Stoner Doom Metal

The sky was overcast, the sun barely peeked through the grey haze, it looked pathetic.

A man walked around a battlefield, which was the shattered remains of a town. The ground was littered with expended shell casings and dead bodies. The dead were incased in rusted armor, all of it made from scavenged scrap metal. Flames danced out of the hood of what had once been a car designed for families; now it was a heavily modified troop transport.

The man wore faded denim, metal rivets and thick stitching, battered black leather, and a tattered gray poncho. A revolver sat on his hip, a jack knife on his boot. A fat metal tube with a wooden buttstock and a set of simple iron sights attached to it was slung across his back.

His name was John Logan. He was seldom addressed by it. People were rare and his encounters with them tended to be brief and to the point.

One of the men rolled over, springing his trap, pointing a zipgun at John. In a flash the revolver was out of its holster and the trigger squeezed. The bullet found its mark, blood gushed out of the hole in his jugular, coating the orange rust of his improvised body armor with a layer of red.

The people of the settlement started to slowly trickle out of hiding, looking at the fallen raiders unsurely. The women were freed, and the food stores were opened so that everyone could eat their fill. The man ate with the people and had his way with the most beautiful of the women, any or even all of them would gladly be his bride, and the people would have made him their chief. And yet he pushed on, sneaking away at night.

John was a gunslinger and a survivor. He came walking out of the wastes, like a warrior sent by God. No one could stop him; he killed them all. He came and went like a vengeful spirit, doing violent deeds and then vanishing back into the desert. He was a nomad, no home, no companions, only the drive to wander the wasteland. Was he searching for something? Was he simply compelled to do what he could to help the innocent? Maybe it was all a sham, maybe he was just a survivor and people attached meaning to his actions. Regardless, he had left a trail of dead bodies in his wake.

The little village disappeared into the distance, now he beheld a massive highway, one that stretched to both horizons. Endless lines of cars sat in every single lane. They had been trying to get away, streaming away from the population centers, traveling in all directions, fleeing in a blind panic. Word of the doom that was coming did its own damage before the cataclysm itself.

The structures and access roads that flanked the freeway were badly weathered. Many buildings had been reduced to ruins. Vegetation was sparse, so that the color green seemed rare and hallowed. He saw no people, no movement or sound. The buildings and most of the cars had been looted. At some point in the past they had been convenience stores and restaurants, now they were empty collapsing shells.

Civilization had fallen, and for many, that meant basic humanity was no longer a concern. Some were like rabid animals, lashing out in acts of needless ultraviolence. Others were like carrion eaters, desperate and vicious.

Compelled by something that he could not identify, he walked along the highway, scanning the cars for threats and anything salvageable. He marched west, seeing barren hills, a single tree, nothing of value.

He camped near the side of the road, staying up far into the night, waiting and listening for the sound of engines. A starless sky sat overhead, still too much shit in the air, the distant suns were too weak to get through it. This was true darkness, just like those days when his old life had been stolen from him.

That night he dreamt of spacecraft locked in combat, a charismatic man commanded them. More memories, it had to have been something that he had watched with his kids.

He pushed on. On past lifeless rubble and crumbling reminders of a long dead way of life. The lines of rusted out hulks slowly turned into a trickle of roadside wrecks and abandoned vehicles.

A crossroad, an inhabited town, this one protected by high walls. People congregated in a bazaar. Uniformed troops stood guard. It had been the first time in many years that he had seen a uniform. These weren’t worn or patched together, they had been produced recently. Patches and pins adorned the combat fatigues and gear, they depicted the roaring face of a vicious beast. This was a symbol of the old government. What had once been mocked and hated for being a sign of rules and taxes had become a symbol of order.

A crier stepped up onto a platform. He spoke of a horde of madmen, each of them wearing some kind of gasmask. They were ravaging small settlements, the town’s leader was asking for volunteers to supplement his troops on a campaign to eradicate the menace.

They piled into the back of a truck and settled in for the ride.

“Why the masks?” a wide-eyed young man asked.

A guy with a long beard and taped together glasses answered him, “They soak the filters in some kind of hallucinogenic drug, they believe that it shows them visions of how things really are.”

“Another cult,” an older soldier said with distaste.

The NCO that the volunteers had been placed under looked around the group, “They are the last gasp of the chaotic and lawless old days. We are taking the world back. Radio transmissions from far away, even from over the seas, speak of civilization’s return.”

John kept silent, considering the sergeant’s words. Was it the truth, or the propaganda of the town’s leadership?

Heavy gunfire ahead, multiple MGs and the occasional rifle. The truck stopped in front of a rise and they were instructed to dismount. The ad hoc combat unit formed up into a line and started up, reaching the crest quickly.

Madmen brandishing all manner of melee weapons were blindly charging into automatic weapon fire. They let out gleeful war cries, consumed by a blood lust, immune to fear and even self-preservation. They all wore masks, their original functions varied, no two were alike. Other than that, they were outfitted the same as any other raider, jerry rigged gear and scrap metal body armor that had a layer of menacing war paint sloppily applied.

“They don’t give a fuck!” a soldier exclaimed.

“We have them on the flank! Open fire, open fire!” the NCO shouted.

John took the weapon off his back, pointed it in the general direction of the faceless horde, and fired. The fragmentation grenade landed amongst them, shrapnel tearing through flesh and severing limbs. Over a dozen enemies dropped to the ground.

“Woah! How many more of those to you have?” the young man asked.”

“None,” John replied, putting the sling back over his shoulder and drawing his sidearm.

A good chunk of the horde switched targets, pivoting toward John and his group. They closed in with frightening speed. The volunteers’ gunfire became panicked, many rounds missed their mark. John aimed carefully, working his way around the cylinder of his revolver calmly.

A few volunteers broke ranks, fleeing in the face of the horde. John expected the NCO to turn around and shoot them in the back, but he stayed focused on what was in front of him.

The enemy reached striking distance, the volunteers pulled their own close range weapons. Shotguns were discharged, knifes slashed, improvised clubs swung. John drew his jack knife, plunged the blade into the heart of a freak with a machete. Then he slashed open the throat of a psycho with a respirator that had been painted to look like a clown’s makeup.

A woman in rags, her face covered by what had once been an army gasmask, he recognized the design from his time in the service, during that short but sweet little war. Maybe it was some natural reluctance to kill a woman, maybe it was the sight of what had once been a part of his uniform; he couldn’t tell, but whatever the reason, he hesitated. Her long knife flashed as she closed the distance.

A blast of birdshot from a volunteer caused her to stumble. John was able to grab the arm that held the knife, while she did the same to him. They circled around, trying to get some kind of advantage. John put all of his strength into his dominate hand, managed to dig the tip into her flesh. She ignored the gruesome wound, kneed John hard in the stomach.

He lost his footing, the two tumbled to the ground, twisting and turning as they fought. In the midst of the struggle the raider’s mask was torn free, revealing a mouth which was twisted into a ghoulish grin and a pair of eyes that had a distorted soul behind them. The punch to her jaw was purely instinctual. It stunned her, gave him the time he needed to deliver the killing blow.

John jumped back up, grabbed a dead raider’s mace, which was made from a pipe with sharp pieces of metal wielded to it. The spiked club connected with the faces of several marauders. The fight became a blur of blood and savage blows. The next thing that he knew he found himself standing there surrounded by dead foes, panting, red dripping from the end of the mace. He dropped the weapon, reloaded his gun as he scanned the rest of the battlefield. The horde had been wiped out, a pile of corpses sat in front of the friendly machinegun nests.

The battle was over, the threat neutralized. John wondered off as his comrades scavenged the battlefield. A storm rolled in, in the past the rain had been an annoyance, now it was a welcome thing, meant that more plants would grow. A cave offered refuge from the freezing wind and downpour. Pots, pans, cups, bowls, he sat anything that held water near the mouth of the cavern.

John dug around in his pack, found his new battle trophy. He examined the mask, wondering why he had even taken it. The thing had once been used for some sort of industrial work; lenses protected the eyes, the canisters on the sides filtered out noxious chemicals. Years of wear and damage from hard use had been patched and jerry-rigged. Modifications of a purely aesthetic nature had been made, each designed to frighten.

John turned the mask around, examining the inside. To think that this had been warn by a person that he had killed. This had been his face, his world. Curious. John unconsciously moved the mask closer and closer to his face.

An accidental whiff of whatever chemicals were in the filters. He was no longer in the cave. He was rushing through darkness. The only thing in front of him was a dark-haired woman, clad in silk and gold, her back to him. Just as he reached her, she turned to look at him. A plain white mask covered her face, yet he could still feel her eyes on him.

His awareness jumped back into his body; it was like bolting awake from a nightmare. John used a rock to smash the mask apart, burying the pieces. He was able to fill several canteens and bottles with the rainwater. The survivor left the cave as soon as the sun came up.

Smoke in the distance, the walk was long and lonely. The source of the black column turned out to be a forge. The people of the little settlement were friendly, more interested in commerce than combat. He entered the shop that sat adjacent to it.

The place was organized chaos. Salvage of all shapes and sizes was stacked from floor to ceiling. A cruiser style motorcycle sat in the middle of the room, a tarp half covering it.

John put his guns on the counter, “Got any ammo for these?”

The trader looked at the weapons lovingly, “The Mark IV Obliterator. A break-action grenade launcher that supports a variety of specialized rounds. Options include: HE, high velocity fragmentation, weapons grade acid, napalm projecting cluster, armor piercing slugs made out of neo-titanium, extreme-density poison gas, and canister rounds for up close work. Very rare. I have a few rounds for it

“The revolver is a Stallion, model 6, if I’m not mistaken. Originally designed to kill raging Hakia addicts, as the drug keeps them moving long after a normal person would have stopped. I can sell you a few hollow points and an extra speed loader, if you are interested.”

John glanced behind him, “How much for the motorcycle?”

“I will give you a discount. Throw in the Obliterator grenades and Stallion rounds too. How will you be paying.”

John dumped the contents of a cloth sack onto the table. The trader looked at the pile of gold and silver coins enthusiastically, “I think that will be enough.”

“More than enough. Give me a few cans of food as well.”

“Of course, of course,” he held up a finger, “And if you find yourself in Lakeside Valley be sure to mention me to the guy that owns the gas well. He will give you a discount.”

“I’ll do that.”

John left the settlement, his pockets full of ammo, his pack stuffed with food, and a powerful engine under him. The nomad cruised along the pitted and mangled remains of highways. His eyes scanned for traps and ambushes as he searched for the next opportunity, the next battle.

The flaming remains of a raider camp, dead bodies everywhere. Troops surrounded it, moving with a victor’s confidence. An emblem was emblazoned on their uniforms and vehicles, a flaming sword.

That symbol. He knew that symbol. That bright-eyed young fool had used it, said that it would be a sign of hope, that it would fly over the wastes as he rebuilt the world. John had helped the idealist’s people and moved on as always, assuming that it would all go to shit.

Did this mean that he had been successful? Was the soldier right after all, was the world recovering?

John Logan had helped build civilizations, and yet he kept going.