Black Creek Read online

  There was no real town near the lake, but a few scattered homes and businesses had made a natural starting point. Dorian and his men immediately set about scouring the countryside for skilled builders, electricians, metalworkers, and members of a dozen other trades to help build the place they now called home.

  Dorian walked along the top of the dam, carefully picking his way across the uneven rock. Beneath him, a groove had been cut out of the dam with a metal gate in place to hold back the flow of water. As Kristof had explained it, the dam didn't previously require any manual spillway. If the water level were to somehow get too high, it would simply run over the top of the dam and along the little stream.

  Since the cataclysm, the weather had changed. Heavy rains and violent storms were more common, and the lake had already spilled over several times, threatening his burgeoning town. This manual spillway would let them control the water level and prevent flooding.

  A horn began to blare and red lights flashed around the spillway door. After a moment, it opened and a rush of water rolled down the side of the dam, funneled harmlessly away into a dry riverbed. Kristof awaited him back on solid ground.

  "We're going to have to figure out a way to secure this area," Dorian said. "The dam was important before, but even more so now with all the electrical work out here. It leaves us exposed." He scanned the coastline, shielding his eyes from the sun, which had begun to peek out from behind the clouds. The shore curved back and forth and extended for miles. Even with the walls along both sides, anyone could attack by boat.

  "We'll figure something out. Problem for another day." Kristof lit his cigarette and blew a puff of smoke upward.

  "Listen, boss," he spoke through the side of his mouth, cigarette still between his lips. "This dam can generate twenty megawatts. That's enough to power thousands of homes, easily. We can grow. We should grow."

  "We are growing, Kristof," Dorian said, already knowing where the conversation was headed.

  "Yeah. But we can do more. Rebuild. Bring in more people."

  "I've never turned away anyone who had something to offer us."

  "You might not think so," Kristof said, taking a long drag. "But you have, man. You have."

  ***

  Dorian had just arrived back in town when the sirens started.

  The harsh sound of the alarm echoed loudly within the walls. At midday, there were few people outside walking the streets. Those who were, quickly scrambled for whatever cover they could find, their eyes cast fearfully upward. Overhead, screeches cut through the sky and the flapping of heavy wings could be heard.

  Dorian sprinted for the wall, leaping onto a ladder and taking it two rungs at a time until he reached the top. In the guard house atop the wall, one soldier was already huddled against the railing in cover. Dorian slid down alongside him.

  Two pteranodons soared overhead, for a moment only visible by their shadow on the street below, before finally they swooped down. One alighted on the pavement, chirping and snapping out with its beak at a woman who dove to the ground and narrowly avoided its attack. The other pumped its massive leathery wings, gliding once around the town center building before perching on its roof. It screeched up at the sky and then took flight again, aiming for a young man who was running away down the sidewalk.

  "Gun," Dorian said to the guard, who quickly handed him a sighted rifle. He took aim as the pteranodon came down on the man and lifted him off the ground in its claws. Dorian fired, and through his sight he saw a burst of pink from the animal's head. It fell lifeless to the ground, the hapless man along with it. From the other guard house across the gate a few more shots rang out and the other creature spiraled out of the air and slammed against the brick wall of the town center, knocking off bits of masonry as it hit.

  Dorian slid down the ladder and ran over to where the injured man lay, a few others hovering over him already. He was alive, but his right leg was shattered from the fall. In the middle of his shin the leg bent unnaturally, broken bone protruding through the skin and red meat oozing blood all around it.

  "Get a stretcher. Get him to the clinic," Dorian said, and a few men ran off. "We've got you, Rick.”

  Moments later the others returned and together they carried him, howling, off down the street.

  ***

  An anxious murmur arose from the crowd gathered in the town hall. As Dorian took to the small stage in front of them their uneasy chatter only grew louder. He raised his hands, signaling that he wanted to speak. It took nearly a minute for the audience to settle.

  "Alright," he said. "I've just come back from the clinic. Dr. Brandt says Rick will live, and he will likely keep his leg. The wound has been set and he's in a cast. And he's comfortable for now."

  There was some scattered applause mixed in with more low conversation.

  Dorian held his hand up again. "Obviously we've had a bad week. First we lost two good men outside the gates—"

  "And for what?" someone interrupted. Reid Horton, a former Marine, and one of Dorian's usual retinue on raids outside the town, was standing up. "We go out there, we fight with some crazy cult freaks, and we come back with hardly anything other than two less men!"

  It was mostly quiet now, everyone's eyes on Dorian. You little shit, Dorian thought.

  "We came back with medicine, Reid. Morphine, for example, for which your friend Rick is rather grateful at the moment." The fire went out of Reid's face but he remained standing. There hadn’t been any morphine in this particular batch, but Reid didn’t know that, and Dorian didn’t figure it mattered.

  "Look," Dorian said, painting himself a broad smile like he had practiced so many times in his former life. "Every single man or woman here knows me. When each and every one of you came to Black Creek, we had a talk. And do you remember what I told you?" He looked at a young woman in the front row, who nodded. Others around her did the same.

  "The world has gone to hell, but you and me, we can bring it back. And we are, folks. Look around you. Two years ago, every last one of us was out there in the wild, wondering whether it would be a man, some terrible beast, or plain old starvation that would put an end to us. And now here we sit, in a brick building with air conditioning. Fifteen foot walls keeping the world at bay."

  There were nods and whispers among the crowd now. "So yes, we've made sacrifices. We've done it before and sadly, we'll have to do it again. Because as hard as we work in here, the world out there? It's still gone to hell. We can't forget that. Least of all those of us who still put our lives on the line outside those walls." He cast a stern eye at Reid, who had just sat back down.

  "So what's next? We shore up where we are most weak. Tomorrow, I’ll speak to our team of engineers and builders about a canvas mesh, suspended over the town, to prevent what happened today from happening again. We've made the dam, our source of electricity, more reliable, but we must protect that as well. There is so much work still to be done, but I promise we will keep moving forward."

  The crowd was on his side now, a positive energy seeming to lift them up. One man though, in the back of the room, stood passive and emotionless. He wore a hood and seemed to look down at the floor, but Dorian could still feel the man's eyes on him.

  He paused, then continued. "But, I know it all wears on all of us, and it can’t be work all the time. I've been keeping a surprise. According to Tommy Doyle, our cattle herd is now large enough to be sustainable. Next week at the town picnic, it'll be hamburgers. For most of us, the first real food in a very long time."

  The audience cheered. The crowd dispersed around sunset, each back to their own homes. The hooded man awaited Dorian by the door until they were the only ones left in the hall.

  "A rousing speech," the man said.

  "Thanks. Didn't know you'd come back."

  "Just a few hours ago. Your guards know well enough by now to allow James passage."

  "They do. As you also know not to call yourself that name if you want to continue to be welcome here."
r />   "And how would you know this James from another?" the man was grinning.

  "The real one doesn't talk like a fucking weirdo, for a start," Dorian said.

  That drew a slight chuckle from the man. "Last time I was here, by the way, your livestock herds were somewhat lacking. How did you manage to grow them in so short a time?"

  "Haven't yet. Could use your help on that one, actually."

  "Ah. Fortune smiles then, as we have need of your services as well."

  "I figured. Let's take a walk."

  The streetlights were just coming on as Dorian and the man who called himself James left the town hall. He was, of course, not James at all. Rather, he was just one member of yet another cult the likes of which plagued the world these days. This particular group, the Disciples, just happened to be one of the lesser evils. More importantly, they were frequently useful to him.

  "James has seen that the heretical so-called Church continues to expand in your area. In our area, as well," the man said as they walked. As they passed beneath a streetlight Dorian could see him better. His hood, part of what appeared to be an ordinary hooded sweatshirt, rested slightly further back on piles of blond hair. Atop the sweatshirt he wore thin leather armor which appeared to be lined with scales and feathers. Dinosaur skin, Dorian knew, though he’d never asked why or how.

  Weird fucker.

  "Yeah,” Dorian said. “Just killed a nest of them last week, released their prisoners."

  "Certainly the poor wretches were fortunate you stumbled upon them." There was a slight biting sarcasm to the man's tone.

  "I took three with me. And the rest are better off than they were before I came along."

  "James suspects the rest may be dead now, so no better off at all. Perhaps some found their way to another James, if they were lucky."

  "Yeah, well that's why men like you exist, to so selflessly help the needy. And yet when it's you who needs help, here you are."

  The man chuckled. "Yes, this is true. There is need enough for men like each of us in the world."

  "So what do you need?"

  "The heretics have built a recruitment camp nearby. Have you seen it?"

  "Not with my own eyes. Did see it on one of their maps. Want me to destroy it?"

  "Our usual payment would apply. And if rumor is true, you will find upward of twenty cows within the compound. Some chickens too."

  Dorian smiled. Things had a way of working out in his favor; they always had. "Deal," he said, extending his hand.

  The cultist shook it, then handed him a slip of paper. In a tight red ink scrawl was written a set of coordinates. "Your payment," he said. "James thanks you, Dorian. He does not approve of these heretics, and they must be killed."

  Dorian shook his head. "He wouldn't much care for what you guys are doing either. Trust me."

  ***

  His house was cool when he returned home. Dorian headed straight for his office and toward the large map against the wall.

  He grabbed the metal board the map was mounted on and lifted it, flipping it over and setting it back down. On the reverse side was another map of the same area. Dozens of X’s crossed out the names of small towns and cities, ones known to him to be abandoned or destroyed. Only three in the entire region were circled, places where people were still making a go at living. Elsewhere around the map was displayed an array of stars in various colors, for the most part scattered around northern Virginia, with a few in West Virginia.

  He examined the paper the cultist had given him before grabbing a red marker and drawing a star at the coordinates indicated.

  Red. That meant a T-Rex had reportedly been killed there. That was something you just didn't hear of too often these days. The small arms available to most raiders were simply a mild irritant to those massive creatures. Once in a while, you might hear of a former military unit—or simply a group who got their hands on some real hardware—taking one down. Usually though, you'd have already heard about some men running around with a tank.

  If not that, there were few other explanations. This was, like the other markers on his map, just another sign of him. Yellow showed rumors of unusual changes in the weather. Green was where ruthless bandit enclaves had suddenly been wiped out without explanation. Orange represented locations where the Disciples had rescued anyone claiming to have been saved from raiders or dinosaurs by a magical bearded man with green eyes.

  The Disciples had been searching for his friend, their apparent God, as long as he'd known them. Dorian would simply have to find him first.

  There was, to Dorian's constant frustration, no pattern he could recognize. There was no question that James, the real one, was somewhere out in this vast expanse of countryside. He was doing what he always had, fighting endless small fights for the weak and powerless while running from the real fight, one that only he was actually capable of taking on.

  Dorian stared at the map, drumming his fingers tunelessly on the table. "Where the hell are you?"

  James

  Over many years, the world finally began to thaw. As the snow and ice receded, life bloomed around him once again.

  Trees, which had once grown no taller than himself, squat and prickly, now reached high into the air, and their thick, green canopies gave him respite from the sun. Their fruits and flowers grew larger and more colorful. Some, he found, were a sweet delight. Others would quickly leave him vomiting as his guts rejected them.

  The small, mostly scaly creatures which roamed the earth grew steadily larger and their teeth sharper. Where they had once been eager to avoid him, he now often found himself the target of their own hunts. Luckily, it didn't take him long to discover that the same fire which kept him warm at night also kept them at bay.

  The earth was tumultuous in those days. Volcanoes spewed that quick-moving molten rock that still terrified him so. On some days the earth beneath him would tremble and quake. On others, heavy winds which even tore trees from their roots would threaten to lift him from his feet.

  Despite all of this, as it always had and always would, life went on and James went on with it. These were mostly cheerful times for him, each day bringing a new place to explore and new things to learn.

  On one particular day, James crouched on a slick black rock which jutted out from the beach. The spray of the surf drifted over him in a pleasant mist. Just a few feet below circled his prey, a foot-long gray fish swimming about in the shallow water.

  In his right hand he held a short length of wood, its end sharpened. Though it was knobbly, it had been the straightest branch he could find.

  James pulled his arm back a bit and then threw the spear, letting out a hoot as it pierced the fish through its midsection. It floated to the surface and then, spear and all, began to drift away from the shore.

  James leapt into the water and paddled toward it. As he drew near, without warning, a larger fish's mouth emerged from the surface, its powerful jaws clamping down over his meal and his weapon both. His anger quickly turned to fear as he fled back toward the beach, where he sat in defeat after dragging himself out of the shallows. After a while, he rose and wandered off to look for another branch. And so went many of James's days during that time.

  The earth was never content to lay at rest for long, though. In his mind James could in fact feel the turmoil of the very rock and crust of the world. It stretched and strained, as if longing to burst and yet fighting back to resist it. One day though, his world relented.

  Fire and poisonous gas burst from the tops of volcanoes all around him. James, sprinting as fast as his legs would take him, reached the safety of a dormant mountaintop. From this high perch, it looked as though all the land was covered in lava. The air was yellow with thick smoke and gas which suffocated him. And for quite a long time he lay unconscious atop that mountain.

  When he awoke, many years later, the earth had once again settled, although the air still smelled of sulfur and burned his lungs when he breathed it in. He descended from that summit an
d roamed the ruined land which stretched for miles and miles in every direction. Above, the sky had been stained a yellow-green.

  As he went, one thing became clear. He saw no lizards scuttling among the rocks, no insects flitting about his ears, and no fish darting about the rivers, which now ran brown from the dust and ash. He was alone once again. And though he had never drawn much pleasure from the existence of his fellow creatures, the sudden realization of their loss tore at his heart. He collapsed in a heap, tears streaming down his face and his chest heaving with sobs until he couldn’t breathe.

  Above him the clouds rolled in and a soft rain began to fall, a nourishing shower that went on for days, weeks, months, and washed away the blight on the land.

  James soon found, to his surprise, that he was not, in fact, completely alone. Though very few, some creatures had indeed survived. And although it took many, many years, life on earth eventually recovered and flourished once again.