Sometimes I venture outside the boundaries of my usual genre, fantasy. Sometimes a story just gets inside your head and you have to get it out and it doesn’t always fall into the perfect category. This is such a tale, and as much as I love fantasy I also grew up some of the best post-apocalyptic movies. The Road Warrior and Damnation Alley come to mind. With that, here is my take on a post-apocalyptic story. I might write more on this and turn it into a book, but for now, it’s just a short story.

The Sentinel

Dark clouds loomed, light rain fell from the sky and steam blanketed the street. Deacon closed his eyes and listened to the engine idling for a brief moment. The Hellion went silent as his thumb hit the kill switch. It was a two-wheeled remnant from an older time and held together from parts he had scrounged. He had his own special brew to fuel the beast. He loved to tinker with it and get lost in his own thoughts.
Now all thoughts turned to Sylvia.
Slipping off the bike, he removed his jacket and ran a slender finger across the blades that lined his chest. A dozen flat-black knives. Razor-edge points that had finished many of The Altered. The same set his father had forged for him many years ago.
Thwack, thwack, thwack.
He could hear them to this day sinking into the moving targets his father had set up. Fifteen years later and the man’s instructions still rang in his head.
“Duck, throw, jump, throw, dodge. Speed, boy, speed wins the day. We can remake this world, Deacon, but we’ll have to fight for it.”

The street was empty, but they were here. He knew it. Old Jon Tarks, bruised and bleeding, had told him they headed south towards Breckenbury. The fucks had taken Sylvia. His one, his lady, his last rose of summer. She was the only thing in this world worth fighting for. Sylvia loved him when no one else would. She put up with his idiosyncrasies and when the Darkness came over him, she always saw him through it. Together they had forged a home, forged a community. Northwind, they called it. A place to settle and raise children, a safe place to live, or so he thought. Northwind, the beginning of the remaking of the world. The joy he had felt when he stood before the small village and proclaimed his love for her, and she for him. Their wedding. Sylvia was Northwind. It would be nothing without her.

Thunder vibrated tin roofs of ramshackle houses as if metal gods descended, bringing him out of his thoughts.
He placed a thumb to one nostril, blew, and then checked the leather-handled blade across his back, more of a long knife than anything; his back up. Taking a deep breath, he hung his goggles on the clutch handle and ran a hand through his shock of bone-white hair. Rain fell harder and streaked his leather pants.

“Deacon.” She planted a soft kiss on his lips. “I can take care of myself. The Sentinel will warn us ahead of time should any trouble come, and I have the gun. Now go.” Her smile touched her big brown eyes as dark curls lapped at pale shoulders.
He had gone out on a supply run and come back to ruin.
They all felt so safe, with their walls, early warning signal and makeshift guns. The Sentinel had failed. A few of the Altered met their demise at the barrel of her gun. They must have had more numbers than usual for the weapon lay on the ground where she had made her stand.
Now, everything turned to shit. A raw deal.

Many had made it into the Haven. Those that did not were claimed as slaves. Many who fought back were rotting. Some elderly, though beaten and bloody, remained to tell the story.
Their locked hidey-hole would run short of food before too long and none who could get out of Haven had made it in. Deacon released a white-knuckled fist as frustration raged through him. As if he did not have enough to worry with Sylvia stolen, but now it was up to him or Phantom Jack to find one of the ‘keys.’ They had all been captured, unbeknownst to the creatures that took them. Of course, finding Sylvia would solve both of his problems. Jack had said he would go southwest and see if any had gone to the old city of Goldglen, a favorite raiding spot for Tyrant, near the wasteland the Altered called home.

Deacon had lost radio contact with Jack miles back. He was on his own.
Sylvia was not dead. Not yet. He had time if he could get to Tyrant and make a trade. Flesh was his biggest commodity and these fucks were his errand boys. Tyrant always traded but he moved from place to place. Deacon had to find him before he traded her. They would know where to find him.

A faded and rusted-out Welcome to Breckenbury sign half-rested on the ground, the other half clung to an old crumbling brick pillar. A different time and age. Deacon gave a brief pause for that time in human history. What it must have been like to live in relative peace. He was born after that golden age. Before it all fell apart as fire blazed in the sky and desolation struck the Earth. Before men no longer cared for the rule of law.

“There is only one law, now, Deacon. Might makes right. Remember that,” his father said, poking him in the chest.

The town–what was left of it–appeared to have been a small, quaint place. A cathedral stood stark against the sky. Upturned skeletons of burned out rusting cars littered the pavement. Cobbled together fences, offering scant protection, divided some of the houses. A cackle of shrill laughter echoed from up the street. That is where they were, hiding their numbers. The laughter sounded again. Such a waste. Ruin wrought not of their own making. They attacked in groups and killed without mercy, stole people, food, butchered livestock, took their human spoils to Tyrant and then skulked back to the ruins to eat and rut. Even their smallings, as their offspring were called, were feral.

How they ever learned to speak was beyond Deacon. But talk they could, and talk they would, even though it might take you a while to get anything that made sense.

“Come on out, you fucks.” Deacon spat as he walked up the street. “We need to talk, and I know you won’t do it the easy way.”

Dogs whined behind a wooden fence.

A cathedral bell sounded in the distance.

The Altered filed out from behind the ruined vehicles. Two big brutes wielding iron bars stood behind five cadaverous freaks. Seven of them. One of them would give him the information he sought.
Seven, though. He had fought them before, sometimes two at a time. Three would prove a challenge, and seven might prove lethal.

“We do what we must, Deacon. Don’t try to process it, just flow. Their moves, your moves, it’s all a dance, boy. Dance.” His father’s words.

Tattered and torn clothes clung to their flesh. Lank, long hair hung in patches from their skulls. Red-pupilled eyes stared at him.
Silence fell as the cathedral bell ended its chime.

They charged, shrieks and cries pouring from their rotted mouths. The brutes, with heavy steps, lumbered behind the others.
Hand outstretched, Deacon motioned them forward with two fingers. “Closer, bitches. That’s it. Come and get it.”
Closing the gap, the creatures leapt. Thin fingers with long ragged nails descended towards him.
Hands blurred as knives twitched from them. Four black blades whispered into the air and hurtled towards his attackers. He ducked, drew more knives from their sheaths and rolled forward. One of the freaks hit the ground, dead, steel impaled in its skull. Another clutched at its throat as blood washed down yellow skin. A third pulled at the blade that had blossomed in its chest and sank to the ground. The fourth yanked a knife from its shoulder and joined the fifth as they slid on rain-slicked pavement. They turned and charged again.

The brutes closed in.
He would be between the hammer and the anvil soon.
He needed to keep one of these things alive.
Rain poured from the sky, making for uncertain footing. Sprinting as much as the rain allowed, he charged the big beasts.
“A kitten comes to play,” laughed one of them. “Come to scratch us with your claws, little kitten?”
Deacon slid under a swinging iron bar and embedded a knife into a thick thigh.
The creature cried out in pain as he sank to one knee.
The wet pavement carried him past his attackers as the remaining ones gave chase.

Pushing up, Deacon rose, and sent two knives cutting their way through the rain and into the storming freaks. One thrashed, a knife buried hilt deep in its chest. The other writhed in pain clutching at its stomach, blood spilled, but it would live long enough to talk. Dodging a swing from a ham-sized fist, he ran from the advancing beasts. They turned and gave chase, one of them limping behind.
“The kitten is sneaky,” chuckled the one closest to him.
Gaining separation, Deacon turned and more knives left his hands, the rain made them slick. He cursed as his fingers slipped on the steel. One blade grazed the side of a colossal face, leaving a gash. The other missed its mark, and skittered away. Deacon drew the leather-handled blade from his back.

The wounded freak dragged himself away from the fight.

Deacon charged, running straight towards the brute. The big beast stopped and waited for him. Deacon smiled, and leapt. Thick, crushing arms caught Deacon in a bear-hug and squeezed. Pain shot through his ribs as he thrust the knife into the creature’s throat and sliced sideways. Blood spurted but the squeezing did not stop. Spots formed in his eyes as the wind left his lungs. He jabbed the blade repeatedly into the back of his captor’s neck, hoping to sever his spinal cord. The limper neared, as Deacon’s victim crumpled to the ground, grasp faltering as his arms fell open. Deacon sprang free inhaling gulps of air. He dodged iron once again and rolled, the knife left his hand with a flick, the distance short and his aim true. A sick thud sounded as the blade hit its mark. The massive monster pitched face first onto the ground with a sigh as the life escaped his lungs.
He rolled the beast over and removed his knife from its blood-soaked eye socket.

The bleeding freak was up the street, a rain mixed blood trail oozed behind him. Deacon caught up with him, grabbed the creature’s lank hair, and snatched his head back. “Where is Tyrant headed?”
Laughter.
His fist met the side of a greasy head. “I’m going to ask again. Where is Tyrant headed?”
More laughter, “Tell you nothin, nope, nothin, nothin, nothin.”
Deacon rolled him over and put his foot on the wounded stomach. The creature winced in pain.
“If you don’t tell me, I am going to cut your guts out and toss you over that fence to those dogs. Now, where is Tyrant headed?”
Tears streamed down a grimy face, as its eyes closed. Still he laughed. “What you lookin for? Huh?” Rotted teeth showed as the creature grinned up at Deacon.
“Fuck it. Always the hard way.” Deacon stepped on the creature’s hand and pushed his blade into the soft cartilage of a jaundiced index knuckle. The creature screamed as Deacon removed his finger. He tossed the flesh over the fence.

Dogs snarled and fought.

“Dogs, you know, they don’t kill. They eat their meat fresh and alive when possible. It takes a good while for you to die. But, if you answer my question? I’ll finish you fast. Either way, death comes.”
The freak looked up at Deacon and glanced towards the fence and back to Deacon. “Tyrant south. South he said. Bring more to Ferrylinder he said. What you lookin for knife man?”
“A woman you took. Northwind, from up at Northwind.”
“Took lots o women, Tyrant took em, took em to Ferrylinder.” the creature grinned.
Deacon punched him again, “Dark hair, white dress.”
“Oh her, you lookin for the fighter?”
“Yes the fighter,” Deacon edged the knife into the crawlers jaw.
More laughter. “You won’t find ‘er.”
“What do you mean, I won’t find her?”
The freak convulsed, coughed up blood and laughed more.
Deacon pushed the knife. “Tell me, or…the dogs…”
“That’un, a fighter. Uh, a fighter yah. She fought.”
Deacon took a deep breath. “And?”
The crawler shook his head, “Would’n stop, see? Causin’ trouble.”
“Tell me,” Deacon yelled.
“Promise, knife man. Not the dogs, promise?”
“I promise,” Deacon said through clenched teeth.
“She would’n stop screamin’ and rakin’ those nails. She escaped and ran. So big Unk, Unk he bopped ‘er see? Calm ‘er down. But she don’t move no more.”
“Where?” his voice wavered as he asked. Deacon’s heart raced and his blood coursed hot.

A ragged yellow hand with a bloody stump pointed towards the cathedral. “By the bell, the big bell.”
The blade came down again and again. Blood splattered, gore flew up and it mattered not. What was once something almost human, now a mass of blood and pieces, lay in the rain soaked street.
He made the slow walk to the old church as the rain washed chunks of red from his clothes.
There against a burnt wall lay his Sylvia. Blood stained her hands and tattered white dress. Lifeless eyes stared at him.
Deacon sank to his knees, took her cold hands into his as a wail escaped his throat and the Darkness came.

The sound of fire crackling roused his senses. Deacon peered through half-shut lids. He lay on a makeshift bed. Wood smoke and must created a pungent bouquet in his mouth. Bare wooden walls with a few sparse pictures surrounded him. An old man sat on a rickety wooden stool, wearing overalls patched too many times and a faded flannel shirt. Lined with age his face looked weary and his eyes held a certain sadness. He fed scraps of lumber into a fire.
“Damn near killed me getting you in here, way you were thrashing about.” he said. “I know you’re awake, breathing changed. You’re safe here…”
Deacon sat up, “Don’t need safety.”
“You did us no small favor by killing them off. They were here for more.”
“They took someone from me.”

Cold reality sank in. She was gone and any joy he had known in this life was gone with her. Rage filled him now. Rage at Tyrant, rage at the world he was born in.
Rage.

“They take from all of us, son.”
“Yeah? What’d they take from you?” Deacon sneered.
The old man nudged the fire with a stick, sparks flew up and the fire popped and snapped. He turned his head and looked at Deacon. “Killed my son, took my daughter. Wife couldn’t handle it, was too much…” the old man trailed off.
Deacon nodded. “I’m sorry.”
The old man shook his head. “That was years ago. They come, take, and leave sadness behind. Thanks to you, none were taken today.”
“That doesn’t help me.” Deacon sniffed and cleared his throat.
“I know. We dug a grave for her. Was the least we could do.”
“Show me.”

Deacon eased out the door and followed the old man. The rain had stopped and the last rays of light broke through the departing clouds in the west.
“Name’s Odell. Odell Hyde.”
“Deacon.”
Odell led him to a small church, and then behind it. A cemetery sprawled before him. Tombstones from an age past. Crosses topped the heads of small mounds, along with various other monuments to the dead. A fresh grave lay open, Sylvia beside it laying in a slapdash wooden box. A ragtag group stood beside the grave, wet and somber.
“They’re grateful too. Figured you’d want to see her one last time.”
“Thank you.” Deacon looked at the ground. “I know you won’t understand, but before we bury her, I have to do something.” His jaw clenched in bitter resolve. Why? Having to do this caused him more grief, but if others were to live he must do this last task. She would want him to. He was not sure he cared anymore. Without her what was left of life for him? A lonely soulless world full of pain and sorrow. What joy he had known lay before him, no longer moving, no longer able to hold him, no longer able to speak the words his soul ached to hear one last time. His spirit belonged with her, traveling beyond the realms of death. He rested his hand on her stomach.
He would do this last duty for her because she would have asked of it him. Whatever feeling of belonging, of fitting in, of having a place that was his to be, was gone and he cared not for anyone or anything left in Northwind.
“Forgive me, my love,” Deacon said as he knelt beside her and removed the knife from his back sheath. His hand hovered over her lower stomach, that heartbeat too had been stilled. All of his hopes lay cold and gone.
“Make them turn away,” he whispered to Odell as tears slipped down his face.
“Turn around please.” The old man motioned with his hand at the group.
They obeyed.

With a trembling hand, Deacon rested the knife’s keen edge under her right eye and pushed.
He held a bloody cloth in his hands as he stood. This would be the last time she unlocked Haven. The cloth, with its cargo, he slipped into a pocket on his vest. He would need to hurry back to Northwind. His grief would have to wait.
Deacon stood silent as they lowered her down into the cold black hole.
He took a clump of dirt and dropped it onto the makeshift coffin. Odell and some of the other men took their shovels and buried her. Deacon watched as piece by piece his humanity joined each clump of earth as it hit the wooden box.
He nodded his thanks to Odell and walked back to the corpses he had created. He felt nothing for them. The seeds of death had been sown. He would sow more before he was done.
Deacon gathered up his knives, cleaned them best he could and walked back to The Hellion. He hit the power switch, entered his code and fired the bike up.

His last duty was complete. They had asked him to stay, but he could not. This place…it held too much pain for him now. It was ruined.
He had said his goodbyes and turned his back on Northwind.
His father had been wrong.
The world could not be remade. What was left was despair, agony, and hatred. Hopelessness clouded his mind and rage filled his being.
A bright evening star shone in the night sky as he slipped on his jacket and cloaked himself in fury. Hellion’s engine roared between his thighs.
An oath he swore that day.
An oath to avenge her.
Then he would leave this place of sadness and join her.
Hell closed about him. The Darkness swirled on the outer edges of his consciousness and hatred drove him…south towards Ferrylinder.

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