The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to St. Louis
Series 1, Episode 2
by David VonAllmen
Kindle Edition
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide Series Copyright © 2017 Stephen Lawson.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to St. Louis Copyright © 2017 David VonAllmen.
All rights reserved.
Cover art and logo by Preston Stone Copyright © 2017 Stephen Lawson
All rights reserved.
For series information, author/artist bios, interactive maps, pictures, and upcoming releases, visit tpatg.com
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide: Series 1
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Louisville Copyright © 2017 Stephen Lawson.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to St. Louis Copyright © 2017 David VonAllmen.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to the Utah Deserts Copyright © 2017 Dustin Steinacker.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to the Mojave Desert Copyright © 2017 Sean Hazlett.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Los Angeles Copyright © 2017 Jake Marley.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Seattle Copyright © 2018 Philip Kramer.
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This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons either living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
Dedication
To my wife, Ann, who gave me all the things that make life worth living.
And to my children, Lucas and Eva, who are those things that make life worth living.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to St. Louis
About the Author
Acknowledgements
First off, I want to thank Stephen Lawson for inviting me to be part of this fun project. There is no bigger compliment than to have an author whose work you admire tell you they’d like you to write something for them.
I also want to thank all those who I’ve learned the craft of writing from: The cast of the Writing Excuses podcast, Dave Farland, everyone at Superstars Writing Seminars, everyone on Codex, and my St. Louis writing crew peeps.
And finally, I’d like to thank Team Abrasive for… well, I don’t know… being drunk idiots, I guess.
The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to St. Louis
Heat waves shimmered across the shore, even as the sun set. They were almost to St. Louis, rusted iron bridges sailing by overhead, crumbling industrial buildings dotting the landscape to either side. Thursday did his best to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, but only managed to push drips of grime down into his eyes.
Volunteering to help man the deck of the Belle of Louisville seemed like a good idea a few days ago. Working a steamboat wasn’t much labor and he got to spend his afternoons chatting with Nandi, who had the smoothest brown skin and biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. Whenever they weren’t talking, Nandi sung old songs that she said were from Motown, though Thursday wasn’t sure if that was a man or a woman. She’d even brought him to her quarters to listen to black disks that she spun around under her finger on a little table with a needle-arm hanging over it. If you stuck your ear right up to it, you could make out voices singing over all sorts of musical instruments Thursday had never heard before. He liked the songs better when Nandi sang them.
But it turned out Nandi hadn’t been sweet on him like he’d hoped, she only had eyes for her beau, Ryan. And the captain had an odd sense of just how clean his 200-foot deck needed to be. Thursday was glad they were coming in to port today, so he’d get a little break. Well, after he helped unload the countless sacks of barley meant for a brewery there. Some fellow calling himself The King of Brews owned a big old pre-invasion beer brewing facility, and from the sound of it, owned half the city of St. Louis right along with it.
When the Belle shoved off again, Thursday was going with her, on up the Missouri river to their turn-around point in Pierre, South Dakota. From what he’d seen on the captain’s map, the Missouri continued on almost to the western edge of Montana, but the Belle wasn’t going that far. He was thankful, though. This boat was going to take him halfway from Louisville to Seattle, and all that distance in only three weeks. Maybe from Pierre he could find another boat to get him even further.
Nandi somehow managed to sing and sashay as she hauled a sack of barley over her shoulder and flopped it onto the growing deck pile. Thursday watched her, sneaky-like, out of the corner of his eye while ignoring the mop he’d been circling around in the same spot for the last couple minutes. Cute, and even cuter when her smile lit up her face. Wore her hair cut short and practical, and a yellow tank top that showed off her long arms. She didn’t have much weight on her, but she had female curves, which wasn’t too common when everyone was always leaning so close to starvation. Thursday had never had a girlfriend before, but he figured if he ever did, he couldn’t hope for anything better than Nandi.
A flaming arrow zipped under her chin, slamming into a burlap sack. Nandi yelped and stumbled backward onto her rear as the sack caught fire. More arrows followed, each sticking with a thunk into wood beams and crates. Thursday swung his head around in time to see a dozen men and women, black bandanas tied over the lower halves of their faces, climbing over the side of the boat and onto the deck. Each pulled a metal club from a strap on their back as they found their footing. Thursday yanked Nandi to her feet.
“Raiders!” Nandi called out.
The gang fanned out across the deck, three of them coming straight for Thursday and Nandi. This was no rag-tag cannibal street gang, they were skilled and organized enough to match speed with the steamboat and pull up alongside it. Probably trained themselves to loot passing vessels. But they had a glint of madness in their eyes, and it was a safe bet that after the looting of the boats came the roasting of the crew.
Thursday swung his broom handle right for the face of the first raider, but the man already had his club in motion, and its greater weight knocked Thursday’s handle aside. Thursday faded back, pushing Nandi behind him. The raider swung again, the club whipping past Thursday’s nose close enough for him to feel its breeze.
The raider’s eyes shifted, and Thursday heard the pounding of footsteps coming up behind him. The rest of the crew had heard Nandi’s shout and were racing up to the deck to join the fight. Taking advantage of the raider’s distraction, Thursday yanked the club from his hand and leapt forward, slamming the heavy length of metal down on him. The raider threw an arm up, but not fast enough, and the bar caught him across his forearm and cheek. The raider collapsed to the deck.
Wood crates and piles of barley sacks went up in flame. In every direction, men and women, obscured by the clouds of gray smoke, kicked and brawled.
“Ryan!” Nandi shouted.
Thursday swung his head in time to see Ryan, weaponless and defenseless, backing up to the railing as a raider closed in on him. Nandi ran to help him and without thought, Thursday did too. But before he could take a second step, something clamped around his ankle, jerking him to a stop.
Thursday looked down see he was in the grip of the raider
he’d crumpled to the ground a moment ago. The blow he’d delivered should have broken both the man’s jaw and arm. What the hell? How was he still moving?
The raider yanked Thursday’s foot out from under him. Thursday’s chin slammed against the wood deck, shocks of pain bursting through his skull. He struggled to regain his senses, metallic blood leaking into his mouth. He managed to roll onto his back, put his arms up to defend himself, but not before the raider climbed over him. The raider’s fist crashed into Thursday’s nose. Pain blossomed brightly through his eyes.
Nandi screamed. Thursday managed to tilt his head just enough to get an upside-down view of her trying to catch Ryan’s body as he drooped to the floor. A wooden shard stuck out of Ryan’s gut, his blood leaking onto the deck.
The fist hammered down on him again. Thursday threw up his hands, but the next blow got through clean and smacked the back of his head against the deck. His arms fell limp at his sides.
Mind hazy, body all but numb, Thursday could only watch through blurry eyes as the raiders slashed open sacks of barley and drained the contents over the side of the ship.
It made no sense. Calories were hard to come by, what every person was fighting to find and keep. Raiding a ship to steal its barley made sense, you could feed a lot of people with what they had on board. But who would attack a boat, risk their lives fighting the crew, just to dump all those calories into the muddy river?
The raider who had been fighting Thursday hopped up and joined his gang, smashing open wood crates with his club. The fighting was over. The ship’s captain lay face-down, motionless. Nandi cradled Ryan in her arms, sobbing and pressing a blood-soaked cloth to the wound in his belly. Other crew members lay scattered about, a few of them moaning, none of them moving.
Thursday coughed and gagged on the smoke that grew thicker as the flames spread onto the pilot house. The sun had slipped below the horizon, it was the orange flames that provided most of the light, flickering and distorting everything Thursday could see.
The raiders had flung half of the cargo overboard when the flames spread to engulf the other half. The entire deck roasted in the heat of the fire. Even with a whole crew alert and uninjured they would have stood little chance to put out the fire. But with most of them wounded or unconscious or dead, the Belle of Louisville was sure to burn up and crumble into the waters of the Mississippi.
The raiders abandoned ship, climbing over the rails to lower themselves onto whatever boat had brought them here. Thursday struggled to his hands and knees, weakly calling out to Nandi.
“He’s still alive,” Nandi called back, voice hoarse from crying. Thursday’s ears were fuzzy, he could barely hear her over the roar of flame.
“We have to get off the boat,” Thursday yelled.
Nandi dropped the bloody rag and hooked one of Ryan’s arms over her shoulders. She struggled to her feet, Ryan’s weight threatening to topple her. Thursday also fought to stand, but he had only his own weight to lift. His balance failed and he staggered sideways. He caught himself against the rail, the metal growing hot from the fire.
Thursday found his balance and helped Nandi drag Ryan to the rail. Thursday peered over the side – it was a drop of more than twenty feet to the water.
“We’re going to have to throw him over,” he said.
Nandi looked up at him, eyes wide and face twisted with fear. “He’ll drown.”
“There’s no other way down.”
“Just…” Nandi’s chest heaved with panicked breaths.
The searing heat of the fire made Thursday fear the back of his shirt was going to combust at any second.
“There’s no time to wait,” Thursday said.
Nandi hopped, hoisting her rear onto the rail, then swung her legs over. “Let me go first,” she said. “So I’m there when he hits.”
She jumped, splashing into the dark water and resurfacing a second later. Thursday leaned Ryan’s chest onto the rail and heaved his legs over, trying to angle his limp body so that at least there was a chance he’d hit feet first. Thursday’s head throbbed and the effort of hauling Ryan’s body over the side caused queasy waves of pain to echo through his skull. With a soft shove he sent Ryan over the side. Ryan’s body turned in air, his feet striking water first, but his body landing sideways with a wet smack. It was probably as good as Thursday could have hoped for.
Thursday propped himself up on the rail, but before he jumped he realized there might be more crew left alive. He looked back over his shoulder, hoping to see anybody still moving. There was nothing but smoke and blaze. If any of the crew were still living, he couldn’t get to them.
He jumped.
~~~
It couldn’t have been more than five hundred feet from the boat to the shore. But Thursday and Nandi had to swim with one arm each, dragging Ryan between them, fighting the current and choking on gritty mouthfuls of river water. It seemed to Thursday it must have taken an hour to cover the distance.
They flopped onto the grassy shore, gravel and train tracks not more than a few dozen feet away. In the near distance was an endless maze of brick buildings. They rolled Ryan onto his back. Nandi checked to make sure he was still breathing. Thursday fell to his back, panting, looking up into a black sky full of bright white stars surrounding a nearly full moon.
“He’s still alive but…” Nandi said.
Thursday knew what she stopped herself from saying: “but not for long.” A pang of sadness shot through him. It wasn’t for Ryan, not really. Thursday didn’t want to see Nandi in such anguish, didn’t want to see how badly it would hurt her if Ryan died.
And yet… In time she would get over Ryan’s death. She was young and would love again. Maybe he could convince her to come with him to Seattle.
Thursday caught himself, cut off that fantasy. It wasn’t the way a person should think. Not one that’s got a heart in his chest. He didn’t want to see Nandi sad, and Ryan dying would make her sadder than anything else in the world. That’s what Thursday would focus on.
“You know anyone in this town other than that King of Brews fellow?” Thursday asked.
“I don’t even know him,” Nandi said. “We’ve just been on this run for a few months, only made two deliveries before this one. We drop the barley off at the docks, his people pick it up. I don’t know anyone’s names, don’t know if they’d even recognize me.”
“It’s all we got.”
“So what do we do?”
“How far are we from the dock? Someone will be there, waiting for us.”
Nandi looked around. “I don’t know. We were pretty close, but we got swept downriver a bit.”
“You stay here with him,” Thursday said, “I’ll follow the tracks until I find the dock. Hopefully, they’ll have a wagon or something we can move him in, and a doctor wherever they live.”
Nandi looked at Thursday, her eyes strained with emotion. Thursday knew what she was thinking. They’d only known each other for a few days and most people in this situation wouldn’t feel a whole heck of a lot of loyalty to someone they’d only known for a few days. She was thinking it was a better chance than not that he’d take off, leave the wounded man behind, just look out for himself.
Thursday took her hand. “I’m going to get help. I’m coming back for you, I promise. Okay?”
Nandi nodded, tears forming in her eyes.
“Go quick,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper.
Thursday hopped up, faster than his exhausted body wanted to, as if to prove to her that he had the strength to see the job through. He ran off, shoes scuffing across the gravel.
He had to save Ryan’s life. After what he’d been thinking, if he didn’t, he’d have a hell of a hard time living with himself.
~~~
Thursday had been right about people waiting for them at the dock. The King of Brews’s people were better fed than most and less ragged than most. What really made them stand out was that every one of them was clean-shaven
with hair cut short. In a world of thin resources, most didn’t have the means or energy to keep so tidy.
When Thursday explained what had happened, the half-dozen men and women passed a look between them, one filled with tension. It wasn’t just that they were unhappy about losing a shipment. There was something more.
The workers had a number of handcarts ready for hauling the barley sacks, and a few of them pulled one along, letting Thursday lead them to where Ryan lay by the riverside. Nandi lay beside him, singing softly into his ear, a song about watching ships roll in and then watching them roll away again.
They loaded Ryan into the handcart and the group made their way to the brewery, Thursday pulling the cart. He’d been in such a panic, the whole journey to find these men and bring them back seemed to happen quickly. Once his adrenaline started fading out, Thursday realized he’d been on his feet for hours, and exhaustion crept over him.
Nandi grabbed the other handle of the cart. She thanked Thursday over and over again. She really had doubted that he was coming back. He couldn’t take it too personally – in a world this rough, most people’s loyalty went only so far as it served their own survival.
The brewery sat in the middle of an old urban area, distinguished only by the rooftop and balcony torches that lit up its exterior while all around it sat in darkness. The brewery was constructed of red brick, towering smokestacks and six-story buildings stretching nearly half a block long each, intersecting at right angles and overlapping in a jumble of masonry. They entered through an archway. Three men and a woman, each armed with a club or crossbow, stood guard outside. Thursday eyed the female guard’s crossbow—he wished he still had his. He looked up to see her suspiciously eyeing him in return.
More red brick coated the floor of the interior, where old red wagons sat under electric chandeliers that likely hadn’t been lit since the invasion. Dozens of small oil lamps, set into the wall at regular intervals, lit up the space, allowing Thursday to see the clean display cases documenting the history of this brewery—a history that seemed to stretch back a couple of centuries. That history, like all else, ended when the invasion started.
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