Stand Your Ground: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Survival Fiction Series (American Song Series)

by Chris Pike

  “It’s what Clint Eastwood carried in the Dirty Harry movies.”

  “Can you shoot those?” May’s skepticism was apparent.

  “I can. Dad let me shoot it with light loads, so you’d be able to shoot it too. You have to hold it steady with a firm grip. It’s easy to load and I can show you how. We’ll be fine once we are there. The orchard has plenty of fruit trees, and wild grapes grow on the fence line, and I’ll get the garden up and going, so we’ll be able to supplement our—”

  “That’s all good and everything, Ella,” May interrupted, “but how will we get there? We have no car. The freeway is impassable from what you said, and I’m not walking all the way to the ranch. It must be close to two hundred miles.”

  “We’re not walking all the way there. We will only have to walk a few miles. I’ve got it all figured out.”

  May sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “I don’t want to stay here so what should I pack?”

  “Let me think a second.”

  I made a mental checklist of the pantry and medicine cabinets at the ranch. Those were well stocked, along with the cellar. My mom never liked going grocery shopping when she was there, preferring to use her time doing things she liked, especially birding and identifying which local flora had uses other than being ornamental. If everything went well, it should only take us a day or so to get there.

  I snapped my fingers. “I got it. Pack snacks for yourself, enough water for a two day trip, and several changes of clothes. I’ll get the same for me, and the book about how American Indians used plants for medicine.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question.” May looked pointedly at me. “How will we get there?”

  As I was about to answer her, the train running parallel to I-10 sounded its horn. Many times I cursed the train and how it made the windows rattle. I used to cover my head with a pillow to drown out the noise. As of now, it might as well been Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

  It was the most beautiful sound in the world.

  “The train. We’re riding the train. That’s how we’re getting there.” My voice rose in excitement.

  “Trains are slow. How long will it take us?” May asked. “When Dad drives it takes him three hours.”

  “Right, but Dad speeds, and the train doesn’t. The trip shouldn’t take longer than six hours, but we still need to pack extra water in case something goes wrong.”

  “How do you know where it’s going?”

  “Don’t you remember? I did a research paper on the train last year. I learned all sorts of good stuff about it. Like its schedule, its route, how fast it goes, what it transports, and the pollution it—,”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.”

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got exactly forty-five minutes before the train swings around and comes back our way. We don’t want to miss it.”

  “I’ve got a question. When do you think we’ll be able to come back home?”

  I didn’t answer immediately because I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell her the truth. Squashing her hope would not accomplish anything, and I couldn’t be mean to my little sister.

  Mustering my best reassuring voice, I said, “We’ll come back when this blows over. I’m sure it won’t be that long.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, May and I were standing in the kitchen. I took one look, then decided at the last minute to stuff a silicon expandable orange bowl into a side compartment of my backpack. Once collapsed, the bowl’s thickness was less than an inch, and it only weighed a couple of ounces. It might come in useful. I opened the back door, and a rush of East Texas humidity thick with a putrid odor hit me full and strong. I gagged, and put my hand to my mouth and nose to keep from hurling my breakfast.

  It was the smell of death.

  Of people. Lots of them. Thousands probably.

  Sickly sweet and rancid at the same time, it made my stomach turn. I’d never forget the smell of thousands of bloated bodies, the gasses bubbling.

  I jumped back in the house, surprising May, who stumbled back. I slammed the door shut. “May,” I gasped, “we need several scarves.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We need to cover our noses.”

  “Why? What’s out there?” she asked, trying to look past me.

  Swallowing the bile in my throat, I croaked, “The smell of death.”

  “From the people who died?”

  I nodded.

  May dropped her backpack and hurried to her bedroom, where I could hear her rummaging through drawers, and opening and shutting closet doors.

  “Hurry!” I yelled. “We don’t want to miss the train.”

  She returned in a minute holding several brightly colored scarves, and one wool scarf meant to be worn in winter.

  “I couldn’t decide which ones were better,” she said, holding up several scarves in her hands. “We still need to look good.”

  I burst out laughing. “Even in the apocalypse, you still want to look pretty.”

  She smiled. “Never know who you’ll meet.”

  We took a moment to tie the scarves around our noses and mouths like outlaw bank robbers who made an escape on a horse. I wished we had a horse about now for transportation. My dad was never keen on us having a horse, saying it was too much trouble, and once May and I tired of the horse, he’d have to take care of it.

  I’m not even sure why I locked the house. It’s not like it would deter looters from getting in. Leaving had to be the right decision, I reminded myself. The water was only a trickle now, and the toilets stopped working several days ago. I hadn’t seen a living soul in days. Odd noises at night kept me awake, scaring the bejesus out of me, and I had checked and double checked the windows and doors, making sure those were locked and secure. If there was a right time to leave, this was it.

  There was no looking back now.

  To save a few steps, we headed out through the backyard, which opened to the athletic field behind our house. Pine trees and oaks rimmed the perimeter of several soccer fields, a running track, and tennis courts of a local charter school. Beyond, a baseball field with bleachers sat empty, then a row of businesses lined the south side of the freeway.

  The wooden fence had been recently built, and it was taller than normal to prevent errant lacrosse balls flying over the fence and breaking our windows. After several windows had been broken, my dad got fed up and had the high fence built. The only problem was I couldn’t see over the fence, and what we had to face.

  At the time the cloud hit, school was in session, students would have been practicing band, or first period track would have been out running, or high school seniors would have been on the tennis court. I dreaded the scene.

  We were saddled with heavy backpacks, stuffed to the point the zippers wouldn’t zip all the way around. To save space in the backpacks, we wore two shirts each, two pairs of pants, underwear, and socks. I even had a jacket tied around my waist. May went the extra mile, and was wearing a coat.

  Glancing at her, I laughed.

  “What are you laughing at?” May asked, shooting me that look.

  “You. My little Beanie. You look like a bag lady who is wearing everything she owns. All you need are smudge marks on your face.”

  May bent down, rubbed her fingers in the soil, and swiped her hand over her forehead. “How do I look now?”

  “Like a bona fide bag lady.”

  “Do you have any spare change for an old woman?” she asked playfully, using her best gravelly voice.

  We both laughed. It was good to hear her laugh, and the thought I came close to losing her a week ago, scared me. How could I live my life without my only sister? We shared the same DNA, same childhood experiences, then we drifted apart, not able to stand the sight of each other. Now, we’ve come back together.

  She and I against the world.

  Our house was located about a mile south of the massive Interstate 10, consisting of twenty-six lanes which I nicknam
ed the Big Apple after New York City, because the freeway never slept. Cars sped by, even during the wee hours of the morning, and rush hour traffic was bumper to bumper. I always wondered where everybody was going. Always in a rush to get to the office, get home, make it to an appointment, missing life along the way. Now it was as quiet as a graveyard. Even the chirping birds had gone silent, which was highly unusual. I paused, searching for the flight of a sparrow, or the squawking of a blue jay. Surprisingly, there was none.

  Dismissing the lack of bird activity, I tied the scarf tighter around my nose and mouth. If only I could tie it around my eyes so I wouldn’t be subjected to the horror that lay beyond.

  My hands trembled as I reached for the gate latch, and I steeled myself for the scene.

  Chapter 7

  I hesitated, disturbed by the low buzz filling the air. “May, do you hear that?”

  “Like someone humming?”

  “Yeah, like a hundred people humming. What do you think it is?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m scared and want to stay home.” May tugged on my backpack. “Let’s stay here, okay? We can wait this out. Please, Ella.”

  I stared at my sister, considering. After a minute of silence I said, “We have to leave, May. We have no other choice.”

  “There are always choices,” she said, brushing a fly away from her hair.

  It was then I noticed a plethora of bees in our yard. Bees occasionally would buzz the flowering plants, but nothing like this. It was like they were consuming as much nectar as possible, fattening up for the winter. I filed the information away in my brain.

  “We need to leave. As soon as we get to the ranch, Uncle Grant will be able to help us.”

  May glanced away, then hitched her backpack higher on her back. After a beat she said, “Alright. We better get going before I change my mind.”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself for what was coming. “May, hold onto my backpack and keep your eyes down. Do not look.”

  “Okay,” she squeaked.

  I glanced back at our house and tried to memorize the way it looked, the way it smelled when my mother cooked my favorite meal. I tried to remember the softness of my bed, how the morning light woke me, the sounds of doves cooing in the morning, the good times I had with my family. So many memories I needed to keep. I wanted to take it all in because I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t be back.

  The gate popped open.

  A sickening buzzing sound increased, and I was greeted by a cloud of black flies so thick the school buildings were obscured.

  In the heat of the morning, I slapped away the flies from my face, bouncing off me like I was a window pane.

  The flies were thickest around the bloated bodies of students, a flying pox on the land, fighting each other to be the first to devour the tender parts of the flesh.

  A glint caught my eye and I looked in the direction of the buzz. A shiny brass French horn rose above the revulsion, untouched by the tragedy befallen on the people, an inert object, no emotions or sorrow, cold to the touch, yet when in skilled hands, music as warm as a spring day resulted.

  I wish I was cold brass so I wouldn’t have to feel or experience any of this. I took a step, then another, marching through the unimaginable scene, weaving my way around the bloated bodies where the forehead skin had started to pull away from skull.

  I slapped away flies now becoming tangled in my hair, crawling as if I had a head full of lice. I picked up the pace. “May, are you okay?”

  “Just hurry.”

  “I’m trying. Please don’t look. Keep holding onto my backpack.” I imagined having blinders on each side of my face, like horses wear during races to keep their eyes straight ahead, and from becoming distracted with their goal. With tunnel vision, I kept focused on my goal to reach the freeway. I plodded on across the soccer field, and when we came to one of the school buildings, I purposely hugged the outside. There were fewer bodies near the school because the students fell on the field where they had been practicing.

  After several long minutes, I found my way to the tennis courts, then wove my way along the perimeter of the practice baseball field. The baseball team would have been practicing before school in preparation for the playoffs, and while the bodies were unrecognizable, I would have known many of them from the neighborhood newspaper. A group photo of smiling young men wearing baseball uniforms, all their names listed under the photo.

  In a way, they were the lucky ones. Dead before they knew the horror the survivors would face. I noticed movement around a body. A pack of dogs was tearing at one of the bodies. A Labrador, a dachshund mix, a brown mutt, another Heinz 57 mutt, and to think only a week ago those had been pets.

  They were snarling and snapping, tails tucked, wary of each other, yet instinctively seeking safety in numbers. It was survival of the fittest. Those dogs had reverted back to a primal instinct to survive.

  At last we reached the massive freeway, a jumbled mass of cars, trucks, delivery vans, and several eighteen wheelers, their engines long silent after the fuel ran out. Most drivers had died in their cars. Others had stumbled a few feet to die on the concrete.

  I marched forward, and intermittently I’d pat May’s hand to reassure her.

  On each side of the freeway was a plethora of offices and restaurants, cut by side streets leading to the neighborhoods. As we approached the interstate, a man ran out of an abandoned Italian restaurant carrying a huge container of pasta. I called to him, hoping he had information that could help us, but he darted around the building and disappeared.

  I approached an eighteen wheeler, and getting an idea, I stopped at one of the big rigs.

  “May, stay here. I’ll look for anything useful.”

  I held onto the door handle and hoisted myself up. The window was rolled halfway down, and I stood on tiptoes and peered in. A bottle of water was in the console, papers and receipts for various purchases strewn about the cab. Water would be a good find if we didn’t have any, but what I needed was a weapon.

  “May, keep a lookout.”

  I checked under the seat, behind it, dropping the sun visors down for any hidden objects of value. I opened the console and pushed around more paper, a plastic bag, a package of Kleenex–which I pocketed–and my hand came in contact with a hard metal object. I had hit the jackpot.

  It was a .357 Magnum Ruger revolver. Not my first choice, and big for my hands, but it was better than nothing. I found two extra fully loaded speedloaders, so I pocketed those with the Kleenex and stuffed the revolver into my waistband.

  “Ella! We have to go!” May yelled. “I hear the train.”

  I hopped out of the cab and we dashed across the freeway, weaving our way around cars. I easily navigated the concrete barrier, but since May was much shorter than me, I had to help her.

  The train was getting closer, and the thumping and rattling became louder. It was the same type of train I’d seen at railroad crossings, the boxcars decorated in graffiti. Some hauled gravel or asphalt, cars, canned goods, sugar, grain, heavy equipment, even coal, scrap metal, and other large items.

  The horn was loud, honking, a sound I imagined an enormous prehistoric Canada Goose would make.

  May and I sprinted to the tracks.

  The ground rumbled, and I was so close to the train, a rush of air hit me, blowing my hair around.

  May yelled at me. Her mouth was moving, yet I was unable to grasp what she was saying. She tugged on my backpack, forcing me away from the train.

  “You were too close!” she yelled.

  The gravel surrounding the railroad tracks vibrated and danced as the train chugged along.

  More graffiti blurred by, huge letters and symbols which had no meaning to me, yet such care had been taken by the artist to make the 3D images. I wonder what happened to those people. Where did they live? Are they still alive? Did it even matter?

  “I’ll jump on first,” May said. “Watch what I do, then do exactly as I do. I’m going to put my ch
eerleading into practice.”

  May jogged at a leisurely pace alongside the train, me right behind her.

  She was waiting, biding her time, watching for the best car, and I prayed like I’d never prayed before, hoping this was a good idea. One slip and she could lose an arm or a leg, and die right there on the sloping gravel bed supporting the tracks.

  She stopped.

  I stopped.

  “Why are we stopping?” I yelled. I was winded, sucking in air.

  “I have to catch my breath,” May said, gulping.

  More railcars flashed by, more blurred graffiti, until I was dizzy and lightheaded from the motion and the deafening noise.

  “Now!” May screamed.

  She sprinted alongside the moving train, her feet slipping on the coarse gravel, her arms windmilling so she could keep her balance. I mirrored her running, stumbling, and slipping, trying to gain traction on the gravel. She removed her backpack and threw it into an open car where it bounced to the side.

  She lunged and took hold of a metal rung of a ladder, swinging her legs up and over into the open car like a pole vaulter. She landed on her feet. I admired her athleticism.

  “Come on, Ella! It’s easy. Pretend you’re on the track at school and you’ve got to leap over a hurdle. You’ve done it a hundred times.”

  My heart was pounding; my mouth was as dry as a desert gully. It was now or never, and I gauged the space between the ground and the car.

  “I’m not like you! I can’t do what you did. I’m no good at flips or cartwheels like you are.”

  “Yes, you are!” she yelled. “The train is picking up speed. Hurry! Just do what I did!”

  Without any further haranguing, I took a running start, dug my heels into the gravel, lunged, and tossed my backpack to May. She caught it, lost her balance from the weight of it, and thumped down on the floor of the car out of my line of sight.

  My adrenaline was redlining, and my heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my throat.

  I have to do it.

  There was no looking back.

  I took a big step, those huge metal wheels grinding and shrieking against the metal tracks. I lurched for the metal ladder and held onto it for dear life. My feet flew out from behind me, my body banging against metal and wood, and my feet dangled perilously close to those monstrous wheels.