A Town Called America

by Andrew Alexander

  Embarrassed and angry, she leaned down on one knee and pulled the knife from the Rottweiler’s body. Then she bent over and picked the heavy dog up from the ground. She pushed its lifeless body deep onto a wooden fence post. Was it sadistic? It sure is, she thought.

  The Rottweiler, impaled in front of the cellar door, was intended for Amber and all to see.

  The situation with the dog made Chris feel more and more anger toward Amber with each step she took toward the cellar. After retrieving the weapons she’d left on the ground, she walked over to the cellar door and attempted to lift it. It was locked, but she knew it was time for action, as anyone nearby would have already would have heard her scuffle with the dead dog.

  Her next move would mean there was no going back. Chris closed her eyes and took another deep breath. Opening her eyes she exhaled then pointed her shotgun at the lock. Within a second a one-foot circle had been blown into the wooden door.

  She threw the door open and moved down the stairs into the cellar as fast as she could. At the bottom she saw that it was one large open room with concrete walls. Small black-painted windows were just above ground level. On the far wall, the shelves were loaded with boxes from floor to ceiling. In the center were two couches along with a kerosene lamp that lit the room completely.

  Chris stopped near the bottom of the steps and looked at the three women who were standing in the brightly lit room and staring back at her, one of whom was pointing a gun at her.

  “Who the hell are you?” the woman to the left of Chris said.

  Chris’s shotgun was pointed directly at her. Boom. The blast of the shotgun echoed throughout the cellar. The woman had no chance, as half her neck instantaneously erupted, causing her head to tilt grotesquely away from her body and dropping her to the ground, bleeding but not quite dead. Chris threw her shotgun down; it made a clank when it hit the hard floor.

  Slowly and intentionally she drew her Colt 1911 and pointed it at the second woman, who stood looking at her in disbelief. Neither woman was Amber, but that didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, they were all going to die.

  “Now wait a damn minute!” the woman said in an authoritative voice.

  Chris asked her one question. “Where’s Amber?”

  “I don’t know. I’m telling you the truth!”

  Chris pulled the trigger and shot the woman three times in the chest. Her body dropped to the floor and folded into a ball as blood oozed from her wounds. Taking three steps toward the first woman she had shot, Chris pointed her pistol at her head and pulled the trigger once more. She, like the second woman, was no longer alive.

  The last woman took a few steps back and sat on the couch. “You screwed up,” she said. “I know you. You’re little Christiana. Yeah, I know who you are.”

  Chris walked to the couch and stood in front of the unarmed woman. “Where’s Amber?” she asked her. “And what’s up with the Rottweiler outside?”

  “What? Billy Bob? He died this morning, so piss off!”

  Taking another deep breath and shaking her head in disappointment, Chris pointed the gun at her head. “It’s your last chance,” she said smugly.

  “I really don’t—”

  Chris squeezed the trigger and fired a single bullet into her head. She turned to walk away, and when she did, she was face-to-face with Amber.

  Amber was standing not five feet from Chris, with no weapon and thinner than she remembered, and with a look of total disbelief on her aged face.

  “You know, I don’t give a damn about those three. They’ve been a pain in my ass since day one, but why the hell did you impale my dog?”

  Completely covered in blood from the dog and the three women she had slain, Chris stood there looking at Amber for a moment. “You…you let those bastards do all that shit to me,” she finally said. “I had no one—not my foster father and not you. I was alone, and you tied me up. Your boyfriend tried to rape me and beat the shit out of me, and you didn’t care.”

  “You really blame me for what someone else did.” Amber said shaking her head.

  “No! I’ve been hearing that a lot lately, and no, I’m not gonna wait anymore. You destroyed me, and now its payback time.”

  Very slowly Chris raised her pistol and aimed it at Amber. “Tell me you’re sorry for what you did.”

  “Chris, I’m sorry. I can’t change the past, and there’s nothing I can do to make it up to you. So if you think this is what you have to do, then do it! Otherwise you’re just wasting my time. But then I guess you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

  Without another word Chris pulled the trigger and shot Amber twice in the chest then once in the head before she headed up the stairs and to the garage.

  There it was. Chris could hardly believe Amber still had her 1976 Chevy Blazer. It really was a piece of shit—rusty and very unpleasant to look at—but after only a few minutes of tinkering, the beast of a truck came to life with a roar. Chris filled the truck with box after box of canned goods, several weapons, and a couple of cartons of cigarettes.

  When she hopped inside, she saw that it had only a little fuel, but it would be enough to get her back to Rick. After that she was sure it wouldn’t start again. In fact Chris did make it back to Rick with the supplies, and she was right; the truck had made its final run. Chris crept past the sleeping bag that Rick was lying in, setting her belonging on the ground. After bathing in a nearby creek to remove the blood that covered her she quietly slipped inside the sleeping bag with Rick, kissing him on the cheek before falling asleep herself.

  SIXTEEN

  After planning and packing, the pair set off on the interstate, looking for a place to build a town called America. The interstate was a long stretch of highway that ran from the East Coast all the way to what once had been California. At one time it had been a major roadway used for the transportation of a majority of goods in the United States. People had used this highway for traveling, and it had been a very decent drive, with many cities along the way.

  The highway, however, had deteriorated at an alarming rate. Abandoned cars packed the road, and more than a few human remains. Rick and Chris made their way on foot through the seemingly never-ending labyrinth of vehicles and debris. It was early morning, and both felt refreshed, as they’d spent the last two nights at a campground. It had been a good call on Chris’s part to suggest finding a campground. While they were there, they had found a tent, a sleeping bag, and some clothes they desperately needed. They also had stocked up on a few days’ worth of Meals Ready to Eat.

  The weather was getting cooler, and winter would be arriving soon, so they’d decided to travel south. Their plan was to travel the interstate through the winter then head north in the summertime. Their goal was to eventually make their way to the Midwest and find somewhere they could stay long term. They had a list of requirements they’d agreed were necessary in order for them to settle somewhere.

  It must be near a water source.

  There must be trees as well as land to grow crops.

  The location must be in a place where security will be easy to establish.

  It must have access to a main roadway.

  There must be limited people in the area.

  It can’t be near a major city.

  The idea had been mutual between Rick and Chris. Tired of the fighting and killing, they wanted to find a place where they could establish a new town. Seeing that the government had failed them and that there was no hope of outside help, they would take it upon themselves to start over and build a place on the principles that the founding fathers of the United Stated had intended. It would be a just and lawful town, where everyone had freedom and also a voice. It would be a town they would call “America.”

  After what they figured had been close to three months of walking, they believed they were nearing Louisiana. They slept in semi-trucks and old buildings off the interstate and traveled at night to avoid running into people.

  Over the next several ye
ars, the couple traveled the interstate from Mississippi into Texas, then moved through New Mexico to Colorado. Although their goal was to find a place to settle in the Midwest, Rick had decided it best to travel further west in an attempt to avoid any encounter with the M.M., as recent rumors said the M.M. were become more brazen in their attacks in the Mississippi and Tennessee areas.

  Nothing in the world had changed; everything was still in chaos. They continued to hear stories about the M.M. hunting and killing people who were only trying to survive. The more time that passed, the more they both despised the M.M. trying, but Their journey was exhausting and as they traveled, they grew closer to each other. As bad as everything was, neither would rather have been with anyone else.

  They hunted, fished, and lived off the land, as humans had done for so long in the past. Eventually they acquired a couple of horses from a passerby. It was only after they had attempted to speak with the traveler that they killed him and took his horses because he had fired at them. Initially they weren’t trying to get anything but information from him, but the horses did make their travels and lives easier.

  They rode across the once-great nation through cities and towns that lay in waste. Even though they did their best to avoid people and conflict, confrontation always followed them. Although they’d been engaged in many gunfights, people for the most part, though armed, seldom had ammunition.

  While traveling in Colorado, Rick and Chris found a National Guard armory outside what once had been Fort Carson. The building had been completely stripped of valuables, except for two crates full of ammo; thus they had plenty of bullets now. This made their occasional encounters with people very short and always ending in Rick and Chris’s favor.

  Fort Carson and neighboring Colorado Springs were void of people other than a few travelers they had come across. Inside the south entrance to Fort Carson was a long stretch of road that was riddled with burned building and parking lots full of old military equipment. The only buildings still standing were old army barracks that once had housed thousands of soldiers; now they just sat empty. Just like every other city, this base was a relic of the past.

  Not knowing their way around the base, they spent the better part of three weeks scavenging for anything useful. The few locked doors made it nearly impossible for them to gain access to certain buildings, as they were reinforced with high-grade steel that neither Rick nor Chris had the skills or tools to break through. In those cases they just moved on instead of wasting their time trying to get inside when there was a possibility that these buildings only contained government documents that now were worth nothing.

  After Fort Carson they continued north, having many adventures and encounters; some were good, but most ended with the death of someone who wanted something they had. Soon people were spinning tales about Rick and Chris having come from the depths of hell. These stories told of their evil and how they had killed men, women, and children. Although most of the stories were fictitious, it was true that they had killed. In fact, at some point, the two had killed just about anyone who had gotten in their way. It wasn’t something they were proud of; it just was what it was.

  As the years passed, fewer and fewer people dared to travel open roads, and the ones who did usually did it out of sheer desperation. Therefore, when two people on horseback, armed with a seemingly unending supply of ammunition came to town, it most certainly attracted attention. Of the people Rick and Chris came in contact with, few were friendly; most were scared and wanted to be left alone; and some were looking for a fight.

  Eventually Rick and Chris needed to reevaluate their plan, because no matter where they went, they ended up running into someone who tried to hold them up or shoot them, and they were growing tired of the death and destruction that followed them. They’d been trying to stick to their original plan: travel north to the Midwest and find a place to settle down. Nevertheless their dreams were slowly fading, as they hadn’t found any place that remotely came close to what they needed for a town called America.

  The couple rode on, eventually making their way into Kansas and Missouri. After traveling east, they would settle down for the winter, usually riding again the following spring; over time this became their routine.

  During their travels they eventually met a man named Billy, who joined them on their journey. He was much older than them, in his late fifties, but as tough as they come. He was humble and educated but not someone you’d want on your bad side. At that time, when they were first getting to know Billy, the few stories he told seemed reasonable enough. He wasn’t a big talker, but when he did speak, people listened.

  He told Rick and Chris he had grown up in Washington but had traveled throughout the United States prior to the collapse. He’d been a crane operator for a company that had sent him to construction sites all over the country.

  He had gray hair and a long gray mustache and was six foot two and well over two hundred pounds. Usually wearing black, which seemed to be his favorite color, Billy looked like a cross between an old-west cowboy and Mad Max. A large black cowboy hat was always atop his head, and he almost always wore a duster that hung below his knees.

  Billy also loved his guns. His two S&W .44 Magnum revolvers—his “sixes,” as he called them—never were more than an arm’s reach from him, but most of the time, they were in their holsters under each of his arms.

  The story of how Rick and Chris met their friend Billy is a mystery. All three had sworn to secrecy the details of their first encounter. If you’d asked them, the only thing they’d say was that they were at the right place at the right time. Very few people knew the true story, but it’s lost in the pages of history, as the only people who knew what really happened took that secret to their graves.

  SEVENTEEN

  Billy stood over Rick and Chris, who were sleeping under a sleeping bag they’d pulled over their heads.

  “Ricky, Ricky, wake up,” Billy said quietly.

  Rick opened his eyes to see the mountain of a man who was looking down upon him. Billy wore a black T-shirt that read, TO EACH THEIR OWN, along with his black duster and hat, which gave him a very imposing look. The black cowboy hat nearly blocked his eyes, making it difficult for Rick to see his face.

  “What is it, Billy?” Rick asked.

  “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  “OK. Just give me a couple minutes.”

  Billy nodded and walked away.

  The three had been holed up in an old bank south of Wichita for months. Chris had hit her head when she had fallen from her horse, and after her injury, she developed a severe sensitivity to sunlight. It had changed their travel plans a bit, and sometimes it was inconvenient, but for the most part, they adjusted.

  The bank was in the center of a town they’d never been to or heard of, and it wasn’t on any map they’d seen. It was just one more speck of a town they’d come across by chance. The bank provided them with security and had a place for their horses to stay in what once had been a loading area for armored trucks.

  Billy was sitting at a desk in what he thought once had been the office of the bank’s president. The office was on the second floor and was surprisingly clean. Some dust had accumulated on the desktop and a few pictures, but other than that, it looked as though no one had set foot inside it since the bank had closed its doors. At the corner of the desk was a picture of man in a white polo shirt with three children around him. Billy sat looking at the picture, wondering what that family’s fate had been.

  When Billy was younger, he had known his share of women, but for one reason or another, he’d never had a wife, only a daughter he’d never met. Knowing his daughter was the one thing he wished he had done differently in his life. Nevertheless he was in a safe, clean bank with his two closest friends in the adjoining room—friends with whom he’d been riding for close to two years now.

  Rick walked into the office and sat on the tan leather couch. He kicked up his feet on the coffee table and instantly fel
t very comfortable. The room had beautiful cherry-oak walls and crown molding on the ceiling. At one time this had been a very high-end office, Rick thought; he was sure the Persian rug alone had been very expensive.

  As he was wearing only his jeans and was barefoot, his many scars were visible on his body, like a road map to his past. Rick, half asleep, looked at Billy without a word.

  “Ricky,” Billy began, “I need to ask you something that’s very important to me.”

  “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, a long time ago, my mother gave me something that was very special to me. I had it for many years. I, it’s not…Well, it’s not worth much, but…well, it’s important to me.”

  “OK, Billy.”

  “Before the collapse I was living in a town not too far from here called Jamesville, and I’d like to go there and see if I can find it. See if my old place is still standing, and maybe I can get what I need. We’ve been together—the three of us—for some time now, and I’ve never asked you for anything really.”

  “Billy, you don’t need to explain. If there’s something you need, we’ll do it,” Rick stated, half yawning. “Just out of curiosity, what is it you’re looking for?”

  “Um, it’s something stuff my mother gave me a long time ago.”

  “Let me guess…It was in a galaxy far, far away?” Rick snapped back without missing a beat.

  “I see you’re a funny guy in the morning.”

  “OK, we can go tomorrow, and just so you know, if you ever wake me up this early again, it won’t be funny when I shoot you,” Rick said with a half grin.