by A. J. Powers
Smith was on the floor, his lifeless body leaning up against the wall in the corner of the room. With a pistol in his right hand and blood splattered on the wall behind him, it didn’t take a forensic scientist to figure out what had happened.
The trembles turned into uncontrollable shaking as Clay stared at the catastrophic aftermath the .357 hollow point had left behind. Like a helpless bystander watching a devastating crash, Clay couldn’t seem to look away. He just stared at the slouched body in front of him, almost as if he was waiting for the corpse to spring to life and yell “Gotchya!” But the gray tone in his skin and the vacant eyes reassured Clay that the scene before him was no prank.
A dark aura began to smother Clay as he recalled the times he had contemplated the same end Smith had chosen; to escape the frozen hell on earth once and for all. To be released from the stress and burden that fell with the ash ten years ago could be an appealing alternative during Clay’s darker days, but it was always his family, both blood and adopted, that pulled him away from that obscure abyss. Had he lost that reason…like Smith had…
The thought shook Clay to his core.
Though he had only just met Smith earlier in the month, Clay felt as if he already knew the man quite well. Smith, whether he intended to or not, revealed more about himself to Clay in a single night than most people had over the course of several years. Most folks, including Clay, were not quick to divulge details about their past to people they had just met. Far too often, such information was viewed as vulnerabilities and was used as weapons. But, as it would seem, Smith wasn’t concerned about that since he had nothing left to lose at that point.
As Clay looked down at the body, he wrestled with what words to say. Not that it mattered much—the only ones to hear him would be the All Mighty and the dog. But still, it felt wrong not to say something.
“Some wars are just too big for one man to fight…” Clay said with a wavering voice—he could no longer determine if his trembling was from low core temperature or from the loss of his new friend. “I hope you found the peace you were looking for, brother.”
Unable to stay in the room any longer, Clay headed to the bedroom he had slept in on his last visit. He took his wet clothes off and wringed them out as best as he could in the corner before draping them over a chair. He grabbed a blanket off the bed and pulled it around his shoulders. Feeling warmer, but still battling violent shivers, Clay explored the rest of the compound to try and get the blood flowing, eventually finding himself in Smith’s workshop.
Toward the back of the room was a work bench sitting beneath a hanging light—the only one in the room. Tools and hardware were strewn about the bench, but right in the middle was a small, polished metal cylinder sitting on top of a piece of paper. It was Clay’s new firing pin.
Clay battled whether he should be mourning the loss of Smith or rejoicing over the regained functionality of his rifle. But his internal struggle was eclipsed by the gut-wrenching message scrawled across the piece of paper previously holding the firing pin.
Thanks for the closure, Cowboy.
“Damn this world,” Clay said through a clenched jaw.
Chapter 14
Morning came too quickly. But as the sunlight slipped through the blinds, Clay’s natural response was to get moving. If the sun was up, there was work to be done, or so his mind always convinced him, regardless of his body’s wishes.
But not today. Over the past few days, Clay had been hard at work helping the town of Liberty prepare for the festival. Far more went into pulling off such a large event than Clay had ever realized, and he had not been ready for the task list awaiting him. However, except for a few odds and ends, everything was ready for the festivities to kick off later in the evening. So Clay lay in bed, alone with his thoughts—a dangerous situation.
Still drowsy, his eyes closed once more, immediately greeting Clay with images of his discovery at the bunker four days earlier: the pool of blood collecting around Smith’s body, the pain and sorrow still lingering in his hollow stare, his hand still clutching the revolver as if it was a life raft amidst choppy seas. The images relentlessly invaded Clay’s mind like a mental Blitzkrieg, snuffing out any chance of respite from the nightmares that had plagued him since leaving the camp. Because moments of idleness quickly turned to terror, Clay had made it a point to work sun up to sun down since he arrived at Liberty, allowing himself to be blissfully distracted throughout the day.
He tried to roll over and force himself back to sleep, but the muscle he had pulled while moving Smith’s body outside still nagged him. Clay arched his back and applied pressure to the spasm with his hand, which brought some relief. Although the strain felt better than it had all week, he would have given anything for some truly potent pain meds.
Along with the pain came the memory of standing in front of the pile of dirt that was covering Smith’s body. When he arrived at the camp that morning, the last thing Clay had expected was to bury his new friend. But such was life in the frozen wastelands of Texas. Nothing should be taken for granted, especially life.
As he towered over the shallow grave, Clay thought back to his great-grandfather’s funeral a few years before the eruptions. Because he valiantly served in World War II, there was a large military funeral held for him in Fredericksburg where he had lived most his 104 years of life. Chills still crept through Clay as he recalled the officer ordering the twenty-one-gun salute and the sounds of the rifle shots echoing throughout the cemetery. It was the most unforgettable moment of the entire ceremony.
At Smith’s grave, Clay charged his AR-15—with Smith’s new firing pin securely in place—and shouldered his rifle. Smith had served his country and Clay was determined to honor him for his sacrifice, despite the risk posed by the successive shots. He fired his first three shots into the air, timing each trigger pull about one second apart. As the final gunshot echoed across the massive field of decayed, temporary housing, Clay heard in his head a brilliant rendition of Taps being played.
“So long, Justin.”
The “funeral” was hardly fitting for a man who had fought and nearly died for his country, but it was better than just letting his corpse rot in the dank basement of the bunker. And though it seemed cold-hearted to think about while he dug the man’s grave, Clay had every intention of utilizing most of the bunker in the future. The dining room, however, would forever be off limits.
A barely audible yawn and high pitch squeak emanated from the foot of the bed, pulling Clay from his wandering thoughts. He looked down and saw the little dog stretching as he roused from his slumber.
“Morning, Chip,” Clay said.
Chip crawled toward Clay, expecting the quick attention he felt entitled to. As Clay scratched Chip’s head with one hand, he used the other to tilt the dog’s red, bone-shaped tag on his collar. The inscription made him laugh.
Devil Dog
Glancing over at his watch sitting on the bedside table, he decided it was time to get up. Kelsey and the others were supposed to arrive sometime after lunch. It was almost two weeks since he left Northfield, so once he realized that he was finally going to see his family in the afternoon, it was as if all became right with his world again. Even the haunting memories that previously consumed his thoughts struggled to compete for his attention.
After a few groans and grumbles, Clay managed to climb out of bed and get dressed before heading down to Vlad’s store. The house was mostly empty, save a few out-of-towners that had also received one of the limited invites from Shelton. It truly was an honor to be on that list.
“Good morning, Clay, how are you?” Vlad asked.
“Better than yesterday,” Clay replied.
Vlad nodded. Clay had told him about Smith. He wanted Vlad to know so he didn’t send anyone else to the camp just to be stopped by locked gates outside an empty bunker. But what started as a simple “for your information” turned into a night of venting and vodka drinking—both of which helped dissipate some of the
darkness that had been lingering in Clay’s heart since discovering his friend. And as hard as the last couple of nights had been, Clay could only imagine how much worse it would have been if he hadn’t been able to talk to someone about it.
“Oh!” Vlad suddenly shouted. “I have surprise for you,” he said as he walked over to a metal cabinet and unlocked it.
“What is it?” Clay asked, his curiosity piqued.
Vlad looked back with a smile as he unlatched the lock. “You will see, my friend.” He opened the door and retrieved a wooden box that he then set down on the counter. “Have look inside,” he said, gesturing to the small crate.
Clay walked over and stared at the box for a minute, like a kid staring at a Christmas gift, speculating as to what was inside. With curiosity now running rampant, Clay placed his hand on the box and lifted the lid.
He gasped.
“Is that?”
“It is,” Vlad said with assurance.
“How…How did you get it? Did he sell it to you?”
Vlad shook his head. “He had bad poker face.”
Clay’s eyes were still as wide as they were when he first lifted the lid. He started to reach in when he quickly stopped himself. “Oh, sorry…may I?”
Vlad laughed. “Of course, it is why I show you.”
With a mixture of eagerness and respect, Clay pulled the pistol out of the box. The old gun demanded admiration. Even in the post-apocalyptic day, it was an incredible design, and in his mind, was visually nothing short of perfection. He ran his fingertips along the slide, feeling the etched words Model of 1911. U.S. Army along the side. He was still in disbelief as he held his grandfather’s Colt 1911 in his hand again.
Every scratch, every scuff, every stain on the beautiful pistol had a story with it—some dating back to the 1940’s, while others more recent. The old .45 had had a tough life, but she was still ready for more.
Managing to tear his gaze away from the gun, Clay glanced inside the box and saw two spare magazines and a handful of rounds—twenty to thirty at most. His eyes shifted between the gun and Vlad. “What do you want for it?” Clay asked, but the tone in his voice came across more as a demand.
Vlad was still smiling as he watched Clay admire the piece of Americana, a piece of Clay’s heritage. “You have been good friend for many years. I know that gun means a lot to you; I cannot ask you to pay. It is a gift.”
“Wow,” Clay said, stunned by Vlad’s generosity. “But I can’t do that, Vlad. Something like this has a very high price tag these days.” Clay put the gun back down in the box and looked at Vlad again. “How about a swap?”
Within a minute Clay was back in his room, rifling through his pack. He found the Glock 17 first, but he was long overdue for an upgrade from his current pistol, and he planned to keep it. He kept digging and grabbed on to the suppressor for the ARAK-21. Definitely not. As he continued rummaging through a hefty amount of PMags and boxes of ammo, Clay started tossing things out in a frantic effort to find what he was looking for.
“Crap! Did it fall out?” he asked himself. Then, finally, he sighed in relief as his fingers wrapped around the barrel of the Ruger R8.
Revolvers never felt right in Clay’s hand, but oddly enough, this one felt amazing. He had planned on keeping it for himself—something he could actually use to bring down a deer if he found himself in the right situation. And since he had quite a few boxes of .357 back home—most of which were factory—he thought the unique revolver could find a place in his arsenal. Vlad’s recent acquisition, however, changed his mind on that.
The 1911 wasn’t just a gun or even just his great-grandfather’s gun. Except for a family photo, the World War II relic was the last thing connecting Clay to his family’s past. It was important to him and he was going to get it, but not at the expense of an unfair trade with his friend.
Clay stuffed the revolver into his waistband. He quickly grabbed the box and a half of shells he had also taken and rushed back to Vlad’s store. He set down the R8 next to the 1911 box.
Vlad looked the gun over and grinned. “Yes, this is good trade,” he said.
Getting a quality trade out of the deal enhanced the Russian’s joy from the transaction. He was insistent on returning the family heirloom to its rightful owner, but Clay could have brought him a broken Derringer and Vlad still would have called it a good trade. He just wanted to make sure that Clay left with his great-grandfather’s gun in his possession.
Vlad popped open the cylinder of his newest acquisition, revealing some dried blood Clay hadn’t noticed when he cleaned the gun. Bile crept up Clay’s throat from the sight, but it, thankfully, didn’t have the gut-punching effect he expected.
Clay’s expression didn’t go unnoticed. “I am very sorry, Clay,” Vlad said.
Clay swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Nothing to be sorry for, Vlad. Honestly, I am not sure why this is bugging me so much,” he lied. Being responsible, even indirectly, for the death of a good man was not something to get used to.
Vlad loaded up the revolver with some of the shells Clay had given him and stashed it beneath the counter—a clear indication that the trader had no intentions of making it available to his customers. Following suit, Clay started sliding cartridges into each of the 1911 magazines. He was one round shy of having three loaded magazines—twenty-three bullets in all.
After helping Vlad and Olesya rearrange the store to accommodate more of their homemade inventory, Clay headed out to go check the newly updated bulletin boards to see if anything notable had been reported. Clay never made it there, because, as he walked down the main street, he spotted the two wagons in the distance approaching Liberty’s gate.
****
“Just about done,” the man said as he looked down through his glasses, watching carefully as he made the finishing touches.
“Good,” Clay said, “I am not sure how much longer I can sit here.”
“And there…we…are,” the man said as he sat back in his chair and observed his work. “This is one of my finest, if I do say so myself,” he said as he stroked the gray stubble on his chin. His balding forehead was wrought with wrinkles as he studied the drawing. The man picked up the easel and twisted it toward the couple sitting in front of him. “Sorry it’s a little…exaggerated. It was kind of my thing back in the day.”
Clay immediately chuckled with the caricature illustration in front of him. The resemblance was spot on. A quiet sniffle from Kelsey surprised Clay. He looked over and saw tears welling up in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked, alarmed by her response and wondering if maybe the artist had embellished on one of her insecurities.
The old man also looked at her, worry filling his eyes as he grew concerned that he might have offended her somehow. As the tears slid down Kelsey’s cheeks, she smiled brightly. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Clay looked around as if he had missed something. “Then, why all the, uh…” he said, gesturing toward her eyes.
The man handed Kelsey a handkerchief and she immediately dabbed at her eyes. This life—her life, had been anything but easy. And even though things vastly improved once she and Clay arrived in Northfield, Kelsey still struggled with the heavy burdens that had been heaped upon her shoulders—a weight that became increasingly difficult to bear as she watched her husband slay his own demons. Her fading optimism over the last year and a half did little to help Clay and vice versa. Though artificial smiles and vague answers did a good enough job at hiding her growing depression, Kelsey’s difficulty in finding hope each morning had been weighing her down. Seeing Clay for the first time in nearly two weeks—a short span of absence compared to some recent trips—had done her spirit good. The picture showed the woman Kelsey pretended to be, the person just that morning she decided she would be. “This drawing…” she said, wiping away at more tears, “Clay, this is our first portrait together.” The tears continued to stream, but her smile grew wider. “Solomon, it’s just wonder
ful. You are a truly gifted artist.”
“Thank you, young lady,” Solomon said, giving a subtle bow with his head. “I must say, of all the folks to come by so far, you two have been the most enjoyable to work with.”
Kelsey smiled warmly.
Though all the games and booths were free of charge, Clay handed the man a few rifle bullets. Vlad would give him a fair price for them—that is, if Solomon didn’t want to keep them for himself.
“Thank you very much, good sir,” Solomon said as he took the post-apocalyptic gratuity from Clay. He carefully tore the paper off the easel and rolled it up before tying a string around it. He handed it to Kelsey, “Here you go, my beautiful lady,” he said, before playfully kissing her hand.
“Talented and a charmer,” Kelsey said with a giggle. “You better watch out, Clay,” she added.
“I’ve got my eye on you, old man,” Clay said through a chuckle before reaching his hand out.
“You’re a lucky man, Clay. You take good care of this one,” Solomon added before grasping Clay’s hand for a firm shake.
As Clay and Kelsey left the small booth—one of dozens along the road leading to the center of the little town—Clay felt a sense of peace fall upon him. The last couple of months had been hell—among the hardest since Charlie’s death—and it was not something a good night’s sleep or a hot meal could fix. He needed an escape from the demanding reality that enveloped him every day, even if just for a little while. And finally, such an opportunity had arrived. For the next five days, Clay wasn’t going to worry about whether the freezers were stocked with enough food for the winter or how much longer the dwindling supply of medicine would last. He wasn’t going to think about the joyful torments he saw on Smith’s tablet or the losses he had experienced over the last ten years. While he stayed in Liberty, Clay would not live in the past, nor fret over the future. He would live in the now and savor every moment of it until he was dragged, kicking and screaming, back to reality.