Afterworld (The Orion Rezner Chronicles Book 1)

by Ploof, Michael James

  We cruised toward Harvard looking like Japanese Fonz meets a Bee Gee—okay, I’m pretty much in love with the whole latter half of the twentieth century—the whine of our scooters pronouncing our awesomeness to the world. It was a short ride due to the lack of traffic, and the fact that the city’s thousands of abandoned cars had come in handy when building the protective wall before the spell shield was enacted.

  We reached Harvard and raced, pushing each other to the armory like kids fighting over Easter eggs. Laughing, we crashed through the doors of the small building and came face to face with Kronos.

  In his right hand, my master wizard held an old-school, western-looking six shooter. I found its twin holstered on his other hip. Across his back he carried a mean looking shotgun.

  “Out there is every nightmare that ever scared child. Prepare yourselves well,” he said cryptically, getting closer with every word.

  “That’s a good idea, Hammertime. You think we should go to—gee, I don’t know—some sort of armory?” I asked.

  Mushiro chuckled.

  Dude pawed at the pistol at Kronos’s side, but the wizard put a hand on his head, keeping him just out of reach.

  He gave me the stink-eye and then looked at the chimp. “Why you no listen when I tell you choose animal well? This one no good—cause more trouble than any.”

  “Well,” I said, looking down at Dude with him, “they were all out of cats, and owls are just too Harry Potter.”

  Kronos pointed into the distance. “Vampire, werewolf, demon, armed drone, robot dog, Cain—these await us, boy. Silver bullet, wood-stake crossbow, rock-salt-loaded shotgun, wand of fire and of wind, protection spell and wards—these you will need.”

  Duh.

  I murmured parts of what he had said, as if determined to memorize the list. “Check and check. Are we out of bread or milk?”

  Kronos sneered, disgusted, and leaned in—with what must have been rotten-reindeer-meat breath. “You are a funny man, yes? Just remember, dead is not funny, funny man.”

  He turned and walked through the swinging glass doors. Stopping just outside the threshold, he looked to the sky. Within seconds a huge falcon came and landed on his outstretched arm. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing exactly how cool he looked, and stalked off into the twilight.

  “Man, Rez, that dude is never gonna let up.”

  I sighed. “Probably not.”

  We were let in by the guards after they cleared us, a process that took too long. My anticipation of the wealth of crazy gear that waited consumed my thoughts. Once we were given the go-ahead, a hidden door opened. We went through and stepped into a sleek room of shining black.

  A grizzled-looking guy in his fifties, wearing an eye patch, greeted us and our wide-open mouths.

  “Welcome to the armory,” he said from the shadows, and hit a button on what looked like a TV remote control. Lights gleamed to life, illuminating the empty room. With another click the room began to change. Sections of the smooth walls parted and slid open, revealing an astounding array of weaponry.

  “Holy shitballs,” said Johnny, and Dude cooed his agreement.

  “Holy shitballs is right,” said the eye-patch-wearing old guy. He looked at us with consideration. “Name’s Clarence Shepard. I’m the guy who knows every weapon in this room. You’re welcome to look around, but I already know what you need.”

  He wasn’t a tall man by any means, but neither was he short. He had the air of a Texan, and the strut and confidence of a man who carried a gun on a regular basis—and knew how to use it. There’s no law against being armed in the Boston refuge, but still, most people do not carry. Like many old habits from before the Culling, learned helplessness was hard for many to overcome. Shepard looked like a dude who had been packing heat since before he could walk. His gray camo shirt did nothing to hide his solid form, and I couldn’t help but notice his many scars.

  The tour started with the smallest pistols and continued on to huge-ass machine guns. We spent the better part of an hour gauging and drooling over the weapons. Hot out of training and ready for some blood, we were bulletproof and we knew it. Our hands couldn’t fondle the instruments of our vengeance fast enough.

  “You boys are new wizards, right? Well, you can eyeball that big stuff all day, but you gotta remember your load. You need a free hand for wands and staffs and whatnot, right? That means one-handed guns are preferable to these beasts—though they’ll clear a room fast. Besides, you guys are just going into FEMA Zone 1, Sector 8—your team will be carrying some heavy weapons. I would guess a minigun—and they’ll probably bring some armored rigs.”

  Shepard was right. The search party we were heading out with would be armed to the teeth. Still, I wasn’t trusting anyone else to save my ass when my energy and ability to cast spells ran out, and he had magical rounds for every caliber. I grabbed a pistol-grip, sawed-off shotgun from one of the walls and returned to the handguns. I had enough close-up power with the shotgun; now I set my eyes on accuracy. The old Glock 27 would do just fine. It was a weapon I knew well, and it could hold a twenty-four-round clip. During our time at Harvard we were grilled in combat wizardry, which included using both your head and guns whenever possible. We also, therefore, spent a great deal of time in the study of ammunitions enchantments. I grabbed two Glocks and a double holster, to boot. As a second thought, I snagged a small .357 Magnum—you never know.

  Dude was being uncharacteristically good. I was glad of it. While he can be a pain in the ass off duty, he takes his work very seriously. Across the room I noticed Old Ben admiring an eighteenth century musket. Our eyes met, and his told me he yearned to be able to recount the tales of his time. Instead, he just laughed to himself, lost in nostalgia.

  Done with the regular gear, I nudged Johnny with a grin. “Hey, Shepard, where’s your magical loot?”

  The good Shepard clasped his hands together and wrung them with a devious grin. “I was hoping you would ask me that.” He clicked another button on his remote, and the displays of guns rotated to reveal an all-you-can-eat buffet of magical weaponry.

  “First things first, men.” He patted us both on the back and walked behind a table of ammo. “What is your cal. and what is your flavor?”

  I told him the calibers and what “flavor” they should be. There were three options: silver bullets, wood-tipped bullets containing capsules of holy water, and explosive ultraviolet rounds. I took some of each—after all, I had three pistols. The bullets were meant for werewolves and vampires, but they would work just as well on the Cain. For the shotgun I went for rock salt cartridges infused with holy water and iron shards.

  Johnny loaded up and we moved on to the wand display. What we were looking for were the basic, all-purpose variety. All wands acted like a focal point and greatly amplified the power of a spell, but some were also enchanted or specially crafted to enhance certain kinds of spells. There were very powerful wands for focusing only fire, water, or wind, for example, but those were better in the hands of more experienced wizards.

  I selected a basic dark-cherry wand and liked its weight. I found a few more for back-ups, and grabbed leg straps for them all—a bunch of wands on your belt tends to hamper mobility.

  I moved on past the staffs. They were more useful to seasoned wizards, as well, and I really had no room for one anyway. I grabbed a few hex bags made by elder witches, and other small tools of warding, and came to the armor.

  Hanging on display were full-body suits of enchanted Kevlar with chain mail at the seams and joints. I chose a dark blue one, and Johnny went for black and red.

  Next was a variety of enchanted cloaks in all shapes and sizes.

  “Now, when it comes to these cloaks,” said Shepard, “you boys are gonna want to choose wisely. You got a wide variety to pick from. The strongest enchantments are single enchantments—as you know—so you got powerful single-enchantment cloaks, and then you got multi-use. There are two basic kinds for each. These will protect you from bullets,
fangs, claws, blades, and all that, as well as fire and weight—like say a car happens to fall on ya. Now, against Cain and drones they’ll do fine, but mind, they have their limits. Over here you got your supernatural protection cloaks, which will shield you from spells and the like. If you’re facing something specific, then go single use. If you don’t know what you’re up against, go for the multi.”

  I thought about what we might face out there. I already had the Kevlar body suit for bullets and blades, but could you really have too much protection against these things? It was possible, but unlikely, that we would run into a pack of werewolves or vampires, and I figured the biggest threats to be the Cain and the Elite’s highly advanced war machines. I decided against a supernatural defense cloak and went for one of general protection instead. Properly geared, I meandered over to the spell books while Shepard loaded all our crap into huge hockey bags.

  “Not much to choose from,” I said, regarding the two spell books on the counter—“pamphlets” was more like it.

  “You’re new wizards. This is all you get for now, killer. Come back alive—maybe they’ll let you at the big boom spells.” He wore a condescending smile, topped with mirth.

  “I have the same spells in my own books at home.” Disgusted, I flipped through one of the two “books.” I’d hoped to get a chance to do some real casting. My disappointment was paramount.

  “Never saw this one,” Mushiro pointed out.

  I looked to where he indicated, stepping closer to read it. I translated the title softly to myself, and peripherally caught a small change in Shepard’s body language as he quieted to hear.

  Molecular Zero, it was called.

  I scanned over what was a freezing spell like nothing I had ever seen, with very little drain on the caster. Mushiro snatched the book from me, looked it over quickly, and we smiled at each other like kids with a new BB gun.

  We left the armory, content and gliding on top of the world. We loaded up our scooters and cruised home to our respective apartments—with stupid grins and the wheeze of our bogged-down rides. Dude stood atop my hockey bag like a king claiming new land, fearlessly holding my collar and pointing me home. Beneath his Superman outfit he wore a Kevlar vest that Shepard had found for him, fitted for a small child. He was the happiest ape in the Afterworld.

  I locked up all my loot and took a quick sponge bath—what, you think there are hot showers after end times?—and spiffed myself up nice. Within a half an hour I was parking my ride outside Fracco’s Pub & Grill, a nice quiet place that is never full.

  The nice thing about the end of the world is the far less amount of stupid people in the way. And I really cannot express how good it is to overhear conversations about seed storage, herd maintenance, water conservation, music theory, the arts, poetry, philosophy—the list goes on, but basically: things that matter in our day and age. Back before the Culling, it seemed to be bad manners to talk about anything important, and when you did, you were bombarded with programmed responses that people didn’t even know they were regurgitating.

  Walking down the steps to Fracco’s feels like coming home. It is a nice small pub, with a bar at the back wall that seats no more than ten. To the left are an old jukebox, a pool table, darts, and four booths. To the right are a small stage and seven scattered tables for two.

  There was only a handful of people in the pub tonight, and they were all from our graduating class. Dude wasted no time and sprang across Fracco’s with glee. He knew what awaited him. Pushing Mushi aside, he scampered up a stool and stood with hands upon the bar, holding an invisible fork and knife.

  “One mozzarella sandwich coming up,” said the owner and bartender, Paul Fracco.

  Dude gave a screech and bobbed his head.

  “And extra pickles,” Fracco added, with a wink and finger-gun bang. He turned to me. “Sam Adams Summer Ale? Fresh batch.”

  “Hells to the yes sir, my friend,” I sang.

  Boston is a city older than America herself. It is a beautiful testament to a time in history of trailblazing, and the epitome of the human spirit—and it is home to Samuel Adams beer. If anything in the Afterworld tempts me to believe in a higher power, it’s the fact that Sam Adams survived the apocalypse. I nodded a thanks at Paul and drank a quarter of the mug.

  Johnny suddenly appeared, slapping me on the back and bringing me in for a one on one. “I just talked to Marcus Browman. The next search party leaves in two days. And guess who’s going?”

  I pulled back from his bromantic embrace and gave him the cockeye. “Uh, who?”

  “Jesus, Rez. You gotta take all the fun out of it? Huh? Guess, man!”

  I rolled my eyes and drank my beer. “I dunno, the Mad Hatter?”

  “Psht, you suck, Rezner. You know who’s going? Top witch in this year’s class, man—Melody Stone.”

  “Big deal.” I shrugged and finished my beer. A nod to Paul had my mug refilling.

  “Big deal?” Mushiro was exasperated. “Yeah, big deal—only best witch in her class. She is stronger than our class’s best wizard, bro—best battle witch that ever came out of Harvard. And she’s already successfully grown an entroot.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, bro.”

  Witches flying around on brooms was one of those gross misinterpretations of magic. What people thought were brooms were actually Entroots, little staff-like trees with hundreds of thin roots at the base. The plants can be enchanted to not only follow a witch around when not needed, but also to fly with wind spells. Aside from their more arcane uses, entroots can be used quite efficiently as a weapon. The roots themselves can grow longer to grab or strangle, or bunch up into a tight, solid ball. The trees are still alive and can take to the ground easily when sustenance is required. Basically, they are some of the coolest things I have ever seen.

  “She is gonna be one to watch, Rez. Count on my words, man.”

  “Mark my words, bro,” Paul corrected him.

  Mushiro waited momentarily for an elaboration and then impatiently said, “What?”

  “Or—you can count on it,” Paul added, toweling dry the inside of a mug. “But count on my words is cool, too. Whatever works.”

  I leaned in closer to Fracco. “Don’t correct him. I only hang out with him because it’s hilarious.”

  “Screw you, Rez,” Mushiro said, and slapped my forehead. “Get in the game, you goddamned hippie. We want this witch on our side. With things moving so fast these days, her coven’s tripled its size in three years’ time.” He eyeballed Paul and added slowly, “Mark my words, mutha—”

  “Dude! Slow down on the pickles," I yelled. “The last thing I want is to be lulled to sleep by vinegar ape-farts.” He stuck his tongue out and bounded off to mingle with the pub patrons.

  “I don’t know, Mushi, how good can she be—like you said—the way things go these days? We only graduated so early because the council is desperate for wizards. Same goes for the covens. She’s just as green as any of us.”

  “We’ll see, Rez,” said Johnny, giving up.

  We spent the rest of the evening with our fellow grads, sharing tales of our Rites of Passage. But we didn’t make a long night of it—we were expected to report to USCG at oh something hundred. I stumbled out of Fracco’s with Dude in tow.

  …And had the presence of mind to let him drive us home.

  Chapter 7

  The Debriefing

  I awoke at 6:00 a.m. to the sound of someone pounding on my door in time with the throbbing in my temples. After a lifetime, I stumbled from the couch and found the caller to be Father Killroy.

  “You smell like the bottom of a vodka bottle, son.” He pushed past me and let himself in. I closed the door, and Old Ben walked through it.

  “Drink does not drown care, but waters it, and makes it grow fast,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Ugh, I know, Ben. I wasn’t drowning anything.”

  Head down, I bumped into Father Killroy, who had stopped to regard
me when I spoke to Franklin’s ghost.

  “What did he say?” the father asked.

  “Old Ben? You don’t believe in him, so who cares?” I stepped into the bathroom, took a few outdated aspirin, and swallowed them down.

  “It doesn’t matter if I believe in him,” said Killroy. “You do.”

  “He said I shouldn’t drink so much,” I yelled through toothpaste mouth. I didn’t have running water in my apartment, but I didn’t really care either—it’s easy enough to get through with a few gallons a day or so. All you really need is enough for George Carlin’s four key areas: armpits, ass, crotch, and teeth. I shamefully remember letting the water run the entire time I brushed, back before the Culling. That was how we all treated everything back then. We wasted as if all things were infinite.

  “What about his quote, ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy’? And there are others I cannot recall,” said Kilroy.

  I rinsed and joined him in the kitchen, to grab an apple, before heading off to the bedroom. “That’s an old man Ben quote, I think.” I looked to Franklin. “He gave himself a little leeway there in his last decade. I think going to France really loosened him up.” Old Ben chuckled to himself as he looked up at the ceiling, clearly enjoying memories of his time abroad.

  “What else did he say, or does he always just state the obvious,” asked Kilroy.

  “Well, actually, he only speaks in his own quotes.”

  The good Father looked at me incredulously.

  I continued. “But his words still ring with truth in recognition. We all know what we must do, but it’s the doing it that seems to elude most of us—and all of us at times.” I went back out to the kitchen, big-ass hockey bag in tow.

  The father was beaming.

  “What?” I asked, grabbing two more apples.

  “You sound like a preacher, son. You would give a good sermon.”

  “Yeah, but I believe I should do the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. No disrespect Father, but I don’t need the threat of hellfire to do what is right.”