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

The first rebel camp was maybe five miles from the spikes and she’d have to come close to them in order to stay in the few remaining trees left. Trees that had somehow survived the impact, then the years of torrid weather, and finally the people that lived above ground and generally took a tree to survive starvation and freezing. Owen and his rebels lived and roamed midway between Kansas and Oklahoma. If she took Owen out, it was believed his small rebel forces would most likely turn on themselves—sheer chaos—and then go after the other rebel camps until they all but collapsed in the heat of battle. However, many had tried and, like the Last Pharmacist, Owen was elusive and well protected. He was the wall between Kansas and Oklahoma and further unity. The lack of air support and additional police and army forces kept each state its own entity. He was also one of the walls between her and the Last Pharmacist. A wall that she would tear down brick by brick and body by body; nothing was going to stop her.

Out of habit, she pulled her scarf down on her forehead and adjusted her goggles, then climbed out of the moat that surrounded the South Kansas entrance. She had been here once as a child, when her parents and an entire platoon drove the fifty miles at top speed from Oklahoma. An entire platoon; that was something she wished she had now. Something the Kansas or Oklahoma Gendarmerie force was not willing to give her. She chuckled. Uncle Baul tried, but was laughed out of his commander’s office. Although other Gendarmerie forces would accommodate her, the moment she left Kansas, she was no longer a police officer; she was merely a citizen or, worse, a bounty hunter. A bounty hunter accepted by the government and the Gendarmerie, but still entirely on her own while outside.

Her jacket flapped violently against her taut stomach, but she pulled herself out of the moat and moved farther into the darkness. When she had come out the door, she immediately went to the right, away from the floodlights, and lay in the darkness waiting for anything to attack. She had lain there for over thirty minutes before she moved deeper into darkness and across the moat constructed to capture water and to help keep out unauthorized entry. The moat was drained two days before her scheduled departure to keep Owen and his rebels from becoming suspicious, which was close to the normal monthly schedule but if they were paying attention they would know it was a couple of days too soon. She didn’t want to wait.

The cameras didn’t follow her for fear if someone was watching they would notice the movement and come after her. She had another ten minutes before the cameras activated and immediately sensed her movement.

She crawled several feet from the moat—expecting something, but hearing nothing—and slowly stood into a crouch position. Finally, she drew in a breath and stood, and was nearly knocked down by the wind. Uncle Baul was right, she thought. The wind season was lasting longer than usual, which meant more violent storms and gusts that were above seventy miles an hour when calm.

“Damn,” She uttered, barely able to breathe, and immediately pulled up her mask. It matched her scarf in color but was a modified surgical mask guaranteed to stop the smallest of particle and filter in clean, breathable air. She had two in her pack for fear of losing the one she wore. Another one of Tank’s creations. She’d have to personally thank him when she got back. Maybe even add a house to her villa. He certainly took care of her.

Then the freight train came barreling toward her, and just as she turned to race back to the moat the tornado twisted left and went due north.

She stopped, caught her breath, and just as she started south across the barren stretch, a pistol touched her temple.

“Can’t trust those got-damned tornadoes. They’s swivel ever which way,” A voice followed the gun from the darkness. “You don’t look like much but Owen will be proud I found him a scavenger who was able to escape the military dictatorship we’re forced to live with.”

Jasmine started to turn.

“Nope. You don’t wanna to do that. Owen likes’ em alive before he cooks’ em.” He looked her up and down. “I don’t know what’s under that piece of shit pants but I’m sure he’ll wanna fuck you. Might even keep you fer breed’n if yer hips are strong.” He shoved the pistol against her temple, pushing her head back. “Let’s get walking a’fore that damned tornado da’cides to go south and carries us with it.”

“Which way,” Jasmine asked just above a whisper. “I can’t see anything out here.”

He didn’t answer. He just shoved her into the blinding darkness and walked as if able to see or feel where he wanted to go.

Jasmine looked down and saw them; small faint glowing bulbs, like those used on an aircraft that lit the passage to an exit. Why she didn’t see them when she surveyed the area was a slap in the face. She was better than this and, although a faint amber, she should have noticed them. She should have seen him or at least heard him when he approached her. Especially a vehicle of sort would have made enough noise over the wind for her to hear it. I had better get my act together, she thought, or I’ll never make it to Dallas…

She followed the lighted path to a Harley Davidson motorcycle. The bike of her dreams of all things, a Harley Davidson Softtail. She took it as a good sign. That would get her to Oklahoma, and if she were lucky through the city, maybe even to the Red River or at least as far as she had gas.

“You know, I’m such a good guy, I’m gonna let you sit up front,” the stranger said. His words were in the midst of a laugh. “Yer’n gonna ease yerself on that bike and put yer arms behind your back,” he continued in an odd southern accent. Not quite the Texas drawl, nor the southeast hillbillies she’d heard about, but a mixture of both along with the lack of an education. He was also dressed in old military clothing with multiple coats and wore an old soft helmet. The tips of his gloves were gone, exposing brown nails and chapped fingertips.

“I’ll need to take my pack off first,” Jasmine said in a manner and tone that depicted fear.

He stared at her for a long beat, sizing her up, looking at her hands for a weapon he might have missed when he crept up on her, but at the time, all he saw were the weird look’n binoculars that still hung from a strap from around her neck. That and the backpack that looked full with harmless crap. She’s probably carrying food, water and surely something stolen. Accord’n to Owen, gypsies were known to be thieves, scavengers, and vagabonds. You certainly have to guard your belongin’s when they’s around, that’s fer sure, he thought. Owen said when he was a boy a gypsy woman from Dallas robbed his parents of hundreds of dollars which was why they had to stay outside. They didn’t have the money to pay for a place of any size and the government pigs refused to let them in.

“I don’t trust you gypsies, you hear? So move nice and slow,” the stranger said, leveling his pistol and pointing it at her chest. “I’d be heartbroken if’n I had to kill ya… I never had a gypsy a’fore… Hell, I don’t know if I want one. Owen says gypsies work for the devil himself, and they’s be da’cause of the meteor.”

Jasmine wanted to laugh. Aunt Dooriya was right. She loosened the breast strap and the pack eased back a little. She then slowly thumbed both straps and moved her hands up as if removing the pack and before the stranger could blink, she pulled her shotgun and planted the barrel on his forehead. Startled, he jumped, and was surprised he didn’t think to pull the trigger.

“Your silly little twenty-two will hurt, but mine will take what little brains you have left in that thick head of yours and spread them all around the barrens. There won’t even be enough left of that thick skull of yours to hang on a post,” Jasmine said, smiling a smile that sent a shiver down his back.