Pursuit of the Apocalypse

by Benjamin Wallace

  Guy One tossed the tire iron to the ground where it bounced with a wobbly clang.

  Guy Two returned and handed the first guard a screwdriver. “I found this.”

  The guard held it in front of the mask’s eyeholes. “A shiv!”

  “A screwdriver!” Mr. Christopher argued.

  “And who exactly were you planning to screw, Mr. It’s Just a Tire Iron?”

  “A man named Philips, I suppose.”

  The joke went unnoticed and the screwdriver went into the pile as the second guard went back into the rear of the Cherokee.

  Guy One spun Christopher around. “It seems like you weren’t being too truthful with me.”

  He felt the force of the spin in his wound. It was getting worse. “Well, I didn’t account for your wild imagination.”

  “We’ve got a problem here,” the second guard’s voice was muffled inside the car. He backed out holding a plastic bag full of trash.

  Guy One grabbed it and held it in front of Mr. Christopher. “You want to try explaining this?”

  Mr. Christopher cocked his head at the bag trying to see what the guard thought he was seeing. He couldn’t see it so he shrugged. “I like to keep a tidy car.”

  “This is a plastic bag!”

  “Indeed it is. And I am aware of the danger that it poses to infants and pets should they not heed the warning clearly printed on the bag that it is not a toy. But, I assure you it has no nefarious purpose. I intend to suffocate no one.”

  “Suffocate nothing. It’s a plastic bag! It’s a blight on our community. Don’t you even care about the planet?” He dropped the bag in the pile. “I’m going to let this one slide, but next time you come this way, you had better be using a reusable shopping bag for your refuse.”

  Mr. Christopher winced at the pain in his side and the pain in the conversation in general. “I appreciate your leniency.”

  “All right, then,” Guy One stepped back into the guardhouse and emerged a moment later with a sheet of paper. “It sounds like you’ve been here before, but just for good measure I’m going to read the welcome note.”

  Mr. Christopher rolled his eyes and climbed back into his Jeep.

  The guard held up the note in front of the mask’s slits and cleared his throat before reading. “Welcome to our fair town. Here we value freedom above all else. Here you are free to say, do, and be whatever it is that makes you happy ... or sad. Freedom means different things to different people.

  “To ensure freedom for all, Freedom Enforcement Officers will be enforcing the following rules: There are no weapons allowed except for those of the Freedom Enforcement Officers. Anyone displaying a weapon will be arrested.

  “There is no fighting. All disputes are to be settled by Freedom Enforcement Officers as they have been trained in conflict resolution. Anyone caught fighting will be arrested.”

  “What about self-defense?”

  The guard was able to express a surprising amount of frustration through his eyes alone. “Freedom Enforcement Officers handle all defense for the community. Self and otherwise.” He continued to read. “All people will be addressed by the name, title, or pronoun of his/her/hir/hyz/their preference. Anyone addressing a person/pyrsen by any name, title, or pronoun other than the one preferred will be arrested.

  “There will be no name-calling. Those caught name-calling will be arrested.

  “There will be no physical contact with another person without their expressed written permission. Any person making, attempting to make, or considering making unsanctioned physical contact will be arrested.

  “No opinions shall be expressed in verbal, nonverbal, or written form without prior permission from a majority of the town council. Anyone expressing an unapproved opinion will be arrested.” The guard took a breath.

  “Is that all?” Mr. Christopher asked.

  Guy Two laughed. “Hardly.”

  Guy One continued. “Approved opinions are as follows: Puppies and kittens are cute ...”

  “Monkeys too, I suppose.”

  Guy One stopped reading and stared at the man behind the wheel. “Monkeys are deemed offensive to certain demographics. Any mention of monkeys or any other primate is prohibited.”

  “Even if they’re dressed as people?”

  The guard pointed a harsh finger at Mr. Christopher. “Especially if they are dressed as people.” The guard returned to the page. “Sunny days are delightful. Nature is good. Greed is bad. Capitalism was the failure of personkind that led to its eventual downfall and those that supported it were heartless, elitist bastards who deserve to burn in a hell of their own making but not the biblical Hell because religion is bad and the Bible was a made-up book of fairy tales. The world is better off without Nickelback. And the weather is nice.”

  Christopher blinked hard. “What if the weather isn’t nice?”

  The guard looked over the top of the page. “Then don’t talk about it.”

  “But ...”

  Guy number two shook his head.

  Guy One finished reading. “We hope you understand these rules that have been read to you. Anyone failing to understand these rules will be arrested. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Mr. Christopher shut the door of the Jeep. “It sounds like a paradise.”

  Guy Two raised the barricade. Guy One waved the vehicle in. “Welcome to Tolerance.”

  TEN

  It hadn’t been a fair fight. All three bodies had a surprised look on their face. The Librarian examined the victims around the campfire and found two bullet holes in each. A quick walk around the campsite and its outskirts turned up a trail of blood but no casings. So, the attacker had used a revolver and happened to be a crack shot. But the shooter wasn’t bulletproof. The trail of blood proved that.

  It could be Christopher, but it could be a lot of people. The apocalypse had forced a gun into almost every hand, and more than a few people had discovered a talent they didn’t know they had. Contrary to popular pre-apocalypse fiction, there was no shortage of bullets in the post-apocalyptic world. There were hundreds of billions of bullets left lying around, and almost everyone that survived the end of the world did so with the urge to shoot something.

  He examined the campsite. The party’s gear was still there. The backpacks were left unopened. Nothing had been taken or even ransacked. The bodies hadn’t been searched. They lay where they fell. It wasn’t raiders. It had to be Christopher. But, why?

  The campfire still smoldered, and if the killer had a hole in him he couldn’t have gotten far.

  Chewy began her own investigation of the site. The large dog sniffed at the bodies and pawed at the gear that had been left behind. Her focus soon became the base of a log the party had been using as a bench. Her tail wagged faster and her excitement grew. She started barking.

  Jerry knew she had found Erica’s scent. He looked at the blood trail in the leaf litter and comforted the dog. “We’ll find her, girl.”

  Chewy’s excited barks turned to a low growl and Jerry spun back to face the campsite. A young woman stood at the edge of the clearing with a shotgun to her shoulder. Jerry froze. The barrels always looked bigger from this end.

  Tears were running down her face, and they had been for some time. Her nose was red from the cold and from the crying. She stammered as she spoke. “Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.”

  “We’re not moving.” He signaled for Chewy to sit and slowly raised his hands. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Of course not, asshole,” she screamed. “I have the gun.”

  Jerry laughed a little. “You make a good point. But we’re not here to hurt anyone. Can you tell me what happened?”

  The question brought another fresh round of tears. “He killed them. He killed them all.”

  “Who was it? What did he look like?”

  She shrugged and shook her head but the barrel never wavered. “I don’t know. Some bastard in a stupid suit.”

  “Mr. Chr
istopher,” Jerry said.

  “He didn’t give his name. He just killed them all.” She closed her eyes against the tears and the barrel lowered a few inches.

  Jerry didn’t move. The woman wasn’t going to kill him if she could help it. He didn’t want to give her a reason to shoot. He held his hands still but looked to the dog and nodded towards the woman.

  Chewy stood and walked slowly to her. The large mutt brushed up against her leg and offered her a warm head to pet.

  The woman continued to sob for only a moment before lowering the gun and letting her hand drop to Chewy’s head.

  The dog nuzzled in closer and woofed the closest thing she had to condolences.

  The woman fell to her knees and embraced the dog.

  Jerry lowered his hands.

  “I was gathering wood.” She laughed a nervous laugh. “It was my turn. I heard voices that I didn’t know so I started coming back. Then I heard a woman screaming. It wasn’t Jillian. It was a voice I didn’t know so I stayed low and moved slowly in case they needed ...” she cried a little harder. “In case they needed my help.”

  Her voice was lost in tears for a minute before she could continue. “He said he was a Marshal and that the girl was a criminal, but Mike wouldn’t let him take her. That’s when he ...” her voice faded to sobbing.

  Jerry let her cry. What could he say that wouldn’t be insulting? “Everything is going to be okay” was just a bold-faced lie. “Buck up, little camper” was condescending, and “everything happens for a reason” put the blame squarely on the group’s desire to help a stranger. He was about to go with the vague and unhelpful “there, there” when she spoke again.

  “I wanted to shoot him. I wanted him dead. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone before, but this was different. But, I ... he was just too fast.”

  “If it’s who I think it is, staying hidden was the right decision.”

  “You know him? You know the bastard that did this?”

  Jerry nodded. “I’m afraid so. He’s been trying to kill me for the better part of a year. Myself and the woman your friends tried to help.”

  The woman looked up at him. “He took her.” There was a strange comfort in her eyes. She had someone to grieve with now. She almost smiled but she looked away. When she looked back she was angry again. “That woman is the reason he came here.”

  Quicker than Jerry would have thought possible, the woman shoved Chewy away and grabbed the shotgun from the ground.

  Jerry grabbed the barrel before she could point it at him. He made no move to take it from her, but he kept the barrel pointed at the ground.

  The woman growled as she struggled for control of the gun.

  “Please,” Jerry said. “The woman is my wife. I’ve been searching for them for days. He took her from me. You’ve got to understand.”

  Her struggle weakened and she dropped the gun once more. She sat on the log near the fire and hesitated before taking Chewy up on another offer for a pet and a nuzzle.

  Jerry tossed a handful of small twigs on the campfire and dropped a log on top. He stirred the coals, watched the flames catch, and sat next to her. “I understand how you feel and I know that there’s nothing I can say to make the pain go away. But please believe me that I have only two goals in life: to rescue my wife and kill that bastard more than anyone has ever been killed before.”

  She stared at the growing fire for several minutes without saying a word. Jerry was about to leave when she finally spoke. “You promise?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “How do you know he won’t kill you first?”

  “I don’t,” he sighed. “The truth is I’ve never enjoyed killing people. I never thought of myself as a killer. I still don’t, really. I’ve never set out to try and kill anyone. I’ve done what I’ve had to do out here. But, who hasn’t? I guess I’ve killed more than my fair share, but always for what I would call the right reasons. Sadly, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.” He looked long into the fire. It was really catching and he could feel the heat from the flames.

  “I never wanted to kill anyone,” she said quietly. “This guy just has that effect on people.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  She raised a finger, pointing to the trail of blood that led into the woods. “Mike shot him. Mike, shot him good. Put a nice red stain in that stupid white suit he was wearing.” She pulled her arms around herself. The anger and fear was wearing off and she was starting to shiver against the cold. “He’s going to need stitching up.”

  Jerry pulled his jacket off and put it over her shoulders. “Do you know where he would go? Where’s close?”

  There was nothing but sadness in her eyes now. She looked away from him and pulled at the collar of her shirt. Beneath the garment, just below her collarbone, she had a mass of scar tissue in the shape of a bold capital T.

  Jerry pulled her hand away and let the shirt cover the mark once more. “Well, shit.”

  ELEVEN

  When she began to wake, the first thing Erica noticed was that she didn’t hurt. Her back wasn’t aching, her legs weren’t cramping. Even the shoulder she had lain on for the past few days wasn’t as stiff as it had been.

  The second thing she noticed was the bed. It wasn’t the softest she had ever been in, but it wasn’t the back of the Jeep either. It was like lying in a cloud compared to the back of that bastard’s old Cherokee.

  The smell of clean sheets overwhelmed her. She buried her face in the pillowcase and took it in. Even with the cold outside she could tell it had dried on a line. She took a deep breath and was suddenly at her grandmother’s Texas farmhouse in the middle of the summer. It must have been early because it wasn’t ungodly hot yet.

  Her grandmother always told her that she dried the bedsheets outside to capture the wind so she could fly in her dreams. But the truth was the dryer had broken years before and she never bothered to get it fixed. This was the fate of many appliances in her grandmother’s home.

  She pulled the sheets closer to her face hoping to smell the breakfast her grandmother would be preparing. This is when she became fully alert. Her hands weren’t bound. Her legs were free. She could move.

  Erica kicked off the sheets and looked around the room. Sunlight drifted in through a fair-sized window and filled it with light. From the bed all she could see outside was the sky and the tops of a few trees.

  The room was white. Thick white. Cinderblock construction had been painted over with a hundred layers of slopped on paint. The floor was bare concrete and the bed was the only piece of furniture in the room.

  Erica’s feet touched the floor and the cold made her pull them back. Winter was settling in. She wondered if it would snow here. It was possible. But she wasn’t sure where here was. She braved the floor again and crossed to the window to get her bearings.

  Looking out the window didn’t help. What lay before her was hardly an establishing shot of any place she had ever been before. There were no landmarks. No signs that she could see.

  She couldn’t see a desert and she was thankful for that. The pine trees outside were green and tall. They had traveled north and east from Texas. That much she could tell. The window looked over a large common area filled with dead and dying grass and surrounded by red brick gothic-style buildings. She turned back to the white cinder blocks and determined she was in a college dorm room. But it didn’t answer any other questions.

  Had she been rescued? How long had she been out? Where were her rescuers? And her shoes? Where were her shoes? Her feet were freezing.

  She found her socks and shoes in a small built-in shelf and she quickly stepped into them as she crossed to the door. Erica grabbed the lever, pushed it down and pulled on the door. It shook in the doorframe but would not open. She tried again even though she knew shaking things wasn’t how they normally unlocked.

  She shook it harder and pounded against the solid door. “Hello?”

  There was no response from the other side
so she shook harder and yelled louder. “Hello? Please, let me out of here!”

  So she hadn’t been rescued. It was clear she was still a prisoner. But that meant there had to be guards in the hall. Why weren’t they answering?

  Her pleas turned to anger the more she shook and beat against the door. “Let me out!”

  After several minutes a woman’s voice came through the door. “You can’t come out.”

  Erica shook harder. The lever began to hurt her hand. “Let me out!”

  “You can’t come out,” the voice repeated. “Also, shut up.”

  She had their attention now at least. “Where am I? What is this place?”

  There was a sharp crack against the door from the other side. A man’s voice commanded her to back away from the door and sit on the bed.

  Erica stopped, released the door handle, and backed away a few steps. Far enough for the door to open, close enough to make a break for it if she had the opportunity. “Okay. I backed away.” She stayed close to the door but tried to make her voice sound smaller, farther away than it was.

  Chains fell heavy to the ground outside. Dead bolts disengaged. The door opened and two armed men walked shoulder to shoulder through the door and kept coming.

  Erica backed up until the edge of the bed met her knees and tried to trip her.

  “Move!” It was the woman’s voice and it caused the two guards to spread apart revealing its owner. She didn’t quite come up to their shoulders, but her presence was bigger than both of theirs combined. She wore a maroon, thigh-length wool jacket that looked more like a uniform than a winter coat. Straight brown hair fell to her shoulders from beneath a matching beret. Rich brown eyes framed behind thick-rimmed glasses burned when she spoke. “I said shut up. You need to be more respectful of people’s silence, bitch.”

  Erica caught herself before she fell back onto the bed. “Please. I’ve been kidnapped. You’ve got to help me.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, bitch.” Even her eyebrows looked angry. “You can’t make me. It’s probably that selfish, bossy attitude that got you here in the first place.”

  Erica raised an eyebrow. “Okay? Please, I’m asking for your help.”