Legends: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel: American Rebirth, #2

Prologue - Survivors

The old mattress creaked as Whiskey shifted his weight, the heavy gloom of sleep pulling free of his mind as his vision unblurred, staring up at the cracked and water-stained ceiling.

The music of chirping birds and the fluttering of wings drew his eyes to the shattered window. He saw the tailfeathers of the robins as they escaped into the wide expanse of yellow-blue early morning light. The apartment complex was as overgrown and abandoned as it was last night. But in the light of day, wrapped in creepers and hardy flowering plants gently waving in the wind, it had a surreal, forlorn beauty to it.

Whiskey rubbed his eyes and leaned up, the mattress springs clinking and his back aching in response. I need to retire. Twenty years of ranging for the Sons of Liberty. I’m about ready to hang it up. Sleeping in broken places far from home has lost its charm. His eyes were fixed out the window, watching more birds roam free in the sky as distant chirps echoed into the empty bedroom. The views are still somethin’ else, though. Nature didn’t take long to reclaim what we’d taken from her.

His eyes wandered to his backpack, flak jacket and boots on the floor. Something about the feel of this beautiful, desolate morning made him reflective of his time in the Sons of Liberty. In some ways, this was the kind of life we always wished we had back in Clearwater. Safety, sense of community, rebuilding civilization one life at a time. It ain’t the same, though. Sons of Liberty have carved out their own country. And wherever you draw lines in the earth sayin’ mine and yours, war follows. Just like it has.

Taylor stirred beside him, her head shaking and body twitching.

Rob…Rob…I’m here, She murmured, barely understandable.

Whiskey turned to face her, placing his hand on her shoulder. Her fingers began to reach out into the empty air as she repeated her brother’s name.

Whiskey nudged her gently. Wake up Tay. It’s alright.

She moved slowly, her eyes half closed, still mired in the grasp of her sleeping reality.

Wait… No, please. Taylor said louder now, pulling her eyes open and sitting up suddenly, tears in her eyes. He’s alive. He was right there.

Shh.. Hey, it’s alright. It’s just another dream. Whiskey said, pulling her into his arms. She hung both hands on his forearm, tears still rolling down her face.

No… He was there. He told me to keep looking. He told me to go home. Taylor said, leaning her head into Whiskey’s chest.

We’re taking the trainees on their first expedition, remember? Edgar and Vicks are on watch. We ain’t far from New York. We can’t go back home now.

No, not Boston. Taylor shook her head. Clearwater. He wanted me to go home to Clearwater.

Whiskey took a deep breath through his nose, her hair getting caught in the stubble of his beard as he rested his chin on top of her head. I’m sorry baby, It’s just a dream.

I could feel him. See his smile. I could hear his voice. He’s still alive, Taylor said, just above a whisper. He’s still alive.

It’s not your fault, baby. There’s nothing you could have done. He did what he did to end the war and save countless lives. He did what he did for us. Whiskey clenched his teeth hard, the muscles in his jaw flexing. I let him die for us.

Chapter 1 - Rangers

Ruins of Manhattan, Territory of the Sons of Liberty, Lionheart Kingdom of America.

The skyscrapers towered in the blue sky. Sunlight cast shadows into broken windows where scrappy green plants crept out to meet its warmth. The words written in white paint sprawling across the building were faded now:

YOUR WORLD IS A LIE

SEEK OUT THE TRUTH

Whiskey’s boots splashed gently in the inch-deep seawater that ran along the street with the tide. He breathed in the crisp, salty air mingled with dust that flurried out of the shattered buildings with the breeze. Some dumbass risked his life to write all that.

What do you think, are we the good guys or the bad guys? Vicks said with a smirk as he looked up at the words. His long brown hair framed his tanned hawkish nose, his long sleeve gray shirt and military cargo pants showing the wear of their long trek here.

Edgar and Taylor caught up with them in a relaxed jog, having tied the boat off. Edgar and Vicks, the two Rangers-in-Training, had managed to not get themselves killed thus far. But they both had a long way to go before they could call themselves Rangers. This was the first real long distance range Whiskey and Taylor had taken them on. Reality was there was very little danger here, just abandoned parts of the old world within the borders of the Sons of Liberty. Not that he’d tell them that. He wanted them to learn what it was like being on your own far from home. Feels a bit too much like babysittin’ these days.

Being a Ranger for the Sons of Liberty for nearly twenty years had suited Whiskey well. It was a far more stable life than the survival they had faced during the first war. The war that ended when Hood gave his life killing the Kaiser. They were mournful memories he wished he and Taylor could forget. Memories of a time that changed his life in more ways then one. I know you would have loved to be a part of this, Rob. You could have taught them what you believe better than I have.

Being the Captain of the Rangers now was a whole different animal. Most of what he did now was train the recruits. How to fight, how to survive—and to fight for something more than yourself. Something the young kids needed to learn. The lands past the borders can make killers out of good men.

The right side is whatever side you’re on, Whiskey said to Vicks finally.

Vicks’ eyes flicked towards Whiskey and back ahead. I know we’re on the right side. I know the things the Rangers stand for. I was just messin’ around, he said.

I know what you meant, kid. I’m trying to tell you somethin’.

Everyone’s fighting for somebody. Remember that when you look down the sights at someone. Taylor said, the words straight from Whiskey’s mind with ten times the eloquence.

I don’t get it, how are we supposed to protect each other if you don’t want me shooting the Dead Hand Resistance or Confederate soldiers? Vicks shook his head, tossing the idea out of his mind. I busted my ass in recruitment so I could qualify for the Rangers and not live in the trash with the refugees. I didn’t go through all that so some faction soldier could put a bullet through my brain while I feel bad for him.

Whiskey sighed, his eyes finding Taylor. She wore faded jeans and a comfortably fitting black shirt pinned to her shoulders by her military rucksack. Her green eyes met his gaze. Her heart shaped face still looked the same to him as the day he met her and Hood at that abandoned gas station nearly twenty years ago. That relaxed, knowing look she wore still had a way of calming him down. He didn’t have to say anything, and she’d understand. Why do they always give us the kids?

She smiled. So they won’t be kids anymore.

Vicks stepped towards them. I want to know what you’re sayin’. I won’t lie, I’m scared to shoot someone. But I know if I see one of the factions out there coming at me, I’m going to shoot. I know it. You can’t change my mind on that.

Whiskey clapped Vicks on the shoulder. I know, kid. I ain’t sayin’ you can’t defend yourself. Or that you can’t shoot em. But don’t be so eager to pull the trigger. You live long enough, you’ll realize people you once called your enemies might one day be your closest friends.

Livin’ proof. Time was Sons of Liberty were as much our enemies as anyone else. But this life beats the hell out of sleeping with a gun in hand outside the borders. That alone is worth fightin’ for. The other Rangers… They’re worth fighting for. Good men and women. In some ways, It feels like we’ve made the Rangers into our own.

What d’you think? Whiskey said to Edgar. Edgar’s cornrows wound neatly down the back of his head, and his dark-skinned angular face had a relaxed, pensive look to it.

He was a quiet kid, even by Whiskey’s standards. Never talked much about himself, or talked much at all. But he had perceptive eyes, and he seemed to always be listening. Whiskey knew he was sharp, even before he had said two words to him on the first day of training. Some people you can tell just by the way they take in the world around them. Whiskey had taken a liking to him almost immediately.

I don’t know, Edgar said in earnest.

Gonna have to dig deeper than that, Whiskey said.

Edgar deliberated, looking down the empty road. A seagull cawed nearby over the Hudson, hovering with arced wings in the strong winds. The sound always sent Whiskey back to those golden days on vacation as a young boy in the Southern Atlantic coast. Grape ice pops and sand-worn feet. Not even the same world.

I don’t think people will ever stop fighting, Edgar managed.

Whiskey nodded slowly. Yeah, I’d have to agree with you kid.

Bullshit. That’s not an answer. You didn’t even answer the question! Vicks shouted at Edgar, throwing a glove at him.

Edgar swatted it down into the water, sporting a rare smile. The glove floated gently on the surface, absorbing seawater. Too bad. Captain liked it.

Get off it, stop suckin’ his ass! Vicks kicked water at Edgar who turned his head, laughing.

Whiskey smiled. He moved slow down the street, crossbow in hand. Captain. Still sounds strange. After his role in the liberation of Pittsburgh from the faction uprisings ten years ago, King Richard the Crusader had made him Captain of the Rangers. The old Captain, Chris McEnroy, died in the fighting. It didn’t feel right, taking over Chris’s spot after he died for it. But the Crusader insisted Whiskey take the position. Whiskey and the other Rangers held off the New Confederate reinforcements long enough to blow the bridge that cut them off from the city. The battle had ended what would’ve been a pitched war with the Confederate uprising before it could begin. At the time, Whiskey wasn’t sure he wanted to be more involved with the Sons. Wasn’t sure what his future was supposed to be. He never really felt quite like he was in the right place.

Maybe that had always been true, though. Restlessness seemed to be a part of him. Despite the peace he had found in making the Rangers his own, there still was an unsettled feeling in him. Like there was a forgotten debt he’d one day wake in a cold sweat and remember he owed. Whiskey took a deep, slow breath. Can’t change the way you’re wired.

The city lay empty, the algae covered sidewalks and hollowed buildings baking in the sun. The tide was going out, so the water would be coming down off the streets soon. Peaceful enough. It’s a good life, teaching the young kids how to survive. I like these two. Remind me of the old days. Minnows swam around his feet in the shallow water. I got no more war left in me. I’ve seen nothin’ but war. I just want to spend my days with Taylor living a peaceful life. I think I’ve earned that. Her and I makin’ the Rangers into something more than soldiers—it’s the first thing I’ve done in a long time that feels right. The day war comes back I jus’ hope all these kids remember what we’ve taught them. That they ain’t just soldiers.

You two have to be the loudest sons of bitches alive. You done goofing off yet? Taylor called back at them, following behind Whiskey.

Edgar resolved himself. Yes ma’am.

Yes ma’am, Vicks echoed, giving Edgar the finger.

The flooded street gaped wide into the sewer below. Long stripped-down cars sat piled underwater, rusting in the broken maw of the pavement. Whiskey stepped onto the sidewalk, the ransacked storefronts now just a dark repository of waterlogged refuse. This city needs to just sink into the ocean already and start over.

Edgar and Vicks peered over the edge of the chasm in the road before scanning the tall buildings and empty cross-street that approached.

This is crazy, Vicks said, not hiding his awe.

Before either of you were born, before the fall, time was millions of people lived here. Whiskey said with a smirk. A whole world, lost to them. It’s hard to believe. I wonder if someone’s keeping track of it all.

How’s that even possible, Edgar whispered to himself.

I still don’t understand how people could build all this. Vicks shook his head.

We could do it again. Taylor looked up at the towering skyscraper. If we can ever get our shit together.

The four of them moved out of the shadow into the bright sunlight that glittered on the surface of the water in the broken street. The submerged street signs, bus stops and broken chunks of double-yellow lined road made the city feel like an adolescent Atlantis. They walked carefully with splashing steps around the chasms in the streets. The new seaworld exhibit located in the heart of Tribeca.

The water finally reached its shoreline on the rising road, lapping gently against the pavement with its tiny wind-borne waves.

This place is unnerving, Vicks’ head swiveled as he searched the endless dark windows of the surrounding buildings.

You should see the devastation uptown from the blast. Whiskey said, keeping his eyes on the motionless road ahead. Grass and greenery sprouted out of open earth and cracks in the sidewalks. The cars lining the sidewalks sat on rotted tires, dented dull and weatherworn.

Uptown? Edgar said, keeping pace with Whiskey, rifle in hand.

Nevermind. That way, Whiskey pointed northeast up an empty cross-street.

I find it kind of peaceful. Taylor said, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. Knowing what it used to be like.

Whiskey chuckled. Yeah, something unreal about being able to lie down and take a nap in the middle of Canal.

You’re nuts. There’s nothing peaceful about this place, Vicks held his rifle to his shoulder, muzzle down. Feels fuckin’ haunted.

A faint smile grew on Edgar. Haunted?

Vicks stopped walking, glaring at Edgar. That’s what I said, didn’t I? Take a look around you, asshole. Huge ass towers with no one in them? Places aren’t supposed to look like this, Ed. Stop actin’ like you ain’t scared.

Edgar kept moving, eyes ahead. I ain’t scared.

Bullshit. You’re not fooling anyone.

Taylor walked up beside Whiskey as they exchanged a glance. She shook her head. This has all the makings of a scooby-doo feature.

Whiskey smiled at her. I think the language might make it a hard sell for the network.

Vicks jogged to meet up behind them. I heard you. What’s scooby-doo, that code for somethin’?

Taylor’s face struggled to contain a wild grin. She was losing the battle for her composure badly. Watching her fight to hold back the laughter was all it took. They both cracked at the same time. It’s like we’re speaking a different language.

Yeah kid, it’s code. Whiskey’s face hurt from smiling, stepping over an overturned barricade covered in soot.

We’re not doing a good job staying quiet, Edgar said in a low tone.

You’re right. Taylor turned to face him, pointing at him for emphasis. That’s thinkin’ like a Ranger.

I’m more worried about us scaring off dinner than anything. All this from the city to Long Island has long been Sons hunting ground.

I knew you were scared. Vicks murmured, followed by the sounds of a brief scuffle between them.

Everything about those kids unearthed old memories from Clearwater as real as if they were on film. Hood and Billy horsing around and talking trash on the long road out of town for a raid. Boredom makes kids of us all. There was a heaviness to those memories. That was a different life. Far, far behind us now.

The sunlight was warm on his tan forearms, his sleeves rolled up above the elbow. There was something satisfying feeling about it, the weight of the rolled up sleeves and the pressure below his bicep with free range of motion.

In the silence, the four of them had quieted their steps to be nearly without sound. It was a subconscious change, Whiskey knew. For him, it was a force of habit. Always make less sound than the environment around you. For the kids, it was fear of the unknown. They don’t know how harmless this place is, so far from the borders. Better for them they don’t know. They got to learn. And Taylor, she was always light on her feet. And funny, loyal, caring, and a royal pain in my ass. Like her brother.

Whiskey ground his teeth. I wish you didn’t remind me of him sometimes. Swirls of dust kicked up with the wind coming up from the south at the next cross-street.

Is that supposed to be there? Vicks said, pointing up the cross street north a block.

In the center of the intersection, one block up stood a great tree, arched slightly south to face the sun. It was totally out of place, beautiful in a starkly unexpected way. Whiskey’s curiosity drew him towards it, and the others followed up the street. It was an oak, he could tell. They grew all around the town near his house down south when he was a boy. The rusty street signs and lampposts framed the tree as it grew closer. The branches were full and green, and the dessicated old leaves from seasons past were stuck in building corners and beside an upturned bus on the adjacent road.

Someone planted it here. Whiskey said, moving close to the broken-up road where the tree grew. The roots bulged out of the ground, splitting the asphalt.

Edgar moved ahead, sweeping off a layer of dirt and grime from the road with his foot. Something’s written.

The kid was right. As he worked the dirt off the ground, more letters exposed themselves to the day. Whiskey kicked at the layer of dirt, revealing white painted words below.

All four of them swept the ground with the soles of their shoes until the message was clear, written wide around the tree:

Rest in peace

Live on in our hearts

And so you live forever

They stared down at the words, motionless. For one person? All those lost? The city, this country?

Taylor’s hand filled his left hand that hung by his side, her fingers intertwining with his as they both looked at the words. He knew they both were thinking about him. I know you forgive me. Hell, you don’t even blame me for it. But still…

Edgar and Vicks looked at each other, then to Whiskey and Taylor.

Who is this for? Edgar said plainly.

Whiskey shook his head slightly. I don’t know.

The two kids gestured at each other, struggling silently about something or other.

Hell no. I’m not asking him. You ask him. Vicks said, bringing their clandestine argument to a close.

Don’t say it. I know you want to know, but don’t say it. It ain’t your place.

Edgar gnawed on his lip, staring at the tree. He itched the gap between the cornrows on his head, trying to find words he didn’t feel comfortable saying.

Is it true you fought alongside Hood? You were there the day he killed the Kaiser? Edgar’s fear had been replaced by intense desire for the truth, his face stoic. People say he never was found after he killed the Kaiser. Some say he’s still alive. That he left all this behind. The older Rangers say you guys were close during the first war. You know what happened to him, don’t you?

The Crusader just had to make a martyr out of him. You had to paint him the grand hero of your Crusade, didn’t you Richard? Like that’s all he was, just a damn soldier. Hero of the Sons. To hell with that. He was just a kid who fought for everyone. He fought to believe there was still good in this world. He was never your god damned champion.

Whiskey smirked, still looking at the tree. Taylor looked up at him. How long you been wanting to ask me that?

Vicks shrugged. Since first day of training. He took a few steps towards them, one hand on his rifle hanging low from the strap on his shoulder. I heard he was a better sniper shooting lefty than the next best Ranger.

Whiskey chuckled. You boys are too old for fairy tales.

He turned his head to face Taylor. Her gaze shifted from one of his eyes to the other, searching his intention. He gave her a calm, loving look. We know he’s gone. I hate all the lies. I hate that he’s been turned into some faceless war hero. We both know he deserves better than that. He should still be here, fighting with us. I let him die for us.

Edgar and Vicks looked at each other, confused, unsatisfied, clearly not sure what to make of Whiskey’s response.

Taylor squeezed Whiskey’s hand and let go, turning slowly to face the recruits. He never fought for sides in a war. He fought because he believed there was good in the world worth fighting for. Taylor said as calmly as if she were talking about plans for the day. And you should too. Don’t ever forget that.

Edgar and Vicks studied Taylor, eager to know more.

She spoke again with the quiet authority of orders before they could find the words for more questions. Come on. We’ve been here too long. Let’s keep moving.

You heard her. Get a move on. Whiskey scanned the sunlit streets surrounded by dark, towering buildings. He headed east once more down the cracked street. It’s hard for me to find the words to talk about him. I’m glad you can. Part of me wants to tell everyone who he really was. But part of me feels like it will never do the kid justice.

The four of them moved slow into the wind that whipped down the roads, funneled by the buildings. Nothing moved save for the growing grass and weeds that waved in unison with the air. Whiskey’s mind struggled to stay in the moment, floating from thoughts of his soft bed at home and the long list of things he needed to teach these kids before they could call themselves Rangers and mean it. He tucked his thumb under the strap of his backpack below his shoulder, the crossbow resting in the crook of his other arm.

Taylor slowed her pace, looking up at a storefront. The grime-covered sign showed just enough that you could tell it was a bakery.

Y’alright?

I remember this place. Best cupcake I ever had was in there. She didn’t stop walking, turning to look ahead. You think this will ever feel normal?

Whiskey sniffed, the tingling sensation of a latent sneeze causing him to rub his nose. Not for us. Not for anyone who lived before the Fall, I figure.

She looked down at the Beretta 92FS in her hand. I think so too.

She often contemplated the past, the future. She loved to talk about all the possibilities, the explanations and the unknowns. Quiet moments at home usually led to that kind of conversation. Whiskey largely didn’t care what the truth was. It didn’t change anything. Nukes had collapsed this country twenty years ago. War had shattered the world. That much was clear by the silence in the years after the Fall. If stable countries had survived, someone would have come to help them. Nothing but a paltry U.N. contingent the year the bombs went off, and they could barely defend themselves. Canada isolated itself for fear of being overwhelmed by refugees and revolutionaries. Famine struck them in the years that followed and starvation had their borders keeping citizens in, not refugees out. From tales he’d heard of survivors, millions died of starvation. As for South America, he had no idea what had happened. But no one was trying to get into North America. Not with the Federation of Texas free to patrol its own borders.

Whiskey watched her patiently as she gazed off at the soot-covered sidewalk. Times like these Whiskey wanted to wrap his arms around Taylor, hide her away somewhere she would be safe and they could just be together. But he knew this was wrong; a primal thought that said only you stood between your woman and danger.

Truth was, she was strong. Stronger than he was, in the ways that mattered. Give her a few shots, she could tag the pip on an ace of clubs from across the range. More importantly she had resolve. Through trial and tragedy she always kept her head straight, kept moving. It wasn’t just something about her he loved; it was something he relied on. We see it clear in others the things we ain’t got.

John, She said, pulling him out of his own thought train with a tap on the arm. She was looking ahead.

A deer far down the road had come around the corner, trotting slowly to some wild greenery before leaning down to eat. Eight point. It’ll be good to eat somethin’ other than rations. Whiskey slowly moved to a nearby rusted blue mailbox, resting the crossbow on it for aim. He focused in on the deer through the scope, adjusting the windage and elevation on the scope for the greater distance. He squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot cracked the air, echoing deep down the roads. The deer darted away in leaping bounds. Whiskey’s heart raced through his chest as he scanned the area, turning to the others.

Vicks’ rifle was against his shoulder, muzzle slightly down as he stared at where the deer had been. Whiskey slung his crossbow onto his back, stormed over to Vicks and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him close.

"The hell do you think you’re doing?" Whiskey glowered,