by P. L. Smith
CHAPTER XIV- Epilogue
The wind blew dust across the dry plains. Jak's cheeks were sore from squinting to keep the dust out of her eyes. Her ears were sore from where her fingers had to dig out the tiny grains of sand that collected there. She missed the forest. She glanced around. Not a shrub in sight, let alone a tree. It had been days since they had seen any sign of food, water, or life.
Lethan was in the lead, his body hunched away from the wind. He padded ahead quickly, and Jak saw the rock he was heading for. It wasn't huge, but it might shelter them from the wind for a spell. She started to run ahead, and then saw another rock to Lethan's left, and then one his right, and another. Then they were moving. Jak squinted. There were four and they weren't rocks.
Jak held up her hand, shielding her eyes. Then it hit her. Lions. Her crossbow was in her hand before she even had to think. One of the lions pounced on to Lethan's back, but it flew off as his claws found it, and he ripped it to the ground. Almost immediately another took its place. Jak sighted down her crossbow. For a split second she hesitated, worried she might hit Lethan, then she pulled the trigger.
Something slammed into her from behind and she was knocked to the ground before she could see where the bolt had hit. The lion was on her, clawing at her back, pinning her down. Her fingers fumbled at her crossbow trying to bring it up to reset it, but the big cat knocked it from her hand. Jak tried to go for her knife, but her arms couldn't move under the weight of the cat. She heard Lethan howl, and she struggled to free herself, but the beast just pressed harder.
She was pinned. All Jak could do was wait. Wait for the long yellow teeth to sink into her throat. Jak started to scream for Lethan but realized how quiet it had become. All was silent, except for the soft crunch of footsteps. She craned her neck to see who or what was approaching, but could only see the dust filled sky above her.
"Well, well, well. What have you caught us today, ladies? A Lycan? My word. I thought we had hunted them all down. I guess not. A fine catch. And what's this? A girl? Hmm."
A face blocked out the sky above. An ugly, filthy, scarred face that grinned through a sad excuse for a set of teeth.
"Well, little lady, why don't you tell me your name before you die?"
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
***
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P. L. Smith
***
P.S. Keep reading for a sample of my other novel Wayward Prey...
Wayward Prey
P.L. Smith
Chapter 1
The boy shivered as he watched the sun peek over the horizon. The frost glistened on the leaves of the trees. He brushed the dirt and twigs off his clothes, which had chosen to cling to him instead of the cold ground where he had slept. His body was stiff, his joints cold, and his muscles sore. He could feel the melon-sized bruise above his knee on his right thigh as he walked. He had come a long way yesterday, and the steep terrain had taken its toll on his already damaged body.
He walked down to the creek, rubbing his arms trying to warm himself. Despite the cold, he lay across the rocks and pressed his lips to the stream. He hadn't had any water since he had left home yesterday morning, when he had ran for his life. It already seemed like an eternity had passed. He drank until his teeth ached and his belly was full. Who knows how long it would be until he found more. He was tattered, hungry, and exhausted.
In his reflection he could see the dried blood on his face and the darkness of a bruise on his cheekbone. He cupped his hands and splashed the icy water into his face. The chill sent a shock through him that made his skin feel as though tape had been ripped from every inch of his body all at once. He caught his breath and began scrubbing at his crusted face.
At last, satisfied and wanting to escape the chill of the shadowy canyon, he set off, drying his face with his shirt. He had ridden east, on his motorcycle, making it to the foothills before an unseen rock sent him and his dirt bike into the bank. He was forced to run on foot after nearly twenty minutes of trying to kick-start the bike with his now swollen and aching leg. East was the only direction there might be some semblance of safety, but he needed to follow the cover of the foothills for as long as possible, before he cut across into the exposed deserts and salt flats beyond the Nevada line.
He could try to get supplies in Cedarville and maybe warn them, if they hadn't been hit yet. If they had, he would sneak in and steal what he could find. But either way, he was headed for Nevada. He would need some sort of transportation, too. Even a mountain bike would make a difference. He wouldn't last long out in the desert on foot. He had a long ways to go and even though the days were still warm, it was fall and the desert nights could be frigid. The faster he could travel, the better off he would be.
His plan was to go to his aunt and uncle’s ranch, nestled in a secluded valley in northern Nevada. He spent his summer there a few years ago, helping on the ranch, back before everything changed. He knew he would be safer there. Besides, there was nothing left for him here. He just hoped they were rural enough that they hadn't been attacked. There were rumors of factions rising up all over; marauders, thieves, and ex-military types attacking towns and stealing fuel, food, supplies and weapons. Ghost stories, everyone thought. Just ghost stories, until they came. Now his parents were dead, and he was alone.
He had been out in the fields hunting, when he heard the shots. They were loud, louder than his old .22 pistol. He figured it was just one of the neighbors plinking around, which he thought was wasteful. All supplies were low in town, especially ammunition. But he listened again, it was too fast to be a semi-auto, someone was shooting with a full-auto weapon. It would have been illegal back in the old days, but now it didn't really matter. Then he heard screams and then shots from another direction. He raced back to the house as quickly as he could. It wasn't far, less than a mile from where he was hunting. His mind imagined terrible things, but what he found was worse.
When he reached the yard he stopped, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He fell to his knees. The heat rushed from his body in an instant. He felt sick. He found them lying near the patio, his father clutching his mother. The blood. His father was still alive. He looked up at him, and could only whisper his name before he died.
Andrew.
Then he heard shouting and more gunshots. Humvees and military trucks full of men raced up and down the road firing at whatever moved. He heard glass breaking and knew someone was in the house. He had his small pistol, but what good would it do? There were dozens of them. He could hear them coming.
He ran to the shed and threw open the door. He threw his leg over the seat and with one kick his bike roared to life. He sped off, not knowing where he was going, just knew he had to get away. He heard pops behind him and clumps of dirt flew up from the ground at him. He rode his bike down into a dry drainage ditch. It was deep enough to conceal both him and his bike. He followed it nearly all the way to the foothills. He didn't slow down once; he raced as fast as he could away from town, away from his home, and away from his parents. He was scared and he was crying, but he didn't stop, until the wreck.
Andrew leaned against a tree and rubbed his exhausted face. His heart ached at the memory. His vision blurred but he rubbed the tears and pushed the memory aside. He couldn't break down again. His life depended on it. He had to keep moving. As he walked, the muscles in his thighs and calves warmed and loosened, he quickened his pace. He could see Payne Peak; he knew he was close enough that he could make it to Cedarville before nightfall, despite his injured leg. Once he made it to the bottom of the foothills just out of town, he would wait and sneak in after dark in case it had become occupied.
; There were no warnings from Cedarville, but then again the weekly mail delivery wouldn't have come until today. It doesn't matter. They hit us fast. There wouldn't have been any way to get a message out. They came from the south but there had been no word of an attack from that direction either, probably no survivors. But Cedarville is in the next valley over. Maybe it's still safe.
As he reached the top of the hill, he glanced back. Smoke on the horizon, lots of smoke. They were burning his town, his home, or what was left of it.
Bastards. Why burn it? Why not take what you needed and go? Nothing like the worst tragedy the world has ever seen to bring out all the scumbags of the world. As if the devastation of the disease isn't enough, there has to be pieces of shit left in this world evil enough to steal and murder.
He felt like screaming. If only they had known. If only there had been some kind of warning, they might still be alive.
He trudged on in a daze. Numb to the world around him, numb to the birds, numb to the wind, numb to the swaying grass. He passed a doe within twenty yards and never noticed her. She watched him through black eyes, unmoving. She had been afraid when she first heard him, but waited, not wanting to reveal herself. But as she watched him, nothing about this strange two-legged creature appeared to be a threat. As he passed by she dropped her head back down and continued nibbling the small patch of green grass she had found.
Continue reading…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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P. L. Smith grew up with a passion for reading and escaping into the worlds of the pages. He was raised among the alfalfa fields cultivated in the sage dotted deserts of northern Nevada. His passion for the outdoors and rural life shines through in his writings, as well as his gusto for travel and the thrill of new experiences.
He continues to write, travel, and live life to the absolute fullest.
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