Post Radio Chapter 1

--Chapter One: The Bridge of Fire

Has anyone ever told you the story of Joshua? He led an immense army against an even greater enemy to aid an old ally. And against all odds, defeated the Israelites in battle, wielding the power of the Sun to blind his enemy..

The sun had set only an hour ago when I stepped across the toll bridge of Dallas. No water here as was usual, but an immense crater had befell the city, a new valley, the ridge constantly aflame from the immense natural gases below. This “moat” kept the city ironically safe from attack and raids, therefore holding one of the largest populations in the country.
I passed the guards, their helmets turning in my direction, boring into my back as I stalked past them across the bridge. A small man standing in the middle of the bridge several feet away held his hand up and signaled for me to stop. I stopped in my tracks and turned.
At the base of the rope bridge from which I had entered stood the two guards, rifles drawn. I looked to my left and noticed a small tower, like that we had at a football game in my old high school, and a man crouched low on it.
Sniper.
The small man held his hands out and walked back and forth in a pace. He smiled a wicked sneer, his mousy face wrinkling around his thin mustache and thin lips. His beady black eyes and thinning, dirty hair the same color.
“You sir, do you see this here line?” He motioned to the ground just behind him, a red line crudely painted. “This here is the boundary line it is. You wanta’ cross? Yeh’ have ter’ pay.”
“Pay what? There is no money or currency.”
The man snickered and snorted, his pointed nose crinkling back.
“Why trade a’ course!” He leaned forward, one eye open, and studied my face. “You some kind a moron or just plain stupid?”
I remained silent, knowing this man held no power but that sniper rifle had enough to blast my head off. He stopped laughing then and shrugged.
“Awright then you know the drill. Drop the rifle an’ present anythin’ you think’s worth tradin’.”
I removed the Old Rifle from my back but held it at my waist.
“Is this for this entrance only or permanent?” I questioned, awaiting a sure answer as the man turned around, facing someone, and then faced me again.
“Uhh, depends.”
“On?”
“Dangit. On. Whatever it is you trade! There.”
I stopped for a moment, considered it, and then placed the Old Rifle on the bridge. Slipping the sack off my back, I plopped it on the ground and rummaged through it. The small man craned his neck forward in hopes to see.
“Okay. I’ve got two bars of scented soap, a pack of napkins, and some matches.” I said finally. Making a point to keep my supplies hidden. The man scratched the scruff on his chin, small fragments splintering off.
“How ‘bout that bottle a’ water you got there?” He said finally, not really a question. I cursed myself for leaving it exposed in the outer right pocket. I debated with myself a moment, the small man’s foot tapping impatiently.
“Or I could just leave ya’ here to face the weather. Wind’s pickin’ up.” The man smiled a grisly grin, yellow teeth glinting even in the dim light from the moat of fire. I couldn’t help but notice the rising winds, the fires roaring with every pass.
“Fine,” I replied at last. “But I’m keeping the matches.”
The small man smiled and laughed, waving me on. I gathered my supplies and slung the Old Rifle over my shoulder. I handed over the water resentfully then the soap and napkins. The small man sneered and leaned close, his rank breath smelling of raw meat and cheese.
“Welcome ta’ Dallas.”

The city was like a mountain had collapsed on itself, imploding the miles of land below it. The dirt was still brown but blackened, little ash remained here in the churned sands of the daily walked. Small buildings like that I had once camped in sat at random all over the sides of Dallas, all down the steady decline. A steep hill beheld the entire city on every side of the circular area, the very middle of the city a small plateau of water. It was no surprise as water was a commodity that a fence was placed around the well with several guards around it in chairs.
The houses and businesses looked the same scrap yard cabins like a child would make in a tree house. Sheet metal and stained and rusted planks of iron from cars, other buildings and trash cans were formed into their walls and roofs. Several doors were nothing but a tarp or blanket nailed onto three four by fours attached to the house by a rope. None had windows but a few businesses had a sign out front, often misspelled or crooked. A sort of diner, shop, and common house were placed to the left, and houses all around. Small chimneys sprouted from the cabins and sputtered smoke, clogging the air of the higher regions of the city.
The air here was putrid and reeked of sulfur. The constant fire from the Barnett Shale kept the city toasty, even in the below freezing nights. The tainted sky seemed just as illuminescent with the moon hidden behind it however and gave little relief to this painstaking reality.
People bustled about with their poor lives, trading supplies and food before returning home for the night. People working random jobs such as guard, hunter, mechanic, technician, cook or whatever was needed departed and made their trip for dinner. I debated with myself what job I would seek. My skills seemed appropriate enough, however they were all bent around surviving, not contributing a trade.
Cook and mechanic are no good and a technician is nowhere near. Maybe a hunter or guard? I’ll have to check tomorrow morning.
A large stone building stood erect near the center of the city. It had great walls of marble and granite, scorch marks across its’ face. As I neared it, further recognition dawned on me as I read the small bronze plaque.
The old Court House. This must be the base of the old building. I didn’t think anything had survived down here. Memories not so fond coursed through my mind of times here, but were still worth remembering compared to this godforsaken hole. But memories are only memories and intangible, so I kept them to myself as I stepped through the doorway of the apparently named Underground Inn. Thankfully no one asked any question when I asked for a room in exchange for a set of blankets.
“Have a safe night, son.” The old bartender said. I nodded curtly and went away without directions. Not much of a people person I guess. A few minutes and dimly lit corridors later, I found room number one seventeen with an X through it and a twenty seven painted below it. They key stuck then turned slowly, the door hinges creaking as the grime on them cracked and split like chapped lips.
The room smelled of smoke, as did the rest of the town, and had a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. A large wooden chair sat in the corner of the room, a musty bed across from it with an OD green sheet.
No blankets, great. Old man takes mine knowing he hasn’t got any. I groaned and kicked off my boots. Just being indoors seemed alien to me. No sky, no matter how foreboding, seemed unnatural. Two and a half years of wandering, traveling the wastes to find somewhere for work and life. Two and a half years of escaping from..
A loud knock at the door echoed in the nearly empty room. I searched the shadows for my boots but gave up as the door shuddered under another impatient knock. I walked cautiously to the door and peered through the eye hole. A tall man with broad shoulders and a square jaw stood just outside, a black trench coat hanging to his feet which were in armored boots. I saw the weight of a rifle on his right shoulder even under his jacket. His eyes were hidden behind tinted sunglasses with wide rims.
A Waster? I thought sorely. Too many encounters with the no good thieves and murderers.
“What do you want?” I said gruffly, not opening the door. I wished I had grabbed the Old Rifle from off my bed. I saw the man smile slightly and crack his knuckles.
“This room has been reserved for the likes of Mr. Wallace, and his associates, of which I am one. I would like to procure this room as of this moment.” The large man said calmly like some kind of protocol, not a hint of alcohol in his voice.
Taken back, I opened the door to investigate the man. The door squealed open and the man stepped forward, blocking any exit.
“Well. You’re definitely not a Waster. But I am curious as to who you are.” I said questioningly yet defensively as I remained stationary, less than six inches from the giant. His chin was level with my eyes, which I had to strain upward to see his face without raising my head.
“My name and rank is Sergeant Roberts the fifth. You may call me Sergeant Roberts. Now, will you be vacating the premises?” He leaned down slightly, staring me hard in the eye even as I couldn’t see his.
“Actually no. I paid for this room and without compensation will not be leaving. Sorry.”
“Compensation.” He scoffed. “You sir, are lucky to have been given the option.”
“Is that right? Well now, I don’t care who you are or how big you might be. But there is always a choice.”
Roberts laughed then, a deep hollow chuckle like a boulder rolling down a mountain.
“I like you sir. Unfortunately, the Military has strict rules on who is allowed in, and you, with your sun-tanned skin and darker hair..” I noticed then his pale skin and blond hair. “You wouldn’t get past the front gate.” The man eyed me then and looked up and down the hall with quick glances.
A sudden right hook caught me then; right on the chin and I must’ve flown twelve feet, as I hit the back wall of my room. I laid there, dazed, unable to move and just watched as Roberts grabbed my supplies and left, yelling something I couldn’t understand. I stood shakily and walked out into the hallway toward the exit, and saw Roberts leave through the front door, a small group of large men around him. I watched him show off my supplies and strut around like he had just succeeded in shooting Hitler as my vision and stability returned.
I stormed through the door after him, chair in hand, and brought it down hard on the back of his head with a loud crack. Roberts collapsed in a heap, my pack falling on top of the Old Rifle. Instantly the men around him turned on me.
I prepared to fight them all but a gunshot broke my focus. We all turned to look at a midsized man, hair hidden under an old Dallas Cowboys cap, wearing dirty jeans and a ripped football jersey. A small revolver was held tightly in his left hand, fingers turning white with the strain. He waved the pistol at the men who reluctantly left when a crowd began to form around us. He looked at me then and laughed a wheezy breath.
“You took one hellova’ beatin’ out there. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“Military.” I stuttered, my chin numb. It had been a long time since I had fought anyone.
“Huh. Then why are they after you?”
“They’re in the Military?”
“Nah,” The man removed his cap and scratched his head. “They are Military. It’s a conglomerate of the Air Force, Marines, Army and Navy, but only those who think they’re better. Racists, disriminists, sexists, they’re all in there. Supposedly to, ‘Rebuild a better, pure, world for all’. But everyone knows to stay outta’ their way. They’ve still got guns and the like. Power too, betcha’ right now those boys are already getting a warm meal from some Colonel.”
I absorbed all this, stunned and ashamed of my ignorance in the world.
How could I have traveled this long and not heard about this?
“How big are they?”
“Who the Military? Huge. Biggest single group of people there is anymore. Probably three thousand members. They’ve been all over, killing anyone they see fit, or unfit really. You should listen to Post Radio some time. They’re always bringin’ em up.”
A radio? An actual working radio broadcast?
“I’ll do that. Where can I pick them up?”
The man shrugged.
“You need yer’ own radio I’m afraid. These brutes won’t let us keep ‘em.” A deep sorrow passed over his face then. “It’s on eighty two point five though.”
“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful mister..”
“Henry. Just call me Henry.”
“Mister Henry. You’ve been most kind, thank you.”

I threw my pack down on the bed and followed suit. My head pounded like my hammering heart and my back ached miserably. My arms and legs felt like metal and weighed hundreds of pounds. Even in the dark room I saw bright flashes of light and shimmering mirages.
That right eye must be pretty bad. Least Roberts is worse off, sitting in some hospital.
I decided then to stay the night, but not without precautions. I sat up slowly and strenuously and found my bag in the dark. I felt around for some string and nailed it across the bottom of the doorway, a bell hanging from it. The chair would be my bed for tonight and the queen sized mattress a barricade against the door to the next room over. All locks were checked and a chain fastened across the bed frame to the doorknob.
I pulled the Old Rifle against me and laid back in the chair, and slowly, very slowly, drifted off to sleep.
But for me, sleep was no reprieve. No vacation or escape from the harsh world I had to face every day. A past as war torn as the new Earth plagued my mind like a weed. The seed grew and grew until it seeped life from the happy things I could remember. The things now forgotten.
Dark walls and a lice ridden cot. A tray of maggots and meatloaf paste. These were all I had now. Taunting memories to remind me of what once was and never should have been, and what I will never get back or glimpse.
Is this hell really any better than my old one? Or are they just the same thing in disguise? Maybe I never woke up from that last beating and have been rotting in there these last two and a half years. But what do I care? I’d never know the difference. Pain is pain and death is death. At least I’m not suffering. Or am I? When’s the last time I looked in a mirror?
I woke then. Something inside me telling me to. Nothing at the door, nor the sleeping bell. The bed was still in place and the frame hadn’t moved an inch. No, something else had stirred me from my rest. Had it been my subconscious or something greater? I turned on the lantern with one of my matches and walked to the sink. I looked up into grey eyes.
My grey eyes. So sunken. So shallow. My face was gaunt beyond belief. My cheekbones jutted out from the thin face I called my own with pools of purple below my eye sockets. My once clean skin now stained and sunburned. My teeth were horrid yet better than most with my box of fluoride and pack of floss. My face was so depressed and hung like a noose in the gallows. My long greasy hair hung to my shoulders like a wet mop covered in filth. My lips were chapped and cracked around the sides, small bloody flakes about them like pedals on a flower. I stared in disbelief at my scarred and starved body, ribs showing and muscles rippling beneath empty skin.
How long has it been since I’ve eaten more than a few morsels of anything? I asked my reflection aloud. So hurt and betrayed. How could I have let myself get this way? I’m all I’ve got and I need to keep that in mind. I looked back to those eyes staring back at me like a lifeless fish would, floating slowly in the water, bobbing up and down. My facial hair was tremendous like the Amish I had once seen on television but disgusting.
I slipped the small knife I had found long ago from my belt and held it to my throat.
It’s time.
I slid the knife across my neck and gasped.
A chunk of beard the size of my fist fell to the floor. It sat beside my bare foot like a rat waiting for me to leave, unnoticed. I continued shaving, hair spilling like rain from the clouds until my face was clear and bristly until it had almost seemed like me. Then I returned to those eyes.
Nothing I can do about those. I decided and replaced the knife into my belt. I looked down to the sink and turned the knob. Nothing, as I expected. However a single drop of water plopped into the porcelain below. The first water I had seen clean and unadorned by another’s previous encounter. This was clean, fresh water.
“Tomorrow, I find work and a reason to be here.”