had some semblance of humanity about him. A sense of fairness.

  But everything could be killed. All you had to do was prepare for the right opportunity, knowing it would present itself, and then take it when its head popped above the parapet. Donald felt at the plastic knife tucked into the back of his pants belt and shifted his weight, placing his right foot underneath him to leap forward and bury the blade deep in the creature’s neck.

  He curled his leg up underneath himself. Prepared to leap.

  “Put the knife away,” the Mantis said. “Your friend already tried that and failed.”

  Shoved immediately from his sphere of concentration, Donald hesitated.

  “My friend?” Donald said. “Who—?”

  The rest of the question got stuck in h
is throat. The crumpled mess at the back of the room. There were two of them. It explained the smell. Rotting flesh.

  A pack of flies hovered around Donald’s face and ears. He waved his hand to diffuse the cloud. There was that stench again. Strong, thick, and cloying. The smell of death. The piles didn’t seem large enough, like a large part of the meat was missing.

  “If you wish for the rest of your community to avoid the same fate as your friend, I suggest you tell me what I want to know,” the Mantis said. “Where is the girl?”

  “I don’t know where they went,” Donald said.

  “We both know that’s not true,” the Mantis said. “I understand you have children too. They will likely be with the one I am looking for.”

  “Our children are trained to survive in the wilderness,” Donald said. “They would have run the moment it was clear we were going to lose the community. If you want to find them, you’re going to have to send trackers to find where they went because no one here knows.”

  “Take me to her and your children and community will go free,” the Mantis said.

  One girl versus an entire community. A good deal in any situation. But these were human lives they were talking about.

  “What guarantee do I have that you’ll do what you say?” Donald said.

  “I will take the clan with me, out of the commune,” the Mantis said. “All you have to do is take us to the girl.”

  It was the start Donald and the commune needed. To begin again. The commune had always operated on what was best for the community, not any one individual person. They had sent Angie into the desert, to certain death, because she was a drain on their resources. They simply couldn’t support her. What was the life of one girl versus those of the community? Still, Donald felt his stomach twist at the idea. Sacrificing an innocent girl his own son had rescued from bloodthirsty Rages.

  “You’ll withdraw all Reavers from the commune?” Donald said.

  “You have my word,” the Mantis said.

  The word of a Reaver. What was it really worth?