prologue
Jimmy raised the cleaver then brought it back down with a loud thunk. The sharp blade cut
bone and gristle away from the meat, and he swept it away to one side, where a small pile of
the less savory parts was slowly growing.
"Actually getting good at this shit."
Jimmy glanced at the other man working in the kitchen with him. Mike's ankles were
shackled, like his were, a short chain joining them, much too short to allow anything but a
slow shuffle.
"Frightening, how easy it is to become accustomed to almost anything isn't it?" Mike
continued. "What you in for, anyway?"
Jimmy set down the rectangular blade and sighed. What he wouldn't give to be outside right
now, instead he was in a basement, no windows, no fresh air. Just the ever present stench of
congealing blood and offal. The price for having broken one of the laws of the local religious
establishment. The Remnant.
"Theft," he answered. Then, "I had a choice, lose a hand, or be sent here for penance. Not
that I knew where here was, mind you."
"Huh," Mike said. His cleaver came down again with a thwack. "Sort of harsh. I killed a guy. I
was chilling out at the Anchor, you know that place?"
Jimmy knew the place, a post apocalyptic bar and hangout, that looked like it had been used
as the set of a cheap 'B' movie. But he decided to play dumb and just shrugged, noncommittal.
"Anyway, I was just chillin' and this hot chick comes into the joint. A little ragged around the
edges, but hot, you know? She sees me, and there's this instant connection. She didn't say
anything, playing hard to get, right? Just went up to the bar, got a drink and sat down on the
other side of the room.
So I bide my time, two can play that game. I don't even know how long passed by. I think it
was four or five mugs of changa later, when... hey you ever drink that shit? Tastes like gasoline,
but whoo! Sure makes my brain boil, you know?"
Jimmy shrugged again. He was the quiet type, although he wouldn't exactly call himself shy.
But this guy, who he'd just met yesterday, was one of those guys that wouldn't shut up. Exact
opposites. Jimmy hated him already.
"Yeah, you know what I'm talking about," Mike said, pointing the sharp implement at Jimmy,
a drop of blood flying from the tip at the motion. It landed on Jimmy's shoe. "That shit is
fierce, bro. So anyway, I get up and go over to her table, playing it straight with the smooth
moves, right? I think I said something like, 'Nice hiking boots, baby, wanna copulate?' She said
some shit, I said some shit back. I don't remember honestly, I was looking down her shirt the
whole time, you know?
So anyway, the time came where I thought I should make my move, so I grabbed one of those
soft pillows and squeezed. Chicks really dig that right? Then this dude, one of those clowns
wearing a gray and black uniform comes over and grabs my arm.
Well, I totally freaked out. Get your fucking hand off me I said. I mean, who does this guy
think he is, trying to manhandle me. I might of blacked out for a moment, I can get like that
when I'm drinking. I'm still moving around, doing stuff, but it's like I'm someone else, right? The
next thing I remember is that chick screaming her head off, and two more suits pulling me off
him. Fucker had like fifty holes in him, my knife still sticking out of one of them.
I said I didn't do it, but they didn't believe me. I think one of them hit me on the back of the
head. Then I was here. Gnarly huh?"
Jimmy forced himself to appear nonchalant, but inside, his heart was pounding in terror.
There was a name for Mike's personality type, a sociopath, and there was only one thing more
frightening than that, a sociopath with a cleaver. He looked down at his own blade, wondering
if he would be able to defend himself in a cleaver/chain fight. Probably not.
"Hey," Mike said, grinning and wiggling the weapon in his direction. "Where do you think all
this meat goes, anyway?"
Jimmy's thoughts raced. In the short time he'd been here, they had already chopped up a
dozen bodies. There was no explanation of where the corpses came from, but to him, it looked
like most were strangled. About half of them seemed crippled in some way. Perhaps they
were culling the flock.
Or as Mike said: 'deboning' them.
So, where was the meat going? More than a few terrible ideas occurred to him, making his
gorge rise. People couldn't be eating this, could they? Food was scarce, but...
The only door to the room thumped open, jarring him out of the dark thoughts, halting the
spiral downward. A short stout man wheeled in a large white plastic cart, and stopped in the
middle of the floor.
"C'mon. I Ain't got all night," the newcomer said.
They each grabbed at the body in the cart and hefted it out, putting it on the floor, then took
a few minutes to clear the scraps of bloody fabric and unwanted parts from the last body.
The short man slapped his hands together several times, and said, "Last one. Make it quick, I
want to get some sleep." He pushed his load back through the door, slamming it shut behind
him.
Mike nudged the corpse with a toe, "I know this is supposed to be a punishment, but I gotta
say, I am learning some skills with this thing." His head was tipped downward as he talked,
but his eyes rose up to glare at Jimmy. "You know what I mean?"
Jimmy blinked rapidly, and shifted the handle of the cleaver nervously in his hand. It was
way too late, but he wished.
He wished he had let them cut off his hand.
part one
Smoke from the recent gunfire hangs lazily in the air, a slight draft from the broken window
doing little to disperse it from the room. The setting sun joins it to form undulating shadows
against the faded, peeling paint of the interior walls.
Under the window is Koa, on the floor, the friction at his back preventing him from sliding all
the way down. His brown leather jacket and the red t-shirt beneath are punctured by three
blood rimmed holes. The result of a recent and unexpected confrontation.
A body lay not too far away, partly obscured by the haze, a pool of red congealing around it.
Otherwise, the room is nearly empty. Worn and beaten pieces of furniture, a chair, a small
table, and a door hanging from a single hinge.
Not a defensible place. Merely a shelter against the elements. But sometimes, one has no
choice where a last stand is made, only when.
He closes his eyes briefly, as a wave of pain rolls through his chest. Deep wrinkles cross
most of his weathered face and his hair is almost completely gray, only a small amount of
dark brown remains defiant.
He coughs with a lurch and a splash of blood comes with it, dripping off his chin. Is this the
last moment, he wonders. Will he pass on, not knowing who he really is? Since the apocalypse
ended, he has found few clues, not enough to know for sure. Surely, this is the worst way to
die.
He watches as the shadows dance, and as he fades in and out of consciousness they begin to
take shape, moving, replaying events from the last several years.
Maps, he thinks. That's what started all of this. Goddamn maps.
Koa picked his way across the parking lot, not worried about making a sound, but more so
about damaging his new boots. Some things are harder to come by than others, and
although most , like a jacket, could be pushed into service, footwear must absolutely be the
right size.
The day was bright, but enjoyable. Ahead, a ruined gas station beckoned with promise, of
stashed goods not yet looted. That's what it seemed like to him anyway, he always had high
hopes before entering a building. More often than not, those were dashed and he would
leave empty handed.
He adjusted the strap of his gun, an AK, and made his way toward it, not paying much mind
to possible threats. A bad habit, but the world had changed, and so then did the man.
There were pockets of people to be wary of, and the odd crazed loner, but these were few
and far between. Especially if one kept clear of the former urban areas. The Remnant, a
loosely knit group of zealots, gravitated there, despite the fact that most of the cities had
been stripped of their valuables long ago.
He passed by the pumps, their hoses lying in the dirt like oversized rattlers, and arrived at
the entrance to the shop. He looked back towards the highway, and cocked an ear. Except
for the buzz of insects, and the howl of some animal in the distance, the area appeared to be
uninhabited. His attention settled back on the door, and he pushed it open, and stepped
inside.
That's when he saw it.
Out of everything that could be found, and either used or traded, there was one thing valued
above all. It was worth more than a gun, food, alcohol, even a willing mate.
A map. Koa rejoiced whenever he found one.
The problem with searching for an unspoiled stash was one rarely knew where to look. New
unused maps gave the lay of the land, but a good used map, with found stashes already
marked on it, was practically priceless.
The magazine rack was beside the cash counter, behind the row of shelving in the middle of
the floor, empty but for one book style map of the area. Otherwise, the room was picked
clean, a thick layer of dust covered everything.
A roaring engine jolted him out of his celebration, and he stepped over to the shelf,
pocketed the rare item, then strode back to the window. He ducked just low enough to
see over one of the dirty windows.
Seeing a lone motorbike surprised him. He had seen other vehicles from time to time, but
usually they traveled in groups, wagon train style, from one camp to the next. And strength in
numbers put most would be jackers off.
He laughed at the unintended word play, but stopped short when the rider looked his way
and spotted him.
A Phobe.
The rough definition being a person with an unreasonable fear of being infected or of the
infection returning. There were many types of Phobes, but the majority of them wore a gas
mask and hazmat suit, quite often made to fit tightly with generous wraps of duct tape.
They kept to themselves, and considered other types of survivors to be unclean. A walking
contradiction, Koa thought, as everyone else gave them a wide berth. Phobes didn't remove
their suits very often, which resulted in a ripe stench cloud that followed them everywhere.
A sniff confirmed that this one was no different.
They regarded each other for a minute. Then the Phobe got off his bike and wrestled with the
fuel pumps, an attempt to squeeze even a few drops out of them.
Watching the man, Koa considered taking the vehicle by force, but it wasn't his style. The
damn thing was as noisy as hell, and though it was likely very good on fuel, most of his time
would be spent looking for it.
Plus, the Remnants had a noticeable presence on the road, one this Phobe had probably
already encountered, but avoided due to his status as untouchable. The bike roared back
onto the highway, and out of site, the rider having given up on finding any fuel.
Koa waited to see if the noise attracted any undue attention, but to this relief, the area
returned to it's previous calm. He patted the book tucked inside his jacket and exited the
station, eager to show his find to the rest of his group.
Koa sat near the fire, and poured over the map, planning out the best path for the next
couple of weeks. His mates talked amongst themselves, of scores past and possible scores
to come.
One of them, dressed in a gas mask and taped up hazmat suit, was completely silent. He did
speak on occasion, but never told anybody his name, so they had dubbed him Bob. When he
felt compelled to say something, , it was with a low and raspy voice, as if he'd been a heavy
smoker in the old world.
Bob was a little different than the typical untouchable. Koa thought him almost fanatical
about his cleanliness, and as such, did not reek like the rest of his type. He did not, however,
allow himself to seen by anybody when cleaning himself.
But he was intelligent, and capable, and that's what mattered to Koa, and the group. Besides,
when they let him take the lead, most survivors took off without looking back, no fighting
needed.
And, Koa owed him his life.
end part one