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

  A Duck and Cover Adventure Book 4

  Benjamin Wallace

  Copyright © 2018 by Benjamin Wallace. All rights reserved.

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  From the pages of the best-selling Duck & Cover Adventures comes thirteen stories of those who survived the apocalypse. Some would go on to be heroes, others villains, some were dogs and will stay dogs, but they all must contend with the horrors of the new world and find a way to survive in the wasteland that was America.

  Get this laugh-out-loud collection of stories from the Duck & Cover Adventures post-apocalyptic series now when you sign up for my Readers’ Group.

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  Duck & Cover Adventure Series

  Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors

  Knights of the Apocalypse

  Pursuit of the Apocalypse

  Revenge of the Apocalypse

  Boom Box (Duck & Cover Adventures Books 1-3)

  Tales of the Apocalypse Volume 1 (A Duck & Cover Collection)

  Prelude

  Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

  A wise man once said that. A wise man that, apparently, didn’t have many enemies. Which is quite admirable considering he spent his whole life telling people what to do. If your whole life is going around and being a bossy little shit and you only end up with enough enemies to just fill two holes, you’ve beaten the odds. Offering unsolicited advice is not an endearing quality.

  Of course, in his infinite bossiness, what the man meant was to dig one grave for your victim and one for yourself, as revenge is a less-than-noble pursuit and would surely damn the soul of those that seek it. That would be a best-case scenario. Worst case it could lead them to their literal death.

  It worked well enough as a metaphor, but in all practicality, it was bad advice. Especially since the world ended.

  For one thing, no one really dug graves anymore. Maybe for a loved one, but not really for someone they didn’t care for—much less hated enough to murder. The simple fact was that grave digging was hard work. It was far easier to leave your enemy’s corpse for the countless scavengers. Buzzards had to eat, too.

  It may seem cruel but, since the collapse of polite society, morality had become somewhat squishy. Most people still tried to be good and certainly thought of themselves that way, but the definition of good had become rather difficult to pin down. Almost anything could be justified in a world without indoor plumbing.

  “Steal a loaf of bread to feed my starving family” soon became “raid a farming commune, pillage, rape and plunder to maintain my status in the gang so my family can eat and I don’t get shanked in the middle of the night for that warm blanket I pulled off a rotting corpse outside of Biloxi last winter.”

  The justification of violence became easy enough for anyone, but it was even easier in a mob that backed up your messed-up moral view. Because of this, it was rare that the target of revenge was ever just a single person. Entire groups were targeted for their associations—real or perceived.

  On one hand this made turning the other cheek a rather popular option. It was easier to forgive Donovan’s Death Adders and forget that they had swooped into your town in the dead of night, murdered half the population, burned the grain stores and pissed in the water supply than it was to take up arms and chase a hundred maniacs on motorcycles into the wasteland.

  Of course, impossible odds didn’t stop everyone. After the bombs fell, civilization collapsed and the Earth turned murderous some pretty terrible things happened. Man showed what he was truly capable of and a little urine in the drinking water was really on the low side of offenses.

  But some things, quite obviously, justified revenge. Those that had lost everything had lost their common sense as well, and the impossible odds of going up against a gang weren’t enough to deter them.

  Those that followed this path of self-destruction were often afforded a quiet respect. A stranger seeking righteous vengeance was usually treated with more kindness than your run-of-the-mill stranger. They were given food and shelter and a certain amount of reverence. They were dead men walking, after all. But people everywhere wanted to see justice done even if they weren’t about to see to it themselves. It was a romantic idea at best. Justice had died in the bombs with just about everything else.

  There were rumors of the rare, successful rampage. A lone madman wandering into a raider camp with nothing to lose and somehow emerging with justice done and memories of loved ones avenged. Of course, there were also stories of a city back east, or west, or north, untouched by the apocalypse. And another one of a city filled with talking moose. People liked to believe strange things and justice being served fell into that category.

  The smarter revenge-seeker would plan the long game and take an Edward Dantes approach. That would have a better chance of success. But, while watching your enemies succumb to their own weaknesses, hang themselves by their own misdeeds and drown in their own hubris in a complex web of traps and ruses of your own devising would be satisfying, it wasn’t quite practical in a world where even the plants could eat you on any given Tuesday. Time was always an issue in the wasteland.

  With Dumas’s plans out the window and a full frontal assault tantamount to suicide, those truly entitled to revenge had little choice but to sigh and whisper, “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

  But sometimes, revenge is worth that stain on your soul.

  And sometimes, two graves aren’t enough.

  Sometimes you need an entire cemetery.

  If you decide to bury the bastards at all.

  - A journal entry from the post-apocalyptic nomadic warrior dated “final entry”

  ONE

  The semi-truck belched a plume of black smoke as it crossed the Rainbow Bridge over the Niagara River.

  The once-popular crossing between nations was now a maze of barriers and burnt-out cars. Some of the hulks had been placed intentionally; other twisted wrecks had been left to burn as examples to others. The Peterbilt found another gear and shuddered as it picked up speed. The improvised plow that served as its front bumper wasn’t bothered by the obstacles. It barreled into them, creating a shower of sparks and sending several of the barricades plunging into the river below as the men charged with guarding the bridge scrambled out of the way.

  There was no time to revel in their panic. There wasn’t even time to enjoy the view of the falls as he raced across the bridge with his foot pressed to the floor.

  More men gathered atop the barrier that towered in front of him. People called them the Great Canadian Gates, but Canada had nothing to do with it. The end of the world had happened so fast that the world’s governments didn’t have time to close the borders, much less construct a massive structure like this. Just like so many other things on that day, Canada was and then simply wasn’t.

  The fifty-foot wall was never meant to protect Canada or its people. It was built to solidify the power of the tyrant Invictus by closing some people in and shutting others out. This was Alasis in all its horror.

  They opened fire from the top of the gates. Most of the bullets bounced harmlessly off the metal plate he had welded across the cab. The thickness of the plate and the distance made the projectiles little more than a distraction. Even the guard on the 50-cal
iber machine gun, despite his best efforts, wasn’t getting through.

  As he neared the gates and reduced the range, the larger rounds buried deeper into the shield. A string of dents appeared over his head as the bullets pounded the metal. His instincts told him to cringe and lay off the gas, so he pushed the pedal harder against the truck’s floor and sat up tall in the seat.

  The engine burped another blast of soot as he geared down and sped up. The dog in the seat next to him barked its encouragement at the action. The hair on its back bristled. He knew why they were here and was as willing to throw himself against the gates as the driver was.

  They had taken everything from so many. Few that had survived the end of the world had been untouched by the monsters behind these walls. They had seized power with such speed and violence that no one could stand against them. They orchestrated the terror of every man, woman and child that struggled to scrape out an existence in the post-apocalyptic world. No one could stop them.

  But someone had to try. It was suicide. Deep down he knew it, but the rage inside him had kept that knowledge buried as he planned and prepared for today. They had taken everything from him. Despite his best attempts to flee their grip, they had taken everyone he cared about.

  The dog barked as if it could see the man on the gate hoisting the rocket launcher onto his shoulder. The driver saw it too and pulled hard on the steering wheel as the canister on the guard’s shoulder flashed.

  The rig swung hard right toward the edge of the bridge and crashed through the concrete barrier that had once protected pedestrians from motor vehicle traffic.

  The rocket struck to his left and tore a hole through the bridge’s deck. He felt the concussion slam into the metal plate he had welded to the door.

  It pushed the truck farther right and he scraped the safety rail, throwing a cascade of sparks toward the river below.

  The dog howled and scrambled as it slid across the seat. He felt himself falling as well and fought to crank the wheel back to the left while trying to ignore the thought of going over the edge of the Rainbow Bridge. He’d never know exactly how close he came to ending his assault in the cold waters of the Niagara River, but he knew it wasn’t far.

  Veering right, he straightened the rig once more and sped toward the gates. Even the dog let out what sounded like a sigh of relief. He looked at his faithful companion and grinned. “It’s our turn, boy.”

  The dog barked in agreement as the driver pulled a black box from the dash. Four dozen wires spilled from the back of the box and ran up into the truck’s console. There they split into two harnessed bundles bound together with electrical tape. Half went to the left of the truck, the rest to the right, but they all served the same purpose. He thumbed back the red switch cover and mashed the button beneath.

  Every launch shook the truck from left to right and back again as the rocket pods mounted on the rig spit out their payload. The narrow slit he had cut in the armor filled with fire as forty-eight rockets streamed toward the gates. For a long moment he couldn’t see anything else. Briefly, their fiery tails faded and for a split second he could see again.

  It was only a fraction of a second before the explosions blinded him once more, but in that fraction, time slowed. He saw the men on the gates. He saw them realize someone had decided to fight back. He saw them understand that the fortress of fear they hid behind wouldn’t stand forever. He saw them realize that the hell they had wrought on others had finally come for them. And, in a much more practical sense, he saw them realize that the wall they were standing on was about to be obliterated.

  But there was only time for that realization to drive them to fear. Not action. And it was sweet.

  The rockets delivered their explosive warheads in a blast that shook the bridge beneath him. He lost sight of the men and the gates themselves as fire erupted and raced up into the sky, baking the metal that lined the once impenetrable obstacle.

  Fire turned to smoke and the wind over the river carried it away. The gates still stood. The men had been thrown from the perches. The structure had been shaken and the gates still stood. But there was a hole.

  “Get down, boy!”

  The dog responded by dropping to the floor under the dash and burrowing into a cocoon of foam and blankets.

  He aimed for the hole and never touched the brakes.

  The rig bounced as it collided with the debris. The trailer scraped against the remains of the gate. Metal twisted and screeched and screamed as the momentum drove them through the crack in Alasis’s armor. Despite the seatbelt’s best effort to hold him in place, he was thrown around the cab. He felt the bruise form across his chest almost instantly as the strap snapped taut across his body.

  The sound and the bouncing got worse and it felt as if the cab would tip over at several points, but it always righted itself as it forced its way through the hole in the great gates.

  One final crash sent him surging forward. He was bloodied and bruised but he was inside the walls of the tyrant’s stronghold. His eyes went to the other side of the cab, searching for movement in the piles of blankets, and found it instantly.

  The dog stuck his nose out of the pile and cast a damning gaze at the driver.

  “That’s step one,” he sighed as he unbuckled his seatbelt and crawled into the back of the cab. “C’mon.”

  Step two was no less subtle. The engine fired through low flow pipes that quickly filled the trailer with exhaust and chaos. The ramp crashed down, crushing one of the braver guards that had approached the truck. The Shelby leapt out of the trailer and into the streets of Alasis.

  Getting through the customs pavilion was surprisingly easy. The plaza was lightly guarded and it wasn’t until he drove through that he realized he had always wanted to charge across a border, crashing through wooden barricades while guards dove for cover, shouting at him in a foreign language. Or, in this case, it would be a foreign accent. He idly wondered if they would have screamed at him in English only, or followed it with the French translation as well.

  Even though the idea of nations had been long since obliterated, it was interesting to see how Canada had once welcomed foreigners into their country. He imagined it was important to have some sort of landmark that displayed the nation’s culture as soon as one left the customs plaza, but he was surprised to see just how much Canada’s version of Planet Hollywood looked like their American cousin’s. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. An Alan Thicke-centric theme perhaps? At the very least a Lorne Greene statue or a Leslie Nielsen fountain couldn’t have hurt.

  He shot past the restaurant, a mall, and then hung a left. Rumors about the city’s tyrant were plentiful and often conflicting. While some said he was formerly an important political figure, others claimed he had risen from next to nothing to rule. Some said he was a younger man while others claimed he was north of sixty. Some rumors claimed he practiced cannibalism by eating the hearts of victims, while others said he was vegan and warned about starting any conversation with him for fear of getting a lecture about the diet’s health benefits and altruism.

  For every rumor, there was another to contradict it. But all of them had the despot living at the Fallsview Casino, and he wasn’t far from the hotel tower.

  Shots rang out behind him as the guards rallied their defense. Several cars were on his tail now, so he hung a right just past a wax museum. The back end of the GT500 slid out and the dog barked as it tried to steady itself in the passenger seat.

  Motels and convenience stores were a blur as he watched the rearview mirror. Two of the pursuit vehicles made the turn while others continued down Victoria Avenue as they spread out to cover the city. Another wax museum and a block of motels passed by and he veered right to follow the street through a residential neighborhood.

  A pickup blocked the end of the street, so he cut across the yard, sending mud and sod at the guards as they raised their weapons to shoot. He felt the Mustang’s ground effects scrape against the curb on the way up and
back down. A 4x4 may have been a better option.

  The tires regained their grip on the road and he cornered left a couple of times trying to lose his pursuers inside the neighborhood of old homes. But he kept sight of his goal. The hotels along the river were the tallest buildings in the town and he used them as reference points as he swerved through the streets.

  There was no end to the number of men and women trying to kill him. The longer he was on the road, the thicker the streets became with armed sentries. He doubled back through the neighborhood, and the quiet homes he had passed earlier were now covered with armed men firing at him from their porches.

  He wouldn’t last long on these mean streets of Niagara Falls.

  Drifting around another corner put him in line with the Fallsview Casino. He straightened the Mustang and unleashed all 550hp in a final charge that would take him to his target’s doorstep. He made it half a block when the plow shot out of a side street and scooped the Ford off the ground.

  He screamed as the car flipped sideways and back in the air before crashing onto the hood and sliding off the side of the road. They were spinning. Was it the car? Or was it just him? Everything went dim.

  Hovering somewhere just shy of consciousness, but never fully able to wake up, his mind filled the time with bitter thoughts. It reminded him that it was his own fault for being here, ultimately. It was his fault for always trying to do the right thing. The right thing had put him on the wrong side of Alasis’s men. The right thing had pissed off the wrong people. The right thing had cost him everything. His love. His freedom. And ultimately, the right thing would cost him his life.

  The bouts of awareness were brief. But he knew they had pulled him from the car. They had tossed him into a truck and moved him somewhere. He was briefly in an elevator and now he was in a chair somewhere quite windy.