Brian Steele - 4POCALYPSE - Four Tales of a Dark Future

In his usual noisy fashion, Commander Baul Herne came barging into the dining room, hauling another large box under each arm. He looked at Jasmine, then over to Dooriya, and then back to Jasmine before saying, “I got maps, pictures, and a close proximity to where they believe the pharmacist and his factory is located.” He put the boxes on the table. “You did hear me say, believe, right?”

He slammed down in a chair and popped the top off the first box. He then dug out a map enclosed in plastic and laid it on the table. “I highlighted the possible route in yellow. It’s the old state highway 75. Unfortunately there isn’t one frigging bridge standing between here and Dallas, so crossing the Red River is going to be a bitch.”

Jasmine traced her finger lightly over the route he highlighted. SH 75 to SH 121. It looked simple enough. “What’re the red circles?” Jasmine asked, looking at approximately thirty red circles from Kansas to SH 121.

“Rebels and other above-ground dwellers that have banded together over time and have been doing a lot of killing and damage. The purple circles are cannibals.”

She sat up, looking at Baul.

“People gotta eat, sweetie, even if it’s each other…”

They stared at each other for a moment until Baul blurted, “Damn it, Jasmine. You’re a top cop, the best in this department, in the sector, maybe in the state, but going after the pharmacist is a suicide mission.” Jasmine didn’t reply; she merely looked down at the table. “We won’t even talk about the elements. Every goddamned bounty hunter is out there looking for him, as well. Not only will you have to find a man no one has ever seen, you’ll have to fight every goddamned piece of slime from here to Dallas just to get the opportunity to catch him.”

He caught his breath, muttered something, then withdrew another large stack of pictures and laid them on the table. He lightly spread them across the table as a dealer would a deck of cards. He then pulled out a three-by-five notebook and dropped it next to the pictures. Without saying a word, he flipped it open to a marked page. On it was written a single name and address. Nothing else. Out of the other box, he removed a survivor backpack that was designed to accommodate her shotgun and cannon. It allowed her to let the guns ride up a little higher but hide them from anyone’s view. Inside the backpack was a water compartment with a well-hidden rubber tube used as a straw. Compartments to hold food, sparse pieces of clothing, additional ammo and survivor gear.

“Tank designed the pack to be as light-weight as possible, but you’re going to want to wear it for a few days to get used to it. I’d recommend filling it with as much weight as you can and wear it from the moment you get home to when you dress for work,” Baul said with hesitance. “Water is heavy and you’ll want as much as you can carry.” He then coughed and fingered something from his eyes. “I’m not telling you when to leave but I will tell you the wind season—” He laughed. “We used to call it tornado season. Anyway, the wind season is coming and it is not pretty. It’s not uncommon to have hundreds of tornadoes—ten, fifteen at a time—drop out of the sky with no warning.” He slid a picture across the table. “Tandem tornadoes, two by two, crisscrossing each other and ripping up every goddamned piece of garbage in their path, and that’s where you’ll poke that pretty little head of yours out of our fair cities. Right smack dab in the path of the old tornado alley, which is a hell of a lot worse now than then; and, then it was a bitch.”

“When do you recommend?” Jasmine asked.

“I’d wait until the near-end of the wind season. There’ll be enough wind to give you cover but not quite as dangerous. Five, six months from now. That’ll also give you time to get used to all this gear and clothing. Give you some time to train with all that crap on your back.”

He slid a key card to her. “For the officer training center. Fill the tank with water, then as much weight as you can squeeze into backpack. Run, jump, hop, scale, crawl, dance, and shoot. Every day until it’s time. Get the feel of everything you’re taking with you.” He looked at her standard issue boots. “Get rid of those goddamned things. They won’t last a week. Go see Tank, get him to design and make you a pair… He has a crush on you and will make anything and everything you need.”

Jasmine started to speak but Dooriya slid a picture over to her. “That’s a picture of your grandmother. Dress like her, wear your hair like her, act like her, be her, and maybe, just maybe people will believe you are a gypsy. They thought she was a gypsy when she came up here from Dallas and then Oklahoma City.”

“Uh, Aunt Doori, grandma was a Gypsy.” She chuckled. “We’re Rom, we’re all Gypsies.”

Dooriya then slid the tarot cards over to her. “Who cares? People seem to think gypsies are non-confrontational, some even believe they have that special foresight—” She grinned, looking pointedly into Jasmine’s eyes. “That’s the only picture I have and I want it back, okay?”

Jasmine nodded, but inside she was becoming both excited and frightened. Since her father was murdered, she wanted to go after this guy. He was the world’s largest producer and distributor of illegal drugs. The same drug the junkie was on when he cut her father’s throat. The method of distribution was so well guarded the police failed at every attempt to insert a plant or even to learn where the drugs entered the city. They literally did not have a clue as to whom or how.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” Dooriya said while taking Jasmine’s hand. “She was like you, wanting to right all the wrongs.” Dooriya stopped and blew her nose. “She was supposed to leave Pakistan a week before the impact but was called back… No one imagined that the cities would implode on impact…”

“Hell,” Baul said, “No one knew it was going hit where it did. Every one believed it was going to be a direct hit into the Indian Ocean.” He shook his head. “A mathematical error. Of all things…”

Jasmine looked at the pictures, the map, and finally the small notebook. “Friend of yours?” She asked, flipping the page, looking for anything else that might have been written on the page.

“His name is Owen. That’s all I know… He owns the majority of the gangs, uh, the red gangs. Kill him first.”

Although it took Jasmine over a month, she had a relatively easy trek through Kansas. The entire Kansas Gendarmerie police force was rooting for her and helping her along the way. She traveled on a refurbished Electro Glide that looked worse than what it really was to prevent theft. Something a poor gypsy might own. Something no one else would want to own. In Kansas, she had monetary credits to afford a room in a hotel or contacts to stay in the barracks or another police officer’s home. The Gendarmerie police kept her secret. There wasn’t one who would betray her or wasn’t behind what she was trying to do. However, in front of her were fifty bare miles between the Kansas exit and the Oklahoma entrance. Fifty miles and three rebel camps to cross before she could return to safety, before she’d meet up with the Oklahoma State Gendarmerie force. They knew she was coming but did not, and would not send an escort or anyone to protect her. They wished her well and supported her but she was on her own.

Through her binoculars, Jasmine saw the spikes that held several skulls in different stages of decay. The newest was a woman’s skull. Her hair, although mostly clotted with blood, blew north, most strands completely horizontal. Her expression was still frozen in the middle of a scream. Seeing this, it was hard to believe people still snuck out. Obviously, leaving underground was worth the risk of dying.