Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors

by Benjamin Wallace

  One little girl gasped.

  “It’s okay. These are strong walls. More than strong enough to keep them out. But you don’t want to run into one out in the wasteland.”

  “Why not?” one of the children asked.

  “They’re strong. Really strong. I’ve seen one rip the door right off a car.”

  “Was it your car?” asked another.

  “No,” Logan laughed. “Not my car. My car is too fast. And I would never go anywhere near a Super Smart Bear.”

  “But you’re strong too.”

  “You’re right, but those bears are mean. I mean really mean.”

  “Are there Super Smart Bears around here?”

  Logan shrugged, “Super Smart Bears are everywhere.”

  “Why are they so mean?”

  “No one knows for sure. But, have you kids ever heard of Boris the bicycling bear?”

  None of them had, and they all shook their heads.

  Logan finished peeling the strands from a cable, laid several of them parallel, and began to cut them to similar lengths.

  “Boris was a big brown bear that lived in a circus before the world stopped working.”

  “And he rode a bicycle?” chimed a boy with glasses that were too large for his face.

  “He did. Every night, in front of thousands of people he would ride his bicycle around the ring of the circus. The people would clap and laugh as they watched Boris ride around wearing a little hat and colorful vest. He was a star.”

  With the strands cut, he made three equal groups and put them back on the ground.

  “And every night Boris the Bear would ride his bike proudly around the ring and listen to the children in the crowd clap for him and cheer his name.”

  He rolled each group of fibers together and began to braid all three, pulling tight each crossover.

  “But one night, Boris, while pedaling his bicycle proudly around the ring, rode over a banana peel that one of the clowns had dropped. His wheel slipped out from under him, he fell off the bike, and landed on his little hat.

  “The children in the circus booed. They hissed and threw popcorn at him. Then the parents yelled at their children for throwing popcorn because it was really expensive at the circus.

  “All of this was too much for Boris. He stood up and began to roar ferociously at the crowd.”

  “Was he mad?” a little girl asked and then added, “I’d be mad.”

  “He was confused. The children had always cheered for him. Now, they were booing him.”

  “What did Boris do?”

  “He didn’t do anything. His trainer ran up and began to hit him with a whip.”

  “That’s mean,” said the little girl.

  “Boris thought so, too. So, the next night he refused to ride. But, the show must go on, so the trainer stood in the middle of the ring and cracked the whip at him to make him ride.”

  “What did he do then?”

  “Boris rode his bicycle. And the crowd cheered and the children clapped. But Boris wasn’t happy. He remembered the time that they booed because he hit the banana peel and fell off of his bicycle. He was no longer happy, but really, really mad. He didn’t like people, or bananas, anymore. And, he really hated clowns.”

  Logan secured the ends of the braided cable with a strip of metal crimped on each end. He picked up a piece of 2 x 4. Attached to the end was a notched leaf spring from an old truck. He looped one end of the cable on a notch.

  “When the bombs fell, Boris was exposed to some sort of chemical. This chemical made him super smart. He broke out of his cage, hopped on his bicycle and started riding. Not for the people, but for himself. And Boris rode across the country. He met other bears, girl bears, and they had a lot of bear children.”

  “Bear children are called cubs,” said the kid with glasses.

  “Very good,” he tousled the youngster’s hair, “he had cubs all over the place. But, he never stopped riding his bicycle.”

  With little effort, the warrior bent the leaf spring and hooked the other end of his new cable to the opposite end.

  “Eventually, Boris rode for so long that he forgot about the circus and the children and the whip.”

  “So he wasn’t mean anymore?”

  “No, he was still mean. Meaner even.”

  “Why? If he forgot about the bad people, why was he still mean?” the little boy with the glasses asked.

  “Have you ever ridden a bicycle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever ridden it for a long, long time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  The child became shy, but answered, “It made my butt hurt.” The potty language elicited snickers from the crowd of children.

  “So, imagine riding a bicycle for a really, really long time. But without any pants.”

  He drew the cable back and locked it into a trigger system he had fashioned from an old gate latch.

  “So, Boris was mean because his butt hurt?”

  “That’s right. And every one of his kids or cubs was just as smart as Boris and just as mean.”

  The children were silent. He slipped a bolt onto his bowstring.

  “If they’re so strong and so smart and so mean, what do you do if you run into one of them?” one of the children asked.

  “I’d run and run and get away,” another said.

  “You can’t outrun them, dummy. They ride bikes.”

  “He’s right. You can’t outrun them,” Logan said.

  “So what can you do?”

  Logan turned from the crowd and squeezed the gate latch. The energy of the fabricated bowstring unleashed the bolt towards a cinder block wall. The bolt whistled as it soared across the courtyard and drove itself into the block.

  For one moment, the kids were silent and then they went wild, cheering and applauding the potential violence offered by the device. They ran over to look at the homemade crossbow.

  “Can I try?”

  “That’s so cool!”

  “I want one!”

  “I’m asking for one for Christmas!”

  “When I grow up I’m going to hunt Super Smart Bears with one of those!”

  “NO!” Logan’s voice silenced the crowd. There was a harshness to it they had never heard. It grew calmer as he continued.

  “Listen to me, kids. Super Smart Bears are dangerous. Don’t go near them. Run home and get behind a wall. Only a complete moron, only the stupidest person on Earth, would ever go looking for Super Smart Bears.”

  “I’m going after them, that’s what I’m doing.” Jerry stood in the middle of the path left by the stolen motor coach.

  “But, that’s stupid, Dick.” Erica had become anxious since seeing the shredded license plate. She gripped the rifle tighter and kept looking to the high grass surrounding the Dairy Queen.

  He shrugged off her insult, “We’re not going to survive without some form of transportation.”

  “Then why don’t we find something that doesn’t have mutant bears in it?”

  “They couldn’t have gotten far.” He walked into the brush. Chewy kept a cautious pace behind him, keeping equal distance between the warrior and the girl.

  Erica was terrified of chasing after the bears, but the further he wandered into the field, the more anxious she got.

  She rushed into the field and caught up to the nomad. “I hate you, Dick.”

  “I know.”

  Hardened by the fierce summer sun, the ground had provided a quick and firm surface for the coach. But, as they moved further down the path, it became clear that bears were not good drivers. Meandering through the overgrown reeds, the trail often doubled back on itself, causing the trio to retrace their steps several times.

  Wide looping turns led him to believe that the bears had not hot-wired the vehicle, but rolled it into the brush while fighting the unresponsive power steering.

  The idea that the bears had not yet mastered electrical systems c
ame as a relief, but it worried him that the bears had not thought to place the vehicle in neutral. Stripped gears would ruin his plan of sneaking on board the Silver Lining and driving away really fast, avoiding a confrontation with the intelligent mutations.

  With every step down the trail he tried to convince himself that going after the coach was the right thing to do. If the world blowing up had taught humanity anything, it was to not get attached to stuff. Stuff didn’t save anyone when the bombs fell, the rivers burned, and the germs spread. Stuff just got in their way. It weighed them down as they evacuated. It possessed some to stay in harm’s way.

  It wasn’t surprising. The majority of the world had pursued the accumulation of stuff: bigger homes, fancier cars, more advanced TVs, smart phones, and more.

  They kept smart phones in their pockets and family and friends at arm’s length. And when the end came and there was initial chaos and rampant starvation, people learned all too well that you could not rely on stuff. You needed friends. A dead phone provided no companionship; an empty house no comfort. The latest fashions provided no food, but you could always eat a close friend.

  Since the commencement of the new world, a stronger emphasis on social circles had formed, not by ones and zeros, but with face-to-face interaction. The accumulation of stuff was not a priority outside of the necessities.

  Before the apocalypse, he had less stuff than others, but he had learned the lesson as well as other survivors. He learned to let go of the comforts of the old world. Stuff was just stuff, no matter how cool it was.

  Deep down he knew he should leave the motor coach to the bears. He could survive without it. He had before. The home was a luxury, filled with other luxuries that made survival easier.

  However, it was also a labor of love. Hours of wiring, tuning, and fabricating had gone into the defenses, the filtration system, and the home theater. His guilt was buried by the reasoning that if an enemy could wipe out an entire town unabated, the few guns the trio had would be of no help should they encounter them on the road to New Hope.

  Once Erica had caught up, Chewy moved out in front of the group looking for a trail as if the beaten path wasn’t enough. Happy to be helping, her tail wagged furiously as she nosed the trail. Her tail went straight.

  Jerry held out his arm and stopped Erica in mid-stride.

  Bristling, the mastiff dropped her front shoulders, ready to pounce.

  He switched the safety off of the pistol-gripped shotgun. The lack of shoulder stock made it hell on the wrist. He feared having to pull the trigger. However, it was the meanest looking shotgun he had come across and always made for the best impression. Loaded with slugs, it would be effective against the nine-hundred-pound mutants.

  Chewy stared down the trail. Her growl grew louder. Creeping forward, her attention was focused on a bend in the trail. Then, her head snapped to the right.

  A furry mass burst from the growth and swept across the trail enfolding Chewy within its mass. The two beasts disappeared into the reeds and weeds of the overgrown field. Vicious barks and ferocious growls from both made Jerry nervous.

  The rage of the Super Smart Bears was evident in their roar. It was tremendous and it reverberated through the brush as if amplified. The roar swallowed Chewy’s growls and barks.

  The warrior rushed into the tall grass shoving stalks aside with the barrel of the shotgun. “Chewy!”

  Large shocks of growth rustled around him as the two creatures wrestled unseen. He began ripping handfuls of grass in a desperate attempt to find his friend.

  “Chewy! Come here!” He stepped left, then right, trying to locate the ever-moving struggle. The thought of losing the motor coach worried him. The thought of losing his best friend terrified him.

  With reckless abandon, he chased after each crash and shuttering patch of growth.

  Then the roaring stopped. The crashing faded. The grass in front of him rustled.

  With trembling arms, he gripped the shotgun tight. Gasping for breath, he tried to see through the reeds. He tried to determine what was shadow and what was animal. Something moved.

  A mass of brown fur burst from the bushes and rushed towards him. Despite being a massive dog, there was no mistaking her for a bear. Chewy appeared to be smiling as blood dripped from her muzzle. Her tail whipped back and forth as she trotted, knowing that she had done well.

  The grass behind her was still.

  “Chewy,” he rushed forward to embrace the dog. She licked at his hands and face. He pushed her away, “Gross, dog. Sit.”

  Chewy obeyed as he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood and dog slobber from his face and hands.

  “What kind of post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior carries a hanky?” Erica stood behind him, her rifle aimed at the wall of brush.

  “The kind that used to be a boy scout.” He placed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Besides, you have no idea how much this dog drools. She gets it on the steering wheel and you could be in the ditch in a split second.”

  She looked around. “What do you think happened?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Chewy ate the bear.”

  She snuffed. “Don’t you think it’s a little stupid to keep going?”

  “What do you mean? We’ve got Chewy.” He scratched the dog behind the ears.

  “Let me rephrase that. Don’t you think you’re a little stupid to keep going?”

  “To travel without the truck would be suicide.”

  “And this isn’t?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m less worried now than I was before.”

  “Well, that answers my question. You are stupid.”

  “Hardly. Odds are in our favor now. Every single time we’ve run into a Super Smart Bear, everything has been okay.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “That makes less sense.”

  “Look, Super Smart Bears are feared for their aggressiveness. I always heard that once provoked they were all but unstoppable. That apparently isn’t the case.”

  “It’s still crazy. Surely there’s more than one.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Now they know that we’re coming. And, if they’re so smart, they’re waiting right at the end of the trail.”

  “You’re not selling me on this idea.”

  “They can wait at the end. We’ve got a new trail to follow.” He pulled back the reeds in front of him. Bright crimson marked the path of the fleeing bear.

  TWELVE

  Logan had left the children pulling apart strands of cable. He had made a joke about tetanus that they didn’t understand, and went to find the town’s gadget man.

  The mayor had not described him. No one had told him the man’s name. Regardless, Logan knew whom to look for. Whether he was tall or short, the man would be round and a little grizzled. The man in charge of keeping the town running would have a lame sense of humor and a personality that many tolerated only because he maintained the machinery and invented things that the people needed most: water pumps, steam engines, and more. If not for these vital skills, the gadget man of any post-apocalyptic town would be friendless and, more than likely, left in the wilderness.

  Logan found Carl Parker chatting to several men. Each had one foot out of the conversation waiting for the short round man to take a breath so they could excuse themselves. They had been waiting for a while.

  Carl was regaling them with a series of jokes about the difference between men and women when Logan interrupted.

  “Are you the gadget man?”

  Carl turned to Logan and smiled.

  The crowd scattered, each tossing a weak excuse over the shoulder as they moved away. The men split. Each went a separate direction as if they were being pursued by an axe murderer or the forces of the undead and were trying to lose their hunters.

  “Howdy, stranger. Do you know the difference between men and women?”

  Logan did and the answer was, “Vaginas.”<
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  “Well, yeah but that’s …”

  “Are you the gadget man?”

  Carl’s round face lit up, he stood a little taller, which wasn’t much because he was barely five foot five. “Around here they call me the Gadgeteer.”

  Carl pulled a four-pound sledge from his belt and held it triumphantly above his head. His grease rag rippled like a cape from his back pocket.

  “The Gadgeteer. Really?”

  “No,” Carl sheathed the sledge, dug the oily rag out of his pocket and began to wipe his hands and forehead. Nothing was wiped away; the rag just added grease to his hands and forehead. “I’ve asked them to. They say the decision is stuck in committee. But, if you’re asking if I’m the one who keeps this town running, well, yes, that’s me. Mechanic, electrician, plumber, engineer, and umpire for the New Hope kickball league.”

  Pivoting like a Weeble, he turned and began to walk across Town Square. Motioning with the oily rag, his tone changed from one of pride to one that was much more bitchy.

  Logan followed.

  “Yeah, I’m the gadget man, not that you’d know it if you looked in my shop. I don’t have two wrenches to turn together. And the people they send me …” Carl shook his head. “Everyone is sent in rotation, so just the time I’ve got them trained, they leave.”

  They reached the open hood of a small blue and white pickup. Carl pulled a wrench from his tool belt and buried his head in the engine compartment.

  “I tell you, that Murphy is a sonofabitch.”

  “Which one was Murphy?”

  Carl laughed loud and hard at Logan’s remark. It was an irritating laugh that sounded like it belonged in the front row of a laugh track. Still, the mechanic was genuine. The round man reached up and slapped Logan on the shoulder with an oil-covered hand.

  “No, Murphy the lawyer.”

  Logan’s confusion showed on his face.

  “My friend, I’m talking about Murphy’s Law that says shit’s gonna happen.”

  Logan nodded. This was the town’s gadget man. He took another greasy slap on the shoulder, and watched Carl dive back under the hood to tend to the pickup’s engine.