Determined, he struggled, tearing his shirt and breaking a brick free. He scurried inside, then turned to face the hole. Winston lunged forward, but Simon grabbed him around the neck. “Winston!” he shouted. “No, Winston! No!”
The fire outside illuminated the break in the wall. He held the shotgun steady in his right hand, gripping Winston around the neck with the other.
He waited.
“Come on, you fuckers. Come on …”
A mouth of snarling white teeth and foaming saliva lunged into the opening, its jaws snapping in the air, desperate to clamp onto flesh and bones. The air filled with the pungent odor of its rank fur and breath.
Simon pulled the trigger. The head of the wolf splattered in a red mist, and its body flew backward from of the opening.
The shotgun buckled out of Simon’s hand, and the sound the shot produced in that small space was tremendous. Winston yelped, tore free from Simon’s grasp, and ran somewhere behind him. Simon grabbed at his ears and shouted, “Fuck!,” but he couldn’t hear his own voice. He found the shotgun on the ground, pumped a new shell into the chamber, and turned back to the opening. The alpha was dead, but they might regroup. The beta would take the lead, becoming the new alpha.
Five minutes passed and the brilliance from the fire outside had burned down to a gentle glow.
Simon didn’t have his flashlight. He did not have any of his gear. Everything was outside with the wolves. His breathing felt labored; the air was thick, smelling of cold smoke. He patted his pockets and felt the rectangular smoothness of his lighter.
He flicked it on, and the small flame sent shadows dancing along the walls.
“Winston, where’d you go?”
Winston was in the corner with ears pinned back, scared but unharmed.
The garage was small, with enough space to house the one car that was parked in the center of the room, draped with a thick canvas sheet. Along the walls were metal shelves and stacks of various-sized boxes. The lighter was starting to burn his thumb, so he let it cool as he stood still, his eyes adjusting to the darkness.
Using his hands and feet as guides and flicking on the lighter now and again, he took several boxes from the shelves and crammed them into the gap until it was sufficiently blocked. Anything trying to come through would struggle enough for Simon to fire off a shot.
He pulled the canvas material off the car, scattering dust in the air that tickled his nose. Simon tried the back handle. It was unlocked.
“Come on, boy; get in.”
Winston walked over and paused before the open door.
“Get up.”
Winston jumped in and Simon followed.
***
Light filtered in through the one rectangular window near the ceiling. Winston was awake before him, panting. The interior of the car was stifling hot.
Simon sat up in the backseat, rubbing his eyes and peering at the hole in the wall. The boxes were unscathed. He opened the car door, enjoying the cool air that flooded the interior. With the sunlight streaming in, Simon could see the garage clearly. The wall around the hole was black from where the flames of the old fire had poked through. The rest of the garage had fared well, with only a few boxes and a shelf next to the opening burnt and melted.
Simon listened outside. It was quiet. He moved the boxes and knelt to look out. The wolves were gone, from what he could see, except for the body of the alpha—a massive, dark gray beast.
Simon crawled through the gap, through the dried gore, and came out the other side with his shotgun aimed and ready. He picked up his M1A rifle from where he had left it, and shouldered the strap. Winston followed through the hole and went straight to the dead wolf, burying his nose deep in its musty fur.
The wolves were gone. If they were near, Winston would know before Simon, and Winston didn’t seem bothered.
The campsite lay in ruins.
“Oh, shit, Winston. Oh shit, shit, shit …”
Simon lifted his blanket, examining it. Cinder from the fire had burned large holes straight through. He followed various scraps of material until he found his backpack lying like something dead at the edge of the woods.
The food was gone—all of it. The binoculars were nearby, with teeth marks sunk deep in the plastic and rubber material. He put them to his eyes and could see well enough, yet the lenses were scratched. Ammunition was scattered about, along with most of the inedible contents, but the food was gone, and the backpack itself was shredded to pieces.
He kicked at the dirt. “Crap, Winston. Damn it all.”
Simon picked up an undamaged brick from the burnt foundation and went to the front of the garage. He swung at the padlock. The noise the brick made against the padlock and metal-shutter door was louder than he anticipated. He hit it again and again. The face of the padlock scraped and the door dented, but the lock would not break free.
Simon tossed the brick. “Fuck it.” He stepped back, unholstered his Colt .45, and took aim. The gunshot rang loud in the air and the padlock burst into pieces. Simon turned the handle and the door rolled upward.
Various tools and boxes filled with automotive parts lined the shelves, and Simon went through them until he found a beat-up, heavy-duty duffle bag. He opened it, emptying the car jack and tools to the floor. Before leaving, he took a Coleman cooler off a shelf, making sure the inside was clean and empty.
Simon gathered what supplies he could salvage, putting them in the duffle bag, and turned to Winston. His dog was done sniffing the dead wolf and sat staring up at Simon with large brown eyes.
“I know you’re hungry, boy. So am I.”
Simon gathered wood and built a fire. He dragged the dead wolf by its hind legs to a flat stone and proceeded to skin and butcher the animal. There was little meat on the wolf, but he cut away what he could.
“This is all we have right now, Winston.” He skewered the dark meat on sticks and set them near the flame to roast. The animal had been dead for hours on the ground and had to be cooked thoroughly.
The meat sizzled and browned, and when it was charred on all sides, Simon removed it from the flame. He diced the meat into manageable pieces and offered it to Winston. He put what was left in the cooler and went out to the woods to forage food for himself. Winston sniffed at the dark meat, unsure, but without further hesitation, he devoured it all.
***
The car was a dark blue, almost metallic, Buick Regal. It was old, but looked like it had been well kept. Simon flipped the sun visors and looked through the glove box. He found the keys on a hook by the sliding garage door. The starter clicked when the key turned, but the engine would not turn over.
Simon popped the hood. The engine looked clean—not that he knew enough about car engines to know if something was wrong. On the shelf where he had found the duffel bag were two car batteries, still in their boxes. Jugs of motor oil, washer fluid, and transmission conditioner sat in a neat line. Whoever had once owned this garage knew a thing or two about car maintenance.
Simon reached for a battery, and then stopped.
What am I doing?
He didn’t have an answer. He was moving on autopilot. Home was only a few days’ hike, but with a car, he could be there … that night?
Cars are trouble. Cars are moving targets. Remember the van?
But his food was gone, and the meat he had cooked for Winston would last only a day before it was finished or spoiled. If they were going to survive, he would have to stop often to hunt, set traps, fish, gather wild plants and grains, and smoke any meat that he caught. It could take days, especially since deer tracks, or tracks of any animal large enough to keep them fed for a long period, were nowhere to be seen.
He could do that—set up camp, and hunt.
Or he could be home in a few hours.
Simon took the battery off the shelf, letting the box fall to the ground.
This might be fate, he thought. Everything happens for a reason. I can’t disregard the chain of events leading to
me standing right here, right now. If I can’t get the car to run in an hour, I’ll give up and prepare camp.
Changing a car battery was one of the few mechanical skills he knew how to do, along with checking the oil and changing the wiper blades. He went to the driver’s seat. “Here goes nothing.”
The engine rattled, made a gurgling noise, kicked, and then started up. Dark bluish smoke sputtered from the exhaust. The radio turned on, loud, and Simon went through the dial before clicking the static off.
“I’ll be damned.”
Simon let the car run for a few minutes, then killed the engine. The gas tank was three-quarters full. In the corner of the room, next to a lawn mower—and only feet away from the black and charred hole in the wall—were two five-gallon gasoline jugs. Judging by the black patterns on the wall, the flames had come perilously close to burning these cans, even licking their sides. How this room had survived devastation was beyond him.
With an old rag, Simon brushed away the cobwebs covering the cans, watching the little striped spiders scurry about. One can was full, five gallons, and the other was about two-thirds from the top.
Fate, he thought.
Back outside the garage, he found Winston curled in the shade.
“Hey, buddy, you want to go home?” Winston’s head perked up, and his tail wagged against the ground.
“Want to go home, you big dummy? Want to go home?”
Simon ran up to his dog and scratched his head with both hands, letting Winston lick at his moving palms.
Chapter 30
Fade to Black
Brian, Bethany, and Carolanne followed a stream until it brought them to a little pond. The day was nice, and the surface of the water rippled ever so slightly. A battered wooden sign sticking out of the ground read Sunfish Pond.
Brian looked at the sky, shielding his eyes against the glowing white with his hand. The warmth felt glorious on his skin. “Think it’s about noon,” he said. “Let’s take a break and try some fishing.”
Despite the overcast, the days of never-ending rain seemed a thing of the past. A dream. A nightmare.
If only the clouds had cracked for Steven to see the sky, just once, just a crack. Just one time … things might have gone differently.
The women were happy to take off their backpacks and sit along the bank of the water. It was tiring to walk all day, but they were well fed and had to admit to themselves that most of the walk was scenic and peaceful.
As much as Brian did not want to admit it—hated to admit it—not having Steven around to gloom and go into one of his silent moods was making the trek that much nicer. The women got tired often and complained their fair share—especially about their blistering feet and aching backs—yet they kept a positive attitude. And when they did not feel like being positive, they were honest about what was bothering them.
They sat in silence, letting the minutes pass, watching the hypnotic ripples flow across the pond. Carolanne picked up a small pebble and plucked it into the water.
“All right,” Brian said, “let’s get our lines.”
Carolanne opened her bag, looking for the fishing gear. “Fishing?”
“There’s nothing to it.” Brian smiled, looking at Carolanne’s face staring at the bobbers and line. “You never fished as a child?”
Carolanne wrinkled her nose. “Umm, not that I remember.”
Brian gathered three branches, and they tied their lines to the ends, sticking the poles in the ground. The girls sat back and watched the bobbers float about in the water while Brian stood up and stretched.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, walking up the embankment behind them. “I’m going to gather some wood.” The girls sat with their backs against the slope, unable to see Brian only a few steps away.
“So,” Bethany asked, “how are you feeling?”
“I guess all right. My feet are killing me.”
“Yeah. Mine too.”
They watched the fishing lines sway in the breeze.
Bethany cleared her throat. “I have to say, you’re handling being out of the bunker pretty well.”
Carolanne nodded.
“You’re doing good, Carolanne.”
“Thanks. I feel … I don’t know. It was time, I guess. Brian’s talked to me, helped calm my nerves.”
“What did he say?”
Carolanne shrugged. “I don’t know … nothing really. Just that he promises to get us to safety, to watch over us.”
“I ain’t never heard you two talking.”
Carolanne raised an eyebrow at Bethany. “Ain’t?”
“Hey, I am from Nelson. It comes out once in a while.”
They looked back to the water. One of the bobbers was wriggling about.
“We caught something!” Carolanne jumped to her feet and grabbed the pole.
Brian returned down the embankment with an armful of sticks. He dropped it and walked beside Carolanne.
“Go on, reel it up.”
Carolanne pulled the short line out of the water, and a small fish, maybe six inches, was thrashing about on the end of the line.
“I got a fish!”
“You did. Good job.” Brian took the line from her. The little fish was shaking water on them. “It’s a sunny.”
“A what?”
“A sunfish. Like the name of the pond.” He nodded toward the sign.
“Oh, right.”
“Just a few more like this and we’ll have a meal.”
Carolanne laughed. “So, how do we clean it?”
“I’ll show you.” Brian was removing his knife from the sheath when Bethany said, “I’ll finish getting the wood.”
“We don’t need much more. Maybe some kindling, but there’s no rush. I’ll make the fire in a minute. You don’t have to leave.” Brian looked up from the wriggling fish.
“I know how to make a fire. Plus … I got to pee.” She started up the embankment.
“Wait,” Brian shouted after her. “Stay close. Don’t go past that big oak tree up there. And don’t forget your rifle.”
“Yeah, I got it.” Bethany grabbed her rifle, and disappeared up the embankment.
Brian turned to Carolanne. “Ready?”
She nodded and smiled.
Brian put the still-wriggling fish on a rock and expertly chopped off the head in one stroke. “I would normally leave the head on, but it’s more humane to kill it quickly.” He then proceeded to cut it along the belly and wash away the guts in the water.
Carolanne’s face went sour.
Brian laughed. “I thought you wanted to learn.”
“Yeah … well.”
He skewered the fish on a stick and went about sorting the wood, getting the kindling and tinder ready.
“This, I can help with,” Carolanne said and squatted next to Brian, her side just touching his.
Then a muffled scream carried over the embankment.
Carolanne startled. “What’s that?”
“Beth …”
Carolanne’s face washed pale.
Brian rushed to the dirt bank, pressing his body flat against it. He peered over, then ducked back down. “Shit, shit, shit,” he said in a hiss. “Stay here and stay down.”
Carolanne grabbed her .22 and hugged it to her chest. “I-I-my heart is pounding, Brian. I’m gonna faint. I’m—”
“You’re not gonna faint.” She was staring at him with huge eyes, trembling. “Breathe. Stay here. Keep your head down.”
With that, he jumped over the embankment and moved forward, his rifle up and his stance low.
Three men were running, stumbling, in the opposite direction. The one in the middle held Bethany around the neck with his forearm, while the one in the rear was struggling to hold on to her kicking legs.
Brian rushed forward. “Stop! Stop! Stop right there! STOP!”
The three men hesitated when they heard his voice, and the two in the rear glanced back, but they did not stop. They held the terrified and fl
ailing Bethany in their grimy hands.
“Stop! Right now!” Brian took aim at the man grabbing at Bethany’s ankles, who was also holding Bethany’s .22 as he ran, and steadied his breath. In and out … He fired. The shot hit the man in the side, spinning him around and dropping him hard to the ground. The man made a deep, guttural noise and clasped his hands over his lower ribcage where blood was seeping through his shirt.
The two other men stopped and turned. The one in the rear stepped to his side, fanning out, and swung an AK-47 in Brian’s direction. The one holding Bethany produced a large knife and held the glimmering blade against her throat. He grabbed her hair hard with his fist, yanking her head backward. He was only a kid, Brian saw. Just a tall kid, skinny as bones, with flaming red hair.
He aimed at the man with the rifle, a much older man, but for some reason he did not fire and neither did the man.
“Let her go,” Brian commanded.
The man stared at Brian, his mouth not moving behind his bristly gray beard. He seemed to ponder his options, and then when he spoke, Brian saw the deep wrinkles in his face move as if cracking free from his weathered flesh.
“I think not,” the man said.
The man Brian shot was holding his wound, his legs flailing at the dirt. “M-Mike,” he choked through cries. “Mike, get me outta here, Mike. Oh, sweet Jesus, oh, Jesus. M-M-Mike … Mike, I’m dying, Mike …”
Mike did not answer.
Brian’s thoughts were rushing like river water, and he tried to slow his mind. Enough bad choices made on his part had gotten people killed and had made Steven go crazy. “What do you want?” he asked.
“We already have what we want. Turn back and go away.”
Brian looked at the boy with the knife. His eyes were huge against his freckled and pimple-covered face, and the top of his curly red hair seemed to be twitching. Brian studied the blade, studied the boy’s grip.
Bethany cried out, “Brian! Brian! Fuck these motherfuckers!”
The After War Page 22
