After the Fall

by Darrel Sparkman

  Guiding his horse from shade to shade, tree to tree, he finally ended his round-about route under the spreading arms of a box elder tree. He tied the reins to a branch, and threw the saddlebags across his shoulders. Finding his way into the building, he walked down a short corridor, where the floor shined enough he could see his face in it. Some things never change. He chased his reflection to the end of the hall and the young soldier standing guard.

  "Colonel in?"

  The man looked at him, wrinkling his nose a little at the smell. You didn't ride a sweaty horse all day without picking up a little fragrance along the way.

  "Not here.” The answer was a nonchalant version of ‘get out of here and leave me alone'.

  Trent stared, until the young man started to show color in his cheeks.

  "Son, suppose you got a place for these dispatches? The colonel will want to see them."

  The private took the bags, a slow warming of respect in his eyes. Even new recruits knew about couriers. “Sorry. You could have told me you were a courier. I thought you were one of the locals, in to beg food or ammo from the colonel."

  "Not likely.” He turned away. “I'll be at the Bucket if he wants me."

  Trent led his horse to the white-boarded corral and turned it loose. Carrying his saddle and extra pack into the barn, he was accosted by a shriveled imp of a man wearing faded overalls and sporting a long tobacco-stained white beard. Trent idly wondered how long it would be before the old and battered gimme cap, with the picture of a green tractor on it, would move.

  "Thought you was dead, Trent. Them raiders must be gettin’ soft, lettin’ you traipse around the country all the time.” He moved his green baseball cap to set jauntily on the back of his head. About ten seconds.

  Trent gave him a wry grin. “Got close a couple of times. How have you been, Pop?"

  "Cain't complain.” The old man cackled, showing stained teeth, and pulled the cap level again.

  "All right to leave my stuff here, maybe overnight?"

  "Just a night? You go over to the Bucket, you may not come back for a week. I hear they's a new batch of girls over there.” He smiled wickedly, shifting his cap around. “Wouldn't know myself, of course. Too old, you know?"

  Trent grinned, shaking his head in mock amazement. Tossing his pack in a corner, he pulled the clip from his SKS and locked back the bolt, ejecting the round from the barrel. Catching the spinning cartridge in the air, he replaced it in the clip and dropped the SKS Paratrooper on top of the pile.

  "You still got that old gun? Why ain't you got one of the new fancy Colt guns the Army's givin’ away, or one of them AK-90s you can find layin’ about?"

  Trent looked at his rifle with affection. The type 56 SKS Paratrooper, with its folding stock and snap under bayonet, had seen a lot of use. Even so, it was still accurate to a thousand yards, and a formidable weapon. Of more importance, it used the most common ammunition found in the United States, or the world: the 7.62mm NATO round.

  "This one hasn't worn out yet."

  "Know what you mean, I guess. Though, I never could figure it. You take a gun that's supposed to be accurate to half-way roun’ the world, shoots from now to next week, then you duck into the woods with it where you can't see more ‘n fifteen feet. Don't make sense."

  The old man's eyes clouded over as his mind went down memory lane. He shifted his cap to a more serious angle.

  "I remember back in ‘90, street price on that gun was sixty bucks with a box of five hundred rounds of ammo for another twenty. There must have been thousands of them. Had a sign over in the hardware store ‘war surplus AK's and SKS rifles ... only dropped once'."

  Chuckling at his own humor, the old man moved his cap to the back of his head and waddled back into the barn, his skinny legs bowed like parentheses.

  As Trent was leaving, he turned. “Seen a young girl come in? Tall, blond, well set up and riding a mouse-colored gelding?"

  The old man shook his head. “Nope. Wished I had. Sounds like she's worth looking at."

  "She is,” Trent said, as he passed out the door.

  The day before Katie had decided to go on ahead of him to Base Camp. She said she needed to think.

  "Won't do no good,” the old man joked. “If she sees me first, she'll never look at you again. Hey,” the old man shouted at Trent's back. “You ain't getting soft on some woodsy girl are you?"

  Trent heard the old man cackling for a block.

  * * * *

  The Bucket-O-Blood emerged overnight, even faster than the base camp. Running pack trains into the old deserted cities, Charley Walsh brought fresh supplies of liquor and hard goods into the camp almost weekly. His place was always crowded, the noise level maintained a dull roar, and today proved no exception. He had two things making the frontier bearable for soldiers who did not really want to be there: women and liquor.

  Trent paused at the doorway, wiping sweat from his forehead as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the room. Settling his webbed duty belt, he stopped long enough to tie the leather thong, at the bottom of his holster, around his thigh. He kept the thong untied while riding, mostly out of convenience. Now, it might make all the difference if he needed his gun in a hurry. He had Velcro fasteners once. They were easy to use, but once dirt got in them ... modern was not always best.

  Most of the tables were full, but the bar had room. Trent planted his elbows on the counter top, hooked his heel on the foot rail, and yelled at the bald-headed man at the end of the bar.

  "Can a man get a drink around here?” Trent said.

  Charley Walsh turned around with a smile. “Trent.” He said the word like it was a puzzle and he had all the answers. “You made it back."

  "Some reason you thought I wouldn't?"

  The two men shook hands, the slow grasp of friends who had not seen each other for a while.

  "Did you bring good news or bad?"

  "Little of both,” Trent said with aplomb. “The good news is the forest is still there, green and beautiful as ever, cool and quiet. You should see the deer. They are multiplying like rabbits. The game is coming back, Charley. A man couldn't starve out there if he tried."

  "What's the bad news?” Charley asked, guardedly.

  "The bad news is the raiders still own it."

  "I hear you,” Charley said.

  Trent knew Charley had always dreamed of living in a cabin, high on a mountain so he could just sit and watch the world go to hell.

  "So, what's going on in Base Camp, Charley?"

  "You didn't notice,” Charley said, disgustedly, “with all the Mr. Green Jeans traipsing around like they owned the place?"

  "Any news from back East?” Trent asked.

  "Same as usual. Industry is picking up a little, and most of the plague is gone. The bacterial rot has never come back, thank you Lord. Things are so peaceful back in the real world, the army has run out of things to do. So they are going to launch a campaign out here to save us all from ourselves. Now you know why so many extra troops are around. They just cannot understand how we can live without them."

  "Who's going to save the Army?” Trent's voice was sardonic as the two men laughed together. They had discussed this subject before.

  Walsh jutted his chin at the recruits surrounding one of the tables. “Not this bunch."

  Trent chuckled. “I saw Pops over at the livery. How old is he, Charley?"

  "Dunno. Looks an even hundred, but he is probably not a day over ninety-nine. They say he's been through it all."

  "Looks to me like someone soaked him until he shrunk. I have never seen so many wrinkles on one human in my life."

  Charley's expression clouded over. “Trent, you ever wonder how it would have been if the lights hadn't gone out? If the damned plague and starvation didn't hit the world so hard? I found an old newspaper the other day. Reading about it was downright depressing. Seems like everything quit working at once, and people just couldn't believe what was happening. Runaway virus that medicine
could not stop. Super strains of bacteria dissolving flesh, for Chris’ sake. Sometimes I..."

  "Charley,” Trent said softly.

  Charley looked at Trent, startled out of his reverie.

  "Just let it go, partner,” Trent said. “You can't change it. We have to take the world the way it is. Just let it go."

  "Yeah.” Charley slowly perked up. “Hell, yes. I almost lost it for a minute. It just doesn't do any good to think about it."

  Trent had been looking over the people in the room while conversing with Walsh. Thinking of the murdered girl, he looked at the people around him with new eyes, eyes that were at the same time jaded, and curious. Who could do such a thing? What would they be like? How would they act in public? Trent's thoughts bounced around in his head as he scanned the small crowd.

  For the most part, the clientele were not any different from those found in other various settlements around the interior. Nearly everyone in the large room wore a uniform of some sort, and carrying weapons was second nature to them. The exceptions were the working girls. They were not wearing much of anything, and he could not see how they could possibly be hiding any weapons.

  Thinking of which ... “Charley, you see a tall blond girl come into town in the last day or so? Good looking, maybe six feet tall, looking to buy supplies?"

  "That's a big girl.” Charley thought a moment, his face screwed up in the palm of his hand.

  "Nope,” he said. “'Course, the only women coming in here are usually looking for a job. Are we talking about that kind of girl?"

  "Not likely. At least, I don't think so."

  Trent's mind was already back in the crowd, and his answer preoccupied. His attention was drawn to a table occupied by a group of yelling, screaming recruits out to set a new record for good times. At a table next to them were four hard-eyed men conspicuous by what they were not doing. Trent pointed with his chin at the somber group.

  "What's the story on them?"

  Charley cast a worried glance their way, then leaned closer to Trent. “Best leave them alone. They ain't locals, and they sure as hell ain't army. All I know is they came in here about an hour ago, parked at a table, and didn't even order a drink."

  Looking at the men, Trent thought they were more likely wolves in sheep's clothing, or raiders doing a little scouting of their own. He wondered suddenly just how many soldiers were in camp. It would be embarrassing to have the soldiers out looking for raiders, while the raiders took over the camp. Trent decided that would be a good question for the colonel.

  Suddenly, the door to the saloon opened, and a man stepped through. Looking around the gloomy interior of the room, he went directly to the table surrounded by mercs, and sat down.

  Ben Hobbs! New interest held Trent now, and he quietly slid his drink away. While acting as if he was rubbing a sore leg, he casually slipped the thong off the hammer of his pistol. The leather thong kept the gun from falling out of the holster accidentally, but if Trent needed the gun in a hurry, there would not be time to take it off. John Trent was a careful man. He had helped bury men who were not.

  Hobbs was a mercenary for hire. Sometimes he worked for settlers, occasionally he ran with raiders, but usually he worked for himself. He was bad all the time, and could not be trusted. Although Trent had not heard much about him lately, any place Ben Hobbs would be, there was going to be trouble.

  Trent knew Walsh had seen him move his drink away; knew he'd felt the subtle change that came to the room by his casual movement toward his shotgun, kept under the counter.

  A couple of hill men got up, nodded to Walsh, and walked unhurriedly through the back door; others squared around so they could watch the front. The party of recruits seemed blissfully unaware of the looming problem.

  Amid a peal of laughter, one of the soldiers suddenly scooted back his chair and jostled one of the mercs at the other table. Slowly the merc stood up, his spilled drink making a dark splotch on his pants and shirt. He had an automatic handgun strapped to his waist, and held a folded up Mac-10 machine pistol in his hands.

  "You sojer boys are cutting it kind of wide, ain't you?"

  "What?” The young soldier looked stupidly at him, his mouth working like a fish out of water as he tried to think of something to say. He was too drunk to hear the danger signals going off in his head.

  "I said you are a piece of shit.” The merc waited, as if he had already choreographed the scene.

  The young soldier let out a growl and slammed up from his chair. The rest of the men at his table stood up, watching the byplay. None of them was armed.

  As the soldier stood, the merc slashed him across the face with the MAC-10, showering the table with blood.

  "Hold it.” Charley Walsh held his shotgun across his chest, the barrel pointed at the ceiling. “You just hold it.” Charley's voice sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room. “There will be no fighting in here. Understood?"

  Trent, watching carefully, suddenly realized Charley was out of position. If he needed to, he would not be able to get his shotgun into action fast enough.

  The merc brought the machine pistol up.

  If he cuts loose in these close quarters ... Trent moved into action.

  He knew nothing in the world was louder than the sound of a gun cocking from an unexpected direction. The sound of the hammer rocking back on Trent's Ruger froze the merc. He was caught in his own trap, and afraid to move. Turning his head slightly, the merc saw Trent out of the corner of his eyes, could see the light glinting off the pistol, and saw the dark bore of the barrel pointing straight at him.

  "Ben Hobbs.” Trent hesitated a moment as the name echoed in the room, then said conversationally. “Call him off."

  Trent looked directly at the mercs. All the men were waiting for something to happen, holding weapons on their laps instead of in their holsters. It looked like a set up to Trent, and he suddenly realized the target was Charley, although he was not sure why. It really did not matter. Charley was game enough, but he was not a gunfighter. And, Charley Walsh was his friend.

  Finally, Hobbs said, “Forget it."

  The merc slowly straightened, the barrel of the MAC-10 jerking toward the ceiling. He was at last able to turn, and his gaze found Trent in the gloomy room.

  "Some other time?"

  "No,” Trent said.

  "How about now, outside?"

  "Mister, I do not know you. Why be in such a hurry to die?"

  The merc's gaze was wild, and Trent had a sudden thought about drugs, which was one of two things you did not see much of anymore. The second thing was fat people.

  "Well, I cain't dance.” The merc grinned. “And, the stock market's busted. Mr. Green Jeans done stole all the gas for my four-wheeler, and I ain't killed a man in a week. I guess I just need the entertainment."

  "Forget it.” Trent returned to the bar, never losing sight of the merc in the mirror.

  The man stood uncertainly for a moment before sitting down, banging his MAC-10 on the table. As the gun bounced and clattered, the men around the table flinched. Hobbs quickly reached out and set the safety on.

  Hobbs and his men conversed in a low murmur, then got up together and strode from the room. Collective sighs of relief went around from the rest of the patrons.

  Trent walked over to the table of recruits. All of them were now stone cold sober.

  "You wannabe soldiers listen to me.” Trent's voice was level and cold. “Don't you ever...” He paused to let his words sink in. “Ever go anywhere without your weapon. Your weapon is the first thing you pick up in the morning, and the last thing you lay down at night. You sleep with it like it's the best lover you ever had.” Trent's voice suddenly changed to a roar. “Do you understand?"

  The recruits flinched back in their chairs, and Trent turned back toward the bar amid a chorus of ‘yessirs’ from the table.

  "I thought we was going to have to shoot that boy.” Walsh's voice sounded matter-of-fact.

  "So did I. Charley, have
you made anyone mad lately? This was a setup if ever I saw one. They wanted you."

  "Don't know.” Charley scratched his head quizzically. “Been helping the colonel some. Lettin’ him know who was on the up-and-up around here, that sort of thing. Nothin’ serious."

  "Someone must be taking it seriously."

  Again, the door banged open, but this time it was the young private from the colonel's office. He came purposefully toward Trent. Definitely a man on a mission.

  "Colonels compliments, Mr. Trent,” the young soldier said. “He'd like to see you in his office."

  "Ain't he purty, John?” Charley said. “Don't you just feel safe all over with him running about?"

  Trent tossed his drink off, gave Charley a grin and strode out the door, with the private right on his heels. He walked right into trouble.

  The merc from the bar stood in the middle of the street, legs spread, hands brushing the butt of his auto. Maybe he had seen one of those old western vids, and loved the look of it. Trent sighed softly. It was not over.

  The hard voice of the merc rang between the buildings. “I heard you was something with a gun, woods runner. I'd like to see just how good."

  Trent looked at him calmly. After the first rush of adrenaline, his nerves always steadied out. His heart was beating a slow sixty. He had been down this road before.

  "You don't want to do this, son."

  "Really?” The merc was shouting. “I can take you any day."

  "Then, do it."

  The merc had probably found a mirror somewhere. He had cut quite a picture, with his low-slung gun in a tactical holster and his fast draw. He dreamed of being famous, of gaining fear and respect from people on the frontier. He never dreamed of the years of hard work, or the kind of fire it takes to mold and temper a man like John Trent; and he never dreamed of dying. He just could not picture himself dead in that mirror.

  As the merc's hand dipped to the auto holstered at his side, Trent seemed to be waiting. Time ticked by with a measured cadence for the people who watched along the street. It must have seemed to the onlookers that Trent wasted precious time checking bystanders who might be in the line of fire. He then stepped to the right to clear himself from the young soldier who had unwittingly bumped into him from behind. Most of the people watching thought Trent had waited too long.