Part 1 - The World
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Eight years. Eight years is all it took for society to crumble to worthless shambles. The start of it all isn't even truely known to most, as the resulting destruction killed all who were a part of it. All that is known is that, during a spat about national policy, threats were made. Tensions grew, and some trigger-happy leader decided it wise to launch a small arsenal of nuclear weaponry. The opposing country retaliated as soon as they were in the air, alliances were made on both sides, opportunistic countries took it upon themselves to rid themselves of their own enemies, chaos ensued.
In the end, responsibility was a moot point. The majority of the capital cities in the world were utterly decimated, uninhabitable for hundreds of years to come. With the world governments decimated, the remaining cities were reduced to riots and destruction, forming a primal, tribalistic order. Rural areas, last to hear the news, were eventually pillaged for anything to be used for the cities. It was almost as if the world itself was reset, losing hundreds of years of progress in the process.
Eight years. No governmental systems prevailed, save anarchy. The strong survived, the weak either died off or pledged themselves to the strong in order to survive. Death and decay is a common sight, everyone who survived grew hardened quickly. Theft is a common thing, and people have learned not to value anything they can't keep with them at all times. Murder is all too common, though defense of one's self and one's property sometimes means killing the desperate man who seeks to take it from you. Slavery and the sex trade is considered a viable business opportunity. Cannibalism is a possibility, though rare, as game animals are, thankfully, still available. The would has turned into an even mix of survival and hedonism, and the individual person who fortunately (or unfortunately in many cases) survived the cataclysm had to make the choice for themselves what they would follow.
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Part 2 - The Club
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Many towns in the eastern United States avoided the harsh explosions the plagued the world eight years ago. This town was never huge, though it did house enough college students that it had a sizable population for most of the year. As such, it was not decimated, at least, not until after the initial damage was over. Afterwards, it was ransacked, pillaged, destroyed, and turned to a den a bandits, thugs, and criminals. The kind of place where you could buy human stock, for whatever purposes, as well as sell off stolen goods, get a bit of mercenary work, or whatever else you needed.
On the outskirts of this town was a medium sized building. Not too big, not too small, used to be a bowling alley, back in it's hey-day. This building, now named simply 'The Club', as the graffiti sign said, sold women. Females to be used as sex slaves, concubines, or, if they were fortunate, decorative servants to the bandits and kingpins who happened to be in charge of a region at the time. The Club's stock was never short, and the women they sold were always medium to top quality.
Running such a highly reputed establishment meant that the owner commanded a bit of respect himself, at least enough to mean the town knew who he was and would do their best to stay in his good eye. After all, other than food and clean water, sex was considered the most valuable substance. The owner of this establishment was Richard Kraus. Richard, or Dick as he was so keenly nicknamed, inherited the business from his older cousin, Tim 'Trusty' German. The inheritance was fairly simple. Poor trusty had an accident, where he accidentally fell onto a bullet, which accidentally spread his brain across his fine oak desk. Some say Dick got greedy, others say Trusty's conscience finally caught up with him, others say a rogue gangster didn't like his prices. Regardless, it was Dick who was in charge now.
And it was Dick who was manning the counter of the bar that hot June day. The Club maintained a decent bar, along with their women, in order to make their patrons a bit easier to barter with. As well, if provided another reason to respect Dick, and made him a community leader in his own right. Of course, this wasn't the only establishment like this in the area, hell, there was one not 3 miles west of here, but The Club was the best within a hundred miles, and it's the only one most of the locals would frequent.
His new stock of girls was grand. Two blondes, both look to be about teenage years. One black girl, mid thirties. An asian, who would surely fetch him a good price as they were a definite delicacy in the area. The only problem was a brunette, late twenties, nothing special, and wouldn't stop crying. She hadn't learned her place yet, apparently, but Dick would teach her soon enough. Probably have her warm up the clients first, just to break her into her new role. She'd learn, soon enough.
Dick had just finished up watering down the last of his whiskey supply when a man entered his door. Six foot tall, wearing all black including a black leather duster. Had a real serious look to him. The man wore sunglasses, though they looked prescription, rather than just to ward off that damnable sun. He walked with a limp, not too uncommon these days, as a serious injury would most likely go untreated. He didn't look like anything special.
But at least his look got that damn girl to stop her crying.
Dick gave a sly smile, and says, like a good businessman "Well sah, ya ain' from round here, but those bitches 'r mine. Can be yers, if ya got somethin' to trade, and looks... Well, looks be free fer ya. Naow, join me here, have yerself a whiskey, and we'll talk business." Dick poured his watered down cocktail into an unwashed glass, and the man stepped towards him.
And the girls cry turned into a smile.
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Part 3: The Man
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Dust was settling on the rear windshield when he put his car in park. It was hot today. Too damn hot to wear this coat, but sometimes it has to be done. He hoped he wouldn't be sweating too much by the time he got in there. A man sweating shows weakness, and he'd need ever psychological edge he could muster to break this deal. The engine idles for a few more minutes while he catches his breath and gathers his wits. The radio shouts static at him, he was too far out of range of any operating antennas.
Hat, or no hat? The hat is classy, and will do wonders to protect him from the sun, but at the same time he didn't want to look too much like a desperado. After all, the people here would already be suspicious of him, but the fact that they could see his eyes would be do wonders to set him them at ease. Bad enough he's wearing a leather full coat in over a hundred degree weather. Fuck, it's hot.
His hand reaches for key and slowly shuts the engine off. One more step and then it's time. He pulls his pistol from his hip pouch, and makes sure it's loaded correctly. He only had six shots left, hoped it would be enough. The pistol is replaced, a breath is drawn, and the door is opened. A heavy foot falls out of the car, and he pulls himself the rest of the way out.
The sun bears down on him as he steadily limps his way towards what the locals called The Club. When the bombs dropped, nuclear radiation drifted into the atmosphere, eating holes in it. The resulting effect was a rather drastic climate change. The sun grew hotter, and at midday it could cook a man if he didn't take precautions against it. Winters and nights were similarly problematic, with frigid temperatures that could turn the unprepared into a popsicle. Unfortunately, it was midday now, and even the hundred yard walk to the old bowling alley could exhaust any healthy human, and the fact that this man was wearing a thick leather coat, a pistol, and whatever else he may be carrying, only made the situation worse for him. Still, he tredged on.
He glanced briefly at the car he was walking away from. A solid white Camaro from the eighties. He'd gotten it for a steal of a merchant a couple years back, and it had served him loyally in the meantime. It didn't use too much gas, and the retrofitted solar panels meant he was rarely in a bind for fuel. It was his steed, and had served him reliably in the harsh wastelands he called home. Better yet, it reflected a good portion of the sun's waves, which meant it kept relatively cool.
A few more steps and he reached the door. He straightened himself out, wiped the sweat off his face, and opened the door. He had not, though, prepared himself enough for what he knew he'd see.
There she was. All these years, all this preparation, and she was finally within his reach.
All he had to do was get past that toothless git who was offering him whiskey.
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Part 4: The Barter
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“'Course, 'for we get to talkin' trades, you'll need to, eh... Relinquish, control of your weaponry. Ain't gonna take 'em from you of course, that's a killin' offense in these parts. All I ask if ya put it on the bar here, so I can sees it and you can sees it. Now, if that ain't good 'nuff for ya, my two associates here,” he motions to two men sitting silently on either side of the door, brutes ready to attack, “Can show ya back outside and relieve ya of anythin' you have anyway.”
The man nodded silently, and withdrew a pistol he kept in at his hip. He limped his way over the the bar, and placed it down. As a sign of good faith, he even turned the grip to face Kraus. He took a seat, and slowly took a sip of the whiskey.
“Naow that the unpleasantries are dealt with, what can I do ya for? Lookin' for a mate, are ya? Good lookin' guy like yuself can't be hurtin' too much for the ladies, so you must be wanting somethin'... Supplemental. Am I right? Or perhaps you're just lookin' for someone to bring you some drinks while you and your boys relax after a hard days work. So, wanna have a look? Just see fer yourself, I only gots the best, and a fresh shipment just come in, so you get pick of the litter. Don't you worry none, they're in the cages for a reason, they won't hurt ya.”
The man finishes his whiskey, and stands. He limps away without saying a word, heading towards the scared girls. Like puppies in a pound, they're behavior is all different. The asian is trying to make herself look like a sultry treat, she doesn't plan on sticking around this place long. The blondes cower near the back, avoiding eye contact and not wanting to be separated, probably sisters. He reaches only one cage, the burnette, and looks her deep in the eyes. She returns his look and steps up to the bars to meet him.
“How much for her?” The man says, never breaking eyes with the tear ridden burnette.
Kraus looks confused. Dumb bitch there was giving him nothing but trouble earlier, now she's well behaved. Ah well, not his problem. “Her? She crys a lot, ain't used to where she is, 'parantly. Might be a virgin, given her protest. I got a lot of clients who'd pay money for a girl who'd fight like that, they love to break 'em in. Can't let her for for less than... Four cases of munitions, twenty gallons of fuel, or, hell, since I'm generous, sixteen bottles of booze, depending of course on what they are. Whiskey'd do ya best, that's a favorite round here, but I'll take pretty much anything that ain't wine.”
A brief pause, then a stern “Half.” comes from the cages.
“Pfffff, ya gotta be fuckin' with me. Half on a philly like this? Good body, good face, good teeth, hell, ain't got a hint of sickness in her. Shit, I'm goin' light on you with the price to begin with, and lower and I wouldn't be able to run a business at all. You want discount girls, go somewhere else. Get the fuck outta here or make a better offer.”
The brutes are standing now, ready to escort the man out, to put it kindly.
The man in the coat reaches his hand between the bar and wraps it around the poor girls throat, terror filling her eyes. The guards pounce. The man smiles devilishly.
Everything was in place.
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Part 5: History
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Ten years previous was when they first met, the burnette, and the man in the coat. She'd been working in a coffee shop at a small, rural town. He was merely there for the season, working a small job of little consequance. Back then, in the days of excess, he had to gather all his courage just to talk to her. It was the fourth time he'd met her, after placing his usual order, that he mustered the strength to ask her on a date.
Where do you take a girl who works at a coffee shop, anyway?
But she accepted, nonetheless, and their first date was the stepping stone to the quick and intense relationship they shared those few months. Whether it was love, or a distraction, or just two young adults engaging in physical bliss, none of that was important when the future was so bleak.
“What are the birds doing out at this hour?” she said, as they laid in bed after they first made love, “Whatever could they have to say right now?”
He smiled, and held her close. “They're just plotting our demise,” he said, “Birds are horrible conspirators.”
“Mmm, well, I'm not too worried. They're birds. They small and weak and can't even talk.” She mumbled as she drifted off into sleep.
“And when they do attack,” He said, “I'll be here to save you.”
They parted ways a few months later, fully expecting to never be in range of each other's touch again.
But fate, it seems had a different idea.
They maintained regular correspondence, texting and calling and e-mailing each other to keep up. They both had their own lives, and there was no place for the other in it, back then. And so, it wasn't unusual that he happened to text her two minutes before the sonic boom from the bomb which detonated near her town knocked out the power and led to mass confusion. And also, it wasn't unusual that, thirty seconds after that, her response as she laid in the rubble was a simple “Help.” to the easiest person to respond to, the man in the coat.
Help.
Eight years later, a trail of lost homes and stories, and a search which led him across the country, and he pulled up to the last place she'd willingly be. Which is, of course, where the opportunistic bandit said she would be when he the man in the coat beat him within an inch of his life after learning he was the one who sold her off.
The Club. He idled the engine and gathered up his courage again.
The definition of irony, to him, was that when he asked the cute barista at the coffee shop on a date, he'd taken her bowling.
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Part 6: The Fight
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“Let 'er go, buddy, and maybe you'll live to fuck up some other bitch, but not ours.” The bulkier of the guards said as he made his way towards the man in the coat. “Just let her go and we won't break your fuckin' knees open.”
The bouncer made a mad lunge towards him them.
In that moment, the time froze. There had be no indication to anyone, save the sly smiling man in his overly hot coat, just how many weapons entered the room when he had limped over the threshold. The bouncer, though, learned of a single one, the razor sharp strip of metal that lined the underside of the forearm. Unfortunately for him, he learned as it sliced open his throat, rending his mad lunge his own demise.
Amidst this flurry, he had let go of the girl, and she had rolled to the back of her cage, wary of being hurt again.
The lighter guard, still trying to grasp what just happened to his friend, took a large step backwards. This gave the man in the coat ample time to throw it off of himself, revealing another blade on his opposite arm, and, more importantly at this moment, the shortened shotgun strapped to his lower back. With a jerk, he pulled it off, and the other guard fell to the floor with a quick trigger pull.
Nine seconds, and two men were dead. The man in the coat dropped the gun in his hands, as it was quicker to drop it than fumble to reload it. He didn't have much time now, and THE CLUB OWNER had his six shots to take. He lowered his hand to his left hip, and drew a large hunting knife.
They say that, if you know enough about a man's nature, you can accurately predict his near future. Having to rely on stories and rumors of a man isn't a safe way to gain the clairvoyant benefit, but it had to do in this case. Kraus, seeing his two men felled by the now coatless man, covered in blood with razors dripping from his arms, reached for the gun that was left so carefully on the counter.
Had he gone for the shotgun he kept under the bar, he would have survived this encounter. However, in the rush and panic of someone killing your friends and threatening your own life, the mind goes for the quickest possible solution, and not the reliable one that's saved you dozens of times before. He pulled the trigger with a twitch. The gun fired.
But the man was left unscratched. Quickly, the trigger was pulled twice more, judging that his accuracy was just off in the heat of the moment. Still nothing, and now the man was turning, large knife in hand. Two more shots, in a desperate motion to survive, but nothing but smoke and dust. A final shot was made.
His mind came the the conclusion that the gun in his hand was loaded with blanks at roughly the same time the knife was thrown. He dropped the gun as the knife entered his gut. The shotgun, still sitting in it's rack, passed his vision as he collapsed on the ground.
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Part 7: Salvation
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The was a long silence as the man listened for reinforcements. In a fortunate turn of events, though, the location led to a distinct lacking of martial support. He breathed deep, and went to undo the straps that were holding his makeshift blades in place. He also pulled what was left of the tape off his back, and was grateful that it had held strong during the occasion.
The girls cowered, unsure of what would happen. In less than a minute, their captors were felled by a man who barely spoke. His intentions unknown, and he'd already tried to choke the life out of one of them.
Confusions mounted when he threw his leg onto a table. With a sudden pull, the cloth fell away, and they all saw the pair of heavy duty, steel reinforced bolt cutters that had been forcing his limp. Without a word, he moved to break the padlocks that held them in.
After they were cut, he spoke. “East, you'll encounter more assholes like them. Same goes if you head south, but you have more distance til then. I'm not sure what lies to the west immediately, but if you reach the coast, there are some peaceful communes that started a few months back that are enjoying some great success. Don't even bother trying to go north, it's going to be no-mans land for another hundred years.”
They nodded and scattered, fleeing together and out into the sun, just trying to get out of this godawful place that nearly sealed their fate.
The last lock that was cut belonged to the burnette. Still on the ground, he opened the cage and stepped in.
“If I could have warned you, I would have, but rather my hand around your throat for a few seconds, than some inbred mother fuckers arms around you for decades.”
She looked up at him, and him at her. “Sorry I took so long. This world's done funny things to everything, time included.”
Sobbing, she jumped into the same arms that violently and mercilessly dispatched her captors moments ago. He held her close, and let her drain her emotion onto his sleeve. Seconds blended into minutes, until he finally made her move. “We have to go. The east isn't safe like it used to be. Nothing's what is was anymore.”
He led her out to his car, and sat her down as he climbed into the drivers seat. Engine started, they drove on what was once a prominent freeway, trying to cover as much ground as they could before nighttime came.
Hours passed in utter silence.
He chuckled to himself after a few hundred miles. “I never introduced myself. I mean, I think you remember me, and I know I remember you, but... With this new world, with a fresh start, I didn't want to be tied down by what I once was. Where I'm from now, they call me Hermes. Yeah, I know, cheesy, but it's my job to tell people about what we're doing out west. So it stuck. What about you, in this fresh new start, what do you want to be called?”
She didn't move. Awake, she stared out the window. She was broken, some unknown horrors had happened over the past years while he'd tracked her down. He could do nothing as they drove in silence.
The sun went down over the hills. He knew these roads well, and picked his normal campsite for the evening, a reclusive former gas station that was long since tapped dry, but had enough cars stalled dead that another meant nothing to the casual observer.
He set up the sleeping bags inside, along with the shotgun he had taken the care to liberate from the now deceased owner of the skin-trade shop. She was quickly asleep, and he planned to stay up all night, keeping guard over her. Another sleepless night meant nothing to him, and they were less than a days travel from their next destination, which was much safer.
Four in the morning. The sun was just a few short hours from breaking, and then they'd be able to take back to the road. He was startled, at first, when she first spoke. “Songbird,” she said, “If I get to choose my name, that's what I want.” She moved, quietly, close to him, and fell asleep on his shoulder.
They weren't home yet. But at least they had names, and each other.
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End
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(Original date 6/26/2010)
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