Stryker: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale Read Free Page A

feet away, and he struggled briefly to
reach it, but fell back and remained still.
    Stryker emerged from behind a stand of
cedar, glanced up and down the trail, and slowly approached the man with his
M-4 up and ready. He let the rifle dangle from his two-point sling, muzzle
down, after he drew his pistol from the drop holster. As he got closer, he
noticed that his pursuer was a wiry little nugget of man, with a wild beard
that seemed to point in every direction. He groaned once and then his eyes flew
open. What he saw was a giant pointing an XD at his head and looking grim.
    “You’re going to bleed out in a few
hours. Even if I was inclined to help you, which I most definitely am not,
there’s nothing I can do,” the giant said, his voice sounding like the rumble
of a diesel engine.
    “I know,” the prone man wheezed.
    “You want me to end it or not?”
    “End it,” the man replied, after briefly
considering the question.
    “Just one question. What kind of
training have you had?”
    “I was in the teams,” he whispered.
    “SEALS?”
    The man nodded.
    “Okay, I got another question.” The man
nodded again.
    “Do you know a five-letter word that
means ‘guiding principals’?”
    “Hell you talkin’ about?”
    “It’s from a crossword puzzle. I can’t
get that one, and I’m glad you told me that Navy thing.”
    “Why?”
    “You just made things a lot easier for
me. I hate the Navy. If I were to tell you all the things I hate about the
Navy, you would bleed out before I could shoot you.” Stryker leveled the pistol
and fired into the man’s skull. A red blossom appeared on his forehead.
    Stryker searched his pockets and assault
pack, discovered a canteen of water, and drank it. He pocketed a spare mag for
the .308. He picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He started to
move away, but after two steps, he turned back and fired two more rounds into
the man’s forehead. “That’s for turning my day into a track meet,” he muttered.
    As he moved down the slope, he
turned on the imaginary CD player in his head and listened to the At
Fillmore East version of the Allman Brothers’ “Whipping Post.” It started
with a low rumble of Berry
Oakley ’s bass guitar, then Duane Allman’s electric guitar
entered, and Dickey Betts joined in. The twin lead guitars mirrored every note
with amazing precision. The rhythm gained speed and momentum as the plaintive
notes gathered velocity and turned into angry snarls, and the pounding of the
drum increased. Gregg entered the fray with a gravelly, despondent voice that
turned into an angry shriek. Stryker could feel every emotion in that voice:
the despondent desperation, the longing for what was and didn’t last. He knew
the emotions well. Somehow, it didn’t seem gloomy or disheartening. Rather, he
heard it as an expression of hope and an embracing of pain and injury.
    As he walked, his eyes never stopped scanning
the terrain, stopping every 10 paces to check behind him before he again set
off. He thought about the pursuer he just killed; now that he no longer was a
threat, Stryker felt a grudging admiration for the man. He was determined,
skilled, and a pretty good shot considering the conditions and ranges from
which he fired. In another time and place, they may have been drinking in some
run-down bar, trading stories about their deployments, and telling jokes at the
cost of the other’s branch of service. They would talk about weapons, which
were best for which missions. They would have talked about wives and family. In
the end, they would leave that bar with the promise to stay in touch, both
knowing they never would, but happy to have spent time with another warrior.
    The song was exactly 22:04 in length.
Stryker decided to let it play through his head three times, then rest for ten
minutes. If he did that for the rest of the day, he could sleep in the Jeep
tonight and head home tomorrow.
    He hefted the bag with the gold coins,
thinking what a