***
Sam was shocked at how quickly things he had considered relatively permanent were disappearing. He passed over a bridge spanning a small river and the water was already rushing up against the underside of the supports. The culprits were a colony of beavers who had built a gigantic dam a hundred feet downstream from the bridge. When Sam and the dogs got out of the SUV to look at their handy-work the rodents barked at him and stared threateningly like gang members guarding their territory. He knew he would not be able to come this route again, the river would become a lake soon and cover the bridge. They drove on and away from the jeers of the beavers.
The beavers caused him to wonder what was now happening with the hydroelectric dams. Were they shut down, unable to run without the careful hand of humans, or could they possibly be pumping out electricity unconcerned that it wasn't used? Did turbines still turn powering lights and charging batteries? Sam wanted to think so and the image was so strong and appealing, but dams were mostly to the west. He had no interest in going west away from his...well, away from the sea.
This led to another thought which was not nearly so appealing. How about nuclear power plants? What about all that nuclear fuel, evaporating the water in the cooling tanks and now exposed, heating up and radiating like the sun. Eventually the rods would melt down into the earth and there would be a radioactive meltdown caused by an inevitable chemical chain reaction. Hell, there could have already have been a meltdown. Maybe there were nuclear plants already dispersing radioactive clouds of invisible particles and poison rain. There was so much that had been created that wasn't meant to run on its own, but who could have foreseen everyone would just one day disappear? He hoped there was some sort of safety mechanism in the nuclear plants that prevented the scenario he'd just envisioned.
Sam noticed a giant decrepit billboard on the side of the road. He could see it had originally advertised a restaurant with the best pancakes in the state, but was smeared with red painted letters saying 'The End is Near! Repent Before It Is Too Late!"
He rarely noticed the graffiti and signs of the end, his brain had developed an internal filter that allowed it all to simply become invisible most of the time. He didn't like to see such things because it reminded him of the end times, all the chaos, fear, and death. Sam had lived like a small rodent, hiding and coming out of cover with great trepidation. In those days if two people saw each other they were as likely to try to rape, torture, and kill each other as pass on their way.
Sam had killed his first man only a week after the National State of Emergency was announced. He was trudging out of the city with thousands of other refugees, no one talking or even looking at each other as the dreary incessant rain poured down on their cold bodies. A crazed, and perfectly healthy-looking, teenager had rushed from out of a knot of refugees directly at Sam brandishing a dirty knife. Sam was startled and had the lunatic instinct to turn away, that maybe if he didn't make eye contact with the onrushing menace it would go away.
Fortunately, a lady with a shopping cart went in front of the attacker and he spilled over her cursing and swinging his knife wildly, breaking Sam's paralysis. Sam dropped his heavy pack and turned to face the insane kid holding the baseball bat he picked up in front of him like a shield scared out of his wits. He'd never even been in a fistfight in his life and this nut was trying to stick a knife in him. The really unbelievable thing was that the refugees flowed around the two, politely giving them more space, and then simply continued on their way as if nothing was happening.
The youth stood up crouching, knife low and insanity in his eyes, "You took my sister you bastard! I saw you!"
Sam was relieved, the kid obviously had mistaken him for someone else. "Look, son, I don't-"
The boy stepped inside of the bat's range and swung the knife incredibly fast. Sam stepped back instinctively and instead of the blade cutting his throat it only sliced a deep burning gash in his bicep. He looked for a place to run, but there was none. He searched for help in the crowd, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. Sam caught a glimpse of two police officers on the top of a building watching casually while smoking cigarettes. He caught the eye of one who looked back at him with a dead uncaring face.
Sam felt burning across his knuckles and almost dropped the bat. The boy was coming on fast and low. Adrenaline flooded Sam and he swung the bat in a wild arc which caused the desperate kid to slow his advance and step back. They stood staring at each other waiting for an opening, for the other to make a mistake. The boy's patience gave out first and he leaped forward thrusting the knife at Sam's chest.
Sam's instinct took over and his mind was blessedly cleared for a split second. He had been something of a baseball star in high school and even played softball up until several years earlier. Age had taken away his speed and ability to field well, yet even up to a couple of years ago he still had the power and coordination to put a softball over the fence once or twice a game.
He stepped back with his right foot and swung with all his power at the onrushing kid's head striking the boy's forehead with the sweet spot of the bat. The hit felt wrong, like hitting a watermelon. He looked down and saw the boy crumpled in a heap at his feet, his head no longer recognizable.
He looked up at the police and the one who had met his eyes earlier moved his cigarette to his mouth and gave Sam a polite and silent golf clap. Sam dropped the bat and threw up all over the wet pavement. The refugee bubble was already starting to close back up around them, and people stepped over the still warm body of the teenager.
Sam picked up his pack and the bat and kept moving, his disgust and loathing masked by the cold rain. It was not the last man he would have to kill in the days to come.
***
They found an RV park that afternoon. Sam liked RV parks because they had plenty of propane and clean water. Additionally, getting bodies out of an RV was easier than out of a house. It also seemed less personal, less invasive to the corpses' lives and memories somehow.
He probably could have continued on a little farther, but wanted to make sure Scotch got plenty of rest and sleep. The big wolfhound never slept while riding in a vehicle unlike the other dogs.
Sam found the biggest and nicest camper and discovered the door unlocked, a good sign. There were no bodies inside, it appeared to be a mess but un-looted. He checked the gas and water level and found them both at least half full. Sam took a shower and put on new clothes he had procured earlier that day. He then went outside and cranked open the big awning on the side of the camper and started a fire, more for comfort and light than cooking since he could use the camper's stove. He set out a lawn chair and enjoyed the fading sunlight while smoking a stale cigar. Scotch rested on a blanket nearby while the rest of the pack sniffed around the perimeter.
As the last rays of sun faded from the sky, Sam heard mosquitoes buzzing and ate a couple of match heads. The sulfur that was coming out of his pores was from the match heads he had eaten the previous night, but the mosquitoes always reminded him.
He went into the camper and rummaged around in the cabinets until he found several plastic bowls and then went out to the SUV. He pulled out four cans of dog food he'd found at the vet's and plopped one into each plastic bowl, setting Scotch's next to him on the blanket. Sam also filled up a larger metal bowl with clear water out of the faucet and set it out beside the big wolfhound.
Now it was time for Sam's dinner, one he had been anticipating all day. Back in the very rear of the vet's cabinet, Sam had found an extra large can of chili. It had literally been years since he had chili and it was one of his favorite meals. Before The End he wouldn't have dreamed of eating the slop that came out of a can, but now he bet it would taste just exactly like heaven.
He put the chili in a pan and on the gas stove to heat. He'd also found a sleeve of crackers at the vet's he planned to have with the chili. Sam opened the plastic and smelled. It smelled off and he popped one in his mouth experimentally, but almost immediately spit it out.
The cracker tasted like it had been mixed with some sort of chemical. How could crackers go bad, he asked himself? Weren't they just stale bread? He tossed the sleeve of crackers outside onto the fire, not wanting to attract rodents.
Sam dug through the cabinets for another bowl and in the back found a nearly half-full bottle of real Jamaican rum. He pulled it out and was tempted to try it, stopped himself, and instead pulled out a large red glass Pyrex dish. Sam spooned some of the bubbling chili into the bowl and then turned the stove eye to low. He grabbed a spoon and went outside to sit by the fire.
The chili was divine. He gobbled it down licking the inside of the bowl and went back inside for more. He hadn't yet stepped inside before he knew something was wrong. Stomach cramps nearly doubled him over with pain. He went into the bathroom and tried to make himself throw up, but very little came out and he had to spin around quickly to void from the other end. "Damn!" he yelled out. Must have gone bad. Hopefully it was just some little bug and not something serious like botulism. He didn't have any medications for food poisoning, another stupid mistake he had made. How could he possibly be this dumb and still be alive, he asked.
Sam climbed slowly out of the confined toilet and went to turn the stove off and actually did succeed in throwing up into the sink and then couldn't seem to stop dry heaving. Brown liquid and undigested beans looked back up at him accusingly. Sam's knees were wobbly and he had to grab the edge of the sink to hold himself upright.
He needed to lie down for a little bit and then he'd be okay he reasoned. Sam gingerly made his way over to the unkempt bed and let himself drop onto the soft surface. His breathing was heavy and he started to shiver with fever. "This is bad," he said out loud before throwing up all over the floor.
***
People were in the camper with him. Scary people. Whispering fluttering shadows hovering around his bed. The Pack was nowhere to be seen. Sam lifted his head and was instantly racked by pain and nausea. He almost laughed, was this really how it was going to end?
A face materialized out of the shimmering darkness. It was Barbara his daughter, but she looked dark and in distress, not quite real like before.
"Darling?" Sam asked holding out his hand.
The shape moved forward, but didn't take his hand, "We waited for you daddy. It was so scary, but we knew you would come for us, but you never did."
Sam felt like he was choking, "I was...I was trying to get to you. It was-"
"We died terrified and alone because of you," said the face with venom.
He was angry now, "You're not real. You're not my daughter. You're just the delirium, or my guilt, or bad freaking chili!"
Barbara's face vanished, but the shape remained and Rachel took her place.
"How you feel baby?" she asked.
Sam smiled, "Not good, this might be it."
"Not yet," she said. "You're not done."
"I think so. It's been fun and all, but I'm tired of being afraid and alone. Tired of doing nothing for no reason. Tired of living and just waiting to die."
She reached out to caress his cheek and he could almost feel her, "You would leave us there in our house, our bodies to never know a proper burial or rest. You would walk past our home a dozen times and not love us enough to overcome your own fear and weakness. Is that really the sort of husband and father you are? Is that really the sort of man you are?"
He started to answer, but the shape moved away into the mass of swirling darkness moving around the other end of the camper. Sam even thought he saw the crazed boy he had killed with the baseball bat a lifetime ago.
"I'm delirious," he said. "Probably dehydrated too. Need water."
With a herculean effort, he pulled himself upwards and swung his feet to the floor. He stood and almost slipped and fell on his own smelly puke. Sam made his way carefully over to the sink and turned on the faucet and cupped water into his mouth using his hand. His body sucked up the moisture, but his stomach immediately wanted to expel the liquid.
He looked out the window and saw the fire outside burned down low. All the dogs were piled together around Scotch on the blanket. He had shut the camper door the last time he came in which was why they weren't in here with him. Sam loved his pack, they would have chased away these demons if they were here with him.
His eyes caught the bottle of rum again and a memory stirred. Years ago he had gone on a business trip to Romania where the locals would not let any meal pass without a digestive of a fruit brandy called Palinka. They claimed the fiery strong alcohol was actually a health drink that maintained proper digestion and ensured long life. His host later explained to him that for generations people had to eat things that were not totally free from germs or bacteria. He swore on the benefits of Palinka, even explained that alcohol in general was a poison that the human body was able to filter out of its system. Germs and bacteria could not survive in alcohol and thus pouring this poison into the stomach killed them. He said it was as simple as that. Sam had scoffed and laughed at the time, thinking they needed better food hygiene. It seemed at least worth a try now.
With shaking fingers he pulled down the bottle of rum and spun the cap off. He took a generous swig of the rum and almost threw it back up, but held it down. He then took another slow steady drink and put the bottle on the counter.
Sam ignored the dark wraiths around him and stumbled out the door to the jubilant dogs who pranced around him barking as if they thought they would never see him again. He lay down on the blanket beside Scotch and the other dogs soon settled in around him.
If he were going to die, he would die with this friends and not a bunch of ghosts, he decided as he drifted off to feverish stillness.
***
The night was eternal and he wasn't sure if he slept or only drifted in and out of various stages of delirium. By the next morning he was no longer shivering, although everything felt weak. Maybe he would live after all.
The dogs were undaunted and were ready to be off on another adventure. Sam carefully and slowly fed them, got himself some water, vitamins, aspirin, and lay in the lawn chair wrapped in a blanket. He remained this way most of the day, no longer nauseous or racked with diarrhea.
At some point he fully woke and the sun was in the opposite part of the sky. He looked around and saw Scotch wasn't on the blanket anymore. He tried whistling and it came out as a pathetic sound like a tire losing air. He tried again and it was stronger. Raven came around from close behind him, on guard of course. The other dogs barked from nearby and came running up to visit him. Sam basked in their affection and felt better still.
He pushed himself up and looked for something to eat. Sam was afraid of any canned goods now, although most were still likely good, but how was one to know? He needed to find fresh foods and hunt, trap, and fish more. He had been lazy and it had nearly cost him dearly. For now he would have to settle for boiling some rice he'd found in the cabinet. That should be easy on his stomach.
After eating he felt well enough to build up the fire for the night. He wouldn't sleep in that camper filled with the smell of his sickness and the spirits of his guilt. It was warm outdoors anyway and the sky was clear. He fished out the telescope and gazed at the sky until going to sleep and resting deeply.
The next morning he felt almost normal and was eager to be on his way. He knew exactly what his destination was now, maybe what it had been all along. Every trip up and down the coast he had lingered longer and longer near Williamsburg, always finding a reason not to stop. Maybe this was why he couldn't move away from the coast. This time he intended to stop this endless dance.
He wasn't going to try to go down I-64, that was still a nightmarish scene. There were smaller roads and a few other routes. Sam couldn't go anywhere near Norfolk, although that would likely be the easiest route. He could just imagine the piles of death and decomposition there. Instead he would cross over the little two lane bridge near old Jamestown.
Sam traveled north and east for several days before
coming to the bridge, half fearing and half hoping something had happened to it, maybe destroyed in a storm. It was still intact, but the two lanes were hopelessly clogged. He took the SUV as close as he could and then parked on a hill, maybe he would come back this way someday and need the vehicle.
Loading gear into the wagon he had carried all the way from Key West, he put on his pack and started walking down the middle of the bridge clogged with three lanes of vehicles. The dogs stayed close to him with Raven out on point as normal.
On the other side of the bridge Jamestown National Park emerged, the site of the first permanent settlement in America, a horrifically swampy and disease-filled location with little room for crops or grazing animals. A place where for the first one hundred years of its existence, five out of seven settlers died within their first year of arrival. It looked peaceful enough now, but Sam was uninterested. He had taken the tours and he moved on steadily towards his destination.
Sam found a pickup truck with a camper top he was able to get started and filled up with fuel. He drove onto the old historic scenic road and was surprised at how few abandoned vehicles he encountered. He supposed it was because the scenic road didn't really lead anywhere other than to connect the triangle of three historical sites: Jamestown, Old Williamsburg, and Yorktown.
He slowly made his way to their neighborhood and street and not much had changed since he'd visited it last almost six years before. The old maple in the front yard had fallen down in some windstorm, missing the house by inches. Even the windows appeared unbroken. He got out of the truck and walked to the front door and remembered the letter and photo on the door, both of which were tucked away safely in his pack. No notes or instructions this time.
01.5 Reaper's Run Page 22
