Pursuit of the Apocalypse (3 page)

Alasis had declared war on the Librarian.

TWO

The Librarian had parked the truck between two upright Cadillacs somewhere in what use to be the state of Texas. Bombs had a tendency to throw things around, so after the world had tried to kill itself, it was hardly worth mentioning any kind of vehicle turned on end. Many were stuck in trees or even set on buildings and were only worth noting if they were being used to give directions. Even then, one would have to be very specific about which car on which roof to make the directions of any use.

These two Cadillacs, however, had not been thrown but placed on end on purpose and were currently saving his life.

It had been a handful of years since the last weather report had been broadcast. Records weren’t available and memories were fading, but most people liked to remember the weatherman saying, “It looks like a great day to get outside.” As the bombs fell and the Earth turned from green to a charred brown, people realized that it wasn’t that nice a day after all and the weatherman had been wrong again.

Had meteorology not been obliterated as an occupation that day, Jerry was sure they’d be breaking into regularly scheduled broadcasts to talk about the maelstrom of sand and lightning that raged outside his truck’s window at the moment. Frightening graphics would fill the screen as the howling of wind, crashing of thunder, and an orchestral score teamed together to terrify viewers at home. A severity scale would be used to compare the deadlier elements of the storm to food items. And some poor bastard from the station would be standing in a raincoat in the middle of the murderous tempest doing his best to out-yell the wind while smiling and secretly hating the assholes that were safely back at the studio.

But with the death of the old world came a new kind of storm, and there had never been a graphics package for what roared outside. Perhaps, before the end, in the depths of the Sahara, lightning had flashed through swirling sand with such intensity that it turned the particles to glass. But not here in the Texas panhandle. Not until recently.

Once covered in graffiti, the Cadillacs had since been blasted to bare steel by wind-whipped sand. In the sun, they gleamed. Their reflections could be seen for miles. But in the storm their metal bodies glowed red as they caught the frequent lightning strikes and channeled them into the ground. They pulsed with heat and barely had time to fade back to steel before they were struck again and again.

The Librarian had been parked between them for more than twenty-four hours watching them pulse with the energy of the deadly strikes and hoping it would end soon so he could be on his way.

The road through Texas wasn’t the quickest route to his destination, but it was the only option when travelling east. Long before the end of pretty much everything, people liked to joke how there was nothing in the American Midwest. They did it in jest with cruel assumptions and dismissive stereotypes. They joked about corn and often broke into the only lines of song they knew from
Oklahoma
. Then they would get to the chorus and realize they were talking about Oklahoma. At that point the laughter would turn into a discussion of whether or not Oklahoma was in fact a part of the Midwest or the South. That would usually turn into an argument, because that’s what people did when they didn’t know better.

After the war, everyone knew better.

Missiles aimed at other missiles had been the opening phase of the war and America’s heartland took the brunt of the first strike. The locations of thousands of silos buried beneath the elephant-eye-high corn had been programmed into war computers for decades, and once the launch codes were entered, America’s breadbasket quickly became America’s night-light.

Venturing into the region now was one step short of suicide as one could now literally die from boredom.

Knowing the dangers in cutting across the heart of the country, the Librarian made his way across the Texas panhandle faster than he probably should have.

The truck’s engine didn’t protest the speed. The shocks and the rest of the suspension were more than willing to absorb the road beneath him. Off-road tires rolled over the smaller debris left in the road with little problem. But, he was heading full speed into a trap, and he knew it.

For the last three days his instincts had told him to slow down, and for the last three days he told his instincts to go to hell. There wasn’t time for caution. Time was everything. He had begun a day behind.

The truck had needed repairs. And, while they were made as a gift by a grateful kingdom back in the mountains, generosity and haste rarely went hand in hand. The repairs had cost him a full day.

He had torn through what used to be New Mexico in short order, but was stopped by the storm outside of Amarillo. Sand, rock, and God knows what else blew around him reducing visibility to nothing, and he was forced to find shelter in the middle of the desert wherever he could. He spent a full day parked between the two Cadillacs. Their steel bodies had taken the brunt of heat and wind for decades and did all they could to protect the Librarian from the post-apocalyptic weather now. Jerry spent the hours watching the electric blasts dance down the fins and into the sand as nature funneled its wrath through the cars and turned the earth around him to glass.

Every minute he wasn’t moving was torture. He didn’t fear the storm. As long as he stayed in place he would be safe. Stepping outside would result in the skin being stripped from his body in a matter of moments—if the lightning didn’t get him first. But the interruption in his pursuit made him restless. It was impossible to sit still.

The full length of the truck was at his disposal. It had an extended cab and covered bed that he could access through the window. But, sharing the space with a mastiff that didn’t like thunderstorms made it less than tolerable and more than a little rank.

Still, more than the smell, it was the lack of momentum that frustrated him the most. Every minute lost was a minute Erica and her abductor gained ground.

He knew little about his prey. The mysterious Mr. Christopher had plagued them for months, but always from behind the shadow of hired guns. The man in the stupid white suit sought the bounty on the Librarian’s head and had, so far, been denied his prize at every opportunity. The bounty hunter had seized an opportunity during the confusion of war and grabbed Erica in an attempt to turn the tides of his own fortune.

Jerry kicked the truck’s console in frustration for the thousandth time. Chewy whimpered and moved into the backseat of the cab. Setting her massive head on her paws, she sighed and tried to sleep.

Jerry looked at his watch. He swore, tore it from his wrist and threw it across the truck. It hadn’t been five minutes since he’d looked at it last.

Chewy let out a single, low woof, and Jerry looked at the dog. He knew it was her way of trying to comfort him, and he did his best to let her.

“There’s still a chance, girl. If they got caught in the storm, too—there’s still a chance.”

The truth was there were a thousand things in the wasteland that could slow someone down. None of them were good. Travelers in the wasteland weren’t pulling off to the side of the road to read a plaque, stand at the intersection of state lines, or pose with a fiberglass dinosaur so they could snap a selfie and tag it #roaringgoodtime. Raiders, robbers, and rogues plagued the highway preying on anyone foolish enough to let their guard down or let their tank run dry. He prayed that he would catch up with them before they made it to Alasis, but he also had to pray that nothing else had stopped them. The horrible storm was his best chance.

A bolt of lightning struck the Cadillac in front of him. The storm had thinned enough that the flash lit up the cab of the truck. Chewy whimpered and dug her head deeper into her paws as Jerry leaned forward and tried to peer up into the sky.

“Is it finally letting up?”

He stayed perched behind the wheel for another minute as the visibility outside the window increased. Black changed to dark brown. Dark brown to light.

“It is letting up.” He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. Tires spun on the glazed earth and the truck launched out from between the cars. The highway was close. He dug ruts into the dirt road getting to it. The tires found the asphalt and the truck got up to speed.

He continued fighting doubts as he drove on. Was she still alive? Was she even still with her kidnapper?

He shook these thoughts off. Erica would still be alive. He knew this. For all his annoying traits, Mr. Christopher appeared smarter than the average bounty hunter, and he would know better than anyone the risks of letting Jerry escape again.

As the Librarian, he had a reputation. Jerry had never wanted one. He knew all too well that a reputation could get a man killed. All he ever wanted was to help people. But good deeds could earn you a bad name with the wrong people. The myth of the Librarian had grown too big and spread too far for those in power to let him live. Mr. Christopher would keep the woman alive as bait for his trap for as long as he could.

Erica was too smart to run. Not while they were in the desert. She knew fleeing across the barren stretch would be the same as suicide. She would bide her time and wait until escape led to survival and not just a different, horrible fate.

The light brown air turned to blue skies as he approached Bomb City and the storm faded away to nothing, revealing the defensive gates.

The massive steel doors towered thirty feet above the road and shook the ground as they opened. Two guards looked over the vehicle and waved him through with the point of a rifle barrel into a small paddock where even more guards eyed him with scrutiny before letting him pass into the city.

Amarillo had earned several nicknames throughout its history. It was called the Yellow Rose of Texas after its Spanish translation. It was once called the helium capital of the world when airships mattered. Later came the name Rotor City to honor the Osprey assembly plant. The only name that stuck after the fall of civilization, however, was Bomb City.

As home to the only nuclear weapon assembly and disassembly plant in the nation, Amarillo was just as high on the enemies’ target list as it was on America’s don’t-let-this-get-blown-up list. Guarded by the most advanced missile defense systems, the majority of the city’s infrastructure had managed to survive the apocalypse.

Inside the gates, a service station was still advertising a 64-ounce drink for an even dollar as part of their Gut Busting Bucks promotion from several years prior. Jerry pulled into the station and stopped in front of the pump as if the world had never ended. West Texas oil still flowed into the town allowing Bomb City to emerge as one of the more civilized city-states of the wasteland. This fueling and trading hub could eventually become a center of power if the ruler of Alasis didn’t get its hands on it first.

The massive city up north was spreading its influence everywhere, reaching deeper into the country for supplies and resources. Alasis would make a play for the city eventually. Bomb City’s mining and refining made it a tempting target for anyone with a desire for power. But it wasn’t the oil that made it popular.

Jerry opened the truck door and the smell of steak broke through the storm’s settling dust and filled his mouth. Memories of filets filled his mind and he could feel the texture of the meat on the tip of his teeth. Amarillo had been born a cattle town and would be a cattle town forever. Not even the apocalypse could change that.

No vagabond could refuse to stop in the city. No one could. Not a single vegetarian survived the apocalypse with their convictions intact. Those that had quickly found that food was less about preference and more about availability. Not once in his years of wandering had Jerry seen anyone turn down a meal because it wasn’t on their diet. He hadn’t heard the word gluten in years. The picky eater was officially extinct, and the Bomb City Steakhouse had helped kill it.

The attendant broke into Jerry’s steak-filled fantasy with a less appetizing offer. “Diesel?”

The Librarian nodded and dug into his pocket. He pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to the attendant, adding a little flip for effect. The air was still thick with dust but it gleamed with what little sunlight reached the coin.

The attendant caught it against his chest and let it drop into his palms. His eyes narrowed on the coin in his hand and he looked up with a smile.

“Fill it,” Jerry said as he cracked the window and shut the door.

The attendant paid little attention to the instructions, focusing instead on the coin in his hand. He held it up to the sky as this somehow authenticated the gold. “This is from that place out west, isn’t it?”

Jerry nodded.

“Those folks are crazy.”

Jerry shrugged. “They’re not too bad if you get to know them.”

“A bunch of lunatics dressed up like knights? Calling each other Kings and Queens? What’s there to know?”

“They’re a democracy now. And, their gold is still gold.”

“True enough.” The attendant tucked the money deep in his pocket and peered through the cracked window.

Chewy greeted him with a low growl and bared teeth. The attendant backed away.

“Mind the dog,” Jerry said and turned his attention back to the aroma of fresh grilled meat.

THREE

Inside the restaurant, the smell was even more overwhelming. Richer. Closer. He thought he could hear the steaks sizzling somewhere in the back and imagined the aroma rising up like a sultry hand beckoning him closer.

The Bomb City Steakhouse was all but empty. The storms could last for days and most people responded by shuttering their doors, opening their bottles, and sleeping in. It would be a few hours before the post-weather hangover ended and the streets filled again. Only the truly hungry had made their way to a table.

Two men sat at a table with little else to do but cast a wary eye on the stranger in their town. It must be their meal he smelled cooking. Another man stood behind a long, dark bar shuffling glasses and tidying up.