Knights of the Apocalypse (A Duck & Cover Adventure Post-Apocalyptic Series Book 2) (4 page)

Erica tucked her
knees and threw her weight forward. He held her tight as she dropped to the
ground and exploded back up, driving the top of her head into his chin.
This move was usually followed by the cracking of teeth
as
the attacker’s jaw was smashed shut. But the snake hadn’t put his tongue back
in his mouth and it got in the way.

He let go and clasped
his hands over his mouth while trying to swear. It came out a muddled mess and
did nothing to stop the blood flow. He screamed and fell to the ground in the
fetal position.

Erica looked back
into the square. Jerry had laid out one of the men and was a half second from
breaking another’s arm.

“What’s the plan?”
she asked.

The snap of the limb
caused the others to back off for a moment. “I’m going to go with run for now.
If anything else pops into my head I’ll let you know.”

The man with the
busted nose was back on the platform and running towards her. “Can’t kick me
now, bitch.” He swung at her with his right.

Erica caught the hand
and pulled him toward her. She stepped aside, put her weight down on his
shoulder and drove him face first into the wooden platform. Then she kicked
him.

Mr. Christopher’s
voice was still wet with blood, but his voice was clear enough when he yelled,
“Get the girl!”

A scrawny man in a
muddy pink ski jacket and a shorter man in what could only be a blanket rushed
at her from the edge of the platform. She kicked the man on the ground once
more and dashed into the marketplace with them in tow. Three more of the men
chased after her. The others attacked Jerry.

There was nowhere to
run. Every knight turned away as she approached. The vendors looked to the
knights as examples and kept their seats in the corners of their booths. The
crowd did its best to stay uninvolved, moving only to get out of the way. There
was no safe haven to reach. There was no escape. There was only distance and
she was losing that. She could feel the men gaining.

She reached the table
of homemade weapons and reached for a stick with a spike on it.

The vendor put his
hand on it before she could pull it back. “Coin first,” he said with a grin.

Erica grunted in
frustration and ran on.
 

The men in pursuit
reached the table and grabbed several sticks with several spikes in them. The
vendor protested, but he simply did not have enough hands to stop them. The
knights ignored his pleas for help and the attackers raced on.
 

Erica looked for any
escape, but there was nothing. She spun to face the men and backed up until she
bumped into the Durango souvenir table.

“Hello again, dear,”
the elderly lady said. “Did you come back for a fridge magnet?”
 

The crowd in front of
the table cleared away as the five attackers reached the booth. They spread out
in front of Erica and brandished their sticks with spikes on them.

“Is everything all
right, dear?” the woman asked with a fridge magnet in her hand.

The man closest to
her tried to make his voice as soft as possible. “We don’t have to make this
violent.”

“There’s nowhere to
go,” another added.

“Yeah. Just come with
us and we won’t hurt you,” another rasped.

The fourth man smiled
without teeth and added, “Much.”

The group laughed at
this.

Erica dug into her
shirt and pulled out a silver whistle.

One of the men
laughed. “Oh wow. I haven’t seen a rape whistle in years.”

She placed the
whistle between her lips and blew. The whistle shrieked.
 

The men laughed and
closed in slowly.

“Oh, honey,” the
woman behind the
table
said. “I don’t think that
worked.”

Erica dropped the
whistle back into her shirt and turned to the woman. “Could I borrow a couple
of those coffee mugs?”

The woman cast a
glance in each direction to make certain the knights weren’t looking and handed
over two mugs. One said I Weed Durango with a cannabis leaf standing in for the
weed ensuring the sentence made absolutely no sense. The other was a leftover
from when the nearby ski resort was known as Purgatory. A kitten with devil
horns and large eyes provided an overzealous Purrrrr to the name.

“You can keep them,
dear.” The woman ducked beneath the table as the men rushed forward.

The first strike
hummed through the air with a wobble as the homemade weapon came crashing down.

Erica rolled to one
side. The stick buzzed by her ear and crashed into the table. Key chains, shot
glasses, a bobble-headed devil—everything danced as the stick splintered
to pieces among the nicks and knacks.

Erica slipped her
hand through the mug’s handle and rolled back. The ceramic memory exploded on
his cheek as she slapped the mug across his face. Blood and shards of
devil-kitten littered the ground as the man dropped cold.

Another man swung for
her head.
 

She had no time to
move. All she could do was protect her head. Her arm went up as a reflex and
she winced as she caught the club across her forearm. It was going to hurt.

The club folded
neatly over her arm as if it was built with a hinge.

The attacker pulled
back the splintered stump in disgust. He dropped the broken stick. “These
things are terrible.”

Erica shoved a
fistful of “I weed Durango” in his mouth and sent him sprawling back into the
crowd as the remaining three attackers lined up next to one another.

Witnessing stupid
people get wise is one of the few pleasures in life. Watching realization break
across their faces as an epiphany moves slowly through their heads and they
catch up to the rest of the world is often cause for a celebration of the golf
clap variety. But as Erica saw the three men put the math together, she started
looking for a way out.

They rushed her
together with the sudden idea that she couldn’t stop all three of them at once.
Two of the men grabbed an arm each and pulled her to the ground. The third man
jumped on top of her.

Erica struggled to
get free but the weight was too much. Her arms were pinned. She thrashed about
and succeeded only in shaking the whistle down from her shirt. It came to rest
on her throat.

The man on top of her
smiled,
picked it up and held it to her lips. “Want to
blow it again?”

Erica turned away from
his hand and whatever made his hand smell. “Once is enough,” she said.

The man laughed with
a twisted smile of broken teeth halitosis. It lasted only a moment. The
laughter turned to screaming as Chewy bit deep into his leg and dragged him off
the girl.

The attacker turned
to free his leg and spotted the dog. He turned over and the scream of pain
turned to fear. There was a noticeable difference in his screams of pain and
screams of fear. He kicked at the mastiff with no measure of accuracy, and then
both of his legs were bleeding.

The two at her arms
let go and scrambled back to the edge of the crowd. For a moment they looked as
if they would help their associate, but, after looking at their hands, they
stepped farther back into the crowd.

Chewy bit into a fist
as the man on the ground tried everything to get free. Every limb that went
near the dog’s mouth came back red. After several bites, he stopped punching
and tried to calm the dog with pets and promises of dog treats.

Erica stood and faced
the other two men. She placed the whistle in her mouth and took a breath.

They knocked over
several onlookers as they ran into the crowd leaving their partner to his
struggle with the dog. For every foot he crawled, the powerful animal dragged
him back two through the dirt. “Help. Stop him. Stop him. Please!”

“He’s a she,” Erica
said. “Heel, girl.”

Chewy dropped the
man’s foot like a retrieved stick and took her place next to Erica.

The man clutched his
hand to his chest and backed away as he struggled to his feet. He found his
limp and turned to run as best he could.

Jerry punched him in
the face and knocked him to the ground before rushing to Erica’s side.

She smiled and
scratched Chewy behind the ears. “Good girl.”

“Now where’s
Christopher?” Jerry turned and scanned the crowd for a moment before spotting
the stupid hat. “Christopher!”

The man ran like a
weasel—wriggling through a wall of knights that had been chasing the dog.
Erica pointed to Christopher and screamed, “Seize him,” assuming that’s how
things were phrased in a kingdom.

The knights let the
man in the hat scurry off as they surrounded the couple. The men in purple and
gold drew their swords and held the sharp end toward them. Tommy stepped
forward and spoke in his worst English accent, ”Ewe’re unda arrest.”

The man with shards
of kitten coffee mug in his face came to and began to stand. Erica kicked him
back to sleep and pointed at him. “What? It was …”

“Silence!” Tommy shouted. He leaned in close to the pair and
smiled. “You were told not to start any trouble.”

FOUR

Symbols were important.

Despite being let down by every
government on the planet, most family members and almost every friend, people
yearned more than ever for something to believe in. Every society, no matter
how small or cobbled together, had a flag. More often than not it was painted
on the side of a building in the center of town. And more than one burgeoning
society had collapsed in a dispute over what that flag would look like.

People needed something that felt
more permanent than a rousing speech or simple promise. A symbol was physical
proof that hope could exist. And the more elaborate the symbol, the more it
could be trusted. Thought went into a flag. Labor went into constructing a
capitol building. The ability to dedicate resources to something as trivial as
a statue spoke volumes as to how put together an organization was, and that
people would rally behind it said even more.

Symbols were important.

But Elias knew the throne had
been a terrible idea.

It rose fifteen feet in the air
and filled a third of the chamber. The blades of a thousand shovels, the points
of a thousand pickaxes and the pointy ends of several post-hole diggers had
been twisted by fire and force to seat the king. Rended steel and twisted iron
had been collected and reformed for no other purpose than to keep his majesty
off the ground. It was massive. It was ominous. And, it hurt.

Most of the pain was focused on
the right side of his rear end. King Elias shifted to the left cheek knowing
full well he hadn’t given it time to recover from an earlier readjustment. He
grunted as his weight set upon it. He had always heard heavy is the head that
wears the crown, but Shakespeare never warned that pointy is the seat upon
which his ass is placed.

The king leaned forward with his
elbows on his knees. This posture of power was not meant to threaten those
before him. He could not lean back. In creating the symbolic throne, the artist
had failed to consider little besides its aesthetics. He never bothered to
measure the height of the room and offered a flippant, “It’ll fit,” whenever
the question arose. It did fit, but leaning back would force the king to strike
his head on the ceiling. And, since it was all but impossible to look regal
with your head cocked to one side or shoved into an acoustic ceiling tile, he
leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

Elias shifted again, shuffling
his large frame six inches to the right to avoid the pointy end of an iron
pick. Had that bastard of an artist not even sat in this thing? How could a
king conduct the kingdom’s business with a shovel handle up his ass?

It was his own fault for
employing an artist instead of a recliner designer. Surely an engineer from
La-Z-Boy had survived the apocalypse. That’s
who
he
should have hired. That person would at least have some appreciation for the
shape of the human ass.

It was too late now. The throne
quickly became a symbol of his kingdom, his power and his rule. Rumors
stretched beyond the borders of his kingdom into the realms of his enemies and
inspired fear. People knew only a hard man could sit on such a hard throne. It
commanded respect by his allies. It drove fear into his enemies. Maybe he could
get a seat cushion.

Elias shifted once more, found
the point of a jackhammer bit and decided that he was done ruling for the day.
This wedding was over. He cursed the throne maker, blessed the bride and
dismissed the royal court.

The crowd cheered and someone
kissed someone else but Elias didn’t see it. Careful not to snag his robe, he
moved quickly with practiced steps down the twisted rail ties that formed the
throne’s staircase. He reached the ground with a sigh of relief and moved
across the room, resisting the urge to rub his butt.

A small man in a cloak far too
large rushed through the wedding party and came to the king’s side. He moved
with his elbows out to hold up the extra fabric and prevent tripping. The
king’s Hand matched the monarch’s pace
,.
“A beautiful
ceremony, Your Majesty.”

Elias nodded to his Hand and
asked, “What did the man from the Watch say?”

“He says he didn’t see anything,
sire.”

The pair reached the wall and
stood before a tapestry depicting the king’s rise to power. Elias looked
majestic with the sun behind him, a sword in his hand and an enemy beneath his
boot. The Hand grabbed a corner of the tapestry and pulled it aside to reveal a
doorway. He let the king pass through and followed behind.

 
The tapestry closed behind them and the
king sighed before rubbing his upper butt. “That damn throne.”

“Yes, sire.”

Elias leaned his shoulders back
and bowed his spine, half hoping to hear something pop back into place and half
hoping nothing popped at all. This was middle age. Nothing popped and he took a
clipboard from the Hand. It was a list of his concerns. The workers in the mine
were planning a revolt, winter was settling in and now his daughter-in-law had
been abducted. He twisted again. How could he concentrate on being a king with
a sore back? He handed the board back to the Hand. “Here’s what you’re going to
do.”

The small man reached into the
cavernous cloak and retrieved a pencil. He scratched down the king’s words
exactly as they were spoken.
 

“I need you to find the guy that
built the throne. What was his name? Randall? Randy? Find him and have him
build a torture device.”

“A torture device, sire?”

“Yes. I want it big. I want it
brutal. I want it to fill the town square. I want spikes, pikes and some kind
of screw thing that makes things worse so I can walk by and give it a spin if I
feel like it. I want cables and ropes. I want it to stretch things, pull
things, push things,
cram
things together until you
don’t know what those things were to begin with. Did you get all that?”

“Yes, sire.” The pencil moved
furiously.

Elias tapped the page. “Make sure
you got the part about the spikes.”

“I’ll underline it, sire.”

“Good, have him build it. And
then put him in it.”

“The guard from the Watch?”

“The artist from the throne. It
was Randy, right? It was Randy or something like that?”

“R8nsom, sire.”

“Ransom?”

“Yes, sir. But he spelled it with
an eight.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. He insisted everyone
pronounce the eight.”

 
“Reighntsome?”

“I think so, sire.”

The king tapped the notepad
again. “Add some rats. Put some rats in there, too.”

The Hand made the note.

“Hungry rats.” The pencil
scratched notes on the pad as Elias looked on. “Put them around the crotch
area.”

“Of course, sire.”

“Good.” The king twisted his back
and heard a pop. It was the good kind. “Should I sign that?”

“No need, sire. I’ve got it.”

Elias took the notepad and pencil
from the man. “It feels more official if I sign it.” He scratched his name
across the bottom of the page and finished with a wide swipe that left the page
and concluded in the air. “There. Now it’s a decree.” Elias smiled and walked
off.

The Hand hurried after him. “But,
sire, what about the man from the Watch?”

Elias stopped and shrugged. “I
don’t know. We don’t have time to wait for the new torture machine.” The king
stroked his red beard for a moment. “Maybe we just keep punching him until he
talks?”

“You want him treated as a
suspect?”

“Everyone is a suspect: the
guards, the prince, the knights, the peasants, you, me. Wait. Not me. I got
carried away.”

“Of course, sire.”

The king tapped the page. “Write
that down.”

“Write what down, sire?”

“That I’m not a suspect.”

“But, sire. We would never …” A
stern glance from the king silenced the man and he scratched the note down on
the pad.

“Let me sign it.” Elias took the
notepad and signed the page with a flourish that forced the Hand to duck.
“There. Decreed.” He handed the pad back. “Everyone not on that list is a
suspect.”

“This list?” He pointed to the
pad. “This list of just your name?”

“Precisely.” He put his arm
around the Hand. “The princess has been stolen from us. Captured from within
our very walls. My sovereignty has been challenged. And her dad is going to be
so pissed at me. Not to mention, where are we going to get another princess?”
The king opened a door leading to the street behind the former town hall. He
stepped into the winter air and took a deep breath. The large man exhaled and
watched his breath dance. “There aren’t enough kingdoms. Everyone is either
still trying to give democracy a chance or accepted the anarchy of the wasteland.”

“There’s rumors of a kingdom in
the west that …”

“A real kingdom?” the king asked.
“Or is it some lunatic that set a pot on his head and called himself king?
There’s no shortage of that. Crazy is everywhere. I’m talking a real kingdom
like mine. Wealth. Commerce. Power. Security.
For the most
part, loyal subjects.
There’s nothing like that besides Rodney’s kingdom
and you know it. We have to find his daughter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have
to go see the prince. You should probably go start punching that guy now.”

“Yes, sire.” The Hand bowed,
turned and went back inside the building.

The tower bells rang to celebrate
the newlyweds as they left the courthouse. Elias smiled and walked quickly down
the side of the building. He watched from the alley as the happy couple burst
from the front doors into a throng of people cheering them on.

Weddings were a big deal in the
kingdom. Elias insisted on it. Who else left in the world had the authority to
marry people? No one.
Only a king.
Or
maybe a ship’s captain.
Regardless, it was one of the duties he enjoyed
performing most. It made people happy. It made him happy.

The kingdom roared as the couple
dashed through the crowd. The bride and groom ducked and weaved as they passed
through a tunnel of loved ones. Rice and birdseed were scarce in the
post-apocalyptic world so the crowd threw nothing. A royal decree mandated that
soap be used for cleaning only so no bubbles were blown. But, if the bombs
proved anything it was that traditions were harder to kill than ninety-nine
percent of the population. If people were getting married, you had to try and
hit them with something. It was only right. Rocks were out, so people spit. It
was a nice spit. A loving spit. More of a misting than anything from deep
within the sinuses, though there was undoubtedly a scorned lover or two that
probably took his time and aimed for the groom as the couple raced by.

Regardless of the color or
consistency, everyone decided to call the spit good luck. It was a blessing for
the new couple. May their marriage be showered with blessings, they
said.
The happy couple always smiled as they ran through the
shower and laughed, all the while secretly wishing someone would just grow some
damn birdseed.

Elias smiled and turned down
Elias Street and began to walk. His palace was a block away down the street. On
most days he enjoyed the stroll. On most days his subjects filled the streets
and smiled as he greeted them. On most days ruling was nothing more than
smiling back. But today he walked slower and looked for people to talk to. He
desperately wanted a page or some court official to come bounding from one of
the buildings on Elias Street calling after him with official business.
Something to sign.
Something to decide.
Anything. Was it too much to ask for a sudden blizzard?

Dragging his feet bought him only
a few minutes and he sighed as he stepped up the sidewalk to the palace. A pair
of guards opened the doors of the former hotel and Elias looked up to the
second floor. The prince’s chamber was up there and he could only picture the
wreck of a man that dwelled within them.

“Is the prince in his chambers?”
Elias asked.

“Yes, sire,” the
knight
said. “He has not come out all day.”

“Poor thing.” Elias remembered
when he lost his own wife. It had been heartbreaking. He mourned for weeks. He
still wasn’t over her loss. But this was different. His wife had been attacked
by a mountain lion; the princess had been taken. She could still be saved.
There was hope. But her sudden disappearance would still be a shock. “He must
feel so lonely.”

“Miss Richards is with him, sir.”

“What a sweetheart. She must be
helping him grieve.”

“I’d say so, sire. It sounds like
they’ve grieved a couple of times today.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, sire.”

Elias looked across the lobby to
the staircase and sighed again before crossing and climbing the long flight.
Consoling was his least favorite part of being a ruler.