Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (2 page)

Some claimed to be celebrities; if they didn’t resemble the famous person they would claim that they had been disfigured by one of the many agents used in the warheads.

A few claimed to be royalty, declaring themselves kings or queens to vast swaths of land or states if not the country or continent.

The man who sat before him, however, was not trying to make such a claim. This nomad that sat before the councilman believed every word he had said. Etching on his duster was proof of countless days spent in the wasteland—the canvas was frayed by nights spent on rock and rough ground. Calloused hands told of a life of physical labor. A sharpness in the nomad’s eyes convinced the councilman that the man in front of him was not crazy.
 

Conviction, not pride, had prompted the man before him to request the title. The councilman could see that. Like the master mason or the decorated soldier, it was respect that this man was looking for. Respect, not for himself, but for the craft he studied. An acknowledgment to the dedication, the thousands of hours spent mastering the skills that defined his ilk was all he sought. The recognition was not only for himself, but also for others in his trade.
 

Raising a soiled handkerchief from the desk, the councilman dabbed at the sweat on his brow as he studied the man. Roy could respect the nomad for making a fuss over the entry on the form—but he didn’t have to.

Roy picked up the pencil and began to write, “Nomadic Warrior.”

“You can’t spell apocalyptic, can you?”

“Of course I can spell apocalyptic! We’ve all been living in a post-apocalyptic world for seven years now. You don’t think I’ve had to write apocalyptic over and over again?” He looked back to the paper and paused.

“A-p-o-c-a-l-y-p-t-i-c.”

The councilman took a deep breath and scribbled furiously, “… alyptic nomadic …” he trailed off and finished writing the full occupation, curving the last few letters of ‘warrior’ up the edge of the page to fit.

“Name?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, not you per say. The town.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first rule of being a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior is that you don’t have a name. Eventually, the people I help will give me a nickname, never wanting to know the real me.”

“What?”

“That’s okay. It makes writing the folklore easier.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not. All post-apocalyptic nomadic warriors don’t have names.”

“Sure they do.”

“No, they don’t. Did the man with no name have a name? No, he didn’t. What’s-his-face didn’t have one either. Neither did the stranger.”

Before the apocalypse, Roy Tinner’s blood pressure had been high, a condition the doctors had attributed to overeating and overreacting to just about everything. Even though the doctors vaporized, melted, exploded, rotted, or had been eaten, like most of the world’s population, he felt it was best to behave as though his stress levels had not been reduced since the sweeping destruction of society and man.

Relaxing had never come easy to him, but he did his best to ease the muscles in his neck and smiled at the infuriating nomad. “Well, what should I write down?”

“Just leave it blank. You can fill it in later once I’m given a nickname.”

“I’m thinking of one right now,” the councilman muttered as he struck a line through the field on the form. “And why do you want to become a citizen of the town of New Hope?”

“Oh. I don’t want to be a citizen.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“The way it usually works is that I help out a bit: fix crops or irrigation systems, help out rebuilding things, that kind of stuff. Then, someone will get sick or hurt. I’ll come through, against impossible odds, endear myself to the town, get the girl, and be on my way.”

An image of the nomad hitting the ground, face first, outside the gates of the town flickered in his mind and generated a genuine smile across Roy Tinner’s face. Seeing it happen would be easy enough, but the mayor wanted the nomad here.

Frustration drove the huff from Roy’s plump lips; he grabbed the form from the desk and tore it up.

“Is there a problem?” the nomad asked.

Tinner grunted as he pushed himself away from the desk. The squeaky protest of a broken caster rang out as the chair rolled back a few feet and ground to a sudden halt. Inertia tried to topple the heavyset man from his seat when the office chair came to a jarring stop. Weight won out against physics; the councilman fell to his feet and stood to cross the room.

“That form was for new citizens. I’m going to need a different one.”

His destination was a beaten filing cabinet, but he made sure to cross in front of two mayoral election posters on the near wall. These two campaign ads represented the fledgling democracy that was New Hope, but they looked as if they belonged in a high school hallway, not a functioning post-apocalyptic society.

Incumbent Mayor Wilson sought a seventh term and promised to “Give Everyone Hope.” An illustration of the smiling public official lacked just a little in proportion, but was a fair depiction of the man the nomad had met at the town gates. The candidate’s arms were opened wide. A welcoming smile beamed across his lips.

Roy Tinner stopped in front of the Wilson campaign poster and blocked it from the nomad’s line of sight, leaving only the “Tinner for Mayor” poster visible.
 

“Keep Hope Alive,” was the line that underscored the poorly rendered stick figure that, the nomad could only assume, was supposed to be councilman Roy with his arms crossed. Heavy lines above the eyes indicated a sterner approach to governing, or hairy eyebrows.

Roy reached the filing cabinet, wrestled the top drawer open, and thumbed through a series of handwritten forms. Creaks groaned from the cabinet as it strained to support the large frame that leaned on it for support. Heavy breaths emanated from the councilman as he concentrated.

“How’s the campaign going?” The nomad now saw the furled brow, depicted with multiple marker lines in the poster, reflected on the man himself.
 

Tinner grunted and continued to leaf through the pages.

“When’s the election?”

Roy glanced over the top of the papers. “That’s town business,” he said and licked his thumb again to continue the search for the document.

The nomad nodded and decided to give up the pursuit of small talk. But when Roy moved on to another drawer, he felt the urge to fill the silence.
 

“Your town sure has a lot of paperwork.”

Roy grunted again. This time it was in pleasant agreement. He had designed every form in the filing cabinet. One final stroke of his thumb against his tongue helped him through five more pages.

“Ah, here it is.” Roy sat back in the chair. Four thrusts of his hips brought him back to the table where he slapped down the blank piece of paper. “The form for transient assholes.”

“Hey now. I’m just here to help.”

“And how can you help?”

“My skills are useful in many areas. Do you need any rare antibiotics retrieved from a hostile area?”

“No, we’ve got plenty of medicine: penicillin, painkillers, varying strengths of Advil.” Roy counted the medicines off on plump fingers.

“Are your crops dying and you don’t know why?”

“Bumper crops.”

“Anyone disappear mysteriously while strolling outside of the city walls?”

Roy shook his head, “All strollers accounted for.”

“How about …”

“Look. We don’t need your help. We’re doing just fine here. We don’t need pharmacists or farmers. We’ve got plenty of welders and ranchers. I don’t think there is anything you could do … unless.”

For the first time since greeting the nomad, his brow unfurled. Roy spotted an opportunity. Despite his more annoying qualities, the nomad appeared to be in excellent shape. He was fit, and not just for a wanderer of the wasteland.

The Tinner Titans kickball team was playing in the championship against the only other team in town and had need of a shortstop; Mrs. Ellison had been placed on the injured list since an unfortunate cakewalk accident earlier in the week.

As coach, Tinner would win bragging rights over the mayor if his team could beat Wilson’s Wild Ones. This nomad before him could be the ringer he needed.

Roy leaned forward in his chair, “As a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior, you must have excellent hand eye coordination.”

Mirroring the lean, the nomad nodded his response.

“You roam the lands—your thighs must be tremendous.”

The nomad leaned back, shifted in his seat, and nodded with less enthusiasm.

Roy leaned back in the chair. The caster chirped. Roy smiled, displaying an orthodontist’s dream. He sprung the question, “Do you play kickball, Mr. No Name?”

“Not since elementary school. No.”

Roy tapped the eraser against the metal desk and dropped the pencil. “Well, then, I think we’re done here. It seems we have little need for a non-kickball playing post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior here in New Hope.”

“Maybe not now. But as soon as you ask me to leave, trouble will show up at your door.”

“Trouble? What trouble? I don’t know if you’ve noticed this in all of your nomadic wandering or not, but the post-apocalyptic world isn’t all that bad.

“In fact, we the people of New Hope kind of like it. Things are quiet. We’re all neighbors again. There is no TV to distract us, no rat race to frustrate us, and the weather has been fairly pleasant.”

“Complacency precedes catastrophe, so they say,” the nomad said.

“Who say?”

“I say.”

“You say?”

“I say.”

“Well, let me say this—we are hardly complacent. We have planted our fields to provide enough food to last through winter, medical stores to cover any ailment, and doctors to tell us what that ailment is.

“We have shelter, a well and filtration system for endless drinking water. We’re raising livestock. We’ve formed a government. We are hardly complacent. We are prepared.”

“That’s why you’re in danger.”

Roy Tinner had been called many names in his life: fat, bastard, and fat bastard among other things. Some of these things dealt with hygiene issues, others with his tastes in clothes, music, and athletic proficiency. Once, he was called an ass in one language while someone else called him a hole in a completely different language. Of all the things he had been called, patient wasn’t one of them. Even nurses had found different ways to refer to him.

He had a town to run, a campaign to manage, an election to win, and gates to seal against outsiders; this nomad was wasting time. Pounding the desk, he stood to the full height of his small stature.

“Tell me who, stranger. Who poses us a danger? Psychos in hockey masks? Cannibals? Killer clowns from outer space?”

The nomad hesitated to answer. “Some are, yes. But not the clowns, no, I don’t see that happening. That one you made up. But the cannibals, psychos and such, yes.”

“Then our walls will keep them out. Until someone can show me proof that our lives our threatened, this town doesn’t need a post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior eating its food and preying on its women. The only real threat we have here is strangers coming into town and trying to con us.”