Generation Death

Generation Death

E. E. Jackson

Published by Phantom House Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright E. E. Jackson 2015

Chapter 1

Boxes clattered to the floor as the young man frantically searched for the medicine. He wasn't even sure exactly what it was he needed, he just knew that his only hope lay in getting whatever antibiotics he could lay his hands on and getting out of here, before they caught him. People didn't take kindly to thieves like him these days, and most people were liable to shoot one on sight, particularly in a town like this.

Crates filled with blankets thumped onto the cool concrete floor, boxes filled with cans of processed meat split open and allowed their cargo to escape, rolling their way to freedom in a darkened corner of the supply room, under the metal shelving and far from prying eyes.

Finally, after what seemed like an age of looking, the man chanced upon a box filled with pills of all colours, shapes and sizes. He shone his flash-light inside and glanced at the names on them. He didn't recognise any of them, but that wouldn't stop him. He picked up his torn and dirty backpack from the floor and shoved handfuls of pill packets into it, each bearing the flag of the People's Republic of America. That probably meant it was some two-bit second rate crap, but it was the only chance his friends had right now, so he had to take it. He'd work out what they all were after he'd gotten clear of this place, back to his own camp and clear of any chance of being captured by the locals who lived here.

He was just stuffing a few tins of food on top when a small noise behind him, barely loud enough to hear, made him spin around. The aisle behind him was dark, like the rest of the room, and he played the beam of light around until he saw what had made the noise.

It was a man, early thirties he'd guess and strong-looking too, with tightly curled black hair and an amused grin playing across his freshly-shaved face. He was leaning up against one of the shelves, his arms folded across his broad chest and only a blind man could miss the pistol strapped to his right hip or the knife strapped to his left. The thief was rooted to the spot for a moment. The man had placed himself between the thief and the only door out of this place, but before he could figure out how he was going to get past this guy, the man spoke.

Need a hand there, friend? he said, but it really didn't sound like a question, That bag looks kinda heavy. He sounded amused, like this was all some kind of joke for him. The thief's hand crept towards the foot-long knife strapped to his own leg, but the man wasn't worried. He'd seen a hundred guys like this before – thin to the point of haggard, filthy with grime and with a matted beard halfway down his chest, with threadbare clothes that hadn't been washed in the last 6 months. Or changed, judging by the look of this one.

I don't think you want to do that buddy. he said carefully, dropping his hand down to his pistol, but he didn't draw just yet. He watched the thief's hand carefully as he slowly pulled it away from the blade, relaxing a little more with each inch the hand moved.

Smart move, he said gently as he moved his own hand away from his weapon, Ain't nobody needs to get hurt here today. Now you just put all that stuff back, nice and gentle like, you understand? The thief nodded, and slowly reached into the backpack, bringing out hands filled with pill packets. With exaggerated care, he placed them back on the shelves, the packages crumpled and dented.

The other man folded his arms again as the thief put his hand back in the bag. He hated keeping his hand on his gun at times like this. It looked too threatening. There'd been so many guys like this one in the last year: hungry, desperate, at their wits ends. A few were trying to steal stuff to barter with, but most were just trying to get by. There was no need to push them around, no reason to bully them like so many others did. This world was bad enough without everyone being an asshole as well.

The thief watched as the bigger man leaned up against the shelving and began to relax. He made a big show of rummaging in the bag for the last few items while he tried to find what he was looking for. As the man's eyes strayed down at the filthy backpack, the thief struck.

He threw the can at the other man as hard as he could, right at his face, and didn't wait to see what damage it had done. He launched himself forwards, barrelling past the guy and towards the door.

Shit! swore the bigger man, as he threw his hands up in reflex, the can bouncing off his forearm and sending a jarring pain towards his wrist. He was still off balance as the thief crashed past him, the tattered bag still clutched in his hand, and there was little he could do to stop him as the impact sent the bigger man sprawling to the floor.

The thief made it to the door in a dozen paces and threw it open, sending in a wave of searing heat and bright streams of sunlight that blinded him for a moment. He could hear the guy behind him swearing as he scrambled to his feet, and he didn't wait for his eyes to get used to the sunshine. Eyes squinting to shield them from the burning rays, he dashed forwards across the hard packed earth, fear driving him onwards. He was in an open ground, surrounded on almost all sides by dull grey buildings, the faceless concrete slabs that passed for homes in all of these towns, with people milling around them. He could see the watchtowers in the distance, overlooking the thick wooden wall, but the heavy machine guns were facing away from the town, looking for the enemy beyond the walls and the guards weren't paying any attention to him, so he carried on. He was halfway across the open ground when he heard the storeroom door fly open, the bang it made making him flinch involuntarily. He knew the next bang could well be from the big man's gun, so he swerved, heading towards a small cluster of rough wooden outbuildings on the corner of the open space, one of them a large windowless hut of some kind, for storage perhaps, judging by the look of it. He couldn't see any people too close, so maybe he could use that place to lose the guy following him and get over the wall and out of this shit-box town without any extra holes in his skin.

The other man watched as the thief rounded the corner and made for Grace's bar. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he chased after him. He was beginning to hate this guy, making him sweat like this. This place was too damn hot to mess around with running. Hell, he'd been willing to let the poor bastard go with a warning, right up until he'd been hit with that can of beans. That had just been fucking rude, but still, as much as he was thinking about shooting the guy in the back, he knew he didn't really deserve it. Shit, he'd done much worse than steal some goddamn medicine before Salvation had taken him in. Pretty much everyone who lived here had.

He changed direction to follow the thief, his shoes slipping a little in the dry dirt. He could feel the ache growing in his knee, a throbbing pain with the occasional electric shock of agony that lanced its way up his leg. He was going to pay for this tomorrow, but he shook it off and carried on, catching the thief little by little as they charged through the town square.

The thief didn't dare look back. He was certain the other man would be catching him up. He was close to exhaustion, his body weakened by months of damn near starvation and what little he had eaten had often been long past its best. His lungs felt like they were on fire, his breath rasping loudly as he sucked in air as fast as he could. His legs shook as he ran, and no matter how fast he tried to move it still felt like he was running through syrup. The distance to the group of sheds just never seemed to decrease, no matter how hard he tried, but he focussed on one of the doors that faced him and ignored everything else, all the pain, the heat, the sound of startled voices shouting nearby. It all faded into the background compared to the door.

He hit the door at full tilt, crunching through the dry, old boards that it was made of and sending lumps of wood scattering in front of him. He was expecting to land in amongst piles of tools, or bags of seeds or something, but instead he landed hard on a carpeted floor and when his eyes adjusted he saw the inside of the building was dimly lit up in a whole bunch of different colours. He looked around and saw the light was coming from five of six different lights, bright neon adverts, for beer, no less, brands that used to exist years ago, before the plague and the war, but that were now little more than a memory. There was a bar to one side, with glasses on it and bottles stacked behind, and the faint hum of rock music playing, the long voices of long-dead singers drifting through the air. As he looked he realised there were half a dozen people inside, all looking at him, some with drinks halfway to their lips. Most of their faces were covered in confusion and surprise, except for the woman behind the bar. Her long brown hair was tied back from her face, the top few buttons on her blue denim shirt were undone, revealing just enough cleavage to catch his eye. On any other day he would probably have described her as pretty, beautiful even, but right now she looked pissed. Real pissed.

What the fuck did you do to my door asshole? she hollered at him as the thief scrambled to his feet and frantically looked around for another way out.

Then he saw it. A door, half open on the other side of the room, with a sliver of light streaming through and reflecting off the dust that hovered lazily in the air. That door was his ticket out of here, but before he could take a single step towards it something hit him square in the back and it felt like a goddamn steam train.

He crashed into the side of the bar, sending glasses flying to smash on the floor. He landed heavily on top of one of the stools that had been sitting, waiting patiently for a customer, sending that clattering to the ground with huge clang. Voices shouted in alarm, but the thief could hardly hear them. All the wind had been knocked out of him and he was gasping for air while trying desperately to free himself from the weight bearing down on him.

Quit fuckin' around dickwad! said the man as he tried to pin the thief's hands behind his back, but in his desperation the thief lashed out and his heel caught the other man on the inside of his left knee. He howled in pain and rolled off the thief, clutching his leg where he'd been hit.

The thief took his chance. He scrambled to his feet and staggered towards the open door. The customers in the bar – men, all of them, with beards and baseball caps looking all the world like truckers – just stared at him in surprise as he lurched through the bar.

He was almost at the door, could feel the heat of the sunshine creeping through, when she stepped out in front of him. It was the barmaid, scowling at him, and try as he might he just couldn't seem to slow down in time. The bat hit him square in the chest, swung with force and purpose, not some sissy swing at all. It lifted him clear off his feet and threw him across the room where he landed in the lap of a startled trucker, his flailing arms sending glasses of beer flying across the room. His head cracked sickeningly on one of the thick wooden beams that held up this ramshackle hut, and although his vision swam he struggled to get up, to get out of here.

I'd stay down if I were you, son. chuckled the trucker whose lap he was lying in, Or else Grace there is liable to have a second shot at you, and I don't think you're gonna enjoy that any more than the last one!

The thief ignored the old man's words of advice, and hauled himself upright. God only knew what these bastards would do to him if they caught him. He'd heard stories of what Republic people did to thieves, and so fear drove him on when his legs didn't want to move. He lurched forwards, just a couple of steps, when the woman, Grace, stood in front of him. She lifted up the baseball bat and readied to swing again, but there was no point. The thief lost his battle with consciousness and crumpled slowly into a heap on the cool concrete floor.

Grace let the bat down until the end rested on the floor. She stared at the thief as he lay there, not moving. She could smell the unwashed stink on him already, the smell making her stomach turn. She lifted the bat a little, and jabbed him with it to check he wasn't faking it, but no sound came from him, other than the dull thudding noise of the wooden bat bouncing off the man's bony skull.

Satisfied that he really was out cold, Grace drew the thief's knife from its holster and dumped it on the bar as she strolled over to the man that had been chasing him. She looked down at him as he lay on the floor, rubbing his knee and grunting with the pain.

You know, we ain't payin' you to roll around on the floor you know. she said through pursed lips.

You ain't payin' me at all, as far as I know! grinned the man as he held out his hand.

And why in the hell did you have to chase him in here Quinn? she said gruffly, taking his hand and pulling him upright, manoeuvring him towards a stool, Look what the son-of-a-bitch did to my bar!

Quinn looked around, surveying the damage. The door was ruined, and half a dozen glasses were smashed. By all accounts the place looked a lot better than after an average Saturday night.

I didn't chase him in here, he ran here of his own free will, poor bastard! he said with a mischievous grin, And anyway, I thought it always looked this shitty in here! Grace frowned at him, but she clearly wasn't that annoyed, as she smiled an instant later, causing the laughter lines in the corner of her eyes to crease for a second. She called out to one of the patrons.

Hey Walt, get that asshole outta here before this place ends up smelling like a hobo's nutsack. An' keep an eye on him until pretty boy here is ready to do his damned job! One of the customers stood, grumbling, grabbed the unconscious thief by his boot and dragged him out the unbroken door into the searing sunshine, dumping him in the dirt.

You need someone to come look at that knee for you? she asked, as Quinn rubbed the injured joint, but he shook his head.

Nah, I should be fine. he said, looking at her sheepishly, Ain't nothing I haven't had before. Though you may wish to call your man and get him to come look at the poor bastard. Make sure you didn't shake nothing important loose. She nodded and sauntered over to the bar, reaching underneath to pull out an ancient military field telephone. She picked up the receiver and spun the handle on the side.

Janie, she said into the handset, It's Grace. You mind sending Doc Winchester over here hun? Someone managed to get themselves injured at the bar – walked right into my bat. She paused for a moment, and grinned widely, Yes, again. Now quit your wisecracks and get him over here as soon as you can, Ok? She put the receiver back down onto the telephone and poured Quinn a beer as they waited for the doctor to arrive.

They didn't have to wait more than a few minutes before a portly little man pushed his way through the wrecked door, sweating hard in the fierce afternoon heat. He pushed his brown hat to the back of his head and gave Grace a kiss on the cheek that lingered a little too long. Quinn shifted the ice pack on his knee while he waited for them to finish their greeting.

Well, said the doctor, looking about him at the damage in the bar, I hear you've been abusing the customers again. Care to show me where the latest victim is? She slapped him playfully on his belly and gestured to the other door.

Walt's looking after him out front, she said as the doctor picked up his bag, He took a bat in the chest and hit his head pretty hard. Knocked himself clean out. The doctor picked up his bag and Quinn followed him outside.

The thief lay sprawled, still unconscious, with Walt standing over him, eyeing him warily. Quinn looked over Walt's shoulder at the few elderly citizens as they paused their work in the vegetable patches that lined the inside of the wall, curious to know what was happening with the stranger.

Thanks for your help Walt, said Quinn, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, We'll take it from here. Tell Grace to give you one on my tab. The old man muttered his thanks and shambled gratefully back into the shade. The doctor stooped over the prone body and swiftly ran his hands over the man's chest and skull.

Well there's nothing broken, he said after he'd finished, Bit of a scratch on the back of his head, but nothing that will kill him. He prised open the man's eyelids and watched his eyes react to the sunshine. Satisfied that he wasn't too badly injured, he pointed over to the water pump.

This is probably as good a time as any to wake him up, don't you think? Quinn nodded and dragged the man through the dirt towards the pump, and hauled on the handle a few times. Murky water gushed out over the thief's head and after a minute he spluttered and tried to sit upright, coughing.

As soon as he had caught his breath he looked up and, seeing Quinn standing over him, he lashed out with his foot. Quinn stepped smartly to one side to avoid the kick, and in a flash had drawn his pistol from its holster and levelled it at the thief's head.

The thief froze.

Quinn thumbed back the hammer. It clicked ominously.

Wanna try that again friend? he asked with a wry smile.

The thief shook his head. Very slowly.

Thought not. said Quinn, The Doc here's gonna have a good look at you, clean up that wound on your head and make sure you ain't broken so bad I can't lock your ass up for stealin' from us. You got a problem with that? Again the thief shook his head very slowly. Quinn nodded at the doctor, who chatted as he checked the thief over, asking him where he came from and what he was doing here, but the thief remained sullenly silent, other than answering questions about which parts of his anatomy hurt and what day of the week he thought it was. Once the doctor was satisfied he knew all about the man's injuries he scrubbed and bandaged the thief's head wound then stood, grunting with the effort, and stretched his back to ease the stiffness.

It's pretty obvious he's badly malnourished, he said as he leaned down to pick up his bag, And he'll need some antibiotics to stop that cut on his head from festering, but otherwise he's in pretty good shape, all things considered.

You're happy for me to take him from here? asked Quinn, and the doctor nodded. Quinn gestured with his pistol, and the thief stood. Quinn took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and cuffed the man's hands behind his back, holstering his pistol once the man was secure.

As he hauled the man away the doctor strolled back to Grace's bar, stepping into the cool shade of the old hut. Grace smiled at him when she saw him.

He gonna live? she asked, and the doctor smiled and nodded, Shame. she continued, I'll make sure to hit the next one harder. You fancy a beer sweetheart? Or a whiskey? The doctor shook his head.

Sorry honey, but I'm still on duty. Maybe later? She nodded, and leaned over the bar for a kiss.

I'll see you tonight sweetheart. she said once they'd finished, Love you.

I love you too honey. he replied, before tipping his hat and heading back outside into the blinding sun and back to his surgery.

Quinn pushed the paper-wrapped package between the cage bars, and looked to the thief, his eyes a startling blue in the dim light of the jail. The thief didn't move.

Well, you gonna take it or not? Quinn demanded to know. The thief eyed the package with deep mistrust.

Whatever it is I don't want it. he said stubbornly, I just want outta here man! Quinn sighed. He could never believe how suspicious these guys could be.

It's clothes, he explained as he dropped the package onto the cell floor and walked back to his desk, Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but you smell like shit, and I don't want my jail to stink. So get outta those rags so I can burn 'em, and put on the clean clothes that the nice Republic has given you, free of charge, Ok? The thief hesitated.

I don't need new clothes man, he shouted angrily, I gotta get back to my people. My boy, he's sick, I gotta get back to him!

The thief began kicking the iron bars of the cell, but Quinn didn't say a word. He quietly unholstered his pistol and placed it on the desk next to all the thief's personal effects, its barrel pointing directly at the man himself.

The thief stopped and stared at him, then after a moment he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Quinn grinned, and turned his back to give the man a little privacy. After a minute he heard rustling as the thief picked up the package.

You might wanna consider giving yourself a wash before you put those on, he called over his shoulder, There's a jug with some water in the corner. Real soap too. Guessing it's been some time since you saw any of that.

The thief splashed a little of the water into the bowl, and dipped in the rag that lay next to it.

How'd you get in here anyway? asked Quinn as the man soaked the rag and wrung it out, This place was supposed to be a goddamn fortress!

Wasn't hard, said the thief, The guard in the south tower spends more time looking in to the town than out, and it ain't too hard to climb the wall, if you know what you're doing. He winced as the water touched him – it was ice cold – but scrubbed himself as hard as he could. The second he dipped the rag back into the water it turned an inky black, so he tipped it into the bucket that sat nearby and started again. He was amazed to see his pale skin shining through the grease and grime that had built up over the months. He scrubbed every part he could, and although the results weren't perfect he was a damn sight cleaner than he'd been in as long as he could remember.

He tore open the paper package to find a grey boiler suit inside. He stepped in and zipped it up. It wasn't a perfect size – a little short in the leg for his lanky frame – but it was a lot better than the rags he'd been wearing before. Fewer holes too.

Wrap the old stuff up in the paper as best you can, said Quinn as he turned back to look at the thief. Now he could see the man properly, without all the dirt in the way he could see he was much younger than Quinn had first thought, probably no more than 27 or 28 years old. The last few years had not been kind on anyone. I'll take it outside and get it burned. The thief did as he was told, and a minute later Quinn returned and sat down behind his desk, rubbing his knee. The thief sat on the cot and watched him.

Sorry about that. said the thief after a moment, his voice full of remorse, but Quinn waved it off.

Lucky shot is all, he said as he leaned back in the chair. He saw no point in