Obsession

I stepped through the broken window and my ears perked at the sound of crunching glass; alarms rang out in my head, screaming for me to freeze because they would hear. I swung my other leg through the glassy maw and did stop, gun out, to scan the area. The logical part of my head told me that the zombies were dead, truly dead, and had been for years, but the reaction was hardwired now; it was the only way anyone survived in the world when it was so infested back…God, it was only ten years ago, though it seemed like a life time. Not that the slate is completely wiped clean, you understand. No, we still get the rare undead wandering into an outlying village or hamlet from time to time, infecting one or two, sometimes even nine or ten, or the residents; most times we make to them in time, sometimes though we don’t, and the zombies shamble back to whatever nest, whatever keeps spawning them.

That’s the world I lived in now, the world after the zombies; this world where I’m crouched on the other side of a broken window waiting for some horror to stumble out of the darkness craving my living flesh.

The pressed penny machine sat in the shadows a few feet ahead of me, against the wall that had propped it up for the last twenty years. I hoped I could get the press out of it, that magical wheel that turned a useless piece of history into an even more useless piece of history. Still, I’d been collecting the pennies since I was fifteen and a little thing like the end of the world wasn’t going to stop me, though it seriously put a damper on my efforts. There was really no way to press the pennies I wanted out in the reclaimed wilderness that was America, so every time I found a machine I would open it up and take the dies. Even with these I was at a loss to make my pennies until a few years ago when I came across a hand crank machine. It was a bitch to haul back, but was definitely worth it, at least to me; Adam, well, he has a different opinion on the matter entirely.

Now these dies I was collecting, Adam didn’t seem to mind that much, probably because all he had to do was watch my back, which meant standing outside and looking up and down the street, just like he was doing.

Seconds passed and nothing moved. Content that I was alone I crept forward toward the machine. It was a mess, just like everything thing else from the time before everything hit the fan; most of the wooden case was rotted, showing the metal internals which were rust covered. The last few years it had been getting harder and harder to find dies worth salvaging; I ended up throwing out three quarters of those I found. Still, that was a better percent than most things that were still left lying around the last fifth of a century.

The work of a minute had the case open while another three had the die in my hands. It wasn’t in too bad of shape; a bit of work and it might even still be serviceable. I smiled as I swung my bag around and put my new treasure snugly within it.

The smile didn’t last long, however, as I heard that unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.

“Well, Mr. Skvarla, we finally meet.”

It’s never good when a stranger holding a gun to you knows your name. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” I responded, stalling for time and trying to assess the situation.

There was a crunch of glass as the man took a step forward. I caught a slight movement on the ground and saw his blurry reflection in a large piece of glass.
“No, you’ve been one step ahead of me for the last few months, moving on just before I could set a trap.”

Pieces fell into place like Tetris blocks. “Bradson,” I said.

“Ah, there you go; maybe you’re as smart as I’ve heard.”

“That doesn’t mean much coming from a vagabond like you.”

“Now, now. That’s not very nice. I’m a perfectly legitimate businessman, I’ve got my letter of marque.”

“That scrap of paper doesn’t mean squat out here, especially outside of Charleston territory. You’re nothing more than a highwayman, a common criminal who ought to swing from the hangman’s noose.”

I saw the image in the glass raise his gun a bit, and I knew it was my last chance. I dove to the side - cutting my shoulder deeply on some window shards - rolled to my back and threw the glass. It didn’t hit, but the guy flinched enough for me to pull my own pistol, a .40 H&K USP Tactical, from a back holster before he fired. A spurt of blood shot away as the bullet took a hunk out of forearm. It hurt like hell, or at least would; I didn’t feel it, or even know the guy hit me as I pulled the trigger. The slug flew true, though I wasn’t at a great angle, and hit the man in the gut. He doubled over, trying to stop the lifeblood from spilling over his shoes, but it ran through his fingers unabated.

I was up running and out the window before he hit the floor. Adam was there almost instantly; the moment he saw me his face went white. I was confused, I thought I’d only scratched one arm, but when I looked both were running rivers of red. I think it was about then that I passed out from blood loss.
The next thing I knew I was laying across the back seat of the sedan we’d picked up as payment from some villagers. The plan was to drive it on what little gas it had back to the Roadhouse and hand it over to the mechanics for parts or even a working vehicle if it was in good enough shape. It wasn’t that cars were rare, you could find old rusted out shells along the ditch of any major highway or in the fields to the west. No, it was that all the gas had turned in the last twenty years and the only city-state refining it charged outrageous prices for non-citizens. There’s been talk among the council of building our own refinery, see if the Pennsylvania crude could give us our own supply of fuel, but we don’t really have the resources to build one from scratch. Maybe in another twenty years after the agriculture and population allowed it, but not yet.

Bandages enshrouded both arms from shoulder to elbow; Adam had done a good job once again. I sat up, too quickly I guess, and almost passed out again. The car bounced up and down as we traveled over the roads that had fallen into disrepair and more than a few times I thought it might not make it all the way home. It did in the end, and I was glad at not having to walk.

We pulled into the Roadhouse after four hours of tough riding. The mechanics started to siphon the tank dry almost before we shut the car off while Adam went off to make the official report to the council; we’d stopped in at Lewisburg, two hours out, and sent a message over the CB so the council could convene a special session – they liked to hear from the long range reconnaissance and emissaries as soon as they arrived, provided it wasn’t in the middle of the night. I know I should have been there, at least courtesy and the common law say I should have been, but I just had to try my new treasure; everyone knew of my slight obsession with pressed pennies, so I was sure I’d be excused from being late once again.

I slipped the die into the machine after a quick rub down with steel wool. I held my breath as I inserted the copper coin and turned the crank. One full turn and I heard the tinkling as the penny slid into the tray. I picked up the gem and looked it over: a seahorse surrounded by waves and the words “Tennessee Aquarium.” I smiled and put the lone penny into my bag of pennies. Another piece of history well worth the price.