Pilgrimage_A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story

by Tom Abrahams

  Leigh followed her husband’s gaze to the corner of the room. She agreed with James that Grant was likely being conscripted into service.

  “I’ve got two rifles,” Sonny announced, emerging from the basement. He had a small pack slung over one shoulder. “One for both of us,” he said, offering one to James. “I’ve got extra magazines in the pack, along with two flash grenades.”

  “We’re going to need another rifle,” James said under his breath. “I have a strong feeling Grant’s coming with us.”

  “I’ll go get one.” Sonny started back down the hall when Grant stopped him.

  “Sonny,” he said, running a hand through his thinning comb-over. Grant was forty going on fifty. His paunch added at least five years to his balding head, which added five to the gray of what was left. “I’m coming with you. But I don’t want one of those rifles. I wouldn’t know how to use it. I could end up hurting one of us.”

  “No problem.” Sonny winked at him. “I have just the thing for you.” He disappeared downstairs and came back with a Smith & Wesson revolver. “It’s loaded. It’s got six shots. You’re an emergency gun, okay?”

  “Okay.” Grant took the gun and held it as if it were a snot-soaked rag.

  “Hold it like this.” Sonny grabbed his hand and molded the gun to fit his grip. “The business end always points toward what you want to shoot. If you don’t want to kill someone, don’t point the gun at it. Got it?”

  Grant nodded.

  “We need to go,” James suggested. He turned to his wife. “You know how to handle a weapon. Go downstairs and get the rifles. Both of them are already plugged with loaded magazines. Use them if you need them, understood?”

  “We better not need them, Rock.” Leigh stepped to within an inch of her husband. “I’m counting on you to stop them out there, or get back here before they do.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He leaned to kiss her forehead, but she pulled back.

  “Rock.” Her eyes searched his without any hint of humor. “I’m not kidding. I know you’re not Rick Grimes, or whoever the hell that guy was in the zombie show you watched on Netflix, but kill these motherf—”

  “I got it.” He kissed her lips, fully convinced his wife had dived head first into the deep end and was digging deeper still. As much as she worried about the children, and the long-term effect of the end of the world as they knew it on them, he was already peeking glimpses of what it was doing to her.

  “Lock the door behind us,” said Sonny. “Pull the curtains and stay in the same room together. I’d like to tell you Albert would bark if anyone tried to break in, but he won’t.”

  “Stuart’s still on the roof,” said James. “He’s our lookout. Since he hasn’t alerted us to anything, we have to guess the squatters are still in the Whistlers’ house.”

  “He’s not altogether there,” counseled Sonny. “So we can’t be sure his intelligence is accurate.”

  “It better be.” Grant frowned before reluctantly kissing his wife goodbye.

  James made sure to hug his son and his daughter, told them how much he loved them, and then led Sonny and Grant out the back door through the screened-in patio and into the backyard.

  The sun had dipped below the visible horizon, but a faint orange glow hung above the trees. The gusty winds brought with them clouds, which would make it more difficult to see once the sunlight completely faded.

  James walked purposefully across Grant’s backyard. The grass was thick under his feet as he marched toward the fence that separated Grant’s property from the Whistlers’.

  Sonny was to his right, carrying the rifle in both hands. His pack bounced on his back as he walked, making the faintest metallic “clicking” sound as the contents slid against each other.

  Grant trailed a step behind. He was a mouth-breather and stumbled to keep pace across the short distance. James wondered if he was going to be a problem. Actually, he already knew the answer.

  They reached the six-foot-high cedar-plank fence and James handed his rifle to Sonny. He gripped the cap just above the top rail and hoisted himself, belly first, onto the cap. He lay there for a moment, looking toward the Whistlers’ house. He couldn’t see anything, so he dropped himself into their yard and landed flatfooted into the ankle-deep grass.

  Sonny placed James’s rifle on the cap and James retrieved it before Sonny joined him in the Whistlers’ yard. Surprisingly Grant managed to heave himself up and over with little trouble. Though he was decidedly out of breath by the time he landed next to his neighbors.

  “Hang on a second,” he pleaded between labored breaths. “I need a second.”

  “Not gonna happen, Grant,” whispered James. “We don’t have a second.”

  “Seriously?” he complained. “Why?”

  “Because I see movement inside the Whistlers’ house,” James explained. “The squatters are still inside.”

  CHAPTER 67

  EVENT +1 Week, 3 Days, 14:13 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  Sonny took the lead en-route to the back of the house. He’d been on raids, served warrants, and conducted high-profile takedowns during his years as a police officer. He knew the right way to approach a volatile situation in which there was limited information about the suspects, how they were armed, and where in the structure they were in relation to the entry door.

  Back in the day, if he suspected two armed men were in a home and that they’d killed somebody, he’d have called for additional assistance. He’d have waited for a Special Weapons and Tactics team or even a set of hostage negotiators. He didn’t have that luxury.

  A step behind, heart racing and mouth dry from stress, was Grant. He didn’t want to be there. His wife, with an overbearing conscience, forced him to join what he worried would be an ill-fated, fatal attempt at stopping a trio of psychopaths.

  “We’re not soldiers,” he’d stressed to his wife. “We’ll get killed. Where will that leave us?”

  “If you go,” she’d reasoned, “you’ll give them a chance. And if you don’t go, the squatters will come after us anyhow. It’s better to try.”

  “You’re essentially sending me to my death,” he’d hissed through his teeth. “You’re killing me.”

  “I’m asking you to save us,” she’d snapped. “Me and our three children.”

  “You want them to grow up without a father?” It had been his final volley.

  “You want them not to grow up at all?” she’d spiked back into his face. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want any of you to go. But I understand why it has to be done. I can’t believe you don’t.”

  As he stepped through the grass, feeling it brush against the sides of his legs, he wished he’d thought to suggest she go instead of him. But as soon as the thought crossed through his mind, he knew it would have been the absolute wrong thing to do. It was the wrong thing to feel. He was as angry with himself for not having the instinct to protect his family as he was with Emma for pushing him to do it.

  In the rear was James, a man who’d seen more than a lifetime’s share of death and misery in the last ten and a half days. The idea of killing or maiming someone for his family’s sake had become so familiar, it didn’t faze him. He was almost on autopilot, laser focused and of a singular purpose.

  He crouched low, the Bushmaster pointed at ten o’clock and toward the ground as he moved. His trigger finger was unwavering, his heartbeat steady, as was his breathing. James felt good. It was almost as if he relished the anticipation of the coming fray.

  The slight slope of the Whistlers’ backyard was much less inclined than the others in the cul-de-sac. They didn’t have a basement. So as the trio approached the house, they were at the main floor of the two-story house. Across the rear of the home was a large wooden deck. At one edge of the deck was a well-worn charcoal grill, at the other a wooden A-frame bench swing, and in between them a picnic table. Beyond the deck furniture, centered on the ba
ck of the house, was a large glass-paneled pair of French doors. The glass panes were covered by curtains affixed to the top and bottom of the doors. But they were sheer, and through them James could see the faint parabolic beam of a dying flashlight dancing around the kitchen.

  The men stopped and dropped low behind the picnic table. James whispered to Grant, telling him to breathe through his nose to reduce the noise. Grant nodded and compromised, breathing in through his mouth and out through his nose.

  “That’s the kitchen,” James reminded his compatriots. “On the right, where the squatter is. He’s probably loading up on supplies.”

  “The dining table is there at the double doors,” added Sonny, “if I remember correctly.”

  “I think you’re right,” agreed James. “But I don’t think we’re smart to enter here. What would you do, Sonny?”

  “I think we split up,” said Sonny, “take both sides of the house. There’s bound to be an unlocked window, or at least a better entry point.”

  “Who goes with who?” Grant huffed. “I don’t want to be the odd man out, here.”

  “You go with James,” Sonny instructed. “I’ll go by myself. I’m the only one with experience with this kind of thing, anyhow.”

  “And once we find a way inside?” asked Grant. “What then?”

  “First we have to find the Whistlers,” suggested Sonny. “On the off chance one or both of them are still alive, we need to help them and, if possible, get them out of the house.”

  “We know the squatters are there, though,” Grant countered. “What do we do about them?”

  “Whatever you have to do.” Sonny shrugged. He gave the men a salute and slid off into the darkness around the right side of the house.

  “It’s you and me,” James whispered to Grant. “Let’s go.”

  James moved from behind the picnic table, stopped for a beat at the bench swing, and then sprinted around the left side of the house. Grant was a couple of steps behind him, imitating James’s movements until they both stood with their backs pressed against the clapboard, a window to their right.

  James motioned to Grant and then he ducked beneath the chest-high window to move to the other side. It was dark enough outside that, unless the flashlight beam hit him directly, whoever was inside the house wouldn’t be able to see him peeking through the window. Grant stayed frozen in position as James pivoted to his left and looked into the house.

  James’s eyes adjusted quickly to see the interior of the house. He was on the far side of the family room, looking past the dining area into the kitchen. The layout was similar, but not a duplicate, of Sonny’s house. James pressed his face closer to the glass, trying to see a wider view of the interior of the house. There was nobody in the kitchen or the dining area or, as he swept left, any movement at the front of the house near the stairwell.

  He backed away from the window and then placed his free hand against the glass, applying gentle pressure upward.

  It was unlocked!

  James nodded to Grant and handed his partner his rifle. He pressed both palms flat against the glass and pushed slowly, and quietly, to raise the window high enough for him to enter. James stuck his head through the opening and got a better sense of his surroundings. Grant shot James a look of disbelief as the high school physics teacher pulled himself onto the open sill and waved for his weapon as he tumbled inside.

  CHAPTER 68

  EVENT +1 Week, 3 Days, 14:20 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  The instant he dropped to the carpet inside the Whistlers’ home, James Rockwell knew he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t sure, in that split second, whether it was hair standing up on his neck or the strong odor of ammonia and chicken soup that told him he’d been played.

  But no sooner had he balanced himself and tried to grip the weapon, he felt a jarring blow to the center of his back, right between his shoulder blades, followed by the weight of someone pushing him forward to the floor, ejecting the rifle across the carpet.

  James, winded by the hit and stunned by the tackle, still managed to turn onto his side and thrust his left elbow backward. It caught the attacker in the ribs and the man grunted and cursed as he tried to regain control.

  But James, now high on the adrenaline, struggled onto his back and connected with a fist to the man’s chest. It knocked the attacker back long enough for James to land another punch in the man’s groin.

  But the attacker was undeterred, fully straddling James at his waist, punching him in the face twice before slipping his hands around his throat. James grabbed the man’s wrists and pulled at them as he felt the force of his grip around his neck. As he shifted his body, trying to gain any leverage against the attacker, one of the men who’d stolen his home, he got a good look at his face. Even in the darkness, he could see the crazed, vacant look in the man’s eyes.

  His face was drawn, like the woman’s, and what was left of his teeth was rotting. His breath was rancid, overpowered only by the thick dank body odor.

  A familiar sense of dread washed over him as James’s mind flashed to Peaks Island and their escape from the fire tower. His daughter, Sloane, wrapping her hands around his neck. He knew then as he knew now he was about to lose consciousness. This time, he knew there was no reprieve.

  Pow! Pow!

  The pressure around James’s neck released and the man slumped forward against the echo of the gunshots, his head dropping to the floor next to James’s. His eyes were fixed wide, his tongue hanging from between his lips.

  James pushed himself away from the head and from under the man’s body. He grabbed his throat and coughed against the thick dull pain in his neck.

  Grant dropped from the edge of the windowsill, the Smith & Wesson in his hand. He knelt beside James and put the gun on the floor.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his hand on James’s leg. “Are you all right?”

  James nodded, not sure if he could talk and not wanting to try. Instead he patted Grant’s shoulder and forced a thin smile to thank him.

  Grant offered his hand and helped James to his feet. “That was close,” he whispered. “I just…I just…can’t believe I killed someone.”

  James tried to swallow, but it hurt too much. He winced against the pain and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Should we go back?” Grant asked. “I think we should go back. We don’t know where the other guy is. That was too close, James.”

  James opened his eyes and shook his head emphatically. “No.” His voice was hoarse and guttural, as if he’d stepped out of the Mojave. “We’re not doing that. We need to find Sonny.”

  Grant sighed and nodded, muttering under his breath. James thanked him again for saving him and then found his rifle on the floor. Both men stood, bent at their waists, and slowly maneuvered their way toward the front of the house.

  As he approached the foyer, James saw a shadow move against the front windows. Somebody was there, maybe fifteen feet away. James raised his rifle. His finger was poised against the trigger. He squinted against the darkness, trying to make out who it was at the front of the house.

  He stopped and held his arm out, signaling Grant to pause his advance. Both men crouched down behind a small end table. Somehow, the shadow hadn’t seen them.

  And then he did.

  The shadow jerked his head to the left, instinctually looking to where he heard. He raised a weapon and stepped cross-legged into the family room. He was exposed. James considered taking a preemptive shot.

  The shadow moved to within three feet and then turned, walking past James and Grant and toward the kitchen. James pivoted and looked behind him.

  He recognized the shadow.

  “Sonny!” he whispered, drawing the shadow’s attention. “It’s James and Grant.”

  The shadow lowered his weapon. He stepped to the table as James and Grant stood to greet him.

  “I heard the shots,” Sonny said. “I was on the other side
of the house. There’s nothing there. Are you both okay?”

  “Yes,” James said. “Grant saved me. We’re good.”

  “Okay,” Sonny said, adjusting his hold on the Bushmaster. “Did you get both of them?”

  “No,” Grant offered. “Just one.”

  “I haven’t seen anything,” Sonny said. “Except…”

  “Except what?” Grant asked.

  Sonny nodded toward the front of the house and led the men to the formal living area adjacent to the foyer and the stairs. There, they saw what they hadn’t hoped to find.

  CHAPTER 69

  EVENT +1 Week, 3 Days, 14:24 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  Neil Whistler was on his back. His eyes were squeezed shut, the anticipation of his death frozen on his face. His legs were splayed across his wife’s torso, as if he’d fallen back across her as he was shot.

  “They killed her first,” James said, crouching near the bodies. “They made him watch.”

  Abbey Whistler was on her side, her head resting on an extended arm. Her eyes were open, her lips curled into what looked like a smile. In the dark, James couldn’t tell exactly where they’d been shot. There was too much blood and he didn’t want to examine either of them to find out.

  They were dead. That was the bottom line.

  “They were good people,” said Grant. “Good neighbors. Abbey would take care of the kids if we wanted a night out. Neil mowed our lawn for us a couple times.”

  “He mowed my lawn too.” James rubbed his neck and tried to swallow again. “Abbey was always great at Halloween. Remember she would dress up for the kids?”

  “She gave out full-sized Snickers bars,” Sonny recalled.

  “Yeah,” said James. “I would always tell Max and Sloane to hit their house first to make sure the candy bars weren’t gone.” He silently prayed for their souls before refocusing.