Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga)

by C. Henry Martens

  Perhaps as a result of the animosity, but perhaps out of an innocent concern, Arc’s young wife came calling. Rarely seen, Olivia appeared and introduced herself. A small basket, finely woven and filled with wild berries gathered from a creek bottom she had discovered extended from her trembling hand. She appeared to be shy, but it was really terror she was hiding. Her foray into the community was against the wishes of her husband, and it became clear she was terrified he would find out.

  Jody noticed the long sleeves, so unusual in this warm weather, and a fading bruise in the hairline behind her neck. There were some scars from old injuries that would be hard to explain as well, including a finger twisted and healed crookedly. Jody made a special effort to be kind, and the young woman absorbed it as though parched.

  Clandestine meetings became part of their routine. Though Olivia never voiced her anxiety, both women understood the situation and recognized that understanding in each other. Muffy, so ill inside the wagon, would have no opportunity to create a problem for Olivia with her controlling husband, but Jody was very careful to be sure that Arc remained unaware of their contact.

  What no one realized, due to the loss of medical knowledge and expertise in the last two hundred years, was that Muffy was going to die. There was no good result possible. The chain that had struck her so fiercely across the side of her head had caused temporomandibular joint dysfunction syndrome, the clicking and catch in her jaw as she spoke or ate. But that was the least of her problems. The vertigo she experienced was a clue to where the real problem lay. With the long defunct technology of an MRI, she would have been diagnosed properly with a chronic subdural hematoma. Blood vessels beneath the bones of her skull had been bruised and ruptured in the temporal lobe of her brain. They were bleeding and healing, then rupturing and bleeding again into her skull, ever so slowly increasing the pressure on her brain.

  One morning, Muffy did not wake up. Though she looked healthy with a rosy flush to her cheek and a calm beauty to her face, she never would again. Occam held her hand for the next three days as Jody walked alongside the team.

  All the members of the wagon train marveled at Occam’s devotion, and they wept with him as he buried his wife alongside the trail. Only Jody and Edge noticed the cold gleam in his eye. They knew there was a rage to be satisfied.

  §

  Several men, well hidden behind the crest of a nearby hill, watched the burial. Their ponies were down slope and out of sight, and the only indication of their presence was the tops of their heads among the groundcover. They went unseen.

  One of the men hugging the ground considered the scene below him with special interest. He was contemplating an approach to the wagons traveling through his territory. Word traveled among the tribes, usually faster than the plodding pace of the oxen, and he knew that the party was engaged in a trade mission to the area of the old capitol city of Colorado.

  Highly educated by the standards of the time, Shinto Bluehawk had spent several winters in Boulder, rising to a professorship at the college. The school of learning, and in particular the philosophy and psychology departments, were of interest to the native man descended from northern European peasants and Lakota royalty. Because of his studies, he had a special understanding of the play unfolding below.

  Watching the preparation of the body from his hidden vantage, he had watched the big man wash and wrap it in fresh linen. The care taken and the sudden breaks brought on by emotion gave Bluehawk confidence that the woman was being cared for by her husband. He had already had the suspicion that the man was caring for a loved one in the back of the wagon as it traveled. He noticed those who were involved with the man in his travels taking care of him without his notice and so understood the relationships.

  One puzzled him. The young woman who was obviously the victim of beatings stood apart, but her body language was loud that she was a part of the caregivers. She shared a wagon with a small, dark, and moody man that was certainly her abuser. He was away during the funeral, having gone ahead with some others. Bluehawk knew the big man burying his woman had a vendetta against the abusive man. Both of the young people traveling in the wagon train with him, one his assistant and the other a caregiver to the now deceased woman, understood there was danger. The Wagon Master kept inspecting the newly widowed man closely, and surely it was out of suspicion for his state of mind. It was plain that they were friends, and the leader of the train was concerned.

  Making his decision, Bluehawk determined to wait a few more days before approaching. Only a couple of horizons away, his joining the party would wait that long.

  §

  Riding at a pace that ate up ground, Arc wasted no time. He checked the condition of the roadbed and the overpasses within the next two days’ journey and found them to be as expected. Most of the raised stretches of highway would be fine, but the overpasses were in dangerous condition and would be bypassed using the old exits and entrances to the highway. The winters were harsh in Wyoming, and the elevated roadbeds over the exits were in no condition for travel.

  Any excuse to avoid the funeral was welcome, even to those Arc rode with. Although Muffy had been universally well liked, funerals were dismal affairs, and any man was glad to have an excuse for avoiding them. Even those who would have attended gladly to show a proper respect were relieved to be shanghaied away.

  As the leggy horse below him covered ground, Arc filled his thoughts with musings of what the future held. He knew that Occam blamed him for Muffy’s injury and would now hold an animosity over her death. This whole journey had been a debacle. Even before the accident on Parley’s Summit, the loss of several animals in the Salt Flats was blamed on Arc. Now he had come to suspect that the Wagon Master was spying on him and questioning his expertise behind his back. Watching as the young droog, Edge, had been given time to ride ahead with the outriders and then made efforts to appear innocent as he sought out Till for quiet conversations intended to be secret, Arc made his own suppositions. In his mind that left no one who was not an enemy. He could trust no one with the possible exception of his wife. She was firmly under his control and too afraid to be otherwise. He would see to that.

  §

  Moving on was difficult. Occam and his close associates were hesitant, but the Wagon Master understood the necessity of making miles. Fall was approaching, and they would need some time to make the arrangements necessary to winter over in Boulder.

  The first wagons were moving out. The Company man who took over Occam’s older wagon, the one full of dry goods that Muffy had spent her last days in, moved out in the first few minutes. Occam was standing alongside his hitch with Edge, and he was reluctant to follow. The two spoke quietly with long silences between them as they watched the others pull into line. Finally the Vintner’s wagon passed them by and was the last. Jody, standing by the wagon to one side, looked to the men. Seeing they were both pale and silent, she understood they would need to be prodded. She moved forward and took Occam by the hand. Without looking at him, she started away, pulling lightly but insistently. He followed as though beaten into submission.

  The young woman leading Occam never looked back. Edge watched her as she led his mentor alongside the hitch, never relenting in the insistence of her pressure. Finally they were out of sight of the grave and caught up with the rest of the train. Occam seemed to waken. He shook his head and then his body in an almost violent shiver, reminding Edge of a newly wakened dog. Then Occam stood up straighter and started to walk with purpose.

  The comfort and direction of Jody’s offered hand was now unnecessary, and she dropped it to her side. After a short distance, she dropped back and allowed the Smithy to forge ahead on his own, and as Edge passed her they exchanged glances. Edge was surprised to see a fierceness in her eyes. He misunderstood, wondering if he had done something to offend her. Glancing back, he studied her as she took her place alongside the wagon.

  The thoughts coursing through Jody’s mind had nothing to do with Edge specifically
but with men in general. The world was controlled by strength, and that was often physical in nature. Men had an advantage, and Jody envied them the power of their control. They even got away with murder by the fact of their station in life. It mattered little that women were often given a pass in responsibility due to their gender. At the moment Jody was fuming and unwilling to consider both sides. She was pissed and knew what had killed Muffy. She also knew how closely she herself had been threatened with the loss of her life. And now she had another concern. Her new friend, Olivia, was being beaten by the same man that had killed Muffy and threatened her own life. She mulled the situation over. There had to be justice. Somehow she would see to it.

  Chapter 14

  There was no winning for Olivia. No matter what she did, her husband found fault. The meal had too little salt, so he salted it himself and then blamed her because he over salted it. She did not keep the wagon organized, and when she put away the things he left scattered about, he blamed her for his inability to find what he wanted. And worst of all, she was cold in bed and accused of being frigid when she was too afraid to move, but when she faked passion he charged her with having other men. All of her infractions led to violence. Discreet, but painful and humiliating. She went from a life of dismal expectations to full blown panic and desperation.

  Wandering about camp in the evenings, Arc studied those about him. He tested people with subtle questions and cultivated comradery with small jokes. People began to appreciate him for his humor. Those who were unaware of his guile, and there were many, began to think him maligned. Arc’s abrupt interest in people whom he had avoided earlier was being turned to his advantage. Avoiding those he knew to be watchful of him, Arc managed to find ways to gather information that should have remained private. There are always people willing to talk, and he identified them and took advantage.

  Behind lowered lids and sideways glances, two people were themselves studying the Ox Master. They had no need for talk and had no doubt of what the little man was worth. Occam made it a habit to sit on a three-legged stool, whittling in the firelight every evening. As he seemed to concentrate on the wooden form under his blade, he stalked Arc’s every move. Edge was aware of his mentor’s true attentions and waited to assist in whatever way presented. He did not know yet if that meant saving Arc’s life to protect Occam or protecting Occam from being discovered, but he would play it either way depending on what happened.

  More subtle and completely hidden from Occam and Edge in her focus, Jody followed Arc about camp. She even insinuated herself into conversations in which he was involved, intent on learning whatever she could.

  The ugly, little troll started to wonder if she were attracted to him, though any advance he made was rebuffed. Still, he began to wonder. Maybe there was some hope of rekindling the idea that he had early in the trip, and he would have an opportunity to dominate another wife.

  Sooner or later something would give. There were many dramas playing out within the community. Cherry and her young lover were discovered once again, hiding inside a wagon this time. A man hired to be a mercenary and protect the train killed one of the camp dogs for fun. The dogs were part of the camp alarm system and were valuable. The mercenary died suddenly with severe stomach cramps. The Apothecary’s wife, a woman skilled in mixing powders, was noticed smiling and singing soon after the news of his death spread through camp. Another man dropped a box he was carrying, and some missing items spilled out. There would be a trial when they reached Boulder. Within the cauldron of an enclosed society, tempers flared, passions boiled, and kindnesses were ignored. Everything was normal.

  §

  There was always some danger in approaching a wagon train on the move. Bluehawk followed the herds in the summers to hunt them with his kin and returned to the bustle of the city and the college of learning in Boulder to absorb lessons in the winter. Now he studied the situation. He could wait until the wagons stopped and approach them with cover nearby to duck behind, or he could wait until they stopped to trade in one of the small towns. He chose a direct approach to the outriders. After watching the head scout, little more than a boy, he respected the youngster by his actions and trusted that he would be allowed a meeting in relative safety. The young man did not seem especially trigger happy.

  The three young friends, Cy, Cable, and Edge, were inspecting the approach into Laramie. The long slow hill into the valley was a death trap for big trucks in the past. Centuries ago winds from the south played havoc as they blew in gusts strong enough to trouble small vehicles. There were almost always cargo-carrying trucks on their sides with a steady income for the towing companies in town. If that was not enough, east of town was a giant hill with a steep grade going toward Cheyenne. The towing companies cleaned up in more ways than one, but they had missed the last three trucks, and they still lay tipped on their sides as they corroded into rust and dust, and weeds grew from their carcasses.

  The large town was gone, moldering into the damp valley soil, but good grass and plenty of water supported a cattle company that had rebuilt a small economy. The animals were not as important as they had been in the past to supply meat. The real worth was in oxen. There was nothing as good for hauling freight as a hitch of big oxen. Meat was an ancillary commodity.

  The trio of friends expected to avoid the long hill to the east. They would investigate the town as the train intended to do some trade there for a day, but then they would wind their way south along a less well defined roadbed into Colorado. As they turned back to report on conditions, a single man sitting a horse blocked their path.

  §

  Hands itched to caress gun handles, but as Cable and Edge were following, Cy held his arm out low with his palm open and toward them. They sat their horses quietly, waiting. No one moved for some long seconds, perhaps as much as a full minute. Cy motioned with his hand for the two others to stay put. He spurred his horse lightly, just enough to make it aware of the need to move, but kept a tight rein. The pony pricked its ears as it walked toward the unfamiliar horse and rider.

  The man between them and their intended path was a tribesman from his appearance. Current dress in Indian societies used leather and fringe, shell and porcupine quill, and trade beads or scavenged copper. This man wore the best of the current technology in tribal attire, including a magnificent marten fur hair ornament with eagle feathers on one side of his head and behind his ear. Short braids with a hint of grey lay over a dyed, green leather shirt decorated with quills. Stained, fringed leggings with a woven fabric breechclout and beaded moccasins completed his dress. Other than the leggings, his clothing looked new.

  Bluehawk studied Cy as he approached. The man was cautious as evidenced by his tight rein but seemed unafraid. For his part Cy watched the newcomer’s eyes and saw nothing dangerous. He was alert for sudden motion, though, and ready to draw and fire. Stopping the length of a couple of horses from the nomad, Cy waited for the man to speak.

  “Young friend,” Bluehawk began, “we are here under a friendly sky. The sun shines, the wind is light, and all is right with the world.”

  Hesitating, mostly because of the cultured tone of the man confronting him, Cy was surprised.

  “As long as we keep it that way, sir. Friendly sounds good to me.” Cy paused and then, “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Indeed, young man, indeed.” Bluehawk spoke easily in his deep voice. “You travel with the wagons. You are the lead scout and are trusted with the safety of the group.”

  Surprised again, Cy was quickly reevaluating what he had expected from the encounter. This was not going to be a request for payment of a toll, food, or an attempt to sell something.

  There was no reason to lie, so he responded, “Very good, sir. You have good information. Did you get it from someone, or did you discern it on your own?”

  Impressed with the question that many would have never thought to ask, Bluehawk was reinforced in his appreciation for the man in front of him.

&nbs
p; “I’ve been following for some time now. Your men have reported this to you. It is a minor thing to evaluate men if you know what to look for.” The native waved his right hand dismissively at the thought. “You know this yourself, else you wouldn’t be in your position.” Extending a hand, the leather-clad native introduced himself.

  “I am called Shinto Bluehawk, and I am a shaman of my people, the Lakota of this area. I am making my way to Boulder to trade and to learn and teach at the university there. This will be my tenth winter in this pursuit. Soon I will have another PhD.”

  If this man was going to make a fool of him, Cy did not feel it. Once again he spurred his horse to close the gap and took the man’s hand in his. The Indian’s grip was firm but not bone crushing like a man intent on power or making a false impression.

  “Cypress, sir. Cy for short and to my friends. I take it that you might want to travel with us. Surely a man of your perception would know that the wagon train will be heading that way.” He grinned. “And what is a P-H-D?”

  Edge and Cable relaxed substantially when the two men shook hands. Still, they kept their guard up as the leather-garbed man spun his pony and yelled. Cy seemed comfortable and waved them to stay back and remain calm. Two more tribesmen appeared from a hollow just off the road that had hidden them. The man with Cy put his fingers to his lips and whistled a loud and piercing blast. Two ponies laden with large packs broke from the group and, bucking, careened toward the man who whistled. They skidded to a halt just shy of a collision and snorted in excitement, shaking their manes. By the time Edge and Cable looked back toward the other men, they had disappeared. Cy waved Edge and Cable forward and made introductions.