Knights of the Apocalypse (A Duck & Cover Adventure Post-Apocalyptic Series Book 2)

Knights of
the Apocalypse
A
Duck & Cover Adventure

Benjamin Wallace

Copyright
© 2015 by Benjamin Wallace.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and, frankly, kind of
embarrassing for you.
Especially if you’re anything like
Tommy.

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Prelude

Just before the world ended, people hated the word moist.

Poverty was still a problem. Terrorism was a big issue at the time.
Genocide was always happening somewhere. But you had to be careful when using
the word moist. It was acceptable if you were describing cake, but if you used
it in any other sense you were sure to get a talking to.

Most people didn’t know a terrorist personally. If we had, then maybe
more of us would have told them off with stern words and clever slogans.

You couldn’t yell at poor people at all. It wasn’t acceptable. You
couldn’t even wonder out loud why they were poor without being an insensitive
ass. You couldn’t even suggest a new solution to the problem without being
labeled horrible things.

Perhaps it was this lack of outlet that caused so much frustration
regarding the word moist. We couldn’t do anything about international terror or
rampant poverty, but we could always chastise a friend for using a word that
made them uncomfortable.

Maybe this is why so much effort was put into hating the word. They
scorned their friends whenever it was used and followed the scorning with a
two-minute rant about how much they hated the word. They spent time and
creative resources developing flowcharts for when the word was appropriate and
clever cartoons to express just how much it annoyed them when it was used
outside of cake references.

They shared all of this on social media and built a wall of criticism
that kept people in check. We could shut out what we didn’t want to hear. We
felt free to berate anyone who thought different than us. By doing this, we
fought the good fight. We were activists despite our inactivity.

Moist was a line drawn in the sand and we stood behind our walls daring
anyone to cross it.

It may seem silly now. It may seem that our outrage was misdirected,
but it made us feel safe. We stood behind our walls fighting our own battles
against the things that offended us most. Times were good as long as the real
problems were well outside our walls.

Things changed after the end of the world. The real threats were
closer. Danger was more of a concern than emotions. Dead bodies were scarier
than hurt feelings. Our walls became real and we fought like hell to keep the
threats on the outside.

But people still didn’t like the word moist. And there wasn’t any cake
to talk about.

An entry from the journal of the Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warrior dated
“after”

ONE

Martha’s first thought was to complain about
her hair. It was a mess and smelled like whatever had been pouring out of the
train’s smokestack. She wasn’t happy and her husband deserved at least a little
grief for getting seats on the gondola instead of one of the enclosed cars.
Yes, it had been a beautiful view, she supposed,
but it was hard to appreciate Mother Nature’s majesty when the bitch was
howling through your hair.

First, she would remind him how much a day at
the stylist cost him. That always made him twitch. Then, she would point out
how he should appreciate how much she looked after herself. Other wives let
themselves go, but not her. The stylist, the salons, the shopping—she did
for him, of course and he should be more grateful.

Furthermore, she would suggest that, if he
truly loved her, he would upgrade the return tickets to a passenger car with
windows to keep the wind out of her hair.

Finally, after she saw the town, she decided
that they wouldn’t need the tickets because she was never going home again.

Silverton was a perfect town in every way.
Nestled in a valley between several snow-capped peaks, it was a place frozen in
time. It was quaint. It was picturesque. It was postcard perfect. She confirmed
this when she purchased several at a shop in town. This was where she belonged
and she knew it. Martha didn’t tell her husband this right away. But she also
decided not to complain about her hair. Not until later, anyway.

Historical buildings lined the streets of the
old mining town and they spent the day walking among them and browsing the gift
shops while Martha formulated her plan. No one rushed about. Life back home was
too hectic. She belonged here in this perfect little place where everything
slowed down to the pace life was supposed to be lived. She deserved this.

Bill was successful and she had been a part
of that success. She had always supported him from the home—raising kids,
keeping the house, and, of course, taking care of
herself
for him. But the kids were out on
their own
now, and
the house was too big. They both knew it. Just the other week they had been
talking about downsizing. It wasn’t coincidence that they came here now. It was
perfect.

All day she had thought of ways to tell him.
There were a hundred ways to say it, but not many that he would listen to.

A cafe on the edge of town was like a
thousand other cafes they had seen. And she was certain the coffee wasn’t a
special blend or prepared in any special way. Maybe it was the altitude that
made it so exceptional. Or it could be the view. She stared out the window at
the mountain peaks and her excitement got the best of her. “We should move
here.”

It wasn’t the subtlest way to bring it up,
but she didn’t care. She was so overwhelmed by the idea—he had to feel
it, too. It was perfect for them.
 

“You’re being silly.” He slurped from his
coffee cup the way she hated.

“I am not being silly. This place is
wonderful.” She put her chin in her palm and stared out the window. The air was
so still. Even nature didn’t want to change a thing about the town. “I can’t
believe you don’t think so.”

“It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“Then why not?” she asked. “Why not move
here?”

The cup clinked as he set it back in the
saucer and he turned from the
mountain view
to look at
her. “What would we do here? This is a perfect example of being a great place
to visit, et cetera, et cetera.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“The et cetera, et cetera?”

“Yes.”

“I know you do.” He smiled and winked at her.

“And what do you mean, ‘What would we do
here?’ We’d do exactly this.”

“Drink coffee?” he asked.

“Yes.” She took a sip from her own cup. It
was a perfect cup of coffee.

“All day? Every day?”

“Now you’re the one being silly,” she said.
“Of course we wouldn’t just drink coffee. But we could start every day right
here. We could just take our time and look at the mountains and not rush to do
anything.”

He looked back out the window at Little Giant
Peak. “Those are some pretty mountains.”

“So, there you go. You agree with me. I saw a
real estate office just up the street. We’ll drop in and …”

He slurped another sip and put the mug down
with a clink. “But what would we do, Martha?”

“What if we just did nothing, Bill? You’ve
worked your entire life. I’ve always stayed busy with the kids. Maybe we’ve
earned some time to just do nothing.”

“We’d kill each other.”

“No, we wouldn’t.”

“We’d go stir crazy within a week. We’d get
tired of walking up and down Main Street and start staying home. Then we’d
start doing things to get each other riled up because it’d be the only
entertainment we’d have. Then one day I’d go too far—maybe I’d leave the
toilet seat up and that night you’d smother me with a pillow.”

Martha smiled. “You know I could never hurt
you, dear.”

“I’d straight up murder you,” Bill said.

She smiled at him. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would. I’d murder you and I’d hide your
body in one of the abandoned mines.”

Martha pouted and crossed her arms. “You’d
never get away with it.”

“I would, too. I’d act really sad and just
tell everyone that you went for a hike and most likely got eaten by a bear. I
think they’d believe me. It probably happens all the time.”

“Eaten by a bear? I don’t think they would
believe that.”

“No?”

“No.”

Bill raised his cup. “Mountain lion it is,
then.”

“You’ve really put some thought into this.”

“Well, it was a long train ride and you were
more concerned about your hair than talking. I had to think about something.”
He smiled that damn crooked smile that appeared every time he wanted to make it
clear he could read her mind.

She hated that smile as much as loved it.
“You think you’re so clever.”

“I am clever. That’s why I know you wouldn’t
like it here.”

She put her coffee down. A drop of brown
sloshed onto the saucer. “I would love it here. And you would, too. We’d find
something to do. We could open up a bicycle shop and rent bicycles.”

“They have a bicycle shop.” Bill pointed out
the window and across the street. “It’s right there.”

“I know. That’s where I got the idea.”

“I don’t know if this town is big enough for
two bicycle shops.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a bicycle shop.”

“I doubt they’d appreciate the competition.
They’d probably ride us out of town.”

Martha rolled her eyes and smiled. “Don’t
start.”
 

“Do you think they’d use our bicycles or
their own to ride us out of town?”

“Stop it.”

Bill rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I’m not
sure of the protocol.”

“Stop it.”

“They’d probably make you ride on the
handlebars. There’s no reason to waste two perfectly good bikes.”

“Now you’re just teasing me. I’m not talking
to you anymore.”

“Fair enough.” Bill turned back to the window
and slurped his coffee.

Martha stared at the mountains. “What if
we …?
”

Bill sighed. “That didn’t last.”

“Quiet. What if we opened a little cafe?”

Bill looked around the little cafe and
feigned confusion.

“You’re terrible.”

“Honey, the only business this town could
support is another souvenir shop. And selling thimbles with tiny mountains on
them would make me want to murder everyone—not just you.”

“Well, if you’re so smart, what do you think
we could do?”

He leaned over his coffee and thought for a
moment. “Now that I think about it … I think we’d do great giving wives guided
mountain lion tours.”

Martha gave him his own crooked smile back
and said, “We’d make a killing.”

“That we would.”

“We could call it Widower Maker tours,”
Martha said.

“I can hear the jingle now.”

They both laughed for a moment before Martha
continued. “I know you’re joking, but it’s not a bad idea. I’d kill to live out
here.”

“I know you would, honey. So, I’ll be
sleeping on the couch tonight.” Bill leaned back in his chair and slurped away.

Martha leaned back, too, and looked out the
window that faced Little Giant Peak. Her husband may be right. Perhaps one day
she would grow bored. But, at this moment, she knew she could stare at the
mountains forever.

# # #

He’d been staring at the damn mountains
forever—four and a half hours, thirty-seven days, and two years by his
count. Yeah, yeah, they were pretty. Snow-capped peaks soaked up the moonlight
and spit it out across the town like some majestic night-light, blah, blah. And
it was better than looking out across a desert like so much of the world had
become. But when it’s your job to stare at anything for hours, you learn to
hate whatever it is you’re staring at.

And, in all those years, days and hours of
staring, Lee Graves hadn’t seen a thing. Not anything worth yelling about,
anyway. Once there was a mountain lion. At least, he thought it was a mountain
lion enough to draw his sword and run the other way. But by the time he’d built
up the courage to move closer, the creature had either scurried away or had
been a shadow, or a log, or something else entirely to begin with.

When they assigned him to the position in the
Night Watch, they had told him it was a great honor. The Watch’s sigil was a
fierce owl with eyes that shone green. He
had
 
draped
it proudly over his
shoulders and spoke the oath of the Watch:
We look into the darkness of
night so others may see dawn’s light.

The Watch stood guard over the helpless, the
innocent and the tired. It was a living
wall
that stood against the threat of cowards that would strike in the night and
against any dangers the post-apocalyptic world might send over the peaks to
threaten the kingdom’s peaceful inhabitants. The Watch was all that kept the
town safe from sundown to sunup. They stood defiant against the cold and the
darkness. It was an honor to serve. It was a privilege to serve. It wasn’t
until his first moonless watch that he realized the owl’s eyes glowed in the
dark and that he’d been conned into the most ridiculous job in the Kingdom of
the Five Peaks.
 

Lee exhaled and watched his breath trail off
into the darkness. It was the first thing that had moved in weeks. He stomped
his feet against the cold and snow crunched under his boots. He pulled the
stupid owl cloak tight around his chest. The eyes had long since lost their
luminosity and the glow-in-the-dark paint now cracked and flaked away whenever
he moved. Like his own eyes, the owl’s had lost their keenness. As Lee Graves
stared into the night, the only thing he looked for was a way off the Watch.

This was simple enough in theory. All a
member of the Night Watch had to do was hand his position off to another. Those
that had served before him had simply handed their cloak off to the next person
that had wandered into the kingdom seeking citizenship. Unfortunately for Lee,
the walls of the kingdom had been closed for four and a half hours,
thirty-seven days and two years.

Making a deal with one of the others in town
had proven difficult. Whenever he asked them to take his place in the Night
Watch, they only laughed at him and made fun of the owl on his cloak. He was
stuck watching the darkness for invaders that never came, for threats that
never appeared. The only way he was getting out was to earn enough to buy his
way out of the kingdom.

That’s why when he saw something in the
darkness for the first time in two years, thirty-seven days and four and a half
hours, Lee Graves tapped the pouch at his side. It jingled and he looked the
other way.