The Seventh Seal (22 page)

Despondent and exhausted, John stole a restless sleep that
night, as much as he could with the dead as roommates.  When the sun rose the
next morning, his joints ached and his head felt like it had been stuffed with
cotton.  Reaching out with his right leg, John corralled an automatic weapon,
useless though it was in his captive state.  He hung there, his hands through
the wall and tied together from the other side.  John wished for a noise or a
sound of life.

The first day slid into the second one, piling up time and
thought into a mixture of vision and dementia.  John’s thirst far overtook his
hunger and the uncomfortable feeling of sitting in his own waste.  The smells
of the room, while pungent, faded into the fabric of the experience.  For hours
on end, John tried pulling his wrists free of the plastic zip ties.  He felt
the warm blood running down his forearms and dripping from his elbows.

On the third day John watched an infant crawl around on the
floor, eating bugs slithering through the eye sockets of the dead men.  It
murmered to him through the voice of his mother in unintelligible words.  Even
in his state, John understood that death by dehydration was approaching
rapidly.

The morning sun landed on the driveway and danced around the
room, filling his vision with traces of light and sound.  The beams dispelled
the demons of the night.  John looked up and saw a figure coming down the
steps.  He put his chin to his chest to avoid the harsh glare on his eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” John asked.

“I came to apologize.”

John recognized the voice.

“I sold you down the river, my man.  I didn’t realize you
had it in you.  You’ve got the spirit.  You are the voice of the dissident, the
fire of rebellion.”

John sniffled and shooed a buzzing fly by blowing at it. 
The figure stepped out of the light and stood in front of John.

“Sully?”

“Yeah man, sort of.  I’m kinda caught between places ‘cause
I gotta set my wrongs right, if ya know what I mean.”

Sully pulled the edges of his Keepers of the Wormwood vest
together.  He stroked the long, red beard and flipped his hair back over his
shoulder. 

“Are you dead?” asked John.

Sully laughed.

“Are you?” he replied.

“I don’t know.  I think it’d be better if I was.”

“Why is that?” Sully asked.

“I did wrong by my wife.  I was taken advantage of, but I
should’ve known better than to put myself in that situation.”

Sully cocked one eyebrow up.

“So you’re pissed because someone got one over on you?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Doesn’t sound like you give a shit about what you did to
your wife.”

“I guess that’s because I didn’t do anything to her.  The
guilt disappears when someone leaves you for dead.”

“Where did she go?” asked Sully.

“She’s joining the Covenant.”

Sully whistled high and long.

“Sucks for you, bro.”

“If you’re my subconscious, please let me die.  I’m tired of
dealing with all the bullshit.”

Sully replied to John with a mockery of a military salute.

“Dude, I can’t move on until I straighten shit out.  Do you
want out of here or not?”

John laughed and his dry lips split.  His swollen tongue did
its best to answer Sully.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.  Set me free, Sully, set me free.”

“Don’t be a dickhead about it, John.  I got something for
ya.”

Sully pulled a black patch from his front pocket.  He held
it up in front of John’s face and smiled.

“Official Member?” asked John.

“That’s right brother.  I meant to get you a pledge vest,
but that seems pretty pointless now.  Seeing as how I’m the President of the Keepers
of the Wormwood, I think I’m authorized to make you an official member.”

Sully tucked the patch inside John’s jeans’ pocket.

“Thanks, man.”

“You earned it, bro.  Listen man, I gotta go.  I think there
are other people I need to visit before they release me.  Watch your ass.”

Sully smiled at John and walked toward the steps.

John turned to face him and said, “Sully, you’re really
dead, right?”

Sully smiled and waved to John.

“See ya, brother.”

Sully walked out the door and took the blinding light with
him.

John closed his eyes and let his arms droop as far as he
could before the pains and cramps would kick in again.  He heard muffled
talking and the steps creaking under the weight of another visitor.  However,
John did not care.  If the Covenant had arrived to finally send him to Hell, he
was ready for the ride.

The Harley Davidson Softails rumbled along the smooth, sleek
asphalt.  The black ribbon of highway shot out from under the riders and
pierced the jet-blue horizon.  They tasted the driven desert sand and felt it
crunch in their teeth.  Lazy clouds looked down at the riders and ignored them
with quiet indifference.

“Thunderhead moving through the canyon,” the lead rider
shouted.

“Got about three miles before we kiss it,” replied the other.

The rolling red sands of what used to be the American
Southwest blanketed the road on both sides.  The double yellow line painted
down the middle of the interstate represented the only remnant of civilization.

A ramshackle gas station appeared on the horizon.  As the
riders approached, they saw the telltale signs of desertion, including the red
Sign painted on the door.  Dust covered the browned glass and sand drifts
climbed the side of the ancient pumps.

The two Harleys downshifted, protesting with the throaty
moan of a lower gear.  The man in the lead cut the engine and drifted to a stop
in front of the nearest pump.  He removed a ragged leather sack from his saddlebag
and fished around inside until he located a wrench.  With precision and
dexterity, he began to disassemble the pump.  The other rider drew a sawed-off
shotgun and kicked down the flimsy, steel door of the office.  When he
returned, he carried two five-gallon gas cans, and two cans of soda.

The man working on the pump had a scruffy goatee braided
under his chin.  Long hair spiraled out from under his helmet back to a loose
ponytail.  It caressed a Keepers of the Wormwood patch sewn to the black,
leather vest.  His partner’s clean-shaven face and bald head remained behind
the double barrel.

“How far do you think we are?” asked clean-shaven.

He let the gas cans drop into the dust and shoved the blade
of a pocket knife under the tab of the soda can, prying it up.  The can hissed
as it expelled the carbonation of another era.  He tossed the can back, feeling
the burn on his throat.

“Seven, eight hundred,” answered goatee.  “Another day or
two of riding and we should be there.  You have a way of fastening those cans
to your hog?”

“Yeah, we’ll figure it out.”

The man nodded and finished stripping away the rubber
gaskets on the main line.  He placed the tube in his mouth, inhaled, and spat
out a mouthful of gasoline.  The other biker ran over and shoved the hose into
the first empty can, allowing it to fill.

They topped off the gas cans and tied them to the back of
the second Harley.  The empty soda cans sat on top of the pump, an eternal
monument to the lost culture.  The bearded rider dropped the hammer on his bike
and it roared back to life.  He yelled back to his partner over the chattering
pistons.

“The storm’s gettin’ closer.  Let’s see if we can out-ride
it.”

Alex nodded and swerved into the right lane, a bike length
behind the man in the Keepers of the Wormwood vest.

Before he accelerated on the long stretch of interstate, the
bearded biker reached down with his right hand and placed it over a rectangular
patch on his vest.  John’s callused fingers traced the fraying embroidery that
read, “Official Member”.

###

AVAILABLE NOW!

Thirty years after the First Cleansing brought an end to civilization, a band of revolutionaries sets out on a quest to make a final stand for their freedom. Led by their enigmatic and seasoned patriarch, John Burgoyne, the tribe known as the Chapter of the Phoenix marches the treacherous highway stretching from Pittsburgh to Cleveland, unaware of the forces aligning against them.

The story continues in,
Man's Ruin
...

Acknowledgements

Thank you, dear
reader, for taking this journey with me.  If you enjoyed the book, please
take a moment to revisit the Amazon.com product page and leave a review for
The
Seventh Seal
.  As a token of my appreciation, visit
http://www.authorgraph.com/authors/JThorn_
where I will personalize and
autograph your digital book for free.

In addition, I would
like to thank all the readers that went the extra step to leave an honest
review, good or bad.  Illustrator Kate Sterling may have singlehandedly popped
this novel with her stunning cover.  Carolyn McCray provided expert
guidance and kept me from hitting the panic button on a number of occasions. 
Robert Reed and Katy Sozaeva edited this book, giving it new life.  I thank you all.