Hell Follows After (Monster of the Apocalypse Saga) (5 page)

Occam was not terribly enthused with owning the buckskin. He liked the horse and had considered buying it to bail Cable out but had decided against it. He did not want the kid either mooning over the pony, trying to buy it back, or angry that he could not. Now the horse was his, regardless. Edge thought it better to keep the trade of the pistol to himself, but the big Smithy noticed the empty holster.

The issue of Edge punching the Ox Master, a respected position in the train, was making the rounds. After speaking with Master Till, Occam was granted discretion in how to discipline his apprentice. He assigned Edge hard labor at the forge and in the wagon as they traveled. Arc fumed, as that was exactly what the young man would be doing anyway. He complained to both the Wagon Master and the Smith, and they both grinned as they turned away, one feigning that there was nothing he could do, and the other stating baldly that he was too busy in crafting ironware to lose his apprentice to other pursuits.

Additional wagons from Reno joined the train. The agreement was that they became part of the whole, just as original members were, and they would split their profits in the same percentage at the end of the trip. Also, there was word that a scout had been hired, a man who knew the trail all the way to Denver. No one knew who the scout was. He would catch up by Lovelock, they were told.

The old road bed of Highway 80 beckoned, and the growing wagon train moved out.

Rural plague survivors, in communities too small to have more than one, gathered into groups eventually. In the two hundred years since the plagues, the outlying people had completely different experiences than those in larger communities.

Before, as the population of the earth had doubled and tripled and grown beyond reason, rural communities shrank. Small towns in the United States, after agriculture started moving to South America, lost significant numbers. Empty country homes became common, and small town business buildings rotted while people who invested in them died of old age.

Many people in agricultural towns were born, lived their entire lives, and died within fifty or a hundred miles of their home. There was good reason. Comfort. They knew almost everyone, they knew almost everywhere, and if they were the type to gossip, they knew almost everything… within that hundred miles.

When everyone else died within their home turf due to the plagues, the survivors held on to what they took comfort in. Most foraged much like their urban counterparts, but few traveled. There were so few survivors, the living often thought they were the last person alive on earth. Even those who searched for others did so within their comfort zone, and for some reason they rarely got the idea to advertise with signs the way urban people did.

The attrition rate in urban populations was incredibly high after the plagues, mostly by self-inflicted means. In rural America the death toll was even higher, especially when mental illness brought on by great loneliness was factored in. In the cities people found each other, but in rural areas they rarely did except by chance. The solitude made people go crazy. Cannibalism did not happen in cities.

Eventually there were chance encounters, and people began to travel in packs. Occasional urban travelers, often those who were banished by others, joined them. Naturally they tended to be the malcontents or social misfits. There was a complete reversal in the way mentality evolved in urban and rural settings. The urbanites, once known for violence and brutality, became more patient and forgiving while their country neighbors, formerly known as easy going, became feral and vicious.

As groups formed over time and numbers grew, a nomadic, tribal society evolved. Some maintained or returned to civility eventually. They began to value kindness and generosity, protecting their young from harm while teaching them the values in social networks. Some went the opposite direction, becoming predators in a warrior society.

The new rural Americans, once again known by tribal names, were genetically diverse but mostly of northern European stock. They were often blond and blue-eyed. Light hair and eyes in the tribal cultures became more likely than with the homogenized urbanites.

People who traded between communities, moving between large tracts of unoccupied lands and occasionally running into these Nordic savages, noted the term “Indian Reservation” on ancient maps that they used. Although the practice would have been entirely incorrect in the past, the wandering traders began to once again speak of the tribal peoples as Indians.

This was what the wagon train had to contend with in their journey from the west coast into the mid-western plains. Much like the settlers of the eighteen hundreds dealt with the Sioux, Cheyenne, Apache, and Pawnee, the train would deal with new tribes. The populations were not many in number, but they were fierce.

The wagons approached Lovelock, and most of the people had forgotten the event supposed to happen there. The promised scout would be there to meet them.

A rider sat atop a hill to the south, watching. Blood trailed down his thigh, but it was not his. The blood came from the fresh scalp hanging from his belt.

Finding a thin trail of smoke, barely visible in the air of the early afternoon, the nomadic tribesman found the stranger from a hilltop, keeping just below the horizon. A man with a horse tied to the small tree shading him sat watching the trail to the west, as though expecting something.

After watching the stranger for over an hour, the stalker crawled and crouched his way into the immediate area of the small fire. Surprise and an overwhelmingly violent rush did as intended. Much like the natives of old, close quarter combat counted for more than a long range attack and proved the courage of the attacker. Taking the scalp of the still breathing stranger in a quick and forceful jerk gave him bragging rights. He retrieved his hatchet from the stranger’s chest and scenting the hot blood, sheathed the handle under his belt. Life was good, and ending a life in combat reinforced that his was better than most. The horse and the weapons won were his due, and he relished their acquisition as he rode from the field of battle on his new pony.

As the light haired, new-age native reached the top of the hill, he looked west and saw the approaching wagons. He would not have time to find and deal with the people he knew to be missing, those who had been traveling with the man whose hair now hung from his belt. Those people had gotten lucky. Surely the wagons would have scouts moving ahead of the train, and they would be armed. Close enough to hear the cow bells when the wind was right, he knew it was time to leave. He took one more look down the hill, searching for the people who had left so much evidence of their presence at the fire. Finding nothing, the tribesman spurred the horse away and disappeared into the rolling landscape.

Fish for dinner. The two kids were proud of the string of cutthroat trout bouncing against the side of each horse as they walked their ponies back. They kept the two strings separate so they could brag to their father about the catch and did not want to mix them up. They were justified in being proud because noodling for trout was a true skill and cutthroat the most wary and hard to find of native fish.

Rising from the creek and topping the hill, they passed not far from the path the blond warrior had taken. They were indeed fortunate he had passed out of sight shortly before.

Coming over the rise overlooking the old roadbed, the kids were glad to see the party they had been waiting for. Their father would be gratified as well. Right now he must be in the group gathered downhill, close to the fire and the small tree they had used for shade as they waited.

Wondering where her father’s horse was, as it should be tied to the tree, Jody led the way down the hill with her brother following.

T
rouble on the trail is expected. Broken axles and wheels, animals crippled and stolen, and the occasional death all contribute to the experience. Everyone knows what the chances are but decide to risk their lives and financial futures on their decisions and the luck that they can manage. That is a very big factor, managing luck.

The man that was hired, late, to scout and guide them had mismanaged his luck. The small fire made very little smoke, but it was enough to kill him. Now Eider’s two children, brought along for the experience and to learn the route, were orphans of the trail.

Any child without a parent present, even an older child, was considered an orphan. The children’s mother had been left behind to care for the family interests at home. She had tried to talk her husband out of taking both kids, but he had been adamant. The son would soon make the trip on his own as an independent guide, and the girl needed to make up for the last trip that she had missed. Trade was the family business, and guiding provided information to the entire pool of relatives.

The young woman, Jody, just turned eighteen, was new to this part of the country. She had made local trips with her father and once along the eastern slope of the Sierra and down to Las Vegas, as well as to San Francisco by way of Sacramento to the west. This was her first venture east.

The young man, her brother Cypress, was two years older and much more experienced. His first trip to Denver had been as a fourteen year old, fresh out of school. Taking this route, and those south and west in order to learn the rigors of the trail, was better than any book learning he had ever borne. The life of a guide had become his passion. Cy was fully competent but untested, and now he was thrust into the fire with a little sister as an additional responsibility.

The Wagon Master was not happy. He had put silver in the trail guide’s hand on the promise of performance. With the recommendation of the Reno Sheriff, the man was accepted as trustworthy enough to make the financial investment. The two kids were nice, but he was not looking for nice kids. He was looking for a tough son of a bitch who could command authority. Now, if he accepted the young man’s credentials as a guide, he might have to fill in as the tough guy when necessary. His other option was to send the kid and his sister back with others to find a replacement. That would delay them and put the train in danger as they moved on slowly, forging ahead as the small party rode hard to catch up. There was also no guarantee they could find a replacement. After all, the dead guide had only shown up and contracted the last evening before they left Reno. Master Till knew that choosing to refuse the kid might harm his confidence and say something not intended back home. But his main priority was the train. It had to be that way.

The radioman worked up a weakening signal back to Roseburg, and the subject was discussed with the financiers of the journey. They deferred as they should to Till, the man in the field. It might be their money, but it was his life and his reputation that was on the line.

Till asked a couple of trusted men into his wagon, and they consulted. Then they asked the barely-a-man boy inside to answer some questions.

Answering truthfully, even when he lacked the answer, went a long way to making Cy’s case to the Master. He proved to know enough to reinforce his abilities and was not afraid to state boldly that he might need to investigate or ask for assistance when necessary. Overconfidence was something the Wagon Master abhorred, almost as much as inexperience. After the young man left to wait outside, the three elders discussed the situation, and the decision was split. Even so, it was the Wagon Master’s decision to make.

Stepping down from his wheeled domicile, the grim face of the Master spoke of his concern, but Till extended his hand and offered the young man the position. He would replace his father as guide.

The trip was planned to take over a year, travelling during the two summers. The trail orphans would inform their mother of her husband’s death in a short and emotional radio call, punctuated by static and finally lost. Jody and Cy’s mother would be with family in Carson City until they got back. If they did.

By the old map being used, there were several ruined towns along the route. Few had any buildings standing, although there were plenty of walls and heaps of detritus with plants growing over them. The only population they expected of any size at all before Salt Lake would be in the ancient town of Elko. Sixty or so miners there would have small gem stones and maybe some gold panned from the creeks of the Ruby Mountains.

Within days of leaving the ruins of Lovelock, there were local natives shadowing the train. They sat on horseback in the distance, watching. If they were approached they would fall back at the same pace as those trying to make contact. Cy insisted that an extra night watch be set as his first instructions to the train. They were in territory where laws did not apply.

Some of the remuda vanished. The Wranglers on guard were stymied by the theft. No one had seen anything. A few nights later some more horses disappeared. As the greater number of animals they had were bovine, the loss of the horses was difficult and concerning.

Cyprus consulted with the Wagon Master, and camp procedure changed. The wagons were circled, and instead of a rope corral, the ponies were contained within the wall of huge conveyances. An old technology, recently rediscovered, allowed them to set up motion detectors. Within the week that strategy had prevailed, and shots were fired over raiders disappearing into the night.

The young guide had ordered that no weapons be fired directly at anyone unless there was a life being threatened. The sentries grumbled, wishing for blood and retribution after being fooled and losing livestock, but Master Till backed Cy’s decision. With no blood spilled, the raiders felt no compunction to revenge any losses. They retreated and watched from a distance.

Sooner or later, the trail should pass from the territory of the following raiders. At twelve to fifteen miles a day, the oxen set a steady if uninspiring pace.

On a bright, crisp morning just before Winnemucca, a contingent of three mounted men and two women on foot approached. The primitives spoke a dialect that was understandable but strange. The men suggested a trade, time with the two women in exchange for any baubles they could use for ornamentation. Some of their finery suggested they had success in the past with travelers. The tallest had a set of matched spoons, one hanging from each ear. Another, copper bracelets that were making his wrist green.

Till was mildly disgusted by the offer but masked it in order to keep from insulting his guests. He waved his hand at the camp and, indicating the women in view, told them that women were plentiful, and the men needed nothing further.

The leader of the three suggested that he would trade one of his bracelets for time with the fat woman across the camp by the wagon with the big iron.

Till looked over his shoulder and noticed Muffy next to the anvil, mixing something in a bowl on the tailgate. He could not help grinning as he thought of what Occam would have liked to do if he had heard the proposed swap.

Asking the man if they had any ponies to trade and getting a negative response, the Master pulled a small leather bag from his belt. He handed the sack of cheap, glass trade beads to the leader, a gift. Then he suggested that the train must be leaving, and the Indians should be as well. To soften the request, he suggested that they would be returning and would have more to trade on the return trip. The three native men looked hard at the Wagon Master, but thinking better of it, they declined the minor insult. As they rode off they inspected the wealth that they could see, and the one with the copper-stained wrist ogled Muffy. Then they spurred their ponies and left their women to follow behind as they could. The women were still visible, trudging through the scrub, long after the men had disappeared.

No more shadows trailed the train as it moved. Either the wagons were deemed a difficult target or were too far from the native’s home territory.

Ruins fascinated many of the people on the wagon train, and when they reached Winnemucca earlier than expected, a party made the trip into what was left to look around. The elder Smith released his apprentice to enjoy himself in a break from the mundane work he was doing.

There was a wealth of brick and stone still in evidence, but though worth something the weight and bulk made it too expensive to freight. Scavenged over the last two hundred years, and lately by Traders on a trade route, any easily found copper was gone.

The young people in the group used the welcome respite as a chance to indulge in flirting and excited banter. They had little time for socializing as the train moved across the high plain. There were too many chores to be performed.

The matrons had gathered Jody to their bosoms after her father’s burial. She travelled within the group as they walked the animal trails between the ruins. The older women and a few younger girls encircled her protectively.

The young men foraged around the women, climbing mounds and overturning rocks and chunks of wall that had tumbled. Occasionally some would work their courage up and approach the ladies. They were tolerated, but the older women made it clear that they were not going to allow the younger to wander off to engage any folderol. The matrons were in control.

Even though there was plenty of opportunity for Edge to join men of his own age, he stayed separated. With his friend Cable out scouting ahead with Cy, he was feeling melancholy and declined any invitations as he wandered.

The only object discovered of any worth was a bronze plaque. Some of the young men decided to inspect the underside of a chunk of intact brick. They levered it up far enough to see what lay beneath and almost missed the metal attached to the underside of the wall itself. By smashing the mortared joints, they removed the brick, and four of them carried the piece back to camp, resting often.

The chunk of metal was a good find, and the Smith paid well for it. Though heavy and somewhat bulky, it would ride beneath the steel on the bottom of the scrap wagon until Occam got back home or he sold it to another Smith along the way. In the meantime, Occam would daydream about what possibilities there were in working the metal.

As night closed over the camp, the atmosphere was charged with excitement. The brief break from the road had energized the party, and they gathered around the campfires for longer than usual. For the first time since Reno there was music in camp.