Benjamin Wallace's Blog, page 22
October 18, 2013
Reader Questions #1 – Why Bears
I talk about bears and why I chose to make them a threat in Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors. I also talk about Smokey Bear and why he’s such an ass.
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October 7, 2013
Author Reading Other Authors
Author readings are a popular way for authors to promote their books. But, I’ve already read all of my books. So, I decided to read other author’s books.
Read the rest of Joe Vampire. It’s hilarious.
Read Dumb White Husbands vs Zombies. It, too, is hilarious.
Follow Steven Luna on Twitter
Check out his website
Want me to read your book? Email me.
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October 3, 2013
I’m trying videos.
I enter the world of video posts.
Gotta figure out those thumbnails.
LATEST RELEASES
Dumb White Husbands vs Zombies: The Weekend
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New Releases: DWH vs Zombies and Young Adventurer’s Guide
Hello all,
I’ve had my head down trying to get a bunch of things done in time for an event here in town next weekend but I’ve got a couple of updates.
DUMB WHITE HUSBANDS vs ZOMBIES
The final installment of Dumb White Husbands vs Zombies is here. The Weekend concludes the story of John, Chris and Erik and their struggles against zombie-ism, the apocalypse and each other.
If you’ve been reading along, this is the perfect opportunity to finish it and spoil the ending for everyone.
If you’ve been waiting for the entire story to be told before even starting, you’ll be happy to know that the Zomnibus edition will out in the next day or so in both ebook and print.
It’s been five days since the dead rose from their graves and began to walk the Earth. Chris, John and Erik have survived so far and are headed to a military refugee camp in search of their families.
Will they reach the camp alive? What will they find there? Who is the Duke? Why is his hat crooked? Discover the answers in this, the exciting conclusion to the Dumb White Husbands vs. Zombies miniseries.
YOUNG ADVENTURER’S ALPHABET
That kids’ book I was going on and on about over the summer? It’s done and, boy, did it print nice. The Young Adventurer’s Alphabet is available now at Amazon and has 26 full color illustrations I did while thinking I could draw and 27 poems with rhyming and everything.
C is for Cannibal, T is for Tomb and there is a Yeti in there somewhere.
Here’s a little about the book.
Adventure is out there. You just have to look.
And, if you go searching, you will need this book.
From the banks of the Amazon to a ship of the air,
everything’s in here. Don’t go unprepared!
You’ll learn about things from all over the place.
You’ll learn about some of the dangers you’ll face.
You’ll learn about people from far, far away.
You’ll learn about howdahs, quicksand and apes.
You’ll learn about mountains so high you can’t breathe,
and some of the mythical creatures you’ll see.
You’ll learn about curses that simply can’t be.
and you’ll learn all of this from A to Z.
That’s it for today but I’ve got some fun stuff coming up soon. Of course, I’ll scream all about it when it happens. I’ll post again when the Zomnibus is ready.
Thanks for reading and stay safe out there,
ben
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September 15, 2013
The End of the World as You’ve Never Known It
About the book:
The post-apocalyptic world isn’t that bad. Sure, there are mutants. But, for the people of New Hope, daily life isn’t so much a struggle of finding food or medicine as it is trying to find a new shortstop for their kickball team. This makes it difficult for a post-apocalyptic warrior to find work.
Thankfully, an army full of killers is making its way to the peaceful town and plans to raze it to the ground. Only a fully trained post-apocalyptic-nomadic warrior can stop them. Two have offered their services. One is invited to help. The other is sent to roam the wasteland. Did the townspeople make the right decision? Will they be saved? Did they find a shortstop? What’s with all the bears?
Find out in the best-selling Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors, a fast-paced action and adventure novel set in a horrific future that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
________________________________
Even a mushroom cloud has a silver lining.
No one ever sees the good in an apocalypse. And that’s understandable. A lot of bad things happen when the world blows up. But then it’s all crying about the loss of family and the failure of our society, “Waaah, waaah, waah, what have we done?”
Sure, there’s that. But what about the good things brought about by the end of the world? Global warming? It’s no longer a problem. And with no more global warming, there are no more whiny hippies.
True, it’s not all green trees and dead hippies. There are real dangers out there: toxins, disease, big scary bears that have mutated to become bigger and scarier.
But here—here in the walls of your city—lies hope. Look around. You’ve already overcome so much. You’ve beaten the elements. You’ve provided food for an entire community. You’ve managed to live together without killing one another or being annoyed by the stink that most of you are putting off.
And, there in that willingness to turn your nose, not up in the air, but towards your funky smelling brethren, lays hope. Hope that we can rebuild this world. Into a braver world, a saner world—a braver world that’s much more sane.
A world where no child need cry for dinner. A world where no child need cry because he is afraid. A world where no child need cry because you didn’t buy him that ring pop at checkout, even though you know that he’ll never finish it and it will just end up a sticky mass of carpet lint and hair somewhere under the seat of the car. A world where no child need cry for want of shelter or love. A world where that child will finally just shut his cake hole.
This is your chance to make the world the way you want it to be. A loving world. A free world.
Are you going to surrender this chance? God, or Russia, or somebody, has seen fit to wipe the slate clean. Now we can apply what we know not to do to make a better world for our children—their children, and their children, and maybe a few generations beyond that.
You’ve already assumed the right to govern yourself, the responsibility to function under a social contract that apparently didn’t mandate bathing.
You are now free men and women. Are you going to let these men that gather at your gates take that from you? Just because they’re stronger? Just because they have an army of merciless killers? Just because they armed that army with chains and blades? And harnessed the power of the mighty and noble buffalo and turned them against you as the menacing war bison? Are you? Or do you accept this responsibility, this glorious burden, to wrestle from these ashes of mankind a better kind of man?
Stand. Stand against this threat. Stand with your heads held high—for you are the true possessors of this world’s future. Stand proud. And I will stand with you.
This is our world to rebuild. Not theirs. Ours. So, let’s not fuck it up.
- The post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior from a speech given at the gates of Eternal Hope, Colorado, moments before the Massacre of Eternal Hope, Colorado.
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September 14, 2013
Meet the Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warrior and Chewy
About the book:
The post-apocalyptic world isn’t that bad. Sure, there are mutants. But, for the people of New Hope, daily life isn’t so much a struggle of finding food or medicine as it is trying to find a new shortstop for their kickball team. This makes it difficult for a post-apocalyptic warrior to find work.
Thankfully, an army full of killers is making its way to the peaceful town and plans to raze it to the ground. Only a fully trained post-apocalyptic-nomadic warrior can stop them. Two have offered their services. One is invited to help. The other is sent to roam the wasteland. Did the townspeople make the right decision? Will they be saved? Did they find a shortstop? What’s with all the bears?
Find out in the best-selling Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors, a fast-paced action and adventure novel set in a horrific future that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
In this scene:
Our hero comes across the razed town of Vita Nova and encounters its only remaining resident.
________________________________
At first he was surprised that he came to at all. Soot covered him. His eyes were caked with the dried ash. Groaning as he rose, he pulled a handkerchief from his rear pocket and brushed the gray crust from his eyes. Once he could see, he realized that he had fallen inches short of the bulletproof safety of the brick wall.
“Your dog is a jerk,” she said. Her voice was close.
Pain shot through his head as he turned to face her for the first time.
She sat close, a few feet away; her legs were drawn up in front of her. Chewy sat across from the girl; the hunting rifle was locked in the dog’s mouth.
Fuzziness dominated his thoughts as he responded. “Yeah, but she’s man’s best jerk. Wait, that didn’t sound right.”
“Pervert.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was trying to say that …” He leaned against the wall to clear his head. The brick structure he had sought for protection collapsed under his weight. He fought to maintain his balance. His arms pinwheeled. He thrust his hips with a rhythm that betrayed his dance talents as somewhere between “pathetic” and “high potential for injury.”
It was a fierce but brief struggle against gravity; he lost by a slight margin. He stood back up and tried to act as though nothing had happened.
She rolled her eyes.
Take away the dirt, the soot-gray tear-stained cheeks, and ashen clothes, and there would be no denying the young woman’s beauty. Fierce eyes blazed through the dirt and dust to reveal a sharpness that could see beyond the immediate, the misleading, and drill to the truth in any person.
He sighed and forced a smile that would put her at ease. The pain made it difficult, but he managed. “Can me and my jerk help you?”
“Me? You’re the one who’s bleeding.”
Feeling the top of his head, he discovered a paste of ash and blood beneath his hair. Grinding the mixture between his fingers, he looked at her. “Did you shoot me?”
She huffed and gestured to the dog with the gun in its mouth. “You jumped into the wall, dumb ass.”
“Dumb ass? That’s hardly fair.”
“I told you to stay still.”
“So you could shoot me!”
She crossed her arms and pouted.
“Who are you?”
She pouted more.
“Please?”
She went into hyper-pout. He had seen it in children, but he was unaware that an adult was capable.
“Chewy. Give her the gun.”
The mastiff growled.
“Give it to her!”
The giant dog obeyed and dropped the gun at the young woman’s feet.
The lone survivor of Vita Nova looked at the ash-covered nomad. She cocked her head and half squinted at the man as he sat patting the dust from his jacket and jeans. Her confusion grew as he turned his back to her.
She reached for the gun.
Chewy put her paw on the weapon.
She looked at the dog then back to the nomad. “Erica. My name is Erica.”
The nomad nodded and Chewy removed her paw. “It’s just a pleasure to meet you, Erica.”
Erica picked up the rifle. “Ewww, it’s all drooly.”
“Erica, meet Chewy.”
The large dog woofed at the young woman and kept a wary eye on the gun as she wiped it clean. Erica made no move to arm the rifle.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“You can call me whatever you want. I’m a post …”
“Dick.”
“Wait, I wasn’t …”
“Whatever I want, Dick.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Jerry had never been married, but she gave him a look that he recognized as one a wife gave a husband when he had overstepped his bounds at a party. He relented and changed the subject. “What happened here?”
She began to tremble. Her voice came in spurts as she tried to explain while holding back tears. “A truck. A black truck. They crashed through our gates … it was over in minutes.”
“A black truck?”
Erica lost her composure and broke down in complete tears. “Everybody. Everyone is gone. My friends. My little sister. They’re all gone.”
Running caused his head to ache every time his heel struck the ground, but he rushed to her side. He put a sooty arm around her. She shook.
Chewy worked her head under the crying girl’s hand.
Erica threw her arms around the dog and let the tears loose into the dog’s brindle fur.
Jerry stood and placed his hands on his hips. Chewy had stolen more than a few things off his plate in the years they had traveled together, but she had never been the first to console a crying woman.
Erica cried long and hard. She tried to speak, but only hysterical gibberish escaped her lips. It was almost fifteen minutes before intelligible words were spoken. “What am I supposed to do now? Where do I go?”
Jerry had been considering the situation since she started crying. Since she had gone on for so long, he had considered many options for her that covered everything from sitting there to discovering a method of time travel.
But the most practical was the best solution.
“There’s a town a day or so down the road. It seemed nice. I can take you there.”
She didn’t say anything. She just nodded.
He offered his hand, but she refused. She stood on her own.
The ruins of her home surrounded her. Staying was not an option. Wind blew the ash into the air and stung at her eyes. Without a word she walked toward the red tricycle. Graceful and composed, she bent over and grabbed the handlebars. Setting the toy up on its wheels, she turned and walked silently past the two friends.
He watched her walk away. She was strong. He admired that. She would survive. No mutant, marauder, or black truck would be able to shake this woman now. She had lost everything she had known and everyone she had loved and stood tall and immovable. She would be fine.
“Erica. The truck is the other way.”
She fell to her knees and began to cry.
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Visit Dallas after the Apocalypse
About the book:
The post-apocalyptic world isn’t that bad. Sure, there are mutants. But, for the people of New Hope, daily life isn’t so much a struggle of finding food or medicine as it is trying to find a new shortstop for their kickball team. This makes it difficult for a post-apocalyptic warrior to find work.
Thankfully, an army full of killers is making its way to the peaceful town and plans to raze it to the ground. Only a fully trained post-apocalyptic-nomadic warrior can stop them. Two have offered their services. One is invited to help. The other is sent to roam the wasteland. Did the townspeople make the right decision? Will they be saved? Did they find a shortstop? What’s with all the bears?
Find out in the best-selling Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors, a fast-paced action and adventure novel set in a horrific future that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
In this scene:
Jerry and his passengers must travel through the remains of Dallas.
________________________________
A belief in the power of concrete and modernization had caused the Downtown district of Dallas to pave over most things green or old. It wasn’t until the renaissance trends of the late 2000s that the planners decided to develop green spaces within the city. This exceptional lack of plant life worked in the post-apocalyptic travelers’ favor.
The growth accelerant had few large trees or park space to affect. This left only office plants and landscape shrubbery to absorb the agent. Had more green space been available, the growth would have made Dallas streets impassable. Instead, lucky bamboo, bonsai trees, and ivy vines that had been abandoned on desktops and windowsills absorbed the chemical. These office plants erupted from their planters and burst through skyscraper windows to drape a canopy of green over the former business district.
It was also unfortunate that the apocalypse occurred on Valentine’s Day. Massive rose bushes had shattered ornate vases, plummeted from office buildings, and taken root in the city’s storm drains. Stems as thick as trees rose from crumbled sidewalks and bloomed with massive roses that tinted the sunlight hues of red and yellow.
The Silver Lining crashed through the creeping vines. Snapping like gunfire, the vines left sap and pulp across the body of the motor coach. Leaves and spores poured through the open windshield covering the dash.
Alex flinched as branches and vines jutted in and out of the shattered windshield. He brushed the seedlings from his eyes quickly, struggling to keep both hands on the shotgun.
Small vines snapped away at the mass of the coach, while the thicker ones caused the vehicle to lurch and bounce as it made its way down the street.
Jerry fought the wheel, wrestling the coach from their grasp. He marveled at the growth. It was much thicker than he had last seen it. The canopy had lowered and threatened to touch the ground in several places.
Inside the coach, the passengers were thrown from their seats during a hard left. Jerry demanded everything from the engine as he maneuvered deftly through the streets. Though it seemed random to his passengers, the route he took through the city kept the vehicle clear of the few parks and patches of grass in the area.
He hadn’t forgotten the streets. Despite the frantic steering, he kept his bearings, always moving south and east to reach a ramp up on the elevated safety of highway 45.
“What was that?” Alex sat up, his grip on the shotgun tightened.
Jerry followed the barrel and looked into the street.
“What?”
Alex peered into the dense growth coming from the lobby of one of Dallas’s many nondescript office buildings. “I guess it was nothing.”
“Keep watching.” Jerry sped up.
A chorus of faint, high-pitched whines penetrated the truck as countless vines scratched against its skin. Those heavier with water slapped against the truck, splattering the moisture across the body and in through the bullet holes.
“There!” Alex pointed with the shotgun.
Jerry saw the movement. It moved quickly, blending into the shadows of the jungle. He didn’t see it clearly, but its shape was human.
“Shit.”
The figure had disappeared to the left. He turned right on Harwood Street and out from under the skyscrapers. The properties along this road had been concrete lots and low-rise buildings. Few plants took root in the deserted parking lots. Soon, the only vegetation in sight was the grass growing between the seams of the pavement.
The rush of the tires on the road hushed as he sped down the grass-covered street. The steering wheel felt loose and the tires plowed down the long blades, but the ride inside the coach had improved. The highway was just ahead and he allowed himself a thought of relief.
The shadowy figure had not been alone. There was a flurry of motion on the street. Vague forms dashed about the field beside the coach. Soon, the dashing stopped and the creatures began to stand up.
They were everywhere.
As tall as a man, hundreds of them began to appear. They looked identical; each had a sickly green complexion and a haunted look in their eyes. Their dead gaze did not follow the coach.
“What are they?” Alex began to panic. “They aren’t human.”
“Not anymore.” Jerry pressed the pedal harder and wished that he had spent more time souping up the Silver Lining’s engine.
The creatures stood their ground; their only movement was a gentle sway as if blown by a breeze. More creatures appeared as the coach sped south down Harwood.
“What are they doing?” Erica screamed from the back.
“Scaring us.”
“It’s working.”
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Meet Carl, the Gadgetman of New Hope
About the book:
The post-apocalyptic world isn’t that bad. Sure, there are mutants. But, for the people of New Hope, daily life isn’t so much a struggle of finding food or medicine as it is trying to find a new shortstop for their kickball team. This makes it difficult for a post-apocalyptic warrior to find work.
Thankfully, an army full of killers is making its way to the peaceful town and plans to raze it to the ground. Only a fully trained post-apocalyptic-nomadic warrior can stop them. Two have offered their services. One is invited to help. The other is sent to roam the wasteland. Did the townspeople make the right decision? Will they be saved? Did they find a shortstop? What’s with all the bears?
Find out in the best-selling Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors, a fast-paced action and adventure novel set in a horrific future that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
In this scene:
As Logan prepares the town’s defenses he must meet with the town’s gadget man.
________________________________
Logan had left the children pulling apart strands of cable. He had made a joke about tetanus that they didn’t understand, and went to find the town’s gadget man.
The mayor had not described him. No one had told him the man’s name. Regardless, Logan knew whom to look for. Whether he was tall or short, the man would be round and a little grizzled. The man in charge of keeping the town running would have a lame sense of humor and a personality that many tolerated only because he maintained the machinery and invented things that the people needed most: water pumps, steam engines, and more. If not for these vital skills, the gadget man of any post-apocalyptic town would be friendless and, more than likely, left in the wilderness.
Logan found Carl Parker chatting to several men. Each had one foot out of the conversation waiting for the short round man to take a breath so they could excuse themselves. They had been waiting for a while.
Carl was regaling them with a series of jokes about the difference between men and women when Logan interrupted.
“Are you the gadget man?”
Carl turned to Logan and smiled.
The crowd scattered, each tossing a weak excuse over the shoulder as they moved away. The men split. Each went a separate direction as if they were being pursued by an axe murderer or the forces of the undead and were trying to lose their hunters.
“Howdy, stranger. Do you know the difference between men and women?”
Logan did and the answer was, “Vaginas.”
“Well, yeah but that’s …”
“Are you the gadget man?”
Carl’s round face lit up, he stood a little taller, which wasn’t much because he was barely five foot five. “Around here they call me the Gadgeteer.”
Carl pulled a four-pound sledge from his belt and held it triumphantly above his head. His grease rag rippled like a cape from his back pocket.
“The Gadgeteer. Really?”
“No,” Carl sheathed the sledge, dug the oily rag out of his pocket and began to wipe his hands and forehead. Nothing was wiped away; the rag just added grease to his hands and forehead. “I’ve asked them to. They say the decision is stuck in committee. But, if you’re asking if I’m the one who keeps this town running, well, yes, that’s me. Mechanic, electrician, plumber, engineer, and umpire for the New Hope kickball league.”
Pivoting like a Weeble, he turned and began to walk across Town Square. Motioning with the oily rag, his tone changed from one of pride to one that was much more bitchy.
Logan followed.
“Yeah, I’m the gadget man, not that you’d know it if you looked in my shop. I don’t have two wrenches to turn together. And the people they send me …” Carl shook his head. “Everyone is sent in rotation, so just the time I’ve got them trained, they leave.”
They reached the open hood of a small blue and white pickup. Carl pulled a wrench from his tool belt and buried his head in the engine compartment.
“I tell you, that Murphy is a sonofabitch.”
“Which one was Murphy?”
Carl laughed loud and hard at Logan’s remark. It was an irritating laugh that sounded like it belonged in the front row of a laugh track. Still, the mechanic was genuine. The round man reached up and slapped Logan on the shoulder with an oil-covered hand.
“No, Murphy the lawyer.”
Logan’s confusion showed on his face.
“My friend, I’m talking about Murphy’s Law that says shit’s gonna happen.”
Logan nodded. This was the town’s gadget man. He took another greasy slap on the shoulder, and watched Carl dive back under the hood to tend to the pickup’s engine.
Metal clattered, tools clanged, but there was no end to the chatting. Carl continued the conversation with Logan, while simultaneously cursing the engine.
“So, now you know who I am … sonofabitch … stranger. And, I know who you are … little turd. You’re the … mother humper … man who’s gonna save New Hope … you bastard. The man with the Mustang.”
For a moment Logan considered closing the hood and walking away. But he needed this man’s help. “I’m going to do my best.”
“And, I’m guessing … little beggar … that you’re going to need something from me … filthy whore.”
“I can come back.”
Carl’s head popped out of the truck’s hood, somehow even dirtier. “Why?”
“You seem to be busy.”
“No, it’s all right. Keep talking. I’ve just got a nut stuck.”
Before Logan could continue, Carl reached out and slapped him again as he began to laugh.
“Sounds like a personal problem! Right?”
Logan could only nod and hope that the mechanic would stick his head back in the truck.
“I know, I know, TMI, TMI, too much information,” Carl laughed again and attacked the nut with more vigor. The truck shook, the laughter echoed in the compartment.
“You’re right,” Logan tried to talk over the laughing, swearing, and clanging. “I need your help reinforcing the gate.”
“Well, I only designed it to keep the animals out. We can … crap … always weld some more steel on it … rat bastard.
Put a few more inches between us … that’s what she said … and the bad guys, dammit.”
“I had another idea.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that … little bitch?”
Logan knocked on the hood, “I hope that was directed at your nuts.”
Carl emerged again, “Come again?”
“That comment.”
Carl didn’t look any brighter when he was confused. He replayed the conversation in his head and it dawned on him,“Oh, no no no, no, no. Yes, I was swearing at my nuts.”
Logan shook his head, knowing what to expect.
Carl slapped him on the arm—Logan thought he might be starting to bruise—and laughed louder than before. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and still, he chuckled.
“TMI! TMI! Huh? Ha-ha. What’s your idea?”
“I came across an old cement truck, maybe ten miles down the road. It had a hardened load in the back …”
Carl smiled and was about to speak. Logan hurried on before the mechanic could interrupt.
“A little plating and it would make solid gate … if you could get it running.”
“When you said hardened load, I was going to say …”
Logan held up his hand. Carl stopped. Logan smiled and said, “If we go right now, I’ll even call you Gadgeteer.”
Carl smiled, pulled the sledge from his belt and began tapping it in the palm of his hand. “Let’s go get her.”
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Meet Roy, Mayoral Candidate of New Hope
About the book:
The post-apocalyptic world isn’t that bad. Sure, there are mutants. But, for the people of New Hope, daily life isn’t so much a struggle of finding food or medicine as it is trying to find a new shortstop for their kickball team. This makes it difficult for a post-apocalyptic warrior to find work.
Thankfully, an army full of killers is making its way to the peaceful town and plans to raze it to the ground. Only a fully trained post-apocalyptic-nomadic warrior can stop them. Two have offered their services. One is invited to help. The other is sent to roam the wasteland. Did the townspeople make the right decision? Will they be saved? Did they find a shortstop? What’s with all the bears?
Find out in the best-selling Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors, a fast-paced action and adventure novel set in a horrific future that doesn’t take itself too seriously.
In this scene:
Logan has brought evidence of a bandit attack on the nearby town of Vita Nova and warns the people of New Hope that they’re next.
________________________________
“What does Vita Nova mean, anyway?” Roy Tinner sat with Mayor David Wilson and Logan, the post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior, in the mayor’s office.
“It’s Latin,” said the mayor. “It means new hope.”
Roy’s eyes widened, “What? They can’t do that!”
“Do what?” Logan asked.
“We’re New Hope. This is, this is … copyright infringement.” Roy stood. “How could they do this? It’s an insult, it’s an, an affront.”
“An affront?” Logan looked to the mayor.
“Calm down, Roy,” he said, barely acknowledging the pacing councilman as he mulled over the warrior’s story and what he had seen on the camera.
“They can’t …” Roy stammered when he was agitated. He stammered often.
“They’re dead,” Logan said. “Your pending lawsuit isn’t going to be their biggest concern.”
Roy stopped pacing. His cheeks flush, he sat back down. The gravity of the situation had escaped him in his offense.
He stammered, “Of course. Still, we should see to preventing this in the future.”
Logan walked over to a large map on the wall, grabbed a pen and started marking towns and settlements. With each dot he proclaimed the name of the location, “Hope, Hopeful, Last Hope, Hopefulville, The Town of New Hopefulvilleness, The Town of Hope, Hope City, New Hope, New Hope, New Hope …”
Tinner winced with each location and squirmed in his chair. New Hope was the name he had championed during the drafting of the town’s charter. The moniker had faced stiff competition from Freedonia and Freedomville. Political favors and pure begging had helped him force his choice through.
“The world is full of Hopes, Mr. Tinner.” Logan set the marker back down.
“They’re all hope?”
“I came across a Steve once.”
“Steve?”
“They figured it sounded warm and welcoming, because ‘who doesn’t like Steve?’”
Roy nodded, but then added, “Why not Steven?”
Logan shrugged, “Too pretentious?”
“I don’t know. I knew a few Stevens, seemed nice enough.”
The mayor jumped in, “Please, Roy. It’s not important right now.”
Tinner dropped the issue, but decided that his first act as the new mayor would be to change the name of the town. A new flag would be needed as well. He decided to start sewing one up that night.
Mayor Wilson sat, his head propped on his fingertips. Pensive, he stared not at Roy Tinner or Logan, but into the wall beyond them both.
The video was disturbing. Horrific. The news that a similar fate could await his town had removed the always present, reassuring smile he had adopted since the apocalypse.
Dozens of people looked to him for guidance and assurances that—even though the world had come to an end—everything would be okay. Men and women had come from all over to this town to be safe and, for the first time, the mayor wasn’t certain that he could promise that safety.
“Well, this isn’t good.” The mayor looked to Logan and indicated the Flip. “How old is this footage?”
“Yesterday. I arrived not long after the assault. Too late to help, unfortunately.”
“And you’re sure that they are headed this way?”
Logan shrugged. “They were headed south. New Hope is the next inhabited town.”
“So they could be here any moment.” The mayor stood and walked to the map of Texas that hung on the wall. Logan had drawn in the approximate location of Vita Nova just across the former state line.
“We should evacuate.” Roy Tinner was two steps toward the door. “I’ll have everyone start rounding up the supplies.”
“Hold on,” Logan raised a hand to stop the councilman and turned back to the mayor. “You may have a few days.
This entire road is lined with deserted towns.” Logan indicated the route on the map. “They won’t pass them up—no matter how fierce they are, they’re scavengers at heart. And, with any luck, the road may prove difficult for them.”
“What do you propose?” The mayor was hesitant to abandon the town, but for once he may agree with Tinner.
“Your walls are strong. Some of the strongest I’ve seen. With a few modifications and some arms for the town, you’d be able to make a stand here.”
“Is that what Vita Nova did?” Roy had picked up the Flip and replayed the footage. “Evacuation is our only chance.
And, if we leave, they’ll just pass by when they find nothing here. Then we can come back.”
“Or, they’ll track you down and you won’t have a wall to hide behind.”
“No, Roy,” Mayor Wilson turned his back to the map on the wall. “New Hope is where other people go when they need help. This is our home and we will defend it.”
“David, this is a bad idea.”
The mayor nodded. He couldn’t completely disagree with the councilman. Defending the town may be the biggest mistake he would make during his career as mayor. This was little consolation in the fact that it could also be his last.
“It could be, Roy. But, it’s the right thing to do.”
“You’re putting us in danger.”
“Danger is being put upon us, Roy. Don’t think for a moment that I’m forgetting what’s at stake here. My daughter is one of the lives I’m putting on the line. But I would rather stand and fight and show her that true freedom is worth defending, than run and, most likely, be killed anyway.
“We’ve worked too hard to build this town to abandon it to the will of savages and bullies.”
The mayor stood and offered his hand to the warrior. “This isn’t your fight, I know. Still, is there any way I could convince you to stay and help us?”
Logan looked to Roy. The fat man perspired in anticipation of the warrior’s answer.
“Help us prepare our defense,” the mayor continued, “and you can take with you all the supplies you can carry.”
“I’ll help. But I don’t want anything.”
“Then why would you …?”
“I have my reasons.”
“David,” Roy’s voice bordered on rage, “we can defend ourselves.”
“Every hand helps,” the mayor looked back to Logan.
Logan nodded, “I’ll survey the town and start making plans.”
“Again, thank you.”
“I’m not going to let you do this, David. Not like this. You’ll have to take this to the council.”
Mayor Wilson nodded. “Of course, you’re right. We’ll take this to the people. Mr. Logan, would you mind addressing the council?”
“If it will help.”
Roy stammered something unintelligible, stormed out of the office, and slammed the door. The steel walls of the barn rattled a moment later as Roy slammed the outer door.
“He doesn’t like outsiders,” said Logan. “That’s his problem, isn’t it?”
“No,” said the mayor. “He’s an asshole. And it’s more our problem than his.”
Logan tried not to smirk. He couldn’t do it.
“By the way, Logan. Do you play kickball?”
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September 10, 2013
Meet the Evil Overlord of the Apocalypse
Squinting through one good eye, the major scanned the deserted street. The retail center had not been directly affected by the apocalypse. Looting accounted for the missing windows in the storefronts.
Sporting goods stores and food centers were hit after the electronics stores had been picked clean.
Looters had taken everything. In the seven years since the bombs, no store escaped the scavengers. People looted jewelry stores hoping there would be value in shiny metal objects. And there had been, for a short while, before hunger overtook greed.
Furniture stores were cleared out for firewood. Auto parts stores were picked clean for fuels and parts to run generators.
Pharmacies were often places of conflict as looters were more discriminating. People searching for life saving medicine became more aggressive fighting over a prescription than they did a media player.
The only stores that had been ignored by the rampant looting were the Blockbusters. No one ever went to Blockbuster.
If there had been anything useful left on the shelves of the strip mall, his scavenging team would have already found it. Trained to be efficient and thorough, it was rare that they missed a useful item.
There was one item, however, that he could not ask his crew to collect.
Personal property was not permitted on the truck. That was the code he enforced on his crew, and drilled into them at every opportunity. Everything was for the good of the whole. The truck would carry nothing that didn’t benefit the crew or the nation they served.
It was for this reason that the major often gathered his gear, placed his lieutenant in charge, and strolled off into the wasteland alone.
Had his charge ever been foolish enough to question his orders, he would explain that it was to determine, firsthand, that the scavenging team performed to expectations. He would tell the soldier this after striking him with whatever blunt object was within reach.
The truth was more personal.
He shifted the weight of the rifle across his back. High-caliber and scoped, it was a tool designed for bringing down large game. While the major feared no man, mutations populated most of the wasteland. They had spread in a very short time; it was necessary to be prepared for an encounter.
The major touched the patch that rest across his temple; his first encounter with the creatures had taken his eye. Now it served as a reminder to him and his crew that, despite the unrelenting power of their army, and their truck, shit still happened.
The rifle was not meant for people. Should any man, or overly muscular or hairy woman that resembled a man, happen to interrupt him on his excursion, they would feel the wrath of his knife. Worn at his left side and drawn by his right hand, the weapon was his own design. The draw had been inspired by the samurai. The blade’s shape was taken from the Khukuri, the legendary weapon of the feared Ghurka warriors. It curved like a boomerang and yielded fatal striking force. He designed the pommel as a lead skull. Struck upon a temple, the skull would render death, disorientation, or severe headaches.
Unsheathing the wicked blade would usually deter any small group of unfortunate opportunists that hoped to ambush him. If it didn’t, the sight of the knife’s first victim would cause the rest to scatter.
Large strides carried him past a former hobby store. His team would have scouted there to find casting tools and resin mixtures. The clothing stores would be searched for leather belts and durable clothes that could be cut and fashioned into uniforms.
A glance through the shattered glass of the sporting goods store window was enough to tell that it was all but empty.
Hunting and camping departments would have been cleaned out first. Those arriving too late to grab a rifle or camp axe would have taken the baseball bats.
The golf section was void of bags. Clubs, now tarnished from exposure, littered the floor in the hundreds providing little in the line of defense or survival use. If the apocalypse proved anything, it was that golf skills were useless skills.
Football and hockey pads would have been secured by the more ambitious who planned to use them in crimes against their fellow man. Those with less sense, but the same intentions, grabbed Under Armour clothing, not knowing that there were very few armor qualities to it.
Next door, even dumber people looted the mobile store. Those people would spend the better part of a day screaming “hello” into a dead device and wondering out loud why no one was responding before finally giving up and blaming AT&T, as was the trend when the world blew up.
He continued on to the grocery store. It was a mess. Nothing lined the shelves, but, in their haste, the looters had knocked countless boxes and cans to the ground.
His crew would have sifted through the mess, retrieving anything that could be useful. The more days that passed between the apocalypse and the present meant the fewer useful items could come from a grocery store.
At this point, the scavenger teams only enter looking for non-grocery fair. Even food items with a long shelf life had expired years ago. His prize, however, had not.
Shattering glass echoed throughout the store as he kicked the last bit of the window from the frame. He stepped into the lobby and looked around. Even the glass panels in the two ice machines were shattered; looters had no time for doors.
A “wet floor” sign was sitting in front of it. He would never know if it was placed there before everything went to hell, or afterwards in an attempt at humor. Either way, he didn’t care.
The remnants of stock crushed, crunched, and squished under his feet as he moved across the front of the store reading the signs that still hung over the aisles. A couple of them were missing, some hung from only one chain, and one had been re-lettered to read Jack and Shit.
At the end of one row was a coffee bean dispenser. The plastic dispenser was, like everything in the store, empty and shattered, but it was a good clue to what the surrounding aisles had held.
Neither side had a sign. He glanced down the right aisle and guessed that his prize wasn’t there. He stepped to the left.
The creature had been quiet. Since losing his eye, the major’s hearing had become a more reliable sense. The massive beast had not made a sound as it sniffed the air in the grocery store, hunting for something itself.
The major stepped back out of view. The bear had not spotted him; the creature was too absorbed in its own quest. The gray-haired, one-eyed man drew the rifle from his back and slowly pulled back the bolt.
There was no indication from the beast that it had heard.
The major pulled the rifle to his shoulder and stepped into the aisle. Placing the reticule over the bear’s chest, he prepared to fire.
The massive bear sat. It no longer searched the floor and shelves. Its paws held what it had been looking for.
The major spotted the familiar plastic bear in the real bear’s paws. The honey container was unopened and unspoiled. He pictured the small plastic bear sitting on his old kitchen table next to her morning tea. The combination of the honey and the Tetley tea would fill the kitchen. The morning tea had always made her happy.
The bear looked up at the man with the gun and cocked its head—its eyes moved from the man to the weapon. It sat still, holding the honey in its grasp.
The honey, the same honey she had used every morning. Anger flashed in the major’s eye and he lowered the rifle. “I’ve come for the honey.”
The bear snorted. Its large brown eyes focused on the grizzled man. For a brief moment it stopped pawing at the honey. Then it turned its back to the major and resumed the struggle to remove the plastic cap that held the precious honey in place.
If not for the missing windows at the front of the store, the report from the rifle would have caused a perforated eardrum or permanent hearing loss. Neither the major nor the bear flinched.
The creature turned and examined the major.
Smoke rose from the rifle barrel and drifted up towards the hole he had just shot in the roof.
“I’m talking to you, bear!”
The bear swiped at the litter on the floor and sent the trash twirling in the air. A plastic container slid down the aisle at tremendous speed and slammed to a stop at the major’s feet. The major stared down; Mrs. Butterworth stared back.
He picked up the syrup bottle and hurled the old lady at the beast. “I didn’t say syrup!”
The bear roared and stood, but it did not charge. Its massive frame towered above the empty shelves that formed the aisles.
“I want that honey!”
The bear looked at the prize in its paw and turned his shoulder to the man, keeping the honey out of view.
“Now.”
“Roar!” The bear charged a few feet and stood its full height. Its massive jaws slew spit and rage. The sound bounced off the steel roof and back down to the empty shelves.
The major drew a finger around the patch. He looked at the small bear in the giant bear’s paws. It was his wife’s honey.
The rifle clattered across the floor and drew a puzzled look from the monster. The major drew his knife.
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