2 A.C. Fallen Angels

By W.Wm. Mee

Fallen Angels: 2 A.C.

In 'Ever Onward', the first book in W. Wm. Mee's epic Ragnok Series, an accident in a U.S. chemical warfare plant unleashed a world wide plague that killed off most of the human race. Civilization died soon after. The few that survived, did so by much 'older rules'.'Fallen Angels' tells how other survivors from various parts of the country lived through 'The Change' and the first two hellish years that followed.
You'll meet an ex convenience store manager that builds himself a small kingdom in up-state New York and ride shotgun westward with a once timid Chicago teacher and her new boyfriend, a Blackfoot Amerindian named Billy Two Trees.You'll have an up-close and very personal view from the back seat of a Harley as the remnants of a biker gang rape and pillage their way towards the setting sun --- and you'll stand in the blood-spattered pulpit of an ex con-man turned prophet out to lead his fallen and often headstrong flock to freedom --- whether they want it or not! And you'll meet strong, silent Sam; the 'great American cowboy', who 'saves the day, wins the girl and beats the bad guy' --- or dies trying.In 'Fallen Angels', as in all of the books in the 'Ragnok Series', you'll laugh, cry, drink and fight beside some of the most interesting, complex and frightening characters ever to strut, run or slither across a page! There are no vampires, no zombies, no nasty things that go 'bump' in the night. The only 'monsters' are those that some carry deep within themselves --- and most of those were there long before the coming of 'The Change'.In Fallen Angels', a few frightened, determined people gather together to try to hold back the dark, build something good --- and fight off the evil that lies in some men's hearts.Note to the reader:Each book in the Ragnok Series stands alone and need NOT be read in order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: May 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458117434

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

Chapter 1: Where’s The Beef?

Upstate New York

Several months after the

‘The Cleansing’ swept the globe

Of the dozen naked bodies hanging in the parkinglot, all but a couple of them were in an advanced state of decay. Raven’s and crows perched on boney shoulders, digging in for scraps of sun-dried meat. Smaller, lesser birds flitted about, biding their time, their tiny, darting eyes never still. A pact of one-time pet dogs snarled and snapped at the base of the defunct streetlights, eagerly waiting when the bodies rotted enough to finally fall.

The man who now called himself The Duke, sat in a plastic lawn chair on the flat gravel and tar roof of the Price Chopper in Albany, New York. Up until The Cleansing he had been the supermarket’s night manager. It was only after the Death Winds had passed that he had become ‘royalty’, and though his ‘kingdom’ was damn near depopulated, the influx of pilgrims ‘worthy enough to be invited to stay’ had picked up of late. The Kid and his ‘Rangers’ had been doing a great job of filtering out the less desirable ones they found.

His ‘Dukeship’ now placed the brass sight on the end of his 30/30 lever action Winchester on the big German Sheppard that seemed to be leading the snarling pack. He smiled as an old tune started playing in his head.

I met him at the candy store,

(He turned to me and winked,

You get the picture?)

That’s when I fell for,

The Leader of the Pack!

The dog in question sat back on its haunches like a well fed General Patton, while the rest of its hungry troops growled and snarled beneath the dangling meat. Duke, despite seeing a good deal of himself in the four legged beast he was aiming at, sucked in a breath, let it half out like his daddy had taught him and gently squeezed the trigger.

The 30/30, a ‘John Wayne Special’, complete with its famous overlarge lever, went off with a ‘crack’ that reminded him of Brother Simon’s heavy ruler coming down on the big, oak desk back in Loyola High. Ah, those were the days! Popcorn, pissing contests --- and pain.

‘Hail Marry, full of grace.

Now, James, hold out your other hand.’

The rifle’s report was like a good-natured nudge from an old friend. He automatically worked the over-large lever, sending another shell into ‘The Duke’s’ favorite weapon. He’d had this particular rifle for over twenty years now. As a young man fresh out of the army he’d bought it from a fellow John Wayne collector/fanatic who was going through a divorce and needed the money. This guy had collected everything even slightly connected to the bigger than life late/great ‘western’ movie star. Old posters, ashtrays, lamps, bits of clothing Wayne wore in some of his movies. There was even a ‘Duke’ plastic luchbox that, when opened, drawled out: ‘Walll, howdee there, pilgrim!’

Our dog-shooting Duke however had only been interested in the rifle.

It was called a ‘Yellow Boy’ because of its brass receiver and hardware. A copy of the 1876 model, it was one of only a hundred specially made to commemorate Wayne’s death, and was so marked on the barrel. The original owner, as real collectors often do, had never fired it. Our dog shooter however, had used it deer hunting for the last two decades. He and his father would take a week off every fall and try for a buck or a doe up in the Adirondacks. After the old man passed away from cancer a few years back, Duke had kind of lost interest in hunting.

The pandemic or ‘Cleansing’ as it was now being called by many survivors, had certainly changed his rather passive point of view. Even though supermarkets everywhere were still had food in them, the meat had all gone rotten soon after the power went out. The Duke, like most of the transient group staying at the Price Chopper/Safe House, enjoyed a good steak every now and then. This had prompted him to pass the first of several ‘decrees’.

‘Let it be known’ he had grinned widely from his place at the head of a long dining table filled with cold beer, hot food and steaming venison, ‘that henceforth hunting season shall be open all year long. That goes for any four legged creature fit for our table --- and also on any two legged ones caught looting, poaching, trespassing or disturbing the peace.’

As a result, while the bodies of looters, mal-contents and wandering ‘crazies’, swung in the breeze of the Price Chopper’s parking lot, inside the store’s meat locker, (now rigged with several portable gasoline driven generators), hung carcasses of local deer, moose and the remains of both a zebra and a giraffe that had escaped from the Albany Zoo.

‘Weeee-dogies! Where’s da beef?’

***

Chapter 2: The Good Doctor

Doctor Dave thought he was going insane.

Not just the ‘a little short of a dollar’ kind of bonkers that most people were after The Death Clouds rolled by, but the all the way around the mutherfukin’ bend kind of bonkers! Pills didn’t help. Booze neither. Nothing seemed to be able to stop the good doctor’s slow slide into insanity.

Lately he’d been seriously contemplating suicide.

But then who the hell could blame him? After all the horrific things, soul-shattering things he had seen in the last little while! Why, the infamous Doctor Phil Dot Com ‘Himself’ might have ‘slipped his caboose’ and contemplated ‘shuffling off this mortal coil’.

For you see, Gentle Reader,

the shit had really hit the fan!

New York City, where the good doctor plied his trade, that fabled megalopolis on the eastern seaboard of the late, great United States of America, was now a wasteland of wrecked cars, burning buildings, swirling ashes and recently rotting corpses. Well over three quarters the world had died as the deadly virus swept around the globe. Winds that had once carried Columbus and Magellan on their epic quests; that had once brought spices, gold and tea in Spanish galleons and swift clipper ships; winds that had once whisked Puritans, Pilgrims and ploughmen across the vast oceans to a ‘Brave New World’ now carried Death. And not just any old kind of death, but Death on a 'grand scale'! A pandemic-like apocalyptic death that spread over the land like an ever growing, malignant shadow! An amazingly swift, all encompassing Death that crystallized the organs, boiled the blood and transformed flesh, bone and brain into a grey, crumbling parchment resembling an old wasp nest. In less than a week the world was populated mostly with four and multi-legged creatures --- and millions upon millions of well-dressed, lifeless ‘scarecrows’.

But at first Doctor Dave had not despaired.

Some people had not dried up and blown away!

Some people had survived!

Each day small groups of those ‘fortunate folk’ slowly trickled into his hospital, seeking food, shelter, and above all, hope.

In those first few days after ‘it’ had happened, there was still some kind of order to things. The president spoke on TV. The National Guard patrolled the streets. The news stations reported the rapid spread of the killer virus. They were dubbed ‘Death Clouds’ and they marched eastward on the Trade Winds, the Monsoons and the Westerly’s, encircling the globe and casting an invisible, malignant shadow over the land.

People panicked. Soon countries panicked. Accusations were shouted, threats were hurled, missiles were readied and buttons were pushed.

Then the electro-magnetic pulses from the nukes came, turning an already frightened world into scattered pockets of terrified children alone in the smoke filled dark!

The electricity was gone. That ‘gift from the gods’ that transformed humans from mere cave dwellers huddled around a pitiful little fire into magnificent ‘modern man’ with all his great works.

When the lights went out, so did most people’s inner spark. That indefinable ‘something’ that gives us the will to carry on against all odds, snuffed out in a flurry of nuclear attacks and counter attacks by countries desperate to find someone to blame.

As the shadows crept closer, many of those that had somehow survived ‘The Cleansing’ found they had no desire to survive ‘The Dark’.

The number of suicides shot up through the roof.

The predicted 80 % death rate proved to be considerably short of the mark!

Yet some survivors found that they had a ‘knack’ for it; that all the death and dying had ‘awakened’ something in them --- something ancient and slithery. Something reptilian in nature, found more in a Steven King novel than amidst the brave survivors of a global pandemic.

And down deep in his tired bones Doctor Dave feared that he was slowly becoming one of the ancient, slithery things!

***

Back at the Hospital the massive generators had kicked in, but it wasn’t the same. Doctor Dave knew in his ever shrinking soul that nothing would ever be the same again. Sooner or later the generators would give out and the darkness, always waiting just beyond the small, flickering puddle of light, would smother all.

That’s when the weird dreams began.

At first they came only when he slept, causing him to wake screaming, sweating and trembling with fear. But soon they began to encroach into his waking moments as well.

One dream in particular seemed to stalk him like a predator. It was strange, frightening, yet at the same time, erotic. In it the Norse god Odin’s fiercely beautiful Valkaries would fly in on winged steeds to collect the dead and dying for the feasting halls in Valhalla.

In his dream he tried to stop them, to protect the weak, the frightened and the sick, but these powerful, big bosomed ladies just laughed and casually brushed him aside, their harsh voices like nails scratching at the inside of a coffin.

‘Foolish mortal’,

they had glared at him with their amber eyes.

‘See you not that the Cleansing Time is at hand!?

That the gods themselves are at war,

a war that shall bring about the ending of days!

Ragnarok !

When all that was and is shall cease to be,

And Death alone will rule the land!’

Real or not, it seemed to the good doctor that those infamous damsel’s of Nordic legend did indeed scoop up the fallen and whisk them away on the wild wind!

It also seemed to our medical do-gooder that those ‘fortunate fools’ who did not win a one way ticket to the feasting hall of the gods must have undergone a mass lobotomy of some sorts, for madness shown forth in the glazed eyes of many of those that survived. Some acted benign, almost childlike; some malignant and dangerous, but more and more lately seemed to have a sly look about the mouth or a cunning slant of the head or something ancient and slithery lurking deep in their eyes. A ‘crafty kind of craziness’ that made you wonder if that smiling stranger offering you a helping hand had ‘other things’ in mind than a shared can of Chef Boy-R-Dee.

In his dreams they took on the form of evil clown like creatures. Their leader called himself ‘Mr. Nasty’ and he seemed very interested in the good doctor.

Frighteningly so!

***

Three or four weeks after the wind-blown virus circled the globe, and the limited ‘nuke wars’ had run their course, the plagues started --- and from then on the shit got a whole lot deeper. Way the fuck over the top of your fancy fly-fishing waders deeper!

Bubonic. Typhoid. Diphtheria. A whole bunch of bu’s & ty’s & dip’s popped up that neither Doctor Dave nor his ever dwindling number of colleagues had ever dreamed of! Billions had already died, but there were still millions left --- at least, for a while. However, by the end of the third month AC --- (‘that’s After the Cleansing, Einstein’), those millions in the greater New York area were down to thousands.

Those three ladies of Nordic nightmare with the ‘nicen slitsen n’ da grosen titsen’ were kept busy night and day shuttling shades up to that great Octoberfest in the Sky!

Good ol’ Walkin’- Talkin’ Two Legs had been righteously cut back to a pale shadow of His former greatness and what had passed for civilization took one bitchin’ step backwards!

Do not pas Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

And get your mutherfuckin’ ass into Jail toot-sweet!

It was about this time that Doctor Dave, still among the living after three rather difficult months, finally decided to take his act on the road. The number of people coming to the hospital had been dwindling steadily and, when the generators finally ran dry and the power died completely, he found himself alone in the dark.

It didn’t really surprise him. In truth, he’d been expecting it, even waiting for it. The lure of the open road had been calling him for some time now, and when the lights finally did go out he decided it was time.

Yet those were not the only reasons for him wanting to hit the bricks. He had ‘other reasons’. Dark, ‘desperate’ reasons. Ones he, like most of us, keep entombed in that black vault at the back of our brains. Desires best kept secret and best kept hidden --- even from ourselves. Like those country-rock prophets of old used to croon:

‘You’ve got your demons,

You’ve got desires,

But I’ve got a few of my own!’

Like most of us, the good doctor did indeed have a few personal desires --- a little black bag just chucked full of ‘em in fact! Most he had struggled to keep in check all his life. Booze, selfishness, two failed marriages, drugs for a time. And, when he was younger, a rather sordid interest in dark, mysterious, women of an ‘occult nature’. Lately he’d gone back to the pills and booze. The neighborhood, however, was a little short on ‘witchy women’ with raven hair, ruby lips, and sparks flyin’ from their fingertips.

However, this newer, decidedly ‘darker’ desire, kept pushing aside all his older ones. Oh, at first glance, it 'appeared' innocent enough, even the humanitarian thing to do. After all, he was a doctor, sworn to 'comfort the sick and ease the suffering'

Over the past three months our fastidious physician had managed to piece back together and patch up a fair number of the human flotsam and two-legged jetsam that The Cleansing had washed up on his little island of hope --- but if the truth be told, for the great majority of his patients, there was really very little hope at all. Despite his best efforts, they would continue to suffer and, eventually, die. And not a painless ‘go softly into the dark night’ kind of death, but the screaming, cursing and shitting their pants to the bitter end kind!

So why not 'help them along' a little? Why not help the hopeless ‘gently leave this veil of tears’ --- all for the Greater Good you understand ! He told himself that he did it out of ‘compassion’; that he did it ‘because he cared’. Yet if the good doctor was being brutally honest he’d admit that he got off by 'offing' his fellow human beings. The first time, almost a month ago, it shook him to his very soul! Since then he had actually looked for reasons to ‘help out’ his patients! I mean, why not? Most of them were walking corpses anyway! And the rush it gave him! Better than sex, drugs and rock n’ roll combined!

And so, when the generators finally gave out, Doctor Dave put on his walking shoes, packed his bag, took down his shingle, changed his underwear and become --- ta-daaa! You got it, Homes! ‘Doctor Death!’ Kitted-up in a black van stuffed with medical supplies from his previous employer, he traveled the less used byways in and around the Big Apple, looking for people whose suffering he could ease. He even had a hand printed sign duct-taped to the side of his van:

Doctor Death

Bring me your weak,

your lame, your infirm

And I shall help to ease their passing.

****

One sunny day, almost a month after he hit the road, the good doctor found himself on the outskirts of Albany N.Y. when he heard a shot!

He hit the breaks as he rounded the next bend, and there, in the middle of the road was a tall blond youth standing over a body. Blood dripped off the fingers of his left hand. In his right was a still smoking pistol.

As the Doc took a look at the young man’s bleeding arm, the youth read the sign taped to the side of the ‘Deathmobile’. A puzzled smile spread over his handsome face. Hey Doc, why’d ya give yourself a crazy name like that, anyway? I mean, shit man, aint the world seen enough ‘death’ already?!

Doc, busy stitching up the knife wound on the youth’s left forearm, didn't bother to reply.

The man that had caused the wound lay spread-eagled on the road. At first glance one might think he was just catchin’ a few zzzz’s in the afternoon sunshine, but of course, one would be wrong. It seems that he had been a certified accountant, a father of three and a closet homosexual --- not that there’s anything wrong with it! Apparently it had been ‘lust at first sight’, at least on the part of the former accountant. The blond kid had obviously not felt the same. The Kid winced as Doc tied off the last stitch and bathed the wound in alcohol. Jesus, Doc! What ya tryin’ to do? Kill me?

Doc faked a smile and gave the neat stitches another healthy soaking of Scotch, then took a long pull on the bottle himself. He did not offer any to the Kid.

Hey Doc, you don’t talk much, do ya?

Doc ignored him and walked over to the dead homosexual accountant. He nudged the body with the toe of his boot, silently pronounce it dead, and walked back to the Deathmobile.

Christ, Doc, wait a fuckin’ minute, will ya? Where ya goin’ anyways? Gotta hot date or somethin'? Apparently Kid thought this was hilarious. Doc however didn’t. As he swung up into the black van, Kid tried again, this time waving the gun for added effect. Now hold on, Doc. I got a kinda proposition for ya.

Doc nodded at the spread-eagled body in the road. And if I refuse, are you going to shoot me as well?

A blank look flitted across the younger man’s face and his gaze went from Doc to the gun, then back to Doc. Suddenly the light bulb went on. Naw, I aint gunna shoot ya. Not unless I have to. But I gotta bring you back to the Safe House with me.

The safe house? Doc repeated. Why?

Cause I got the gun? The youth showed a wolfish grin, complete with dimples and a twinkle in his baby blues. In the good ol’ days that deadly combination must have made the girls all hot n’ bothered.

Doc just shook his head and turned away, gave the key a crank and the Deathmobile sprang to life. Suddenly the Glock’s dark muzzle was thrust in his ear. "I told ya ,Doc, that I didn’t want to shoot ya. I didn't say I wouldn't!"

Doc looked squarely into those baby blues. I’m leaving. Take care of that arm.

Frustrated, Kid shook his head. Shit, Doc, you sure are one cool character. The blond youth thumbed back the hammer, the metallic ‘click’ sounded like Big Ben doing its thing. "But you are comin’ back with me."

And just why the Hell should I do that? Doc suddenly demanded. "Because you wave that gun in my face? Because you might shoot me? Fine! Shoot me! Because I really don’t give a shit!"

Feeling both challenged and backed into a corner, Kid suddenly didn’t feel like smiling. What he did feel like was putting a nine mill in this fucker’s forehead just like he had with that fuckin’ faggot! Rage boiled through him, threatening to spew out like molten lava, devouring all it touched!

No, Dear Reader, the Kid hadn’t always been this aggressive. Oh, he was certainly a ‘product of his age’; you know, a latch-key kid, growing up alone, no ‘real’ family, no ‘quality time’. Too much Internet, TV and Twinkies! Overindulged, over stimulated and, of course, over the top behavior-wise. In sort, he was your 'average' North American youngster.

But then ‘The Cleansing’ had come along and wham, bam, thank you mam! Those wayward teens --- along with a sizable number of green peacers, generation ‘X’ers , politically correctors and most the other whining little shits that had somehow survived --- went through one humungous transformation!

Granny n’ gramps, even good ol’ mom n’ dad had one hellova time trying to cope with the changes the Death Clouds brought, but those video playing, instant gratification seeking, short attention spanned adolescents just blossomed! This ‘Brave New World’ was just tailor made for narcisstic little psychopaths like the Kid. In a world suddenly depopulated, his demographic group was not only the largest one still alive but it was absolutely thriving! The ‘Now’ generation had finally gotten its long awaited moment in the sun!

And why the hell not? They were young, strong and healthy. They were ego driven, knew what they wanted, knew how to get it and didn’t give a shit who got in their way! They had no religion, no morals and absolutely no conscious. They were the New Breed! The ‘Terminator Generation’! The walkin’, talking, gun-totin’, faggot shootin’ two-legged Teeee-Ran-O-Saurus Muther-Fucking REX Generation!

***

The Glock felt solid and cool in the Kids sweating hand. His legs were shaking and his heart pounding. His felt lightheaded, almost high. It was a familiar feeling; warm, friendly, though leavened with a good deal of anger, frustration and bad-to-the-bone violence. It was something he had lived with all his life, but one that had grown considerably stronger since The Cleansing and his weird dreams about evil clowns.

Casually, almost too casually, the Kid swung the Glock’s barrel away from Doc’s face, pumped two slugs into the chest of the already dead accountant and swung the smoking barrel back on track.

"My next one, Doc, will be in a warm body. Catch my drift? The Kid then pressed the still smoking barrel up against Doc’s knee. You don’t really need to walk to be a doctor, do ya? I could always find ya a real nice wheelchair. But I’m hopin’, Doc. Really hopin’, that it don’t come to that. Those warm baby blues suddenly iced over, as did his voice. So what’s it gunna be, ‘Doctor Death’? My way, the Glock pressed down harder, or fuckin' my way?!"

There was a rather long, drawn out silence, during which Doc flipped a mental coin. ‘Heads’ he goes with this homicidal punk, ‘tails’ he tells the young shit to go fuck himself. His mind’s eye could see the coin turning in the sunlight. Up, up and away! Heads --- tails --- Heads!

***

Chapter 3: The Duke

The Duke was a very good shot --- as the leader of the four-legged pack soon discovered. The hollow point slug, fired from the roof of Albany's Price Chopper, hit Fearless Fido high in its right shoulder, exited midway through the left ribcage, taking the remains of the canine heart and lungs with it. After the initial shock, the rest of the pack, ignoring the rotting bodies hanging high above them, began to tear apart their late, great and obviously unlamented leader.

The Duke watched the carnage taking place below him with somewhat mixed emotions. He might have been a very good shot, but he didn’t, however, consider himself to be a very good man. Doris, of course, thought otherwise. ‘Terrible times call for terrible decisions’ she had said when he had ordered the fist looters shot. Having them stripped naked and hung up as an example to others had just seemed to him the most efficient way of getting his warning across --- namely that this part of town was off limits to looters, gangs and crazies.

Doris had simply nodded agreement and squeezed his hand. ‘You do what you think best for all of us, James. Just like you always did before IT happened.’ (IT, of course, was the terrible change that the world had gone through five months earlier.)

Keeping ‘order’ within his own growing group of followers had proved fairly simple --- after the first few executions. As in ancient Japan, there was only one punishment for breaking any of the Duke’s laws. Death.

The odd thing wasn’t that these rather ruthless decisions bothered him all that much --- au contrair mon ami, it was that they didn’t seem to bother him at all! To his surprise The Duke was discovering that being ruthless was turning out to be one hell of a lotta fun! And that little realization scared the living shit out of him!

My God, James! Doris said --- this time she was actually standing beside him, not just a motherly voice he carried around as his ultra conscious. There’s more wild dogs every day! You can’t possibly shoot them all!

The proud owner of the smoking Yellow Boy looked back at the grey haired woman and smiled. I’m hoping, Doris, that once I take out the leader, the rest will soon just slink away.

Doris was a mother of three and grandmother of four, all dead now of course. Her husband as well. She was still grieving over her offspring. About her late spouse? Not so much.

Hubby, you see, had considered himself a ‘real golfer’, the results of which made Doris a ‘golf widow’. As was his want since taking an early retirement, hubby had gone golfing the morning the virus filled ‘Death Clouds’ blew by --- and had never come back. Doris secretly hoped that his ‘goddamned self-centered ashes’ were scattered all over the ‘goddamned Albany Golf and Country Club’ for the ‘sonovabitch had loved it a hell of a lot more than he ever had me or the children!’

Doris had worked as a cashier at the same Price Chopper where The Duke was the manager. They had been good friends for years. Doris had ‘been there for James’ both during and after the long, dragged-out death of his father. Ever since the world had gone in the crapper, ‘James’ was the only family Doris had left.

Doris was also the only person that ever called Duke by his given name. The rest of the people staying at the Safe House (the former Motel Six opposite the Price Chopper) were scared shitless of him! And not without good reason. Those bodies twisting in the wind didn’t climb up there all by themselves! No sireebob!

James, what’s that over there by the pizza shop? Are my old eyes deceiving me or is that ---

A fucking lion! Duke finished for her. He scrambled in a pack-sack by his chair and came out with a pair of binoculars. Jesus, there’s three of them! No, four! All females. Now where’s the fucking male?

Mind your tongue, young man, Doris admonished casually, then pointed off to the left. There, at the far edge of the parking lot. He’s just sitting there.

Duke swung the glasses. Ya, watching the dogs. The smell of the bodies must have drawn them. He stuffed the binocs back in the bag, grabbed his 30/30 and stood. Let’s go, Doris.

James, aren’t you going to shoot them?

Duke smiled at her. Not from here, Sweety. Too far away. Besides, the others would only scatter.

But, we can’t just let them run wild!

Duke’s smile widened. Doris, in case you hadn’t noticed, the whole fucking world has gone wild.

Doris, a good twenty years his senior, frowned. Mind your tongue!

Duke took a deep breath and nodded. Sorry, Sweets. I’ll get some of the group together and we’ll go on a little hunting trip. That should chase the buggers out of the area.

How did they even get here? Doris asked. At the zoo weren’t they locked in cages?

Modern technology, Doris. All those wide open spaces for the animals, those ‘natural habitats’ the zoo people built for them had electric fences and gates. When the power went off ---

The bloody gates came open! Doris said as the shoe dropped.

Mind your tongue, young lady! The Duke grinned and hefted his Winchester. Now, let’s go hunting!

***

Not much further now, the Kid said from the passenger seat of the Deathmobile. Doctor Dave glanced over at the blond youth, then back as he swerved to go around an abandoned eighteen-wheeler.

Duke’s been having us drag away the stalled cars from around the ‘Safe House’, but that bastard back there won’t start n’ is too dammed big to push! Just up ahead there, hang a right.

Doc did as he was bid and, topped a small rise and came face to face with the Price Chopper parkinglot, complete with naked bodies dangling from the lamp posts. Doc hit the breaks and swore.

Relax, Doc, the Kid grinned, clearly enjoying his newfound companion’s shock. It’s just Duke’s way of saying ‘Strangers, enter here at your own fuckin’ risk! Works too! We aint had no looters around here for over a month! The grin widened. At least, none that got away."

Ya, well, I guess it pays to advertise, Doc muttered.

Kid smiled, chuckling to himself. You kill me, Doc. You just kill me.

***

And you call yourself Doctor Death? Duke asked for the second time.

Yes.

That’s your real name?

As real as yours is, Duke.

‘Why?"

Read the sign, Doc replied, pointing to the side of the Deathmobile.

Duke read, then grunted. So you help the dying ‘ease their passing.’ With what, drugs?

And with dignity.

Kid chuckled some more. I told you he was some’n else, Duke! He kills me!

Duke ignored the grinning youth and took a step closer. "And you’re a real doctor, right? Not some asshole who once took a First Aid course?"

Doc smiled agreement.

Not some half-assed male-nurse who majored in cleaning bedpans?

Doc’s smile began to loose some of its luster. Like I’ve already told you, friend, I’m a GP. Have been one for over a dozen years.

In New York City? Duke continued the interrogation.

For the past five years. Boston before that.

Duke’s eyebrow rose. A ‘city-boy’. What brings you out into the wilds of Albany?

‘The stink, mostly. That and the lack of power. The plague bodies all turned to that greyish dust, but those that survived and died later were rotting and breeding disease. He frowned at the decaying bodies still twisting in the wind. The rats and feral dogs can’t eat them fast enough. Now, if you don’t mind --- and even if you do --- I’ll be on my way."

Doc turned and started back towards his black van. Duke nodded at the Kid and then at Doc’s back. The Kid sprang into action. Once again his gleaming smile appeared, as did his handgun.

Hold on there, Doc. Kid beamed, waving the gun in Doc’s general direction. Don’t rush off all pissed. Duke didn’t mean nothin’. He’s gotta check out the people me ‘n the other scouts bring in is all. Christ, you shouda seen the asswipe Stretch brought in last week. Thought he was fuckin’ Rambo!

You sent him on his merry way, I take it? Doc commented, ignoring the Glock.

The grin went from ear to ear as Kid waved his handgun in the direction of the parkinglot. Sorta. He’s decoratin’ the last pole on the left.

After a very long moment, Doc asked: And just what was his crime? Poor acting?

Cute, Doc, Duke answered. I see what the Kid meant about you having a ‘weird sense of humor’. No, that fellow’s crime was attempted rape. We took him in and that was how he repaid us. Such actions are not tolerated around here. Now it was Duke’s smile that widened. Like you, Doc, we’re in the business of helping people, not hurting them. So, I put it to you again, won’t you reconsider staying with us? At least for a little while?

Doc looked around. Except for the dangling bodies, it looked like a busy little New England type village. People were bustling about, a couple of men were working at the garage across the street. A towtruck went by pulling a smashed car. A woman and two children were working in a large garden out in front of the Motel Six. One old lady sat in a rocker with a baby in her lap. Up on the hill behind the Price Chopper a tractor was preparing a field for planting.

Come on, Doc, the Kid beamed. Give it a couple of days.

Doc drew a deep breath, glanced around once more, then nodded.

The Duke draped an arm over the slighter man. Doc, ya just never can tell what’s around the bend. Now the reason I asked about the hunting is because a few of us are off on a little trip tomorrow and I’d really like you to come along.

Thanks, but like I just said, I’m not into guns and shooting.

The arm tightened slightly around his shoulders. I’ve got plenty of shooters, Doc. What I didn’t have was someone to patch them up if they get hurt --- until now.

Doc’s eyes narrowed. And just what will ‘we’ be hunting --- more potential looters?

Duke gave a ‘friendly squeeze’ and let go. Yes, Sir, I do like your sense of humor! Kid was right about you on all counts. As for tomorrow’s hunt, well, looters are always a problem, but what we’re really out to bag is something a whole lot more dangerous.

And just what, prey tell, would that be?

Duke leaned in and smiled. Lions, Doc. A whole hungry pride of African lions.

***

He’s one big mother! Jewels, a pretty twenty-something blonde with an athletic build, muttered as she looked through the scope of her modified M16. Her target was a male lion just over a hundred yards away.

A soldier on leave from Iraq visiting her folks when The Cleansing happened, Jewels had stayed with her family until the last of them, her younger sister, had died of the virus. A month ago one of Duke’s ‘scouts’ had found her on the road and brought her in the Safe House. (actually, she had found him). Duke quickly saw her military training as a huge asset and soon promoted her to Head of Security. She set right in organizing what she called ‘The Guards’.

You got that right, Jewels! Kid exclaimed in a voice a little too loud for the situation. But then he was nervous. Not of the lions, but of Jewels. In truth, he had ‘the hots’ for her, but she also intimidated the shit out of him!

Though they were approximately the same age, she just ‘seemed’ so much older, more ‘mature’ --- waaaay the fuck outta his league! Still, he was smitten. One look into her baby blues (a deeper shade than his own); one sway of that slender, ass-kickin’ bod and he was a gonner!

So naturally, he acted like a fool around her.

For her part, she acted like he didn’t exist.

Doris thought that it was a match made in Heaven.

Duke thought the old gal should mind her own fucking business.

The pretty blonde made a hand sign and two of her camo-clad ‘Guards’ began to slowly flank the lion.

There was a ‘healthy competition’ as Duke liked to put it between the Kid’s laid-back, devil-may-care ‘Scouts’ and Jewel’s by-the-book, well drilled, well disciplined ‘Guards’. One group tended to dress as sloppily as they trained, while the other looked, dressed and acted like a well run SWAT team. Both groups however, got excellent results, and that was all Duke really cared about. He’d gladly leave all the ‘Dear Abby/ Opra/ Doctor Phill’ bullshit to Doris.

Where’s the females? Stretch asked nervously, glancing around as though expecting a lioness to spring upon them at any second. Stretch got his name from his height, especially his extraordinarily long legs, which he now seemed in danger of tripping over.

For Christ sake, Stretch, calm the fuck down! Kid hissed too loudly. Jewels took a deep breath and rolled her pretty eyes. Her silence spoke volumes.

"I am calm, goddamn it! Just a bit hyper is all."

"Then hyper-the-fuck-down!" Kid replied, whishing not for the first time that his guys were more like Jewel’s gang than he wanted to openly admit. ‘Maybe I can talk her into some kind of ‘combined maneuvers’ or something’ he inwardly mused. ‘Ya sure! When pigs fucking fly!’

Just then the big male let out a deep-throated roar that made a few assholes pucker.

Holy shit! Wrench, another one of Kid’s ‘Scouts’, exclaimed. The Latino mechanic was clutching a double barreled 12 gage as though it was a blessed relic --- which he unclutched only long enough to cross himself.

Duke, watching from a few yards away, motioned for Jewels to join him. The ex soldier flowed towards him like water.

Ya, Top?

Duke was secretly flattered whenever she referred to him by the military term. ‘Top’, as in the ‘top-man-in-charge’.

You have your best shooter ready?

Of course, Top. Just say the word and that big boy goes down.

Though a recreational hunter off and on for most of his life, with age had come something new into Duke’s rather humdrum life --- not counting, of course, the recent ending of the fucking world! It was a phenomenon that happened to a large number of lifetime hunters as they reached their ‘mature’ years --- a strange, deep reverence for Nature and a strong, emotional resistance to kill those beautiful, innocent creatures they had hunted all their lives.

Duke’s own father had spoken of it several times towards the end. The last time they had hunted together ‘Duke senior’ had refused to take a magnificent eight point buck that had crested a hill directly in front of the father and son team. Duke often recalled how his father had looked actually disappointed when the son had brought the buck down with his prized ‘Yellow Boy’.

Duke, however, felt absolutely no such compulsion when it came to ending the lives of looters, dangerous crazies or any other four or two legged creature that threatened the safety of ‘his people’. The lions were magnificent animals, certainly equal to that eight pointed buck of years gone by --- but Duke knew that once the lone male was taken out of the picture, the females, unable to reproduce, would eventually die off. He only hoped they moved off to wilder places where deer and other animals were more plentiful.

Jewels, it’s a go.

The blonde soldier pressed a button on a small throat-mike. Queenie, Top says it’s a go. Do you have the target?

Roger that, Jewels. Male cat in the crosshairs, came back from a speaker earpiece.

Take the shot, Jewel whispered.

The male roared a second time, almost drowning out the sound of the sniper rifle firing from the hill off to the left. At least two hundred yards from shooter to target, but then Jewels had trained her squad well. Besides, Queenie, a red headed farm girl who grew up with a daddy and five brothers who loved to hunt, had already known her way around firearms. A month’s daily practice with a sniper rifle had honed here special skill to a razor’s edge.

"Big Boy’s down, Top, Jewels said. And the females are scattering. You want my crew to take them out?"

No, let them go. Kid’s bunch can keep an eye on them. Nudge them along a bit so they leave the area.

Already on it, Duke! the Kid grinned, motioning for Stretch and Wrench to follow him. Some of my boys are already movin’ in on the bitches! As he and his two Scouts began to move down the hill, three or four shots were fired from off to the left, followed by a scream that was suddenly cut off.

What the…? Kid demanded?

Several more shots then rang out, the last one from a high powered rifle. Jewels again spoke into her throat mike. Static crackled, then a voice came back. Jewels listened, then turned to Duke. One of the females attacked a Scout. Mauled him and then attempted to drag him away. Queenie shot her.

Which Scout? Kid demanded.

She can’t tell --- there’s too much blood. But he’s still moving.

Duke turned to Doc, who had stood back silently