The Shadow of Armageddon

by LeMay, Jim

  “Just throw it in the water over here,” John explained as he demonstrated, “and wait. We should catch some bullheads here. They’re little but my very favorite. I’m gonna go cut another pole.”

  He got up and disappeared into the trees behind them. A few minutes later, he returned with a hickory sapling, which he stripped with a large pocketknife and outfitted with line, hook, sinker, and cork from the tackle box. Then he added bait and cast the line into the creek.

  Surprisingly, it was Matt who caught the first fish, one of the little catfish called bullheads that John had predicted they’d catch here. John put it on a stringer that he anchored to the muddy bank. They sat occupied with fishing for the better part of an hour. Matt’s first fish was the only one he caught during that time, though John pulled in two, a bullhead and one of the little sunfish called bluegills.

  “I’m not so crazy about bluegills,” John explained. “You have to be careful eating them because they’re bony. But the meat is sweet. They’re Virgil’s favorite.” He grinned. “He has more patience picking the bones out than me. I wanta just eat.”

  The time passed pleasantly. The kid didn’t talk very much, which suited Matt; he wasn’t an especially loquacious person himself. He was beginning to become a little bored, though, and thought that he should probably join the gang in their hunting efforts when, finally, he caught two more of the little bullheads in quick succession.

  “Just as I was beginning to think I’d starve as a fisherman,” he said.

  “And I was thinking of moving on,” said John. “Maybe we oughta stay for awhile now though.”

  Eventually they did move on. After another hour, Matt’s stringer held seven small fish, mostly bullheads. John’s held a few more.

  Suddenly a distant staccato sound: crack! And then another immediately after, louder, that reverberated for a moment.

  John started, jumped to his feet. “A gun!” he said. “Maybe those men, maybe they came back!”

  “No, no,” said Matt, standing up too. “Those ’re our men. They’re hunting today. For deer.” He realized he should have warned Maude and the others. John looked at him wild-eyed. “You sure?”

  “Sure. Sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  John settled down some, but he remained clearly upset, angry. “Let’s head back.”

  So they did. When they got back to the road, Matt asked, “How did you know that was a gun shot?”

  “We had guys with guns come before. Bad things always happen.” The boy was glaring at the ground, still angry.

  “I’ve had bad times too, John. But guns aren’t always used for bad things.”

  John stomped on as before, still mad, unconvinced.

  Clarence met them half-way to the apartment, eyes narrowed, fists clenched. Matt hurriedly explained the gun shots. Clarence said nothing. He just put his arm around the boy, scowled one last time at Matt, and walked back to the apartment with John, pointedly leaving Matt behind.

  * * * *

  Matt went back to the alley behind the bank and began cleaning the fish. He hadn’t anticipated John’s and Clarence’s wrath at the sound of gunfire, but he supposed he should have. People with guns had indeed terrorized unarmed small town people for the last twelve years, starting with starving panic-driven city mobs at the very beginning. No wonder they showed so much distrust toward him and the gang.

  Just as he dropped the last cleaned fish into a bucket of water with its mates, he heard the distant sounds of excited conversation approaching; the gang was returning. He went through to the front of the bank, watched them coming up the main street, surrounding Leighton and Miller who carried some kind of slaughtered, gutted beast hanging suspended from a pole they carried over their shoulders. They called out greetings when they noticed him. As they approached, he saw that the animal wasn’t a deer as he had supposed but a small pig. Wild pigs certainly didn’t yield the flesh that their domesticated ancestors had, but it would provide fresh meat nevertheless. Three or four voices were describing what had happened at once.

  “Let’s git it down t’ the draw,” Mitch said over the confusion. “How’d the fishin’ go?” he asked Matt.

  “A lot better than I would’ve thought. Caught seven.”

  “Bring ’m ’long. Them an’ a little venison ’ll be lunch.”

  As they proceeded toward the draw with the carcass, Matt was finally able to make out what had happened as Lou interpreted and put into order the excited babble of the young guys, with occasional interjections from Doc and Stony. Mitch stayed out of the discussion except to once grumble, though not unkindly, that Chadwick could hear this much racket all the way to Columbia.

  Apparently Kincaid and Miller had chased a wild sow and cornered her in a thicket. Neither had guns, but both carried clubs. Kincaid suggested that Miller and he kill the pig with their clubs. They’d be instant heroes to have killed it without using guns, the older guys being so obsessed with saving their bullets.

  Miller wasn’t so sure. The pig’s tusks and savage energy gave it a pretty fierce look as far as he was concerned. Miller was the biggest and brawniest of Leighton’s faction but not its most supple of wit. He was used to others, especially Leighton, making decisions for him. Jack’s enthusiasm and badgering however (“Where’s your balls?”) drove him to agree. Besides, as the younger boy said, it was a young sow after all, not fully grown. So they charged into the thicket and started beating the creature.

  She counter-attacked immediately, sending the two fleeing in opposite directions. The only thing that saved the hunters-turned-fugitives from serious injuries was the sow’s confusion. She got snarled in the thicket while trying to decide which of the two to pursue.

  Leighton, attracted by the sounds of violence, was the first one to the scene. He saw the sow chasing Miller around the thicket, the latter wildly waving his club, now forgotten, above his head, and Kincaid half-way up a tree yelling encouragement and advice. Leighton’s reacted by exploding into uncontrollable laughter.

  Suddenly the pig stopped and, attracted by Leighton’s laughter, charged him. Leighton was the only one of the younger men who owned a firearm, a .22 caliber rifle. He had never practiced much with ammunition being so precious, and the charge of the outraged squealing wild pig did nothing to help steady his aim. His shot struck the sow in the front shoulder. She stumbled, fell to her knees, then rose, enraged to madness, and charged him again.

  Mitch appeared just as the sow began her charge. Unlike the kids, he was an excellent marksman. A bullet from his high-powered rifle through the sow’s brain dropped her instantly.

  They gutted the carcass and carried it back to town. Stony wanted to get back as soon as possible so the pig could be bled before the blood congealed. They hung the carcass in a tree some distance from the draw by the hind legs, with ropes tied just above the knee. Doc cut the jugular veins at the neck so that it would drain thoroughly and then he and Stony started skinning it. After they finished, Stony assigned Kincaid to stay by the pig to keep away the flies and any other critters that might be attracted by the scent of blood. He was to call them immediately if he heard any sound of wild dogs. Though they had seen no trace of dog packs since they arrived, one could appear at any time.

  In the draw, Stony fried the fish for lunch. When it was time to divide them, Stony asked Lou how much each of the nine men would get from the seven fish. “You engineers gotta be good for somethin’,” he said. “Three-quarters of a fish each,” said Lou. “Even you oughta be able to figure that one out.” That wasn’t much fish per man, but it was a delicious change. Each had a little venison along with it.

  Stony asked for volunteers to help him dig a pit in which to roast the pig. He had cooked game this way before, roasting it for sixteen to eighteen hours along with whatever ingredients he could find to go with it. Nobody ever ragged him about these meals.

  During lunch Mitch said to Matt, “While we was bringin’ the hog back, I mentioned t’ the boys that we oughta invit
e the townfolks over t’ help us eat it t’morra. Whadda y’ think?”

  “Good idea. I applaud your altruism.”

  Mitch grinned slightly, shook his head. “It’s phrases like that.... Ah, never mind. Anyhow, it ain’t all ‘altruism’; it’s practical too. They may offer some veggies from their garden to cook with the pork. Stony said some tomatoes an’ corn ‘d be nice.”

  “I should have suspected you’d have an alternative motive.”

  “Why don’t y’ go invite ’m over for t’morra afternoon?” said Mitch. “Y’r the only one they know.”

  “Why don’t you come along?” said Matt.

  Mitch looked away and spat. “They ain’t no sense a me goin’. They don’t know me.”

  Mitch was a Machiavellian manipulator of the gang, a tough negotiator in truck-related dealings and an implacable adversary to the gang’s opponents, but he felt awkward around citizens of the settlements they visited. Except when he was selling truck, which fell under the category of negotiation, he left dealings with townsfolk to others, especially to Matt and Lou.

  “No you don’t,” said Matt firmly. “It’s time they met the main man.”

  Mitch shrugged. “Okay, what the hell? Lead the way.”

  After lunch Matt led Mitch up the alley, explaining that he usually found someone behind the building. He also filled Mitch in on John’s and Clarence’s reactions to the gunfire.

  Sure enough, Maude and John were digging potatoes in the garden, placing them in several large piles, probably the last of the crop. Both straightened when they saw Matt and Mitch. John no longer seemed upset. He even smiled at Matt. Maude straightened and wiped her hands on a tattered makeshift apron. She spoke first.

  “I assume that the gunfire means the hunt was successful?”

  “Yes,” said Matt. “A good hunt. That’s what we came to talk to you about.” He nodded toward Mitch. “First, though, I thought it time I introduce you to our leader. This is Henry Mitchell.”

  “Ma’am,” Mitch said with a slight nod, “Pleased t’ meetcha.” He leaned forward and, briefly and rather awkwardly, grasped Maude’s hand. “An’ you too, young man,” he said, shaking John’s hand as well. “An’ I want t’ apologize t’ both a y’. For huntin’ today without warnin’ y’.”

  “Telling us would’ve been good,” she said, “but I understand why you wouldn’t think to.” Then she gathered the boy under her arm, looked down at him fondly, and said, “But I hope you understand if John overreacted a little. He has every right to. Based on past events.”

  There was a pause, Maude and John waiting to hear what Mitch had to say next.

  Finally, with a glare at Mitch, Matt said, “Mitch came along to invite you folks over to share the results of the hunt. Right, Mitch?” A light kick to Mitch’s boot.

  “Uh, yeah,” he said. “We killt a young pig. Our cook Stony wants t’ cook it in a pit, real slow, till t’morra afternoon. We’d like you folks t’ join us then for supper. We don’t know what time it’ll be done yet. We’ll have t’ let y’ know.”

  “Why, that’s very generous of you,” said Maude, looking at Mitch curiously. Maybe, thought Matt, she had expected the gang’s leader to be some kind of huge fierce bandit chieftain – someone not unlike Johnson now that he thought about it – instead of this small rather misshapen shy man. Matt felt that Maude’s meeting Mitch had raised her assessment of the gang a little. Maybe they seemed less of a threat.

  “We’d be pleased to join you, Mr. Mitchell,” Maude answered. Then, after she noted Mitch’s interest in the potatoes, “Oh, is there anything we can contribute to the meal?”

  “Well, now that y’ mention it ... uh, well, Stony our cook said some tomatoes an’ corn ‘d go good with the pork.”

  “Wait just a moment,” said Maude. “Let me make a trip to the root cellar.”

  * * * *

  The roasted pig was ready about mid-afternoon the following day. Under Stony’s direction, the men had set up scrounged tables and chairs and dinnerware in the draw. By the time the townsfolk arrived, the pig lay on an oilcloth-covered table of its own along with the vegetables that Maude had provided. In addition to the tomatoes and corn she had given them potatoes, onions, and bell peppers.

  There were introductions all around, and the meal started, a little awkwardly at first, though soon the abundance of delicious food and the pleasant late-summer weather created a spirit of camaraderie that relaxed even the grim-faced Clarence and the frenetic Leighton. The pork was a rare treat for the townsfolk. Except for the fish John and Clarence caught, their only source of meat was the occasional rabbit or squirrel or, very rarely, a chicken from their precious flock.

  After eating, the townspeople sat around talking with them for a long time. Their little community’s isolation made them starved for news. The men told them of the other communities they’d visited, some small and isolated like theirs, some larger. They told of the vast uninhabited areas between settlements that were being overrun by nature, inhabited by packs of wild dogs and wild men. The townsfolk nodded seriously; they had experienced both of these dangers firsthand.

  No, the men told them, in answer to their questions, there was no evidence of the formation of a central government or that any of the services civilization had provided would return any time soon. There just weren’t enough people remaining to bring any of that about. And yes, they said, there were reports of occasional cases of Chou’s Disease, though most people now survived it. After all, virtually everyone who now caught the disease had survived it at least once before. Those like Frank Johnson who had never had it were rare. Commerce of a sort still remained. Scroungers like them gleaned useful goods from the ruins and traded it for food and other items they needed. People in the settlements had learned to raise excess food and manufacture goods they could trade. Marketplaces had formed. Scroungers’ truck, farmers’ produce, and goods from cottage industries made their way to these markets. Traders bought or bartered for their commodities and transported them to other markets. There were some fairly good-sized ones at places like the Blue River Market just east of Kansas City, Columbia, Morel Market, and Nellie’s Fair.

  How did that last one get such a ridiculous name? A guy named Nelson O’Conner set up a market there a couple of years after the Last Days as a place for people to trade their goods. He picked a little island in St. Charles Lake, close to the north shore, and keeps it under tight security. The only way people can get to it is to take O’Conner’s own ferry. All guns get checked in at the shore before they’ll let you on the ferry.

  Where’s St. Charles Lake? That’s the long lake at the end of the Missouri River where it meets the Mississippi. It formed when the land around the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers sank in the earthquake of ‘69, right before the Last Days.

  Anyway, there was originally a big sign up on the island that said in huge letters, “NELSON O’CONNER’S FAIR AND MARKET”, although the sign was gone now that the market had become a town. O’Conner’s nickname is Nellie, so over time the place got to be known as Nellie’s Fair. He wanted to give the place the feeling of a perpetual State Fair where people could come to trade and have fun and feel safe. He pays a contingent of armed men to ensure that safety. Anyone who does business in Nellie’s Fair pays for their security by contributing to Nellie’s coffers. Apparently merchants feel the cost is worth it; business thrives. Having a safe place to do business and then to spend the winter months certainly appealed to the Johnson gang. They had returned nearly every fall since they discovered the Fair four years into their new career.

  O’Conner encouraged permanent businesses to set up shop and then taxed them for the privilege. He established a bank that made loans to help start and expand businesses. Almost no one had collateral to back up the loans so O’Conner took part interest in most of the ventures. If a business failed, he took it over and either found a way to make it profitable or liquidated whatever assets remained. The O’Conner bank
issued currency of its own to replace the US currency as it became worthless, leather bills stamped with the bank’s seal and the denomination. The bills had made commerce so much easier that they circulated miles beyond Nellie’s Fair, though the further away from the market they appeared, the more arbitrary their value became.

  You haven’t heard of them? What are they called? Officially, they’re Nelson dollars, though sometimes they’re called “nellies” or just “ens”. O’Conner hoped the design of the stamp was too complex to be copied, but counterfeit bills did appear occasionally, especially at greater distances from the market. You can bet he deals harshly with counterfeiters; they needn’t hope for a jury trial.

  Matt didn’t take much part in the conversation. The other men needed the sense of importance gained by dispensing news of the world, interspersed with tales of their adventures, but he didn’t. The men’s description of Nellie’s Fair left out its main reason for existence. Security at Fair was not for the farmers and their families who came there to trade; such folk were encouraged to finish their business and leave quickly. It was for the scroungers and traders and those who acquired their truck by less ethical means, and for the outfitters of these gangs. The gangs tended to be tough competitors all too used to grudges and conflict. Nellie’s Fair provided a place for them to carry on their business under a temporary truce.

  Nellie’s peacekeepers were strict; more than one gang member each trading season ended up in its dank filthy jail or found himself ejected from the island or, occasionally, remained forever on the island six feet under ground. There were distractions that could lead a man, or woman (Johnson’s gang was one of the few all-male scrounger gangs), to forget the danger of overstepping the bounds of propriety: taverns, brothels, pothouses, gambling halls, and other houses of pleasures. Nelson O’Conner had not established his “Fair and Market” just to help aggressive merchants turn a profit. One way or another he found a way to share in that profit.