Pursuit of the Apocalypse

by Benjamin Wallace

  She had no idea where she was. They weren’t in Texas any more. The trees were too big and the land in front of her rolled too much for it to be what used to be Texas. And, though it was unfamiliar, she was relieved that they were no longer in the desert.

  She had worked out her escape days ago. But, running away into the barren wasteland was no escape at all. What good would escape be if she died of thirst?

  Here there would be streams and lakes at the very least. Perhaps even a settlement and someone to lean on for help.

  She pushed through a growth of brush and tumbled into another ditch. She swallowed the startled scream that rose within her. Her reflexes demanded that she put her arms out to catch herself, but she fought them back knowing that such an action would result in broken wrists or fingers. Instead she rolled onto her shoulder as she hit the ground and slid to a stop.

  Then she got up and kept running.

  Her legs cramped. Her ribs ached as she fought for breath. She had been folded over in the same position since that bastard had grabbed her in the mountains. Just straightening her legs had been painful enough. Running hurt even more. Her captor had let her out only for necessity and never for more than two minutes at a time. She couldn’t wait to kill the man, but, before she did, she planned on yelling at him while he tried to pee. Just to see how he liked it.

  And she would make him where a hood like he did. And she would put him on a leash like he did. And she would make him stand in an anthill while he went. He had never made her do that, but fuck him, she thought. He deserved to piss blindfolded in an anthill if anyone ever had. A fire anthill.

  She made the top of the hill and looked around while she took several deep breaths. They hurt, but it felt good to have the gag out of her mouth. The moment she pulled it free, she had felt almost human again. She could close her mouth. She could swallow comfortably. And, she wasn’t drooling on herself anymore, which was nice.

  The view from the hill told her nothing, but any direction was better than back, so she took off through the trees again. Branches whipped at her face and the roots did their best to trip up her feet. But trees meant cover. Roots meant water. And water meant food was at least a possibility. It all added up to a chance to survive. If she could just get away.

  A root caught her toe and sent her to the ground again. She landed hard on her hand and drove the wind from her chest. Convinced her wrist was broken, she rolled over and gave into a whimper.

  Her breath slowed after nearly a minute and she raised her hands in front of closed eyes expecting to see any number of fingers pointing at any number of angles. She grit her teeth and looked at her hands. Somehow they had survived the fall. She decided to risk moving slower. It would be safer and her lead had to be considerable at this point. There had been shooting back at the warehouse after her escape, but the sound had been all but swallowed by distance and the trees.

  She thought for a moment that Mr. Christopher was dead and it was a thought that made her happy. It was possible that whoever he was meeting had shot first. But she also knew it was unlikely. He was too cautious. He was too cautious, too lucky, and too slippery of a slimy bastard to be caught off guard by anyone stupid enough to work for him.

  Erica stood and started walking towards what felt like south. She could get her exact bearings later. For now she needed to generate more space between her and her kidnapper.

  She took lighter, surer steps and listened to the woods around her. It was dead quiet. Winter had put most of the insects to sleep. The birds had flown south. Very little stirred around her.

  The silence was comforting. The thought of being alone normally terrified her, but now it was reassuring. If all went well, she should be able to walk a hundred miles without hearing a sound. That’s why she jumped when she heard voices.

  They came from nearby.

  It wasn’t him. There were several different voices. None that she recognized.

  Erica stepped behind a tree and listened. There were men and women discussing something. She couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, so she risked moving closer. But, only a few trees closer.

  She stopped behind a pine and listened. The conversation was nothing remarkable. It was a small group of men and women discussing where they should go next. Erica’s heart beat faster. They could help her. Maybe.

  Judging people was more difficult in the apocalypse than it had been before. They could very well be decent people. But decent was never far from desperate, and desperation meant danger. This group of strangers could be a bigger threat than Mr. Christopher. At least he needed her alive as bait.

  She looked about and saw a path that could take her safely around the group. They’d never even know she had been there. Then she took a deep breath and walked straight toward the voices. She needed help and she, herself, was desperate.

  An important part of approaching strangers in the wasteland was not to startle them. An unexpected “hello” at close range could easily be met with the bark of a gun blast. Erica called ahead of her approach. “Hello? Can you help me, please?”

  The group’s conversation stopped and she heard the sound of people shuffling about. There were whispers. Frantic whispers. And then there was silence.

  “Hello?” Erica pleaded. “Please.”

  There was a throng of whispers that finally ended up with someone shouting, “Come out slow.”

  Erica held her bound hands above her head and stepped from behind a tree. She walked slowly to the middle of the group’s clearing, keeping her hands where they could see them.

  The woman and two men had been sitting around a campfire. They now stood with weapons trained on the intruder.

  One of the men spoke. “Who are you?”

  It was all she could do to not burst into tears. But in holding back the flood she spilled a rapid-fire explanation of her predicament. “Please, I’ve been kidnapped. I ... I just escaped.” She held her bound hands forward as proof. “You’ve got to help me.”

  The group didn’t move. They kept their weapons aimed at her.

  “Please,” Erica said. “He’s still out there.”

  The woman lowered her weapon first. “You poor thing.” She leaned her rifle against a log she had been using as a seat and rushed toward Erica.

  “Careful, Jillian,” one of the men cautioned.

  “Oh, stop it, Mike. Can’t you see she’s in trouble?” The woman reached her and helped her across to the fire. She sat Erica down on the log next to the rifle and started working on the ropes. The two men refused to lower their guns.

  “We can’t trust anyone, Jillian,” the other man said.

  “And we can’t stop trusting people completely,” Jillian shot back. “You know as well as I do there are horrible people out there. Now give me a knife. These knots are ridiculous.”

  Mike looked to the second man for his thoughts and received a shrug. He pulled a knife from his belt and handed it to Jillian. The woman took it and began working the ropes.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  The two men spun around to put their weapons on the new voice. Mr. Christopher stood at the edge of the clearing with his hands up.

  “Don’t move,” Mike said. “Whoever you are.”

  “That’s him,” Erica whispered. “He’s the man that kidnapped me.”

  “She’s dangerous, you know?” Mr. Christopher took a step farther into the clearing. “That’s why she’s tied up. I’m really glad you caught her.”

  The woman’s voice filled with hatred. “I’ll bet you are, you pervert.”

  Mr. Christopher ignored the slight and continued. “She’s a fugitive. And I’m taking her in to answer for her crimes.”

  “You’re a lying piece of shit,” Erica said. She wanted to explain it all. She wanted to tell them that he was a bounty hunter and a cold-blooded killer. But she was afraid that her newfound Samaritans would turn into opportunists and try to collect the bounty themselves.

  “Y
ou three should be commended,” Mr. Christopher continued. “This woman is dangerous and you’ve helped bring her to justice. You’re heroes, really.”

  Jillian stopped working on the knot.

  “He’s lying.” Erica couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “He’s lying,” she screamed at Christopher.

  The man named Mike studied her for a moment before turning back to the man in white. “She doesn’t look that dangerous to me.”

  Mr. Christopher smiled and lowered his hands. “Now that’s what makes her so dangerous. Do you know not who she is? She doesn’t look familiar to you?”

  The other man spit on the ground. “We’ve been out of the loop of late.”

  “That right there is the Seductive Strangler. She lures her victims to their death with her ... charms.”

  Erica jumped off the log. “You son of a bitch!”

  “She’s killed dozens of men. Sometimes two or three at a time.”

  “He’s lying. Shoot him. Kill him!”

  “Listen to her,” Mr. Christopher smiled. “She lives to kill. She loves to watch men suffer. But not until after.”

  Erica tore at her bonds. She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to watch the life drain out of his eyes. The ropes still wouldn’t give.

  “She killed one man in front of his wife. She made her watch the whole thing.”

  “Will one of you please kill him, he’s lying. I’m not who he says I am.”

  “Well, you go by so many names: the Whore of the Wasteland, the Harlot of the Holocaust, the Nuclear Nympho. And, the Heaven to Hell Killer.” Mr. Christopher let his eyes wander all over her. “I’m sure you can imagine why.”

  Erica seethed. She stared holes through the bounty hunter while he just smiled at her. She looked to the other members of the group and could see that they were torn. Jillian looked confused. She had been the first to offer help. The two men had an even more frightening look on their faces. Erica could see in their eyes that the words of one of the first wasteland adages were running through their mind: Never get involved.

  It was easier to turn the other way than to take any kind of risk. Why should they help a stranger? She could see them weighing the costs, and she was coming up on the losing side.

  Mr. Christopher must have caught the look as well. He let his hands drop to his side and stepped across the campsite where he reached for Erica while addressing the group. “I admire your bravery, and I’ll be more than happy to take her off your hands. If you give me your names, I’ll see that you are honored officially.”

  The three strangers exchanged glances. Jillian gave a small shrug. The second man gave an almost imperceptible shake.

  Mr. Christopher reached for Erica’s arms. Mike grabbed his elbow and pulled him back a step. “You know, you’re the first cop I’ve run into since the Crappening.”

  Mr. Christopher smiled. “Isn’t it great? Things are getting back to normal every day.”

  “What kind of cop did you say you were?” the other man asked.

  “It’s probably best to think of me as kind of like a Marshal. I pursue dangerous fugitives like Little Miss Murder Whore here.”

  Erica shrunk. “Please. Please, don’t let him take me.”

  “Right.” Mike looked at his companions and back to the man in white. “You see the problem we have with that is that, just like this girl, we’re running away from somewhere, too.”

  “I have no warrant for you so you have nothing to fear from me.”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t worried about that. But, you see, we know that not everyone who’s running is necessarily guilty.”

  Jillian stepped back over to her rifle and picked it up. She leveled it at the man and stared.

  “I can assure you, this woman is guilty. And I assure you I am who I say I am.”

  Mike snorted. “Your word’s not good enough, pal.”

  “Then I’ll show you my badge.” Mr. Christopher reached into his jacket.

  Erica screamed again for them to shoot.

  Six shots were fired.

  Jillian hit the ground first. The rifle bounced out of Erica’s reach.

  Mike fell next and the other man hit the ground a second later.

  Mr. Christopher held his gun on each of them to make sure they weren’t getting up. Satisfied, he held his free hand out to Erica. She refused to take it so he grabbed her under the arm and dragged her to her feet.

  “They seemed like such nice people, too,” Mr. Christopher said. “So willing to help. You just don’t see that much anymore. The world could use more good people like that. It’s a shame you got them killed.”

  Erica held back a sob and forced her lip into a sneer. “At least they put a hole in that ugly suit of yours.”

  The bounty hunter hadn’t seen it. Perhaps he hadn’t even felt it, but now he looked down at the bullet hole in his jacket and the blood seeping out of the wound.

  “Just perfect,” he said. “Now we’ll have to make another stop.” He shoved her forward and led her back to the Jeep.

  SEVEN

  They called him Hawk, and he was an outlaw.

  For as long as he could remember the law had always been against him. Even as a lawyer, he was always on the defense. But he had always fought with the ferociousness of a falcon and had an eagle eye for details that others often missed, so he adopted the professional name of Hawk and practiced law like a vicious bird of prey with Talons of Justice, Feathers of Freedom, and Bill of Surprising Amounts.

  He had always skirted the law, flitting around its edges to ensure that his clients found justice and the freedom to cover his fee. He danced on the edge of contempt more than once, and that’s not even counting the time he appeared in court drunk and tried to make a pass at the judge.

  In his defense, she was hot. She’d had a refined look, wore a black dress, and there was a touch of Judge Judy in her voice that he was surprised to find alluring.

  He had bent the law, strained the law, and annoyed it a great deal. But he had never broken the law until the Crappening.

  Overnight, even decent people turned to their baser instincts to survive. Everywhere he looked he saw looters, murderers, robbers, the worst humanity had to offer and many other potential clients. He hit the streets with a box of business cards and a pitch that blamed their strife on a system that had failed them and their families, and their pets if they happened to have pets.

  But then the system failed him as well. Approaching what he could only identify as a “gang” to offer a lenient jury and a big potential harassment settlement should they be caught, he soon found himself surrounded by the less than appreciative group. He panicked and drew his concealed carry. Moments later two of the men were dead and the others had run off. In a court of law he would swear that he was in danger and that the men meant to do him harm. But, the truth was they might have just been looking for food. Or directions. He couldn’t be sure; the one guy kind of mumbled.

  So Hawk ran.

  He couldn’t report the incident or turn himself in to authorities. There were no longer authorities. He had become what he had always despised. He had become a criminal. He had become an outlaw. And, worse, he liked it.

  Behind his degree, he had always been a force to be reckoned with. But, behind a barrel, he was unstoppable. He made arguments that no one would counter and all objections were overturned with the bark of a gun. His reputation spread and within a year he had rallied others beneath him to form the most feared motorcycle gang in the south—the Iron Eagles. He had the debate many times that Iron Hawks would make more sense, but his fondness for the film always prevailed.

  The Iron Eagles rode the remnants of the highways taking what they wanted from whoever was foolish enough to travel through their sphere of influence. They were fierce and many more soon rallied to join.

  He required only two things of the men and women beneath him. First, they had to swear ultimate loyalty to Hawk, as well as sign a contract before two witnesses and initial sev
eral other pages of the document. In triplicate. And, two, they had to have their own Harley.

  Knowing the power of branding, Hawk insisted on American iron only. They were the modern outlaws and they had an image to protect. No Hondas, no Yamahas, no BMWs were allowed. And if you showed up on a CanAm, you were sure to be humiliated before you were shot. Due to this stipulation, the gang was comprised almost entirely of former middle-aged dentists. This group of sadists struck fear into the hearts and gums of people everywhere.

  Hawk Johnson embraced his role as a feared leader. He shed his tailored suits in favor of road leathers. He let his beard grow and acquired a pet hawk. Naming the hawk Falcor, he designed a perch that allowed the bird to sit on his shoulder. It wasn’t long after that he took to wearing an eye patch because stupid Falcor had pecked out his left eye. But even the patch added to his mystique, and once he had Falcor killed and stuffed, the hawk remained on his shoulder as an ever-present reminder of the gang leader’s vicious nature.

  That fact that law and order was no more was only a technicality. Hawk was the wasteland’s greatest outlaw. One of the greatest to ever live.

  Now he sat astride his bike watching his road from the interior of a strip mall insurance company. Falcor sat patiently on his shoulder, dead, with his keen hawk vision directed at the freeway.

  Hawk heard the engine long before he saw the vehicle. The truck was really moving. Most travelers moved slowly along the roads for fear of running into debris, damaged surfaces, or traps, but the Dodge Ram in the distance was moving without caution. The driver was obviously reckless. He’d been informed that the man was dangerous. Hawk smiled and started his bike. He twisted the throttle three times. He let the revs die down and screeched at the top of his lungs like the predator he had become.

  Thunder rolled throughout the shopping center as the Iron Eagles started their bikes. The sound of fifty motors bouncing off the walls of the abandoned complex made the building shake, and Hawk smiled. The men and women under his command tore from their ambush location and turned to follow the truck.

  Hawk let them go ahead of him. A proud smile crossed his lips and he puffed his chest with a deep breath that turned out to be more engine exhaust than air. He coughed and put his own ride in gear before leaving a thick tire mark on the insurance office floor.