Hell's Requiem: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Page 3

  When Tom had thought back to that moment, it had often reminded him of the old Saturday Night Live routines on YouTube, performed by Chevy Chase, when he played President Gerald Ford. Tom was too young to really remember any details about that president, but he guessed Ford must have been klutzy after one episode where he’d tumbled down the Air Force One stairwell, or in another when he over-exaggerated his tripping through the Oval Office, taking out everything in his path. It was always like some comedic Rube Goldberg device, requiring all of its parts to be in alignment to cause the proper catastrophic collapse.

  After Tom and Mimi first collided, each reached out for their respective falling cups of beer—only a moment earlier they were perfectly balanced. Like cut trees set to fall, the progression downward of each cup was worsened when their hands accidentally punched, rather than grabbed at them, shooting their cups and sudsy contents outward. Their other hands simultaneously over-corrected, causing more mayhem. Between their flailing arms, and forward inertia from the collision, they tumbled into each other, and exploded the malty liquid up like a geyser, while tumbling down a small drop-off. Tufts of grass, beer and crushed cups followed them downward, before their intertwined combination came to rest in a beer-soaked heap.

  For just a moment, each feigned anger at the other, but the ridiculous nature of the whole situation caused them both to burst out laughing at the other’s disheveled demeanor. They laughed so hard that neither heard their own audience’s crowing and cheering at their unintended comedic routine.

  Tom remembered the beauty of Mimi’s long red hair wrapped around a partially crushed paper cup, her eyes watered from laughter, her lips swollen with embarrassment.

  Then they joined the chorus broadcast over the loud speakers, singing, “Baby, don't fear the reaper.”

  Their faces were masks of happiness as they belted out the rest of the chorus.

  “...take my hand.”

  Following along, they reached out and squeezed each other’s hand.

  “...able to fly.”

  Both mimicked flapping wings with their hands.

  Finally, Tom pointed at his chest and she at him and they finished the refrain together. In her version she added, “baby, you’re my man.”

  Tom didn’t know what possessed him. Without thinking—no doubt he was caught up in the moment—he leaned over and kissed her on the lips. She didn’t resist.

  Afterward, he blurted, “Hi, I’m Tom.”

  “Mimi...” Her face was a rosy tint of joy. She leaned toward him again.

  After the luxuriously long kiss, she sized him up, while her forefinger twirled the curls of one of her red bangs.

  Hell’s Requiem Playlist, Track 2

  Song/Artist: Don’t Fear The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult

  Keywords: all our times have come; seasons don’t fear the reaper; nor wind, sun, rain; take my hand; able to fly; baby I’m your man.

  05

  Current Day

  “I think you really wanted him.” The giant man stood, towering above the woman, who even on her tip-toes now was at least two feet shorter.

  “He was kind of cute,” she exaggerated, adding a few flits of her lashes at him.

  The giant man’s reply was swift. His hand swung around in a looping arc, catching her by complete surprise on the cheek, and sending her to the floor like a sack of garbage, ready for disposal.

  The younger man sprang to life from his seat, momentarily forgetting his place and his injured foot, now misshapen by a mat of duct-taped bandages. Both hands curled into fists, his chest puffed out. He was filled with a yearning to intervene, to do something to right this wrong. But he instantly thought better of it. One hand unfurled, and reached up nervously to rub at his uneven beard, which resembled summer weeds sprouting out of the cracked pavement of an abandoned parking lot.

  The giant turned his anger at his junior lackey and scowled. “You want some of this?” he warned with a balled-up mitt so large it would have consumed both of the smaller man’s.

  The young man skittered backward, his sore foot painfully finding the edge of the chair he had been sitting in.

  “Yeah, remember, it was all part of the plan?” the woman whimpered from the floor, cradling her throbbing mug as if it might fall off. “Remember, you were the one who said I had to come onto him or he wouldn’t have opened his door to us.” She hesitated, and then shuffled over to the large man, throwing herself around his knee in submission.

  The young man sat back down in a huff. “So whatta we do now?” He wanted to get his superior’s scowl and mind off himself.

  “We stay here for a while,” the giant said, sliding his leg out from the woman’s clutches. His other hand was clasped around one of the many unopened Jack Daniels bottles they’d found in the storage room below their feet. He took a large gulp of the already half-emptied bottle. “This guy’s house is our ticket. He’s got a bunch of supplies; he’s all by himself; there’s no one else around... No, we stay here for a while.” He fell into the sofa, swung his feet around onto the other side and took another swig of the delightful liquor, letting it fill him with warmth.

  “Bu-but, what about... well, you know... Aren’t you worried he’ll find us?” the younger man stuttered.

  “Ha! The Teacher don’t know shit. He’ll never find us here,” the giant declared, examining the Jack Daniels bottle as if he were half expecting it to give the rebuttal he wouldn’t get from Shorty.

  “Yeah, he’s right,” said the woman, putting more distance between her and the giant man. “Teacher ain’t going to find us. And we’ll be on our way soon enough. Until then, let’s enjoy this place.”

  None of them wanted to talk about the elephant in the room, so they welcomed the nervous quiet.

  The giant had stopped paying attention to either of them and continued his brutish act so as to buttress his position at the top of their little food chain—not that either would ever dispute this. He remembered the folded documents they’d stolen from the Teacher and frantically reached behind him to confirm their existence safely in his back pocket. This whole exercise would be a waste had he lost these two vital pieces of paper. Satisfied, he lifted the bottle to his cracked lips and guzzled the last of the bottle’s contents, and for a moment, relished the taste he hadn’t experienced for a couple of months. The moment was fleeting as his thoughts returned to their plight.

  He would never say it, as a man who proclaimed and acted as if he knew no fear. But in fact he was terrified of the Teacher and his powers. And much more so, he was terrified of the man the Teacher would employ to find them.

  As he fought to hold back a fit of shivers threatening to take over his otherwise warm belly, he slipped away into his first string of the evening’s nightmares.

  ~~~

  Twenty Miles Away

  Yesterday

  “I need to see him,” a man huffed, and then doubled over attempting to catch his breath in front of the Teacher’s tent.

  The God’s Army guard, dressed in a blood-colored robe, stood his ground. “Tell me what this is about, and I’ll decide if what you have to say is important to the Teacher.” The guard held his M4 rifle out as a blockade to let the man know he was part of the Teacher’s impenetrable barrier.

  The harried man held himself up at his knees, puffing loudly. He was stooped over but was still looking up at the guard. “Ah, okay...” He took several more breaths before continuing. “The Giant and a few others have stolen some of our supplies and...” He dropped his gaze to his shoes, unable to meet the GA guard’s eyes directly and announce the final part of the crime he’d uncovered. He wondered if he would be shot just for delivering this message.

  “And what? What else did they take from God’s Army?”

  The man leaned over to the guard’s ear, cupping his hands to prevent any of the incriminating words he was about to utter from escaping and finding their way into anyone else’s. The man whispered what he knew and then shrank away from the gu
ard, letting the bite of his words sink in.

  The guard’s eyes went wild, and he opened his mouth as if he were going to say something and then thought better of it. He hesitated as if he couldn’t figure out what to do next. He knew this was bad for all of them. He snapped to attention and hollered, “You wait here; the Teacher will want to talk to you, and so will others.”

  The GA guard disappeared into the entrance flap of the Teacher’s tent.

  The cowering man now had second thoughts about being the bearer of this news. Why did he have all the bad luck? His head swung back to the tent but then was interrupted by movement.

  A different GA guard—wearing the same dirty blood-red robe—burst from the same tent and blew past him like a storm gust that was gone, but he was sure would return just as quickly, and probably with much more fury.

  The man knew where the guard was going and this made him shiver more, even though it was at least eighty out that evening.

  He now regretted his decision more than any other he had ever made. This one would certainly lead to his death, or worse. Certainly, death would be a more favorable repose than the continual suffering each of the Teacher’s followers now experienced. No, death wasn’t what he really feared: it was torture at the hands of the scariest man he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. This made him shudder even more.

  Scarface, as he had been called by most of the Teacher’s followers, hooked up with their group a month ago. The stories about the man were larger than life, or perhaps larger than death was more appropriate. Scarface was supposedly a hit-man who enjoyed torturing and killing those the Teacher directed. It was also speculated that Scarface murdered the women whom he’d slept with, as if he were worried about their revealing his pillow talk. It was mutually agreed that Scarface was a walking black plague who killed all he touched. And he knew he’d eventually have to regurgitate his story to Scarface. It would have been preferable to slit his own wrists right now than to do this.

  On wobbly knees, he pushed himself up from the ground, half surprised he had been sitting there this whole time.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” yelled the GA guard he had spoken to earlier, still inside the tent. It was as if he could be seen through the heavy canvas.

  More movement from his other side.

  He swung his attention to five men marching from a break in the trees.

  Leading this pack was the man who caused most other men’s knees to knock. The GA guards trailed behind, their eyes cast down for fear of stepping on death’s own shadow. It was Scarface.

  Scarface slowed a little before he passed, momentarily turning his demonic attention toward the cowering man. A knowing smile grew, the crease connecting with the long scar-line that ran up his cheek. His eyes were as black as a terror-filled nightmare. And then he slipped inside the flap of the tent, the firelight glinting off the silver dagger sheathed to his side. The GA guards who followed behind took positions on either side of the tent entrance and glared at the shrinking man. Their faces all mirrored his own fear.

  Time seemed to stand still as everyone waited for what they’d be called to do next. Then they all heard the animated conversation from within the tent.

  “It is true,” said Scarface, his voice oily slick, even with the canvas muffling his volume.

  “How?” said the Teacher, normally calm and smooth, but now very agitated.

  “The man outside just confirmed this,” said Scarface. “I will interrogate him and find out how he learned of this. Then, if you want, I’ll recover what they’ve stolen from you and make everyone involved pay for this crime.”

  There was a long pause, followed by an anguished scream, and then a loud crash.

  “Okay,” the Teacher said breathlessly. And then after another long pause, “No exceptions. Once you’ve recovered what was taken from me, everyone involved must be made to suffer before their deaths. Are we clear?”

  06

  Tom woke suddenly, taking in a quick gulp of night air.

  A pleasing dream image of Mimi drifted away like burning embers escaping a smoldering campfire. It was when they had met; she twirled at her red curls after they had kissed softly while Blue Oyster Cult played a familiar song...

  And then it was all gone.

  It was at that moment he realized that he was in fact still alive. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

  Why had he invited them into his home?

  Tom rummaged through the mental dust piles floating through his cerebral fog, fearing the answer to this question. The red flags were there, but he ignored them all.

  But why?

  Then he thought of the gun.

  The one his son had been using when he had died. The one that he’d glared at daily, longing for the strength to fire one more round through it, to end his pain.

  He now wondered if he had purposely made it easy for them to do what he didn’t possess the will to do himself.

  And yet he survived what should have been a fatal attack. But he always survived. That was what he did.

  The fact that he was alive confirmed that the intruders’ bullets didn’t hit anything vital. The first two rounds had pounded him squarely in his chest, but those were most likely stopped by his Coolmax bullet-proof and stab-proof vest.

  He wore the damned thing every time he stepped outside of his house, even when he was working outside on stinking hot days like today. Maybe just a small part of his logical self held on, keeping him from shedding his shirt, and therefore the vest, when she asked. Otherwise, he had fully given into the woman’s charms and his own desires. Or maybe it was just the force of habit. Or maybe he wanted to survive, so as to suffer another day. Regardless of which reason, the armor did its job and saved his life.

  He sighed loudly, a groan of extreme disappointment in himself.

  He sucked in another breath, deeper this time.

  That one hurt, a lot.

  Two more deep puffs, not because he longed for more pain, but to confirm what he suspected: the two shots to his chest broke at least one of his ribs.

  Nothing could be done about that; it or they would heal on their own and would hurt like a sonofabitch for the next couple of weeks. If he even survived the next few days, much less weeks, it would be his constant reminder to trust no one again.

  He chuckled at this, at his never-ending will to survive. He was already planning for the next couple of weeks.

  Continuing his self-check, he stuck out his left arm and felt an electric jolt charge through his body. The sticky wetness along his side and behind were signs of the third bullet’s effects. It must have clipped him just outside of the vest’s protection, right below his left armpit.

  Tom listened to his surroundings a little longer, to make sure there was no one around before attempting to do anything more that would expose himself. Once he was confident his intruders were not about, he pitched his head up to examine his chest and side, peeling his punctured shirt back to better view his wounds. It hurt like hell, but there didn’t seem to be too much damage and there was less blood than he would have thought.

  As if his body was trying to rebel against his self-assessment, the wound immediately started steadily seeping blood. It must have been the way he’d landed, after the intruders tossed him outside, that stemmed the flow while he was unconscious. Now that he was up and not providing bodily pressure to the area, there was nothing to keep him from bleeding. He needed to clean, stitch, and patch up the wounds immediately, or he’d eventually bleed to death. His pulse quickened, and he knew his time for action dissipated with each heartbeat.

  It was still dark out. The normally constant auroral displays had taken the night off for a change. And based on the sky’s bloody tint pooling up over the mountaintops in the west, he’d have to move fast if he wanted to beat daylight’s advance. If he was lucky, his adversaries had enjoyed his liquor and were passed out, so he could do what he needed to do next without being seen: get his bug-out bag from his truck, parked
right next to his house’s side entry, and get to a safe place to mend his wounds.

  Pulling himself up to his knees, he was rewarded with more electric quakes of pain.

  It was fortuitous for him that there was so little wildlife around these days. In the past, before the world ended, the smell of his blood would have caused a frenzy among the wolves and coyotes that used to patrol the nights around these parts for helpless prey. He’d have been ripped to shreds by now.

  A chuckle tried to wiggle free of his self-imposed darkness. He hadn’t looked at the positive side of anything since he had lost his family years ago.

  Tom cast a glare at his stolen house. There was no light coming from within. The candles he had lit earlier in the evening were out. And there were no sounds. They must be asleep; at least that was his hope. He surely wasn’t in any condition to fight back if they saw him move about.

  Pushing his left elbow into his side to halt the flow of blood, he leapt to his feet, ignoring the chorus of pain that accompanied every movement. He had no time for pain. He had to move.

  Very carefully, he scampered across the front yard and around to the side, where his truck was parked. This took an enormous amount of effort, and when he made it to his carport, he was instantly exhausted. Maybe his injuries were more extensive than he realized.

  Tom consciously slowed his pace to avoid the crunching noise of boots on gravel. When he reached the passenger side of his truck, he halted mid-step.

  Framed by the side kitchen window was the giant man who had shot him, dragged him out of his home and left him to die. That same giant stood before his kitchen sink, holding up a glass of water, gazing back at him, unmoving. A lifelike statute, both surreal and disturbing, that made Tom shudder. And then his heart skipped a beat when the giant’s hand quivered just enough that the water inside the glass sloshed around.