"If you've read The Seventh Seal, this sequel does not disappoint. If you've not read The Seventh Seal, I highly recommend that book as well."

  Robert from Amazon.com

  "I started this in the morning and had it finished by lunchtime as I could not put it down..."

  Gordie from Amazon.com

  Man's Ruin - A Dark Fantasy Novella

  (The Seventh Seal Sequel #1)

  By J. Thorn

  MAIN MENU

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  Acknowledgments

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Man's Ruin - A Dark Fantasy Novella

  (The Seventh Seal Sequel #1)

  Second Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by J. Thorn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration by Kate Sterling

  Edited by Talia Leduc & Katy Sozaeva

  For more information:

  http://www.jthorn.net

  jthorn.writer@gmail.com

  Dedicated to those with the courage to speak up and stand out.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Acknowledgments

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The old man took a toxic drag on his cigarette. He rolled it back and forth between two yellow-stained fingers while exhaling smoke over that night’s fire. The others watched, waiting to hear him pontificate, prognosticate, or simply tell another one of his legendary stories.

  “C’mon, Pres. What’s it gonna be tonight?”

  John Burgoyne rested the hand holding the cigarette on his right knee while using his left hand to stroke the “Official Member” patch on his vest. Years of dust storms and open highways had nibbled away at the thread until nothing remained but a phantom stitch.

  “Gimme a sec,” he replied.

  John winked and flashed Alex a wicked grin through his white beard. His vice shook his head, ready to make a joke about Santa Claus before remembering that few there would understand it.

  “He’s thinking. You know it’s gonna be good,” one of the boys said to another.

  The pledges in the camp often spoke as if John could not hear them. They meant no disrespect, and he took none from it.

  “Tell us about Sully’s last stand,” said another.

  John whistled as Alex stood. The vice raised his arms above his head, stretching toward the full moon now cresting above the river’s edge. The banks of the Ohio River had changed, reverting back to a more primitive state, but the water still flowed and the moon continued to rise over it.

  “I’ve told that story a thousand times.”

  Groans and jeers rose from around the fire. A few bottles clinked, and a child could be heard crying in the distance.

  “He started the resistance, didn’t he, Pres?”

  John dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, flicking his ashes into the fire. Before he could reply, a shriek came from one of the tents on the perimeter of the camp. Without so much as a whimper, the Keepers of the Wormwood grabbed their weapons and silently headed in the direction of the distress.

  ***

  “I’m really sorry. He scared me. I fell asleep and didn’t hear Ron leave the tent, and when he came back . . .”

  John waved at the other men, who turned and made their way back to the fire. Alex remained outside the tent, his eyes scanning the tree line and the darkness behind it.

  “Sit down,” said John.

  The woman sat, her eyes never leaving his.

  “Alex will speak to Ron.”

  The man who had been standing silently since John’s arrival nodded obediently, stepping out of the tent and toward Alex.

  “What is it?”

  “He scared me and I—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Leena.”

  She pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail and struggled to keep eye contact with John. Leena’s high cheekbones and full lips would have made her a desirable model in the old civilization. Even though it was difficult to manage, she kept her hair long, hoping to appear with some degree of feminine grace in a cold, utilitarian world. Years of meager living had kept her slender, and her eyes shone with a natural wisdom beyond her two decades of existence.

  “Ron wasn’t outside the tent. He was sleeping next to me.”

  John nodded, waiting for Leena to continue with the confession.

  “I had the dream again.”

  The old man stared at her, his eyes tight and tired. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  It was now Leena’s turn to nod.

  “Like the one a decade ago?”

  “Worse,” she replied. “It’s worse. We don’t have much time before the Republic locates the chapter and crushes us like they did the ones in the West.”

  “We survived that, and we’ll survive this.”

  “Did we, John? Is that what you call it? My mother . . .” Leena let the thought hang, and John did not finish it for her.

  “What do you want me to do, Leena? Am I supposed to gather the men and have them relocate the chapter? Then what? Do we go east? South? Tell me, what am I supposed to tell them?”

  “I don’t know, John.”

  The old man heard his vice president grunt, but Alex remained outside the tent.

  “Tell me,” he repeated.

  “I can’t. All these years, and you still don’t get it. You’re president. You have to make the decisions. Not Alex, not Matthew.”

  “He’s maturing. He’ll be ready soon.”

  “But he’s not ready now, and you know it. He’s a bullheaded son of a bitch, just like his father.”

  A smile broke out beneath John’s braided beard. “Okay. I need to gather the founders. We’ve gotta talk this out.”

  “Talk now, John, because there won’t be much time for talking when the storm comes.”

  “You’re a stubborn, proud woman, just like your mother.”

  Leena placed a soft kiss on John’s leathered skin and pulled the tattered sleeping bag back up to her chin.

  ***

  The knuckles on Matthew’s right hand shattered the cartilage of the man’s nose. His opponent collapsed into the dirt, bringing an uproar from the spectators. The pledges immediately began shuffling tobacco back and forth, fulfilling bets, the winners promising the losers a pity smoke. Alex stood by as the sun peeked overhead. The early winter had been mild, but there was no guarantee the rest of it would follow suit. The boys would hold their pugilistic endeavors only if the weather permitted it.

  “Third in a row.”

  “I’m not one to turn down a challenge,” replied Matthew.

  “Thought your old man asked you not to participate anymore. Thought he was going to need you more focused on matters of the chapter and not on schoolyard scraps?”

  Matthew turned his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. Alex brushed off the comment, realizing he could never stop using phrases from his other lifetime, at least not until he was no longer part of it.

  “The old man has arthritis or he’d be out here, too.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. I’ve known him longer than you’ve been alive. He resorts to violence only when necessary.”

  “And that’s going to cost him his life,” replied Matthew.

  “It hasn’t yet.”

  “It will.”

  Alex waited as the conversation came to a dead end.

  “He didn’t send you out here to bet on me, so spill it, Vice.”

  “It’s Leena. He thinks—”

  “Why is he still listening to that nosy bitch?”

  “Have some respect, son.”

  “I’m not your son, Alex. At least I don’t think I am. And I am showing respect. I woulda left her ass on the highway in Colorado, weeping, crying next to her old, saggy, dead mother.”

  Alex let the comment go, realizing Matthew spoke with the harshness and bravado of youth. The young man had John’s features. No matter what rumors swirled through the ranks of the Keepers, Alex knew Matthew was John’s. Matthew wore his hair short and gruff, and although he didn’t need to do it often, kept his face clean-shaven. He would do anything to avoid any resemblance to his father. Alex wondered when the bare-knuckled challenges would subside as the rest of the pledges grew to fear Matthew’s inner intensity.

  “That’s why John is president. He wouldn’t have left her to die.”

  Matthew walked up until he stood face-to-face with Alex, peering into the man’s eyes. Matthew could see the wrinkles creasing Alex’s face and realized the old man no longer needed to shave his head. “For now,” he replied, and he turned his back.

  ***

  “It’s them.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “That city’s b een dead for twenty years. Who else is going to be holding boxing matches? Gotta be the pledges of the chapter. The founders are old fucking men.”

  The soldier dropped the binoculars and looked at the sergeant. He regretted his outburst and tried to cover the profanity with a question. “What’s the order from the Republic? Exterminate, or detain?”

  The sergeant ripped the binoculars from the soldier and raised them to his face. He scanned the edge of the forest, catching only glimpses of movement amongst the bare trees.

  “We wait for snow so we can track them,” he replied, ignoring the previous question. “Until then, we watch and wait.”

  Chapter 2

  The unmistakable sound of a horse in full gallop brought everyone to the river’s edge. The rider kept the steed within the rusted steel rails, where weeds would flourish when spring returned. The pledges pointed and gestured, some of them seeing a horse for the first time in their lives while the founders of the chapter smiled, remembering horses mostly from memories of old westerns. The rider brought an earthy scent as the horse’s hooves flung moist sod into the air behind them.

  John stood on the edge of the overpass that snaked around what remained of the Point. His foot rested on the stone base of the ancient fort, most of its history lost like all the rest. The city had grown from that single bastion of safety known as Fort Pitt, Fort Duquesne, and eventually Pittsburgh. Most of the steel bridges had long since fallen into the Allegheny or Monongahela River, as had the boulevards running alongside their banks. The city had perished in one of the final battles of the First Cleansing, left to an infestation of loners, killers, and renegade motorcycle clubs like the Keepers of the Wormwood. The red pentagrams could still be seen on the facades of buildings that had managed to escape the brutality of the Western Pennsylvania January. The paint ran on the brick like dried blood. John Burgoyne stepped over a guardrail, which had been twisted by a car wreck decades ago, and stumbled down the hillside until he stood behind the bulk of his chapter. Several dozen men in varying shades of black-leather vests blocked his view of the rider’s arrival. The women stayed on the perimeter behind the men. Though John could remember the days of gender equality, those luxuries had quickly given way to Darwinian law.

  “Give him some room. Don’t spook the goddamn thing.”

  Matthew stepped out of a tent and stood next to his father while Alex appeared on his right.

  He’s always been my right hand, in all ways, thought John as he winked at his vice.

  “Don’t remember the Pony Express showing up here in well over a decade. Many of these fools probably think some new creature just rode out of hell, just like the Aztecs thought when they saw Cortes riding them.”

  Matthew scowled at Alex, making no effort to hide it. Recent history meant nothing to him, and ancient history meant even less.

  “Somebody’s been reading A History of the World again, eh, Vice?”

  Alex spat out of the side of his mouth, tipping his head toward John.

  “What the fuck is a Pony Express, and why aren’t we in a defensive maneuver?” asked Matthew.

  The boy speaks like a trained soldier, thought John, even without a single lesson in modern warfare.

  “Most likely a message. One from another chapter. When the Holy Covenant ended civilization and dragged the grid back to the Dark Ages, we had to rely on messages delivered on horseback. In the Old West, they called that the Pony Express.”

  Matthew shrugged as he contemplated the meaningless history lesson for less than three seconds.

  “You should greet him,” Alex said to John.

  Burgoyne walked through his people until he could smell the sweat of the horse. The beast cast steam into the chilled air and snorted several times before the rider eased back the reins and whispered in the horse’s ear.

  “You the pres?” the rider asked.

  The men of the chapter stood in utter silence, and the women kept their hands close to the children’s mouths, preventing a disrespectful and distracting outburst.

  “John Burgoyne. Keepers of the Wormwood. Chapter of the Phoenix.”

  The rider huffed and spun his horse in a circle. “A bit older than I expected. None of these ambitious pledges have challenged for your patch?”

  A hushed buzz ran through the group as John stepped closer to the saddle. He sighed and looked over his shoulder at Alex. His vice shook his head, knowing John would do it anyway. Before the rider could speak another word, John used his right hand to lock on to the rider’s knee. His left fist came down hard on the rider’s thigh, causing an involuntary lurch forward, which would be an invitation to more pain. John released his grip on the man’s knee, grabbed the collar behind his head, and flipped him to the ground, where the cold earth pushed the air from his lungs. John swung one leg over top of the man’s shoulders and dropped both knees into his armpits, where he was now pinned to the unforgiving railroad ties.

  “I suspect any who were thinking about it before you arrived are now reconsidering.”

  The rider winced, tears streaming from his eyes. He bit into his bottom lip, prepared for any further beating.

  “Now get up and deliver your message.”

  John stood, and the man immediately curled into the fetal position. He pushed up and crawled to the stirrup, pulling himself to the latched messenger bag on the horse’s left side. With a shaking hand, he reached inside and withdrew an envelope, holding it out toward John but not moving any closer.

  “Leena,” John said, taking the envelope from the rider’s fingers. “Get this man a beer and keep him comfortable until I decide whether or not I’m going to reply to the message. Matthew will help keep him safe.”

  “I’m not a fucking babysitter,” Matthew growled under his breath at John.

  “Do your duty and the entire chapter benefits.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Alex stepped forward, but John waved him back. He looked into his son’s eyes and spoke in a whisper that only he could hear.

  “This ain’t about wants. This is about needs.”

  Leena stood, waiting for Matthew to accompany her and the rider to a nearby tent. He exhaled and then walked past them, toward the edge of the camp.

  “I’ll keep an eye open,” said Alex.

  John nodded and watched as the chapter broke from the gathering, no longer interested in the show now that they knew the potential for violence was gone.

  ***

  John sat in a wooden folding chair, one of the few remnants of furniture left from his previous life. He had discovered it in an alley, behind a dumpster, wedged between the steel bin and the brick wall. It had somehow escaped the rioting, burning, looting, and subsequent abandonment of Pittsburgh. John kept it in the tent as a reminder of the simple pleasures he once took for granted, the ones the new generation would never experience.

  “You going to open it?” Alex asked.

  “We got any pipe smoke left?” John asked in return.

  Alex nodded and walked to the middle of the tent, where a leather satchel hung. He opened it and pulled out a pinch of dried leaves, holding them up for John to see.

  “If that’s the last of it until summer, we should share.”

  “We’ve got cigarettes,” said Alex.

  “We should save those in case we need currency. The young men these days, they don’t care much for the pipe.”

  “Then we should fire it up.”

  Alex left the tent and came back with a piece of wood, its end a pulsing red ember. John packed the pipe and took the burning wood from Alex. He lit the pipe and exhaled.

  “Ah. Nice and stale. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  John handed the pipe to Alex and let him take a long drag as he began to push his thumb through the sealed envelope.

  “Where do you think they got the fucking stationary?” Alex asked before a coughing fit forced him to hand the toke back to John.

  “You gotta remember that when the Republic gave the holy rollers that ass-kicking, they moved in on several cities. The Covenant didn’t have a chance to set them all on fire. Shit, I’ll bet there are men sitting in apartment buildings right now with indoor plumbing and a handful of old Led Zeppelin CDs playing on a boom box.”

 

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