by D B Bray
The Last Of Us
By: DB Bray
Instagram: @dbbraythewriter
[email protected]
Previously Written:
Blood and Whiskey
Blood and Whiskey II In for a penny, In for a pound
Fire Lands
Acknowledgements
For Dolores, my ever lasting sunshine. K’wan for the inspiration. My father-in-law and mother, heaven holds a place for the dearly departed. The “Gov” and Val King from BrwnSugarReads. Every supporter who has encouraged me to put this novel to the forefront.
It came from a dark place to help show there is light.
BLEED THE PEN
-K’WAN FOYE
Chapter 1
Jack Madison stretched across a thin branch in a tree full of broken limbs and slimy moss. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and into his eyes. He rubbed his face on his shoulder, attempting to stop the burning sensation. He blinked a few times and scanned the open glade in front of him. He felt a tug on his pant leg and kicked the hindrance away.
“What do you see, Jack? What do you see?” whispered a high-pitched voice underneath him.
Ignoring it, Jack stared down the scope of his rifle. He slid his palm across the inscription engraved on the stock. The letters felt foreign to him, almost magical.
Thou shall not kill in combat, only to eat.
The stock of his weapon was worn, warm against his cheek, and he could smell the well-oiled leather sling neatly tucked in the crook of his elbow. The elk he was aiming at lay seventy yards upwind, oblivious to his intentions.
“Psst, hey Jack,” came the voice again, tugging on his pant leg for the second time.
“Shut it,” he hissed.
He kicked the hand away and looked back down the scope. His dirt encrusted fingernails slid across the trigger, lightly tapping it. Closing one eye, he returned to the scope.
Slow your heart rate. Inhale, exhale, inhale, deep breath, hold, hold, hol----.
The recoil of the rifle slammed into his shoulder, and the bullet flew downrange, snapping through the leaves. The elk reared up and then collapsed.
Jack looked down at his younger brother Toby on the next branch and muttered, “That was too easy. Don’t pull my pant leg again; I nearly fell off.”
Toby looked up with a smile, exposing the large gap in his teeth. Jack shook his head with a smile and then climbed down the branches as carefully as he could, followed by Toby.
“Let’s get the meat and get back. We’ve been out here too long,” Jack said, helping Toby off of the last branch.
He slung the rifle over his shoulder, and they jogged the seventy yards to their prize. As they walked up to dress the elk, Jack sniffed the air for a few seconds. He caught an odor floating around them and licked his lips. He scanned the foliage around him, the hair on the back of his neck tickling the nape of his neck.
The closer they approached, the stronger the smell. It was a smell Jack was familiar with, the smell of rotting flesh. Jack sighed and then glanced over his shoulder. “Should have known it was sick, dropped to fast,” Jack said.
Toby took an exaggerated breath. “Now we’re in for it. What do we do now?” he moaned.
“Take what we can and leave the rest for the vultures,” Jack said.
He helped Toby with his handkerchief and then pulled his own over his nose. They removed the horns from the elk, the only salvageable part.
Usually, no one hunted in the Waste Lands, the area between the major cities and the tribes living in the Fallout Zones. But times were tight, and after the last three droughts, any meat counted.
Most of the diseased animals grazing in the Zones had ingested radiological contamination and died from prolonged exposure. But a few animals, like elk and bear, could be infected, and a hunter wouldn’t know until they killed it.
The two collected their belongings and sprinted back to the tent city. The blazing sun couldn’t penetrate the mutated thick green leaves above, keeping them in the slippery shadows. They jumped over roots, red and blue briar patches, and rats large enough to eat cats. As they sprinted, Toby tripped and slammed into the dirt. Jack yanked him to his feet.
“You ok?”
Toby nodded.
“Eyes up little brother,” Jack said as he pushed him ahead, a little harder than he should have.
The red and orange eyes from the creatures lurking in the shadows peered at them as they ran by. As they cleared the last of the forest, their Scavenger camp located inside the moat of Fort Monroe appeared on the horizon.
Bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, Jack glanced over at his brother and smiled. “Beat you.”
“Eh, I wasn’t even trying. I never try, you’re older,” Toby said between deep breaths.
As they cleared the forest, the sun was setting behind the fort. The pink sky mixed with the low hanging gray clouds creating a cornucopia of colors. The boys smiled as they crossed into the clearing.
Home, Jack thought.
A guard was posted in the wooden tower, the flag of Hampton fluttering behind him in the soft breeze. Jack waved to the guard as they walked toward the gate. He felt the tingling again on the nape of his neck. Putting his hand across Toby’s chest, he stopped him where he stood. The air around him stunk. He sniffed again and listened to the sounds around him.
Why are there no birds chirping?
“What do you hear?” Toby asked, craning his neck in several directions.
“Shhh!”
Jack cupped his hand around his ear and slowed his breathing. He dropped to the ground and held his palm against the soil. Holding his hand to the ground, he felt a slight vibration. He yanked Toby by the hand and sprinted back into the woods. They crashed through the vines and dropped to the ground.
A few moments later, an army of men and women mounted on horses, donkeys, and camels cantered over the hilltop to their right. A rusted humvee jerked over the horizon, pulled by a team of Clydesdales. Jack scrambled to look down the scope of his rifle.
“It’s The Takers,” Jack hissed.
“What will they do? We don’t have anything they want.” Toby said, his voice an octave higher than usual.
Gunfire interrupted their conversation as a machine gun roared to life. Jack covered Toby and watched the gun swing side to side, raking the fort. The machine gun bullets peppered the wooden guard tower, killing the sentry. Horns blared from within Fort Monroe as the members of the tribe sprinted to the wall, scaling ladders to the stone parapet. Jack watched several of his friends fire their crossbows over the palisade walls, most of their targets tumbling from their saddles.
As the invaders surged forward, they threw their grappling hooks over the wall. Like a well oiled machine, The Takers wrapped the ropes around their saddle horns and spurred their mounts away from the fort. The machine gun firing from below continued to mow down the men and women defending the wall.
That gun is brutal, Jack thought, watching a smile cross the gunners face.
Jack’s breathing slowed, and he knew what he had to do as he watched more of his tribesmen blown off the wall.
Father, please forgive me for what I’m about to do, he muttered, setting a position on the ground.
Toby put his hands on Jack’s shoulder. “Jack, don——.”
“Hush!”
Jack placed a gnarled tree branch in front of him and then piled some of the loose dirt around it into a mound. He slid the rifle barrel over the makeshift perch and rubbed his eyes. Blinking a few times, he put his right eye to the scope, breathing in and out.
Slow and steady, God, forgive me…
He instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, eyelids trembling. The rifle barked and recoiled as the bullet ricocheted off the side
of the rusted turret.
Damn.
The machine gunners looked around behind them. The defenders firing their crossbows from above hit the gunner in the chest as he looked around. The quill penetrated the man’s breastplate, knocked him backward, and onto the dewy grass.
There was a momentary reprieve for the defenders to escape. But in the next instant, rockets screeched downrange and slammed into the palisade and parapet. The munitions were so loud that they drowned out Toby’s screams. As they made contact, the wall shattered into a cloud of broken wood and dust. As it collapsed, bodies cascades through the air like ragdolls. A horrible war cry sounded as the attackers rode through the breach, slaughtering all in their path. The screams of horror and fright turned Jack’s stomach.
His pulse quickened; his clammy palms shook as he dropped the rifle. He wiped the tears from his eyes as he watched Toby whimper nearby, rocking in a fetal position. Jack cleared his tears and crawled over to hold him. The tighter he held him, the louder Toby sobbed.
Hours later, the screams finally ceased, and The Takers withdrew. Jack stared at the raiders as he watched them carry their spoils over their saddles. He waited until the very last person rode back over the hill and into the mist.
Jack let go of Toby and leaned against a tree near the forest edge, out of view as his shoulders shook. He held his hand over his mouth as the sobs wracked his body.
Toby wandered up behind him. “Why, why would they kill everyone?” he asked, staring at the smoldering fort.
“The Rules,” Jack said, clearing his throat.
“Never heard of them.”
Jack sighed and wiped his eyes. “The Rules are simple. He who has the gold makes the rules.”
“What can we do to get the gold?” Toby asked, wiping his sleeve across his nose.
Jack reached into his pack and pulled out a dirty bloodstained piece of parchment. Hands trembling, he began to read:
Boy,
I hope you were able to find my rifle. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye before I left. But I must leave you with a mission, in case I don’t make it back. I think the time has come for you to know what our family has been doing for generations.
Hundreds of years ago, our ancestors searched for the Constitution, an important document that allowed the tribes to exist peacefully. Some of our ancestors returned empty handed, some not at all. My father passed the quest to me when I was your age, and now I’m giving it to you.
My father always said the worst thing anyone can do is horde all the power. And that’s why the tribes are at war, and slavery is the best currency now.
The only way we can change it is if we rid ourselves of the rules. He who has the gold doesn’t have to make the rules. The Constitution can help us. I’ve always believed that. But it was ripped into pieces when the Great War broke out.
Your grandfather told me the pieces are hidden in different locations, and we must put them back together. All the times I left you in the rector’s care, I was searching, mostly without reward. I never found anything, like the others. I am going on one last run. I think I found something.
The only clue I have has been handed down from father to son since 2030. Find the pieces of the Constitution and put them back together. You’ll have to figure out how it can help us from there.
When your grandfather died, I placed the piece we have in his casket for safekeeping. I memorized it after looking at it all those years. He is buried in the cemetery on the outskirts of the fort.
I wish you luck, boy. My father always impressed upon me a thought I leave to you; you will get farther pushing a door open, rather than pulling it.
I love you and Toby very much.
Father
Jack folded the parchment carefully, sniffed, and then returned it to his pack.
“What does it mean?” Toby asked.
“It means there is nothing—” Jack stared at the charred remains of Fort Monroe and sighed. “For us here. We must go in search of this Constitution.”
“Where do we start?” Toby asked.
“We find the grave marker father mentioned,” Jack said, shouldering his knapsack and rifle. “Stay close to me.”
Society in 2225 had disintegrated into independent Scavenger tribes hellbent on selling slaves and killing all resistance to their way of life. All Toby and Jack could do was fight to see another day, or they would be lying with their friends sprawled out in front of them.
As they walked into the smoky ruins of the fort, they found some stray horses milling about by the water trough. Most of Fort Monroe had been destroyed, the bodies of his fellow tribesmen lay half-buried in the dirt and debris.
Toby cried behind him as they walked farther down the road. Jack watched him kneel by a boy his age on the side of the road.
“Who is that?” Jack asked.
“Ryan.” Toby held him close, balling. Jack tapped him on the shoulder after a few minutes.
“Let it go, brother. We have to move,” Jack said softly.
“I don’t want to,” Toby shouted.
“Well, you have to. Up brother,” Jack said.
Toby shook off Jack’s grip, closed his friend's eyes, and stood up. They walked by the burned-out huts and slaughtered livestock. Some members of the tribe had erected their tents inside the destroyed inner ring of the fort, in a grassy field covered by large trees, most of which had been destroyed. The tribe filled in the once mighty moat surrounding them with dirt for better farmland.
Jack looked around. We should have kept the moat.
The populace had built a giant wooden fence around the remaining stone ramparts, trying their best to keep the hordes of roving wolves out as they stalked them in the shadows. Jack stared at the gaps where the attackers had ridden through to finish the onslaught.
They didn’t stand a chance, Jack thought, looking at the ruins of his home, a two-story brick house.
Jack led Toby to the park, where they found the village elders swinging from the sacred tree. The giant oak was said to have stood for the last two hundred years, the only tree that survived the war. Toby stood transfixed, staring at the bodies swinging back and forth from a branch.
“Come on, Tob,” Jack said, calling his brother by his nickname.
Toby didn’t move. “Is...is that Rector Wallace?” he asked, pointing at one of the hanging bodies.
The chief elder swung back and forth, his swollen gray tongue protruding from his cracked lips. Not saying a word, Jack climbed up the tree and unsheathed his bowie knife from his boot.
Straddling a thick branch above the bodies, he hung upside down and cut the ropes one by one. Toby didn’t see the tears falling down his cheeks as he cut each man and woman loose.
Rector Wallace was their teacher, a man of wisdom who disciplined them when their father wasn’t around. He was a man of few words with a firm hand. The belt or switch used depended on the punishment he was doling out. And Jack always knew he would take a worse beating than his brother; it came with the territory.
Toby was thin, an unhealthy thin, with a mop of brown hair and beady grey eyes. He stood four foot five, almost four inches shorter than the average nine year old. The bags under his eyes made him look like death was only a breath away. (It always was).
Jack didn’t look much better with the cleft lip; he tried to hide with a thin black mustache. Being sixteen is never easy, but it was nearly impossible in the world they lived in now. His mustache made him appear more like a rat than a boy, his hair was unkempt, and his clothes were torn and baggy. They were a ragtag duo, not the boys any adult would have chosen to take on a quest of such magnitude.
Jack glanced inside a nearby hut for a shovel to bury the elders as night settled in. Toby looked on sobbing, wiping away his tears.
Jack walked up to him. “The time to grieve is later. We need their clothes,” he said, pulling an elder's boots off.
Toby put his hand on Jack’s shoulder, his lip quivering. “Jack, we shouldn’t
.”
“Do what I tell you, Tob, or we’ll freeze to death at night,” Jack said, shoving a pair of boots into his arms.
They disrobed the bodies without speaking. Jack could hear Toby sniffle as he pulled their garments loose. After they finished, Jack folded the clothes and put them in their knapsack.
“Now in with the bodies,” Jack said.
“But—-.”
“Now, Tob.”
Toby did the best he could to help push the corpses into the pit, but the more he breathed, the sicker he became. He walked over to a nearby tree and threw up. Jack shook his head as he pulled the rector to the hole, and with a heavy sigh, rolled him in.
I’m sorry, Rector Wallace. You deserve better.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Toby asked, wiping the sweat from his brow and the vomit from his chin.
“I’m not sure, never buried anyone. But I’ve seen it done,” Jack said.
Most of the townspeople were usually cremated to prevent the spread of disease. There was little space to bury anyone, and the graveyard was off-limits for new corpses. Over time, the tribesmen came to believe in an evil spirit called a soul catcher, a demon sent from below to haunt the nightmares of both men and children. Jack didn’t believe in them, but every now and again, when the tree branches swayed in a thunderstorm, he wondered.
Jack placed his fist over his heart and bowed his head. He glanced over at Toby and then back to the rector. He repeated what he heard a priest say once.
“It is only through shadows that one comes to know the light. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, for he will live in the presence of the Lord for now until the end of time,” he said between clenched teeth.
Jack blinked his tears away, cleared his throat, and then shoveled the remaining dirt over the bodies. An hour later, after policing up what they could, the boys led their horses to the graveyard gate.
“Stay here with the horses, Tob. I’ll be right back.”
Toby grabbed his sleeve. “Jack, don’t go. You know what the rector told us about this place.”
