by Sam J Fires
“So, what, you’re saying he’s able to make glass from sand?” asked Lea, incredulous.
“If I was to hazard a guess…” managed the Professor, still overwhelmed by the discovery. “…I’d say the sand is operating at a burning internal temperature. So much that even the slightest flickering of a flame could set it off. Think of it like pouring gasoline on a bonfire.”
“So, if this used to be sand, how did he manage to get the sand gathered in one place to make a wall?”
“Well…” said the Professor, pointing down to the edge of the glass just before it entered the man’s stomach, “…there are little rough patches where something was stacked against his stomach. Helped to keep the sand steady as it…,” he gulped, “…entered his stomach.”
“Do you know what materials he might have used?”
“Hard to say at this point,” said the Professor.
“A fat lot of good you are,” exclaimed Vincent.
“I’m not a detective,” the Professor replied. “Sorry, to disappoint, but Sherlock Holmes never survived the apocalypse.”
Travis held up a hand to put a stop to the bickering. “No one has bothered to ask the key question here; who was the victim?” When no one responded, Travis continued. “His name was Morgan Shepherd. He owned a farm on the outskirts of the city. We got a lot of our greenery from this man. He helped me set up my greenhouse.” Everyone noticed Travis’s emotional tone. “Good guy. I mean, I didn’t know him well enough to be acquaintances, let alone friends. But he seemed like a good guy. Harmless. He wasn’t the kind of guy who picked fights with anyone.” Travis sighed, looking down into the dead man’s eyes, as though trying to find some meaning. “In the old days, when a guy would get shot dead defending his bank, you’d be looking for paper trails in large sums. Brutal bastard, but at least you would know their motive was money. This guy, we don’t even have a motive.”
“A nutcase from the looks of it,” said Vincent.
“No,” said Lea quietly. All eyes turned in her direction. “It’s a mistake to call him a nutcase. That implies he has no idea what he’s doing and he’s just waltzing blindly. This is a methodical guy, knows exactly what he’s doing and how to do it. He’s got the tools to do it, and somehow, it doesn’t look like the kind of stuff you’d just pick up at the market.” Travis looked at her and he could see the cogs inside going to work. “Where was he found?” she asked.
“Bastard dumped him in the middle of the market. Considering Morgan’s farm is on the outskirts, it must have taken some legwork to move the body. He wanted to have maximum impact. A whole audience to traumatize.” Travis ran his hands through his hair, agitated. “Based on the witness reports, I’d say wish granted.” He rose to his full height. “We’ve got to find him pronto as I think this guy could strike again. If we don’t find him soon, we could be turning Travistown into an ‘all-you-can-slaughter’ buffet. It wouldn’t surprise me if this wasn’t his first time. We could be dealing with a serial killer. It looks as if he enjoys this and wants to show off his skills.”
“And we need to make him pay for killing Morgan,” reminded Vincent.
“Yes, of course,” said Travis, as though he had momentarily forgotten. “I’m not having this bastard running rampant in my city turning my people into his grotesque art displays. Lea, I want you to head down to the market. Run down some names, check the usual suppliers, see if anyone has sold anything that could be used to create this…” he struggled to find the right word. “…abomination.”
Travis didn’t like to make a point of showing favoritism among his subordinates, even though everyone knew about his soft spot for Lea, but he was struggling to hide his concern. He wasn’t worried for Lea’s safety. He’d seen Lea in action. It wouldn’t be possible for anyone to get the drop on her, but that didn’t stop him from being worried for her soul.
CHAPTER 5 – THE LONE RIDER
The Lone Rider rubbed her goggles trying to get a sense of the area. There seemed to be nothing but desert for miles on end.
For what felt like the hundredth time that day, she took out the map and studied it. It was a new map, one that had been designed shortly after the storms first hit the planet. She never thought that she’d have to rely on it so heavily. Now, it felt like holding a lifeline. It was printed in a laminate-like substance which made it difficult to bend, but at the same time made it impossible to place in her baggage.
The horse reared up on its hind legs and neighed, prompting the Rider to take off again. Even though the horse had been fitted with a protective covering around its body, legs, and snout, the animal could still detect the slightest hint of agitation if it stood for too long, feeling the elements hurling against it like pins and needles.
The Rider saw something in the distance, a shape of some kind. She took out her binoculars. If the map was anything to go by, she was still at least a month away from her target.
She could see that it was a car, or rather the rustic husk of a car. Grabbing the horse’s reins, the Rider charged forward.
The horse came to a halt next to the vehicle, and the Rider went about tying the horse around a scrap of metal. She was going to be no more than a minute, but she didn’t want to take the risk of the horse being scared off by the storm and galloping away, never to be seen again.
She searched inside. There was a magazine showcasing a couple from an old soap opera she used to watch before the storms. It looked so dated now. There was also what looked like a tennis racket handle, the end of which had been sharpened into some kind of a mini javelin. There was nothing else in the car, so the Rider settled for taking both; the racket handle-turned-javelin on the off chance it came in use and the television magazine for nostalgia’s sake. Anyone might have mistaken the Rider for a hoarder, but she’d developed a taste for the things no longer available. On her travels, one person had termed this an ‘extinction taste’.
When she’d removed herself from the car, she was halted by the sight before her.
Two people – similarly robed in thick, red cloaks and protective goggles – were petting the horse, one of them was feeding it an apple.
Instinctively, the Rider held up the racket in a defensive stance, pointing the sharpened edge at the pair. “Get away from my horse!” she exclaimed.
The pair held up their hands in surrender. “We mean you no harm,” said one voice, clearly a male. “We’re fellow travelers. We’re just passing through here.”
“Horseshit. There’s no one around here for miles!”
“There’s you. You seem to have made it out this far.”
That was true, but that didn’t stop the Rider from being skeptical. Survival for this long, away from civilization, made her wonder what these two had done to get there.
“We can offer you and your horse shelter if you wish,” said a second voice, a female.
The Rider was about to say no to this. She certainly didn’t see herself breaking bread with two people she didn’t trust…but she’d been traveling for three days straight. If she didn’t give out any time soon, the horse would, and if these people were revealed to be untrustworthy…then she could probably kill them. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have the tools required for the job.
*
The Rider was now sitting in a huddled heap of a dingy kitchen, watching as the two people got out a plate of cooked chicken wings and placed it in front of her. They were in what looked like an old farmhouse. The Rider could hear hens clucking in the background.
The Rider considered herself a cautious woman by nature, but she was so ravenous that she almost disregarded any sense of precaution to attack the plate. She had to tell herself not to be so easily fooled, and she held back from tucking in. The horse was locked up in an old stable house so she wouldn’t be able to make a quick getaway. She was outnumbered two against one. The only thing she could hope for was that they weren’t as used to combat as she was.
Frustrated from the lack of action taken, the man reac
hed over, snatched one of the chicken wings, and stuffed it into his mouth. “There, happy?” he asked sharply. “Unless I drop dead in the next ten seconds, I think you can assume they aren’t poisoned.”
Hesitantly, the Rider lowered her mask and started to eat hungrily, relishing the taste. She’d gone so long without eating chicken, she’d forgotten what it tasted like. It was as though she was eating it for the first time.
“So, where are you headed?” asked the woman. Noticing the Rider’s apprehension to answer her question, she added. “No offense, but do you act so suspicious with everyone you come across?”
“Well, considering that everyone I’ve come across has tried to kill me, can you blame me?” the Rider replied flippantly. “When the world gets ugly, the people aren’t far behind.”
“Hear, hear,” the man added. “I took in a drifter who seemed harmless at first…until he strangled my wife with his bare hands…after he’d had his way with her.”
“I’m sorry,” the Rider said sympathetically. She turned to the woman. “You’re not his wife?”
“No,” said the woman. “I’m just someone who happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Don’t be,” said the man with a handwave. “I’ve gotten over it. I chopped him up and fed him to the pigs on the farm.” Noticing the Rider’s discomfort, the man said, “We’ve all done terrible things to get this far, things we might have balked at before the storms. I think of everything we’ve lost. A clean soul is now extinct.”
The Rider nodded her head, dwelling on her sins, at the same time thinking how long she would be able to outrun them before they caught up to her.
“So, how long until you start traveling again?” asked the woman.
“If I’m honest, I need to get going again ASAP.” The Rider wasn’t just saying this because of her suspicions about the couple. She’d known as soon as she’d set out that she was operating against a ticking clock and every minute she wasted sitting here, eating chicken, increased the likelihood that what she was looking for would no longer be there.
“Well, we’re watching a film tonight in the living room,” said the woman. “I used to love going to the movies before the storms, the projector in our living room is the closest thing we have to it.”
“What’s the film?” asked the Rider, despite herself, drawn in by the magic of cinema.
“An Apocalyptic Chronicle,” announced the man. “It’s a first-hand account of what life was like in the early days of the apocalypse. It was directed by one Eric Landers.”
CHAPTER 6 - BOB
Lea wandered around the market, with only a partial idea of what she was looking for. She’d spent so long being confronted with people with nefarious intentions, she had forgotten what sincerity looked like. She surveyed the market stands, haphazardly put together, swaying in the wind as though they would fall apart at any minute. Everywhere she looked she saw murderers in hiding and cutthroat bandits, but the truth was they were people trying to make an honest living and provide for themselves and their loved ones.
The weapons stall was her first stop and most likely to be of any help. It was run by a man called Robert Cooper, although people had come to know him as ‘Bob’. Already a weapons expert before the storms, Bob was the master of improvised weaponry. But his real value came in his ability to get his hands on any kind of illegal goods. Innovator Scott Chapman had created much of the offensive weaponry that people had utilized to defend themselves, but this had been a trade secret. Only top engineers had been recruited to mass-produce Chapman’s inventions, but Bob had been able to get his hands on some of Chapman’s weapons and had reverse-engineered them. He was one of Travis’s main suppliers. Travis had offered him full-time employment, but Bob had declined. He had said that he was on the lookout for which paying chief would come out on top. As Lea saw him now, he was unburdened by any sense of loyalty or obligation. She wondered if it was because Bob took his freedom wherever he could find it.
“Lea, my dear. What can I do for you?” He never looked happy to see her. Maybe it was because of her close affiliation to Travis. Everyone in the market knew Lea well enough to know that to lay a hand on her would be to incur the wrath of God.
“I was wondering if you had sold anything… shady, of late?” finished Lea.
Bob raised an eyebrow “Shady is my day-by-day trade. Have to be more specific.”
Lea was hesitant to give any more detail, as she couldn’t be sure of his complicity. ‘Never let the bastards know you’re onto them’, Travis had once cautioned her, but in this case, she figured it was the only way she was going to get anywhere. “Have you sold any flamethrowers or any gizmos like that?”.
Bob surveyed her, quizzically, then burst out laughing. “What the hell have you been smoking, girl? Oil and fuel are things of the past. And even if I had those types of things, do you think I’d be operating out of this crappy place?”
“You go where the paying customers go,” said Lea.
Bob scoffed. “This lot? Think the occasional sand grenade equips them for soldier-hood? No, there are other markets out there, people who will pay real money, not the ten-a-penny points system that Travis has got going on.”
“You do know that you’re potentially arming dangerous criminals?” asked Lea.
Bob lost any pleasantness now, his voice turning into a snarl. “You now giving me some pathetic lecture on morality, you silly little girl?” Lea flinched at the harshness of his words. “I’m sorry, did that strike a nerve? I’ll bet you’re longing for the chance to stick me with that machete. Maybe I’ll be victim number one hundred. That is if you’re still keeping count? You wanna lecture me on the finer points of morality, drag Travis’s ass down here and we can have a good long chit-chat about what I think about him sending his pretty little child soldiers to do his dirty work. ‘Cause I tell you, girl, I’ve done my fair share of shady shit in my life, but I always made sure it never involved kids.”
Lea recoiled as if she’d been slapped. It wasn’t an argument she’d never heard before, and indeed some people had been much more vicious about it than Bob. One woman had even described her as ‘Travis’s attack dog’.
She tried to push the thoughts from her mind and focus on the task at hand. “Maybe you’re right, Bob. Perhaps I am a little psycho-bred, raised by Travis. So, imagine the crap I could rain down on you if you don’t tell me what I want to know?”
She reached over the stand, grabbed Bob by the shirt, and pulled him close, surprising him with her strength. She held her machete against his stomach. “How about giving me an answer before I decide whether your insides would look better outside?”
Bob flinched, the first spark of fear she’d seen from him. “You talk the talk, girl, I’ll give you that. I had nothing to do with selling to any suspicious customers. I certainly haven’t sold any heat-based weapons. You want to be speaking with a guy they call the Blazer.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Hard to say. He likes to keep his work mobile. You won’t see him around these circles. Travis thinks it’ll be bad for business if he airs his dirty laundry in public. He often operates around the outskirts of Travistown. Part of me wonders if he does it just on the edge as a windup to Travis.”
“So, where can I find him?”
“I know that there’s some convention going down in a few days,” explained Bob. “It’s a calling card for the elite scum.”
Releasing Bob, Lea said, “Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to make an appearance.”
As she turned to go, Bob called after her, “Seeing as how you’re in the area…would you fancy buying any weapons?”
“Are you serious?” said Lea incredulously. “I threaten to disembowel you, and you’re still letting your sales pitch loose?”
“I’ve got a business to run, mouths to feed, and all that working man crap,” exclaimed Bob. “And given who you might be going up against, I’m sure you’d rather go in armed to the t
eeth.” His voice changed tone and Lea was certain she could detect a trace of concern in his voice. “Pretty girl like you, they’d split you in half.”
Relenting, Lea ordered, “Okay, show me what you’ve got.”
Getting into showmanship mode, Bob announced, “Now, pay attention, 007.” He took out a large wooden crate and opened it. “We have a few grenades here. I’ve improved on Scott Chapman’s original design. And, we have the sprinklers…” He gestured to a pair of near-black balls. “Nothing brings out the ‘Ouch!’ like a few needles in the face.” He moved along to some orange-colored ones. “These are firebombs, and…well, the clue’s in the name. If you get the chance, try dropping one of them down their pants. They’re going to have a hard time having their wicked way with their prized possessions out of action.”
“And these?” Lea pointed to some green-looking grenades in the bottom of the crate.
“Ah,” said Bob, holding his hands over them. “These are only to be used as a last resort. You’d have to be either desperate or a sadist to use these. These are definitely what you’d use to arm a madman.”
“But you made them.”
“I rest my case.” Bob closed the crate and moved over to a weapon that looked like an air rifle. “This has been refitted to fire super-strong pellets. The protective gear you lot cover yourselves in — it will penetrate all of that.”
“Will it kill?”
Bob shrugged. “Wouldn’t be surprised, but like the kid who realizes the condom he used for his first lay was broken, they’ll be helpless for whatever you want to do next. 750 points for the lot.”
Lea knew he was overcharging her, but Travis would have no problem footing the bill, and if the convention was as dangerous as Bob made it out to be, she could use all the weapons she could get.
CHAPTER 7 - TRAVIS
“So, how we doing?” asked Travis, pleasantly, opening the door to Lea.