Afterwrath: Part One - Station

by Coty Schwabe

PART TWO: A MESSAGE OF DEATH

  1

  A breeze rolled in as he set off along the highway.

  The sun was halfway concealed by the mountains to his back, casting his shadow long before him. His thirst had intensified, but he’d live. He had so far. The real problem he faced now was the extra weight. Burk transfered the weight from one shoulder to the other, then back, but in mere minutes, he questioned whether it was more hassle than it was worth.

  2

  Two hours later, the sun had hidden itself completely, and the stars had come out to play. Burk’s arms ached, and his shoulders were sore. He hadn't gone very far, far enough not to see the gas station, but not by much, and decided to sit down for a spell.

  There had been no sign of the pup. The whining had been a real annoyance, but in a small way, it depressed him. Company was company.

  Burk sat down along the highway, and ate two strips of the coyote meat. The meat was thicker than beef jerky but thinner than steak; an interesting combination, bland above all else. He was finishing the second piece when heard a loud drumming noise in the distance behind him.

  At first, the noise threw him – it wasn’t a sound he heard much these days – but recognition came quickly enough. Burk took the bindle full of spoils, opened it, and spilled some of its contents to the side of the road.

  The sound intensified and he moved with a speed that would have surprised him two years prior. He threw the shirts aside, and took cover behind a wide cacti not five feet from the pile.

  3

  Burk watched as a motorcycle came burning down the highway.

  The rider was a fat man wearing a red bandana over his mouth, his long hair in a braid down his back. He wore all black – at least it looked black in the dark – from his leather jacket and spike-studded boots, to his rough denim pants. His jacket bore an insignia he couldn’t see.

  Is that a gang member? Burk wondered. A courier most likely.

  The courier closed in on his position. Burk anxiously watched as the vehicle approached. A half mile. Quarter mile. A block. A hundred feet.

  The courier’s light flashed over the objects, causing them to gleam and dazzle in prisms. The rider’s attention turned to the sparkling objects, and the motorcycle slowed. He veered to the shoulder, eventually stopping the bike next to the pile.

  The rider dismounted, and started looking though the various knick knacks, gauging their value. He didn’t see Burk step out from behind the cactus, shotgun trained. “Hands up.”

  The Rider didn’t even lift his head. “Put that gun away, nomad.” He picked up the ‘X’ belt buckle, which he nodded at with approval, holding it to his waist.

  “Are you a courier? For one of the desert gangs?”

  The Rider tucked the buckle in his jacket, and had moved onto another, putting that one to his own belt. The second buckle apparently didn’t fit, because he tossed it back into the pile. It was like watching someone shop at a yard sale. “None of yer bizniz.”

  Burk’s nostrils flared. “Answer me, or your ride ends here.”

  The rider finally looked at him, and tittered, a sound that chilled Burk to the bones. There was no fear in that laugh. “Get over it, nomad. You’re just a wanderer out here in the big bad desert.”

  “And you’re nothing more than a messenger.”

  The rider laughed again. “No one survives on their own anymore. At least I have somewhere to go.”

  Burk raised the shotgun to eye level. “I survived this long. Now all I need is your bike.”

  The man pulled back the hem of his jacket. An automatic pistol was holstered at his side. Burk chided himself for not noticing it earlier. “Don’t try me. I’ve killed dozens of wanderers just like you since that day-”

  Before the man could finish, Burk asked his burning question. “What’s in Nod?”

  The courier laughed and spat in the dirt. “No fucking idea. Nuthin’ but a husk from what I hear.” He stood, holding the bottle caps. “Now leave before I put a fuckin’ bullet in your brain. I’ll crack it just like this here picture,” he said jerking a thumb at the cracked skull on his chest. Wasn’t that…

  The courier took one step away, and Burk clicked back the hammer. The biker stopped, and turned, his hand dropping to his waist.

  It never reached it.

  With a thunderous explosion, buckshot blew the hand away, dismembering it from the arm it had originated from, and sending the fragments of blood, bone, and flesh across the desert floor. The courier screamed in pain, but went for the gun with his opposite hand.

  Burk took no chances, and drew his revolver. The courier pulled the gun free, but wasn’t fast enough. Burk shot him in the wrist. The Rider’s gun dropped to the dirt, and his hand went limp.

  The man dropped to his knees and stared at his missing hand. Blood streamed from his wrist like the scene of an action movie. His breathing came in heavy pants as rocked on his knees. “What the fuck do you want? Kill me asshole!”

  Burk put the gun to the rider’s temple. “What gang do you belong to?”

  “I ain’t telling you shit!” The biker spat on his leg.

  Burk pistol-whipped him sideways, sending sprays of blood across the dirt. He repeated his question.

  “I said I ain’t tellin’ you shit!” Burk pistol whipped him again, and the man bit his tongue almost in half. Blood pooled out of his mouth. “The Deattthhh Widers. And th-they’re gunna come afffther yer ath!”

  Death Riders. His hunch had been correct.

  “I knew it!” Burk fumbled around in his pocket and showed the biker a faded photo of a man in similar garb. He held it so that the moonlight shone down on it. “Do you know this man?”

  The man’s eyes opened briefly, then he resumed his tough visage. It was a quick motion, but long enough for Burk to catch it, a skill he’d picked up in his time before the Wrath. “Fugg yerthelf,” the biker said.

  Why was it so hard for people to give a straight answer?

  “Answer me!” Burk kicked the Death Rider in the chest, then pulled him up by the hair. “Is he one of you?”

  “Uuuth ta be….” Gasp. “Then he ran...” Blood and saliva dripped down his cheeks in tiny torrents. “The bawtthhh thent thum guyth to findd him…” Slurp. “Heard they did.” Burk backhanded him.

  “Is your boss still alive?”

  “Corth he ith. Bawth man’th comin for thupplyth. Any town that don’t wanna hand ‘em over will regret it.”

  He’s coming? “Who are you delivering this message to?”

  “They’re gonna come afther you…” the biker repeated, still heaving.

  “I asked who you were delivering to.”

  The biker spat gobs of blood. “Go ta hell.”

  “You first.” Burk put the gun under his chin, pressing the hot barrel against the man’s stubble. His Adam’s apple bobbed just below it. “I asked who you were delivering to.”

  The courier convulsed violently. Burk grabbed him by the shirt, and pressed the gun deeper into his flesh. The man hacked and coughed, and Burk shook him. “Answer me! What town? And what is your message?”

  Even through his hacking and coughing, the Death Rider was able to say this final word. “Death.” His neck went limp and his head drooped forward.

  Burk shoved the man’s body backwards, and it collapsed to the dirt. Something about the courier’s presence unnerved him. If the courier was coming to deliver a message, how long before the others showed up? He’d said they would come but was it an empty threat?

  He stepped over the dead biker and reloaded the shotgun, making his way to the bike. The bike was nice; chrome all over, ebony body, chopper style with cracked leather seats. A search of the side pockets produced a small glass bottle of clear liquid. Water, thank God.

  He twisted the top off, tilted his head back and drank. In his haste, he downed three swigs before the burning caught up to him. Or maybe it was that his throat was so parched, it didn’t strike right away.

  He ch
oked harshly, almost vomiting the vodka. It burned his throat, his tongue, his belly. The warmth spread from his esophagus to his lungs, then his entire chest.

  It comforted him.

  “No!” He screamed into the desert night and chucked the bottle. “What have I done?” The taste was both unwelcome and delicious. His nostrils singed on the exhale.

  “You may as well finish it,” he said aloud. His eyes fell to the bottle in the road. “You’ve already had a taste. You know you want it.”

  Burk stared with a sense of longing. He licked his lips. The sweetness burned the tip of his tongue. He hated himself for liking it. He stooped to pick it up.

  Instead, he kicked it hard across the street. It swirled across the broken blacktop, spilling its contents onto the thirsty asphalt.

  “No! You wasted it!” He ran over, dropped to his knees, and snatched it up. He tilted his head back and poured. A single large drop dripped out and met his tongue. Then no more.

  “Gawddamn you, Burk!” He cast the bottle away into the desert brush. His hand tightened around the shotgun. “How could you take that away from me? All I wanted was a drink.”

  Burk swallowed hard. “That’s not who I am anymore.” The hand clenched tighter around the barrel. Burk found it harder to keep the hand from lifting it upwards. “You’ve had enough.”

  “Is that what she said before she left, Burk? Left and never came back?”

  “You leave her out of this!” Burk shouted. In his anger, he lost his will power over the gun, and it stopped under his chin.

  “I’ll do it, Burk. You know I will.”

  Burk