Part 4 (1/2)

The smell filled the cabin.

”Oh, Chewy.” He moved quickly into the back of the coach. The odor followed him. ”I can't even open a window.”

Chewy got up and moved to the door. She began to paw at the latch.

”We can't. It's metal rain.” That's what people called it anyway. It struck hard and stung like flecks of metal. It crashed on steel and tin with a clatter that led one to believe it would cut right through. Plus, the name reminded people of the 80s.

The truth was n.o.body knew what was in the precipitation, but the common perception was that if it hurt like h.e.l.l and caused electrical interference, it was best to stay out of it.

Chewy's bowels were not aware of this. She whimpered and began to huff. These small huffs from the large dog sent drool flying across the motor coach.

”You know we can't go outside.”

The dog began to whine.

”No. You're going to have to hold it.”

She snorted, stepped from her seat and into the rear cabin. It was not a pleasant night for either of them.

Jerry was aware that Vita Nova was Latin for New Hope, but after spotting the town from a distance, he could tell that the name didn't fit. Hope appeared to be as scarce as everything else in town. There was no activity. No movement.

”That sign was false advertising, Chewy.” He scanned the walled town through powerful binoculars.

”I don't see anything. There's nothing going on there.”

He placed the binoculars in the case and climbed down the side of the Silver Lining to where the dog sat staring up at him.

”Still, we should check it out. At the very least they could have some fresh supplies.”

A bark of agreement set the dog on all fours, ready to greet new people and smell new things.

”I'll have to change.”

One errant prediction about the apocalypse was that all retail and clothing warehouses would be destroyed and all humanity would resort to wearing patchwork robes and parts of old tires. Worst-case situations had forced some to wear homespun garments, but with a little planning, most colonies could send a team out to shop the racks of former malls, strip centers, or neighborhoods. With 97 percent of the world's population no longer needing them, closets full of clothes were up for grabs.

For some, the homemade clothes were a choice. Many towns had settled as isolationists. Fear compelled them to live within their walls, venturing beyond only in the direst of situations. Visitors to these communities were under constant supervision, if they were permitted entry at all.

Others had taken a more wary approach to post-apocalyptic life and committed themselves to living off the land. Blaming technology and man's materialism for the downfall of humankind, they chose to revert to a more simple existence.

Towns like these never lasted long in the face of opposition. Primitive towns were also the most reluctant to accept a.s.sistance, if that a.s.sistance came with guns or machines. Some of these settlements, though only seven years from the apocalypse, had taken to referring to technology as witchcraft for the benefit of their children. Such language was to ensure that future generations would not become enamored with the trinkets of man's destruction.

Jerry wore a broken-in pair of Levi's and a Captain America T-s.h.i.+rt he had pulled off the shelf at an Old Navy. The Silver Lining's wardrobe held several changes of comfortable clothes that lacked tears, stains, or dirt. However, these gave the wrong impression when acting in the capacity of a warrior of the wasteland. Even if he was wrong about the settlement Vita Nova was, it was best to never knock on a gate overdressed.

There was no need to pull a Michelin off of the spare tire rack and cut it into shoulder pads or a crotch strap, but, when approaching a new town, appearances needed to be maintained. He stepped into the coach and pulled open the wardrobe.

Task-specific clothes were kept in storage under the floor-winter wear, desert survival equipment, protective gear, even a radiation suit-but the wardrobe held everyday wear. T-s.h.i.+rts, jeans, and a couple of flannels hung beside his work clothes.

The plan had not changed. He would introduce himself as a post-apocalyptic nomadic mechanic. But, with little sign of motion from the town, he thought it best to be prepared for trouble. His outfit was that of a drifter. Mechanics could be drifters, he reasoned. He didn't want to show up at the gates in coveralls to find that he should have packed his weapons.

Hanging at the end of the closet was a pair of jeans that was more worn than the rest. He pulled these on and stepped into a beaten pair of motorcycle boots. A gray linen pullover covered his T-s.h.i.+rt. He tousled his hair while draping a pair of leather safety goggles around his neck, and tossed the duster over the pa.s.senger seat.

He settled back into the driver seat. Chewy jumped into the seat next to him. Jerry smiled and scratched the big dog on the head. ”Today's the day we change our lives, girl.”

Chewy slumped over and went to sleep.

He started the coach and they drove to within a mile of the town before parking behind what had once been a Dairy Queen. This led to a brief recollection of Blizzards that ended when he tried to explain to the dog how they would always invert the dessert before it was handed over. Chewy was disinterested and tried to go back to sleep.

Jerry shrugged at his companion's indifference and pulled open a hatch in the floor. Two nickel plated automatics sat inside. The distinctive .45s served two purposes. One, they were impossible to miss and hard to forget, ensuring that he left a mark in the minds of the town's people. Two, they were match quality .45s, ensuring that he left large holes in the minds of things that attacked him.

Tarnish-free, the pistols reflected the broken light that fell through the dirty winds.h.i.+eld, amplified it, and released it back into the world. Each pistol sat on a hip with an empty chamber, safety on.

He pulled the duster over his shoulders and pulled a shotgun from the coat closet next to the door. He slung it around his neck and let it hang across his back.

”Ready, girl?”

Chewy climbed from the pa.s.senger seat, yawned, stretched, and moved to his side without enthusiasm. She half huffed, half woofed her reluctance to going outside.

He opened the door. Once exposed to the air, Chewy became excited, broke heel and darted past him, colliding with his knee. He spun and grabbed the counter to steady himself.

”Dammit, Chewy.”

SIX.

Gregory Emerson swore as he struck his head on the collapsed roof of a Nissan Pathfinder. He rubbed his head as he examined the item that had prompted him to stick his head in the wreckage in the first place.

The frames were bent, but the lenses were free of cracks and scratches and thick. He held the gla.s.ses up to his eyes. Instantly, a headache began to creep from the top of his spine to his temples.

”s.h.i.+t, Magoo. I'll bet you got teased a lot.”

He blew on the gla.s.ses to clear the dust and a bit of rotting flesh that had stuck in the bridge. Pawing through the wallet, he tossed aside cash and credit cards. These were useless; but if the driver had a condom in there, it was as good as a drink in the next town. He held out the driver's license and chuckled.

”Sorry, Mr. Jenkins. Looks like you were an organ donor. If it makes you feel any better, your nerd gla.s.ses will help someone see again. And help me get a meal.”

Emerson moved across the ma.s.sive pileup that had occurred several years before. Climbing to the top of an overturned FedEx truck, he surveyed the field of twisted metal. Giddy, he made his way toward a minivan/F-150 combination.

”Virgin ground. Virgin ground.” He danced towards the mash-up of family vehicle and work truck.

The expansive traffic accident had remained untouched since the end of the world. Every vehicle he peered into held a trove of personal belongings that had been gathered in haste for an evacuation that saved no one.

His best guess was that The Creep had been the end of the gridlocked evacuees. A viscous blue fog, The Creep had been a surprise to even the military. Not quite a fog, not quite a liquid, this plasma weapon blew like a tumbleweed across landscapes.

Those unfortunate enough to be downwind of the eerie blue vapor would become enraged and impatient. Las.h.i.+ng out at others, many who had been stuck in traffic turned the crowded roads into demolition derbies. This continued until they were killed in the crashes or succ.u.mbed to The Creep itself.

Patches of the notorious weapon still drifted across the landscape as the weapon seemed to refuse to dissipate. Prolonged exposure would cause death. Even those caught in a high wind, whether man or animal, would become clouded with rage.

Only the insanity resulting from exposure could explain the pileup. No order could be made of its severity or its location on the otherwise empty stretch of highway. Emerson guessed that they might have even been moving in a caravan since many of the vehicles seemed well supplied.