From the Ashes
From the Ashes: Stories from The Fallen World
Book Three of The Fallen World
Edited by
Chris Kennedy and Christopher Woods
From the Ashes
edited by Chris Kennedy and Christopher Woods
Published by Blood Moon Press
Virginia Beach, VA, USA
www.chriskennedypublishing.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States’ copyright law.
The stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Editor: Chris Kennedy
Co-Editor: Christopher Woods
Cover Design: Elartwyne Estole
Copyright © 2019 by Chris Kennedy
All rights reserved.
The stories and articles contained herein have never been previously published. They are copyrighted as follows:
WHAT’S IN A NAME by Chris Kennedy Copyright © 2019 by Chris Kennedy
SPEC SHEY by Brisco Woods Copyright © 2019 by Brisco Woods
DAIMYO by Jamie Ibson Copyright © 2019 by Jamie Ibson
A WINTER’S DAY by David Carrico Copyright © 2019 by David Carrico
KING OF THE MOUNTAIN by Kevin Steverson Copyright © 2019 by Kevin Steverson
A SMILE FOR NAPALM by Philip S. Bolger Copyright © 2019 by Philip S. Bolger
WHAT PASSES FOR HUMAN by Joseph Capdepon II Copyright © 2019 by Joseph Capdepon II
MR. SMITH GOES TO TORONTO by Alex Rath Copyright © 2019 by Alex Rath
BLOODY MONDAY by David Alan Jones Copyright © 2019 by David Alan Jones
JUSTICE FOR ALL by Derek Shupert Copyright © 2019 by Derek Shupert
THE COWARD OF LEON COUNTY by Ian J. Malone Copyright © 2019 Ian J. Malone
HIPPOCRATIC OATH by Jan Kotouč Copyright © 2019 by Jan Kotouč
SHIVA by Jon R. Osborne Copyright © 2019 by Jon R. Osborne
A WELL-DRESSED WOLF by Mark H Wandrey Copyright © 2019 by Mark H Wandrey
SALT by Marisa Wolf Copyright © 2019 by Marisa Wolf
ENFORCER by Christopher Woods Copyright © 2019 by Christopher Woods
* * * * *
Get the free Four Horsemen prelude story “Shattered Crucible”
and discover other titles by Chris Kennedy at:
http://chriskennedypublishing.com/
* * *
Get a free short story and discover other titles
by Christopher Woods at:
https://theprofessionalliar.com/
* * * * *
Contents
What’s in a Name? by Chris Kennedy
Spec Shey by Brisco Woods
Daimyo by Jamie Ibson
A Winter’s Day by David Carrico
King of the Mountain by Kevin Steverson
A Smile for Napalm by Philip S. Bolger
What Passes for Human by Joseph Capdepon, II
Mr. Smith Goes to Toronto by Alex Rath
Bloody Monday by David Alan Jones
Justice for All by Derek Shupert
The Coward of Leon County by Ian J. Malone
Hippocratic Oath by Jan Kotouč
Shiva by Jon R. Osborne
A Well-Dressed Wolf by Mark Wandrey
Salt by Marisa Wolf
Enforcer by Christopher Woods
About Chris Kennedy
About Christopher Woods
Connect with Chris Kennedy
Connect with Christopher Woods
Connect with Blood Moon Press
Excerpt from Book One of The Fallen World
Excerpt from Book One of The Devil’s Gunman
Excerpt from Book One of The Shadow Lands
* * * * *
What’s in a Name? by Chris Kennedy
“I don’t see why you have to go,” Doctor Briggs said. “You’re finally healthy; can’t you take some time and…I don’t know…relax a little?” Short and stocky, when she put her hands on her hips, she was an admirable representation of a fireplug. Not that I would ever tell her that.
I enjoyed living, despite my numerous near misses with the afterlife.
I smiled at Jane. She let me call her that when I was good, although today wasn’t one of those days. “We’ve already been through this,” I said. I smiled at her again, giving her my best smile, but even I could see it wasn’t working.
“You don’t owe Boudreaux anything.”
I shrugged and looked out the window, avoiding her gaze. “I know that. I’m not doing it for him.” In the aftermath of the Corporate Wars, I had woken up without any idea of who or where I was. After finding out where I was—New Orleans—I’d helped get a family to Pensacola, Florida, then gone in search of my origins. Having been told that Luc Boudreaux might know who I was, I tracked him to Chattanooga, Tennessee, nearly losing my life several times along the way.
I finally found him and learned who I was, but he also gave me some bad news—in order to get all of my memories back, I would have to go to Philadelphia. There was an imprinter there which contained both of my personae—my normal, civilian one and my Agent one. I had been born Joshua Collins, and that was who I was when I was not “on mission” for the Obsidian Corporation. When they needed me, though, they would imprint me with my alter ego—that of Stephen Spade, hostage rescue team leader. Due to the nature of the imprinter, I couldn’t be both simultaneously; I was either one or the other, and only had the memories of one personality at a time.
Unfortunately, I’d been in the process of changing from Collins to Spade when the bombs dropped, and the Obsidian office had lost power in the middle of the process. Collins had already been stripped away, but Spade hadn’t yet been imprinted. In effect, I was no one—a blank slate. Although I had the muscle memory of Spade, due to the number of missions I’d run as him, I didn’t fully know his skills, nor could I call upon them at will. I also had Collins’ baseline knowledge of many things, with the exception of anything related to my personality.
It was a hellish limbo to be trapped in—knowing you had two personalities, but not being able to call on either one—but that was where I was until I could get to an imprinter that held my personalities in its database. Boudreaux—the former leader of the Agent program—told me the only operational imprinter with my personalities was in Philly…but it was being held by dozens of Agents in the Circus.
Yes, I said the Circus—the imprinter was being held by a large group of Clowns. According to Boudreaux, ‘The Clown’ was an assassin imprint made by Obsidian’s corporate management. When the bombs started falling, they made about 40 Clowns to protect the corporate big wigs. Unfortunately, not only was the Clown an outstanding assassin, he was also totally psychopathic. Because, what’s a clown, if he isn’t psychopathic, right? While the term “psychopathic clown” doesn’t necessarily have to be redundant, it certainly was in their case. The only way to get my personality back—either of them—was to figure out how to get past the Clowns to the imprinter.
Happily, as an HRT leader, that was something I was good at. When I was Stephen Spade, anyway; unfortunately, I currently wasn’t. And never would be, unless I made it to the i
mprinter. That was some sort of Catch 22, I think, but when I tried to recall what a Catch 22 was, as often happened, my brain was unable to grasp the concept. Regardless, I felt the need to go and look; perhaps, once I saw the Circus, something would come to me. One thing was certain—it wouldn’t come to me while I sat in Clanton, Alabama. I finished buttoning up my shirt; it was the closest thing I had to an old Obsidian uniform, which might get me past someone if there wasn’t a lot of light.
I realized Dr. Briggs was still staring at me, waiting for an answer. “I’m doing it for us,” I finally said. “I can’t be the person you need me to be without being one or the other of ‘me.’ Love starts by loving yourself, and if you don’t know who you are, how can you do that?”
“I think that’s a circular argument,” she said, frowning. “You have been ‘not-you’ long enough that you now have a wide variety of memories—including ones of me—that you are going to lose when—if—you get one of your personalities back. How do I know you’ll still want me if you become Stephen or Joshua?”
“I will,” I replied.
“But how do you know? You can’t remember going through the process, so how do you know who and what you’ll be when you do? Maybe your alter egos are assholes; maybe I won’t like you.”
“But I’m already an asshole, and you like me just fine.” I tried my best smile again.
“No, you’re a smartass; there’s a difference.”
“I know,” I said with a wink, “I’ll leave myself a note that I’m supposed to like you.”
“See? Smartass.”
I walked over to her and took her hand. She didn’t immediately pull away, which I took as a good sign; she was more worried than angry.
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I’m not going to try to break in and use the imprinter; I just want to look and see what it would take to do so. I’ll be careful.”
She sighed, and I knew I’d won. Negotiating settlements was something Stephen was supposed to be good at, after all. “You better be.”
* * *
“That’s all we can spare,” George Jacobs said as he set the gas cans in the back seat of the car. One of Boudreaux’s Agents had given it to me in Pensacola. Not only hadn’t Boudreaux reclaimed it from me after I rescued him, he’d had some of his guys bring it down from Chattanooga when my visit there had ended poorly, and one of his men had filled it with gas from Boudreaux’s supply before he and his entourage left Clanton two weeks earlier.
Still, even with a full tank of gas and the gas in the trunk and back seat—about 80 gallons’ worth—I knew it was going to be tight. Gas, once a plentiful commodity, was now scarce. There was a refinery in coastal Alabama, and I knew fuel was coming from somewhere south—maybe Venezuela—but in the heartland of what used to be America, I doubted I’d find any.
“Thanks,” I replied. “Based on what I saw on my last trip north, I don’t think there’s much to be had. Maybe when I get back, we can put together a run down to the coast to see if we can’t get some.”
He nodded once. “That would help with a wide variety of things.” He clapped me on the back. “All right, you better get going. You’re going to want to drive as much as you can in the daylight. How far did you say it was? Almost a thousand miles, each way?”
“Something like that,” I replied, “by the time I go around the cities that got nuked.” A normal car would have made it just fine, but mine was up-armored and got shitty gas mileage. It would be close.
I shook his hand, got in the car, and turned the key. The one mechanic we had in town had serviced the car and proclaimed it as street-worthy as it was going to get. He had been true to his word; it started right up.
Oil was another thing we’d need going forward, and I added it to the mental list I was making of things we needed to do or find a source for. It was a long list. It started with guns and ammunition and went on for pages.
As I pulled out, I saw Dr. Briggs at the window. She had told me she wasn’t coming out, as it would have appeared that I had her blessing “for this fool adventure,” but she wasn’t able to completely let me go without saying goodbye. She waved, once. I smiled and waved back, knowing her wave hadn’t come easily. “Be careful,” she mouthed.
“Always,” I mouthed back. We both knew it wasn’t true, but saying it made us both feel better. Who knew? Maybe it would actually make me more cautious.
But I doubted it.
* * *
I made good time as I headed north on I-65. The last time I’d passed through, I’d had to run two roadblocks on my way to Birmingham. Now there was only one, and it wasn’t very well manned—they only hit my car a couple of times. I gave them the finger, for old time’s sake, as I blew past. I saw where the other roadblock had been, but couldn’t tell whether it had been abandoned or wiped out without getting out of my car…and there was no way I was getting out if I didn’t have to.
I made it to the bypass around Birmingham in about 45 minutes. I flipped on my Geiger counter; the city was still hot—as expected—so I continued on the bypass. Like the road to Birmingham, the bypass was missing one of its two checkpoints. I shrugged. Maybe someone drove through a lot and got pissed off one day. Maybe Boudreaux’s men had wiped them out on their way back through—he’d had enough Agents with him. Maybe they’d run out of ammo and gone home. Who knew?
After a couple of hours on I-59, I crossed over to I-24 before reaching Chattanooga, which was also still hot, getting off the main roads to travel up Highway 127 to the west of the city. The smaller roads gave me the chance to practice my off-road driving skills as I avoided blockades and checkpoints and continued adding to my car’s bullet hole collection. It was getting to be pretty impressive, and at some point, the armor was going to fail. I also avoided Knoxville, going through the town of Oak Ridge instead. There wasn’t much to see there after Obsidian moved the National Laboratory and National Security Complex to Charlotte to keep a closer eye on them. Both were gone now.
I made it just past Natural Bridge, Virginia, on I-81 before it got dark, and I was forced to get off the road and seek shelter for the night. I exited the highway, then drove up a couple of smaller roads to get out of sight. I had just fallen asleep when someone tapped on my window, and I opened my eyes to see a hideous, misshapen face looking in. I drew my pistol as I jumped away from the window, hoping that whatever radiation had altered the creature’s appearance was far away, and I wouldn’t have to go there. I regained enough control to keep from firing through the bulletproof glass as the creature cocked its head and looked quizzically at me. After a few seconds of heart-pounding terror, I noticed the fat, feathered body and realized it was an emu and not some creature from beyond the grave.
A sign behind it read, “Virginia Safari Park.” Apparently someone had turned the creatures loose rather than harvest them. If I hadn’t been trying to keep a low profile, I would have killed it on general principal. Happily, I hadn’t shat myself…but it had been a near thing. After a few minutes, the bird moved on, followed by a couple of smaller ones. It was a long time before I was able to sleep again, and I wondered what other animals were out hunting for food in the night.
* * *
I woke up to voices—human voices—as dawn approached. Two men, both with rifles, stood about 20 feet away, looking at me. I waved, and one of them aimed his rifle. Deciding that was the equivalent of “Get off my lawn!” I started the car. When they didn’t shoot, I waved again and drove off. They still didn’t wave, but they didn’t shoot at me, either, so I figured that was a win.
Lunchtime found me motoring through the Amish country around Lancaster, Pennsylvania. For them, things hadn’t changed much. They stared at me as I drove past their farms, then studiously went back to work. I avoided the town, which was still standing; apparently, there hadn’t been anything there worth destroying. I didn’t want to get trapped in a city, though, so I continued along the Highway 30 bypass toward Philadelphia.
All things consid
ered, Highway 30 was probably the best approach to Philadelphia as—according to the map, anyway—there were fewer suburbs to pass through. Less than an hour later, I reached them and found out that was a good thing; it looked like the war had raged across the suburbs, and many of the trees that used to shade the roads had been dropped across them to interdict vehicular traffic. I weaved through them, my senses on overdrive. In some places, I had to go around the blockages, and I found myself increasingly using my car’s mirrors. If I made it through, I would probably be a much more aware driver going forward.
I had to divert as I passed the building labeled, “Overbrook High School.” The massive structure looked a bit like a castle, and the people forted up inside obviously intended to defend it like one. I had just noticed the rifles in the upper-story windows and the snipers on the roof when the windshield starred. I whipped the vehicle into a hard left turn, crossed the train tracks, and darted down the street behind the train yard.
The facility was surreal; train cars lay on and off the tracks, many of them tipped onto their sides. The streets were lined and filled with the shells of automobiles, most of them burned out husks. The towering silhouettes of buildings loomed in the distance, and it was then that I realized how shitty my plan was. Drive to Philadelphia; hard but not impossible. Done. Find Clowns. I shook my head. For someone who was normally a planner, I hadn’t don’t much planning. Boudreaux had said they were in the city, so I’d driven to the city without giving much thought to what the city would look like.
It sucked. I caught glimpses of people as they scampered between buildings, and I knew it wouldn’t be long until I ran into a group that was brave enough—or hungry enough—to try to take me on. Admittedly, I didn’t look like much—just a single guy driving through the streets. Unfortunately, the streets were so congested with cars and rubbish that I had to go slowly, and I knew word of my passing was probably running ahead of me, giving the people who controlled this area a chance to set a trap.