No luck.
Starting a fire, he warmed his hands near the embers. He curled up in a blanket and went to sleep hungry. Exhausted from his excursion, sleep found him quickly, but disturbing nightmares troubled his rest.
◆◆◆
The sun woke him. He stretched and gathered himself to face his second day.
Should I go back to the bunker?
Shaking his head, he was soon wandering through the valley along a riverbank game trail. He came to a well-worn path that diverged northward and as he walked through the trees, he found they were a strange combination of dead trunks and fresh blossoming saplings with strong green shoots.
In the brush, he saw a coyote eating a dead snake that had sought shelter under a rock but didn’t quite make it.
How far will I have to go to find people?
He laughed to himself, “That’s the funny thing about ‘walking distance.’ Everything is within ‘walking distance’—if you have no other option.”
He followed the wooded path until he broke into a clearing where a crooked yellow sign stood half slumped over.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
The bold black letters made him take a step back.
A moment later, he went on.
Before him, stretched the remnant of a broken highway with hundreds of small asphalt fractures. Weeds and bushes pushing up between the breaks. Once he hit this relic trail, he made good time. He walked strong and at the top of a ridge, a fork in the road led him to a ledge of rock overhanging a ravine.
Off to one side was a gravel sideroad with grass growing down the middle and along the gulley was a cluster of ramshackle houses ringed by a broken fence. The buildings had fallen shutters, collapsed stairwells, caved-in porches, and a copious amount of debris scattered around each one. They looked creepy as if they had been abandoned for decades.
He went into them one after another looking for anything worthwhile that might have been overlooked by scavengers.
A broken-down stone wall surrounded the first dwelling. The grass between the house and barn was downtrodden. It was a termite-ridden structure made of milled logs typical of log home construction. A gutted car wreck was strewn in the front yard. A jug wrapped in burlap was filled with rainwater. A porch screen door had rotted and fallen in while the roof was collapsed, and shattered windows allowed dust to blow in. There was an overhanging porch in the front with a broken picnic table and piles of trash and rumble.
Inside, the floor layout led him to various decrepit rooms. A centipede crawled in the direction of a pile debris. Pulled out cabinet draws lay on the floor, boxes of paper spilled about. He cracked open a door with a knife and found an iron cot with bare springs. Spoons and bowls were scattered between empty boxes and crates. The remains were so thick a bug couldn't crawl its way through it.
He spat into the dry dirt and watched the earth absorb it. There was nothing, not even bodies or bones.
After a while, he rested under the shade of a large oak tree.
They’ve been plundered.
Continuing down the gravel road, he came to a junkyard full of broken parts of household goods and machines, scrap metal, and plastic without anything worth salvaging.
He went on his way. After another hour of toiling along the antique road, he came to another cluster of houses. These were ringed by a high wooden fence with a guard tower that reminded him of the forts of the old west which were erected for protection against Indians.
A sign stood beside the road.
NO STRANGERS ALLOWED! GO AWAY!
A surge of joy hit him as he realized there were people here but . . .
Not the warm welcome I’d hoped for.
He noticed a few people were going about their business inside the fence alongside several horse-drawn carts. At the gate entrance, a man leaned back in a rocking chair with a shotgun resting across his lap. A half-dozen pit bulls growled, strained against their leash, and snapped at the newcomer.
Biting his lip, he approached the ruckus.
The guard stood and waved his shotgun. He shouted, “Stop! Come no closer, or I’ll shoot.”
“I’m unarmed. I’ve come to ask for help.”
The guard cast an appraising stare.
Tall and thin with unkempt sandy brown hair, Youngblood appeared as ordinary as an acorn.
“Be gone. Get lost.”
The dogs whipped back and forth against their chain.
Youngblood realized that he had arrived at a town where everything about him, from the tip of his unruly hair down to his soles of this shoes, was unwelcome.
“Please, I have nothing. I need help.”
“I said move along.”
“Is there someone I can talk to? Please.”
A woman approached the guard and asked, “William, he looks desperate. Maybe . . .”
“You know better, Edna,” said the guard, but he appeared disheartened and shrugged, “I can’t make exceptions.”
Another man approached the gate and shook his fist at Youngblood. “We don’t admit strays. We don’t want your kind.”
“My kind? I don’t know what that means. Is there someone in authority I can explain my situation to?”
William said, “I told you, move along, we don’t accept strays. You might be one of Jarod’s men come to spy. Be gone, or I’ll set the dogs on you.”
The man tugged on the animals’ chain and let the largest pit bull growl while several others snarled.
Youngblood scurried away as fast as his feeble legs would carry him, stumbling several times.
He considered waiting and trying again, but he realized that didn’t seem promising.
Returning to the river where he had camped the night before, he found grapes along the way. He put them into his mouth as fast as he picked them. Stuffing his pockets, he thought . . .
This must have been a vineyard many years ago.
In the distance, an animal howled.
Coyote?
When he reached his campsite, he wiped his nose and heard distant thunder. He looked at the sky for signs of rain. There were dead limbs and branches scattered over the ground. He shaved sticks into a pile with his knife to build a tinder bundle. As the light faded, he used his hatchet to chop firewood and settled under a sturdy oak tree for shelter. He threw a tarp over a low branch and sat near the fire unrolling his blanket. He tried to sleep but cracked an eye open to peer at an owl hooting from a nearby tree. Ants and other insects crawled over him, but he was too tired to care.
Is this place safe?
◆◆◆
A new terror disturbed the night when rough hands grabbed him and dragged him from his campfire. Other hands gripped his arms and pinned them behind him. He struggled, but they lifted him off the ground and encircled his legs, leaving him nothing to push against. A bag went over his head. His muscles liquified and melted away. Someone punched him in the stomach.
“Augh.”
His head banged against a tree as they carried him. One started to bind his hands but was distracted by what the other one found in his gear. He hastily lashed Youngblood with a rope and jammed him against a thorny bush. The scratches from the thicket were accompanied by the chilly wind blowing through it.
Bastards.
Youngblood wasn’t surprised that they hunted in packs. Strong ruthless predators often band together to hunt for weak victims . . . like him.
Survival demanded that he get himself together. He wriggled his head free of the bag and peered at three shadowy shapes flittering in the shadows cast by the moonlight and his fire.
Which was the leader?
The big beefy man in army camouflage gear had the pugnacious face of a bulldog. His massive hands sorted through Youngblood’s backpack, discarding items he couldn’t eat, onto the ground.
The small one wore tattered rags. He had a ferret face, wispy mustache, tangled shaggy black hair, and eyes that glistened like black beetles giving the impression of a weasel.
/> The third man was an amorphous figure sitting silhouetted in front of the fire. His face shone through the darkness, hairless, chalk white with malevolent red eyes. The leader was going through Youngblood’s gear with a meticulous fascination, examining each item to form a sinister appraisal.
“Great haul,” said the Weasel.
“Quiet,” hissed the leader.
The trio wore perverted grins as they sorted through his backpack’s belongings. Hoarding appeared natural for them, sharing was not.
Youngblood considered his chances of escape. There were three and he was in no shape to fight. With a sharp spasm of dread, he recoiled.
Can I fight?
He pushed reality away. Childhood memories filled his mind.
He was resting at home with the sun warming his face—a place he wished he was now.
But all too soon, rough hands grabbed him again, dragging him away from the thorny bush. They beat him until his body was racked with pain. His mouth hung open and his eyes were empty as he stared at the disturbing grins of his attackers.
The leader said, “Some of these items are brand new, a flashlight, a lighter, a blanket, a hatchet.”
He squinted at Youngblood and moved his face close. “Where did you get them? Did you stumble upon a cache?” Then with a hunger in his raspy voice, he asked, “Is there more?”
Youngblood gazed into the fierce, red, wild, eyes of the shadowy face, but said nothing.
The leader had the scent of blood about him. He pointed a finger.
The big man smacked Youngblood and twisted his arm.
The leader said, “I asked you politely, ‘Is there more?’ You should tell me. I have all the time in the world while you have less than you think,” mingling the physical pain with the mental torment of a deadly threat.
Are they going to kill me?
The leader nodded to his two accomplices.
Weasel pulled out a knife and cut a long slice across Youngblood’s chest. He twisted as he groaned until he fell to the ground where his blood dripped and mingled with the dust.
Bulldog spat, “Talk or die.”
Chapter 4
Cursed
Youngblood wriggled on the ground and in the process, he loosened his bindings. Pulling his hands free, he started to get to his feet, but the big man wrapped his arms around him.
Yet, desperation makes men dangerous, even eighteen-year-olds. And this one wanted to fight back, to hurt them, as much as they had him. Letting his weight rest against the big man, Youngblood kicked out hard and struck the small man in the groin.
The Weasel squealed. His face screwed up in rage as he doubled over, fell to the ground, and soiled himself.
The stark stink assailed all their nostrils.
Bulldog hurled Youngblood to the ground.
What Youngblood lacked in strength, he made up for with quickness, instinct, and a fierce energy that burned within him, untapped, until needed.
He stood up and threw his fist into the big man’s eye.
OOOW!
The big man’s injury was exacerbating as a strong gust of wind tossed sand into his face.
While Bulldog rubbed his eyes, Youngblood saw his chance and scrambled toward the safety of a large copse of thorn bushes. He plunged into the briar patch headfirst. Dragging himself against the resistance of the branches, he forced his way through despite the painful scrapes. He took a deep breath and swallowed the bitter bile taste that rose in his mouth. He turned and ducked farther under the protective spines.
The thugs tried to grab him, but he disappeared into the shrubbery even as they reached to seize him.
He squeezed his damaged body through the undergrowth and dove into the next overgrown thicket which was as tall as a man. Crawling through the barb-covered grove, he was cut and bruised, but each yard forward was a yard away from his enemies.
He could hear the brutes thrashing through the brushes as they searched for their prey.
“Do you see him?”
“No.”
“Damn it! Find him,” came a loud hiss.
“Over there?”
But he was moving deeper and deeper through the forest with trees so thick it made it hard for his pursuers. It was black and quiet for several minutes. He moved silently through the shadows of the trees letting them conceal him. As soon as he was free from the woods, he found a stream and washed his face, hands, and arms. Somewhat refreshed, desperation drove him on. He moved farther away from the menacing men.
After several more minutes, he hid behind a boulder and tried to gather his strength. He waited for the quiet to return to the forest, but there remained indistinct distant noises. Completely exhausted, he collapsed onto a small bare strip of ground panting from the effort he had expended. He sat quite still, anger surging through him, while he listened to his heart thump.
After more minutes alone in the dark, a new emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way he looked, he couldn’t see a way out of his fix. He was stranded, completely alone, in the dark forest with no backpack of tools and resources, no water or food, with no one who would shelter or protect him. Worst of all, he had already been turned away from the only people who could possibly offer him hope. He was a stray, an unwanted outcast. He was surprised that lightning hadn’t already struck him down.
A funny prickling on the back of his neck made him feel he was being watched, but he could see no one. He shivered.
What’s to become of me?
He thought of his father, and his heart sank even lower.
What’s the use, I’m dying anyway?
◆◆◆
Youngblood gasped when hands once more grabbed hold of him.
He twisted around and raised his fist.
“It’s OK. I’ve come to help,” whispered a young woman, one hand on his arm the other touching his lips.
“Who . . .?”
“Be quiet. Come this way,” she said, moving back from the ledge and leading the way down the steep slope in the moonlight.
He wanted to say he couldn’t go on, that he was cold and hungry, that he hurt too much, and that he was defeated, but he kept his own counsel and instead leaned on her for support.
She led him through the edge of the forest following the way down a narrow winding track. They had traveled more than a mile, before she relaxed and said, “We’re clear now. I’m Kira.”
“Youngblood.”
Kira slung a quiver of arrows over one shoulder and shifted her loaded bow to one hand while resting the other on the serrated bowie knife strapped to her thigh. She wore a long buckskin skirt and a leather vest with fringe. A leather belt with silver inlaid decorations wrapped around her. Her knee-high leather boots were stitched tight with rawhide cordon. As the wind picked up, her unruly Autumn-colored hair wafting across her shoulders.
“Jarod and his men, Murdock and Kilgore, are far behind. Murdock is the big one and Kilgore the smallest.”
“Who are they?”
She swung her head around to get one more look behind them.
“The worst of the marauder gangs, cold-blooded killers, without mercy for man, woman, or child. Once they had finished robbing you, they would have either killed you outright or dragged to Jarod’s camp where . . . I don’t even want to think what they might have done.”
He grimaced.
“You were lucky to get away. How badly are you hurt?”
“Bad enough.”
“Once I get you home, I’ll soon put you right. It’s not far.”
A drizzling rain began to fall, turning the trail into a quagmire of slushy mud, washing away the path. Even though the track was downhill, he was so worn out that he continued to lean against her. They passed through an orchard that bracketed the road and clung to the side of a nearby cliff.
When they reached the hovel she called her home, she ordered her golden retriever, “Lady, sit. Stay.”
The dog looked him over, obeyed, and remained on guard at the door.
> Kira handed him a towel and blanket and Youngblood worked to get dry and warm. He stretched out before the fireplace while she built a roaring fire by throwing lots of logs on the pile until the smoke and flame licked up the chimney. He leaned forward and extended his hands rubbing them furiously before the blaze.
The illumination of the fireplace highlighted Kira’s brown hair, hazel eyes, and willowy figure. She was young—perhaps a year younger than him.
The fire cast irregular shadows around the cabin which consisted of two small rooms with meager furniture. There were wood shutters on the windows, thick wood panel walls, and a wood beam barring the door. Only a single lounge chair cozied beside the fireplace while a single table occupied the center of the main room. The only concession to visitors were the two hardwood chairs beside the table. A lone bed and a single bureau rested against the wall in the bedroom. A single amateur painting of a man, a woman, and a young girl adorned one wall.
As the fire’s warmth entered Youngblood’s shivering body, she helped him get comfortable in the lounge chair and covered him with a homemade quilt. The pain in his joints started in his feet and traveled along his muscles one after another up his legs and back until it reached his neck. The ache was relentless.
“Can I have something to drink?” he croaked as his stomach rumbled.
She was up and returned with a cup of tea in a flash. He felt exhilarated and lightheaded as he drank a second cup and felt the fatigue and cold recede.
Then she placed an iron kettle over the fire and threw in an armful of vegetables and a bucket of water. The pot was boiling and hissing in no time. A few pieces of meat jerky were tossed in and before long, a stew was brewing in front of Youngblood.
He licked his lips as she gave him a huge bowlful. The aroma was delicious all by itself. It was the first food Youngblood had tasted since opening his eyes in the hibernation chamber.
“I’m grateful. Thank you,” he muttered between bites.
“Let me bandage your wounds.”
As she dressed his injuries she asked, “How did you get so many cuts, punctures, and bruises? And why are you so horribly weak?”
Youngblood Page 2
