The Raid

An arid wind blew through the dust covered town in northwestern Arizona. It was one of those small towns that the world had forgotten after the outbreak, and this made it the perfect place for people to settle. Lives of luxury were gone, and those who enjoyed them were gone, too. What was left were those with the will to survive, and those who could avoid falling prey to the prior.

The world had literally become dog eat dog, or person eat person for some. Food had become both a luxury and a currency in this new world, and One-Eye was certain this little town had plenty of it. It was in a place off the beaten-path, far away from everything and everyone. It was the perfect place for people to start over, and that made it the perfect place for the Nomads to raid.

They had set up a camp a few miles outside of town, hidden behind hills and the shells of old cars. The people had no idea they were coming, and that was how they preferred it. Blitz attacks, as One-Eye had taught the rest, would yield the best quality results. He pressed himself flat into the dirt, raising a pair of binoculars to his good eye and watched the little ants scurry about their safe little town. They had few weapons, no defenses, and not a care in the world. It was like the end of the world had just passed them by. They were all clean, well dressed, and seemed rather friendly with eachother. It was like a living photo of what things were like in the past.

The outbreak had occurred over thirty years ago now, most of the adults in the world were either children or not even born. To reach One-Eye’s age was nothing short of impressive, and to survive with an injury like the one he had was what commanded the respect of the other Nomads. Absently, he wiped the sweat from his brow where the bottom of a palm extending downward, middle finger touching the tip of his chin, was tattooed in black on his face. Most of the other Nomads called him “Black-Hand” but some still called him One-Eye. It didn’t matter, though, Black-Hand was a title, One-Eye was a name.

Next to him, sharpening the head of a massive axe, sat Knucklebone. He was One-Eye’s chief lieutenant, his savagery only tempered by One-Eye’s patience. “This is getting old. They’re meat. They’ve got nothing to stop us, and we’ve been at this for over four days.”

“If they have even one gun, then we have a problem. How many guns do we have, Knucklebone?”

There was a brief silence. One-Eye knew his comrade was counting on his fingers. “We’ve got, uh, four. Four guns, but we’re fast. You know that, Black-Hand. We can take them out well before they get one of their precious guns on us.”

“You ever been shot?” he asked, dropping the binoculars and rolling to look at Knucklebone.

He was scarred, but they seemed more ritualistic than wound-based. “Shot? No. Knifed plenty, lots done by me, some by the sawbones, some by the meat. “

“Imagine getting knifed, then heat it up and make it faster, sudden, and incredibly jarring. That’s getting shot.”

“Why do you know what that’s like? You been shot, old one?” Knucklebone growled

“Few times. Each time you risk dying. Don’t matter where they get you, cause the wound can get infected pretty easy out here. It’s not something I want to go through again, and that’s why I’m being so cautious.” he could hear Knucklebone continue his irritated mumbling, but there were no more audible protests.

“How much longer then?” he finally asked.

“Tonight.” One-Eye responded, giving the small town a final once over before pushing off the dust and motioning for his younger companion to follow. “Let’s get the camp ready.”

They journeyed back down the hill and the mile back to camp, where they were greeted by the others of the tribe. One-Eye could smell the meat cooking over the fire and ventured to the center of their temporary settlement. “Nomads!” he called, arms raised high into the air. “Tonight, we feast!”

Andrew Burke toiled tirelessly for what felt like hours, the hammer’s rhythmic thumping becoming almost hypnotic as he drove nail after nail into wood. It was strange to him that not thirty years ago he was a carpenter’s apprentice, helping to build homes. Now, he had his own little workshop where people recognized him as the kindly old toy maker, creating playhouses and little wooden toys for the children in town. Often, they’d come and watch him work, and during the evenings when they had all gathered in the square he’d tell stories of how things were before everything changed.

Resurrection, as they had come to call their little slice of heaven, was safe from the outside world. Hard to find on any maps, and even harder to get to with any sort of vehicle, it was like the chaos of the wastelands had passed them by. It gave him an opportunity to find love, and even to have a child. His beloved Rachel had never known the world before the outbreak, and like so many of the young ones in town she grew up not knowing just how dangerous the world had become. She was a woman now, living her life in town with the others, but to him she would always be his little girl. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Burke moved away from his table for the first time in what felt like ages that day.

He ambled toward the tool bench, dropping into a chair and opening his canteen to take a long swig of precious water. His gaze dropped to the tool bench, and to a small gold locket sitting upon it. Burke sighed and grabbed the little piece of jewelry, admiring the tiny heart a moment, tracing a calloused thumb across the filigree a smiling weakly to himself. “Ah, Ida, our little girl has grown into quite the young woman.” he murmured, releasing the tiny latch and flipping the locket open to reveal a picture of a woman holding a baby and smiling at the camera, on the other side was a picture of a different woman. The two most important people in Burke’s life. His daughter and his late wife. Mona’s birth was hard on her, and no one in town really understood what postpartum depression was. In the end, Ida took her own life, and Burke was left to raise his little girl without her.

He shook his head, wiping away a stray tear and chuckling to himself. “Best get back to it…” he murmured, checking out the window as the sun began to fall.

The horizon burned orange, even though the sun had fallen. Many in Resurrection found themselves nervously staring out at it. The world had ignored them for so long that they had forgotten. They had forgotten the danger of that blaze.

The howls, shrieks, and roars that radiated from the fire drove that burning poker of fear deep into their minds. Some froze, others bolted, knowing what was to come. None, however, were prepared for the wave of monsters to bound in to town. Their bodies covered in bones and human flesh, faces shielded by masks made from the faces of others. Screams of terror were drowned out by shrill cries of joy as the peaceful town was set alight and its people mercilessly victimized.

Burke heard the screams, he heard the monsters rush into his town, and his only thought was Mona. He had found his daughter huddled with a small group of other women and children. He ran to her, ran like there was nothing else in the world that mattered. “Mona!” he screamed, taking the young woman by the shoulders, her face a mess beneath tears. “Run! Take the children and run! Don’t stop running, you hear me? Don’t stop for anything!” he frantically motioned for them all to run, and they obliged, driven by fear and adrenaline.

Burke turned to face the flames, his carving tools his only weapon. He rushed forward, tackling one raider, he raised his hammer high only to feel a heat in his arm. He looked to it, a piece of what looked like rusted metal was bisecting his forearm, and the hammer fell. He did as well, clutching his arm. The heavy footfalls of old cowboy boots were the only sound he heard as he looked up, seeing a man with a black hand tattooed across his face and an eyepatch covering his left eye. The raider leveled some kind of makeshift crossbow at his face. Then everything was white.

One-Eye looked to the other Nomads as they ransacked the town, taking whatever they wanted and ending anyone who got in their way. Then he saw Knucklebone, swinging that massive axe through the townspeople like some kind of twisted headsman on a merry romp. He shook his head, pulling the rebar bolt from the head of the old man and rearming his weapon of choice. He helped the smaller Nomad get back up, a look of disproval on his face. “You let him surprise you. That happens again. I may not be there to save you. Keep your eyes open, you’ve got two of ‘em after all.” he dusted his companion off and gave him a pat on the back, like a father sending his child back to school, he sent the Nomad back into the fray.

Surveying the carnage and destruction, he saw something strange. A small group of townsfolk were running. Knucklebone was already in pursuit, and nearly on them. One-eye followed close behind, raising an eyebrow as he arrived. Knucklebone hadn’t taken these ones yet, instead he stood there, growling and menacing them. One-Eye soon discovered the reason. They were mostly children. There were a few women among them, but the majority were no older than ten. One woman stood in front of Knucklebone defiantly, her chest puffed out proudly as she shielded the others. The Nomad’s axe raised high into the air, only to be stopped short by a whistle. He turned to look at One-Eye, who approached the scene and motioned for him to back away.

Begrudgingly, Knucklebone obliged, giving the older raider a chance to get a good look at them. The woman’s face was stained from tears and sweat, but her gaze was alight with the fire defiance. “You leave them alone.” She growled. One-Eye’s head drifted to the side as he studied her before his hand shot forward, tearing a locket free from her neck. She moved to charge him, but the commanding gaze of the Black-Hand quickly informed her that this move would be a bad idea. He opened the locket, studying the pictures for what felt like ages before closing it up and tossing it back to her. He pressed the crossbow to her forehead.

“You have a choice.” he stated flatly.

The indignation remained. “And what’s that?” she hissed.

“Them.” One-Eye’s head nodded toward the group she was protecting. “Or you.”

She looked over her shoulder, the fear in the eyes of the others softening her. Then her gaze fell back on the Nomad, tears welling in her eyes. “Them.” she murmured.

One-Eye nodded, pulling the trigger and watching the defiant woman slump to the ground. “She died for you!” he bellowed. “Will you honor her sacrifice and run? Or will you stay and die?” they ran. One-Eye laughed, looking to Knucklebone, who stare at the fleeing party like a hungry dog. “Give them a thirty count.” he stated coldly. “And finish what you started. No one escapes the Nomads.” Knucklebone slammed his axe in the earth eagerly, pulling back his sweat soaked hair and nodding. One-Eye turned, drifting back into the chaos with a bitter smile.