by D B Bray
“I do, but we need what’s in the graveyard,” Jack said.
“No, we need to go to another city and find food,” Toby pleaded.
“We aren’t leaving until we find what we’re looking for. I’ll be right back,” Jack said.
He shouldered his knapsack and had Toby tie the shovel across the shoulder straps. He backed up and ran toward the fence. His hands reached the top, and with all his strength, he hoisted himself over and landed with a thud on the other side.
Damn, that hurt.
“Jack? Jack, can you hear me?” Toby hissed, glancing for soul catchers.
Holding his palm to his bruised temple, Jack groaned. “Yeah, I hear you.”
“See any soul catchers?” Toby asked, excitement creeping into his voice.
Jack ignored the question as he watched a cold mist floating around him on an otherwise hot day. Goosebumps popped on his flesh as he checked his surroundings. A shiver ran up his spine as he felt around the knapsack for his flint and a spare tee shirt. Finding what he needed, he wrapped the shirt around a broken tree branch, rubbed some oil on it, and then used his flint to start a fire.
His eyes lingered in each direction, peering into the darkness. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a long branch twice his size. He inched his fingers over to it and pushed it in front of him as he moved forward, checking for trees, animals, and any broken headstones. A rat, the size of a cat, scurried in front of him. He jumped back and dropped his torch.
Damn, I hate rats.
Jack snatched the torch handle off the ground, never taking his eyes from the mist. He concentrated on row after row of headstones, most of them broken, bodies looted. A few lay untouched around him as he scanned the names; McGillicutty, Moses, Lapack, Franklin, Earl, Manson. I don’t see a thing about my last name.
He turned to leave and tripped over a one. Getting to his feet, he winced. In front of him, on the gravestone, was the name Madison.
I found it; I can’t believe I found it.
The left corner was broken off, the jagged edge running like a row of shark teeth. He quickly untied the shovel, put the torch down, and started shoveling dirt over his shoulder.
An animal screeched on his left, the sound echoing around him in the darkness. A giant silver bat buzzed him and flew off. He swung the shovel like a baseball bat and spun in a circle, scraping the head of it across a row of headstones.
Ahh, that was close.
Observing the brush for a few agonizing moments, his heart thumping in his chest. There didn't appear to be any other nasties in the mist.
His father's voice rang in his head. Keep your head up, boy. Jack smirked. He could remember a single time his father ever called him by his first name.
He resumed shoveling, the memory disappearing as fast as it appeared. It took nearly an hour to dig the six feet to the coffin buried in the earth. He drove the shovel down once more, and it made a thumping sound.
Jackpot.
After brushing most of the dirt away, he shoved the head of the shovel under the lid of the wooden casket and pried it open. His grandfather was dressed in a pinstriped suit, a regal smile frozen on his skeletal face. Looking inside the coffin, he couldn’t see any parchment lying around.
Where is it? I really don’t want to dig around in here.
His fists were balled up across his chest. Jack glanced at them for a long moment and noticed a tiny yellow object.
It wouldn’t be clenched in his hand, would it?
He took a deep breath and reached down. The skeleton’s fingers were brittle, frozen in a death grip. Jack pried them open, breaking several off.
Ew, that’s disgusting. Sorry grandpa, but you don’t need them anymore.
He tossed them over his shoulder and pulled the yellow paper out of the grave.
Now we’re in business.
With a quick glance, he squinted at the faded letters, the torch dangerously close.
This is tough to read.
He glanced over both shoulders and read the letter out loud:
November 2145
Son,
We were attacked last night by those damned slaver tribes forming around the country. I was wounded, and an infection set in. I must write this down, so you can follow in my footsteps, should you ever return. All I have is a map my father gave me, that has been handed down through time. Our family has been protecting a clue, a vital clue. It has to do with the Constitution, an important document, and with it, we can reunite the tribes from the Zones. I’ve never seen the piece of paper myself. It was destroyed before I was born, and before my father left to reclaim the pieces, he wrote me a note to read when I grew up, should he not make it back. He did not return. It seems to be our curse, The Madison Curse.
He explained to me that his grandfather and four of his friends smuggled out the torn pieces and then split up. Each person told the others where they were headed, but not where their section would be hidden. I did my best to find the next piece, but the slaver tribes were too numerous. It got to be more critical to stay alive, so I forgot about it and lived my life. But now I hand it to you, and should you fail, give it to your son or daughter. My father said he hid his piece in Christ Church Cemetery in Philadelphia, north of here. The map, which is in my breast pocket, will lead you to the other Zone.
Jack opened his breast pocket and pulled out the deteriorating road map. He carefully opened it and drew his finger along Fallout Zone Three, miles from where they were.
Well, that's not good.
He finished reading; It’s up to you to finish what our family started. If you find all the pieces, reunite the tribes. May God protect you.
Great, now what? Jack thought as he walked back to the entrance.
Chapter 2
Jack folded the map and headed back where he saw Toby’s face pressed against it, his nose squished through two of the bars. Jack threw the knapsack and shovel over, stepped back a few paces, and then launched himself against it. He climbed over and dropped like a stone with a heavy groan onto the other side.
“What did you find, Jack?” Toby asked, his eyes glued to the map in Jack’s hand.
“We have to go to someplace called Philadelphia to find another grave,” Jack said, picking up his pack.
Toby looked at the horses grazing behind them, and then back at Jack. “Do you think we can get there?”
Jack cut his eyes at him.
Toby noticed and stuttered. “Never… never mind.”
Jack sighed. “I don’t think we have a choice, Tob.”
“I don’t know about going, Jack, we could get killed. Or the slavers could grab us. Maybe we should just find another town and get help,” Toby said, staring at his feet.
Jack lifted Toby’s chin and said, “We’re all that’s left of our The Monroe’s, and we need to finish this quest. Father asked us to, so we will. Whatever this Constitution thing is, we can find it, but we have to do it together.”
“Okay, I’ll go, but…”
“You’re scared. I know, so am I.” Jack looked around in the darkness. “But we don’t have another choice. We have nowhere to go and nothing to trade with,” he said, his face a mask of grim determination.
“What happens if we don’t find this Consumintion?” Toby asked.
Jack smiled. “You mean the Cons-ti-tuition, right?”
“Yea, that’s what I said.”
Jack smirked and tied his pack and rifle to his horse's saddle. He ran his hand over the horse's mangy black mane and felt the coarse bristles seep through his fingers.
I hope you can run.
Jack helped Toby onto his horse and then mounted his own. They rode north for four days, and finally, after nothing but brush, abandoned cars, and dangerous creatures, they reached a large city.
“Jack, what is that place?” Toby asked, reigning his horse next to Jack’s.
Jack glanced at the ferris wheel, submerged in water. He slid his finger along the map, stopping on the city in fr
ont of them.
“Not sure, Tob. It may be this place called Baltimore,” he said with a shrug, pointing at the map. “Let’s keep moving.”
They continued to ride several more miles through the darkened woods, dodging drooping branches, and deep craters filled with trash in the overgrown path. Jack pulled out a compass and made the calculations to head north.
They continued to travel day after day, the sun relentless in its pursuit to beat them down. Rarely stopping for rest, they timed their journey so they could make camp before dusk fell every night.
After another hellish day in the son, they stopped at an abandoned rest stop. The locals had turned it into a tent city. Jack and Toby rode in, their eyes searching for any threat. Although they were young, they were wise to the fact that most Scavengers looked out for themselves, never for lost kids.
As they dismounted near a fire barrel, a man bumped into Toby and pushed him to the ground.
“Watch where you're going, runt.”
Toby hit the ground hard. Jack picked him up, dusted him off, and nudged him out of the road.
“Hey Mister, you need to apologize to my little brother,” Jack said.
The man turned around and spat on Jack’s shirt with a chuckle. “Oh, yea, boy? You going to make sure I do?”
Jack bristled, grabbed his gun, and pointed it at the man. “I said apologize, old man.”
The man took a step forward. Toby snuck up next to Jack and said, “Only to eat, remember?”
Jack lowered his rifle slowly. “Right, only to eat.”
“You got a problem, boy?” the man asked with his palm on the butt of his pistol, his speech a little surly.
Jack didn’t blink. “Nah, no problem.”
“Don’t point a gun unless you aim to use it,” the man said, cuffing Jack as he walked by. “Something bad might happen.”
Toby pulled on his shirt. “Jack, we need to go.”
Jack nodded and climbed into his saddle and rode off, Toby close on his heels.
As they cantered further down the road, Toby glanced around. He shuddered when the beady red eyes from the creatures in the forest peeked out from the shrubbery, intent on finding their next meal.
“Why did you do that?” Toby asked.
Jack rubbed the back of his head. “Do what?”
“Pull a gun out, stupid?”
“Cause, he wouldn’t apologize to you,” Jack said with a half-smile. “It was rude.”
Toby gave him a gapped tooth grin.
The pair rode for an hour, passing tree after tree until the ground flattened out, and the hills turned into pastures.
“I’m hungry and cold,” Toby said, holding his stomach.
“I know, so am I. We will stop in the next town and find something to eat, deal?” Jack said, tossing a large shirt over Toby’s shoulders.
“Deal,” Toby said, licking his lips.
An hour later, they walked over the horizon, leading their horses by their bridles. A deteriorating fort met them as they descended into the valley, most of the roofs inside caved in. Jack attached a white shirt to the barrel of his rifle and held it up as they walked toward the guard tower.
“What’s the white shirt for?” Toby asked, trying to match Jack’s pace.
“It means we surrender.”
A guard looked down from above and yelled, “You boys lost?”
“We are hungry and need to trade for some food,” Jack shouted back.
The guard scowled at them and then turned his back. Toby shouted, “Wait, we need help.”
A howl from the forest behind them made Jack instinctively move in front of Toby, rifle raised. They heard a loud groan as the thick wooden doors of the fort opened. Two guards walked out, eyeing the woods as a large white wolf appeared at the wooded edge, foaming at the mouth. The guards shot at it and drove it away.
The guards approached them cautiously and took hold of their horse's bridles. A guard with a bushy gray mustache running to his chin looked at Jack and said, “You may enter, but the village elders want to speak with you.”
The guards led them into the fort and tied their horses off to a hitching post outside of a dilapidated church with a massive gothic steeple.
Jack glanced around and asked a guard, “What town is this?”
“This is Fort Camden, Fallout Zone Five. Sadly, it’s all that remains of the once beautiful state of New Jersey,” the man said, his arms twitching.
“I’m Toby, what’s your name?”
“My friends call me Bushwick Bill,” he said with a smile.
Jack watched the man twitch again.
He’s got the Green Shakes.
Jack shivered and pulled Toby closer.
“Where is everyone?” Toby asked, looking down the deserted alleys.
“Most folks left for larger cities in other zones for better protection. There are fewer than one hundred of us left in the fort now,” Bushwick said.
“How old are you?” Toby asked.
Bushwick smiled. “I’m fifty years old now,” Bushwick said.
“Man, that’s ancient,” Toby said.
Jack elbowed him. “Don’t be disrespectful, Toby.”
“That’s alright, my brother Paul and I were the same way,” Bushwick said with a smile.
“Where’s your brother,” Toby asked, looking around.
Bushwick’s smile faded. “Joined The Takers,” he whispered.
“They destroyed our town,” Jack said.
Bushwick shook his head and sighed. “And they tried to destroy ours as well.” He pointed at the scorched houses outside the walled fort. “My parents died in the raid. Everybody makes choices young man,” he said, a sadness creeping into his voice, his eyes cold. “Here comes the boss,” he said curtly, before walking away.
A young woman accompanied by several men dressed in ragged blue t-shirts and mismatched corrugated roofing armor walked down the church steps. The woman was dressed in a simple yet elegant yellow sundress with open-toed sandals. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied tight in a ponytail, and as she approached, Jack noticed the long scar that ran from below her left eye to her chin. She smiled at them as she reached the bottom of the steps.
“What brings you two to Fort Camden?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
Toby blurted out, “We are on a mission to discover some document lost since the Cataclysm, called the…”
“Constitution,” she said, finishing his sentence.
“How did you know?” Jack asked.
“We know many things here at Fort Camden. We are known as Truth Seekers. We’re the holders of any old document that wasn’t destroyed in the Cataclysm. We have a list of important ones handed down from my ancestors. My father’s great grandfather wrote down all he remembered from his time as a schoolboy, and he made mention of a prophecy. Before he died, he wrote about a boy who would restore order among the Zones and reunite the tribes. Are you him?” she asked, staring into Jack’s soft brown eyes.
Palms sweaty, Jack said, “I don’t think so. But I do have a map to help me get to this place called Philadelphia to find something. You wouldn’t happen to know where that is, would you?”
“Let me see the map,” she said.
Jack hesitated a moment, but her smile convinced him to hand it over. She studied it, her finger tracing the same line as Jack’s had earlier. She mumbled under her breath, “Of course, of course.” Their eyes met. “Come inside and eat, and then we'll talk about this map.”
They followed her, passing underneath the lanterns swaying from the rafters. Toby made hand signs against the eerie glow over the rows of pews as they walked past them. They followed the woman up a spiral staircase to the second story. She led them to a small storage room and searched a dusty, cluttered shelf. She hummed a soft tune and pulled down a worn, plastic storage container. She opened it and pulled out a file full of pages and pictures.
“Follow me,” she said.
They sat down at a gnarled woo
den table as her men brought them fruit, vegetables, and bread. Toby’s eyes darted from dish to dish. He licked his lips and reached his hand out. Jack slapped it and gave him a stern look.
“Don’t forget your manners,” Jack hissed.
Toby held his stinging hand and lowered it under the table. Jack stared at the painting above them on the domed roof. It was peeling, but it elicited a feeling deep within him.
“What is that?” Jack asked.
The women glanced up. “Ah, this is our pride and joy. It was here before the Cataclysm. It tells us of the fight within oneself to find the truth,” she said, winking at Toby.
The painting showed a battle. The center of the picture was surrounded by heavenly angels and evil demons, the struggle for good and evil. Jack was drawn to the glimmering swords of the angels and focused on one figure. He pointed at it.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
She glanced up from a pack of papers she was flipping through. “Michael, the archangel, a patron saint,” she replied.
“What’s a patron saint?” Jack asked.
“An angel who protects us.”
Jack nodded as if he understood but didn’t. He picked up the plate of vegetables and handed them to the woman, trying to avoid eye contact.
“I see your elders taught you well,” she said, picking a few tomatoes off the plate. “But please, you look famished, eat.”
Toby wasted no time and grabbed a large cucumber. He chomped on it, the juices spilling over his chin. He ate half of it and looked at the woman and said, “Thank you, miss…”
“Jasmine. My father named me after his favorite flower. And what are your names?” she asked.
“I’m Toby, he’s Jack,” Toby replied, his mouth full of mashed up cucumber.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jack scolded.
“It’s alright. He’s hungry. And you, Mr. Jack, how did you find this map?”
“My father left me a note before he died and told me to find the grave of my grandfather,” he said, handing her the note.
She read it, handed it back, and went back to her papers.
They finished eating, and Jasmine said, “Come with me.”
She led them back to the first floor and into the chapel of the church. One of her men pulled a rug away that was lying behind the altar and then opened a trap door. The boys stared down into the darkness, neither wanting to make the first move.
