After the Final Covid Mutation by A. Schiller

The world was a mausoleum of forgotten inventions, rendered into that state not by nuclear fire or meteor strike, but by a disease mutated beyond control. Decades had passed since the final, hyper-virulent mutation of Covid-19 had decimated the population of the planet, reducing humanity to a scattered, endangered few. Cities lay destroyed beyond repair--their ghostly remains ravaged by nature and those desperate to survive. The air, though cleaner than before the almost total annihilation of mankind, carried a whiff of the decay of past deaths.

Perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking a sun-baked valley, Elias--his face an expression of sun and worry--scanned the horizon with a slightly beat-up pair of binoculars. Below, partially hidden in a natural alcove against the bottom of the jagged Dual Peaks, lay their small group’s camp. A cluster of shelters cobbled from rusty iron fence posts, salvaged lumber, and cut-up pieces of armored vehicles. A  garden plot of corn and beans, watered by a irrigation channel from the small stream in the area helped feed the group.  Nearby, lay an enclosed pen of gathered mountain goats, their bleats a reminder of the scarcity of life.. Survival here wasn't about advanced technology--it was about constant vigilance--about the relentless ingenuity required to repel invaders. Every tool and item was a testament to the art of reuse, a bizarre collage of recycled old technology and everyday items.

Beside him, Kael, younger by a decade but with eyes that had seen better days, was meticulously sharpening a blade fashioned from an old iron picket fence.  "Anything, Elias?" he asked.  His voice was low, edged with grating tension that was typical for groups in their situation..

Elias lowered the binoculars, the old strap barely holding as he replied. "There is a hint of smoke, to the north-east, by the old highway pass." He pointed with a battle-scarred finger. "It’s too close to be a nomad camp. Too dark for a brush fire."

Kael let out an exasperated grunt, testing his blade's edge against his thumb. "The Iron Riders."  Their name was uttered as a curse in hushed tones around the dying campfires in numerous refugee camps. The pack of ruthless pirate-like scavengers rode in on souped-up, re-engineered motorcycles--their engines a harbinger of violence and their philosophy was simple: take what you want…kill anyone who resists. They preferred to raid settled communities--stealing what little others had managed to cultivate, raise, or put together out of leftover parts.

"Maybe," Elias conceded, "or a smaller pack testing the waters. Either way, put the group on alert. Get Maya and the others ready. Tell Darren to prep the… 'Surprise.'"

Kael’s grim expression tightened into a worried line. The "Surprise" was their answer to a hardened world that showed little mercy. It sat near the little town’s only defensible entrance, a bulky, crude weapon born of desperation and oddball mechanical genius. It was a contraption of repurposed suspension springs from a heavy-duty truck, a pneumatic ram salvaged from an old industrial press, and a firing mechanism jerry-rigged from the motor of a junk tractor. Its payload was full of  massive, jagged lengths of rebar and sharpened sections tensile steel. The ammo had the effect of giant spears, designed to punch through anything lesser than a fortified wall. They called it the ‘Rebar Launcher’. It was a testament to their scrounging and inventive nature.

By late afternoon, the roar of engines became a more audible and growing mechanical growl that vibrated through the walls of their encampment. At least a dozen motorcycles, their frames crudely armored with license plates and old road signs, suddenly crested the ridge. On them, figures cloaked in well-worn leathers and tactical gear, their faces hidden by goggles and facemasks with the glint of crude blades and scavenged firearms visible. They seemed less like men and more like a mechanical plague, born to bring death and destruction.

"They've arrived," Kael said from his position behind a barricade of stacked tires and rusted car doors. He brandished his scavenged rifle, a relic of the old world, making it at the ready. His heart pounded--a primal drum against his ribs--but he felt a cold resolve. This wasn't just about survival; it was about the right to exist in a cruel world, against the forces of nature and the enemy.

Elias, positioned at the Rebar Launcher, aimed it with a practiced hand. "Hold your fire until I give the word," he growled over the increasing noise. "They want to test us. Let them try."

The Iron Riders scattered about, circling the natural bottleneck and small barriers that led to their camp. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man on a custom-built chopper with its engine thundering as though a god, raised a hand. The bikes throttled down, their collective roar settling into a overbearing rumble.

"Well, well," the leader's voice, amplified by a makeshift bullhorn, echoed in the valley. "Look what we have here! A scraggly bunch of rag tag farmers. Looks like our kind of raid.. What say you, country hicks? Hand over your food, supplies, your women, and we might let you keep your skin."

Elias jumped out into the open, his posture defiant despite the odds. "This land is ours!. We built it with our own hands. You want it, you'll have to take it by force!"

The leader chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. "Foolish…I see only a dozen of you. We're almost twice that and much better armed." He revved his engine, signaling his riders to forge ahead.  "Charge!"

The motorcycles surged forward, a wave of roaring steel and desperate fury. Their crude weapons of sharpened kitchen knives and patched together guns awere almost shining in the dying sunlight. Kael’s finger tightened on his weapon’s trigger.

"Now!" Elias roared while--with a heavy grunt--he pulled the release lever of the Rebar Launcher. With a deafening sound of compressed air and the metallic shriek of distressed springs, the massive weapon hurled out its first deadly projectile. A thick, piercing length of rebar hurtled through the air with horrifying speed, gouging into the lead rider's motorcycle. The impact was catastrophic; the bike exploded in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. It sent the rider sprawling, his last cry choked into unconsciousness by heavy dust and the impact.

The biker charge faltered, as the riders were momentarily shocked. Rebar flew one after the other. It furiously struck bikes, sending riders tumbling violently all over the ground. The crude, powerful weapon--a symbol of their resistance--was working beautifully. It wasn't pretty, but it was brutally effective.

Kael and the others opened fire, their scavenged rifles churning out bullets and their aim deadly accurate. Small arms fire erupted sending a desperate cacophony of violence echoing off the mountainsides. The air was filled with the terrible stench of scorched oil, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of fear. The Iron Riders, who were accustomed to easy prey, felt shocked and caught off guard by the ferocity and ingenuity of the defense. Their numbers began to rapidly recede, as their charge broke into a mad dash to escape.

One rider, bolder or more desperate, managed to get close. It seemed he didn’t notice the retreating numbers as he moved forward brandishing a rusty machete. However Darren, a burly former mechanic, met him with a staff fashioned from a heavy water pipe.  Darren swung with grim determination, meeting the blade at every thrust. The fight was in close quarters and brutal, a raw clash of wills.

Elias kept loading and firing the Rebar Launcher, each shot a testament to their refusal to back down. He felt the jarring recoil in his shoulders, as the grime and sweat ran into and stung his eyes.  Yet he was still emboldened as he saw the fear beginning to creep into the eyes of their attackers. They weren't just facing farmers; they were facing plucky survivors who had built their lives from nothing. They would defend what they had gained with everything.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Iron Riders' leader awoke once more. With his face scrunched in a mask of rage and disbelief, suddenly threw his hands up and signaled retreat. "Fall back! All riders, fall back!" he bellowed, his voice audibly drained of its earlier bravado.

The remaining riders, who were fewer than half their original number, twisted their throttles. Their engines screamed as they turned and sped away. They retreated haphazardly back up the pass, leaving behind the twisted wreckage of their vehicles and the bodies of their fallen. Their distinctive roar receded into the dimming light, now a sound of humiliating defeat instead of the former threat.

Silence was broken only by the hard, ragged breaths of the survivors and the distant cries of animal scavengers attracted to the carnage. It was the only remaining noise to fill the valley. Elias glanced at Kael, whose face was streaked with dirt and gunpowder. His eyes shone with a fierce, defiant light.

"And, they're gone!" Kael said, his voice hoarse with a hint of awe in it. "We did it!"

Elias leaned heavily on the Rebar Launcher as he let out a long, shaky breath. He looked around at his small, war-torn group and then the battered yet still standing walls of their settlement. He gazed up at the setting sun painting the decimated world in streaks of orange and blood red. It felt good to be still standing. A grim satisfaction settled in his chest, but the carnage left an aire as heavy as stone.

"Yes," he affirmed as a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "We did, we all did it!  We have held our ground against all odds. We live to stand our ground another day."  The words--simple yet profound--resonated with the weight of their victory. It was a hard-won triumph in a world that seldom offered any.