The Last of Us

by D B Bray

  He coughed, sat up, and felt the numerous burns throughout his body and winced every time he moved.

  “One minute I’m attacking a rocket launcher, the next I’m waking up here,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “I’d say you’re the luckiest kid I’ve ever seen,” Quill said with a smile.

  “What are our loses?” Adam asked, making eye contact.

  Quill lowered his head. “Half of yours, most of mine were either killed or wounded, but it’s over,” he said, taking a sip from his flask.

  “Got any whiskey in there?” Adam asked.

  “Water.”

  “Figures. Help me up, will you,” he asked.

  Quill helped him up. Adam turned around and saw the people caged across the square. Quill heard their cries for help and watched Adam’s face harden as he limped over to help them.

  Fred lay across three guards, his arm outstretched near the lock. Adam picked his hand up and touched the lock, then picked up a rifle, and shot them off of the cages. The slaves were reluctant to leave, not knowing who they were. Adam raised his arms in the air.

  “I’m Adam Ant of the Blades, and you’re free to go. Boats will be leaving the rest of the day for Liberty Island, and then we will be going to Fort Camden if you care to join our tribe. Take anything you can find and meet us by the river,” he shouted.

  The slaves barreled out of the cages and fanned out across the square picking up weapons and stripping the dead. Adam sat down on a bench and held his hands around his mouth. Sobs wracked his body as the adrenaline finally wore off. Through the tears, he tried counting the bodies.

  Quill walked over and sat beside him. “War is hell,” he muttered.

  Adam sat up straight, attempting to hide his tears. Quill stared straight ahead.

  “When I was your age, I was in a tribal war here in Battery Park, too.”

  Adam cut his eyes at him. Quill smiled. “Yeah, I was here, and I lost my brother’s and my father in the battle,” he said.

  “You were at The Purge?” he asked.

  “Sure was, a heck of a fight it was too. It haunts me, no matter how much time passes. I will always hold that scar. Tears are normal, boy. Don’t think you have to put a front up around me. I’ve even sat on this bench and cried myself.”

  “I’ve only heard of The Purge. I don’t know much about it,” he said.

  “Do you want to know about it?” Quill asked quietly.

  “I do.”

  Quill blinked and took a sip of water. “We never saw it coming. One day we were washing clothes, tending our livestock, and playing with our children. And the next thing I knew, the skies darkened, and Hell itself rode over the FDR and into Battery Park. They were an alliance of slaver tribes that came from the north country in search of new slaves. There was no government or police force to protect us. We didn’t stand a chance.”

  “How did you escape?” Adam asked.

  “The battle was brief, gritty, dirty, and chaotic, just like today. My kid brother threw himself in front of me as they mercilessly mowed us down. I saw my father and other brothers rounded up, and I lived because I hid under my dead brother. Once the coast was clear, I rolled out from underneath him and made my way to the shoreline. A woman helped me into the boat, and then she disappeared. I never got to thank her, and that still haunts me as well. So you see Adam, we all have demons. It’s how we live with them each day that counts,” Quill said.

  He took a long pull from his flask and sighed. Adam noticed his fingers shaking as he lowered it. Quill cleared his throat and watched the newly freed slaves help one another to the boat.

  “Don’t talk about it much, do you?” Adam asked.

  Quill shook his head no, got up, and then picked up a little girl who was lost. “Come on, boy, we have work to do,” he said.

  Adam stood up, wiped his face, and walked over to help Charlie pick up their men. They were loading them into the boats to be buried with their tribesmen on the island before they took the survivors to Camden.

  As he picked up one of his men, Adam noticed a ten-year-old boy who had snapped him a salute when he crossed the line at the island with a huge smile. He held what he assumed to be his brother’s head in his lap, combing his hair. Adam’s legs shook as he walked over and knelt down.

  “What’s your name, kid?” he asked the boy who they had rescued only weeks before.

  “Henry Shawn,” he whispered.

  “Is this your brother?” he asked.

  Henry nodded, his top lip quivering. Adam closed the dead boy’s eyelids and slowly slid him away from Henry.

  “Let’s take him home with us, okay?” he asked.

  Henry nodded and rose to his feet. Adam grunted and spat, then hoisted Henry’s brother over his shoulder.

  They loaded the boats with their dead and wounded and rowed back to Liberty Island. As they approached the shoreline, the wives of the men from the Statue’s were awaiting their return. They heard more than saw the fighting.

  One woman ran into the water, her dress floating on the waterline behind her. She waded to one of the boats and let out a blood-curdling scream, then fainted. Young Henry was the first over the side and pulled her with all his strength back to the shoreline.

  As the boats docked, the wounded were unloaded and carried to the tents. They left a few of the men to take the rest of the dead, and as a boat cleared, they launched it back to Battery Park to pick up the remaining people who they freed.

  Red and his men were bound to one another and marched into the city square. Their guards left them at the fire pit to await their fate.

  Quill and the others went back to unload the boats, and when they finally had everyone ashore from Battery Park, they closed and locked the gates.

  Quill walked over to Red and handed him a canteen. Red spat at his feet and looked away. Quill tapped his foot for a moment.

  “Drink!” he shouted.

  Red snatched the canteen from him, and in a rare moment of kindness, he lowered it to Caleb’s lips, who lay mortally wounded next to him. One of Quill’s men walked over to them and pulled his knife.

  “Time for vigilante justice,” he hissed, his knife still red with blood from the battle.

  Quill disarmed the man and pushed him back. “They will be tried by the elders.”

  “Our elders are dead, Quill.” The man took a step forward and pointed at him. “Only you, me, and a few others are left,” the man said, trying to hold back his tears.

  “That may be. But when Jack comes back, I want him to tell us how they did it before the Cataclysm. A time when law and order were the rule, not the exception,” he said.

  The other man stared through Quill, his mind racing. He stormed off to help unload the boats with the others, leaving Quill by himself with Red.

  Quill knelt down next to Red and looked him up and down with a chuckle. “I bet when you woke this morning, you probably thought it would be a good day for you. Oh, how times are changing,” he said.

  Red snorted, rubbed his bloody gums, and didn't bother to respond. He lay back with a sigh next to Caleb as he drew his last breaths. After he passed, Red crossed Caleb’s arms over his chest.

  “Thanks for the water, at least he didn’t die parched,” Red mumbled before laying back down and closing his eyes.

  Quill snatched him off the ground and hit him in the stomach. Red coughed and doubled over.

  “Remember something. When Jack finally pieces this document together he’s looking for; the world will change for the better. And slavers like you will be imprisoned for the rest of your life,” he said.

  “Hang me now and save yourself the trouble. If and when I escape, you will not live to regret it,” Red said.

  Quill waved one of his men over. “Take this prisoner and put him in the room next to the armory. Feed him, give him a bucket to relieve himself, and then lock him away.”

  The guard locked Red’s hands behind his back and pushed him toward the armory. “Move.
”

  Red shouted to Quill over his shoulder as he stumbled forward. “I’ll cut you in with The Takers if you set me free.”

  Quill stood silent, watching the guard push him away.

  The Statue’s and Blades spent the remainder of the day helping the slaves with whatever the camp had to spare. Some had nearly no clothes at all to help keep them warm, the children with parents clung to them for warmth.

  Adam walked up to Quill and wiped the blood on his hands across his torn pant legs. They stood quietly for a few minutes watching the slaves try to share anything they received. A cook stood by a large bubbling cauldron filled with white rice and any meat they could harvest. It was mostly organ meat that spoiled faster than the other parts.

  The thing that intrigued Quill the most about the slaves was the care they took to feed their children first. Not a common character trait among adults in the world. It was mostly the men’s duty to watch the children. The women in the slavery world were often craftsmen, warriors, and artisans.

  Quill eyed a few women who sat by themselves near a blazing fire. They appeared to be trained fighters, captured in the battles between the slavers. Quill liked their hard edge, not helpless, nor in need of a man’s help.

  “It will be a great army once we have finished training,” Adam said.

  “You believe we can actually win when they attack us?” Quill asked.

  Adam nodded and waved his men over to help. The boys and girls of the Blades walked over to the women training and handed them spare weapons they collected at Battery Park.

  One young woman, in particular, caught Adam’s eye. She was his age, and by no means looked insecure. She smiled at him and went back to cleaning her weapon. Quill nudged him forward with a smirk and then walked away.

  Adam straightened his shirt the best he could, wiped his sweaty hands on his pants, and walked her way. None of the boys he knew talked to girls, but she was pretty, and no matter how awkward he felt, he knew he had to introduce himself. The butterflies in his stomach made his legs feel wobbly as he shuffled over to her.

  The world was a cold dark place, and the less you loved, the easier it was to survive. And seventeen-year-olds were considered old enough to be elders. Most of the people didn’t make it past thirty with all the treacherous things in the world that could kill you. Love was brief, nothing any of the Blades were interested in. The girls he knew were more like sisters than anything else.

  He cleared his throat, and the girl turned around, her blonde hair whisking behind her ear. She looked up at him, the smile gone.

  “Help you with something?” she asked.

  “I was wondering what your name was,” Adam stammered.

  “Kelly.”

  “Oh, ok. What tribe are you from?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

  “I’m the last of my tribe, everyone I know is dead. I was only taken captive because I was the last fighter standing,” she said.

  “I’m Ad——.”

  “I know who you are, Adam. You shot the lock off of the cage I was in,” she said.

  Adam stammered. “Oh, well I——.”

  “I’ll say thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I have weapons to repair,” she said, turning back around.

  Adam’s ears felt like they were on fire. He turned around and walked away. As he got closer to his hut, he turned his head to see her one last time and saw her staring at him. And then she smiled. He walked into the wall of his abode as they made eye contact and then stumbled inside with only his pride hurt.

  Charlie roared with laughter following in behind him, chewing on an apple.“Graceful as a three-legged goat you are, Adam. Graceful as a three-legged goat.”

  Later that evening, Quill walked to the armory after taking a nap. He found his guard asleep at the door. He nudged him with his foot, but the guard didn't move. Quill knelt down next to him and shook him. The man’s head fell to the side. Quill placed his finger against his neck to feel a pulse. Nothing.

  He pulled a hatchet from his waist and opened the door. He slowly walked to Red’s holding cell to confirm what he already knew. He opened the door; Red was gone.

  Chapter 15

  Jack lay in the shrubbery, his eyes focused on the men talking at the checkpoint. They had a menacing look, one of pure desperation. Their features were gaunt, half-starved. He had seen these men before, weeks before. They were the tribesmen who destroyed Fort Monroe.

  The Takers.

  He sucked in a deep breath and scanned for ways around them. His leg throbbed. He inspected it with a grimace. The pain was unbearable, the further north he traveled.

  Why would The Takers be this far north?

  Food must have become scarce for them to venture that far north, but it made sense to Jack. If the tribe had traveled north, they would be able to harvest more slaves before winter and trade for food.

  He pulled the map from his pocket and traced his finger along the path. He had to cross the Moses Wheeler bridge that ran over the Housatonic River and then reach the city of New Milford. But first, he had to pass through the checkpoint.

  He could smell leaves burning somewhere ahead of him; the smoke rings rising up into the gray clouds. He watched the bridge for several hours until he found the opening he was looking for. Several times in the past few hours, they had switched guard patrols, and the men who had been relieved walked past him, returning to their barracks.

  The last patrol that passed by had one man as relief, so only one guard would return. The sun was setting behind him, the last rays of light illuminating his hiding spot. He watched the guard who was relieved walk toward him. The man walked by him and appeared to glance straight at him. The guard's finger tapped the trigger of his rifle as he stared into the bushes. After a few agonizing moments, he continued walking. Jack let out a deep sigh, not realizing he had been holding his breath for the last minute.

  Jack got to his feet and snuck alongside him, careful not to step on any dry twigs. It had rained the day before soaking the ground around him. The guard wandered over to the shrubs to relieve himself, and Jack’s muscles tensed as he came within a few inches of him.

  The guard eyed both directions and then heard a twig snap in front of him. Jack threw a rock the size of his thumb and hit him square across the bridge of his nose. The guard dropped his gun and grabbed his broken nose with a loud yelp. Jack tackled him and slammed his head into the dirt, knocking him unconscious. He dragged him into the bushes and stripped him. Jack pulled the guard's pants and shirt on. The helmet didn’t fit well and covered his nose. He pushed it up on his forehead and picked up the man’s rifle. He was several inches shorter than the guard, but he hoped he would be able to pass by unnoticed.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the path and walked back toward the checkpoint. He focused on the guard sitting on a sandbag, cleaning his rifle. The guard glanced at him and waved. Jack returned the wave and walked past him with a nod.

  “Hey Dave, where are you going?” the guard asked, watching him walk past.

  Jack shrugged as he neared him. He raised his chin and clubbed the guard over the head with a smile.

  “Stop right there!” said a voice from behind him.

  Another guard came out of the shadows and shot at Jack, not bothering to wait for his surrender. The bullet grazed his shoulder and slammed into the sandbag behind him. Jack shot back blindly as he sprinted down the bridge, heading for the other side. He could hear the alarms raised behind him as the other guards rushed after him.

  Small pieces of blacktop peppered the back of his legs as the bullets nipped at his heels. Silhouettes appeared from the shadows in front of him. He peered at the railing of the bridge as he sprinted past. In front of him, a large cable hung over the side, and he rushed to it as the footsteps approached in the darkness. A warm hand touched his neck. Jack threw his elbow back and felt it jar against someone’s face, the groans a welcome sound in the dark. He scampered over an abandoned car toward the rai
l and then felt someone push him from behind.

  Oh, no, please don’t let me fall.

  He tumbled over the side, his hands outstretched. His numb fingers grasped the cable, the sharp wires tearing into his skin. The momentum from his fall swung him out away from the bridge and then under it. His canteen fell off of his waist and down into the water below.

  Jack grasped the cable and bit his lip. A slight whimper escaped his lips as his skin tore. His knuckles turned white as he listened to the voices above him. He strained as his fingers grasped for a steel girder a few feet away. The digits from his free hand grasped the ledge and slowly started to slip. His other hand slid down the cable, tearing more chunks of flesh out. He struggled to hold on, gnawing on his bottom lip to keep from crying out.

  He pushed off a large girder with his feet, then swung back over to it. The sudden jarring from crashing back into it bruised his ribs. He pulled himself up onto the beam and perched under the bridge. He could see the flames of the men’s torches as they talked above him.

  “Where is he?” one man shouted.

  “He went into the river, look!” said another.

  “There’s no way he survived that fall. It’s over forty feet down,” said the first voice.

  “Good riddance,” said another one, walking away.

  Jack sat under the bridge until the first rays of light peeped over the horizon, the warmth of the sun, driving the chill from his bones. He could finally see where he was going, and with a grunt, he stood up. He noticed he was halfway across the bottom of the bridge and could move from beam to beam. He looked down into the ice-covered water below him.

  Now I have to find a canteen.

  Painstakingly, he navigated across several beams and then tripped. He fell forward and grabbed ahold of a collection of vines and dangled between two beams.

  That was close.

  He swung his feet forward and grasped the next beam. He watched his footing and, at some points, held onto the girders above his head as he crossed. Half an hour later, he made it to the other side and saw a rope ladder hanging over the edge of the bridge.