Survive (Day 1)

by A. R. Wise

  She groaned, and then said, “Yes.”

  Porter wasn’t sure how much time had passed. His head hurt, and so did his ankle. He was in an odd position on the right side of the Jeep, which was now the bottom. His back was against broken glass, dirt, and dry grass.

  Gasoline burned his eyes and nose as it pooled beneath him in the ditch.

  He heard their attacker’s door close. The man who drove them off the road started laughing, and then asked, “You guys need help?”

  Red was stuck awkwardly by his seat belt, half in his seat and half over the center console.

  Porter could hear the slow, steady crunch of their assailant’s feet on the gravel along the side of the road.

  “He’s coming,” said Porter, but it was a struggle to speak. The crash had stolen his breath, and he had to gasp to get it back. “Move. Move out of the… way.” He pointed the pistol up, past Red, at the window where he thought their attacker might appear.

  “Don’t shoot,” said Red. “The gas. You’ll blow us all up. Give me the gun.”

  Porter didn’t want to, but he knew Red was right. Shooting this close to the gasoline could ignite the fumes. At least Red stood a chance of getting out of the Jeep to take a shot. He tried to stretch to give his brother the gun, but before he could he heard June say, “I’ve got it.”

  June had one of Porter’s guns from a bag in the back seat, and was already climbing out of her window.

  “June, no,” said Porter as he watched the lithe woman climb out of the vehicle.

  She was impressively agile, and quickly stood on top of the over-turned Jeep, yelling at their attacker, “Freeze, asshole.”

  “June, what’re you doing?” asked Red.

  “Get out of the Jeep,” said June to her boyfriend.

  She jumped off the vehicle, and out of their sight. Red yelled after her as he struggled to free himself from his seatbelt.

  Gasoline soaked the ground under Porter.

  Red got himself free, and then climbed out of the Jeep. He didn’t know whether to go to June’s aid, or help his brother. Porter felt dizzy, and he hoped it was because of the gasoline and not a more serious injury. He pushed away the deflated airbag, and then looked up through the sideways Jeep. He holstered his pistol as he started to climb.

  “Take my hand,” said Red from the top of the Jeep. “There’s gas leaking. You’ve got to get out of there.”

  “Go help June,” said Porter. “I can get out by myself. Go help…”

  A gunshot cut him off. Red turned his attention to June, and jumped off the Jeep, leaving Porter to get out by himself.

  Porter’s world spun, and he felt his lungs clenching. Each breath came with a struggle, and his vision blurred. As he was climbing out, his foot slipped off the edge of the seat he’d been standing on. He fell back down hard, and his already sensitive ankle gave out. He crumpled, cursed, and then got back up while putting his weight on the ankle that hadn’t been hurt. Broken glass clung to his face, stuck by sweat, gas, and blood.

  He heard Red yell, “Back off!”

  Porter climbed with newfound determination. He used the steering wheel to pull himself up, and accidentally turned on the wipers. They groaned and fought against the weeds pressed against the windshield. The engine still rumbled, unsteady but determined to stay alive, just like Porter.

  He gripped the window sill on the driver’s side and lifted himself up, cresting the edge of the Jeep and gaining a view of the scene playing out on the street.

  June had run about thirty yards from the Jeep, and the man from the truck had chased her. The glowing green of the northern lights lit the scene with rippling, haunting effect. The young woman stood with both arms held straight out, the gun pointed directly at her aggressor. Red was at the third point of the triangle the three of them formed, too far from June to take the gun, and too far from their assailant to attack.

  “Stop, please,” she said, her words trembling as much as her arms. She didn’t want to have to kill the man.

  The tall, gangly attacker loped forward like a drunkard through an alley. He was shirtless, and his chest was lacerated in several spots. Fresh blood dripped down his greasy skin, and twinkled with northern light. “I just want to help.”

  The knife in his hand reflected green.

  Porter was emerging from the driver’s side of the Jeep, and anchored himself by getting good footholds on the seat and steering wheel. He took out his pistol, prepared to take the shot that June feared. As he aimed, he smelled something that gave him pause. Smoke.

  “Shoot him,” said Red to June, ignorant of his brother’s intention to do the same.

  June pleaded with the stranger again, “Please stop.”

  The stranger kept moving towards her.

  Something was on fire. Porter looked at the grass in the ditch that’d been pressed down by the front end of the crashed Jeep. It smoldered.

  Gasoline dripped from Porter’s drenched clothes. “Red, get to the other side of the road! The Jeep’s going to blow.”

  Flames burgeoned at the front of the Jeep, fed by dry grass. Porter stayed his ground, the gun aimed at the man threatening June.

  Red saw his brother’s intent, and the fire that was moments away from igniting the gasoline. He stepped between Porter and his target. He raised his arms to block Porter’s view while yelling, “Don’t shoot! The gas!”

  “Move,” said Porter, convinced he would have to do what June couldn’t.

  June took aim, but begged the man to stop.

  “Move,” yelled Porter at his brother.

  The attacker made a mad dash at June, the knife held out in front of him like a spear. June fired. The shot caught the man in the shoulder and spun him. She fired a second, and then third time, screaming in fright and anger as she did. The man fell to the ground only a few feet from his killer, and the knife skittered across the pavement.

  Red glanced behind him to make sure the attacker was down, and then ran to the Jeep while taking off his sweatshirt. He leapt into the ditch, and covered the growing flames with his shirt. He kept yelling, “Get out,” over and over.

  Porter holstered his gun and yelled at Red, “Get away. Run!” The open door of the Jeep blocked his view of his brother as he climbed out. He could see the flashing shadows and orange light of flames. When he jumped off the Jeep, his weight caused the vehicle to shift, rolling a bit further into the ditch. The moving platform made his leap clumsier than it would’ve been normally, and he fell to his knees on the gravel beside the road. His fists pounded against pavement. It hurt nearly as bad as a few days earlier when he punched holes in the walls of his house in anger upon discovering that Mary had left him.

  Red was still at the front of the Jeep, trying to put out the persistent flames. The two brother’s eyes locked. Red pleaded, “Run!”

  Porter crawled towards his brother as he started to get up. Blood dripped from a head wound he hadn’t realized he had. He slid into the ditch, down to Red. “Come on,” said Porter as he reached for his brother’s arm.

  Porter’s grip slipped on his brother’s sweaty skin.

  Red looked at Porter, and then back at the flames that he’d nearly been able to extinguish. The fire had started to gain strength again. “The supplies,” said Red. “All your stuff! I can put the fire out. I can do it.”

  Porter wrapped his right arm around his brother’s waist, and lifted him off the ground. He threw him a few feet back, into the grass in the ditch. “Run!”

  The fire intensified, fueled by something more than just dry grass. A pillar of flame rose behind Porter, licking at the green sky.

  A sharp, whining noise escaped from somewhere on the vehicle.

  Porter was certain the gas cans were about to explode. This could be his last few moments alive. If he only had time to utter a couple words to Red, he knew what he wanted them to be.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” asked Red, dumbfounded by his brother’s su
dden, bizarre statement in the midst of impending destruction. “Get your ass moving.” He stood and grabbed his brother’s jacket. He led the way as the two of them charged through the tall, dry weeds.

  Red screamed as he tore through the vegetation. Porter’s ankle prevented him from moving fast, but the growing flames were good motivation.

  The sharp, loud whining from the Jeep ended just before one of the gas cans exploded. The noise was loud enough to cause Porter’s ears to ring. Red slowed, and turned to look at the fireball rising into the sky behind them.

  Porter couldn’t hear him, but he could read Red’s lips as his brother gazed up and said, “Whoa.”

  “Keep going,” said Porter, although he couldn’t hear himself over the ringing in his ears. “The guns. The ammo! It’s gonna blow.”

  Red must’ve understood, because his eyes grew wide and fearful.

  If they stayed in the ditch, they were in the line of fire once the ammunition started to fire. Porter grabbed his brother to get his attention, and then pointed to the road. They climbed the ditch’s hill to get back to the pavement, and then ducked as they ran across the road. Red dove into the ditch on the other side, but Porter was limping along, still only halfway across the street.

  His ears couldn’t make out much beyond intense ringing. He knew the explosions from the Jeep were intensifying, but less because of the sound and more from the heat and frequent vibrations on the pavement.

  Red was laying in the ditch, watching as Porter ran towards him. He was screaming, but Porter couldn’t hear him.

  Something stung Porter’s left calf, and caused him to stumble. He fell to his knees, and looked down at his leg in confusion. There was a gash on the side of his jeans, and his skin was torn.

  Red got out of the ditch and rushed to his brother’s aid. Porter tried to yell at him to get back to the ditch, but it didn’t do any good. Red grabbed his brother’s hands and pulled him like a wounded soldier across a battlefield. They reached the other side of the road, and then fell purposefully into the ditch as bullets and shrapnel from the exploding Jeep shot out across the area.

  They hid from the calamitous end of their transportation, and the supplies it carried. As they sat in the ditch, waiting for the danger to pass, Porter inspected his leg. Either a bullet or a piece of shrapnel had torn through his jeans, and took a dime-sized hunk of flesh with it. He wasn’t worried about the wound, but the possibility of an infection could pose a problem. They didn’t even have alcohol anymore, let alone antibiotics.

  Red watched worriedly as Porter checked his wound. He gave his little brother a thumb’s up to allay any concern.

  Red surprised Porter by giving him a hard and sudden embrace. Porter reciprocated, at first in kindness, and then with a desperate need he hadn’t expected. He felt his brother’s chest shudder with sobs, and the gravity of what they’d survived hit him as well. The two squeezed each other with a fervor, adoration, and love they hadn’t shared since their mother’s funeral.

  The ringing in Porter’s ears began to subside, and he could hear his brother saying, “I fucking love you.”

  “I love you too, little brother,” said Porter. “I love you too.”

  June appeared in the weeds of the ditch. She made her way to rejoin them. The pistol was at her side, pointed straight down, and her posture leaned as if the weapon weighed a hundred pounds. Her eyes were rimmed with tears.

  Porter was still holding Red. His brother’s back faced June.

  There was blood on June’s pale cheek, cleaned only by her tears. Red was oblivious to her silent approach.

  “Are you guys okay?” she asked. “Do you need help?”

  Porter raised his gun, pointing past Red at the young woman.

  “June?” asked Red when he heard her. He began to turn, blocking Porter’s view.

  “Red, no,” said Porter as he pushed Red away. He needed to see if June had been affected by the same illness that seemed to be spreading through the populace. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  “Hey, wait,” said June. “No, no, wait!” She dropped her gun and raised her hands. “What’re you doing?”

  Red saw his brother aim at June, and lunged to push away the weapon. “Stop!”

  “Are you one of them?” asked Porter.

  “One of who?” asked June.

  “Whatever they were,” said Porter as he pointed back towards the road. “Did that guy cut you?”

  “No,” said June. “I shot him.”

  “Why’s there blood on your face?” asked Porter.

  “Because I cut myself when I jumped into the ditch.”

  “Put your gun down,” said Red to Porter angrily.

  “How do we know she’s telling the truth?”

  “Fuck you,” said June. “I just shot a guy back there.” Her voice broke as the sorrow of what she’d been forced to do affected her again. Another tear fell down her cheek.

  Red moved away from his brother, and went to June.

  “Red, don’t,” said Porter.

  His brother ignored him, and embraced his girlfriend. June pressed her face to his nude chest and wept. Red glared at Porter as he held her.

  The Jeep’s continuing fire lit half of Red’s face, glimmering in the beads of sweat on his forehead. The aurora borealis lit Red’s other half, glowing with otherworldly brilliance, creating a juxtaposition of light.

  An unnaturally bright midnight arrived, illuminated by earthly flames and solar particles, signaling the start of another long, treacherous day.

  Continued in Survive – Day Two

  Due out November 30th, 2016

  Author’s Note

  WARNING: If you’re going to bitch about there being an Author’s Note at the end of this book, then don’t fucking read it. I made the mistake of allowing a few complainers to influence me into not writing these at the end of my books a year ago, and I regret it. These Author’s Notes give me a chance to connect with the readers I cherish, and I’m going to do it every chance I get.

  This series is the start of something incredible for me.

  My writing career began in November of 2011 when I released my first novella, Deadlocked. I won’t go into the details about why I wrote that book (because I already chronicled the process in the Author’s Notes in those books), but the short version of that long story is that writing Deadlocked was a way for me to deal with my mother’s cancer.

  Throughout my entire life, I wanted to be a writer. I ignored that dream for most of my life, and instead focused on a regular career. During that time, my mother would always ask me how my writing was going, because she knew that despite what success I might have in the business world, my heart was in my writing. However, in the fall of 2011, my mother was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer, and I had to face the fact that I might never accomplish my dream while she was alive. I knew I had to change that.

  Writing Deadlocked was a cathartic way for me to deal with my mother’s cancer. It helped me focus on something other than her disease. Then, in early 2012, something unexpected happened. The books took off.

  For a period of at least a year, if you typed the word ‘zombie’ into Amazon, Deadlocked was one of the first few items to appear. I have no clue how I got so lucky, but it changed my life. The Deadlocked series was a huge hit, propelled by the public’s fascination at the time with the subject matter.

  I was curious if I owed all my success to the zombie fad, and so I set out to write something completely different. That’s where the 314 series came from, and it was a far bigger success than Deadlocked. To this day, the 314 series outsells everything I’ve ever written.

  From 2012 until the start of 2016, I was riding high. Everything seemed to click. The books were doing great, and my mother’s cancer went into remission. Then, as often happens, my world came crashing down on me. My mother’s cancer returned with a vengeance, and it became clear to us that she was losing her battle. On top of that, my wife suffered the mis
carriage of our third child. 2016 was trying hard to be the worst year of my life.

  I tried to remain strong, and be the type of person who storms ahead no matter what obstacle gets thrown in their way, all the while ignoring the fact that I was falling apart. I didn’t get depressed the way I would’ve expected. I wasn’t crying and lying in bed all day. I never had suicidal feelings, or anything like that. Instead, my depression zeroed in on my writing, and tore me apart inside out. It crippled my confidence. Every time I sat down to write, it felt like I was participating in a charade – like I was faking it and churning out subpar work.

  I nearly stopped writing all together.

  On July 5th, 2016, my mother passed away. The cancer had made its way to her brain, and it stole her from us.

  I remember thinking of the scene in Deadlocked 3 where Billy discovered his mother’s lifeless body, and how he cherished her so much. I felt every bit of pain reflected in those pages.

  My writing hit an all-time low, and I sunk deeper into my depression. I was producing next to nothing up until recently.

  Then, out of nowhere, everything changed.

  While sitting at a restaurant in Boulder, Colorado, my muse returned with a fervor and intensity that I haven’t felt in at least three years – possibly even longer. Inspiration flooded me, and I couldn’t wait to sit back down and write.

  However, I knew the specter of whatever depression I’ve been suffering was waiting to cloud me once again. I had to find a way to stave it off, which led me to read some of the kind reviews some of my other books received. I turned to reviews of the final book in the Deadlocked series, and started to comb through reviews I’d never read before.

  I read review after review of fans talking about how much the Deadlocked series had meant to them. Over and over, people talked about how they laughed and cried along with the characters, and how they’d read the books over and over. They talked about how sad they were that the series was finished, but how thankful they were to have read them.

  I’m not ashamed to admit I sat here balling my eyes out.