Beyond Green Fields | Book 3 | Lost & Found [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology]

by Lecter, Adrienne

  In spite of her ire, that comment makes her crack a smile, and I can physically see the annoyance leak out of her posture.

  “No excuse required,” she quips, then glances at our discarded sleeping bags. “And there are worse ways of being woken up.”

  I keep my grumbling about her dismissive tone to myself in favor of grabbing a bag of nuts, dumping half of it in her hand before digging in. Banter aside, I’m still mellow and relaxed, more so than in months—but I can feel a deep-seating restlessness start up in the pit of my stomach. The temptation to stay here until tomorrow and make the best of the location is still there, but I know that by afternoon I’ll be a cranky asshole—and there’s no need to further antagonize Bree if she’s already slightly on the edge of going stir-crazy.

  “How about we go hunt for a different attic?” I suggest. “Maybe one with a better view.”

  Bree considers this as she polishes off the nuts. “Fine with me. At least the rain will wash some of the dirt off my pack.”

  “And get ten times as much muck on your boots and everything up to your knees,” I remind her. She can walk and run all right, but there’s more slipping and sliding on bad underground now than there used to be. We’d do good to stay on paved roads today, I decide.

  She ignores my candid observation, instead flopping onto her back, her thighs conveniently spread. “Or we could stay here an hour or two more until the rain lets up?”

  Part of me is tempted to point out that’s not likely to happen, judging from how the sky outside looks. I’m not stupid enough to let that part into the driver’s seat. It might feel like it to me, but this isn’t a vacation. It’s also not the be-all, end-all solution to our problems—but until something else happens, we have to work with the hand we’re dealt. And if today’s agenda comes with raunchy laziness because we’re both too strung out to deal with our emotional baggage, who am I to protest? Tomorrow is soon enough to start dealing with that. And the fact that there will be a tomorrow for both of us is enough for me, right now, to forget about everything else and simply enjoy the simpler things in life.

  “This is fucking ridiculous!”

  I have to agree with Bree—finding an entire room full of handguns, rifles, and ammo in a house that has been ransacked short of the raiders taking the doors with them is ridiculous. There’s even a box of grenades on the bottom shelf in the corner.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  She’s smart, hovering a few steps behind me—right outside the worst of the blast radius should we trip a wire. Getting out my flashlight, I crouch down and start to search the room as thorough as possible from the bottom step of the stairs. Sure, it’s just a small cellar—and half of the room is taken up by shelves overflowing with toilet paper and wipes—but this is as close to a goldmine as it gets in this day and age. And that’s after we found two shotguns and a salvageable Glock 17 in a police cruiser just yesterday.

  Ten minutes later, and I still haven’t found anything suspicious, so I do the smart thing and throw the smaller of the two packs I’m carrying into the room, making the backpack bounce and roll across the floor.

  “You could have used one of our spare cans,” Bree grumbles from behind me.

  “Too light if they’ve hidden a pressure plate in the floorboards. This should have triggered it,” I point out. “Probably.”

  She gives a grunt that serves as all the affirmation I will get—agreeable my wife is not when she’s vexed about something.

  No suspicious sounds come from the room so I reach an executive decision. “Clear. I’m going in. Stay back in case I’m wrong.”

  More grumbling ensues. “Why is it always you who gets to dare fate whether we get blown up or not? Let’s be realistic—I’m lighter, so if I trigger anything, I still stand the chance that you can grab and pull me back.”

  “Movie myth,” I tartly inform her. “If you trigger anything, I need to disarm it with you still standing on it. The moment you move off the plate, the entire room turns into deadly shrapnel.”

  “Still a valid point.”

  I don’t bother with looking back at her as I straighten and take a first step forward. Wood creaks, but that’s it. Who’d put a mine under a stair landing, anyway? The first step through the door is much more critical. Mostly to distract my mind from all the scenarios of how I could get ripped apart a moment from now than to win the argument, I respond—and yes, it’s a low blow but I don’t care right now.

  “Exactly how many more body parts can you risk to lose?”

  I’m partly surprised that she doesn’t just give me a shove that ends with me sprawling on the floor—I would have deserved that for sure. Her silence gives me pause—Bree seldom gives in so easily. When I do glance back, I find her glaring straight at my face, her gaze promising bloody murder and retribution. How she hunkers there, rifle across her knees, the daylight behind her like a halo around her head, makes her look like an avenging angel. I file the snapshot away in the back of my mind, and take the next step into the room. If it’s my last, at least I’m going out with a nice image forever branded into my mind.

  Nothing happens. I don’t relax but allow my mind to ease up a little. Before I let her into the room, I make sure to have stepped on all the floor boards, and spend some quality time checking the rifles over before I pick one up. Still nothing. Bree remains outside but she is standing up now so that she can glance into the floor above. We’ve thoroughly cased the house, but it’s possible that someone is waiting outside, ready to spring a trap on anyone stupid enough to happen on their bait cache.

  At closer inspection, none of the weapons are in stellar condition. All of them show good care but also heavy use, and they haven’t been as well maintained as I’d like. Still, all of them look to be in working condition, and are well above what the both of us need or could carry. I grab as much of the ammo as will fit into my packs, and hand even more outside to top up what empty space is in Bree’s.

  I hate leaving so much of what we could use here—but there’s a different option.

  “I think it’s time we started our first emergency cache,” I declare.

  “In here? The house is abysmal to defend. That’s why it looks shot to shit up there,” my wife wisely points out.

  I’m awfully tempted to offer a snide remark in turn but hold back. “No. We go looking for a storm cellar outside of someone’s house that hasn’t been breached yet, or can be barricaded well nevertheless. We leave part of our gear there, then return here, grab what we can carry, and switch it for what’s in the cellar.”

  “Sounds like a week’s worth of trouble for nothing,” she complains.

  “Got any other plans?”

  We don’t, and after a last look around we retreat upstairs, careful to look at everything at once as we exit the stairs to the cellar. While Bree guards my back, I make sure to bury the door in as much debris as I can—which is pretty close to how we found it earlier today. Bree remains twitchy as we leave, and for a good two miles of walking north, then east. The cold afternoon wind is slicing across our faces while rain pelts us, making this endeavor less than pleasant—but I wouldn’t have wanted to squat in the house, either. We’re somewhere close to the border between Georgia and Tennessee, three weeks into our solo adventure. The weather should get warmer soon, but instead we’ve gotten rained on for the past week. At least it’s not hurricane season, but with the kind of luck we’ve had it’s only a matter of days until a tropical storm tears into us. Except for finding the weapons cache, of course—that was a stroke of luck. I can’t help it—going hungry for the past week hasn’t helped keep my mood up. If I’m honest, I would have preferred to find a cellar stocked with preserves over ammo, but no such luck.

  We walk until darkness falls—less so because we don’t see well enough even in a storm to keep moving but because it’s as much of an arbitrary excuse as anything else. Bree hasn’t breathed a word of complaint but I know she’s just as tired and hungry as I am. I’m a
bout to point out a house about half a mile away for our quarters for the night but Bree points further north. “There’s a gas station just below that hill, at the highway. Feeling lucky, punk?”

  My first instinct is to say that’s a fucked-up plan, but my stomach rumbles loudly enough at the prospect of food that Bree smirks. Thus decided, we turn toward the highway. We’re in the middle of nowhere but even so, there are wrecks aplenty around the gas station, making it a less than easy target. In the heavy rain with wind whipping through the brown grass overgrowing everything, it’s impossible to hear much—which means that we are not easy prey for anything, either. So what if it takes us almost an hour to creep between the cars until we make it to the front door? At least I’m ninety percent sure we’re the only critters stupid enough to be out and about in this weather.

  The door of the gas station shop stands ajar, the glass shattered and mostly carried away by wind and rain. I make a move to take point but Bree’s venomous glare holds me back, letting her do the work instead. The shop has been looted several times over, but there are still some things left—shit that wasn’t worth carrying off, mostly.

  After making sure we’re the only thing alive—and above cockroach size—in here, Bree picks up a discarded pack of chips, scrutinizing the ingredients label. “Guess it boils down to exactly how desperate we are?” she observes as she drops it, picking up a different brand instead. “You wouldn’t believe where they packed that fucking corn syrup in.”

  “Do you really think they managed to get it into everything?” I ask as I browse the ingredients on a pack of pretzels. “They can’t have produced it in immense quantities. It made sense to hit fast-food joints and coffee shops—huge turnover, and likely a supply chain that’s easier to get into. But shit like this? That’s likely been produced months in advance. At least for shit like this. How much corn syrup can be in a handful of these?”

  “Likely just takes a few molecules for us to flip the switch,” she mutters, but her motions are slow and hesitant as she discards the next pack. I know they must be stale since all the packs are deflated by now, but it’s not like that deters me much. The fact that it’s all empty calories is more disconcerting. And, yeah, the fact that it could kill us in seconds, too.

  I’m about to tear the pretzels open when Bree goes still, listening. A moment later I hear it, too—the faint sound of something click-clacking on the floor just inside the shop door. A lone deer has found the way in, its ears twitching like mad, spraying droplets of water. My bet is that it is catching our scent, but the weather must have driven it to seek shelter. That, or a bigger predator is stalking outside.

  My mouth waters, and my stomach growls loud enough that I’m afraid it will chase off the deer. Bree and I exchange glances—dinner just strolled in. If we can kill it, that is—which isn’t a given if the animal bolts too soon. The easiest way would be to kill it silently—a quick knife across the throat, and voila! Venison is back on the menu. But there is no way I can sneak up silently on it, and we haven’t found a silent ranged weapon yet—something I note to myself I will have to remedy soon. The deer is already getting skittish, about to turn, so I do the only thing that makes sense to my starved mind—I draw my gun and shoot it, the shot loud enough to make more glass splinter and both of us duck.

  Silence ensues as I hold my breath, intently listening for the moan or roar of whatever might have made the deer seek shelter in here. Bree is closer to the door so she quickly steps over the carcass and looks outside. I get out my knife and start slashing at the deer, hell-bent on getting us at least enough to fill our bellies.

  “Nothing moving out there yet,” Bree calls in, her voice soft enough that I can barely make it out over the rain. “I think we’re in the clear.”

  I try to be methodical about my work, but once I’ve sawed through and torn free the hind quarters so we can simply carry them with us if need be, I cut up into the ribcage, going for the heart first and then the liver. Bree is still busy staring out into the storm, but when she turns and sees me tear into the raw, warm heart, she makes a face. “That’s just disgusting.”

  It is, but I’m so damn hungry that I don’t care, not even the scent of fresh blood holding me back. It’s easier to cut off chunks and wolf those down so that’s what I do. Once the heart is gone, I do the same to the liver, only having to fight my gag reflex twice. Bree’s attention keeps straying between what I’m doing and the outside, but once fifteen minutes have passed and there’s still no shambler coming after us, she gradually relaxes.

  “Here, eat,” I tell her as I hold out the rest of the liver to her. She makes a face but then drops her rifle and takes off her gloves, pulling her own knife free. She mimics what I’ve been doing but without enthusiasm, and this once I can tell that’s not just because of the lack of taste for her. I get busy cutting flank steaks and what else is easily accessible out of the carcass, sneaking a few strips of fat in for good measure. The spilled blood will sooner or later attract predators, but this once the rain may be a blessing, keeping our hidey-hole safe for the night. As soon as my stomach stops revolting, I rummage around the trashed shop until I have enough broken wood to make a fire, using a sheet of metal that used to be some sort of sign as a makeshift grill. We eat as much of the well-done meat as we can, and I fix up the rest over the dying fire—safety over taste preferences. Even with hunger now gone, we’re both cold and miserable, and I’m tempted to keep the fire going through the night. We can’t sleep at the same time, anyway, so might as well do so a little more cozy than usual. All the coffee is gone from the shop but there’s still some tea left, and in a pinch hot water as is will do. Since Bree looks ready to fall asleep where she’s crouching next to the dying embers in the middle of the back aisle, I tell her I’ll take first watch. Problem is, warm-ish and sated, I feel myself slip away—

  It’s a lot of luck and a dash of primal fear that has me rear up just as the cougar launches itself at me. Not too much time must have passed—my body is still sluggish from exhaustion and being busy digesting all the meat I’ve consumed. I manage to get my arm up so rather than go for my jugular, its teeth sink into my forearm, my other arm busy trying to keep the beast at bay. Sturdy jacket or not, that hurts, a lot—until a deafening roar goes off what feels like right in my face. A moment later I’m splattered in cougar brains. My mind is only just now catching up with what is happening—or rather, has happened—fear and adrenaline slamming into my brain. That dulls the pain a little but gives me perfect clarity of mind for what I realize comes next—and well-deservedly so.

  “You fell asleep,” Bree utters, a little out of breath and very bewildered.

  “I did.”

  “While you were on watch.”

  I nod.

  “Next to a bloody carcass—” She pauses to look at where the deer remains used to be. The damn cougar—or a different one—must have dragged them off before and then returned for an extra helping of me.

  “I know.”

  If anything, the look on her face is smug, if still a little worried. “And I just saved your life.”

  That she did, but rather than admit it—or even better, thank her for it—I pull off the jacket to check the damage. I got lucky—all I have are some, admittedly deep, puncture marks, and I’m sure the surrounding tissue will bruise as well. Seconds later, and the cougar could have either crunched through bones or torn a good chunk out of my arm. Or raked my damn entrails right out of my stomach. Or bitten through my neck. It’s only when I look at what remains of the cougar’s skull that I realize Bree got damn lucky with the angle. She’s shooting slugs because nothing less will fell a super-juiced zombie—or me, if she’d missed. No worries about fending cougars off for me anymore. I’m tempted to rub that in her face, but the fact remains: she was quicker to rouse, go for a weapon, and defend us both while all I could do was become cat chow.

  Realizing nothing more will come from me makes Bree turn away and scrutinize the cougar some more
while I start rummaging around the outside of my pack for a first-aid kit. She holds a lid on it while she helps me clean the wound and slaps on some bandages, but as soon as she’s done, she’s smirking down at where I still sit, gritting my teeth against the pain and what I know is about to come alike.

  “That’s it—next chance we get, I’m getting you some anti-worm stuff from a vet. Whatever that deer had, it went right into your brain.”

  I have no choice—that’s one win she gets. But it’s not just spite that doesn’t allow me to let her revel in it.

  “We need to move out,” I state as I come to my feet. “Between the scent of all the blood and the shotgun blast, everything in a ten-mile radius knows that we’re here. Grab your stuff.”

  Bree glares first at me, then out into the rain-drenched darkness before she shrugs and shoulders her pack, giving me no chance to snark at her. Bree being agreeable is always a mixed blessing, but I have to admit, it beats getting eaten by a cougar. I glance down one last time at the carcass, a small part of me tempted to grab a haunch for the road. But we are running out of time and I’m not particularly fond of finding out just how bad predator tastes. Now that I get a good look at it, it’s obvious that the animal has acted out of desperation, ribs and hip bones in stark relief underneath the thick fur. It’s small, even for a female, making me guess that it must have been a starved, sick, young one, maybe the runt of a litter that lost its mother over the winter and hadn’t learned to hunt easier prey yet—if there is other prey to be hunted. We’ve come across awfully few tracks over the past days.

  The pack, weighing a ton because of the extra ammo we picked up earlier, hurts as I shove it in place, but I can’t exactly ask Bree to take part of the load.

  So we set out into the darkness once more, heading for nowhere and everywhere at once.