Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga)

by C. Henry Martens

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  Time was getting short. Two hunters knew that and waited, trying to be patient. One was aware of the other, but the other thought himself alone. Time was getting short, and the hunters waited.

  §

  Running into the night, the shoeless blond woman barely felt the small stones and sharp objects that bruised her feet in the dark. Those pains were minor compared to the injuries she was used to receiving at the hands of her husband.

  Olivia had made the mistake of crying out. She had learned to control her outbursts, as that always led to worse treatment, often with the added burden of being tied and gagged. She would rather be free to writhe silently than be gagged. But a sudden jab had surprised her, and she had screamed. She knew what was coming and had panicked and run.

  By the stars she made her way from camp. Heading north she was relieved to be away. With nothing on her back but a light nightgown, and no food or water, she was going to keep running. Life would be better, if substantially shorter, without her tormenter, and her escape was worth it. Better to die in the wilderness than under the hands of a man she loathed.

  She looked back and saw someone hurry between the wagons in her direction. The dying campfire and bright moon backlit him. He struggled to put on a shirt at the same time as he fumbled with a boot. A chance tilt of his head and a stray shaft of light gave his eyes a glowing sheen as they searched for her.

  Olivia turned and ran.

  There was a creek bottom close by and in her path. Water from it had filled the pail earlier to make dinner and wash dishes. Olivia made for it using the memory of her past journey along the path. She hoped it would give her some advantage since Arc had never been to the water. She needed that hope.

  Fuming and spitting blood from the swelling lip that Olivia did not even realize she had given him in her panic, Arc finally got his boot on. With the moon behind him, he could see the ghostly form at some distance, weaving its way deeper into the sage. He cursed silently. If he played this right, no one would even miss his wife until they were days away from this camp. For her to ride in the wagon was not unusual, recovering from bruises or hiding from her shame. Now that behavior would work to his advantage. He could discover her missing at a later time and a different camp, and no one would even realize that she had been missing for days. She was dead. She had outlived her usefulness. In his rage Arc rationalized his intentions and relished his blood lust.

  Stumbling and falling down the cut bank of the creek, the fleeing woman lurched to her feet. The small stream was cold as she splashed across, wetting the hem of her gown. It wrapped around her legs, clinging to her skin. A sharp hidden rock pierced her foot just as she reached the other side. She crashed down, still in the flowing water. As Olivia tried to rise, she looked back again.

  The high bank of the cut would block much of the sound if there was any, reasoned Arc. They were well away from camp, and distance was to his advantage as well as the strong night wind that conspired to protect his intent. He stopped at the bank before he entered the water.

  His wife lay struggling in the creek, clutching her injured foot. She seemed to gather her resolve, and forgetting her pain she rose from the water. Her blonde hair and wet gown hugged her closely, clinging to her curves.

  As the moon shone down on her, Arc was suddenly stunned at her beauty. He remembered the first time he saw her and the deal he had struck with her father. He had to have her. The first time they were together, he had been filled with an insatiable lust. He could not stop himself. He hurt her. Now, with his new intent, the same lust came over him. He would have her. Again and again until he was satisfied, and then she would die. Suddenly he realized his ultimate desire. He would have the body as well.

  The step he took toward her put a look of ultimate fear into her face. He did not realize she was looking past him, over his shoulder. She screamed, just as he felt the thud of a heavy blow against the side of his head. Falling, he only had a short window of time to realize that he was being beaten with something cruelly hard and that he would not survive. As he passed into unconsciousness, he managed to look back at the person who held the iron bar that was descending to take his life.

  As the dark figure rose behind Olivia’s husband and struck him down, she turned and fled. She stumbled toward a game trail cut into the bank opposite camp and scrambled up and away from the grisly scene. Unsure of anything, even the true intent of her benefactor, she made the assumption that she might be imperiled as well and ran on her injured foot as best she could.

  The sage grew tall along the bank, and she had to be careful. In the dark it would be easy to make a false step and crash into the creek below. Olivia stopped and listened. She heard nothing that would indicate she was being pursued. No chance whisper of sage being brushed, no rustle of footsteps or crack of a twig being stepped on. She waited, listening in the dark as her heart slowed and her breath quieted. The moon clouded over, and the night deepened. Finally, after what seemed a long time, the frightened young woman made her way along the upper bank to another descent. She would make her way back to the wagons but was fearful of what she might encounter. The overhanging trees and brush were thick in the bottom as she slid down into the rabbit and deer trails to crawl beneath them.

  Realizing she was caked in mud with her wet nightgown, she decided to crawl through the creek as she made her way back. Two purposes would be served. She would stay as hidden as possible, and she would rid her body of the sticky red clay. Without realizing it, she was downstream of Arc’s body, and she was now bathing in water tainted by her tormentor’s blood. Without knowing it, Olivia’s justice was being served by bathing in his blood.

  The path back to the wagon was taken without incident. The darkened moon obscured the path, and though Olivia was scared, careful, and moving slowly, she eventually found her way. Shedding her damp gown as though it were a cloying net, she shivered in the chill of the night air. Olivia climbed naked into her quilted bed, and fell asleep as only the innocent can.

  §

  No one missed the little man the next day. He had slept in often enough, trusting his silent wife to hitch the oxen and guide the teams along the journey. As usual he had left plenty of instruction to those he commanded, and they did their duties, relieved to be out from under his scrutiny.

  The woman with the long sleeves and downcast, bonnet-shadowed face spoke to no one, even when she stopped for the night. The next day she was silent as well.

  The scouts came into camp the next morning with a stranger, a man of the wild who fascinated everyone. Very different from past encounters, he gathered a crowd wherever he was and spoke as eloquently as any man in camp.

  As they moved out to make camp in the Laramie Valley, Arc’s wife seemed to have developed a marked limp. She struggled on for some time until the Wagon Master called Jody over to fill her position leading the hitch. Anyone unaware of the change would have had to look closely to see that it was Jody, except for the difference in clothing.

  Had anyone noticed, it might have seemed odd that Till had requested Jody’s assistance yet never inquired of Arc.

  Unusual, too, was the sound coming from Occam’s throat as he guided his oxen. He sang a sad but beautiful dirge with a deep baritone as he trudged in time with the rhythm.

  It was not until they camped in the little town to trade that anyone even remarked on Arc’s absence. There was a flurry of activity as an unusually short search was made, and Olivia was questioned inside the Wagon Master’s conveyance. It was quickly noted that the leggy chestnut was missing as well. With that information, everyone with any questions assumed that Arc had abandoned them for reasons unknown. His disappearance was a mystery.

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  In the bottom of the creek, days behind the wagons, the chestnut gelding worried his tether until it came untied. The knot was meant to slip with enough tugging, and the horse was free after some days of grazing on the lush grass that he could reach next to the cool stream. As the rope
slipped from his neck, he worked his way downstream and past the chilled body in the creek. The bank was too steep to negotiate at this point, so he meandered easily until he found a way up and over the side and into the high desert. His feet felt light without the iron shoes that had been newly removed and lay rusting in the grass. There were others of his kind out here, and he would eventually find a bachelor band to run with.

  Chapter 15

  The days after Arc’s demise were troublesome. Somehow Jody knew Olivia was injured and offered to help. She borrowed a dress and bonnet that covered her completely and took her place walking beside the oxen, acting as though she were Olivia. As far as Jody could tell, no one was the wiser. After two days Olivia tried to relieve Jody, but her injured foot was so visible that Till sent Jody back. Still, the subterfuge could not last. By the time anyone noticed that Arc was missing, they would travel many miles.

  There had to be questions asked, and Till made a point of having the conversation quietly performed with a limited audience of trusted friends. From the outside, it was to appear an interrogation, but inside the Conestoga, the direction taken was more to assure and support Olivia. Still, the Wagon Master’s inquiry was stressful. Anticipating being questioned, Olivia had not known what she could say. But the weathered Till was sympathetic to her in the most odd way and seemed to coach her through her answers.

  “So, Olivia, you be saying that Arc went to bed last night as usual and then decided to go riding before dawn?” Till was nodding his head as though expecting her to affirm his query. He was looking intently into her eyes as he asked each question, making sure that most were yes or no answers.

  Glancing back and forth between Till, Brick, and Occam, she nodded in time to Till’s own bobbing head. “Yes.”

  “And he took supplies with him?” Again Till’s head nodded even before the question was complete. “As though he might be away, perchance for more than a day?”

  Olivia looked at each man again. Occam was nodding his head as well. “Yes, sir… as though he be gone for some time.”

  “But he didn’t confide in you, did he?”

  By now, Olivia understood she was being led. “No, Master Till, he said naught.”

  A few more questions and some sympathy expressed, and Till stood up, his chair scraping against the floorboards of the wagon as it moved away from the desk. The leather-bound log he had been filling out as he put his questions slammed shut. The others rose from the crate and traveling chest that they had occupied. They each had a satisfied look on their faces.

  Giving Olivia a supportive look of concern, Occam spoke to her as he helped her down from her interrogation.

  “Let me know if there be anything you need assistance with, young lady. Either I, or my man, Edge, will accommodate your necessity.” Almost as an afterthought, Occam added, “And young Jody would surely be glad of your company. She has enjoyed the knowing of you.” He looked down at her with soft, kind eyes.

  Although most of the people on the train seemed expectant of Arc’s return, the men present at her inquiry clearly did not. But Olivia did not ask questions of what was not offered. She kept her thoughts to herself. Kept them to herself and was glad to do so. And her questioners were quietly appreciative as well.

  Coming back to her wagon, the one she had shared with Arc as a home on the trail, Olivia noted something unusual. Arc’s saddle, still in the wagon, was now well covered with a blanket. She had not thought about how the saddle and bridle would have to be explained if her husband had been said to have left on a horse. She fretted about how to explain it, but she need not have.

  When she woke the next morning, the tack was gone.

  The big Smith was true to his offer. If he noticed Olivia struggling to yoke one of her beasts, he would send Edge to assist her. By the time the train was approaching their encampment to the south of Boulder, she and Edge had become friends. In fact Olivia had begun to come out of her shell. She showed up one evening, soon after Laramie, with a Dutch oven full of dried apple crisp. She was welcomed and invited to eat with them from then on. The young people and Occam made a good group. Before long, there was comfort, friendship, and laughter. Olivia had not realized how much she had missed people. At the usual Sunday get-together she participated for the first time. She was quiet and reserved, but she smiled often.

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  The small book of history and ethics published in Reno made its way into Bluehawk’s hand. He absorbed it hungrily. Newly printed written words were scarce and most of those only one page newspapers distributed in small towns. Hard to come by, they were unavailable beyond their local territories. Information and the opportunity to learn were important to Bluehawk. The gathering of minds and the exploration of past tomes preserved at the university in Boulder fed him like water to a parched land.

  With Boulder close, the wagon train picked up the pace. Attitudes changed, and many of the small aggravations and dramas within the group dissolved and dissipated into the ether. Along the trail the caravan had been larger in population than many of the communities they encountered. With the expectation of being overwhelmed by the greater numbers of a large city of ten thousand or more, the train solidified within itself, becoming a unit of self-protection. Trusting, but not knowing what to expect, they would support one another.

  The early fall weather was changing. Winds became more blustery, and the first hints of color started to tinge the leaves in the higher meadows. Geese and ducks filled the skies with a cacophony of wing beats. Herons grew loud with their flight song. Wolf, coyote, and bear ate well, staying close to waterways choked by beaver ponds full of fish and waterfowl. The first serious frost of the season came early.

  Till Willis, the Wagon Master, gathered his best advisors and information to him as the journey wound down. Edge, having taken on a more important role before, and especially after, the disappearance of Arc, was welcomed into the close knit group. Bluehawk, too, was invited, as the native man had spent time in the community they approached. Although Cy knew the trail, he had little knowledge of the Denver area or its ways. He and Occam, Till’s second in command, Brick, and a few others met and discussed what to expect.

  As a trading hub for the Great Plains, Boulder was a thriving and fast growing city. Bluehawk knew the history of the area both from his time there and his interest studying local history. In the evening campfire gatherings he spoke of what he knew, of the three educated people who had met by chance within the first decade of the plague event and how they began actively searching for others who valued education. Early success came as they gathered people with a yearning to learn and created a functional society based on the preservation and further advancement of knowledge. The university community attracted intelligence, and intelligence attracted talent… and others. Craftspeople from far distances came to trade, and many ended up staying. One early policy became custom, and the township supplied housing for visitors. If they were not offered a place in a neighborhood of preserved ancient homes, they would be offered communal living in longhouses built for the purpose. The practice was good business and good for the town.

  At Bluehawk’s suggestion, Till rode ahead in order to meet and make arrangements with the leaders in Boulder before they arrived. He and the nomad invited Occam to accompany them. Concerned for Occam’s state of mind, Till thought it would be good for him to get away from the wagon train. They would have their meeting and wait as the wagons arrived from the north. By then they would be able to lead the Company directly to whatever accommodations were available.

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  Returning to Boulder was cathartic to Bluehawk. As a respected shaman within his tribe, he was still lonely when living among them. Sometimes intelligence drives people away, and Bluehawk had never figured out how to hide his. Usually he would mentor a youngster each year and bring them along to spend time away from village life, allowing them a chance to gain perspective as they experienced a different culture. This year the young man so carefully groome
d had at the last minute chosen to stay behind. The decision was disappointing, but Bluehawk would not allow it to quell the enjoyment of his return. In many ways Boulder was his real home. His birthplace was in the mountains of Wyoming, his hunting grounds in the forests and plains, but his mind belonged to Boulder.

  Leading the two men from the wagon train into town and introducing them to those who would be of most use to them, Bluehawk was greeted as a valued friend. He was home.

  §

  The wagons moved easily along the old roadbed. Close to their destination, the surfaces were maintained to some degree. Brick was a competent replacement for Till and encouraged those about him with his confidence and easy manner.

  The last hill was negotiated, and the party came to the outskirts of the city. Till, Bluehawk, and a local man of importance met them and led them to their encampment. Accommodations being on the south end of town, the train made its way down the main thoroughfare in the business district. Most of the buildings were newer wooden structures, built after a fire had gutted the older buildings of the original community. The street was wide and so broad that a wagon and hitch could turn around without circling the block. Of course the town was too busy to try that. The economy was good and the streets crowded.

  Passing through, everyone in the wagon train marveled at the strange things they saw. Any new town offered interesting things to see. The shop windows were filled with bright colors and a variety of fashions. Unknown tools, pottery of strange design, and harness in odd colors and configurations filled store fronts. A small, open, graveled lot held some light, three-wheeled vehicles that did not appear to have rigging to be drawn by horses or oxen. A large solar panel to one side had a long cord running to one of them.