There’s a carport that has been abandoned as well. There are no vehicles or tracks leading away from the carport. I don’t know if I should trust that. My eyes search the yard for signs of footprints or tracks in the dust. If I find any, I’m turning around and heading straight back to the second house with the well. But so far, I see nothing that gives away their presence. I assess the odds of someone living in that house but never coming out. I look up to the second story where a single shutter is propped open. The window faces south. I turn and look toward the south. Maybe I’m closer to Dayton than I realize. If so, then the survivors who had lived or holed up here may have gone to Dayton to search for supplies. They might have run into hunters or other survivors, or maybe Zombies. Perhaps they’re dead or pinned down somewhere now. I decide that it’s worth sticking around.
The house is beautiful. I wonder how many others like this were abandoned now.
In the initial Quarantine, everything west of the Mississippi and east of the Rockies had been evacuated and left uninhabited. Of course, there were those who refused to give up their homes and were left there at their own peril. I remember hearing reports about how survivor communities were banding together, trying to scrape a living in the wreckage that had been left to them as a sort of post-apocalyptic inheritance after the military moved everyone willing to leave out of the area. Sure, the government had tried to force people, but there were those who resisted or hid, biding their time until the government pulled out completely. A diameter that encompasses eight and a half states is too much for the government to monitor effectively. Eventually, they gave up caring. If survivors wanted to root around in the waste of America, so be it.
Back when I had my radio, I heard rumors that some of those communities had found ways to survive other than scavenging. I almost instantly think it’s through cannibalism, but I don’t know anymore. There just aren’t enough people. So many starved. The refugee camps were the worst back during the Panic. The government forces opened fire on mobs of refugees just wanting more to eat. That kept them in submission for a while, but eventually they struck out. When the Mississippi was contaminated, Louisiana, Mississippi, half of Kentucky and Tennessee, and Illinois were all quarantined as well. When the dust storms started, everything west of the Appalachians was considered ‘under Quarantine’ or whatever that meant at the time. Basically, people were told to pick up their stuff and flee to one of the coasts, but that didn’t work out so well. I was witness to that. Here in Ohio, I wonder how many people in country farms like this one watched their crops wither and die within days, helpless to stop it. I look at the house and figure that the people who nailed those shutters up were probably the owners of this property. I suspect that if they were still here, then they would have come out shooting, trying to get rid of me, maybe even kill me. Hell, I wouldn’t even be surprised anymore if they came out with steak knives ready to eat me.
I figure, I’m alone.
I continue my journey around the house and discover an old shed, the kind that are painted real cute to look like little barns. Next to it is a lean to for a tractor that has disappeared as well. I wonder if they took that thing into the city, hoping to make it farther as an unstoppable machine. I approach the shed that has a sunroof. I find that odd, thinking that maybe there is a built in greenhouse inside. Or maybe they just wanted to save on electricity. Either way, I see a lot of abandoned power tools outside and a few empty bags of bark, potting soil, and fertilizer. I look at the cover of the fertilizer bag with a cartoon sunflower smiling and showcasing the brand name. I shake my head at it and look away. We were impatient and irresponsible, and our salvation became our ruin.
Looking back at the house, I see the familiar cellar doors that I think every farmhouse seems to be equipped with. There’s a clothes line stretched across the back yard between me and the doors, and I see an abandoned dog house next to the cellar. I continue my walk until I come full circle around the house, seeing a grave with a cross staked into the ground. Around the neck of the cross is a collar and the name ‘Barney’ written on the wood in black paint. Part of me feels sad. At least this dog got a grave. After all the plants died, it was the animals who suffered next. I was certain that there wasn’t a single creature left under God’s blue sky now.
Sure, I’d heard rumors that people should flee to mountain tops. They said that the contaminated soil couldn’t make it up to the top of peaks and that life could continue in the mountains. But I don’t have much faith in that, no one did. In fact, people took to the seas and skies in hopes of finding islands as refuge against this hellish end. I still don’t know how well that went. Everyone heard the reports of war ravaging places like the Caribbean, Greenland, Iceland, and Australia. Some said that Europe had survived the plague, that there were too many mountains between China, India, and Eastern Russia to carry the poisons. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do remember hearing that the French and British were shooting down any airplanes that were trying to illegally land in the country. I wonder if they still had dogs in Europe. Do they still have deer and cattle? No. They’re dead too. Europe was just a dream of dying Americans. Likely, there were survivors across the pond that spoke of an untouched America.
I’ll start with the basement. Basements are terrifying and scary to begin with, so I decide that if I’m going to be freaked out by this place once I’m inside, I might as well make my way from the bottom up. Touring back around the house, I look once more at the shed and decide that I’ll explore that little place later. First, the house. Mason jars, bottles, even rancid milk jugs would work for me. I just need something to carry water in. I walk in front of the cellar doors and think about how far a gallon of water will take me. If I could find two gallons—or three—I could walk for days without needing to stop and be well hydrated. I smile and reach for the handles of the cellar. I might be able to make it all the way around Dayton before needing to refill my supply. I pull the handles.
The cellar doors burst open and fling me back. I hear something that sounds like a war cry as I sprawl across the hard ground, arms and legs flailing as the wind rushes out of my throat upon impact, skidding across the hard, dusty surface of the lawn until I come to a painful stop. I can feel the warm earth against my back and I’m certain that my shirt has ripped. Whoever has attacked me has receded back into the basement, and the cellar doors violently bang against the frame as I cough and choke in a few breaths, gasping to fill my lungs. I roll onto my side and chest as I hear the doors burst open once more, a person breathing angrily as their heavy footsteps boom against the stairs as they climb out into the daylight. I panic, trying to speak, but unable to find the breath. I cough and suck in another breath as I struggle to push myself up.
Propping up and getting to my knees, I feel something as unforgiving as steel smack across my back with enough force to fling me back onto the ground, face first. What little air I have sucked down is once more forced from my lungs before I can speak. Dust jets up into my eyes, and my eyeballs immediately feel like sandpaper when I blink, filling my vision with tears. God, it hurts. My back is in so much pain that I cannot imagine what my attacker has hit me with. It has to be a metal bat.
Something slams into my ribs and I am riddled with agony. I cry out for him to stop in a wheezing, breathless voice, but my attacker doesn’t hear me, or won’t hear me. I’m terrified that he might not care, that he thinks I’m a robber or cannibal. I am kicked again and this time, I’m forced onto my side as I suck in a breath and immediately lose it again. I’m terrified that I’m going to suffocate. As I roll into a ball, the man keeps kicking me again and again as I finally get a breath down. Wrapping my arms over my head and face, I quickly begin to lose patience with all of this. I need to get to my feet. I need to get out of here.
Peeking through the gap between my arms, I see that this man is young, in his early twenties and a bit too clean to be a scavenger. This man has been here for a while, maybe even the original owner. He’s muscular
, so he’s been eating well enough, but he has obviously withered some since the Panic. I can see it in his twisted, enraged face as he bares his teeth and pulls his leg back for another kick. I see in his right hand that there is a crowbar, the weapon he smacked my back with. God, I hope he didn’t break my back. Of course he didn’t, I realize, or I would be paralyzed. Breathing does hurt though, and I fear I have broken ribs.
As he kicks me again I grab his leg and twist my entire body, pulling him off balance, making him struggle momentarily to stay upright. It’s enough time for me to lift his foot up and shove him backwards. It does the trick. The man slams onto his ass and dust billows around him. I take my opportunity and clamor to my feet, drawing my knife and brandishing it without hesitation. The man quickly climbs to his feet and adjusts his grip on the crowbar. I say nothing. There’s no reasoning with this man.
“I’m going to fuck you up,” the young man says, brushing his dark hair from his eyes. His eye sockets look bruised, or darkened at least. This man hasn’t been sleeping well. He might be alone, on the watch at night by himself.
He attacks first, swinging his crowbar upwards and making it easy for me to dodge. Sure, if that swing made contact with me, it would have broken my jaw or sent the knife flying from my hand if I’d attempted to block it. But I didn’t. I step aside, letting the crowbar swing upwards and reveal the perfect target, which I do not hesitate on taking. I push forward with all my strength, driving the thick, iron knife into the young man with both hands. The blade sinks into his abdomen with a sickening register and I feel the cloth of the man’s shirt against my thumbs and forefingers. A little less than a foot of blade penetrating this man’s stomach. I look into the young man’s eyes and watch as he realizes what’s just happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the crowbar drop with a heavy thud against the earth and I see a flicker of defiance in the man’s horrified eyes. He’s going to attempt to fight death.
I don’t give him the chance.
I twist the blade and release a guttural scream from the young man’s lips as I sink my weight into the process of pulling the blade upwards, shredding the young man’s intestines, stomach, liver, then I feel the resistance of the diaphragm, the popping crunch of hitting his ribs and pulling one free of the sternum until I’m in the man’s lungs. I look into his horrified, dying eyes as he takes a few, final, sharp breaths as we both feel his blood spilling out of the foot-long tear in his core. I can hear his intestines slipping out, a sound I never, ever wanted to hear in my life. The young man is handsome, I’ll give him that, but his cocky, angry face is now softening into a scared understanding of what’s to come. My hands are covered in his warm blood as I pull the knife free and push him backwards. He topples over his buckling knees and falls to his back, groping for the massive tear in his body. He’s dead before the dust settles around him.
He did not die without a fight and I instantly drop to my knees in a pool of the man’s blood, feeling the unbridled pain rampaging through my back and ribs. I pray that nothing is broken. I can’t even imagine how I’m going to heal from broken ribs. Stopping now is unacceptable and I know after maybe a few days of resting, I’ll want to pick up and leave—compelled to do so. I know that will only end up hurting me more, so I tell myself to relax, let the pain wash over me for a moment. It’s just my body telling me that something’s happened and to take it easy.
I hear a click behind me and my head snaps to the side to see a woman standing in the black, gaping mouth of the cellar. I haven’t a slightest clue where she came from, how she got there, or what she even looked like. My eyes are glued to the captivating object in her hand, after all, it was pointed straight at me. She held the pistol as she shook violently, aiming it straight at my head.
Chapter Eleven
“Jason!” the woman screams. All I see is the infinite black expanse of death down that barrel of the revolver that she’s holding. It’s a black hole for my attention, sucking all my thoughts down into its dark depths. I am about to die. It’s the only thing I can think of. Whoever Jason is, whoever this woman is, why they’re here, none of it makes a bit of a difference to the undeniable fact that I am about to die. I don’t think about Lexi or Val. I don’t think about Tiffany. I don’t even think about how this world has gone to hell and there was no hope really anyways. All I think about is that there is a gun pointed right at me and that I’m about to die.
Death is a strange and horrifying thing. It’s what inevitably comes for us all and I remember that once I thought I didn’t fear death, but then I got married, and then I had children. When you have something precious to lose, then death becomes far more horrifying. Sure, I bought life insurance and wrote up a will, but in the end, I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live forever, or just long enough to see that my girls are safe. I want to run. I want to be like one of those superheroes who can move faster than a speeding bullet and I want to zoom out of here with the blink of an eye. I want to be standing anywhere but here. The woman’s hand is shaking. God, what if she takes off an ear, or only wounds me? What happens if she wounds me and I go running and slink back to the second farmhouse only to die of an infection and lead poisoning?
“Jason,” she screams again.
She holds the revolver with both hands, making a cautious, inching step toward the body of the man I’m assuming is Jason. I keep still, looking down that wavering barrel with cold certainty that this is the end. No more questions. She’s going to see that he’s dead and she’s going to kill me in a fit of vengeful rage. She takes another step toward the dead man. I wonder why he’d given her the revolver. Wouldn’t it have been more prudent to shoot me the moment I opened the cellar doors? Kill me and get rid of all the risk that fighting brought with it? Maybe he wanted her to keep it in case there were others and that might be their only gun. Probably is. Why else would she have it and he’d come out with just a crowbar? Maybe they expected more than just me. I don’t know.
She is standing over him now and I feel dunked into a pool of relief as she lowers the pistol and stares at the remains of Jason. I gutted him. I did what I had to and she is staring at the corpse with a blank, vacant gaze that tells me nothing. She is looking over his remains as if her eyes were bees buzzing back and forth. This is my chance, but I know I can’t risk it. If I risk it, she might point that gun at me again and squeeze the trigger. If she does, I’m close enough that she’ll most likely hit center mass if she even takes a second to aim. In that case, I’m dead and Jason will have one more friend in the afterlife.
“Oh God,” she whispers calmly.
I see her now, my eyes flicking from the pistol to the woman’s lips. They’re pink, a wonderful, full set of pink lips. To be honest, just from the shape of her pointed chin and her full lips, I know she’s beautiful. I dare to look at those soft cheekbones that lead up to her almond, wonderfully blue eyes and I realize it’s been so long since I’ve seen a beautiful woman. It’s stunning, like encountering the face of God in the darkness of night. Her blonde hair is flat and unruly, but obviously they’ve been living in enough comfort that she’s had the time to comb it, to keep it subdued as much as she can. She has not starved in the wake of the Panic. It is obvious that Jason has been the one who was cutting a little from his meals while she kept fed. I’m not meaning that she’s fat, it’s just that she’s lean. She’s not gaunt. She’s a woman of fitness, which makes me immediately survey her body with envious gratitude that if I’m to die, at least it’s at the hands of a beautiful woman that I get to appreciate before the end.
I’m loyal, always have been. In fact, I never really dated after Tiffany died. It always felt like adultery when I went on a date with another woman, but I had needs. I’m not above appreciating a woman who looks beautiful, and this woman was a goddess that I didn’t ever expect to encounter on the dead earth that I now walk. I expected—as cynical as this is—that all of them were raped and left for dead or in some sort of hellish slavery for what food they can get. But h
ere she stood, beautiful in her short shorts and tube top, staring at the man who had been with her for who knows how long. She is in her early twenties maybe, too young for me to feel comfortable about the way she makes me feel, especially at gunpoint. I banish those thoughts from my mind and focus once more at the situation I’m now cemented in.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, clearing my throat as I notice that she has her first tear running down her perfect cheek in the scorching kiss of the sun. She doesn’t look away from the dead body on the ground. I feel a knot in my stomach. She’s not giving me any signs.
“Oh God,” her quivering voice causes my world to quake. “He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” I utter louder this time, but still hushed enough that I’m not sure she heard me. Beauty is a curse in this desolate world and the immediate impression of her beauty is wearing off on me. Bewitched for the moment, now I’m back to my senses. This woman is a threat. She has a gun and I killed someone important to her. “I’m sorry.”
“You killed him.” Another tear breaks the seal of her eyes and rolls down her left cheek, a diamond in the sunlight of her suffering. I don’t hold up my hands. I remain on my knees, looking at her with my scruffy, remorseless face. No apologies, I tell myself. I killed him because if I hadn’t, then I would be where he is now.
Left Alive 1 Page 9
