·      Hi everyone! Stephen Wormwood here, thanks for clicking! Feedback and criticism is always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can.

 

·      Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

 

 

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7. THE REPUBLIC OF DENVER, Part 3

 

**********

 

Hard times is here and everywhere you go

Times are harder than ever been before

 

You know that people, they are drifting from door to door

But you can't find no heaven, I don't care where they go

 

People, if I ever can get up off of this old hard killing floor

Lord, I'll never get down this low no more

 

When you hear me singing this old lonesome song,

People, you know these hard times can last us so long

 

You know, you say you had money, you better be sure

Lord, these hard times gon' kill you, just drag on slow...

 

-      Skip James

 

**********

 

This is what I know about that night.

 

609 people of the 4,857 people who successfully escaped to the Del Mar Park encampment were killed. 126 2nd Battalion soldiers were confirmed dead and over 350 went missing. What was left of the Republic of Denver gathered that information from the registers later taken at Buckley, cross-referenced against the registers made at the Key Bank Building, right before it was destroyed. Nothing was confirmed for the Foragers. I know Ned took out at least ten of them at the evac point – but it was thanks to the Humvee he was able to mop up those psychos. If we didn't go back into Denver for it, who know what would've happened? Cannibal food, I guess.

 

Jesus.

 

That wasn't the worst night of my life. But I don't think I'll ever forget it, either. The fire. The smoke and the blood. The death. You ever see a minigun turn people into Swiss cheese? Trust me, you don't want to, no matter how much a fucker deserves it. I never saw the city of Denver again after that – and I hope I never have to.

 

Once the Battalion established a perimeter around the evac point, Ned and Tom Cherry calmed the crowds and got them all into the convoy safely, while I brought the Dodge Ram around to pick up Parker and McCullough. The drive to Buckley wasn't long at all, just a short five miles from Del Mar... if anything it was so close to the city, I thought the Foragers might catch up to us, but I was wrong about that. Once we drove through the gate and saw those old radomes rising with the bright red sun, once we got close, and I saw its defenses for myself, I knew that Buckley wouldn't fall as easily as Del Mar did.

 

On the drive there McCullough told us about it. It was one of four `bases' that the 2nd Battalion seized around the Denver-Aurora area and fortified as fallback points if anything ever happened to the Republic – war, disease, natural disasters, that sort of thing. It was big enough to house tens of thousands of people back in the old world, but Ned Creighton and his men spent years re-fitting it for the Republic's needs, demolishing all the outer structures with cranes and bulldozers (back when most were still operational and sufficiently fueled) and digging massive trenches around its outer fields. Around the centermost part of the base ran a partly constructed wall made up of scrap metal, wire fencing, brick, and barb wire. Those parts not yet completed were patched with stacks of rusted old cars and trucks. There were wooden watchtowers within, and sniper roosts. It was where most of the city's preservable food and armaments were hidden, and it was manned by around 200 or more Battalion soldiers at any given time.

 

Buckley, she said, was the Republic of Denver's last line of defense, it's citadel. And it had the defenses and resources to hold off the Foragers, that much was true, but for how long? The Foragers probably didn't have the manpower to take Buckley, but they could damn sure besiege it. And how long would the food, water, and meds last if they did?

 

Buckley wasn't salvation, it was respite.

 

And Tom fucking Cherry knew it.

 

**********

 

There was a Battalion soldier, a tall guy, Hispanic, unbuckled chin straps swinging from his camo-colored helm, who served Jay a plastic tray of rations with a broad smile. The soldier probably confused him with one of the hundreds of Denver's townsfolk who were still too weak to walk up to the bulging serving line on the other side of the cafeteria, where a small team of smocked and aproned townies ladled out hot bowls of soup and served them with slices of acorn bread and butter packets. There was a separate station for bottled water and another for hot water and freeze-dried coffee. About 300 people sat to long, half rusted aluminum tables and filled their bellies. In a half-hour's time a bell would ring, and they'd be asked to finish up and make their way out through the fire exit at the eastern wall so the next 300 or so townies could come to be served.

 

The food tray the soldier gave to Jay wasn't intended for the Republicans (not yet anyway). These were military rations. A packet of spam, a packet of crackers, a packet of butter, a packet of brownies, a packet of plastic cutlery, a bottle of water and a juice box.

 

"You have it," said the soldier, warmly. "I'm going back on guard duty. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

 

Jay smiled. Of course, it was a fake smile, he wasn't hungry after all. He told Parker and McCullough as much when they went up to get served. Still, it was a nice gesture. And when Jay smiled the soldier smiled back, shot him a wink, and went off about his business.

 

McCullough grinned at him across the table, partway through her soup bowl. "He's cute, you should get his number."

 

Fuck you, thought Jay. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

 

She shrugged. "If you don't laugh, you cry, dude."

 

Parker wasn't laughing though. He was more focused on the horde of refugeed Republicans ambling around him. He'd woofed his food in that doggish way of his, slurping and gnawing his way down to an empty tray, then turned jaded eyes to the assembled townsfolk. They were tired, dirty, battered, and lost. Civilians with thousand-yard stares. But Parker eyed them all with nascent suspicion.

 

"We gotta get the fuck out of here," he said lowly. "They've got their guns and Humvee. We've got our supplies. The deal's done. We gotta move before the Foragers come back."

 

Jay frowned but said nothing in counterpoint. Parker's logic was ugly and flawless, like it always was when it came to these sorts of things. If the Foragers laid siege to the Buckley Base, then they were trapped in a cage with thousands of screaming, ill-disciplined inmates. Food and water would not last. Disease would ramp up. That's how sieges worked.

 

Still, there was a lot of talk around the cafeteria that the Battalion had re-grouped at Del Mar to hold off the Foragers and push them back towards the city, out of Aurora. If it was true, then it was the opportunity they needed. And Parker wasn't planning on wasting it.

 

"I need to talk to Ned first," said McCullough.

 

Parker sneered.

 

"I owe him," she said. "He took me in when others tried to kick me out. I can't just cut and run on him. Come with me or don't, but I'm saying goodbye."

 

It struck Jay then how unafraid McCullough was to stand up Parker. To Jay, the late Pastor's son felt like a tide washing him out to sea. Irresistible. Unimpeachable. That's what he felt like. But McCullough didn't fear being swept away, hell, she fought back against the waves and swam to shore. Was she really that strong? Or was Jay just that cowardly?

 

I hate her, he thought again, bitterly. I HATE her.

 

Parker just shook his head and snatched the juice box off Jay's tray.

 

"Fuck it," he said. "Fine. We'll go with you."

 

Parker told Jay to hurry up and eat so they could go. He still wasn't hungry, but if they were going to be leaving soon he needed the energy. He ate what he could, then pocketed the rest just as the bell was rung for the next wave of Republicans to come in. Tablets rattled, chairs scraped, and sporks clattered as people moved to leave by the hundreds and Parker, Jay and McCullough slipped away with them out the fire exit double doors into the sun-bleached sprawl of the base's concrete grounds. McCullough led the way.

 

"I've only been here a few times," she said. "The Colonel did evac drills every three months just in case of a day like this. Guess they came in handy after all."

 

Denver still burned. It was too far to see the city or the fires, but the smoke was impossible to miss – tall black towers of ash and fumes climbing darkly out of the horizon and wafting up into a cloudless blue sky. Jay couldn't look away from them. When he saw them, he saw the Foragers again, blowing up apartment buildings and gunning down Battalion soldiers. How close had they come to sharing the city's fate? They were lucky.

 

How long could that kind of luck last?

 

Away from all the landing strips, radomes, hangers, bunkers, and barracks stood a central administrative building surrounded by grass fields and concrete plinths decorated with retired aircraft models, rusted and paint-striped, but still impressive somehow. Jay had never seen an actual plane in the air before. It seemed impossible that something so big could take to the sky like a bird and fly.

 

The admin building was like a concrete cube topped with glass. The Star-Spangled Banner flew from each of its three flagpoles. They were not tattered, or dirty, or speckled with bird shit (like so many of the rest throughout America's bleeding corpse) these flags were freshly pressed and clean. The 2nd Battalion may have taken Buckley for the Republic of Denver, but they did it in the name of the United States.

 

They still think it's coming back, Jay thought. After everything they've been through... That seemed so stupid to him. Hoping against hope for a dream that would never come true. But then maybe the dream is what keeps them going.

 

Two guards stood out front by the non-functional processing gate. They wouldn't let McCullough in at first, but they radioed the main office and asked the Lieutenant Colonel for his permission to allow them through. It was granted, and a third private came down to escort the trio into the building, up its carpeted steps and steel-tone corridors, all the way to the main office at its apex. McCullough ignored the buzzer and knocked the door instead.

 

"Come in," called Ned.

 

The office, much like the building, was immaculately kept. In fact, it was the cleanest room Jay had seen since leaving Polk. It was furnished with clean cream carpeting, smooth mahogany bookcases, grey-painted filing cabinets, a functional clock, potted cacti, even a portable water cooler. Its carefully washed windows (lined with equally carefully washed steel latticework) gave a sweeping shot of the Coloradan landscape even as the ashes of Denver rose against the beautiful backdrop of the Rockies. The desk, Ned's desk, was made of glass and steel, and suited the room perfectly. That was where they found him, sat tersely upon his leather office chair. But he wasn't alone. His wife, Sarah Creighton, sat with him on the other side of the glass. And she looked exhausted. They both did.

 

The private shut the door and left the five of them in peace.

 

"Welcome to Buckley, kids." Said Ned. "We try to keep it nice for our guests."

 

Parker smirked. "It's looking better than Denver."

 

If it was meant to be a dig then Ned didn't take it that way. "You're young, son. If you're lucky, you'll end up caring about something someday. But you know what? A lot of people would've died back there if not for you. All three of you. I can't thank you enough for that. There's three weeks' worth of food, water, and fuel in your Dodge Ram. I had my boys see to it. Take it with kindness. And Godspeed to you, it's a rough world out there."

 

McCullough sighed, audibly. "...Colonel, I-"

 

And Ned met her sigh with a grin. "Oak leaf, not eagle. Remember?"

 

"Lieutenant-Colonel," she corrected. "...I, um... you've done right by me. I can't thank you enough, but..."

 

Ned didn't stop smiling (in that soft way of his) but his mood dampened. "...But you want to leave too."

 

"I'm sorry, I'm just... not built for this. I'm not a soldier. I'm sorry."

 

The leader of the 2nd Battalion lifted out of his chair, circled the desk, and with a broad smile gave McCullough's shoulder a fatherly little squeeze. "Hey. You don't have to apologize to me, kiddo. None of this was ever your responsibility and I'm sorry I dragged you into it. You go and be safe out there, okay? Be smart and be strong."

 

"I will," she said. "...What about you, though? What will you do?"

 

This time Ned's smile left him. He returned to his chair and his graveled face went cold as stone. "All the councilmen are dead. All of them. Some chefs treated them to supper at the old Mexican restaurant when Forager shock troops shot it full of 66mms. We didn't even have time to dig their bodies out of the rubble."

 

Parked picked his ear, he was already half-bored with the conversation. "So, what does that mean?"

 

"It means that Ned's in charge now," said Sarah. And judging by her soured expression she wasn't very happy about it. That was when the walkie-talkie on Ned's hip belt buzzed. "Office, this is front gate, over."

 

"Front gate, this is Office, go ahead, over."

 

"Office, we have Tom Cherry here, says you wanted to see him, over."

 

Ned nodded. "Affirmative, Front Gate, send him up, over."

 

"Roger that, Office, over and out."

 

The Lieutenant-Colonel reclined in his chair, stolidly, threading his fingers together. Jay recalled the council meeting in Del Mar yesterday – what Ned Creighton intended for his 2nd Battalion to do – and then the words leapt out of his mouth, "You're going to fight them, aren't you?"

 

"...That's one of my options, yeah."

 

"But not necessarily the right one," said Sarah. She pointed behind him, towards the window, where the ashes of Denver loomed over the fields. "The city is gone, Ned. Our villages, our farms, our water towers, our larders, our armories. Everything! Half the vehicles are gone. I've lost 40 nurses, 22 doctors, and 12 surgeons in just three days! That's nearly half my team, and we have hundreds of sick and wounded to care for. I know how much you love this place, but we have to put our people first."

 

Ned glared at her. "You don't think that's what I'm doing? You think I'm fighting these cannibals for fun?"

 

But Sarah glared back. "I think you're letting your pride get the better of you."

 

Jay, Parker, and McCullough held their silence as husband and wife exchanged frosty glances across that glass desk. It was a microcosm of the conversations that Denver's survivors were having right now. Back in the cafeteria Jay overheard all the arguments. Some wanted to stay and fight. Others wanted to leave. Some wanted to strike a bargain. Some younger ones were even talking about Octavia Wilkes. But there was no consensus, and with the councilmen gone, all the power laid with the 2nd Battalion... and Ned Creighton.

 

The army man pushed himself up again by the armrests, and walked over to the office windows, ceiling to floor panes of reinforced glass. He turned his back to his guests and eyed the ruins of the Republic slowly floating through the sky. The ruins of his magnus opus.

 

"...You know..." Ned paused to chuckle gloomily, then resumed. "I always dreamt that one day a senator, a speaker, or even a president would meet me in this room and thank us all for keeping this city safe. That when America finally woke up... Denver would be here to greet her. Don't you understand? If we give up now, then that's it. America's over, and what's left of it belongs to the crazy people. And I'm not prepared to do that. I swore an oath... to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; to bear true faith and allegiance to the same; to take that obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I would well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which was about to enter – so help me God. That meant something to me. And I thought you understood that."

 

Sarah bit her lip. "Ned, please..."

 

His shoulders tightened when he heard her voice – but he didn't look back at her. "Even when this country was segregated, my family fought for it. My granddad fought the Nazis, my dad fought the Viet Cong, I'm fighting the fucking Foragers. And Lord willing, I'll win."

 

Silence.

 

Then a knock.

 

"Come in," said Ned.

 

The door opened. Jay, McCullough (and Parker, at McCullough's request) stepped aside as a stern but baggy-eyed Tom Cherry strode in with three guards at his back, not Battalion soldiers but members of the Civilian Levy they trained. Their old Winchester rifles rattled at their backs as they entered, shutting the door behind them. They didn't salute Ned, curiously.

 

Ned turned to face them from across the room. "Glad you could come, Tom."

 

Although he strode in sternly the Lt Col's second-in-command stilled when he saw Sarah. The doctor looked away from him, guiltily. Then Jay remembered what was going on between the two of them. With McCullough and the Foragers and Parker's moodiness, he almost forgot that Sarah Creighton-Kyle and Tom Cherry were fucking.

 

"Sarah," said Tom. "What are you doing here?"

 

Ned frowned. "She has every right to be here, Tom. She's sacrificed so much for the Republic, you both have. That's why I wanted you both to hear it first. We're going on the offensive. Look here," There was a map of Denver spread out across the Lieutenant-Colonel's desk that he directed them to, jabbing his finger at a central point in the city. "This is where the scouts say the Foragers are based, the Mile-High Stadium. If we marshal the Battalion and the Civ Levies for a full-frontal assault on the Forager outposts on the western side of the I-25, we can thin their forces, and then a smaller team can loop around the city, sneak into their camp, and blow it to hell. Cut off the head and the body will follow."

 

Tom Cherry gaped at him, incredulous.

 

"Are... are you serious?" The Lt Col's deputy turned to the Lt Col's wife. "Sarah, talk to him, make him see sense!"

 

But Sarah fell silent, looked away from both men, her eyes glassing over with un-spilt tears. Maybe having them at odds with each other in the same room was too much for her. Whore, thought Jay. This is your mess, stew in it. He glared at McCullough when he thought it.

 

Ned's frown darkened. "Don't fight me on this, Tom. You've already done it once, don't do it again."

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Roared Tom. "Jesus Christ, Ned, how much blood is enough? How far is this gonna go? And for what? The city's on fire, everything's gone! Most of those folks out there don't have much more'n the clothes on their backs! We gotta get them to safety, not throw more good men at a lost cause! The Republic is dead, man! Enough is enough!"

 

But Ned Creighton, stone-faced and stolid, wouldn't budge. "I'm assigning you to the main push. Sergeant Jackson's Alpha Platoon will conduct the infiltration of Mile End Stadium, and Major Busch will coordinate the operation. Mission briefing is at 13:00 in Hanger 909. Go get some rest before then, you look like you'll need it."

 

Tom Cherry just looked at him, dumbfounded. "You're not gonna stop, are you?"

 

Ned held his frown.

 

He wouldn't budge.

 

So.

 

Tom Cherry shot him.

 

The motion was so swift, so fluid, no one saw it coming; a calloused hand reaching down to a swinging leather hip holster, unbuttoning it, then smoothly raising up its Beretta, flicking off the safety, squeezing the trigger four times – four shots. One to chest, one to head, a second to the chest and the last through the shoulder. Ned Creighton, commander of the 2nd Battalion and the leader of Republic of Denver, coughed a glut of blood before his eyes rolled into his skull and his feet gave way, collapsing into the soft cream carpet with a thump.

 

Sarah screamed. "NOOOOOOOOO!"

 

Instinct that made Parker and McCullough reach for their weapons, but Tom Cherry's men already unstrapped their old Winchester 9422s and had them at gunpoint before their fingers even grazed the grips. Both stepped back and slowly raised their hands into the air.

 

Sarah screamed herself hoarse as she fought to reach her husband, but Tom Cherry pulled her back and folded his arms around her, holding her tight. "Sarah! Sarah, stop it, it's over!"

 

"No!" She yelled. "NO! He didn't deserve that! Why did you do that, Tom? Why?"

 

"Because he would've gotten us all killed!" He roared. "Angus, come help me over here!"

 

Angus, one of the three guards at Tom's command, lowered his rifle and `collected' the doctor as she cried and thrashed so hard her shoe fell off. His orders were simple then – "Keep her away from everyone else until she calms down." The stout Angus nodded and dragged Sarah-Creighton Kyle out of the office into an adjoining room where her horrified screams became a muffled tantrum.

 

"Fuck you!" Spat McCullough. "You won't get away with that!"

 

Tom Cherry turned at sneered at her. "What do you mean me? You mean YOU won't get away with that. YOU came up to his office. YOU shot him. And YOU are gonna hang for it. And those two new friends of yours are going to a Cheyenne pen."

 

Parker's eyes flared. "The fuck you say?!"

 

Wuhrer, Jay thought. He's talking about Wuhrer!

 

"Wuhrer. You cooked his son, remember? You didn't think he was just gonna give up, did you? I bargained with him this morning. I give him you two, he calls in his militia to give my people safe passage out of this shithole. The 55ers got their own score to settle with the Foragers."

 

"FUCK YOU!" Spat Parker.

 

Tom Cherry just smirked at him. "Yeah, yeah. Boys? Cuff `em and hood `em."

 

**********

 

I always felt sorry for Ned.

 

On the face of it, he and Dad couldn't be more different. Dad was a professional healer and Ned was a professional killer. Dad was an atheist and Ned, I think, was a believer. One was white, one was black. One was a cynic; the other was a patriot. Ned believed America could pull itself back from the brink if enough people tried hard enough. My Dad knew America was already dead. They shouldn't have reminded me of each other. But they did. They were both brave, they were both kind-hearted, and they both wanted to help people. They both believed that there were things in this ugly fucking world that were not only worth salvaging but protecting. They were both betrayed by powerful people in their communities. They were both killed in cold blood. Neither of their communities, neither Polk nor the Republic of Denver, lasted much longer after their deaths.

 

And they were both stupid.

 

The old saying is true – the good really do die young. That's the reality of our society – what's left of it. Trust gets you killed. Love breaks you down. You can put those feelings to people if you want, but you won't receive the equivalent. Your reward won't be trust in kind, or love in kind, it'll be betrayal and heartbreak. That's why there's no real safe haven in this world because no matter what community humans build, other humans make it their business to take it over or tear it down. It's just what we do. And for every do-gooder there's ten ne'er-do-wells primed to fulfil the prophesy.

 

But I can't help but feel sorry for Ned. Him and Dad both.

 

Fuck Tom Cherry.

 

Tom Fucking Cherry.

 

His goons took our pistols away, clapped cuffs on us, and threw burlap hoods over our heads, then hustled us out of the admin building into the back end of what felt like (and what turned out to be) a pick-up truck. We still heard Tom Cherry's voice, ordering his men to hurry up, load up the guns, get inside; he would personally seal the deal with Wuhrer, the weaselly little bastard. There was more shuffling. More of Tom's men climbed into the rear of the pick-up, civilian conscripts, surly old bastards ripe with the stench of tobacco and BO. They kept their guns trained on us. We couldn't see but we knew that much. A couple minutes later tyres crunched dust and they drove off. But they made a slight mistake.

 

They didn't check us for other weapons.

 

**********

 

Sustained darkness disorients.

 

That's what Pastor Evans taught his Fruit of God, anyway. Hooding a captive wasn't just about keeping them from knowing the route to a location; it restricted breathing, messed with their sense of direction, trapped them with their thoughts. And it was all true. While the pick-up truck rolled bumpily down what he could only imagine was a freeway, Jay tried to envision where they might be heading. North was Wyoming, northeast was Nebraska, southeast was Kansas, and south was Colorado Springs. It felt like they were headed westward, but after two turns and a stop (one of the riflemen needed to piss) Jay lost track of it. He felt anxious then. More so than before. He tried to calm himself by remembering what they taught him in Polk about capture. Don't catastrophize. Set yourself goals. Pay attention to your surroundings. Speak little. Keep your mind clear and active. None of it helped. This was worse than the Forager attack, somehow, at least with that they had a chance of escape. But this? How did they escape this?

 

Jay's leg trembled as the fright crept into him. Whenever he got scared, he'd seek reassurance from Parker, but Tom Cherry's men wouldn't let them talk to each other. They were together, but Jay was alone. And he was terrified.

 

The pickup rattled on down the road from bump to pothole for what felt like ages until Tom Cherry finally spoke. "There they are. Stay frosty, boys. Keep your guns low and don't talk unless I say so. Once we hand these two over, we'll double back to Buckley."

 

Tom's men grunted back their affirmations.

 

The pick-up slowed to a stop. Jay felt the weight lift off the van as the Republicans hopped out and opened the rear doors, dragging the two boys out by their feet, and marching them up the road. With his hands cuffed and his head hooded Jay could barely walk straight, but one of the grunts kept him upright, and warned him not to `try anything funny' as they delivered the package.

 

Jay heard a gun rattle.

 

Then someone shouted – "That's far enough!"

 

Wuhrer, Jay thought. It's him.

 

"As you fancy," said Tom Cherry. "We've brought what you asked for."

 

"...Show me."

 

After a pause the man behind Jay snatched his hood off. A wave of warm air hit his face and nostrils, he let out a gasp he didn't know he needed, then looked to his left and saw Parker there with him; hood off and cuffs on, sweat dripping down his nose and lip, but he was resolute. There wasn't a shred of fear or doubt on his face.

 

And up ahead? Up ahead with the remainder of his road crew was the captain of the 13th Militia of the Fifty-Five Thousand Army, the man called Wuhrer. It was the first good look Jay got of him. Silver-haired, lean, mid-fifties maybe, but well-muscled for a man that age. Wuhrer stood in beige-color khakis and a white wife beater with a holstered Glock-19 lulling from his brown leather belt. Silvery dog tags swung from his neck, sparkling in the blazing sun. A bulbous scar ran down the length of his face.

 

Wuhrer's road crew held his rear. Six surly, sweaty militiamen with 12-gauges and magged-up M16s casually idling on the hoods and vans of two black-painted F-150s parked side by side like a roadblock. They smirked menacingly at Tom Cherry's men but said nothing to them. Their captain had the floor.

 

"Put down your weapons." Said Wuhrer.

 

Tom Cherry frowned. "I took personal risk, extraordinary risk, to bring these two boys to you, Wuhrer. I'm here in good faith, I promise you that."

 

"Promises aren't worth a fart in the wind," said the captain. "Put your pistol down, tell your men to put their rifles down, then bring those two shitbirds over here."

 

Tensions were raw. Neither side trusted the other very much – they'd fought each other a hell of a lot longer than either group had fought the Foragers – but in that moment all the power was on the 55ers' side. Wuhrer had twice the men Tom Cherry did, and far better weapons, not to mention that pissing off Wuhrer meant the Republicans losing their escort out of Denver. Tom had no choice. Grudgingly, but calmly, he unholstered his Beretta and carefully set it to the ground, then ordered his three grunts to do the same. They grumbled but they complied, lowering their Winchesters.

 

Tom Cherry then shoved Parker forward. "Get your ass over there."

 

Jay half-expected Parker to say or do something stupid over that, but he didn't. He ate the shove with barely a grimace and walked forward toward Wuhrer. Jay followed him. The two boys slowly shuffled over and presented themselves before the captain. The older boy looked him dead in the eye, the younger one couldn't meet it – so Wuhrer shoved his fist into the older boy's stomach, winding him, dropping him to his knees, gasping and coughing.

 

"Parker!" Yelled Jay.

 

Wuhrer knelt, and growling like a dog, shoved Parker's face into the hot dirty tarmac. "It's going to be slow and painful, boy. Slow and painful. I don't care about the guns or the meds. It's my son... you killed my son... and I swear you're going to pay for it."

 

Jay's eyes watered. "Please don't hurt him..."

 

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Shouted Wuhrer. "This all started with you, you little shit! Own it!"

 

The Mixon boy bit his lip. If there was anything he feared more than pain it was seeing Parker in pain. It broke his heart watching the boy he loved be treated like that. Jay wanted to look away, couldn't bear to see Parker wincing through the agony with bloody teeth, but he forced himself not to. And that was when Jay noticed something – something slightly round in Parker's hip pocket – something no one else seemed to notice, not even Wuhrer, who stood upright and stomped his boot on Parker's back, pinning him to the dusty road.

 

"Wuhrer," said Tom Cherry. "I gave you what you asked for. Now it's your turn. Help us get out of Denver."

 

A smirk.

 

The captain of the 13th snapped his fingers and instantly, instinctively, his men aimed their shotguns and semi-automatics at the dumbfounded Republicans. Tom Cherry tossed a glance at his pistol on the ground, but thinking better of it, raised his hands instead. His men followed suit.

 

"Damn you..." Seethed Tom. "We had a DEAL!"

 

Wuhrer chuckled, his boot still lodged in Parker's back. "That's funny because I don't recall signing on no dotted line. We've made a deal of our own... with the Foragers. We leave Denver to them, and they give us 40% of the Republican cattle. Once the Battalion's defeated and disarmed, we get 45% of the guns. Food, fuel, and meds are all theirs, but still. A bargain's a bargain. Boys? Light `em up."

 

Their guns clapped the second Wuhrer gave the order – tearing new assholes into Tom Cherry and his men, shooting them out of their shoes, dropping them like flies. But Jay's eyes never left Parker's. Wuhrer didn't see Parker's cuffed hands slowly reach beneath his body into his pocket and pull a grenade, not until the shooting started and, in its chaos, he jerked his shoulders and threw Wuhrer off his back, pulled the pin, and rolled it beneath the leftmost of the two black F-150s as he shrieked at Jay to push up to his feet and run.

 

Wuhrer fell back. Parker ran left, Jay ran right. It all happened so quickly, so suddenly, that only two of the six 55ers realized what was happening and lowered their guns to give chase but by then it was too late – the grenade went off, directly beneath a fuel tank. And what would have been a small, perforating blast became a gas-fueled explosion that rippled through the ground and tore open the metallic guts of their vehicles, smoke and dust and sparks pluming into the air, the force shearing limbs and fingers like a thresher, all amidst blazing fire that gnawed and fused helpless flesh into falling blackened husks raining over crushed tarmac and wind-tossed grass.

 

Jay felt the blast in his teeth it was so powerful. He stumbled, falling into the grass, daring to look back through drifting smoke at the burning husks of the F-150s. A charcoaled forearm slapped into the grass and rolled near him. He shrieked with disgust.

 

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JAY, GET UP!" Roared Parker.

 

Evans was up ahead already, past the shot-up corpses of Tom Cherry and his Republican guards. He'd snatched one of their Winchesters and made a beeline for the beaten-up Chevy Silverado that brought them there. Jay got up. He dragged himself up. No more looking back. The Mixon boy jogged around the four corpses and caught up to the Silverado just as Parker revved the engine. It took a minute to start her up, but her got her humming just as Jay climbed inside and slammed the passenger side door shut.

 

Parker's hands took the wheel awkwardly (thanks to the cuffs), but he could drive if Jay helped him with the stick shift. Together, they backed the pick-up away from the carnage and car fire that would've enchanted ol' Pumpkinhead on a different day and time, turned, then drove off in the opposite direction.

 

**********

 

We were lucky.

 

He had just the right weapon. Made just the right throw. At just the right distance away.

 

We were too lucky.

 

I was too lucky.

 

And luck always runs out.

 

**********

 

Judging by the map Jay found inside the glove box they'd been driven out to a spot marked "meet up point" just a mile east of a small town called Seibert on the Dwight D. Eisenhauer Highway of I-70. The Republic of Denver (or at least its hollowed-out carcass) was more than 100 miles west of it. According to that map, there were more than a few roads bearing south from the interstate. The 59 through Seibert, the 5 through Flagler, the 43 through Arriba, and the 31 through Genoa, right before the I-70 bent northeast towards the city. Any one of them could take them south and after few changeovers get them onto Route 350 bound for Trinadad and from there it was straight to New Mexico – just like they'd planned in Fort Collins.

 

But everything had changed, somehow.

 

Jay felt that.

 

He felt it harder when he looked over at Parker, snarling angrily as his cuffed hands struggled with the wheel. Jay, sheepishly, suggested that they find somewhere worth searching for some tools to uncuff themselves. "I can handle it!" He snapped. "I don't wanna waste anymore fucking time."

 

And that's that, thought Jay. But then ten, maybe fifteen minutes later a dilapidated farmhouse came up on their left and the older boy eyed it over. "Here, then..." He spoke.

 

And that felt a little like progress to Jay – a suggestion taken. Together they slowed the Silverado down and pulled onto a dirt track that winded like a rattler through the weeds until it furrowed into the farmhouse's collapsed porch. Ragged curtains billowed through its broken windows. Its front door swung limp from a single hinge, rusted and busted with age. Overgrown hedges reached as high as its decaying rooftop, which lay cratered in (probably by a tornado). It was more of a haunted house than a farmhouse, but Parker was too frustrated to be scared – or cautious – and Jay was too tired to be either.

 

It was like Jay still felt the explosion in his ears. They rang like a buzzer and his head pounded with it. It felt like a migraine coming. He wanted to lie down somewhere and get some sleep in, but the way Parker climbed out of the pick-up and slammed the door behind him, he was in no mood for rest. Jay slowly followed him to the garage adjoining the main building, which luckily for them was already part ways open. Parker hooked his fingers beneath the dented aluminum and shoved it all the way open.

 

The garage, like most abandoned buildings they came by, was looted. An almost empty concrete box smeared with oil stains and moss growth. There was no car, no fuel cans, no toolbox, no saws, no drills, not even any nails. But... there was a hammer. Jay spotted it amongst the broken shards of an overturned terracotta vase and Parker took it up. "This'll do."

 

They spent another half-hour fighting with the cuffs. In the end they couldn't get them off, only break the chains holding them together, but it'd just have to do for now. It took Jay twenty minutes to break Parker's cuffs, and it took the latter ten minutes to break the former's. Once they were both free, they went through a side door into the kitchen just to see if there was anything worth taking. It was rotted through from the ceiling of chipped paint to the cracked checker tile floor, with little to offer in its fridge and cupboards except crispy, knotted up packets of long decayed food. Aside from a spool of rope and the hammer they found in the garage, there was nothing useful left.

 

"Maybe there's something worthwhile upstairs?"

 

Parker growled again beneath his breath. "This is a waste of time, let's just go."

 

They made their way out with the hammer and rope. There were four backpacks in the rear of the Chevy, one for the late Tom Cherry and three for his fellow dead guards. Each pack carried 3 days' worth of army rations, a Beretta and two spare mags apiece, two 5.56mm mags apiece, a med kit, a compass, a flashlight, a notepad, a full water canteen, a firearm cleaning kit, and a rollable sleeping bag. They were a good find. But Jay didn't stop to help Parker pack the claw hammer and rope away, his head was still too ropey, especially after banging that hammer for so long. He needed to get off his feet, so he climbed into the passenger side and eased back into the seat, shutting his eyes.

 

If he hadn't, if he'd helped, he'd have noticed Parker emptying out the contents of one pack and splitting it between the other three.

 

But by the time Parker got back into the Silverado Jay was already asleep.

 

It was a restless and unpleasant sleep. He saw white phantoms dancing in the darkness, vultures and ravens squawking from the skeletal branches of leafless trees, snowfields set ablaze, howling winds, he himself loss in a field of weeds shrieking and whimpering beneath a bigger man's weight as Hunter Wuhrer's scowling face melted into the blackened bones of his cracked skull.

 

Jay jolted awake.

 

He awoke to the wind whipping his face – a cool breeze that soothed his aching head... some. They were out on the road, driving at some speed, high noon approaching. He cast a glance at Parker, his broken handcuffs looping around his wrists as the breeze caught them. Jay looked down at his own and smiled at them – they were matching. Kind of like a couple. Then he looked at Parker again and noticed how restless he looked, almost like he was afraid of something. It wasn't like him.

 

"Hey," said Jay, softly. "It's okay, we're safe now. We'll get there."

 

The older boy nodded. Didn't say anything, didn't look away from the road. Just nodded. But Jay let it be. He didn't want to bother Parker, he just wanted to get out of Colorado once and for all. So, instead of talking Jay turned his head to the open window and let the cool winds billow through his hair. They sat and drove together in silence. Jay was content with that for a time.

 

But then they passed through Seibert and didn't turn south for the 5. Jay tried not to think anything of it. But then it happened again at Flagler, and Arriba, and Genoa, but still Jay tried not to panic... not until Parker overshot the southbound turn onto Route 40... instead he put his foot on the gas and pressed on up the I-70 as its rough concrete track bent northwestward. Towards Denver.

 

Jay blinked. "...What are you doing?"

 

"What do you mean `what am I doing'...?" Said Parker. "I'm driving."

 

"I mean, where are you driving?"

 

Parked pulled a confused scowl. "Are you concussed? Fucking Buckley, where do you think we're going? Didn't you hear what Tom Cherry said? They're gonna kill McCullough."

 

For the briefest hour Jay thought he'd never have to hear that fucking name ever again. And then there it was. Back in his mouth. Back in his mind. "Are... are you kidding me?"

 

"What?"

 

Jay's eyes tore open. "Are you crazy?!"

 

Parker shot him a sideways glance over the dash as the bending side road remerged with the freeway of the I-70 proper near Limon. "The fuck are you talking about?"

 

"The fuck are YOU talking about?" Shouted Jay. "You wanna drive us back into a fucking warzone over some girl!? Have you lost your mind?!"

 

"Oh, I don't have time for another one of your fucking bitch-fits, Jay! Jesus goddamned Christ just strap on some fucking balls for once in your GODDAMN life and help me!"

 

Jay's heart thumped inside his chest. "...Stop the car."

 

"Fuck you, we're not stopping."

 

Jay's blood pounded in his ears. "Stop the car, I wanna get out!"

 

"I said fuck you, we're not stopping!"

 

Jay grabbed the wheel. "I SAID STOP THE FUCKING CAR!"

 

There was a tussle.

 

The tussle led to a skid.

 

And the skid led to a crash.

 

Screeching tires gave way to a crush of glass and metal. Trapped screams rang out through cracked glass as the Silverado rolled over and the world went with it. All went to black.

 

Absolute darkness.

 

Until pain, hot red pain, opened its rifts.

 

Jay's eyes, now bloodshot, fluttered open. He couldn't see anything through them but blurs. Dust motes and smoke particles had crystallized with tears and crusted them over. Everything was a blur. He tried to scrub his eyes clean, but his right arm wouldn't move. It felt numb, and he couldn't feel his fingers on it, so he tried his left arm instead. It moved. Painfully. He took his thumb to his eyes and scrubbed them dry. Then he opened them and saw white. An airbag, cushioning his face and chest. And beyond that? A smoky windshield cobwebbed with fractures and set to break – and beyond that he saw nothing. Then he turned to his left (what felt like his right) where a deflated airbag climbed up the broken circle of a cracked steering wheel bent awkwardly towards an empty seat.

 

Parker...! Jay tried to say the name rather than think it, but his mouth was full of blood and phlegm. He spat it out, clearing his throat. "P-Parker...! W-w-where...?"

 

The boy turned to his right (what felt like his left) and saw the world inverted. The sky was down. The road was up. And Jay was dizzy. But then he spotted red-stained jeans shuffle across the concrete sky, and only then did he realize that the side window was completely shattered. His seat belt felt tight. Jay gritted his bloody teeth and fought to unhook it with his good hand, even as his skin pricked everywhere, tiny cuts across his arms and neck and legs and stomach, his clothes ripped to pieces. The belt gave way and he landed on the roof of the car with a thud.

 

The Mixon boy squealed, like a piece of glass or metal had driven its way deeper into his flesh, but he kept going, twisting himself right side up and carefully pulling himself through the imploded car window, but got caught halfway. Something was wrapped around his leg and wouldn't let go. A seat belt, maybe? He strained against it but no matter what he did it would not budge. And he was in so much pain...

 

...and then he saw Parker.

 

Shuffling ahead, dragging his right foot behind him, a sprain. His jeans were blood-soaked on one leg from a massive gash down its length. He gripped his stomach. Dirt and grass and blood fouled his face. But onward he lumbered, shuffling past Jay's window, and slowly doubling back to the rear of the pickup.

 

"P-Parker..." Jay coughed.

The older boy said something back, but Jay's ears rang to loudly to hear it. Everything had an echo, a muffled echo, even as the car horn bleared out repeatedly, BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

 

Then Jay heard feet scraping against the concrete again, coming in his direction. He saw Parker again, with his curly hair bathed in soot and sun, blood trickling down his bruised jaw, tattered clothes barely clinging to his body, chest and shoulders inflating with every intake of breath and every pump of blood – but he was alive, and he was whole. Parker Evans. His beautiful boy.

 

He had the three packs with him. Two swung from their straps in his right hand. The third was strapped to his back. And in his left hand he carried a dented gas can.

 

"P-Parker..." Jay forced a weak smile. "Y-you're alright..."

 

The older boy caught his breath and looked away. He looked at the sky, and then the road, still panting for breath, then threw a glare down at Jay that made the younger boy's blood curdle.

 

A glare of disgust.

 

"McCullough... she was right about you," he said. "You're not cut out for this. You're weak... and you're gonna get me killed..."

 

Tears.

 

"...Parker," Jay's cut fingers reached out to him. "Parker, please..."

 

He threw one of the packs down, just close enough for Jay to reach.

 

"No," said Parker. "...Make it on your own... or don't. I'm done with you."

 

The road ahead was long and leafy. There was a town in that direction called Limon. It would have cars there, better preserved than the rotting, rusty husks outlining the highways. All anyone had to do was fill the tank and hotwire it. A town called Limon, just a mile ahead. Parker turned to it. With a sigh and a sniff. He turned toward it and slowly hobbled away, leaving Jay where he lay, in a pile of bloody glass.

 

"Parker...!" Jay sobbed. He coughed. He spat blood out of his mouth then he coughed again. "Parker, please! I LOVE you, please! Please don't leave me! PLEASE! PARKER!"

 

**********

 

So, yeah.

 

He left me.

 

My childhood friend. My confidant. My heart. The center of my world. He just... left me. I begged him to stay, to help me, to forgive me, but nothing I said made him turn back. Parker just walked away until he was a speck on the horizon – and then he was gone. I was alone. And I cried myself unconscious. I don't remember much after that... at least not that first day.

 

But I do remember... waking up in the darkness. I remember cutting my leg free from the driver's side safety belt with a piece of glass and crawling out of the wreck. I remember standing up, falling over, then standing up again. And then I remember walking. I couldn't tell you which direction I took. I don't think I even cared back then. I just walked. Walked and walked and walked. There was rain at some point, so I found shelter in an old gas station and huddled up against the boarded doors. Forced myself to drink some water, forced myself eat some rations, cried some more.

 

Then I thought about things.

 

Parker, mostly. But other things. I thought about going to Denver, but I knew he wouldn't take me back. I thought about going south to Mexico, but I knew I couldn't make it on my own. I thought about Polk and cried again when I realized I'd give ANYTHING to go back, back to the way things were, but the town was gone now, everyone dead or enslaved. No more Polk. Then I thought about my Dad... the one person on earth who ever truly loved me... and I put my pistol in my mouth so I could see him again.

 

But I chickened out.

 

Too weak to live, too scared to die.

 

So? I just sat in the darkness, shivering with cold, watching the rainfall. I fell asleep. Woke up. Morning. Walked some more. Hid from a passing road crew. Got up and walked again. I didn't check the map, didn't bother with the compass. I didn't know where I was going, I didn't CARE where I was going. I just walked and walked until I came across a reservoir.

 

Lake Meredith, a sign said.

 

I looked at it... 5500 surface acres... the largest body of water I'd ever seen, and I thought, `What if it just washed me away?' Just like that. And so, I just... walked into the water. `Carry me away', I thought. `Sink me to the deep'. After that, I don't know. Even now my memory of the lake is fuzzy, I just... see pictures in my mind of thrashing limbs and bubbles. Darkness. Nothing else.

 

And then?

 

And then I woke up on a shoreline, soaking wet and spluttering, and there was a shadow over me.

 

A man.

 

********

 

• Thanks for reading, everybody! Hope you enjoyed it, comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from you.

 

• Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).