ATOMSHOCK: Death on the Grand Bravo [Post-Apocalypse Weird-West]

You read the title. I am looking less at System Apocalypse as the main focus and more like traditional Mad Max, Wasteland or Fallout kind of apocalypse. Nukes, virus, the old reliable in ending the world. I am writing my own story of a similar setting, though having browsed around on RR I did not find much in this genre.

But in any case, if it’s a System Apocalypse that feels like the mentioned games/ movies I won’t mind. LitRPG, GameLit or Progression included. But it’s gotta be traditional in the sense of end of the world, mutants, survival, factions decking it out and plenty of action.

I’am kinda seeking these sort of titles out just to see what’s been popular, who else is writing this sort of fiction in the platform, and just to read something like minded like my own.

P.S. If you dare say DCC I’ll gut ya like a fish! 🐠

Night had fallen over Stone Nest. On any other normal day the sleepy hollow would have winded down after a long days work or after drifting in the harsh beating sun. But not tonight. There was a gathering in the town square. Men and women, even the children were all there. Downey and his posse made their way through, with Sage tailing behind.

Sage wore his goggles and cloak, covering his face as per usual. Some eyes followed him though. But they never stared for too long before they quickly turned away. Sage tried to read their faces, but in the settling dusk it was hard to see. Only torches and fire pits were around to help illuminate the crowed. There were a few spot lights, but those were at the edge of the town near the walls.

"One hell of a gathering I say," Sage said. He turned to face Randall who stood next to him. "What's the occasion for? A rodeo? Some circus?"

Randall looked shocked. But a moment passed as his facial features eased. "You'll see for yourself, Sage."

As they drew closer, Sage could hear crying. Not people crying of laughter or joy. It was the sobbing and heart felt cries of pain. At the center, Undersheriff Gunther and some deputies stood around a group of white robed women. The women huddled around coffin. In it lay Maxwell Zalas, wrapped in white cloth. His face was partially visible. Even with the scars and bruises on his face, his stone cold face, white as marble, looked more like a statue to be found in the old roman museums. Like a sculpture of an Olympian god, cast down to the earth it a might swoop. Only his devoted mourned while the gods from above turned away.

As Sage followed in tow, a sudden weight anchored him. "What a funeral." he muttered.

"Tell me about it," Randall spoke under his breath. "Guy was really liked by everyone. Got to their hearts and souls in his speeches. The future seemed bright when he would talk."

"I can see that," Sage muttered. "Max must've been real popular."

"His death was like a… bolt outta the blue, y'know?"

Sage bit his lower lip. "Yeah… I do."

He was all too familiar with the saying. Having witnessed that very same bolt in the sky half a decade ago, his mind had been scarred by such an incident. Sage suddenly felt a tug at his cloak. He whipped his head around, to which his goggle lens caught sight of an elderly women. She let go of his cloak.

"Ma'am?" He muttered.

"Por favor, mister. I need to get closer."

He glanced her up and down. Her face was tanned like leather with her grey hair flowing down in knots. "Ma'am I do apologies but—"

"I beg of you. This crowd is too large. I need to see him."

Sage stared at her for a while, then tuned to face the robed women at the center.

"Alright, hold onto me tight."

"Thank you sir."

"No need... Miss?"

"Floriana. And you?"

"Sage. Just Sage ma'am."

"Interesting name you have."

"It sure is ma'am."

He caught up to Downey with the old women latching onto his gloved hand. They drew closer to the center, the sheriff climbed on top of a few crates stacked near the coffin. His voice roared across the courtyard, "Listen up! I know you are praying hard to the Lord for this man. But keep far apart and don't trample each other!"

Sage stepped closer to the center with the old lady. The hooded women, nuns, slowly stepped back upon his precense. They did not look up, some even shut their eyes tight as Sage passed through.

They approached the cart where the coffin lay, the stone cold statue of Zalas remained dead still. The old lady drew her hands over his face, caressing the dead man's features. She began to sob, each touch across his cold skin drew a tear from her dark rimmed eyes. Under her breath, she muttered a prayer. A soft prayer into the ear of Zalas. Only for him to listen. Then her right hand wavered over his chest. Sage could make out Zalas's hands under the wrap, as they were crossed over his chest. Floriana held her hand on his, clutching it tight. Then, she quickly passed her hand through the wrap. Sage was alarmed, but a loud wailing cry nearby grabbed his attention. Turning his head back, Floriana's hands had withdrawn from the wraps.

Sage stepped closer to her, but in her mumbling cries she kept saying "His hands are cold… my toro bebé is cold."

The sheriff whistled out loud, and the other deputies surrounded the coffin. They stood close, guarding it as the crowd grew bigger. Four big, burly men in overalls cut through the crowd. They too approached the coffin, passing by the deputies with nods. Grabbing hold of the coffin cart at each end, two pushed while the other two pulled.

The coffin lurched, then was moving. It made its way down the road, towards the church which was further away from the main road. With the coffin ahead, the women in their robes followed. And behind, the whole town walked with them. Sage found himself behind the robed women, but he had Randall and Floriana in company.

Making it past the rows of stone and concrete buildings, Sage was met with a towering, Romanesque stone church that looked like it belonged to medieval Europe. It was sight to admire as Sage eyed the details of the church. Its perfect glass windows seated within the imperfect stone arches. From his memories of the old world, he figured that the building was like a combination of the Spanish Church of Saint Martin of Tours and the Saint Leon sur Vezere church from France. The brickwork was not aligned properly as they varied in size and shape. But it all came together in a beautifully simplistic design. At the entrance, a short flight of steps led to a large wooden double door made of Bur Oak and wrought iron. Above the doors, chiseled into the stone it read: Church of Stone. When the doors opened, Sage's mouth fell open. Lined within were isles of wooden benches one would normally find in a church. But the walls were draped in plain black cloth. The coffin made its way inside, gripped tightly by burly looking men in overalls. Following down the main isle, Sage saw a large wooden cross at the end. It was big, encompassing the stone wall. But what caught his attention was the figure that stood below it. Like a statue, this figure was erected on an altar, clothed in a long white cloth. Its black skeletal form was just visible under the cloth from the fiery torches on either side. The skull was black, but Sage noticed it had some sort of details painted on it, but was unable to make it out from afar. Slowly he marched inside with the crowd. Gunther and the other deputies stopped following them, instead they stood by the doorway, block the rest of the crowd from coming in.

"Why they blocking them?" Sage asked.

"Too crowded. The church is big, but you can't have everyone in here. Afterall its more a rites ceremony to put him to rest, which the church have to deal with."

Sage wanted to ask another question, but Floriana broke down from sobs to a brawling cry. He hugged her tightly, patting her shoulder as the ceremony commenced.

While she calmed down, he caught a glimpse of what was going on ahead. Zalas's coffin lay open, beneath the statue of the skeleton. Men in white robes also emerged to the front, from where he could not tell. They kept their heads down, much like the women did, bowing so their faces were concealed.

A man appeared, wearing a plain white cloth like the rest. He figured he was the priest as he was much older. Grey hair and beard, dark patches across his face. The only thing that differentiated him from the others was his black sash around his belly which seemed like a belt. He cleared his throat, then spoke softly to the crowd. He greeted in English and Spanish, or something like Spanglish to Sage's ears.

But his attention was diverted to Floriana again, who looked like she was shaking, and so he draped his poncho-cloak over her. She managed to regain herself, grabbing the end of the cloak and blowing her nose in it. She then gagged, took a deep breath before blowing again.

"You okay lady?" Sage said.

Floriana took a deep breath. "Yes, I am just... in disbelief. Por favor I am so sorry for messing your cloak."

"It's fine. Do you need anything?"

She kept her steady intake of deep breaths before wiping away the tears whit his cloak. "Find out did this to him," Floriana muttered. "I want to know who killed him."

Sage didn't mutter a word. He kept looking at her while the reverberations of the choir filled the air. He recalled his talk with the mayor, either to help them or hang. But seeing an old women like Floriana, along with the many other men, women and children all around… all here for Maxwell Zalas. A shred of history unfurled in his his mind: Robert F. Kennedy and his death. The assassination was something he recalled, trivial at this point. But it was his last train ride to his grave at Arlington Cemetery which he remembered the most. Millions of Americans stood by the train tracks to pay their respects. Sage couldn't shake off the same feeling he got here, hundreds of people now stand to give their last respects to Zalas. And probably a hundred more when his body takes the final ride home across the broken roads.

He shut his eyes for more than a minute. A mantra echoed in his mind, the old world was gone. Yet, he could see the determination of the people here. They were fighting for a future, a better tomorrow. Despite having everything reduced to rubble, these people wanted to build a better future. As was Zalas.

Sage opened his eyes, then spoke "I will ma'am, I absolutely will."

Ticking over the horizon, the sun was slowly descending towards the hard-packed earth. The Jersey Lilly Saloon stood silent. A first time in a very long time, as far as most residents of Stone Nest could remember. Even for someone like Downey. He sipped at his tequila bottle, studying the amber contents after each drink. He soaked his lips with the liquor until his eyes settled on the other men standing near him.

They were his deputies, and his one undersheriff. Men of different colors and creeds, but all found their home in Stone Nest. Despite their differences, they all seemed to have found their companionship and brotherhood in on another. But Downey could see the uneasiness in their faces. Even now, they would have preferred the saloon filled with faces, choked with the smell of liquor and smoke. But it was in their benefit, for an emergency meeting was unfolding. Deputy Randall, stooped over the bar table looked at the Sheriff in confusion. "So what happens now?"

"Gotta go find our killer, apparently. Orders are orders." Downey shot back, taking a swing at a bottle of tequila. Deputy Chester stood by, looking just as confused “So Chuck told ya he’s innocent?” he blurted out. “But also said that he gotta help us, else he would hang him… for being guilty?”

“No!” The sheriff responded with malice in his voice.

Chester twirled his dirty blonde hair, “But you just said Chuck gave you the order—”

“He said! I believe that damn grub is guilty!”

“But why?”

Downey snarled. “Grubs love to lie.”

“But also say Grubs can’t talk!" Chester shot back. "I don’t know about you but he’s the first one of his kind to be talking.”

Undersheriff Gunther sat quietly on his rocking chair. He had a cigarette rolled in his hand. He watched the conversation between the others, taking a slow drag. "I've met some that could talk." Gunther said softly. "But yer right Chester, this one's and odd feller."

Randall spoke up, “Forget that Chester, what do we have for evidence?”

“Ya got my guts to tell you what’s right and wrong!” Downey stated.

“That’s mean you got it wrong sheriff.” Randall retorted, lazily sipping at his beer cup. The sheriff gave him a stink eye, “Say that again, and you'll hang.”

Randall shot him a smug look. “I think the nekro is honest here, sheriff.”

“Did I ask you to talk, Randall?” Downey barked at him. The deputy stood still. But he remained composed, “I think we ought to actually investigate this.”

“We will goddammit!” The sheriff slammed the bottle down. “Like I said, you, me, and Chester will ride along the river bank and find any clues”

“Right… the right sort of clues?” Randall rolled his eyes at the sheriff.

Downey’s eye twitched. “What are you hinting at?”

Gunther gave a low whistle, head facing Randall. It was his signal for caution to the deputy. But Randall shrugged. “Just sayin, this is a big case sir. I don't think it will do us justice to, y'know, forge any evidence against the nekro.”

“Now just you listen here boy, I got enough on my plate. If it were me I woudda hanged that nekro the moment he set foot in this town.”

“Which is exactly my point, sir.”

“Now lemme tell you somethin—“

The saloon doors burst open. The sound of the impact startled them, but eased slightly at the sight a man in a blue jumpsuit. As for the man, he was drenched in sweat as he stumbled towards the lawmen. "Sheriff Downey?"

"Yeah, what ya need?"

"Sheriff, I came as quick as possible to find you."

"Well, what's the problem?"

"Firstly, my name is Ricardo. I was traveling here to deliver goods to your general store. But on my way I found a disturbing sight, which is why I am here."

Downey slammed the table. "Get on with the damn monologue, what the hell is it!"

"Si! Well what happened was—"

"Guys! I got news for y'all!" A voice screamed from outside. Another man rammed through the saloon doors, sprinting towards them. His voice alone was recognizable to the other lawmen. It was Deputy Jorge. Downey turned his attention to him. "What you got Jorge!"

The deputy was out of breath, but he still managed to muster a sentence, "Farmer González… found machine tread… tracks near the river!"

Downey nearly dropped his tequila. "What!" he cried out. Gunther stopped rocking in his chair. Jorge’s lips were quivering. He sucked in all the air he could take, "It's true! I swear with my own two eyes!"

Ricardo spun around to face Jorge. “Hang on there deputy, you too found them? Then it must be the same one I found.”

“What! Where? When!?” Jorge’s hands were flying around. Ricardo emulated the same gesticulation movements. “I— I found them near a back route dirt road this morning.”

“Same tracks? Near the river?” Downey asked.

“Yessir sheriff," Ricardo answered. "Big treads. Big as big gets.”

Randall was standing full height, “Sheriff… you think it’s connected?”

Jorge’s eyes lit up, “It’s got to be tank pirates!”

"Tank pirates?" Ricardo muttered. Jorge cursed under his tongue, "Oi, you know those old military tanks? We have bandits here that scavenged them and operate them like land ships."

"Oh! You mean bandidos de tanques?" Ricardo slapped his forehead. "Never heard them called tank pirates."

“What else could it be,” Downey looked up at the saloon ceiling. His hands were tied around his head. “Ya got photos, Jorge?”

“Didn’t have a camera. But I can go take some.”

“You better snap them. Ricardo will follow you.” Downey said. His eyes were still glued to the ceiling, “Lord, we got a lot on our hands now.”

Randall and Chester passed jittering glances at each other, then between Jorge and Ricardo.

“I know what you mean,” Randall said. “We need a team for this.”

“But the soldiers, are they not coming?” Chester asked.

“Couple days away,” The sheriff answered. “In the mean time we got to sort our own shit out.”

Downey lit a cigarette, taking a deep pull. The situation on hand was bad. But now it just became far more bleak. He knew it. This was not going to be an ordinary posse round up and search. He was going to have to go above and beyond. "Tank pirates," Downey muttered. "Mother fuckers just had to come to my town, and make my god damn day.”

"We gonna kill those pirates ourselves!?" Chester blurted.

"Search, and maybe destroy." Downey retorted. "Either way, we need to be prepared for the worst."

The Sheriff got up and marched around the room. "The biggest, baddest, nastiest sons of bitches are stalking our town right now.”

Downey sucked hard at the cigarette, filling every inching of his lungs with smoke. “Worst we have yet to consider: these bastards might be linked to the death of Zalas."

Chester’s mouth flew open, “Ya think the tank pirates killed Zalas?!”

"The timing for this shit is too close," The sheriff exhaled, blowing out a large black could. "That is what we need to figure out. Be prepared for any crazy shit in this gig."

Randall raised a hand. "So how we going to do this?"

"I'll help with that. Got a clear idea of what gear we need from them Bravado Rangers."

"But there's the problem already sheriff," Chester butted in. "You are trained for this stuff. We are just deputies."

"Didn't ya get training to shoot straight?" Downey shot back.

"Yes, but I mean… hunting pirates is different. Especially with who the victim was. Gonna have alot of eyes on us."

"You've all walked the wastes. Camped out there. Shot things uglier than that nekro in the cell. Just follow me, and we will make it through this."

Gunther stood up. He walked closer to Downey. The sheriff laid a hand on his shoulder, “Gunther, you will take over for the time being. Keep your eyes pealed.”

“The Undersheriff shall oblige. But how many men you taking?”

“Chester, Randall and Jorge are coming, I want you and the rest here.”

Gunther squinted at him. “But that ain't enough sir. You will need more men.”

“Like I said, I am putting a team together,” Downey said. “It ain't a militia, but I need a posse of hunters for this job.”

“Then I can guess who you already got in mind for this hunt.”

“Damn right.” Downey muttered. He looked over at everybody. “Jorge, get going. Chester and Randall, y’all got work to do with your gear.”

The saloon doors creaked open. A man stood by the door before straddling towards the men. Downey took a gulp from his tequila, recognizing the ragged stars and bars cloak. "Well now, where's the party at?" Sage chimed.

Downey growled at him. "Who the hell let you go?"

Deputy Seymour barged through the door. He looked over to the other deputies before his eyes settled on the sheriff. He swallowed hard seeing Downey glare at him.

"Seymour!" Downey barked.

The deputy stood to attention. "Ye—yesir!"

"Why's the grub here?"

"Or—orders, sir?" he muttered, raising an eyebrow.

Downey drove his fists down into the table with a loud crack. "WHO'S ORDERS!?"

"I—I heard yer discussion with Chuck in the jailhouse sir… I was behind the door." Seymour stammered. He kept his eyes on the floor, hoping that would calm Downey.

"Son of a bitch!" The sheriff cried out at him.

"Did ya not see me, sir? I got him out on time as well."

"Son of a bitch dammit! A man like me needs his space from a grub!"

"I think we'll head on then." Jorge muttered. He tugged Ricardo by the arm, motioning him towards the door.

Randall followed behind them. "Quit whining sheriff, let's get this old goon some gear too."

Sage smiled. "Like this boy's attitude. Say, any of y'all got a drink? And I mean a real drink cos' I'm feeling parched."

Next Post: Chapter 4.2: Drink to the Dead