Darrel Sparkman - After the Fall

Mr. Green Jeans was the name the natives gave the US Army’s finest. Green being the uniform of the day, of course.

“Any news from back East?” He was like everyone else—always wanting news of how things were back in ‘the world’.

“Same as usual, from what I hear. Industry is picking up a little, and most of the plague is gone. Although, I’ve been hearing rumbles from some of the new recruits that particular nightmare is coming back. Thank God, the bacterial rot never came back. Things are so peaceful back in the real world, the army has run out of things to do. They are going to launch a campaign out here to save us all from ourselves. Now you know why so many extra troops are around. They just can’t understand how we can live without them.”

“Who’s going to save the Army?”

The two men laughed together. They’d discussed this subject many times before.

Walsh jutted his chin at the recruits surrounding one of the tables. “Not this bunch.”

He chuckled and said, “I saw Pops over at the livery. How old is he, Charley?”

“Dunno. Looks an even hundred, but he is probably not a day over ninety-nine. They say he’s been through it all.”

“Looks to me like someone soaked him until he shrunk. I have never seen so many wrinkles on one human in my life.”

Charley’s expression clouded over. “Trent, you ever wonder how it would have been if the plague didn’t hit the world so hard? I mean, if things had gone on the same as before? I found an old newspaper the other day. Reading about it was downright depressing. Seems like everything quit working at once, and people just couldn’t believe what was happening—runaway virus that medicine couldn’t stop, super strains of bacteria dissolving flesh, for chrissake. Sometimes I….”

“Charley….”

The man looked at him, startled out of his reverie.

“Just let it go, partner.” He knew what the man was feeling, had felt it himself too many times to count. “You can’t change it. We have to take the world the way it is, not the way it was. Just let it go.”

“Yeah.” Charley slowly perked up. “Hell, yes. I almost lost it for a minute. It just doesn’t do any good to think about it.”

He’d been looking over the people in the room while conversing with Walsh. Thinking of the murdered girl, he looked at the people around him with new eyes. Eyes that were, at the same time, jaded and curious.

Who could do such a thing? What would they be like? How would they act in public? Jumbled thoughts bounced around in his head as he scanned the small crowd.

For the most part, the clientele weren’t any different from those found in other various settlements around the interior. Nearly everyone in the large room wore a uniform of some sort, and carrying weapons were second nature to them. The exceptions were the working girls. They weren’t wearing much of anything, and he couldn’t see how they could possibly hide a weapon.

Thinking of which….

“Charley, you see a tall blond come into town in the last day or so? Good looking, maybe six feet tall, looking to buy supplies?”

“That’s a big girl.” Charley thought a moment, his face screwed up in the palm of his hand. “Nope. ‘Course, the only women coming in here are usually looking for a job. Are we talking about that kind of girl?”

“Not likely. At least, I don’t think so.” His mind was already back in the crowd and his answer preoccupied, as his attention was drawn to a table occupied by a group of yelling, screaming recruits out to set a new record for good times. At a table next to them were four hard-eyed men conspicuous by what they were not doing. Trent pointed with his chin at the somber group. “What’s the story on them?”

Charley cast a worried glance their way, then leaned closer to Trent. “Best leave them alone. They ain’t locals, and they sure as hell ain’t army. All I know is they came in here about an hour ago, parked at a table, and didn’t even order a drink.”

Looking at the men, he thought they were more likely wolves in sheep’s clothing. He wondered suddenly just how many soldiers were in camp. It would be embarrassing to have the soldiers out looking for raiders, while their camp was taken. He decided that would be a good question for the colonel.

Suddenly, the door to the saloon opened, and a man stepped through. Looking around the gloomy interior of the room, the man went directly to the table they were worried about, and sat down. He knew what they were, now. Mercs. And Ben Hobbs would be the worst of them.

New interest held him now, and he quietly slid his drink away. While acting as if he was rubbing a sore leg, he casually slipped the thong off the hammer of his pistol. The leather thong kept the gun from falling out of the holster accidentally, but if he needed the gun in a hurry, there wouldn’t be time to take it off. He was a careful man—he’d helped bury men who weren’t.

Hobbs was a man for hire, usually taking his pay in women and trade goods. Sometimes he worked for settlers, occasionally he ran with raiders, but usually he worked for himself. He was bad all the time, and couldn’t be trusted. Although he hadn’t heard much about him lately, he knew any place Ben Hobbs would be, there was going to be trouble.

Walsh saw Trent move his drink away. His eyes narrowed as he felt a subtle change come over the room, prompting him to move casually toward his shotgun, which he kept under the bar. A couple of hill men got up, nodded to him, and walked unhurriedly through the back door; others squared around so they could watch the front. The party of recruits were blissfully unaware of anything going on around them. Charley felt his mouth go dry. He knew something was going to happen, it was just a matter of when.

Amid a peal of laughter, one of the soldiers suddenly scooted back his chair and jostled one of the men at the other table. Slowly the man stood up, his spilled drink making a dark splotch on his pants and shirt. He had a semi-auto handgun strapped to his waist, and held a folded up Mac-10 machine pistol in his hands. “You sojer boys are cutting it kind of wide, ain’t you?”

The young soldier looked stupidly at him, his mouth working like a fish out of water as he tried to think of something to say. He was too drunk to hear the danger signals going off in his head, or see the situation he was in. Finally, he just laughed. “What?”

“I said you are a piece of shit.” The merc was just waiting, as if he had already choreographed the scene.

The young soldier let out a growl and slammed up from his chair, as the rest of the men at his table stood up, watching the byplay. None were armed.

As the soldier came up, the man slashed him across the face with the MAC-10, showering the table with blood.

“Hold it.” Charley held his shotgun across his chest, the barrel pointed at the ceiling. “You just hold it. There will be no fighting in here. Understood?”

Trent, watching carefully, realized Charley was out of position. From the position he held the shotgun, he wouldn’t be able to get it into action fast enough.

With an unholy glint in his eyes, the merc was bringing the machine pistol up.

If he cuts loose in these close quarters—

Trent moved into action.

Nothing in the world is louder than the sound of a gun cocking from an unexpected direction. The sound of the hammer rocking back on his pistol froze the man. His eyes were steady on Charley, but he dearly needed to look back at Trent. He was caught in his own trap, and afraid to move. Turning his head slightly, he could see him out of the corner of his eyes, noticed the light glinting off the pistol, and saw the dark bore of the barrel pointing straight at him. The man began to sweat.