Mel pt. 3

Irradiated highways, overgrowth-covered back roads and death and despair in the cities and wilderness passed at a steady 70 MPH as Mel was driving back to his Cabin. The crudely fortified compound was 30-yards deep into a forest of barricades and impaled intruders that decorated and served as a warning to the bandits and dregs of the wastes.

Lost in a daydream of Old World songs and places and senses, Mel could see black smoke in the distance. He floored the pedal of his Town Car and the nostalgia and sorrow of his life in a mushroom cloud of dust and decay turned into bloodlust for the degenerates that must be torching his lawn or tampering with his barricades. If they were near his house, then their spines would make splendid wind chimes.

The muffled voice of Chip resonated from Mel’s chest pocket, where Chip was bound in a folded up handkerchief. Annoyed, Mel placed Chip into his glove compartment and locked the talkative circuit board away.

Not far now, the black smoke was just the beginning of a fire and what looked like a skirmish of raiders fighting over the plunder, or at least what they thought would be a killer find. New bodies. Broken spears and shattered barricades and punctured fences and tortured faces on corpses lined the roadways. “Figures. I knew it was a matter of time. Chip, watch the car.” Said Mel as he slid the car into park and ignored the muffled complaints of the locked up circuit board.

“Hey. HEEEY! Gentlemen. I have something to axe.” Said Mel, as he grabbed his fire axe, one of the last traces of his Old World life. The swarm of stunned bandits looked over and laughed, in relief, as they saw the cleanly dressed man in a shiny car and sharpened fire axe. Easy prey, they thought. What luck. And they had at him, pouncing and running and rallying from every direction as Mel’s home burned and burned in the background.

“If you wanted to come over all you had to do was axe.” Said Mel as he swing the axe into the forehead and halfway through the now split skull of the first unwitting dreg.

“I’m afraid I have to axe.” Said Mel, as he swing the axe clean through a wrist and then halfway into the back of another dreg. “Who are you, if you don’t mind me axing?” Said Mel, laughing a little more with every quip and slash and flying limb.

With a baker’s dozen bodies piling up around Mel, the rest of the dregs started to get wise and began to flee. With a heave, Mel chucked the axe with both hands over his head and it spliced the skull of a fleeing raider right through.

Mel Pt. 2

With the windows down and cruising at a comfortable 70 miles an hour, Mel was sailing down the highway to his next ride. His radio crackled, “They ate my dog! They ate my dog! Is anyone listening? They ate my dog!”

Mel’s navigation display traced the transmission and he floored the pedal. Slick hair and slicker shades, he looked the part and played the role. Chauffeur, street cleaner, a representation of good class. He flicked on his microphone to pleasantly say, “Three minutes.”

The radio replied ,” Sure. Take your time while they gnaw my pets to pieces. Don’t expect a tip if they’re all dead.”

Upon arriving to the bloody scene, Mel stepped out of his Town Car and detached his fire axe from the side of the Town Car. There were only the scattered remains of what seemed like domesticated animals in a circle around a pile of scrap. “My pets! Ohhh… my precious pets. My entire zoo, ruined. Just ruined. You sure took your time getting here.” Hummed the piled of scrap.

Mel laughed and relaxed. “A zoo. What are you, anyways?”

“I’m just a guy. A cybernetic guy. Not even a guy, actually. Just a computer chip with sound output. Just one of the guys!” Crackled the pile of scrap.

“Ohh… shit. Computers can be crazy too, eh?” Said Mel.

“Not crazy. No, not crazy. Just imaginative. I can’t go anywhere like you can. This is all I have.” Crackled the chip.

“Shut up, Chip.” Mel sorted through the scrap and found the crackling circuit board that was making all the racket and had sent out the transmission. He picked it up and muffled it in his handkerchief and pocketed it and set back to his Town Car, slicking his hair with a black comb as he walked.

Mel (Short series, part 1)

Mel

“Three weeks ago, you might say I had it all. A nice car — a brand new Lincoln. A Town Car, like a truly beautiful automobile. A Lovely wife and two kids. But, I wasn’t happy. There’s some things I have always wanted to do.” Said the man with slicked back hair and suspenders.

“I drove off. I didn’t know where I was going. I just wanted to clear my head. I was sitting in my car looking out over the city and that’s when it hit. Whoom!” He said, striking a man whose arms and legs were tied so tight he felt like he was suffocating so he left out a muffled, “Errrrmmmmm!”

“My job down at the paper. I hated it. Pushing pencils. Wearing checkered shirts. Making up dumb stories when nothing was happening. I’m sure you can relate.” The whites of the bound man’s eyes widened to show a desperate attempt to get through to the man in suspenders. “I like driving. I had always wanted to be a driver. Not like race cars. Just nice cars. For nice people.” He added.

“When I was sitting up there, in my car, I saw a flash and a mushroom cloud. Like I had seen on TV. Out of nowhere. And the whole city… practically gone. Just like that. Right before my eyes. And in a way, that is what I was hoping for. I felt responsible… still listening?“ The muffled and bound man nodded his head, clinging to life but hurting so much he began to wish the man in suspenders would just get it over with.

“Good. I appreciate it.” Said the man in suspenders, with a cold laugh. “I’m Mel. The day this city died is the day I was born. It was good to meet you. Thanks for listening.” And with a thwack, Mel cracked the bound man’s neck and threw him in the trunk of his Lincoln. Mel brushed away any prints and blood splats and kept the Lincoln spotless, ensuring that blood only dripped into the meat wagon of a trunk that could later be sterilized. Wouldn’t want a customer to get a whiff of that.

It was Mel’s third trip down Highway 130 that week. He was a chauffeur, the classiest and most reliable in the New World. And, this being his most profitable route, he had to keep it clean from the bandits and thieves and degenerates that roamed the roads looking for easy prey.

Co-written by Gavin Sinclair