Survival_Book 1_And Tomorrow

by Ralph F. Halse

  He moved to the sofa and lay down. Closing his eyes, he lay his forearm across his brow. Like his father had taught him, Kitch entered into a series of calming exercises until he fell into a disturbed and troubled sleep, interrupted by nightmares of the infected breaking into the house and attacking him.

  Chapter Three: Old enemies, new friends

  His nightmares deprived Kitch of sleep. Well before dawn, he swung his legs off the sofa as he peeked at the security images his VOID reflected of the world immediately outside his home. It was as black as pitch. As the camera panned, it detected no heat signatures—nothing moved. Well, nothing with a heartbeat. To clear his mind of lingering, disturbing nightmares and to prepare for the task ahead, Kitch worked out for a solid hour down in the basement. He had to do something until sunup.

  After the training session, he permitted his body to cool naturally. Kitch used the waiting time to eat an energy bar and mull over his predicament. Motioning his VOID to life, he voiced a search request for a local map. Committing the image to memory, he tried to figure out where any gaps might exist in his simple plan. His twitching shoulders reminded Kitch that failure was not an option. His father’s safety was at stake. All he had to do was locate O’Meara’s Drug Store, search it for clues of his dad’s presence, and if he wasn’t there, figure where he would have moved onto next and head there.

  The home Kitch grew up in was situated in an older Johns Island suburb created late in the twenty-second century between Penny’s Creek and the Maybank Highway from the reclaimed swamp. He was fortunate to have grown up in a real home and not one of those towering edifices of superglaz, flexicrete, and permasteel built around Charleston just before the war. Towers stretching into the low clouds were patrolled by private security forces protecting thousands of families crammed into one tight area from the favela residents that had sprung up around the city outskirts. At the end of the war, refugees from all over the United States, Canada, Mexico, South America and beyond fled war-torn countries in such numbers, no immigration force or failing border fence could successfully halt the wandering horde.

  Thirty years on, favelas on major city outskirts were a fact of life authorities dealt with or ignored, depending on whether there was a cost involved. Kitch’s unobtrusive home was his refuge from the outer world. The solitude and peace his quiet suburban house provided had preserved his sanity for his entire life, and he loved the place. But now, he had to leave it under onerous circumstances, and that prospect truly frightened him.

  Without his constant companion and mentor, Kitch’s tics and twitches were becoming more frequent. Toweling himself dry, he found the old enemy had returned with a vengeance. He was fighting for control of his body when he most required stability. Banging both fists on the wall, he reminded himself how much he hated Tourette’s. Glancing angrily at the last dose of medication on the bathroom vanity, he swore to leave it. He had to win his battle unaided. Dry, he steeled himself for what lay ahead as he stared intently into a steamed mirror at the twitching image looking back at him. His father’s safety might well depend on his ability to function under extreme stress. Get a goddamn grip Kitch, he angrily demanded.

  Staring down into the wet sink, he was determined his debilitating affliction was not going to get in his way, not this time, not ever again. He looked into the mirror. Physically, Kitch was over average height, standing six feet two inches and weighing roughly one-hundred-seventy pounds. Years of working out with martial art weapons had honed his body into a well-muscled machine. Short blond hair and angular, fair features spoke of his Nordic origins. Darker eyebrows overshadowed light blue eyes which could alter from penetrating to frustrated and tearful in a microsecond. A straight nose set over thin lips offered the world an intelligent, youthful face full of determination.

  O’Meara’s Drug Store stood in a cluster of shops at the intersection of River Road and the Maybank Highway. Normally it was a short stroll, but with what lurked outside, such a journey could take an entire day and then there was the trip back home. If no sign of his father existed, he would retrace his steps and wait. That was what they had agreed. If he couldn’t make it before nightfall, Kitch must locate a safe place to sleep and then carry on at dawn.

  He reckoned on a thorough search of the shops for his dad. Kitch figured the old guy could be holed up, waiting for a herd of infected to move. He would return home in two days in case his dad was simply running late.

  Using his VOID, Kitch made a recording, setting out his path of travel on a sheet of flexiglaz. He charged it with his VOID and stuck it to the refrigerator. After slinging on a backpack, he collected his staff. He stopped, took the sheet from the fridge and placed the flexiglaz sheet under his VOID on the dining table. A moment in the sun and the solar cells in the flexiglaz would provide sufficient power to play his message to his father. All VOIDs were biometric. Unless Kitch linked his father to it, it was useless to his dad or anyone else.

  As Kitch stepped outside, the door to his sanctuary shut with an ominous clack. He paused, back to the door, looking about expectantly. Two turkey buzzards ominously ceased squalling long enough to watch him with beady eyes from the height of a tall fir. Golden rays of sunlight tinging the South Carolina sky purple greeted him. At the edge of the horizon, red and orange fingers gripped the distant ocean. Even though it wasn’t past sunup, the humidity caused perspiration to prickle the skin on his back.

  Moving slowly and stealthily, he paused by the front gate. Peering left and then right down a street he was as familiar with as the back of his hand, he sought movement. The quiet suburban street was much as it always was at that time of the morning, peaceful and deserted. It was generally that way all the time, that’s why people moved there. People were friendly, interested in each other, and in most cases, quietly went about their business—except when boisterous school children arrived home. Then for a brief time, the noise was welcoming. Sadly, he hadn’t heard those sounds for many months now. As he approached the main road, the silence was unnerving.

  Normally, beyond the village atmosphere Kitch lived in, the constant noise of public cars rumbling down a main road packed with early morning commuters would have assaulted his senses. Gone were heavy transporters shifting tons of food and goods to malls and warehouses. There was no clanging of swaying light rail cars transporting hundreds of workers to regional hubs, as would be expected in a normal world greeted him.

  Cautiously, he made his way along a water easement leading to the highway. From the safety of one of Johns Island many Angel Oak trees, Kitch peered cautiously at what was once the main highway between Johns and James Island’s. He gasped in dismay and blinked at the destruction.

  Maybank Highway was jam-packed with stalled vehicles and littered with countless corpses. He could see fancy private cars, transporters, mini-vans, independent military vehicles and public vehicles. Any form of transport froze when their magnets were released, and that only happened when the power failed. Subsequent to that, safety mechanisms locked the doors and passengers in. No sense having someone step on a broken grid connector and getting themselves fried.

  Gripping the tree trunk with both hands, Kitch gagged. Hot, acrid vomit slipped across his tongue, leaving a bitter taste as it spattered the tree trunk. Not ten feet away, two fat yellow dogs tugged at the glistening entrails of a woman of indeterminate age. As they snarled their disapproval, the tugging canines observed him with feral, wary eyes as he repeatedly vomited on exposed tree roots. Everywhere his panic-stricken gaze roamed, packed public cars swayed as trapped infected passengers responded to the rising sun.

  A heavy transporter lay on its side, blocking much of his view. Its load of portable power cells spilled across the road. The driver’s remains lay in several bloody chunks beside it, along with three badly beaten corpses. A blood-stained tire lever was clutched in a severed hand. The three corpses had suffered serious head trauma, as had the driver.

  A light rail car rocked from side to side as a mas
s of infected pushed against each other to escape their tomb. No sooner had Kitch regained control of his heaving stomach than the muscles under his left eye twitched. For once, he didn’t curse the TS. He accepted what it was doing to him as his senses were assailed by sights, sounds, and smells of unprecedented destruction.

  He permitted his nervous eyes to roam the dawn-lit highway as he tried in vain to ignore the acrid taste coating his tongue. The impossibility and magnitude of his task were almost crushing in responsibility. Were the situation reversed, he knew with an unwavering certainty his father would come for him. In the dim light, between smashed and stationary vehicles, he noted heads moving at a snail’s pace. Kitch was certain these were the shambling infected.

  Keeping his back to a high fence line paralleling the highway, Kitch moved warily toward the Stono River Bridge. As he topped a slight rise, the rising sun permitted him a view across the river to James Island and back toward Charleston’s executive airport. He staggered to a jaw-dropping halt.

  Spires of black, greasy smoke rose in swirling columns from shopping malls, hosts of burning public cars, transport vehicles and scenes of fierce battles. Charleston’s executive airport produced voluminous grey clouds, from which tall, licking red flames fed wafting smoke. Kitch’s distraught eyes tracked the flight path out over the ocean. A trail of fallen aircraft’s shattered shells told a tale of sudden death in the skies. Not a siren sounded in support of fire suppression. Silence reigned.

  Every road was choked with smashed, stalled vehicles, bodies, and abandoned possessions. The infected wandered singly and in clusters blocking the bridge, side streets, and in parks. The numbers were so great that Kitch almost retreated to the family home. He now understood why his father ventured out at night when the moonlight was at its brightest and the infected less energetic.

  As he crept by a stationary bus, the hairs on the back of his neck rose when a cacophony of animal growls and wet slobbering sounds momentarily froze his feet. With heart-pounding fear, Kitch made the mistake of looking up. He gasped audibly in heart-thundering surprise. Twenty or more white-eyed infected bearing a variety of hideous attack and defensive wounds clawed desperately at blood-spattered windows with one thought, to escape to rip him to shreds. Fingernails manically raking flexiglaz windows left streaks of smeared blood, obscuring entombed passengers.

  Perspiration beaded Kitch’s brow. His limbs shook with an alien sense of fear as he watched the infected shift what little focus they possessed to claw at each other. Moving faster, Kitch hurried on. Pausing in the shade of a tall and ancient Southern Magnolia, he leaned forward, resting sweaty palms on his thighs as he struggled to regain control of his faculties and his breathing. His hands shook like never before. Facial muscles twitched as Tourette’s went into overdrive. The hand holding the staff jerked spasmodically. Only by gritting his teeth and gripping it tightly with both hands while exerting all his free will did Kitch prevent it smacking onto the pavement, alerting the infected to his presence.

  A sudden and almost overwhelming panic attack threatened to crush Kitch further, leaving him vulnerable and helpless. Kitch dropped to his knees, gasping and struggling for not only air but his faculties. Gripping the ancient tree trunk with both hands, he clawed back control of his terrified senses. He had to shift focus urgently. Raising his head, he studied his path of travel to otherwise occupy his mind. He knew he must move away from the infected and soon.

  A daily average of ninety-nine degrees due to global warming, rising to one-hundred and five, required he seek shade. He had to consume fluid and rest regularly, or risk heat stroke. Nevertheless, he had to locate his father. Blinking back his tears of frustration at the weakness Tourette’s forced upon him, a shaky Kitch moved slowly toward O’Meara’s Drug Store and the mini-mall.

  At the intersection of River Road and the highway, Kitch crouched beside a crashed military transport. Tremendous force was required to lift heavy vehicle magnets off the grid, yet he observed no evidence of impact. The road before him was strewn with the remains of dismembered soldiers’ corpses. Judging by the vast number of discarded rail gun cartridges and empty power cells, the military had fought a desperate, last-ditch battle there. He imagined brave marines holding the infected back as the island’s few remaining healthy fled toward the airport.

  What remained of two sandbagged machine-gun posts were barely visible under hundreds of corpses piled against and about the blockade. The gunners’ shredded remains lay rotting in their seats. Kitch knew it was useless to try and retrieve a rifle or sidearm. Long before the war, civilian, police, and military weapons were biometrically assigned to prevent theft, or the enemy turning them on the owner. Unless he located a military base or police station with a device that assigned a biometric weapon to him, his staff was his only form of protection. Even if he located a military base, he had no idea what a biometric assignment device looked like. Besides, he had to access the grid to power the thing. Like that was going to happen.

  Climbing onto the military transport’s empty cabin, he was permitted a clear line of sight to the shopping mall. By shading his eyes, he could make out infected trapped inside. Some shop fronts facing the highway had been broken into. Goods spilled across the sidewalk. Bodies in various death poses spelled out the nature of vicious battles fought for consumables. To make his way to the local shopping mall, Kitch was forced to step over and on rotting bodies—there was no avoiding it.

  He wished he had a face-filter. The cloying smell of decaying corpses revolted him. Thick black clouds of flies and tiny insects rose as he slid warily past bodies that looked as if they might reanimate as an infected at any second. At one point, he froze. He was fearful noisy insect wings would attract the infected. He looked around. But nothing survived in this military killing zone. Paying silent homage to the fallen soldiers’ bravery, Kitch picked his way along the highway toward the mall.

  By the time he made it to the safety of a permaglaz fence surrounding the complex, his shoes were soaked with blood. He squelched with each step. Disgusting juices expelled by hundreds of decomposing bodies left wet footprints in his wake. A host of fat flies buzzed his face and nose. As he peered through a gap in the fence, Kitch’s gorge rose time and time again at the death odor clawing the back of his throat.

  Six infected stood listlessly, arms by their sides, in the car park staring blankly at the mall entry. His eyes followed their milk-white gaze. He guessed they were attracted to sounds trapped infected made trying to escape. Two wore market uniforms. Four were clad in nondescript clothing.

  As silently as possible, he took one cautious step at a time toward the drug store, determined to examine bodies for his father. Even as he took his second tentative step, he froze. All the infected swiveled in his direction. Perspiration beaded his forehead as he watched nostrils twitch and blackened fingers flex.

  Coming up on his tiptoes, Kitch stepped unavoidably in and on pools of sticky, black blood and body parts. Clouds of flies buzzed in a frenzy at his disturbance to their morning meal. Sightless infected faced the sound. Fear moved him faster. He glided ghost-like across shards of broken permaglaz glued to the concrete by pools of congealed blood until he made it to the safety of the looted drug store.

  Gratefully, none of the bodies he passed were his father. The nearest corpses were bloated to such distended proportions their disfigured features were lost in swollen black flesh crawling with insects. From Kitch’s limited knowledge of human anatomy, bloating took several days to come about as the relentless sun, constrained gasses, and boring insects did their work. Furthermore, his father was missing by little more than twenty hours.

  Kitch nervously positioned himself behind the dispensing counter where he could see in and out of the drug store. Luckily, the infected moved at a snail’s pace. It dawned on him that the smashed window he stepped through was also the only exit. The rear door was locked. Only grid power and biometric security controls would open it.

  Taking ment
al stock of the shelves contents, it was clear nothing of worth remained, apart from a bottle of disinfectant fallen behind a tray. Tucking it into his pocket, he tiptoed out onto the sidewalk. By that time, six infected were close. He could hear air being sucked in and expelled out through gaping mouths. The sounds reminded Kitch of construction workers shoveling wet concrete.

  Kitch’s nerves broke. He could not prevent the sheer terror or deep revulsion he felt at the sight and stench of death and the infected, sending his feet sprinting ten or so paces across the car park. Over corpses and around stalled shopping trolleys, he raced to leap lightly over the hood of an abandoned vehicle before spinning around. Panting with fear, he shook with adrenaline-powered exertion as he turned to observe the infected. All shuffled in his direction. Arms extended, fingers flexing, they collectively sniffed the air, moaning in what he detected to be a higher pitched, more urgent tone than previously heard.

  The sudden smashing of permaglaz along with a loud, collective moan had the infected stumbling to a halt. Kitch leaped upright, not knowing what to expect. Heart hammering and chest heaving, his rapidly blinking eyes were drawn to a smashed Mexican Grill shop window spilling a mass of infected onto the sidewalk, like maggots flowing from a ruptured corpse. The sheer weight of numbers pressing against the window had collapsed it with a bang.

  A dozen females, several children, and males of all ages shuffled in his direction. The six infected facing the mini-horde sniffed once before turning back to Kitch. Instinct and blind panic overcame caution at the torn and bloody horrors approaching him. Kitch fled as fast as he was able toward the machine-gun emplacements. Mid-leap over the corpse-covered sandbagged barrier, he placed his left hand lightly on a body, but instead of supporting him his hand sank into an old wound, throwing him off balance. He hit the road surface, rolling instinctively as if he were practicing kung-fu. Kitch came to rest on his knees, holding his staff in a protective position.