The Barbarous Road_A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survivor Thriller

by Ryan Schow

  When I took it, I was sure there would be.

  But then I got to looking at this old lady missing her Ted and so I walked up to her and said, “I have something to ease your soul while you wait for him to return.” I showed her the necklace and she smiled, and then she started to cry.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, carefully fitting it over her neck. “Thank you.”

  Ten days ago, we’d be arrested for half the things we’ve done. Today I feel content. Maybe we went shopping, maybe you’d call it scavenging; say what you want, I like to think we’re adapting to the times. Getting ahead of the storm. And maybe calming the storms of others.

  The truth is, there are going to be a lot more women losing their own versions of Ted, and a lot more guys like me and Marcus who are armed to the teeth and stealing just about everything they can. Again, it’s survival of the fittest.

  Adapt and flourish. move on. Live.

  That said, it takes some effort and some patience—and we have to force a few more cars out of the way—but later that afternoon, near supper time, we pull up to the house where we get a warm welcome from the girls and a hot meal to boot.

  After that we all turn in and do the best we can to sleep the night through, for tomorrow we’re resolved to tackle the barbarous road ahead, no matter the curveballs it throws at us.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Parts of the structural wall of the weapons and ammo building dropped down on the already spider-webbed windshield. The engine had died. Benjamin twisted the key, tried to crank the motor, but nothing happened. Whatever damage he’d done, he didn’t know enough about this car to try to figure it out.

  He knew this was a possibility. He needed guns though. Protection.

  Still short on breath and hurting, he pushed open the car door. It only went so far. He slid around, braced himself, then kicked the partially opened door several times before it finally gave.

  He climbed out, stumbled forward and plopped down on his butt. Still dizzy from the impact and winded from hitting the steering wheel, he sat there for a minute and tried to pull himself together.

  He thought about laughing, but couldn’t. Still. The President of the former United States of America breaking and entering via force of vehicle? Brilliant. CNN would eat this story up if they were alive, which they probably weren’t. Rachel Maddow would break into tears over his fall from grace on live TV and that would be that. Shaking it off, clearing his mind, he took several deep breaths, measuring the pain in his body. No broken ribs. Nothing bruised. In spite of the exposure, he sat there for a long moment before dragging himself to his feet. Looking around, seeing a few people across the way staring at him, he crawled over the hood of the car and slid through the hole he’d created with the Chevelle.

  The second he got inside, his breath caught.

  “Good God,” he muttered.

  As stupid as it was doing what he did, the payoff was huge.

  Ben went through a full line of weapons, picking up and holding the semi-automatic weapons until he found one that felt good to him. He’d landed on an XCR-M Mini Exposed Gas Block. It took .308 rounds and had a 20 round mag. He grabbed two boxes of rounds and a shoulder strap.

  He then went through the pistols, grabbed a Glock, the Smith & Wesson Shield with the appendix holster, and a full sized Springfield XD(M). He made sure each took 9mm rounds then stocked up on extra rounds, dropping all his loot into a black tactical backpack he took off a rack of five. For each weapon, he grabbed extra magazines, loaded each, then put them in their respective places inside the backpack.

  When he was done, he kicked off his shoes and found a pair of hiking boots that felt good on his feet. Looking around, he started to smile. He’d really hit the jackpot. There were MRE’s, body armor vests, holsters, canteens, camp stoves. This wasn’t just a guns and ammo store, this was a survival store.

  He went for the MRE’s because if he could eat on the run, he could save time foraging for food. Meaning he could get home faster. Run into less trouble. Not starve. There were several boxes of these MRE’s. He tore open the cardboard top of a twelve-pack of self-heating MRE’s, started going through them. Each was a full meal, complete with the one tablespoon of water and a dozen self-heating pouches. He started stuffing them into his backpack. He grabbed an extra pair of socks, a tub of heirloom seeds that he pulled out and stuffed individually into the backpack, then a first aid kit which he had to empty out if he wanted everything to fit. He grabbed waterproof matches, industrial sized lighters, a good looking pair of black sunglasses. Ben packed every last inch of the backpack, regardless of the fact that it now weighed more than he was hoping for. He had some rock sold essentials though: food, guns, ammo.

  Looking around, he laid eyes on a lightweight black bulletproof vest that said “Civvy” on it. It also said “Citizens Armor” on it and there was a tag talking about Carbon NanoTube technology. He ripped the tag off then tried it on. It felt great. Adjusting the straps on the sides and shoulders, he smiled once more because for the first time since he learned of the betrayal, he realized he might actually live through this thing. Turning the pulled-off tag over in his hands, it said the vest could withstand pretty much any round up to a .44 Magnum.

  Splendid…

  This was definitely worth losing the car. He believed that now. Especially if he could go as far as he wanted on foot. There was no rush. He decided he didn’t have to be anywhere fast. In just a few days, the people would move from scared to restless to agitated and hungry. A week from now, maybe two weeks, people would turn on each other. They’d eventually kill for a glass of water, a slice of bread, a place to live. That’s what the EMP Commission’s Annual Report said. It said it wouldn’t take long for society to turn rabid, and then to turn on each other.

  At that point, the people would be beyond salvation. But for those who would eventually survive—people like him—he would find them, befriend them, perhaps become one of them. He didn’t need to be the President. He was just a man. Just like them.

  A survivor.

  On his way out, he saw a half dozen mini packets of water, grabbed them, started stuffing them where he could. Rooting around, he found more of the water packets. Two boxes worth. He filled a larger canteen, strapped it to his backpack, then headed out on foot.

  Before hitting W. Patrick and making his way back to the freeway, he grabbed his sleeping bag from the Chevelle, spit on the car, then set out on foot. By then, people were already making their way to the building he’d broken in to. They saw him, even held his eye for a second, but it seemed the hat and the beard were concealing his appearance just fine. These people just walked past their President without even breaking stride.

  He hiked down W. Patrick without incident, then saw the highway signs. 15 South, 40 East; Baltimore, Washington. He trekked up the on ramp heading east on Hwy 40 to Washington.

  He made it to downtown Frederick by the time the light of day started to fade. He stepped off the highway, crossed a small field, ended up in a neighborhood that was half destroyed. He knocked on a few doors, and though no one answered, he sensed a few of them were there, hiding. In a couple of these homes, he heard dogs barking. The fourth house screamed of emptiness. He hopped the back fence, saw a pit bull tied to a stake in a backyard that was rife with neglect.

  “Good Lord,” he said. The dog didn’t even stand for him it was that malnourished. He slowly slung his semi-auto over his shoulder, knelt down on exhausted legs and said, “You okay boy?”

  The dog looked up at him, his eyes murky, lost. Even though pit bulls had a bad rap, this one didn’t strike him as overly aggressive, only neglected. The smoke gray fur looked matted and dirty, and there were some sores around its knees.

  He felt his agitation flare. People who abused their animals deserved a bottom floor in hell for this.

  He broke into the house, not caring if the owner was home or not, and found it empty. There was a bag of dog food and a scooper. He brought out the
dog food and a bowl, set it down in front of the pit. The poor thing just looked at it. Ben reached forward to read the nametag. The dog started to growl, but it was low, weak.

  “It’s alright boy, I won’t hurt you.”

  He took the silver tag, turned it over. It said, “My Name is Daisy.”

  “My apologies,” he said, slowly rubbing behind Daisy’s ears, “you’re not a boy, you’re a girl. I made the same mistake once when I was in college, but I had a lot to drink that night.”

  The pit no longer growled. Instead, she tried to lift her head into the scratching, but she couldn’t.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Just stay there.”

  He put a little food into his hand, lowered it to Daisy’s mouth, waited until she took the food. Going against his better judgement, but too tired to care, he took her leash off. Ben then went inside, found a bottle of water, opened it, poured it into a dish and walked it outside. He set it before Daisy who managed to drag herself a few inches to the bowl. Ben scooted the bowl closer then said, “Go on Daisy, have a drink.”

  By now the light was about out. He looked inside the house, then back out at Daisy. Heading inside, he grabbed the sleeping bag, pulled it out of the plastic shell and returned to the yard. Heading a little further back to a patch of grass, he set up camp. That’s when he realized his stomach had been growling. Before bed, he ate a MRE, which wasn’t bad for it being what it was. It was an MRE though, which brought about old memories of his time in the field. Crawling into his sleeping bag, tucking his weapons in with him, he got as cozy as he could for being a man used to the best of everything.

  “Oh how the mighty have fallen, eh Daisy?”

  She didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Over the sounds of crickets and about a dozen other little creatures bringing song into the night, he heard Daisy take to her food and water. Sometime in the middle of the night, he felt something press onto his sleeping bag. It was a body. At first Ben was startled, but then he knew what this was. He heard her snoring a few minutes later: Daisy.

  Apparently he wasn’t beyond having at least one friend.

  Ben stayed a few days, long enough for Daisy to start to heal. There was enough to eat around the house, and there was enough water in the toilet tanks for him to boil some for drinking water for both himself and the pit. He even used some of it to wash himself with. It was wholly unsatisfying, but he was cleaner than before, so there was that.

  “Still civilized,” he said.

  He studied himself in the mirror. His hair was getting longish, ready for a cut, but he wouldn’t be cutting it. And his beard. It was just about full now, not as scratchy. He brushed both his hair and his beard, looked at the man in the mirror, the stranger now looking back at him.

  “You look like crap,” he said.

  His face looked haggard, his soul battered, the proof of it sitting in his hound dog eyes. He pulled at his lower eyelids, watching the skin slowly return to its original state. It took its time returning. He needed more water. He also needed some lotion. Ben dug around the dirty vanity, found an old bottle of Jergen’s body lotion, used it all up on his face and arms. He felt better, but also he didn’t. Lotion was topical. A Band-Aid. His problems ran deeper than dehydration and exhaustion.

  Looking down at the ring on his finger, he suddenly needed to sit down. His heart—this non-functioning mass in his chest—was suddenly acting up again. Lifting to the surface of his mind were images of his family. He was thinking of the first time he saw Christine. He closed his eyes, tried to push these thoughts out of his head, not because he didn’t want them there, but because he couldn’t handle them there.

  He stood, wiped at his tears, went and fed Daisy. She was standing now at the back door, refusing still to come inside even though she was walking fine again. He’d found a prescription ointment for her sores and she let him put it on her wounds out back. When she turned to lick them, he said, “No,” and she looked up at him with those big puppy dog eyes, like she’d misbehaved. After that he fed her.

  Ben sat down in the grass next to her, waited for her to finish eating, then said, “What are we going to do with you?” The pit just looked at him, then she sat down next to him, leaned her body against his. “If you come, we can’t bring all your dog food.”

  Mouth closed, eyes near him but not looking directly at him, she whined a little in the back of her throat.

  “You’ll have to eat human food.”

  With that, she looked at him, perking up. Her mouth opened and she started panting, like she was relaxed enough around him to let her guard down. For whatever reason, except for not coming in the house, the pit now seemed completely at ease. Like she trusted him.

  “It could give you the squirts like you’ve never had before. Might do the same to me, too. I mean, you have no idea what we might have to do to survive.”

  She gave a little bark, which caused Ben to smile. With his hand on her once powerful shoulders, rubbing her, scratching her, he felt that hard knot in his stomach loosening. There was no reason to get back to Washington D.C. except for him to have something to do. Now he had this dog to care for. Perhaps the two of them could go to D.C. But what then?

  Ben ended up staying at the house even longer than he anticipated. If they were going to travel together, he wanted Daisy as healthy as she could get.

  Twice there were knocks on the front door, but both times he ignored them. Instead, he tried to clean the house, make it presentable for the dog. Whoever lived there before had been a bunch of slobs. The house was disgusting. After a couple of days of coaxing, Daisy came inside.

  Ben wanted to sleep on the bed because the floor was about as uncomfortable as the ground outside, but he knew if he slept in a bed, it would make it harder to get back on the road where he had no idea where he’d sleep. He and Daisy slept on the living room floor together.

  For the next few days she walked with him wherever he went, ate when he ate and slept where he slept. And occasionally, she licked him, but only on the arm and only when Ben wasn’t looking. For whatever reason, the aching, destroyed parts of his heart began to heal. Instead of the pain he carried over the loss of the country, his friends, his family, that pain began to shrink back against the love he was starting to feel for this dog.

  He was in the kitchen cutting an old strip of carpet padding he’d ripped up in one of the back rooms when he heard a key hit the front door. He’d gotten in the habit of wearing his Smith & Wesson at his side. He unsnapped the holster, drew his weapon. Daisy stood next to him, a low growl in the back of her throat. The lock was disengaged and the front door opened up to an exceptionally ugly man who stopped flat when he saw Ben.

  “Hell you doin’ in my house?”

  “Feeding your dog,” Ben said, calm in tone but bristling inside. “Cleaning up this dirty ass place you call home.”

  “Why you got a gun?” the guy said, standing inside the front door. He looked neither scared, nor mad; in fact, he seemed to be one of those guys who decided the emotions he had based on what he perceived was happening.

  “I’m leaving as soon as I get a harness rigged for Daisy to carry food, and then she’s going with me.” He felt the fire warm his voice, but it was the mistreatment of Daisy that gave it that brittle edge.

  “You ain’t takin’ squat.”

  Ben felt his chest rise against the threat. His brain was thinking about the dog’s open wounds. He was thinking about Daisy being staked to a pole and left for dead. He remembered that look in her eye, how she’d given up, how she couldn’t even stand.

  “She would have died before you got back, you know that don’t you?”

  “She was never a good dog anyway. Not a fighter. This old Russian slag sold her to me, said she had a fighter’s pedigree. She didn’t take to the training though.”

  “You mean she didn’t take to the abuse?”

  “Whatever, man. Everyone’s got a purpose, right?”

  “What’s Daisy’s purpose now
?”

  When the man gave no reply, Ben’s mind fell to a calm, lethal silence. In the void, only one though prevailed.

  He lifted the weapon and shot the man in the heart. The 9mm punch took the wind out of him and he gasped as Ben stood there looking at him. People who abuse animals…

  Ben shot him once more in the head.

  Daisy never even moved. Instead, she crept up to the body, sniffing it from toe to torso. Twice she jumped back, spooked by something—her own past with this man perhaps. Or perhaps she was spooked by the possibility that he was not dead and would in fact punish her.

  Shaking his head, Ben felt sickened by the possibilities. He wasn’t conflicted over killing this scumbag. He’d killed plenty of sea donkeys like this when he was younger and working in service of the government. What truly turned his stomach was that Daisy was scared of him even as he lie there, dead and unable to—

  Just then, Daisy turned, gave a little squat, then emptied her bladder on her former handler’s body. Ben couldn’t help laughing. He’d probably end up in hell for it, but talk about finding resolution at fast food speed!

  “You feel better?” he asked her. She walked toward him, mouth open and panting, almost like she was smiling. Scratching her ears, he said, “And who says you don’t have purpose!”

  They both went back into the kitchen where Ben glued two sections of carpet padding together. While that was drying, he used a nylon rope to tie together two heavy duty, cloth shopping bags, the kind you buy at Whole Foods so you don’t have to pollute the world with more plastic.