*Red Denver *
*A Post Apocalyptic Short Story *
D. L. DENHAM
Also by D. L. Denham
*REHO *
*The Hegemon Wars *
For a current list of books,
Visit dldenham.com
ii
Red Denver
*Red Denver *
*The Hegemon Wars *
*Prelude to REHO *
*D. L. Denham *
*Edited by Susan Hughes *
*Cover Art *
*By D. L. Denham *
iii
D. L. DENHAM
Red Denver: A Post Apocalyptic Short Story
Print edition: ISBN: 9781500593759
E-book edition: ASIN: B00IBO1DBC
Published by BlackHats Publishing
Second Edition: July 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business, establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2014 by D. L. Denham
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written
permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Author Photograph by Michael Tortorich
[*Did you enjoy this book? *]
I love to hear feedback from my readers.
You can email me at [email protected]
To receive spam-free updates or to see what new books I am working on,
visit[* www.dldenham.com*]
Thank you for your support!
iv
Red Denver
*For Jeanette *
v
D. L. DENHAM
vi
Red Denver
*Contents *
*All Rights Reserved *
*Acknowledgments *
*Red Denver *
[*Want to Show Your Support? *]
[*REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller SAMPLE *]
*About the Author *
vii
D. L. DENHAM
viii
*Red Denver *
*Six Weeks Prior to REHO *
*Red Denver, Red Hall holding cell *
* *
A shrill scream woke Reho from a deep sleep during
his last hours in Red Denver. The sound had
reoccurred several times since arriving at Red Hall. It
came from outside the building and filled his head
with memories of that mangled wolf dying out in the
Blastlands. Reho had stopped its deathly howl and
screams. Now they had returned.
Reho looked down at his Analysis Interface
Monitor, AIM. The multileveled Red Hall had already
been mapped.
Level two contained the holding cells where he
waited, imprisoned for killing one of Soapy’s goons.
Above him, the top level housed administration,
where the judge would determine his fate. Below was
the processing level where both he and the goon’s
body had been brought in and registered. The
enforcers had taken and tagged his personal items.
The other guy was tagged and destined for the
crematory across the street.
The high-pitched sound returned.
Across the gloomy, dimly-lit hall, Reho watched
the other occupant stir in his cell. They had only
spoken once. He’d referred to himself simply as an
old man and had been silent since their last
D. L. DENHAM
conversation. He’d warned Reho not to eat the food,
perhaps the best advice he knew to give. He’d then
returned to his strange exercises, a ritual that Reho
found fascinating.
Reho watched as the old man stood erect.
Through the darkness, he could see his slow-motion
movements as his left leg rose with practiced
precision, and his arms waved through the air. He had
seen fighters exercise before but never like this. Quick
and hard had always been the focus of those fighters.
He displayed a strength and single-mindedness unlike
anything Reho had witnessed before. Reho rose from
the tattered mattress on the floor and walked to the
cell door. The bars were OldWorld: iron spaced eight
inches apart. The rust from the cell door stained his
hands, a guilty sentence already delivered before the
judge had even spoken. Reho watched him and
thought back to his instructor in Virginia Bloc. As a
boy, he had exercised only when he was forced to do
so. The need for practice never seemed necessary.
Growing up, he’d always been the quickest and
strongest, always been the victor. This gift was
double-sided. Whether it was racing OldWorld
vehicles at the gasolines or fighting some knock-
down-drag-outs, Reho consistently won. But there
was also a down side, the inevitable bad karma. The
end result this time found Reho here—in a dank, dark
holding cell in Red Denver.
It was the gasolines that had driven him from his
home community of Virginia Bloc 4E. Being
2
Red Denver
unbeatable meant making points, but with that came
making enemies, too. The OldWorld vehicles used in
the gasoline races were a part of him. The power
roaring under their hoods gave him a rush he could
find nowhere else, producing an intoxicating
chemical that became deadly to anyone challenging
Reho. Nothing in the Blastlands or in Usona could
rival that feeling. But his unrivaled victories came at a
great cost. Six years ago it had cost him his home
community. Today, Soapy and his men thought it
should cost him his life. But Reho had no intention of
dying—not today. He’d gone along with the arrest
and would deal with whatever the judge decided. He
would do what he was meant to do: win.
He ran through the facts in his mind. All of this
was because of Soapy, one of Red Denver’s crime
bosses. Everyone knew he managed the gambling and
controlled the bets for the gasolines, a business that
earned many high-ranking community officials a slew
of points. He had spent the past year winning every
race, turning the gasolines into a one-man show and
making him a sure bet. For the past five races, all bets
were placed on Reho, bringing an end to Soapy’s
gambling in Red Denver. Soapy had done what any
efficient crime boss would do: he’d sent his best
henchmen to visit Reho.
The enforcers had charged him with the murder
of one of Soapy’s employees, a courier sent to deliver
Reho an important message. The message contained
an invitation to a private gasoline race for some high
3
D. L. DENHAM
paying community members out in the Red Basin.
There was no such invitation delivered, but the
enforcers had found a letter in the dead henchmen’s
pocket.
[_If the blasted goon couldn’t kill me, the least he _]
_could do was frame me. _
The judge would never hear the truth of what had
happened.
*****
“You Reho?” the goon asked, approaching Reho in an
alley a block away from the market. It was mid-
January, and the cold froze his words in the air as
Reho turned. The goon took out what looked like a
homemade cigar and flicked his lighter. Heavy pillows
of smoke clouded his face.
Reho had sensed he was being followed since he
left the Southside Tenements. He did not recognize
the man, but knew he would be working for Soapy.
Until Reho had started racing, no one cared about
another foreigner in Red Denver. Now everyone
either cheered or cursed his name. Being undefeated
had made him enemies. It was only a matter of time
before someone made a move on him. And now here
he stood, looking into the beady black eyes of the
goon Soapy thought could handle his “Reho
problem.”
“What does Soapy want?” he answered the goon’s
question with one of his own. The icy weather pricked
his skin as he warily removed his hands from his
4
Red Denver
jacket pockets.
“You’ve really messed things up. You’ve screwed
with the gasolines. A lot of people are pissed.” The
goon shifted his weight. Reho knew what to expect.
“I race. I’ve been lucky enough to win,” he replied.
“Everyone loses sometimes.”
Reho
waited.
Every
fight
should
begin
defensively—the one thing he had learned in his
youth.
The aggressor’s eyes turned to ice as he dropped
his cigar and released a metal blade into the air.
Reho dodged the assault, rolled sideways, and
quickly unsheathed his knife. He paused as the goon
launched his body toward him. His attacker held a
shockblade. Reho had seen one of these before. They
cut into the skin, blasting 50,000 volts of electricity
into the body.
Reho avoided the thug’s first few attempts without
attacking. A blue current danced on the blade’s metal
surface. He watched the blade and its possessor’s eyes.
His attacker breathed heavily, and he knew the goon
would soon rush him carelessly asmind panicked. He
hadn’t expected Reho to give him this much trouble.
The shockblade once again cut the air, this time
close to Reho’s face, the current stinging his cheek
and leaving it blistered.
Reho waited for one more assault before he took
control.
With the shockblade aimed at his chest, he
planted his knife into the goon’s left thigh. The man
5
D. L. DENHAM
quickly pulled back, Reho’s knife still in his leg. Reho
closed in and grabbed his attacker’s arm, raising the
shockblade high into the air. In one swift move, the
goon fell back, his right arm snapping across Reho’s
knee. A dreadful, childish scream flooded the alley.
Reho knew spectators would soon arrive to see what
was going on.
As he removed his knife from the goon’s thigh,
another bloodcurdling wail filled the alley.
“Tell Soapy to find a new business,” he said,
standing over the suffering hit man. A maniacal laugh
replaced his screams.
“You don’t understand Soapy. You never did.
Soapy sent me to kill you. I can’t go back if you’re not
dead.” With his good arm, he pulled a pistol from
behind his back.
Three shots sounded, each wild, as Reho buried
his knife deep into the goon’s skull. The crack echoed
off the buildings nearby, and a thin fog formed as
body heat now seeped from the exposed arm and
shattered skull.
Reho looked ahead. A crowd was forming.
It hadn’t taken long for Red Denver’s enforcers to
find him in the market, purchasing food and charcoal.
Now, Reho sat. Soapy had charged him with
killing one of his employees, supposedly an innocent
man sent to deliver an invitation to a private race. The
enforcers claimed to have found the invitation in the
victim’s pocket but not the shockblade. He knew it
would be pointless to argue against this setup. He
6
Red Denver
would wait for the sentencing and then make his
plans.
*****
Reho studied Red Hall on his AIM. The enforcers on
the processing level had unsuccessfully attempted to
disable the device. Implanted deep into his arm and
powered from converted energy in his own body, the
device could only be removed surgically.
Reho watched as the old man slowly lowered his
body into another carefully practiced position. They
were alone in the holding cells, enveloped in an eerie
silence occasionally punctuated by an anguished,
beastly cry.
He froze in another strange pose and spoke for
the second time since Reho arrived.
“You are strong, but your mind is not calm,” the
old man stated.
Reho still stood at the bars. His eyes searched for
the old man’s gaze. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the
prisoner’s eyes were closed, his body as motionless as
a statue.
“What are you doing?” Reho asked.
Apparently, the other prisoner had said all he
intended to, so Reho pulled his hands away from the
bars and turned toward his abandoned mattress.
“Control is stronger than muscle. Where I come
from, we don’t learn to kill. We learn to control our
situations,” the old man said, his accent prompting
Reho to wonder where he was from.
7
D. L. DENHAM
“Neither of us is from Red Denver. We’re
foreigners. Where are you from? And if you haven’t
killed, then why are you in here?” Reho asked.
“I am here not because I have killed. I am here
because of what I have seen.”
“And what is that?” Reho asked, returning to the
iron bars. The other occupant’s eyes were now open
and fixed on Reho. He held his gaze, but his body
slowly lowered on one foot as the other stretched
forward. _He avoided telling me where he is from. _
“That Red Denver has resurrected the demons of
the OldWorld.”
“Demons?”
“They are only death. And meant not for this
world. Red Denver doesn’t flow red with the blood of
men but glows green from the veins of the
OldWorld.”
“What does it mean?” Reho asked, wondering if
the old man was crazy.
“The Blasts destroyed our world. It is as true in
my community as it was in yours. What kind of
power could have done that?” He paused before
continuing. “The same power that still kills in the
Blastlands. Radiation. Its source still exists. And it’s
here in Red Denver.”
Reho listened and watched. The old man was now
parallel to the floor in a pose Reho thought
impossible. Control.
[_The source exists in Red Denver? _] Before Reho
could put his thoughts together to ask the prisoner to
8
Red Denver
explain himself, the iron elevator door slid open.
Three enforcers approached the old man’s cell.
Reho watched as they unlocked the cell and
bound his hands and feet, running a chain through
both bonds that allowed one enforcer to easily control
his movements. They took him without a word.
Reho returned to his bed, still wondering where
the old man was from, and what would come next.
*****
Reho heard the elevator groan to a stop. He stood and
waited at his cell’s door. The rust had not rubbed off
of his hands. The other prisoner had been gone for at
least three hours. Reho did not expect to see him
again—at least not in Red Denver.
They chained him as they had the old man. He
knew things would go quickly. Any plan to escape
would have to wait until after the judge was through
with him.
The elevator shook as it ascended to the third
level. He had switched his AIM to standby mode,
hoping it wouldn’t be mentioned before the judge. If
he were placed in a work camp, there would be talk of
having it removed. He wasn’t sure if he could escape
before they went through with the surgical procedure.
It had been painful enough to have it implanted; he
would kill everyone in the building before letting
them come close enough to take it out.
The elevator door opened.
The third level contained no interior walls. He
9
D. L. DENHAM
had never seen anything like it. The floor was buried
beneath thick crimson rugs embellished with
elaborate gold designs that mirrored the heavy
brocaded curtains hanging throughout. Columns and
statues scattered the room, and expensive-looking
paintings and gilded mirrors filled every available
inch of wall space. A large throne, to which
everything in the room seemed to gravitate, sat
empty. A dozen people sat behind monitors that
looked familiar to Reho. He’d seen similar ones
before, smashed in buildings out in the Blastlands.
These monitors, connected to OldWorld computers,
actually worked.
He watched as a door across the room opened
wide. He recognized the judge, clothed in a red and
black robe as bulky and thick as the furs he’d seen in
communities near the Great Lakes. He held a black
book in one hand and a red gavel in the other.
Following him was Soapy. Their eyes met across the
room. Reho knew that whatever sentence the judge
delivered today had been decided beforehand behind
closed doors.
The enforcer who held his chains pushed him
forward.
He shuffled toward a long, wooden table and
halted before a man dressed in strange OldWorld
clothing who was seated there. Soapy sat at another
table to his left, talking with a man dressed in the
same strange clothes. Their suits seemed more like
brightly colored costumes—complete with bows
10
Red Denver
around their necks—then formal court attire.
The man at Reho’s table spoke.
“I am Traylor. I will be representing you before
the judge. I feel confident we can get this reduced to a
minimum sentence of labor. Do you have any
questions?”
Reho looked at his appointed counsel, his words
as ridiculous as his attire. His tight, purple jacket and
the strange red bow around his neck certainly did not
inspire confidence. Reho’s eyes must have spoken for
him, as his representative’s smile faded to an insulted
snarl, and he turned back to his stack of papers.
Reho looked over at Soapy, whose eyes burned
right through him. Reho detected a cynical smile
beneath that hateful gaze, as the skin around Soapy’s
lips twisted and puckered. The look told him that
Soapy had already won and was patiently waiting for
him to burn for all of Red Denver to see. Tomorrow,
the gasolines would resume as they had before Reho.
He had known men like Soapy all his life. Even
Virginia Bloc had men like him—men who craved
control, power, and wealth without restraint. Men like
Soapy always won . . . until they crossed someone like
Reho. People like Reho made it their business to put a
permanent end to scum like Soapy.
The judge pounded his gavel three times,
prompting everyone to stand. Reho did so and
glanced behind him. Even those at their desks
responded and waited for the judge to speak.
“Will the accused please respond,” the judge
11
D. L. DENHAM
demanded.
“Here,” Reho responded.
The judge looked at Reho then down at a piece of
paper that had been handed to him by one of the
members of the court.
“Will the accuser please respond.”
Reho watched as Soapy straightened and replied,
“Here, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded toward Soapy, then looked at
Reho and Traylor.
“Who represents Reho . . .” “What is your full
name?”
“In my home community, we are not given
second names,” Reho answered.
“And which community is that, foreigner?” The
word spewed from the judge’s mouth like vile
profanity.
“Virginia Bloc,” he answered.
The judge scanned the room, inviting everyone to
hear his words. With a deep, patient voice, he spoke:
“I believe in keeping these things brief. Justice
must be given equally to both natives and foreigners
to Red Denver, to both champions and to those
defeated.” There was a pause, and Reho watched
Soapy straighten at the word defeated.
“I have read many law books that suggest
spending months working through evidence and then
analyzing all sides. But I have learned in practice that,
for Red Denver, such a process is not just a waste of
time and points, but of men’s resources.” The judge
12
Red Denver
spoke, his stern eyes oscillating rapidly between Soapy
and Reho before stopping on Reho.
“I have looked at the evidence, and there is no
doubt that the accused took the life of an employee of
Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange. A man known as
Blackwell.” Reho’s muscles tightened as he forced
himself to remain still. Everything seemed to be
moving in slow motion, unfurling silently, not unlike
the old man and his meticulously focused exercises in
his cell.
“Motives are not always clear,” the judge said,
“but we must ensure that our consequences are. The
accused is left with two options.”
Reho felt Soapy’s eyes on him. He looked at
Traylor; he stood limp. Perhaps he had meant to help
him, realizing that his fate had been decided
beforehand and without him. Traylor’s presence was
as ceremonial as the OldWorld statues scattered
across the room.
The judge cleared his throat. “You have a choice,
Reho: either ten years in the Red Basin work camp or
take your chances at Red Rocks. At Red Rocks, you
would fight to the death an opponent chosen by
Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange. And your decision
will be effective immediately. Do know, our next
series of fights at Red Rocks Arena is this afternoon.
Here at Red Hall, we don’t believe in delaying justice.”
Soapy made no effort to contain his gnarled,
yellow-toothed smile; he already knew what Reho’s
choice would be. Around the room, everyone took a
13
D. L. DENHAM
deep breath as they paused, eager to learn which
choice the former gasoline champion would make.
“Which do you choose?”
Reho straightened. He thought of the old man,
how straight he’d held himself back in the cell. The
judge shook the red gavel, ready to close the case.
“Red Rocks,” Reho answered, his eyes locked on
Soapy’s as they exchanged unspoken—but deadly—
promises. Reho would not just kill whichever fighter
Soapy presented. Before the day ended, he would rid
Red Denver of the crime and corruption that Soapy
had spread.
*****
An hour later, Reho sat in a second holding cell in the
back of an OldWorld gasoline as they moved closer to
Red Rocks Arena. He had attended a fight there
before deciding to settle in Red Denver. The
competition had been brutal. He had thought it too
much for entertainment. He’d seen dozens of men
die, but always in a real fight with a purpose other
than to entertain ten thousand viewers. Out in the
Blastlands, only the victors remembered the fight. In
the arena, everyone watched. Everyone remembered.
The gasoline stopped. The metal cage was ice cold,
and Reho could see the hot breath of the enforcers
who talked outside near the door. From the lone
window he could make out part of the overhang they
called Creation Rock. He had arrived at Red Rocks.
Across the way, another massive structure called
14
Red Denver
Ships Rock overlooked the arena stage. He couldn’t
see it, but he knew it was there. Soapy would be atop
it, watching and waiting for Reho’s blood to be
spilled.
Suddenly, a familiar cry erupted from somewhere
near Red Rocks. He’d heard the sound before, but it
sounded closer than it had at Red Hall. Whatever it
was had been brought to Red Rocks.
His chain tightened as both doors flung open.
Startled, he pulled back, slamming one of the
enforcers into the side of the vehicle.
“Jesus!” he said as he yanked Reho out of the back
of the OldWorld prison and into Red Rocks’ freezing
winds.
Five enforcers circled Reho. Two held his chain as
they led him to what Reho thought would be another
temporary cell where he’d be stashed until the games
started. His watch and other belongings had been
taken. He looked at the sun and estimated it was at
least six o’clock.
Despite the blinding sunshine, the temperatures
had dropped significantly since early that morning.
He would wait until they placed him in a cell; then he
would use his AIM to gather information on the
stadium. Killing the fighter Soapy chose for him
would be the easy part of his plan. As he passed
through the opening to the back of the arena, he saw
the source of the muffled rumbling he’d been hearing.
The archaic, earthen seating area was already packed
with spectators. Another loud, high-pitched sound
15
D. L. DENHAM
rang out, but this one was different from the beastly
screams; it sounded electrical. The whine rose and
fell, then rose again to a shrieking squeal. The ground
shook as a rhythm replaced the chatter of the crowd.
He knew the noise.
A live band played near the arena stage. The
music filled the stadium as a voice sang out to the
crowd. At first, he couldn’t make out the lyrics but
could hear the crowd’s approval. The tune was
familiar enough. He’d heard it before in near
OldWorld Detroit. The soundtrack to Reho’s funeral
seemed to include the chorus from a song called
“Worlds Colliding” by a post-blast band called Nifhel.
The lyrics followed Reho as he moved toward his cell.
_The rain washes away the ash _
_The oceans wind carries away _
_The taste of death _
_The fire burns as _
_Worlds collide _
Reho sat. Alone. He activated his AIM. He could
see nothing within the arena that would be useful in
his escape attempt. Along the perimeter, several
towers ascended above Red Rocks. There would be
eyes on him anytime he was outside the cell. His only
hope, as he could see it, would be to win the fight and
wait to see if they kept their end of the bargain.
He had felt the bitter winds cut through the air; in
the arena it would feel below zero.
16
Red Denver
Reho’s door opened.
“Let’s go,” commanded the lead enforcer who was
dressed in a red ceremonial uniform meant for the
arena. Reho stood, his chain lifted by another
enforcer cloaked in white.
They guided him away from the holding cells. As
they approached the backstage stairs, he watched as
several costumed entertainers practiced their tricks
and flips. Reho had seen the group before at one of
the theaters in Red Denver. He saw the thick-muscled
giant who could bend OldWorld steel. He wondered
why Soapy hadn’t chosen him. At least that guy would
stand a chance.
[* *** *]
The old man stood on the stage, facing the roaring
crowd. His body was calm as his opponent danced
around him waving a large OldWorld sword in the
air. Each time the sword cut through the air, the
crowd thundered. The stage rumbled; Reho could feel
the vibration and hear his chains rattle. The old man
never moved.
From atop Creation Rock, a resounding voice
addressed the crowd. Both the rumble and music
ceased.
[_Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to our first night _]
[_of the twenty-sixth season of “Fight! Fight!” We will be _]
_showing two fights every night from now until the next _
_new moon. To kick off our new season, we have two _
_special fights for you tonight. _
17
D. L. DENHAM
The announcer waited as the crowd chanted,
“Fight! Fight!”
_Our first bout is already center stage. We have the _
_foreigner, a man who silently stood by as an unnamed _
_assailant murdered the Ricardo family. He watched as _
_they were slaughtered, their blood spilling at his feet. _
[_And why? Because he loves death and refuses to _]
_interfere in the fate of others. So, let each one of us ask _
[_this question: Will he interfere and prevent his own _]
[_death here tonight? _]
The crowd hissed and cursed at the foreigner. The
old man stood, unresponsive. Reho had spoken only
briefly with him. _Would he let a family be murdered if _
[_he had the power to stop it? _] Then again, he thought
about his own reason for being at Red Rocks. He
believed the old man’s fate had little to do with the
lies being told to the crowd. He was here so the blade
could silence a silent man—a man who had witnessed
Red Denver’s secrets.
The announcer continued.
_As punishment, the Ricardo family has hired one of _
[_your favorite fighters! You loved him when he _]
[_beheaded last season’s Red Basin Rapist and broke the _]
_spine of the Tenement Arsonist three seasons ago. You _
[_know him by name! Give a deathly roar for Nordic! _]
The crowd erupted, drowning out the band. The
archaic, steel blade swung in the air as Nordic worked
the crowd for its approval. His muscles reminded
Reho of an OldWorld movie poster he’d seen of a
man named Rambo. Nordic’s hair was blonde and
18
Red Denver
braided into two long tails that draped across his
shoulders. His face was scarred. There was no doubt
that he’d spent his entire life fighting. Judging by his
style, he was just as much a stranger to Red Denver as
Reho or the old man.
Red-clad enforcers led the foreigner and Nordic to
opposing ends of the arena. As the band played,
electric guitar riffs set the mood for the first fight of
the night. The announcer’s voice boomed over the
screaming crowd.
[_Let the fighting begin! _] An OldWorld gunshot
sounded from atop Creation Rock.
Reho watched as Nordic worked his blade in every
direction, showing off his skill and trained precision.
[_How could the old man compete? _]
Nordic struck first. His challenger quickly moved
past the blade and stepped behind Nordic, jabbing the
giant’s leg with one smooth movement of his arm.
Nordic dropped to one knee but quickly jumped to
position, distancing himself from his opponent who
stood patiently, waiting.
For a moment, Reho thought the old man might
have a chance.
Nordic stood about two feet taller than his
opponent. Reho understood the odds were stacked
against the foreigner. Despite his speed, the sheer
aggression and power of his opponent would be too
much.
The old man evaded move after move. It worked
for a while, but Nordic soon had his opponent figured
19
D. L. DENHAM
out.
Nordic unleashed a fierce battle cry that brought
the cheering crowd to its feet. His opponent stood
calm as before, but Reho sensed a change in him.
Then the old man closed his eyes, just as Reho had
seen him do in the holding cell.
Nordic cursed him, attempting to bully him into
opening his eyes. The old man lowered himself on
one leg, his other leg extended. This time he lowered
his chest, bringing his head parallel to the ground.
Reho didn’t understand. [_Has he given up? _] _How was it _
[_a fight if he surrendered? _] Then Reho understood. _He is _
_choosing not to fight. _ Reho watched as Nordic raised
his OldWorld steel into the air, then brought it down
to the earth.
The old man’s head rolled.
The stunned crowd stood in awed silence, broken
only by the clang of the blade as it sliced through to
the stone floor. They seemed shocked at the end
result, expecting, perhaps, to see the old man move
quickly to evade his opponent one more time.
Instead, a pool of blood flowed at the victor’s feet. The
announcer’s mechanical voice broke the silence.
[_Our champion! Four seasons with eleven kills! _]
[_Nordic! _]
The crowd slowly filled Red Rocks with praise as
Nordic made one last show of his sword and walked
from the stage. For a moment, their eyes met as the
victor cast a shocked look toward Reho. [_The old man’s _]
_unexpected surrender had caught him off guard, _
20
Red Denver
_leaving him numbed by his unexpected final blow. _
Unlike Nordic, the crowd would quickly forget the
old man’s death as they shouted for the next fighter.
Reho watched a mop-up crew clothed entirely in
black take the stage to clean the carnage and remove
the body before the next fight. The chanting grew
louder and filled the arena.
“Fight! Fight!”
Then Reho heard a voice behind him and turned
to find two teens jabbing each other in the side. One
of them, sporting a thin mustache and deep, dark
eyes, held the possessions taken from Reho at Red
Hall. The other had a face filled with pimples, dirty
brown hair, and a smile as wide as the Canyon.
Neither was big enough to possibly be any help
behind the arena.
“You have to excuse my idiot friend here,” the one
with the mustache said. “He usually just stays in the
concession stands on the other side of the arena. But
he’s seen you win every gasoline race. I’m Jester, and
my friend here is Siek.”
Reho nodded.
“I bet you’re wondering why we’re here,” Jester
said, shifting Reho’s heavy items in his hands. Reho’s
OldWorld rifle was strapped to the boy’s back. _Who _
[_would give these kids weapons? _]
Reho nodded again as two additional enforcers
approached the boys, but didn’t interrupt their
conversation.
Siek gleamed with excitement and moved closer
21
D. L. DENHAM
to Reho. He wondered if he was going to try and
touch him. The other one continued.
“Well, Soapy sent us to let you choose one item
for the fight. I did hear him say he took the shells out
of your rifle, so you probably wouldn’t want to choose
that one.”
Reho watched the guards move in closer. Siek
reached out to touch his AIM The chains restrained
him, so if the boy wanted to touch it, he could. There
was nothing he could do but ignore the awkward kid.
Besides, he was not the killer Soapy, the judge and,
soon, the announcer would make him out to be. Reho
looked at his belongings. Only one would be useful in
the arena.
“Leave me the knife. And I want you to go back to
Soapy and deliver a message for me.” The boys stared
at him, wide-eyed, taken aback by his harsh tone.
“Yeah?” Jester asked.
“Tell Soapy that when this is over, I’m going to cut
his face off with that knife,” Reho said, “and drag his
body out into the Blastlands to rot in the radiation.”
He left it at that, his icy words hanging in the frigid
air. Both boys remained silent. _Now I am the killer _
_they want me to be. _
One of the enforcers took the knife and sent the
boys on their way. _Apparently that message just made _
_everything much worse. _
Then a scream tore through the air, that high-
pitched squeal that had haunted him since his arrest.
Reho watched as a monolithic metal container
22
Red Denver
hovered in the sky and lowered onto the arena floor.
Its rectangular body landed where Nordic had
entered the arena. Whatever it was, it was intended
for him.
[* *** *]
[_Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! _]
_Oh, have we got a treat for our patrons. As the air _
[_becomes ice-cold, only the blood spilled in the arena _]
[_will warm us tonight! _]
The crowd repeated its usual cheers.
_ You know him from the gasolines. Many have _
_placed bets on him. Many have become rich off his _
_name, and many have lost everything because of his _
[_racing. So tonight, we have Reho! Red Denver’s own _]
[_Red Killer! _]
With chains still on, several of the arena enforcers
escorted Reho to center stage. He looked at the
massive container to his right then at the crowd. Red
[_Denver’s own Red Killer. _] He understood that Soapy
had taken every precaution to make sure he would
not leave the arena alive. Whatever was caged in that
container, it wasn’t human.
[_For the first time since season two, we have for you: _]
[_man versus beast! _]
[_Come on Red Rocks! Let me hear you scream! _]
He looked toward Ship Rock. He could see the
platform and make out Soapy against the light of the
moon.
[_Many of you knew Soapy’s most beloved employee, _]
23
D. L. DENHAM
_Blackwell Denver, a man whose family has been part of _
_this community for three generations. His wife and _
_children are here tonight, abandoned and left to defend _
_for themselves because of one man. His family is here _
_tonight looking for justice. _
The crowd erupted.
[_So, Soapy’s Enterprise and Exchange has spared no _]
_expense by purchasing one of the few domesticated _
_warbeasts. Some of you are old enough to remember _
_when the Hegemons unleashed dozens of these, sending _
_them to tear through Red Denver. That was nearly _
_three decades ago. Now we shall see one bring justice _
[_instead of chaos to Red Denver! _]
Two spotlights highlighted the enforcers as they
approached the container.
They removed the bolts and let the metal front
slam to the ground. A fearful gasp spread through the
stadium. The chill of the night pierced Reho to the
core as the bonds on his legs and hands were
unlocked, his chains removed. He watched as the
enforcer placed his knife on the ground several feet
away, then walk from the stage. Behind him, as the
last enforcer left, the gate closed.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but a blue wave of
electricity washed across the arena’s fence. Perhaps it
hadn’t been activated until now. They seemed more
afraid of what lurked in the container then they had
of the sword-wielding Nordic.
It was pitch black inside the container. There was
no movement, no sound. A bright spotlight
24
Red Denver
illuminated Reho.
Others were focused on his knife and on Ship
Rock. The intercom crackled. This time it wasn’t the
voice of the Red Rocks announcer but one much
more familiar.
[_Reho of Virginia Bloc 4E! _]
Reho looked up. Soapy stood, the spotlight
bathing him in a holy glow. The crowd waited, eager
to see the drama unfold. _Reho from the East. Cursed. _
_A coward run out of his own community for the death _
_of an opponent in a gasoline race. Tell me, Reho. Was _
[_winning so important that you let Dink die? _]
He clenched his fist and forced himself not to
lunge for his knife. He felt the familiar anger return,
burning through his veins. He had been younger
then, more reckless, and some lessons were learned
the hard way. The image resonated in his head, filled
his mind. The tunnel had been open to both Dink and
Reho, the last two racers in Virginia Bloc’s 4E Annual
Gasoline Race, its dark entrance a quarter mile ahead;
their gasolines passed 120 miles per hour. Both
battled to enter the single-lane tunnel.
His natural ability to outmaneuver had
inadvertently caused Dink’s gasoline to lose control. It
rolled ahead and lodged between Reho and the mouth
of the tunnel. As it exploded, Reho drove through the
flames, tearing into the gasoline and its driver. He
could still see Dink’s body burning as it crashed
against his windshield. He had won the race, but its
consequences had cost him his home and a life in
25
D. L. DENHAM
Virginia Bloc.
_Your sins follow you, Reho. You think you can run. _
_You think you can trust those you love the most. But _
_everyone has a price. Especially when they discover _
_their former lover is a murderer. _
A fourth spotlight illuminated a girl in the crowd.
Jena. Reho reached out, but there was nothing to hold
on to. His head pounded as images of Dink tangled
with his memories of Jena: lying together in his bed,
their naked bodies entwined as they shared their
darkest secrets. It was on one of those nights that he
had told her about Dink. About everything. She had a
past, too. Running away from Ascension Bloc, she
had left behind the man her family had forced her to
marry.
She was a few years younger than him and
desperately wanted Red Denver to be that safe haven
she desired—and for him to provide the stability and
happiness she hadn’t found in her home community.
They’d been wild about each other. She told him it
was his eyes that made the difference, made her say
yes to his dinner invitation. She felt safe with him; her
fears evaporated when she looked into his soft, honey-
brown eyes. Looking at him was like opening a
window to her soul. But he lacked the one thing she’d
needed more than physical passion and protection.
Jena needed someone who could be satisfied with a
simple life in Red Denver.
He chased the adrenaline of the gasolines. She had
accepted his abilities and differences. She understood
26
Red Denver
him as much as anyone ever had. But the thought of
losing him later prevented her from loving him now.
Jena left . . . and Reho chose to stand by and watch her
go. He then focused all his time into becoming the
best gasoline racer on this side of the Blastlands.
_Your past always finds you. This man must be _
[_stopped here today. By all means! And the only way to _]
_ensure that is to unleash our worst nightmare. We say _
_these captured warbeasts are domesticated, but it’s a _
_lie. _
The crowd gasped then chanted. [_Warbeast! _]
[_Warbeast! Warbeast! _]
_ The beast is just as much a killer as this man you _
_bet your money on, a man who kills anyone who stands _
[_in his way. Men like Blackwell. But no fear, Red Rocks! _]
_We do offer some protection from this warbeast. The _
_fence you see has over 100,000 volts running through it. _
_And this remote controls the warbeast. _
The crowd cheered then quickly quieted as Soapy
continued, the remote held high.
_We control when it attacks. And we control who it _
_attacks. _
Soapy activated the controller. The holding-
container shook, followed by the familiar scream. The
spectators covered their ears as they roared in
approval. He searched the crowd for a glimpse of
Jena. He spotted her—elbowing her way through the
crowd as she tried to leave the arena.
Reho hadn’t seen her for almost a year. Their time
together had been brief. One particular night they’d
27
D. L. DENHAM
spent together haunted him. He had awakened from a
terrifying nightmare of a man in a bright city who
guarded a door to what looked like a tall office
building from the OldWorld. Reho could never see
his face, but his hands stood out, despite the blinding
light. His fingers were long and sharp like claws. He
was dressed in a black suit. Reho could always make
out the tag on his suit, a triangular symbol with an eye
and a single name under it: Jimmy. The nightmare
had only occurred a few times, but that particular
night he’d been with Jena.
Jena had been full of compassion and concern, so
he had shared the dream and much more. He’d told
her about Dink, his home community, his years in the
Blastlands, his time east near OldWorld Los Angeles,
and north around the Great Lakes. Somehow Soapy
had known they’d been together. Now it didn’t
matter. Their lives were on two different paths. And
for Reho, his primary concern was whatever lurked—
hidden and waiting— in the container across the
stage.
The spotlights shut off one by one. He quickly
grabbed his knife as the remaining spotlight went out.
The arena lights came on, illuminating the stage with
an eerie blue glow. He could see the electricity as it
sparked along the fence. Nothing moved in the
container.
The temperature had dropped. He activated his
AIM: it was 7 degrees Fahrenheit. There was no
escaping the arena. Killing whatever waited for him
28
Red Denver
was the next step, his only choice.
A thick, icy fog blew from inside the container. He
tightened his grip on his knife’s handle.
The spotlights were gone. Now it was just Reho
and the beast that Soapy controlled from atop Ship
Rock.
He saw its eyes first. Two luminous green spheres
moved closer to the opening of the container. The
cheering crowd and screeching instruments faded
into the background as Reho focused on the task at
hand.
As if on cue, the creature launched out of the
container and landed several feet from the electric
fence. It hissed at the crowd, which shrunk back,
suddenly wary.
Surprised by its size, Reho got his first look at one
of the genetic creations of the Hegemons. The alien
invaders had created these beastly soldiers for one
purpose: to kill humans. It was certainly large enough
for the task.
Tales of these genetic mutations were often on the
lips of adventurers and wanderers who traveled
throughout Usona, but few had actually seen one. The
beastly killer was twice the size of the cows they raised
in Virginia Bloc. Its skin was black and shiny like the
whales he had seen in picture books as a child. The
creature’s head was tagged. He recognized the
embedded metal as a Colorado license plate from the
OldWorld. The plate read: SO-7APY3. The numbers
clearly marked the warbeast as Soapy’s property.
29
D. L. DENHAM
The creature crouched and moved closer to the
cheering crowd, distracted by their noise and
movement. The beast reared back and launched itself
toward the fence as panicked spectators on the first
few row pushed their way into the upper rows. The
warbeast hit the fence.
Thousands of sparks lit the cold night sky. The
warbeast shrieked and backed away. It thrashed and
struck its tail at the fence like a giant whip. Then its
attention was on Reho.
Reho could see diamond-shaped burn marks on
the beast’s tail, courtesy of the electrified fence. Its
skin was tough. He wondered how hard it was going
to be to get his blade into its side. He stared into its
glowing eyes and moved back as the beast headed in
his direction. It bared its teeth, revealing what looked
like dozens of genetically designed razor blades.
Both Reho and the creature were momentarily
distracted as the large crane returned and lifted the
container out of the arena. The beast jumped at its
swinging cage, hitting its side and falling back to the
ground.
Reho moved back and positioned himself in the
center of the arena.
The beast returned its attention to Reho. For a
moment he thought of the old man, how he’d stood
motionless in the face of his opponent. Reho calmed
his body. Always let your opponent strike first.
The beast leapt, its mouth open, teeth flashing
their intent. He evaded the attack. As the beast passed,
30
Red Denver
its tailed whipped across Reho’s chest, launching him
into the air. As he landed on his side, the jolt sent his
knife skidding across the arena. It sparked as it hit the
fence. The beast circled in front of him. He knew he
had no chance without his knife. He waited for the
beast to strike again.
The beast moved for Reho. It had already learned
his reactions, and it shifted its attack to interrupt his
dodge. Reho felt its thick body knock against him. He
hit the ground and immediately rolled in the
direction of his knife, which rested nearby. He
grabbed the weapon and moved into position as the
beast approached.
He plunged the eight-inch blade into the beast’s
side, surprised when there was little resistance, as if
he’d stabbed a bag of flour instead of a tough, scaly
surface. He would have to reach much deeper to do
any critical damage to the beast. No wonder Soapy
had let him choose his knife for the fight. _Bastard is _
up there laughing.
He pushed himself away from the beast, dragging
his knife across its side. A sticky, white and blue jelly-
like substance spilled out and quickly coated Reho’s
side. The beast retreated to the corner of the arena.
Reho refocused.
From across the arena, the warbeast crept toward
him. The substance still dripped from its side, but it
wasn’t enough to stop its attack.
Reho noticed something else: its claws. They were
now fully extended, each larger than Reho’s knife.
31
D. L. DENHAM
The beast’s eyes glowed brighter. He needed
something larger to stab the beast deep enough for a
critical wound.
His breath hung heavy in the air, clouding his
AIM. He looked at the knife again . . . at his powerful
hand . . . at his muscular arm. [_That’s it! I have all the _]
[_weaponry I need to win this! _]
He moved confidently toward the warbeast. This
time he would be the aggressor. He thought of Soapy
on top of Ship Rock, sending the beast to finish him
with one final attack.
He dove straight for the beast’s chest, his knife
and arm extended.
Reho felt his own skin rip as his arm plunged
through the beast’s warm chest cavity. Pain shot
through his left shoulder and down his back as three
of the beast’s claws found a home there. Then the
claws stopped moving. The shaking in the beast’s
chest ceased. The band stopped playing and the arena
went silent.
The warbeast’s claws remained buried in Reho’s
back as he retracted his arm from its chest. His hand
could not break free. It seemed tangled in something.
He twisted his wrist, refusing to let go of his knife. He
yanked hard. His hand and knife freed, along with
what appeared to be wires and some sort of device. He
saw lights on the device fade then turn off.
He lifted the dead warbeast’s claws out of his back
and rolled away. Looking up, he thought of Jena for a
split second. [_Had she decided to stay? _] He looked over
32
Red Denver
at Ship Rock. No spotlight. The moonlight revealed
an empty booth.
He stood, blood flooding down his back and onto
the arena floor. He would heal, but it still hurt like
hell. The crowd roared with excitement. Then, the
announcer congratulated him. Several enforcers
entered the arena as the gate opened.
Reho walked out, his head held high.
Behind the arena, a medical technician dressed
Reho’s wounds. Reho let him. The stitches would stop
the bleeding much quicker. His jacket would also
need stitching.
*****
The technician had been gone for a while. A tall, older
man with long, black hair and round glasses
approached him. He wore a tie and a wide smile. As
soon as he opened his mouth to speak, Reho knew
who he was.
“That was the most magnificent fight we’ve had
here in Red Rocks. And I’ve been doing this for nearly
twenty years,” the announcer said, lavishing Reho
with another of his salesman smiles.
“I’m not doing it again, if that’s what you’re
getting at,” Reho said.
“Oh no, no. I’m Donald Rackette. You can call me
Donnie,” he said, extending his hand toward Reho.
Reho made no effort to raise his hand. Instead, he
faked pain from his shoulder even though the wound
had begun to heal and the pain had nearly ceased.
33
D. L. DENHAM
“Oh, sorry. I forgot.” Donnie said. “It isn’t often
that we have a fight like tonight’s. I know the law says
you have to leave Red Denver. I have a friend out on
the East Coast who runs a sister version of what we do
here at the arena. If you’re interested in making some
good points by fighting, they’re always looking for a
new star to fight their criminals.”
“You forgot something else,” Reho said, his eyes
as cold as the night air.
“What’s that?”
“I am the criminal. Now get out of my way,” he
said, putting on his jacket as he stood. He grabbed his
sack and other possessions and started for the gate.
[* *** *]
The road leading away from Red Denver was empty.
Reho had been down this road and others like it
hundreds of times. He checked his AIM. The next
stations for food and other supplies were twenty miles
down the road. He’d made a quick stop at his
apartment in Red Denver. He owned few possessions,
all of which were now in his traveler’s pack. From
here he would head into the Blastlands. It would take
at least six weeks to reach Virginia Bloc, but he knew
he needed to return. There was nothing left for him in
Red Denver, just as there had been nothing in South
Usona, the West Coast, the Great Lakes, or in the
Blastlands.
In each place, Reho had kept his abilities a secret.
But they’d always found a way to reveal themselves
34
Red Denver
and expose him as a threat. His domination in the
gasolines was due to his unnatural ability to anticipate
what would happen next. It made him fast. And his
body had a remarkable healing power. He had been
shot by both OldWorld rifles and pulse blasters; he’d
been stabbed and exposed to lethal doses of radiation,
yet nothing killed him. He traversed the Blastlands
without an oxygen suit, which attracted the worst
attention as traveling parties either attempted to help
him or kill.
Reho traveled the Safety Zone line running along
the Blastlands as he waited to fulfill a promise he’d
made back at the arena.
*****
The Blastlands lay before Reho. He had enough food
and water to make it for at least two weeks. The next
travelers’ station would be at least ten days away.
Already he’d seen other trekkers in the distance,
oxygen suits on, prepared for the journey to either the
south or the east.
He checked his AIM. Having been here before,
this part of the Blastlands was already mapped out.
He wondered if he should have stopped sooner. He
looked back in the direction he’d come, toward Red
Denver. Then he saw them, several figures silhouetted
on the horizon.
*****
Reho had known they would follow him. He’d been
traveling for most of the morning and was almost
35
D. L. DENHAM
outside the Safe Zone of Usona. He had used his AIM
to walk along the Safe Zone to give them time to catch
up with him. He intended to keep his promise to
Soapy.
They wore no suits. They were on the verge of the
Blastlands and must have expected to reach Reho
much sooner. If Reho had not slowed down and
waited for them, he would have been in the
Blastlands, leaving them behind.
“You can’t go much farther without a suit,” Reho
said as three men approached. He looked at each
goon, then at Soapy. The massive one they called
Smacks back at the betting booth in Red Denver
stepped forward first. Reho figured he was here to do
what the warbeast couldn’t.
“We don’t plan to go any farther than right here,”
Soapy said, raising his OldWorld rifle at him.
“You follow me as though you made a promise,”
Reho said.
“I’m just making sure you keep yours,” Soapy
replied.
“Here we are. The Blastlands behind me and Red
Denver miles away,” Reho said.
Reho could tell by Soapy’s snarl that he’d gotten
the message about Reho cutting off his face and
dragging him into the Blastlands.
“You idiot. We hunted you down. This is our
show,” one of the other goons said from behind
Soapy.
“Boss, let’s blast this guy!” Smacks added, lifting
36
Red Denver
his gun toward him. Reho dove forward, grabbed
Smack’s rifle, and knocked it aside. The OldWorld
weapon blasted, tearing a hole the size of a loaf of
bread into one of the silent goons.
Reho quickly drew his knife and released it toward
his assailant who had just aimed his pulse blaster. It
released two energy blasts, both hitting the gunner’s
own foot as Reho’s knife struck his chest. Reho lifted
the rifle off Smacks and fired twice into him. An
explosion of blood and flesh showered the area.
Panicked, Soapy managed to fire his rifle twice,
sending the shots into the ground. Reho fired at
Soapy’s arm, which caused him to drop the OldWorld
rifle.
He pulled his knife from the dead goon and
approached Soapy.
“I am breaking my promise. There has been
enough death,” he said, kneeling next to Soapy as he
attempted to crawl away.
Soapy turned and fired twice at Reho with an
OldWorld pistol he’d tucked behind his back. One
shot went wild as the other skimmed Reho’s shoulder.
Reho buried his knife deep into Soapy’s leg.
A scream much like the warbeast’s echoed
through the Blastlands.
“What did you expect? Your arrogance and
ignorance brought you out here to the edge of Usona.
And it’s your ignorance that got you killed,” Reho
said, grabbing Soapy by the collar and dragging him
deeper into the Blastlands. He had no intention of
37
D. L. DENHAM
keeping his full promise to Soapy, but he did plan to
keep the most important part. Soapy would not
return to Red Denver and continue to spread his
disease of corruption and greed. He checked his AIM.
The radiation levels were climbing. A mile into the
Blastlands, he let go of Soapy.
He removed his knife.
“You’re going to stay here,” Reho said.
“The radiation will kill me,” Soapy said.
“I know.”
“I’m not a freak like you. My body can’t take this
stuff.”
“Could be worse. I could have kept my promise
and left you out here without a face. That’s not what
you want,” he said. He glanced at his atomic watch;
they’d been in the radiation area for almost twenty
minutes. Reho stood silent and removed his
OldWorld rifle. It still didn’t have any bullets. He
wouldn’t need them anyway, as he waited for the first
signs of radiation sickness.
The sun was high in the sky. If he let Soapy go
now, he could make it to one of the OldWorld
buildings before nightfall.
_Bluargh. _
Soapy vomited. Reho told Soapy to stand. He
could see that the man’s skin had begun to redden.
“Go back to Red Denver. Use the time you have
left to do some good. Or don’t.”
Soapy wobbled then looked up at him.
“Doesn’t matter. Once I’m dead, there’s always
38
Red Denver
another to take my place. You can’t stop us. If it’s not
me–” Soapy stopped as another dreadful bout of
vomit spewed forth.
“Then they’ll have to answer for what they do. Just
like you,” Reho said, then turned his back and walked
away.
*****
After two years in Red Denver, he was once again a
wanderer. His brief time with Jena had not lasted. His
success in the gasolines had only resulted in tragedy.
For now, he would trek east. On the other side of
the Blastlands, the Virginia Bloc community where he
grew up would have to make a choice: they would
either accept him or send him away once more.
For the first time in years, his thoughts went to his
aunt and uncle. Both had sacrificed everything to
raise him. Now Reho wondered if there was a place
for him in their lives again.
Thoughts of home faded in and out as he
continued east. The old man had chosen his own
death over being a killer. He controlled his own fate—
something Reho did not yet understand. Whatever lay
ahead, it waited beyond the Blastlands. The old man’s
words resounded in his head: [_Demons… Red Denver _]
[_doesn’t flow red with the blood of men but glows green _]
[_from the veins of the OldWorld… _]
Suddenly, a strange cry filled the air, yanking him
back to the present. Except this time it wasn’t the
horror of a warbeast or the agony of a dying wolf.
39
D. L. DENHAM
_Ahrooo. _
It was just before dusk. Ahead was the abandoned
building where he would spend the night. Just past it,
he saw the silhouette of an animal. Its howl was unlike
anything he had heard before. At first it had sounded
like the noises that had plagued him, but it was
different. The long howl soothed him somehow as he
moved farther away from Red Denver. He was not the
only thing that moved in the Blastlands without an
oxygen suit. Its red eyes followed his every step.
Perhaps he would have some company on his journey
home.
40
Red Denver
Thank you for reading
*Red Denver *
*Prelude to REHO *
* *
See the story continue in
[*REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller *]
I love to hear from my readers!
Your feedback and reviews are an essential part of my
writing process.
Get connected today!
Visit www.dldenham.com
41
D. L. DENHAM
42
Red Denver
*Sample Chapter *
[*REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller *]
_*The sun burned* as it had for five billion years. It would burn for _
_another five before it exhausted its nuclear fuel. Humankind _
[_hadn’t been so lucky. They’d used most of their nuclear energy _]
[_during the Blasts. And what hadn’t exploded in the form of a _]
_nuclear warhead went the way of Three Mile Island. _
[_The sun’s heat boiled the air to temperatures above human _]
_survival rates. Yet some areas were still safe enough to occupy, but _
_not here. Outside the Safe Zones, the radiated atmosphere acted as _
_an accelerant. _
_In all directions, nothing moved. Only Reho. _
*1 *
Reho checked the Analysis Interface Monitor (AIM) embedded
in his wrist. The radiation levels were stable. Only the sparse
pockets of high radiation would affect his body. For anyone else,
the levels of polluted air would result in death within twenty
minutes. He had seen it before. Like the boy who had followed
him out of that desolate community near the Great Lakes.
The boy had tracked him for a day until he’d gone too far
outside the Safe Zone. Reho had heard his screams, but it had
been too late. The sweat-soaked boy had vomited; his skin barely
had time to blister before he died from radiation poisoning.
Reho had left him there. There were few choices in the
Blastlands. Most lead to death.
The sun was at its peak. The atomic watch on Reho’s other
wrist displayed OldWorld time. It was 12:31. Reho had found the
watch a few years before on the corpse of an unfortunate.
“Unfortunate” was what his uncle called those unprepared
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D. L. DENHAM
people who ventured too far beyond the Safe Zones. The watch
was black and had an OldWorld name written at the top of its
face: Casio.
Even though it was advanced technology, his AIM did not
provide the basic resources one needed when wandering the
Blastlands: the ability to tell the time and play music. Reho
thumbed the power button on his Walkman and blasted
“Nothin’ But a Good Time” into his headphones as he trekked
east.
Reho had followed the sun as it rose; soon it would be to his
back as he continued east, toward home. After six years of
searching in the West for something he could never fully explain.
He’d always been different from those in his community. He’d
felt like a dangerous outsider, a foreigner, living among good
people as he grew up. But now he was ready to return to that
community—if they would have him.
Something shimmered ahead.
Reho disliked encounters with those traveling across the
Blastlands. One of two things always happened. Most of the
time, they were low on oxygen and expected him to share. Upon
seeing that he had no oxygen suit, they immediately became
defensive, flighty, and scared. Other times, they were violent and
looking for trouble. Reho had heard these sorts referred to as
knock-down-drag-outs. Reho hated this sort, because encounters
with them always ended the same way.
Then, there was always the chance a group of Hegemon from
Omega would pass through. These alien invaders preyed on the
planet, converting biological life into weapons and attempting to
control what remained of humanity. Their presence restricted
communities from networking with each other. Few merchant
crews existed anymore because of this. But the Hegemon rarely
had reason to come to Usona. Reho hadn’t seen one since he was
a child, and even then he hadn’t really seen it, only its suited
body for a brief moment. No one in Reho’s community knew
what they actually looked like beneath—except maybe his
mother and the others who’d been abducted.
44
Red Denver
Reho continued east. The shimmer was what he’d assumed:
two oxygen helms crossing the Blastlands. Reho judged that they
were militant, most likely of the knock-down-drag-out sort.
Their suits were metallic and reflective. Their oxygen helms were
not combat, though, which meant the suit was piecemeal. Stolen
or bought, it didn’t matter. Both carried sizable rifles. Judging by
their length, Reho assumed they were OldWorld rifles. Those
hurt the worst.
Reho heard metal shift and clank above his music as one of
the OldWorld rifles readied a bullet. He saw the rifle level and
center on him. The taller of the two forms, unarmed, approached
Reho first. Reho thumbed the power button to his Walkman and
waited for them to speak.
The helmet’s exterior speaker beeped. “I won’t ask you why
you don’t have a suit,” a gruff, mechanical voice said. “That
much I can guess for myself. So, let me ask, why don’t you have
your gun drawn?” The man’s voice was deep and raspy,
reminding Reho of a hard shine seller from Red Denver.
Reho shifted his OldWorld rifle on his shoulder. “I have no
intention of taking anything from you.”
“Oh, I know you won’t rob us,” the taller of the two said with
a derisive snort. “I meant to keep your face from being smashed
into the blastsoil. To keep us from shoving a mouthful of death
down your throat.” Reho eyed the rapid rise and fall of the tall
man’s suited chest.
The other form stepped closer to Reho, placing the
OldWorld rifle near Reho’s chest.
Reho looked the gunman in the eye. “I’d rather just tell you
that there’s a town six days’ walk west, where you can get oxygen
and water.” He hoped they would lose interest. Knock-down-
drag-outs rarely did.
Reho watched as the one who’d done the speaking fingered
the OldWorld holstered on the side of his right thigh, ignoring
the larger rifle strapped across his back. He squinted and swiped
his tongue across his lips.
The sun was unbearable. Fighting both seemed pointless; any
45
D. L. DENHAM
harm inflicted on them ultimately ended in death in the
Blastlands. Words were ineffective outside of one’s own
community. Actions spoke louder in places like this.
Reho moved first. The short man’s OldWorld weapon
blasted into the air as Reho thrust the barrel up and spun behind,
breaking the man’s arm, the bone snapping and tearing through
the tight oxygen suit, poisonous atmosphere replacing the suit’s
purified air. The other man ran, but Reho caught up with him.
No problem.
“No, God, just let me—” Reho rammed his elbow through
the tall man’s oxygen helm before he could draw his pistol.
Outside air filled the suit, as it had for the other man. Reho knew
the radiation had already crept in through their skin and eyes,
and in a few moments, it would fill their lungs as they gasped for
life. Reho looked back. The short man screamed and thrashed on
the Blastlands. Broken glass had punched into his cheek, and
blood poured from his oxygen helm and spilled onto the dead
ground. Reho thought this was better. Suffering would be worse,
but death would come much quicker. He watched as the man
tried to speak. Nothing intelligible escaped. His eyes widened as
his body convulsed. Reho remembered his mother for a
moment, how her eyes had widened as the life left her body.
Reho could remember the smell of flowers, her magnolias and
dogwoods, filling the house that day.
Killing came easily after six years of wandering Usona. Reho
wondered if there was somewhere to escape, somewhere to start
over. Someplace filled with people just like him, a place where
confrontations did not always end with death.
He continued east.
As he walked, he heard a final scream, then nothing, as he
lost sight of the two men behind him. Survival was hard enough.
Being different from every other human on the planet did not
help things either. Human evolution hadn’t stopped before the
Blast, but continued at an accelerated pace as a result. Some, like
his aunt, had developed negative mutations. Her weak,
matchstick legs only left her dependent on others. Reho was
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Red Denver
different. Every time a crisis occurred, he discovered a new
adaption and ability. Then there were those like his uncle and his
mother, unaffected by the spikes of human evolution. His uncle
had told him that his father had been like Reho: strong and, most
importantly, different.
The sun beat down on Reho’s back. Its heat burned his neck
through his head covering. He checked the Casio: 5:02. He
scanned the eastern horizon with his binoculars. There it was,
maybe an hour’s walk away.
Reho spotted Traveler’s Rest Stop, a relief to those who
crossed the Blastlands headed for the coast. Reho had talked to
dozens of walkers from the mountains who were preparing for
the journey. Each knew that Traveler’s Rest Stop was the sign
that the journey could be finished, that the greater dangers of the
Blastlands were behind and old highways lay ahead.
***
Reho saw them first.
p.
The town was empty, except for the two boys kicking a
dilapidated ball against a wall and an aged woman making her
way to what would be her home just outside the station. Each
wore a minimalist oxygen suit. The old lady was too far away.
She would never notice that he’d arrived. The two boys stopped
playing and stared when they heard him approach.
Reho acknowledged the boys with a wave and removed his
head cover. They continued to stare.
Reho approached the taller of the two.
Reho swiped the sweat and sand from his forehead. “Which
building is the inn?” He knew the answer but wanted to initiate
conversation with the boys.
The taller boy pointed to Reho’s left. Correct.
He scanned Reho. “Where do you come from?” His voice
sounded as all voices do when coming from an oxygen helm
with no outer speaker—muffled and hollow, as if rebounding off
the walls of some unending tunnel.
Reho pointed behind the boys. “From the east near the
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D. L. DENHAM
coast.” The boy looked in that direction, as if he was trying to see
Reho’s community somewhere in the distance. The younger boy
mimicked.
“You have blood on your boots,” the younger boy said. He
could be no older than eight or nine. “Are you a bounty hunter?”
Reho looked down. The sides of his boots were indeed caked
in blood, gritty and flakey from the sand and heat. The kid knew
what blood looked like, probably had already seen his share of it
by now.
“Yes,” Reho replied, “let me see your ball.”
Hesitating, the younger boy looked to the older. He nodded.
The young boy threw the ball to the stranger. Reho held it. It was
partially deflated. Reho dug a plastic air pump out of his pack.
As he pumped the ball a few dozen times, he sniffed its rubber
surface. A flash from his childhood flooded his memory and his
senses. He missed the hoop nailed to the side of his uncle’s
house. These sorts of sentiments seemed to matter the most out
in the Blastlands.
Reho dribbled the ball a few times and bounced it to the
younger boy.
“Good as new.”
The older boy stared at the pump.
“What can you trade for it?” Reho asked. No one expected to
get something for nothing out in the Blastlands.
In a flash, the boy held up a cracked whistle made of red
plastic.
“Toss it,” Reho said. He blew into the whistle. It sounded
awful as air escaped through its splintered side.
“You have to cover the crack with a finger for it to work,” the
older boy said.
Reho covered the crack. _Whoot. Whoot. _
He held the air pump out to the boy. “Deal.” The boy
retrieved it, his movements cautious. _Smart kid. _
The boy stuck out his hand. “My name is Dell, and this is my
kid brother, Ralfie.”
The boy’s gloved hand felt withered in his own. _When was _
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Red Denver
[_the last time they had a decent meal? _]
“What’s your name, mister?” Dell asked. “My dad always
used to say, ‘Shake on a deal and get the person’s name.’”
Reho looked at the kids. Both needed a bath and proper food.
He could tell from their faces they hadn’t seen a shower for some
time. Reho wondered if they lived with the old woman or at a
nearby residence. Or perhaps they lived alone, waiting for the
next serviceman and pretending that their parents were just sick,
despite the fact that they hadn’t moved or breathed in a week.
Reho had seen it before. Kids could fall into denial just as easily
as adults and could live an elaborate lie for months.
He looked at the inn’s entrance panel then at the two boys.
“Reho.”
Reho noticed the patched holes in the side of the inn’s wall.
Despite any violence that might have gone on outside, the inn at
Traveler’s Rest Stop’s sign lit green. Reho tried its Com Panel.
He jabbed the assistance button and requested admittance.
The panel flashed, and an automated voice replied. “Thank
you for your interest in Traveler’s Rest Stop. Our current
minimum spending requirement is forty points. Please insert
your smartcard to ensure that you have adequate points.” The
voice was mechanical and sounded like an OldWorld payphone
operator.
Reho inserted his smartcard into the slot. The device sucked
it in, then immediately spit it back out. “You have sufficient
points. Please enter the Decon and secure your oxygen suit and
all lethal belongings into the privacy locker. You are assigned to
Rec Room 15. And as always, thank you for choosing Traveler’s
Rest Stop: the oasis of the Blastlands.”
Reho retrieved his card and entered the Decon. The room’s
exterior door shut behind him, as a panel flashed to his right.
“Privacy Locker 143. Press ‘Open’ to access.”
Reho took off his coat and rifle. He needed a shower. The
stench from six days of walking across lands that should have
turned him into fried bacon left him smelling as such. Luckily,
no one supervised Traveler’s Rest Stop. It was fully automated. A
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D. L. DENHAM
service person ventured to the station once every three or four
weeks. A range of services were offered in stations such as this
one: food, a place to sleep, showers, and, of course, hard shine
for those looking to dull their pain or loneliness. For some, it was
both. Reho avoided the hard shines, due to his body’s inability to
consume them properly. He’d never been inebriated.
A few other services were offered in other stations. Places just
for food or sleep pods lined the walkway across from the inn. In
the past, more people had traveled across the Blastlands; now,
few possessed the funds or the balls to travel it. There was
nothing better on the other side. But one had to cross to the
other side to realize this.
No one lived at the stations permanently, though a handful
of homes surrounded the station for the servicemen who had to
stay for days or weeks at a time to do repairs.
The door to Rec Space 15 hissed open. Reho had no way of
knowing how many occupants were here. He could have asked
the boys how many travelers had come through, but somehow it
just didn’t seem important. Not as important as the smell of the
basketball’s rubber and talking—even just for a brief minute—to
someone he wouldn’t end up having to hurt.
***
The room was simple: a worn, two-cushioned brown sofa left
p.
over from the OldWorld doubled as a bed. A square table with a
wooden chair pressed against the opposite wall. A single bulb
cast a soft yellow light across the room. There were no windows.
One wall had once been painted over with a light blue. He could
see the graffiti beneath it: an airbrushed A followed by some
indecipherable markings and a four foot skull. Reho guessed it
had been a detailed piece of art before being covered up.
Inside Rec Space 15, the air was clean. Filtered. Reho could
tell the difference. Even though the radiated atmosphere never
affected him, something about clean air still made him feel more
alive. It had been six days since he’d enjoyed such a simple
pleasure. Even so, the air couldn’t compare to that in his home
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Red Denver
community, Virginia Bloc 4E. He recalled running through the
pastures as a kid. Although the area had suffered from the Blast
almost a century before, the radiation was minimal, and the early
community members had reformed the land. With few
limitations, the community thrived as it had before the Blast.
Reho activated the panel on the shower door. “Please insert
smartcard for options.”
Reho set it for cold. Few pleasures existed in the Blastlands.
“Six points required. Do you accept?”
Reho pressed the green yes button.
The water sprayed down. A timer at the top of the shower
displayed 3:59. Less than four minutes to shower away a week’s
filth.
The cold water revived Reho. His parched, black hair and
blistered skin drank in the liquid as it hydrated his body. The
watered hammered down on his thick, scarred shoulders and
survival-hardened chest. He dispensed what was left of the soap
across his chest and back, the scar on his shoulder reminding
him of where he’d been had come from. An indention the size of
his index finger now remained where the warbeast’s claw had
once entered. He felt the stubble on his face, prompting him to
shave before the water ran out.
The constant headache he’d had since disarming and
crushing the two knock-down-drag-outs dissipated under the
running water. His thoughts escaped to the mountains. The
showers there had been ice cold. And the view was like nothing
else in Usona. Reho thought back to the Western Coast and the
desolate, half-submerged city of what an OldWorld map had
labeled Los Angeles. The water of the ocean had been equally as
cold. Now he just longed for the Eastern Coast, for home.
Reho accessed the entertainment panel from the table by the
sofa. A red X was placed next to some options, showing that the
feature was no longer accessible: Films, X. Reho had hoped to
watch a movie, an instant escape, as OldWorld movies reminded
people of what life had been like before the Blast. Reho pressed
Music. Most of the names and bands he’d seen before; some he
51
D. L. DENHAM
had even heard.
After deducting three points, the music played. He closed his
eyes, his head resting on the arm of the sofa. He wouldn’t even
bother undoing the bed. He lay naked as the music faded and he
dreamed.
***
The dream was familiar. It was one of several that returned to
p.
him, always at unexpected times. His dreams had always felt real,
as though they were moments he’d already lived or perhaps
would live at some point in the future. Jen had once said they
were of the future or maybe of another life. She had read books
about civilizations before the Blasts that believed such things.
In this dream, he woke from a fetal position. Sand shifted
beneath him as stood. Fresh blood poured from somewhere on
his body but he could never find the wound. It formed a puddle
around his feet, mixing with the sand. The tide was too far away
to wash the mess out to sea. Behind him a fire raged. With his
back to the ocean, he could see a city-sized, foreign military
compound burning. A mountain had exploded, sending a
mushroom-shaped cloud into the atmosphere above it. The
flames rose higher than he could see. The scene was familiar
enough. Once he had ventured off the beach, but each time he
became lost in the jungle.
Now he looked out onto the ocean; a ship sat far away. He
raised his hands and waved. [_Can they see me? _] The ship shrank
from view. Rain poured as he waited on the beach, the dried
blood running off his body as the rain persisted. The ocean’s
angry waves crashed against the beach, driving Reho farther
back. He could still see the ship through the storm. It grew closer
as the storm pushed wind and rain onto the beach, stinging his
eyes. The boat was coming back.
Reho felt something crash against his legs. An umbrella _. _ As
the water receded, Reho saw two other objects: a full-faced
rubber gas mask with the canister missing and a dark, corked
bottle. Reho snatched up the items and retreated farther inland.
52
Red Denver
He put down the umbrella, a five-foot OldWorld style that
looked as though the span would be at least six feet in diameter if
it were opened. The gas mask was strange enough; he checked
inside it for a name or company but found nothing. The dark
bottle was void except for a single item wedged in near the neck.
Reho yanked on the cork and retrieved a piece of paper. It read:
_Kingdom . . . _ The second word had been smeared.
An aggressive wave returned, covering his waist and
retreating with the other items. A mammoth rock pushed up
from under the beach. Reho fell back, barely avoiding the rising
ground. It rose thirty feet above ground level. The tide returned
and swept him under. Disoriented and panicking to find the
bottle, he pushed farther out to sea.
The storm howled and something— a human voice?— rose
above the winds and thunder. Reho lifted himself off the beach
and ran to the jungle. As he ran, the voice returned. Its sound
was unnatural, like a wild animal trying to talk, but its words
were clear as it repeated:
_The stone, once dropped, wants to move toward the center of _
_the earth. _
_The stone, once dropped, wants to move toward the center of _
_the earth. _
_The stone, once . . . _
_ _
_ _
***
Reho woke, his sweat-drenched body shaking in the cold room.
p.
He pushed the dream to the back of his mind and adjusted the
thermostat, then selected a peanut butter sandwich from the
vending machine in the room. He ordered a few extra
sandwiches and stuffed them into his pack. At an inflated cost of
nineteen points, he would have enough calories to make it the
rest of the way. Points were never an issue for Reho. He had
more than he could spend from his winnings at the races in Red
Denver. After eating, he stretched again and returned to the sofa.
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D. L. DENHAM
_End of Sample _
54
Red Denver
*About the Author *
D. L. Denham is a native of Ascension Parish in Louisiana. A life longer
learner and lover of education, history, science fiction, and writing, he
pursues a career both as a Social Studies educator and Science Fiction
author. He is an alumnus of Southeastern Louisiana University and will
finish his Master of Arts in History in Spring 2015.
When he is not teaching, he can usually be found at local coffee shops
hammering away at his latest book or reading about kings and assassins
from a bygone era.
Reho is his first full-length novel and is the first of three in a planned series
called The Hegemon Wars. Red Denver was his first published work and
includes the protagonist REHO.
Visit him on the web at *www.dldenham.com *
55
D. L. DENHAM
56
Thank you for reading
*Red Denver *
*Prelude to REHO *
* *
See the story continue in
[*REHO: A Science Fiction Thriller *]
[*amazon.com/author/dldenham *]
I love to hear from my readers!
Your feedback and reviews are an essential part of my
writing process.
Get connected today!
Visit www.dldenham.com
Red Denver, one of several successful communities in Usona, post-Blast America, has thrived because of OldWorld machinery and a strong community government. With his past behind him, Reho has made a new life for himself in Red Denver. Until Soapy, a local crime boss, starts a chain of events that leads to a climatic final face-off between Reho and one of the genetically-modified warbeasts designed by the Hegemons--an alien race determined to see humankind go extinct.