Survival_Book 1_And Tomorrow

by Ralph F. Halse

  By now, Kitch’s heart was thundering in his chest so hard that he could barely see straight. The fate that might have befallen his father was about to block out all other reasoning. Kitch was in the throes of an OCD-driven panic attack, and there was nothing he could do but ride it out. Standing on top of a sandy mound, he felt his body betray him as his left leg dropped him in a crouch, much to his two guards giggled amusement. Regaining some measure of control, he moved shakily toward the bonfire, around which were seated the construction site’s inhabitants, drinking alcohol and laughing loudly. Some were sharing the contents of pre-packaged food the patrol had brought back.

  Perspiring profusely, Junior greeted Kitch outside the circle of squatting youths closest to the fire. “You ready to meet dear old Daddy, you twitchy little fuck?”

  “Junior,” Kitch said. “You’d best not have hurt him...”

  Stepping close to Kitch, faster than he could have imagined, Junior jabbed Kitch so hard in the chest with his index finger, Kitch was propelled backward several paces. “What the fuck are you going to do about it if I have, Twitchy?” he demanded word by word, slamming his index finger repeatedly into Kitch’s chest so hard, he eventually knocked him off his feet.

  As he laid flat on the ground, looking up in surprise on his elbows, Kitch’s arms and legs went into uncontrolled spasms.

  Looming over the twitching Kitch, Junior sneered with utter contempt. “Fuck all by the look of it, you pathetic spastic screw up, now get up. Our entertainment’s about to begin, and you’re fucking it,” Junior said hauling Kitch upright by his hair. Gone was any pretense of friendship or normality—the true Junior was present. “I told you, you’d have to earn your keep. Well, I sort of fibbed. My bad, Twitchy. Staying alive depends on whether you pass my test. It’s a new thing Connor and I decided on today after you showed up, all twenty-fourth century, smelling like fresh soap. You want to be a Viking, you gotta pass a test of blood and guts.”

  Throwing Kitch to the ground again, he leaned dangerously over him. Coming to a squat, he stared Kitch in the face with an intense madness glaring out of crazed blood-shot eyes. “This is it, Twitchy. Survive, and you’re a Viking. Fail—” he sniggered as he shrugged “—and well, you’re just another useless asshole I’ll feed to the infected when I’m good’n ready.”

  “What about my father?” a desperate Kitch rasped as he tried to stand.

  Junior hauled him to his feet. “Yes, what to do about Daddy?” he asked, pretending to be thoughtful, prodding Kitch toward two lines of jeering teenagers standing either side of a long pit beside which torches soaked in some flammable material burned.

  His heart pounded so hard in his ears, Kitch couldn’t make out any words the disorderly teenagers were shouting. He stumbled to a halt, and all he could hear was his breathing as he looked around. He was shoved hard between the shoulder blades by Junior as his Tourette’s jerked at his limbs. Twitching at the edge of the pit, Kitch could see nothing in the hole except darkness. Junior stood with his back to the fire, chugging at a bottle of vodka. He set the bottle aside and spread his arms wide. The teenagers fell silent, watching the drama unfold. Grinning at Kitch’s frowning face as it took in teenagers moving in on the sides of the pit, Junior shouted, “Now.”

  As one, ten males collected a flaming torch each. Holding the snapping flame high above their heads, they each took a pace toward the pit. The crowd roared expectantly and jumped up and down. Kitch looked down, studying the trench shadows. Flickering torch flames illuminated the interior. There in the bottom of the trench looking up with that blind, vacant white-eyed, drooling, open-mouth stare, only the infected could produce, stood his father, moaning and clawing pathetically at the pit’s sandy sides.

  To Kitch’s horror, his father was not trying to escape but to attack his tormentors. A fresh bite of human proportions gaped bloody and weeping on his father’s neck. Another bite had torn away most of his left cheek, exposing his teeth and tongue. Deep fingernail scratches scored Mike’s face, throat, and neck.

  “Say hello to Daddy, Twitchy,” Junior said cruelly, booting Kitch in the small of his back, sending him flying face-first into the trench.

  Kitch landed flat on his chest. Spitting sand, he rose shakily to his feet facing his father who turned clumsily in his direction snapping his jaws so hard that Kitch could hear his teeth clack.

  Junior yelled, “Oh yeah, here’s your toothpick.” He heaved the staff at Kitch’s head like a spear so hard that he had to duck to avoid having his brains smashed in.

  The staff pierced the ground at Kitch’s feet. Gripping it with both hands, he looked at his father in bewilderment. That was enough to set the teenagers off. Males and females crowded the rim, screaming, “Kill, kill, kill,” over and over again. Through his tears, Kitch saw drunken, contorted faces. He heard voices demanding blood and pain, but this was his father. A kind, gentle man, who dedicated his life to raising him. A sensitive man to his very core, who agonized and suffered through every TS attack and crisis Kitch endured.

  Snarling and slobbering, arms extended into claw-like fingers probing the air, his disfigured father advanced, head canted, teeth snapping. Kitch harbored little doubt the creature that was once his father would kill him, if it got its hands on him.

  His heart was torn with anguish as Kitch took a hasty pace backward, but that was his last. His back was to the trench wall. The bloodthirsty, howling teenagers’ noise was so intrusive that Kitch had difficulty concentrating. He was yelling too at his father. Despite his pleas for his dad to acknowledge him, nothing resembling the intelligent, loving and generous humored human being he’d once worshiped would ever register love for Kitch in those milk-white eyes again.

  Kitch didn’t have the heart to kill his father. But he remembered what Caitlin had said. The infected’s motor skills were so poor that they could not duck under a simple barrier. Kitch flipped his staff side on. His tormentors believing he was about to attack, roared in anticipation of the death fight. Instead, Kitch wedged the staff into the trenches sides at chest height, cheating them and then, he stepped back. When his father came up against the immovable barrier, he continued to push forward, clawing ineffectually at Kitch’s face. Kitch pushed himself as far back into the sandy wall as possible and turned his head sideways. Even so, his father’s claw-like swipes barely missed his face.

  Robbed of their blood sport, the intoxicated crowd booed and threw empty bottles. For the first time, his father displayed cognition. After a bottle struck his head, he turned and shambled away from Kitch to explore the other end of the trench.

  Something painful latched onto Kitch’s hair. Kicking in protest, Kitch was hauled half out of the trench. It was Junior. Leaning close to Kitch’s ear, the kneeling giant yelled over the screaming, frustrated teenagers as he held a knife to Kitch’s exposed throat. “If you don’t do the old fucker in, shit-for-brains, I will. Guess what happens then, fuck stick? I’ll do him limb by limb because you made me look like an asshole. I’ll do you the same way... only you’ll be tied to a stake. Legs first, arms next and that thick, fucking, spastic head of yours last.” As he heaved Kitch back into the trench, he yelled, “One minute, dip shit. Then I’m coming in with this.” Junior brandished a long-handled shovel. Its head was sharpened into a wickedly curved blade resembling a scythe. Wielded by Junior, it could probably cut straight through his torso.

  At that precise moment, Caitlin’s pleading eyes met Kitch’s. Among the confusion of his Tourette’s, the drunken shouts, beating drum and pounding heart, she mouthed the words in a slow pronunciation between cupped hands, so no one else could see. “Do it because you love him.” Her deeply concerned eyes radiated anguish.

  His eyes were drawn from Caitlin’s pinched face to his father’s drooling features. Time slowed to a watery series of frozen moments. A sea of hate-filled faces surrounding the trench screamed for his death and yet, gone was the noise of aggressive shouting. He could hear nothing but his heart beating.
As he blinked aside a flood of tears and sniffed back moisture, his father’s torn and bloody face swung into focus.

  Kitch understood what Caitlin was saying, and he could prevent two hideous things happening to his father. The first was frustrating Junior’s plans of cruel torture. The second, to prevent his father becoming like those poor soulless creatures outside, forever wandering the earth until the flesh rotted from their bones and their brains melted in their skulls, releasing them from the evil they’d endured.

  Gripping the staff in both hands, he tugged it out of the trench wall. A dull roar penetrated his consciousness. The ground shook with stamping feet, disturbed sand slipped into the trench in long, flowing runnels. Shapes shifted on the periphery of his vision as teenagers holding torches capered gleefully. But Kitch was having none of that. Though he risked Junior’s wrath, he cried out his love in heartfelt anguish to his father time and time again. Teenagers looming over the edge of the pit mocked and imitated him, to the amusement of their friends.

  Ever so slowly, the creature that was his father turned to face him. Opening and closing its jaws, Mike McCall snapped at the empty air as he advanced on Kitch, who positioned himself in a classic attack pose. Left leg forward, right leg bent and braced with his staff raised to shoulder height to strike or defend.

  As his father neared, hot tears of anguish streamed down Kitch’s face, blurring his vision. Taking a breath, Kitch screamed at the top of his voice for the last time, “Dad, I love you.” With that, he drove the sharpened staff point-first through his father’s left eye with all the force he could muster. So hard was his thrust, the sharpened point punched through his father’s infected brain, mashing it to a pulp to emerge through the back of his skull, bloody and weeping brain matter before he tugged it free.

  A collective roar sounded in Kitch’s ears. He let go of the staff to catch his falling Dad. Sinking to the bottom of the trench on his knees, Kitch stroked his father’s bloody hair, repeatedly telling him how sorry he was. Gradually the light faded as bored teenagers retreated to the bonfire and their alcohol. Kitch was not certain how much time elapsed when he felt someone shaking his shoulders.

  “Kitch, time to burn your dad,” a female voice said.

  “Burn? Christ on a cross, can’t he be left any dignity and be buried?” Kitch wept and went back to stroking his father’s hair.

  “No,” Caitlin gently replied, prizing his hands away.

  It was so dark at the bottom of the trench that Kitch could barely see her face. He heard two other females in the trench breathing beside him. “All government messages said the only sure way to stop the infection was cremation. We’ll help you. You and I, we’ll take his legs. The others will get his arms.”

  Struggling in the dark and narrow trench with the weight of his father’s body, the four managed to climb a ladder. At last, they rested breathless with the body on the sandy soil at. Noise from the macabre celebration Junior held in Kitch’s honor was in full swing. Drunken teenagers cavorted naked around the bonfire. Some were out cold with empty bottles nearby. Half a dozen couples were having sex, while others looked enthusiastically on. Several males were swaying on their feet nearby. One raised his bottle to Kitch in a silent salute before he drank to his success. Junior was standing with his back to Kitch talking to Connor, Pi, and several warrior types. Connor said something and Junior half turned, shrugged and returned to his conversation briefly before confronting an exhausted Kitch.

  “Well, fucking well, our twitchy warrior returns,” Junior sneered. He made a waving motion to Connor, who dropped his weapon and along with seven others, trotted over to Kitch. Thinking he was to be attacked, Kitch stood and faced them with his staff. Connor and his crew skidded to a halt.

  “Whoa there, girly pants,” Junior said stepping between them. “Can’t have the infected in here, Twitchy. What’s gotta be done, gotta be done.”

  Junior planted his huge paw on Kitch’s chest as the teenagers picked up his father’s corpse and tossed it unceremoniously into the center of the bonfire. Junior didn’t turn to see what Connor was doing. He was staring hard into Kitch’s weeping face until he eventually stepped back.

  Kitch found himself guided into a dark shadow made by a tall sugar maple. Numbly he sat and watched the flames consume his father’s corpse. “He plans to kill you in a spectacular way, Kitch,” Caitlin said, gently wiping tears from his face with cold water poured onto her hand.

  “No, he won’t,” Kitch replied with mounting anger. “He said I’d be a Viking. Not that I want to stay here.”

  “Yes, he will. This wasn’t an ad hoc fight, Kitch. He and Connor planned this to the last detail. They’ve had plenty of practice. Junior hates you because of your Tourette’s. So, does Connor. I figure Junior cottons to the fact you remind him of who he really is, but Connor thinks you could be a rival to run this place after he kills Junior. Xavier told him you had a high IQ, that’s made him leery.”

  Kitch’s eyes flashed curiosity at her in the dark. “Kills Junior?”

  Squatting, Caitlin added, “Connor’s got a higher-than-normal opinion of himself, believes he was born to rule. He and his clique of followers have a plan to kill Junior, but he’s too chickenshit to carry it out. He knows if he doesn’t kill Junior outright, he’s dead in several slow and painful ways. Look over my shoulder. Junior’s sitting on a stump with his back to you, waiting for you to attack him.” She shifted slightly to permit a better view of the bonfire being fed by several teenagers.

  Junior was hunched forward, arms on his knees, studying the fire clutching nothing but a third empty vodka bottle.

  “It’s natural, he said to Connor, you’ll be pissed and eager to kill him. Anger will displace your fear. Even so, Connor and his crew are hiding in the sand either side of Junior. The second you confront him, Junior will distract you while Connor bashes you on the head. You’ll wake up in the morning tied to a post. As a lesson to the others, Junior plans to hack your legs and arms off with that chopper Xavier designed. He’ll go into his Viking routine and mock you as a weakling, not worthy of a Viking title. As you bleed out, after a dozen cuts, he’ll cut deeper’n, deeper until you’re gushing blood.” Caitlin pleaded, “Please, Kitch. Don’t fall for it. Stand up, take your things,” she said pushing his backpack into his hands. “And go.”

  Kitch caught his face with both hands as he leaned against her waist, sobbing. “He’s taken everything from me. I hate him.” He wept.

  “No, he hasn’t, Kitch. Not everything,” Caitlin replied, stroking his face gently. “You have your life, which means another chance at revenge. Trust me,” she said tapping the side of her head. “I kill that mean bastard every day up here, and one day, I promise you, I’ll do it for real.”

  Kitch straightened. Out of a tear-streaked face, he said, “I’m not leaving without you. I’ve just lost the most important person in the world. I’m not about to walk away from an opportunity with you. Come with me?”

  “He’s got my little sister locked up,” she hissed, pulling away. “I can’t.”

  “Caitlin, they’re all drunk, now’s the time. Let’s go.”

  “Only if we take all the little ones,” she demanded in a husky voice.

  Standing and pulling her deeper into the shadows, Kitch whispered, “I can’t, and I can’t explain why right now. I can take you and your sister, but that’s it.”

  “No! All or I’m staying.”

  “I promise you, I will come back for them. We can’t take them now. You’ll understand why after we’re over the wall.”

  Caitlin nodded, seemingly willing to take a chance. “The door’s not locked. It’s tied with a chain, so the guards can easily let them out to be fed.”

  “Lead the way,” Kitch said, crouching and moving farther into the dark.

  Using the fire’s reflection, Caitlin guided Kitch to the shack. Placing her ear to the door, she repeatedly whispered for her sister. Eventually, a filthy, skinny hand poked through the gap to
clutch at Caitlin. As quietly as possible, she let the chain loose and pulled her out. Not a sound was heard from inside.

  “Why aren’t the others making a noise?” Kitch asked as Caitlin scooped her trembling sister up into her arms.

  “They’re terrified, or I should say too traumatized to speak or feel anything for fear of Junior.”

  “Let’s go,” Kitch said with sadness weighing his heart down at the depths to which human kindness had plunged.

  As they turned to leave, a deep bass male voice halted them, “Going somewhere, dipshits?”

  Instinctively, Kitch came to an attack posture. A grinning Pi appeared in the dim light holding his weapon threateningly across his massive chest. “Boss is gonna be real pleased when I bring him his favorite female pet and number one spaz to play with.” He spat before he nodded at Marie trembling in Caitlin’s arms to show his contempt. “I’m willing to bet he’ll teabag that grub over the wall as a crowd pleaser tomorrow night.” Grinning evilly at Caitlin, he added, “He’ll watch you squirm before he drops her into the infected to snack on.”

  Raising his spear, Pi added, “Xavier told the boss you two were talking. He said that Twitchy’s a smart little fucker and to watch him real close, so I did. Xavier predicted the breeder’d bring you here. He said I should bring a squad to wait for you.” His eyes flicked contemptuously between the two. “I told him, I don’t need no squad to handle you assholes.” He smiled evilly at Kitch as he contemptuously added, “Did you know your dad wasn’t infected when we found him? Stupid old fucker actually thought we were fixing to take him straight to you. Fuck me, it was funny. His wrinkly old face lit up like it was Christmas. He was telling us all teary-eyed how proud he was of you, pulling yourself through tough times’n all that bullshit.”

  He raised his left hand and repeatedly opened and closed it, saying, “Blah-fucking-blah he went until Connor roped three infected. We locked your old man in a public shitter with the three assholes. Near wet my pants laughing I did, at the expression on his face when I chucked your old man in there. You should’ve heard your old man scream and carry on when they started biting him.” Pi’s grin widened even further. His fat belly folds jiggled as he laughed at the evil memory. “As soon as it quieted down, we knew your old boy was a goner. Lucky he wasn’t chewed up too much, so we roped him and... well, here we are, one big happy family, under the boss.