Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors

by Benjamin Wallace

  The rig’s sleeper cabin had been gutted and converted into a command center. Maps covered with hand-drawn notations hung from the walls. Binders lined spot welded shelves. Inside each was information on fuel levels, food stores, and ammo stockpiles.

  A table stood in the center of the small room. There, a man pored over a manifest making notations in a spiral bound notebook.

  “There’s a pileup up ahead, sir. All lanes blocked.”

  “All stop.” Nails, gravel, and shards of glass shaken in a tin can made a more pleasant sound than the voice that came from the man in charge. His skin was like leather, but pale. Lines worn into the face from years of hardship did little to cast shadows. Even the contrast against shock white hair did little to give the skin color. Only the black patch across his eye gave his features definition.

  Mechanical systems popped and hissed as the rear air brakes triggered and brought the brute of a vehicle to a stop.

  “Get the crew on it. I want the road cleared as soon as possible.” The commander’s voice was calm, quiet, and terrifying. “I’ll be in my cabin.”

  “Yes, Major.”

  The commander disappeared from the cab through a fabricated connector that led to the trailers.

  The navigator spoke into an intercom on the dash.

  “Wrecking detail, dismount.”

  The command echoed through the trailers of the goliath. Men burst into action. Hidden panels burst open and armored men took up position on the roadside. Each held a rifle and peered down the sights as officers began to give the all clear.

  Several more men stepped from the truck brandishing pry bars, steel posts, torches, axes, and more. They set upon the wreckage, prying, bashing, and busting apart the mangled vehicles.

  Emerson saw the team emerge from the truck. Dressed in black, they wore the first uniforms he had seen since the bombs fell, the gases hissed, and the bugs were released.

  Not long after everything went to hell, there had been rumors that the government had been evacuated safely to Cheyenne Mountain and other shelters. Many had been hopeful that they would return. Others blamed the government for whatever it was that had happened. Either way, after seven years, there had been no sign of the United States of America.

  Gregory had always fallen into the second camp. He damned the government for all he had lost and cursed them for hiding like cowards in a hole in the ground, waiting for the suffering to end before reclaiming the country.

  Finding his sister’s family had changed all of that in an instant. Deep within him welled a longing for order. A longing for the world he had known. He wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be.

  These men must be the government. Governments offered stability, order, and, from the looks of it, matching uniforms. He wanted no part of his former life as a scavenger. He craved the order of civilization and a chance to make amends.

  He climbed to the top of a rusting sedan and waved. “God Bless America!”

  Sparks brushed his pant leg as a bullet ricocheted into the wasteland.

  “Don’t move.” The booming voice came from a sound system on the rig.

  “Okay!”

  Within minutes he was brought before the truck. They had all but stripped the clothes from his body. He had never been so thoroughly frisked without trading a substantial amount for the pleasure.

  A guard held him under each arm, while a third kicked at his knees to keep him off of his feet. They dragged him before an open doorway at the side of a trailer.

  He protested, “Guys, it’s okay. I’m happy to see you.”

  No response came from the guards.

  A man with white hair appeared a moment later. His massive build filled the doorframe.

  “What’s this?”

  “A scavenger, Major,” one of the guards said.

  “What’s your name?”

  Emerson hesitated. Any enthusiasm he held waned in the presence of this man with an eye patch. Instinct told him to stand and run, but the guards continued to hold his arms and knock his feet from under him.

  “Emerson … sir.”

  “Where are you coming from, Everson?”

  “I’m from Michigan originally …”

  The major stepped from the trailer and approached the captive. “Michigan. Really?” He held up his right hand and pointed to the open palm “Which part?”

  Gregory smiled and began to point towards the open palm to indicate his hometown.

  The palm came crashing down with such speed that Gregory Emerson flinched well after it had struck him.

  Blood rushed to the surface of his skin and he felt the sting on his cheek.

  “Where were you last, Eberson?” The major held his hand up again, not as a map, but as incentive to answer quickly.

  “Uh, New Hope. About a week ago.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Five days, that way.” He shrugged. “On foot. About ten miles off the highway.”

  The major nodded and stepped back into the trailer. A guard closed the door behind him.

  The guard behind him stopped kicking at his knees and drew a pistol. Gregory Emerson didn’t see the gun. He didn’t feel the bullet. Then, he felt nothing at all.

  The door opened again and the major reemerged. “Another thing, Everman …” He looked at the body on the ground. “Why is this man dead?”

  “You nodded, sir,” the guard with the smoking gun responded.

  “So?”

  “Well, usually when you nod, it means kill something.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think you’d be so quick about it.” The major stepped from the trailer and stood over the body of Gregory Emerson.

  “I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “I figured you’d at least drag him to the side of the road. I mean, look at this! You got blood and brain all over the truck.”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “You had better hope this comes out.” The major pulled the guard closer, grabbed the man’s sleeve, and tried to rub the blood from the black paint of the trailer. He succeeded only in smearing it around. Dropping the guard’s arm, he yelled, “Get this cleaned up and get rid of that body.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And from now on, when I nod, yes, kill something, but take it away and kill it.”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard signaled to the others to dispose of the body as he set to spitting at the splatter on the trailer.

  “Not like that, get some water. Take it out of the prisoners’ rations.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guard hurried off as the major yelled after him.

  “I want this road cleared STAT. We’re heading to New Hope.” He stepped back into the trailer and shut the door.

  The wrecking crew, having stopped to witness the execution, returned to their task.

  Coordinated as their efforts were, the pileup was extensive. Wrecks of rusted cars were twisted together as one. Torches, jackhammers, and more would take days to clear the wreckage. A respect for the dead would cost them weeks. This would not be a factor.

  Sparks flew as they began their work.

  SEVEN

  “What do they want?”

  “Food, provisions, men, women, and children.”

  “Women and children?”

  “They’re collecting slaves. They kill most of the men and place the women and children in this trailer here.” Logan pointed to a crude illustration of the rig that he had sketched on the wall of the town hall barn.

  Gasps came from the gathered crowd. Every citizen of New Hope was in attendance to hear the proposed plans for the defense or evacuation of New Hope.

  “What do they do with the slaves?” The question arose from the back of the room.

  Logan shook his head, “I don’t know. Trade them? Forced labor? Worse? There are no limits to this man’s evil.”

  “How many men on this truck?” Sheriff Willie Deatherage looked up at the crude drawing of the rig.

  “T
wenty or more.”

  “I’m pretty sure we’ve got that many bullets.”

  Logan raised a hand to calm the lawman. “All of them are well armed and trained. They may be former military.”

  “I don’t buy it.” A young councilman stood in the back of the room. After speaking with Logan, the mayor had requested a gathering of the town’s administrators. Most of the council members supported his plan. Timothy Simmons, however, had been swayed by Roy’s arguments. The young council remained skeptical that there was a threat at all.

  Simmons pushed a pair of ill-fitting glasses further up the bridge of his nose before he spoke. “It’s been seven years. Seven years since everything stopped and we’ve never seen anything like this. Why, all of a sudden, is the post-apocalypse turning into Mad Max?”

  Logan straightened, “I don’t mean to argue, but you’ve been fortunate. Gangs have formed and towns have burned. I’ve seen it. And, I’ve stopped it from happening.”

  “Bullshit. Bullshit, Mr. Logan.” The glasses slid back down his nose.

  “Why would I make this up?”

  “A good question, Mr. Logan. Let’s examine that, shall we?” The young councilman approached the front of the room, adjusted his glasses and spoke to the crowd. “Have you ever heard of the grasshopper and the ants?”

  Logan shook his head in disbelief. “That’s hardly …”

  “The ants, ladies and gentlemen, worked diligently all year harvesting food for winter.”

  Someone in the crowd muttered, “We know the story, Timothy.”

  The young man continued, fidgeting with his new glasses as he spoke. “They worked hard, storing food so that they might live. But, the grasshopper …” He turned to face Logan. “The Grasshopper, Mr. Logan, played and played. And he didn’t do shit for work.”

  “Yes, sir. I know the parable and …”

  “And, when winter came, the grasshopper began to starve. That lazy, lazy grasshopper. And, the ants took pity and fed him. No, wait. That’s not right.”

  “I think the ants let him starve,” said the Director of Internal Communications.

  “No, they fed him and he learned to work hard,” said the Secretary of the Treasury.

  The crowd began to offer their own recollections of the story:

  “I thought that the grasshoppers were bullies.”

  “No, that was A Bug’s Life.”

  “Was that the one with Stallone?”

  “No, that was Ant Bully.”

  “Antz.”

  “What?”

  “You mean Antz. With a z. Antz.”

  “What’s with a z?”

  “The ant movie with Stallone and Woody Allen.”

  “Look at the movie nerd.”

  “Shut it, Miller.”

  “The point is, ladies and gentlemen,” Timothy shouted, “that the story is no less true today than when Dr. Seuss first penned it. And here,” he pointed to Logan, “is our grasshopper. Knocking on our ant hill with a story about a truck full of killers.”

  The room was quiet. All men and women looked to Logan. The only sound was Miller and the movie nerd trading insults back and forth. Logan waited for the arguing to stop before he responded.

  “Wow. Just, wow. I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Timothy began to walk back to his seat.

  “Aesop, not Seuss, Mr. Timothy, was a wise man. And,” he gestured to a gray-haired man in the front row, “you were right, the ants let the grasshopper starve. And deservedly so. The grasshopper sang and played while the ants toiled. He offered nothing.

  “I’m no grasshopper. I offer something. If it is just a warning that a big truck full of killers is headed your way … fine. You can choose to ignore it, or prepare for it on your own. It doesn’t matter to me. But I am offering to stay and help. And not for your winter stores. I don’t want anything.”

  “Then why would you help?”

  “Because, I used to be an ant.” He shifted his feet and choked back a hard memory. “And grasshoppers took everything from me. Good people of New Hope, I see potential in this new world. The blight of mankind’s evil was not wiped from this Earth with everything else. But, from what’s left there is the hope that a town such as yours can be the model for the new world. It is a good town. A town ruled by the people. Good people.

  “And now you are in the path of a force ruled by fear. The two will collide. Whichever is left standing will shape the world to come.

  “There is a grasshopper out there and I can’t let this be a world created by grasshoppers. I want to live in a world of ants. I want to side with you and protect your way of life. Our way of life.”

  The crowd was silent, but he could see that his words had moved them. Timothy Simmons saw it as well and sank into his seat. Logan was confident that he could speak without protest.

  “I don’t want anything from you. I just want to help. Now, I’m going to need some things. We don’t have much time.”

  “How much time do we have?” the sheriff pointed back at the truck.

  “We can’t be certain. I made the drive from Vita Nova in under a day. They’ll take a little longer.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The roads aren’t clear enough for a rig of this size. They don’t have the luxury of crossing medians. They’ll have to make their own path.”

  EIGHT

  Ash that had been Vita Nova shifted beneath his boots as he moved slowly through the town. Patches of the ground were warm beneath his feet as they stirred the coals of a devastating blaze. An odor hung in the air; it smelled like a campfire that had melted a pair of sneakers.

  Frames of the buildings still stood, but they were charred and brittle like burnt matchsticks. Bodies lay everywhere. Some burned beyond recognition, others untouched by the flames. There was nothing left in the town but death and a tricycle.

  The little red tricycle lay on its side; one wheel spun from the rising heat of the town. He didn’t see the child that once rode it. He didn’t want to.

  Wasteland travels had exposed him to horrific creatures. Mutant animals hunted for prey with a ferocity and viciousness that no creature had been capable of prior to the bombs.

  However, only man could create destruction such as this. Men with a cruelty that rivaled those who had unleashed the apocalypse itself. Only man, or really, really smart bears, could treat living creatures with such malice.

  The squeak of the tricycle’s wheel slowed and stopped. Apart from the occasional crack of a weakened structure, the town was silent except for a single sound.

  Weeping.

  “Hello?” The ash soaked up his voice as it swirled around him, driven by a light wind. He yelled louder, “Hello?”

  He must have been heard, because the weeping stopped. Footing was hard to find on the ash, but he ran to where he thought the sound had originated. Slipping on the char and coals of the town, he tripped several times. Often he had to put his knee down to maintain his balance. Through his jeans he could feel that parts of the ground were still warm.

  Despite the hazardous landscape, he risked twisted or broken ankles to find the source of the crying. Every step stirred a plume of smoke from the ground.

  “It’s okay to come out. I’m not a threat.” He slung the shotgun across his back as he slowed his pace. “I want to help.”

  There was no response but popping cinders from the town.

  “Chewy, find them.”

  The mastiff barked and began to sniff the air. She traced the scent into the shell of a building and began to smell the ground. Ash and smoke clouded her nose and she began to sneeze.

  “You’re worthless, you know that?”

  The mighty dog barked in disagreement and resumed her hunt. Taking shorter breaths, she overcame the tickling ash and made her way across the town’s courtyard to a small metal shed that had been spared by the blaze. Darting inside, she left behind a cloud of ash and a trail of excited chirps.


  Jerry followed across the courtyard and came to the door of the shed just as Chewy emerged with a can of chili in her mouth. Drool coated the faded Wolf Brand label.

  “Chewy, I said find them, not get dinner.”

  The massive dog dropped the can of chili at his feet and stared at him.

  “No.”

  She whimpered.

  “No. Find the person crying.”

  The dog snorted and resumed her search. She disappeared behind the shed.

  Jerry bent over and picked up the chili. It was cool to the touch despite the hot drool. The shed must lead to a cellar. It could hold stores of food and would be worth checking into once they found whoever had been crying.

  “Don’t move, you bastard.” The woman’s voice came from behind him. There was nothing in her tone that signaled she had been crying. He feared that he had walked into a trap.

  The duster covered his .45s. He lowered his chili-free hand towards the pistol while turning to face the woman.

  “I said don’t move. Turning is moving.” Her voice sounded like it was coming from behind a rifle. Or a stick.

  “Are you okay?” He stretched his hands out, away from his weapons.

  “Shut up.” Her voice began to shake. So did the rifle.

  “What happened here?”

  “Everybody died.” There it was. The sob he had heard earlier entered her voice.

  “I want to help.” Slowly, imperceptibly he began to bend at his knees. The duster hid the slight movements from her view.

  “Then stand right there and let me shoot you.”

  “I’m sure there’s something else I can do.”

  “Fine. Who needs your help? I’ll do it myself.”

  “Enough people have died here. Let me help you.”

  On his right was a brick wall. It was close. Close enough maybe. If he could get enough bend in his knee there was a chance he could spring behind it.