James Alfred McCann
Iron Mask Press Richmond BC
Copyright Page
Children of Ruin
First Publication by Iron Mask Press
EBook ISBN 978-09937486-3-9
Paperback ISBN 978-0-9937486-4-6
© 2018 by James Alfred McCann.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the author. If you downloaded this book from a torrent site, the author received no compensation and you are reading stolen material.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Edited by Mary Ellen Reid.
Cover Photography by Adobe Images
Interior photography by iStock Photo
Cover design by Jessica Cole www.jesswesley.com
For more information
www.jamesmccann.info
Copyrighted Material
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Children of Ruin
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Books by James Alfred McCann
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About the Author
In regione caecorum rex est luscus.
(In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.)
Desiderius Erasmus,
Dutch author, philosopher, & scholar (1466 - 1536)
Chapter One
No matter how hard I rubbed my hands against my clothes, my stepfather’s sons’ blood wouldn’t wipe off. It doesn’t matter anymore, I told myself as I stood, exposed, where the trees clustered in open spaces on the outskirts of the dense woods behind me. I spied my only hope to survive—a roadblock of soldiers posted just outside town. I counted seven of them and wrote this down in my notebook. It was important to record everything. Had become important when the army enforced martial law. Ever since the end of the world had been at hand.
Only two arrows left. One stained with the blood of Kyle, my eldest stepbrother. This one I will save to kill my stepfather. I put it back into my quiver and took out the unstained arrow. With shaking hands, I nocked it, drew back the bow’s string, and inhaled deeply. Once the fletching rested beneath my chin, my shaking stopped. This shot didn’t need to kill; it needed to get the soldiers’ attention so they’d chase me.
The bow twanged as the arrow released. I turned and fled. Bullets cut through the trees. The soldiers chased me into the woods. I led them toward my home, to where my stepfather was waiting to kill me. I ran until I stood at the edge of the trees, where a small farmhouse sat in the center of an empty field.
“Harbinger!” my stepfather screamed, huddled with a rifle in a roost atop the house. I didn’t even know what a harbinger was. “The end times are not coming, they are here!”
The scar that crossed his scalp and cut over his face was visible from where I stood. Even with only his right eye, my stepfather was a flawless sharpshooter. One good shot and I would have been dead. I considered letting the soldiers catch me. But if they did, they would never help me—they would know what I had done. They would know why I had blood on my hands.
“I’m not the child you forced helpless into the woods!” I yelled, taunting him, as I tried again to wipe the blood from my hands.
“Where are my sons?” my stepfather yelled back from the roost. He searched the edge of the woods with the riflescope, and I knew he was waiting for me to show. I spied the open cellar doors just a short sprint away. Was this a trap set by my stepfather in hopes I was stupid enough to make a dash for the shelter?
Thing was, I was that stupid.
The soldiers crashed through the bushes as if telling me to act now. If I made a break, zigzagged, my stepfather might miss me. When the military emerged, he’d care more about stopping them than catching me. Surely, self-preservation was greater than his thirst for revenge.
Running with the loaded bow was impossible, so I sheathed the arrow. Then I took a deep breath. I dashed from the woods, and the crack of his gun echoed moments before the dirt exploded right at my feet. He hadn’t missed—he was toying with me. I zigzagged, tried to keep moving, as my stepfather repeatedly shot the dirt inches from my feet. He wasn’t going to let me make it to the shelter, and there was no way I could flee back to the woods.
I stopped. Stood in the field, bow in hand, and glared up at my stepfather. He stood defiantly on the rooftop. His rifle aimed directly at me. A red dot from his sight no doubt rested on my forehead. He backed away from the scope—he didn’t need it—so his one good eye met my two.
“When a lion takes over a pride, he kills the lioness’s cubs!” Every word was heavy, dripping with his hatred for me. “The cub does not kill the pride!”
Most likely for the last time, I wished that I could save my mother and half sister. I must save them! I had no doubt what would happen to them. Without his two sons—without his pride—my stepfather would start his colony again. Harsher. More violent. Stronger.
Nothing left to lose. I pulled my last arrow from the quiver. Nocked it. Ignored my stepfather’s jeers as I did. But instead of drawing the string and shooting at him, I spun and crouched. A bullet passed through my hair. When I faced the woods, I shot my last arrow at one of the soldiers—aiming for and hitting him in the kneecap.
Bullets fired from the woods as soldiers fought back. My stepfather fired at them, ignoring me below. He could deal with me anytime.
The field between the woods and the house had become a war zone. I dashed for the cellar. When I reached it, I slammed the doors shut, though I knew they’d lock and my mother and half sister might still be prisoners in the house.
As for my stepfather’s sons—I still couldn’t wipe their bloodstains from my hands.
Chapter Two
After thirty days in the shelter, I had a hard time breathing sometimes. I was too weak to fight. Too filled with fear. Something hard banged the other side of the door, and I jumped back. I grabbed my Glock and waited in case someone barged inside. The door was made of thick, reinforced steel. The jamb was also steel. The walls are three feet of thick concrete, I wrote in my notebook using a series of dashes and dots as I whispered the words over and over.
Another bang, but this one not from the outside. It couldn’t have been. This noise was in my head, a sound I convinced myself I’d heard. I tucked the notebook into my back pocket.
Staggering to my feet, I tested the handle, and then paced back to the cot. I immediately returned to check the lock again while running my hands over my long, matted hair. I’m locked in. If he’s there, my stepfather is locked out was my mantra as I continued to pace.
There’s no choice! I have to leave my shelter, I told myself forcefully, loudly, in hopes I would believe it. I must believe it!
I’d already stayed so long that an unbearable stench had seeped into the taste of the military rations I
was eating. The once plentiful water was now down to a few liters. My choices were simple: risk my life on the other side of this door, or stay in my bunker until it becomes my coffin.
The lock snapped, and I jumped. Placing my palms on the door, I shoved, but it didn’t budge. Was I that weak? I braced my shoulder against it and heaved with a grunt. Once in motion, it slid easily with a loud creak as if moaning. When it flew open completely, I stumbled into the secondary shelter.
I scrambled to my feet, and my eyes darted around. My only source of light, a lantern sitting in the bunker, was so low on oil that it cast dark shadows in the corners of the room. But it gave off enough light for me to see I was safe.
The cellar doors were also made of steel, and they were still locked—shut from the inside. I dusted myself off. Anything could be waiting outside. My stepfather. The soldiers. At least two months’ worth of canned food and necessities lined the shelves. I didn’t have to leave.
Cocking the gun, I stepped up to the cellar door. From inside the shelter, my home appeared undamaged. If the soldiers had won, wouldn’t they have blown the house door from its hinges? Shot out the windows? If my stepfather had won, wouldn’t he have, in order to get to me? I started to worry the soldiers I’d brought to my stepfather were less than successful. Calm down, I told myself. He must be dead.
I turned the wheel of the lock, and the gears clicked like a bank safe. When the wheel wouldn’t crank anymore, the door unlocked. Anyone on the other side would know I was coming out. Please, let the war be over. I grabbed the door handle, and the cold metal tingled against my palms. The door lifted more heavily than I’d remembered, and I found myself concentrating on it rather than on who might await me. When it slammed open, I immediately held up the gun and jumped back. My hands were shaking, and I turned back into the same scared boy I had promised myself never to be again.
Eventually, I lowered my Glock, climbed back up the stairs, and looked outside. I was right that the house was intact. The bright blue sky made me squint. Lush, green-leafed trees filled the woods facing the cellar. The grass was long and yellow. Throughout the yard were small piles of charred pages, their ashes floating on the wind. I caught one and, though its edges were burnt, I could still read a panel where Batman was holding the dead body of the second Robin, Jason Todd.
I lifted my foot over the lip of the doorframe. A piece of me enjoyed the moist grass that tickled my toes, and I wondered how long my feet had been naked. With each step, I felt as if the earth was pulling me back to the ground. I tried not to look at the sky. It was so high it might suck me into it at any moment. Something brushed against me, and I froze. The wind. That’s the wind. Thirty days was a long time to be without the sky and fresh air. Both felt strange now.
When I rounded the house to the other side, I saw our shed. I heard in my head my stepfather’s words to my mom—You coddle the boy too much—just before he’d drag me in there. Words he’d repeat until she stopped fighting him. Stopped protecting me. I’d scream as worries filled my head so much, so heavily, that I thought they might explode out my ears.
The shed was padlocked, but fear filled me so much that I couldn’t go near it. I left that place locked. Untouched.
All the windows in the house were locked tight with security bars, except the kitchen window. I wondered why it wasn’t closed. I could run and jump to the sill, pull myself inside. But I couldn’t have done that and protected myself if my stepfather were waiting for me in there. Was it a trap? I took a step, and the ground shook beneath me. No. My legs were shaking from a fear my body recognized, but my brain did not. I watched the windows for shadows but saw shadows everywhere. My senses were on fire—the sun scorched my skin, the wind burned my eyes, and the pollen singed my nose.
I couldn’t say where my strength had come from, but suddenly I was running and leaping in the air for the sill. I imagined myself floating upward as if I would never stop.
I just made it, so I pulled myself up and inside. As I rolled over the sink, I held onto my gun. On the floor, I kicked out. Pushed myself against the counter. Saw nothing but shadows.
My heart beat so loudly I couldn’t imagine hearing anything else. From the kitchen, I saw into the living room on the left, and down the hallway that led to the front door and bedrooms on the right. So far, I was alone. Alone. My breathing rasped. I made unfamiliar sounds. I felt as if the sky were about to fall, as if the whole house might be sucked up off the Earth. Something wet streamed down my cheeks. I wiped it away so I could see. Tears.
I stood on shaking legs, holding the gun out in front of me. I started down the hallway, but the farther I got into the house, the less sunlight was filtered through the shades. My parents’ bedroom door was slightly ajar, and I peered inside the room. The master bed was a mess of sheets and blood. The dresser drawers lay broken on the floor—whatever had been in them was gone. I took out my notebook and I wrote, Open window, empty house. Bloodstained sheets. This might be important information later.
After I had written the words “bloodstained sheets,” I couldn’t help but grab the sheets and hold them to my cheeks. Beneath the stench of death was the scent of my mother—and I knew she was gone. I wrapped myself in the sheets, imagining the warmth was from her. I wished I could feel angry or sad. When she married my stepfather, she told me it was to protect me. Something about the debt my real dad had left us, her failure at getting a job, and how much she couldn’t be alone. “He loves his two sons so much. You’ll see,” she had assured me. She was right. He loved his two sons.
The barrel of the Glock felt cold when I held it to my forehead. After dropping the sheet to the floor, I headed toward the room Kyle shared with Zeke. With each step I winced, thinking back on the times they pounded me with their fists. They aren’t in there. They can never hurt me again. I pressed my ear against the closed door. Nothing. Then an odd rushing sound, like water going over a cliff. Just the noise in my head. Grasping the door handle, I twisted it. When the lock clicked, I stopped. I gave the door a push. It creaked open. I peered inside. The room was empty, save for a bunk bed tucked in one corner by a window and my cot in the far corner. There were no blankets. Someone had been there, but I was alone now.
In the living room was a ladder leading to the roof. I climbed it, emerging onto a roost—a flattened area. I could see the yard clearly, all the way to the edge of the surrounding woods and the one road that led in and out of our compound. I stepped on something hard that rolled, and when I looked down, I saw shell casings from an AK-47 but no gun.
I picked up a shell. It was cold. I spun in a circle, studying what was around me. The garden. My sister’s swing. And bodies. About two dozen bodies rotting on the field, which explained the shells.
My stepfather must be alive. I wondered where he was now. Was he coming back? The silence suddenly fell over me, its weight nearly toppling me to the floor.
“Why did you leave the compound? Why were you not waiting to kill me?” I whispered.
It was time to leave the safety of the roost and wander the property. None of the house windows were broken, but bullet casings littered the outside walls. I took my steps slowly, each footstep bringing me closer to one of the dead soldiers. The buzzing of flies drummed in my ears. Every time the wind rushed, it brought with it a stench that made me gag. Maggots had eaten one soldier’s flesh to the bone, and his bloated chest pushed out the seams of his flak jacket.
Flak jacket. Most striking was that he had one bullet hole in him—to the brain. I fell to my knees, engulfed in sunburned grass, and remembered the speech my stepfather gave before every meal. I flipped through my notebook and found where I had written that down.
We are living in end times, and there will be no god who raptures the likes of us into Heaven. We will be among the armies of the Earth, fighting for the remaining scraps.
My stepfather placed scraps on my plate. I had watched with envy as his sons ate twice as much as me, and in pity as my mother and sister ni
bbled on even less. My stepfather feasted on the lion’s share. When I was younger, I fantasized about how I could rise through the ranks. I imagined myself sitting side by side with my stepsiblings. I had vowed one day to become a part of the great army my stepfather had so often spoken of. And then my plate would also be full.
Now the end was here. And the army was one. Me. It was time to defend what was mine, even if there was nothing left to fill my plate but the rotting corpses before me.
INSIDE THE SECONDARY shelter, I counted two to three months’ worth of food cans lining the wooden shelves. I twisted a can of mystery meat, and the shelves and wall popped out as one large unit. The unit slid to the right, revealing weapons. Funny how my stepfather felt they were more valuable to keep secret than the food.
I took out my notebook and wrote down the inventory. I had to record all of this: Three M16s, three Glock 30s, and three .22 rifles. Also three machetes, three hunting bows, dozens of arrows, and three slingshots. In non-weaponry, three of each: sleeping bags, night vision goggles, pepper spray cans, telescopic batons, and survival kits with the essentials (twenty waterproof matches, two candles, two flint sticks, one magnifying glass, and a compass). What hit home was that everything was in threes—for my stepfather and his two sons. It must have angered my stepfather no end that I had locked him out of the shelter and this treasure trove.
I slipped my notebook into my back pocket before grabbing two machetes from the wall. Their weight was perfectly balanced, and I swung them in an upward arch from left to right. Not some amateur hack-and-slash I’d learned from watching Friday the 13th, but a practiced swing trained into me since the day of my stepfather’s accident. I found a double scabbard with a crisscrossed strap for the back, and put that on. I sheathed the two machetes. On my belt, I wore the telescopic baton like a sword.
Tonight I would sleep in the roost, out in the open for the first time in weeks. I filled a backpack with night vision goggles, some bagged military rations—Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs, bags filled with a pouch of stew, crackers, peanut butter, a chocolate bar and gum—and, just for safety, a slingshot. I also grabbed a rifle. Finally, I took a sleeping bag and a handful of Batman comics.
Children of Ruin Page 1
