Tom and his friends had found me again, and I was beaten up a second time, with no Kady there to stop Tom. Each time his fist hit my face or body, I wanted to fight back. But that would have brought his parents to my home, and everyone would have known that I knew how to defend myself. As angry as my stepfather was going to be when he found out I had traveled into town, he would be twice that knowing I knew how to fight back.
Across from the service station in an empty lot, a sign read LOTS FOR SALE. Wooden posts with shingles nailed all over them littered the lot, some standing as high as eight feet. I walked past the sign to the posts and read a few of the shingles. Names of people who had visited, including the name of someone from as far away as Kristiansand, Norway, along with an arrow pointing toward what I assumed must have been Norway. Civilization once thrived here, and the world once visited to see what a historic frontier town was like. The lives of us who lived here—reduced to a theme park.
I noticed a shingle that read “Kelvin, I’m okay. Please find me,” and another, “Status update: ‘This sucks.’” It was a message board for people wanting to find friends and family. This was the new Internet.
A shadow appeared over the road and disappeared. I ducked close to the ground. Someone else was here—a girl dressed in camo, who ran into the auto shop. I didn’t think she’d seen me, but I also couldn’t take any chances. Maybe she was friendly, or maybe she was with my stepfather. I ran behind a truck and tried to peek around it. The garage doors to the shop were open, and the medium-sized girl was rummaging through the tools. She was clad in a tan tunic, trousers, and beret. She even wore a green necktie and belt. Sweat dripped down my armpits—but I didn’t dare dress down from my bike armor, as it protected me. Since the girl was still wearing a uniform, she was under someone’s command.
I stayed hidden. I watched to see if anyone else met with her. I heard a buzz, and she took a radio from her belt and answered. I couldn’t hear what she said. Were they on their way? Had she found something of value? She reached for an AK-47 I hadn’t seen resting against the tool chest. She bent down, hoisting what looked like a hockey bag over her shoulder. By the clanking, I guessed she must have filled it with tools.
“What’s your twenty?” she called over her radio. Without waiting for an answer, she dropped her bag and radio and brought up her gun. She pointed it into the darkness, far into the garage where I couldn’t see. Whoever used to own the shop—Greg Something-or-other—was he still holed up in there? Was this army brat stealing supplies from someone who was still home?
“You alive?” the army brat shouted at the darkness. “I said: ‘You alive?’ I’m going to give you to the count of three, and then I shoot. One . . .”
If it was Greg inside the garage, and he was just protecting himself against being robbed, would I let this army brat kill him?
“Two . . .”
Or should I stay secret, hidden from view? This army brat had contacted someone. Was the government still active, or had someone else taken over?
“Three!”
She fired six times, and then she paused. Her stance looked practiced, and she didn’t recoil the way someone would had they never shot a semi-automatic assault rifle. She was definitely the real deal. I had to assume that Greg was dead.
Army Brat stayed poised for a few more seconds before grabbing her hockey bag and slinging it over her shoulder. She started for the street, in the same direction as me. I crouched behind the truck. I didn’t know if I could take her in a fight—she was army, so she’d had training. I definitely wouldn’t be able to take her in a gunfight. No fooling myself about her, either. Army Brat had just killed.
I would have followed her to her camp if I had known she was alone. But she was on a radio, and since she was scavenging tools and not food, I assumed she was well prepared. I took out my notebook and wrote down everything I saw, including that she had taken the highway south toward Cache Creek. She was alert to her surroundings, talking on her radio. One day I would source her out.
Growling behind me. I’d been too focused on the army brat. I cranked my head slowly, and in the street a few paces behind me was a collie, just older than a pup. I stood still, tucked my notebook into my pocket, and tried to see anything odd about the dog. Kady had mentioned rabies, and in this world that would surely kill me. The collie’s ears lay flat against her head, and her tail was tucked between her legs. She watched me from under her brow with her head lowered in submission. The tags on her collar jingled when she moved. I was impressed that she had survived. Smaller dogs than she had no doubt become food for coyotes, but ones that adapted to hunting for meals would do well in this new world.
Before I’d finished my thoughts, something heavy hit the metal hood of the truck beside me. A Rottweiler over 130 pounds slammed into me full on. I stumbled forward. Panic burned my veins. His jaw clamped on my shoulder. Is he sick? Did he bite into my skin? My weapons fell to the ground just before I did. I braced my palms flat on the dirt and pushed myself up. The armor protected me, and I elbowed the dog off me before he could get another bite.
The collie ran full force, her teeth bared and saliva dripping from her maw. I grabbed at my weapons.
The collie wasn’t fighting me for territory; she was fighting me for survival. For these dogs, I was probably the closest thing to fresh meat they’d smelled out in weeks. That made them dangerous—and hard to predict. I didn’t want them to bite my skin, to miss the armor. I hacked desperately with the machetes. If I went crazy, lost control, I could possibly give them the edge they needed.
Stay calm, I could hear my stepfather say to me. Even though his voice wasn’t real, I forced myself to obey.
Barks and yaps echoed against the buildings as more dogs gathered around me. I slashed with my machete and heard a squeal as I hit flesh. The Rott went down, and an equally big Doberman took his place. He growled with all teeth bared. With one alpha male dead, there’d be another waiting in line.
“You’ve been hoping for this day, haven’t you?” I said to the dog, of its new place as alpha.
We circled one another like the wild beasts we’d become. I was the beast that had trespassed into someone else’s territory. But this territory should be mine. It had to be mine, or I wouldn’t survive. I was betting the dog had an equal stake in this fight. If he was going to take charge of the pack, he would have to prove his mettle.
“Okay, Dog, how long have you been waiting for something else to take him out?” I whispered low to the Doberman, in a way that sounded like a growl.
Dog growled back, lips curled to show me his bloodstained teeth. Had he killed recently, or was this a sign of rabies? I sliced the air in front of me with one of my machetes. Dog cringed and flinched. It understood that, though I didn’t have teeth and claws, my hand could bite as hard.
A squeal from behind me, and Dog’s shackles went up. His eyes grew wide with fear. I spun around. This is what I didn’t want—to come here and be noticed. Greg had limped into the street, still wearing his oil-stained overalls. Army Brat must have missed, or maybe hit him in the leg. Boils covered his neck all the way up to one of his eyes. Pus sprayed from some of the boils as he moved toward me.
A Staffordshire bull terrier jumped at him, but Greg bit it and threw it aside. I wondered if they were fighting over me as several dogs leaped in his way. Greg scratched or bit them before tossing them aside. Most of the pack scattered except for a small puppy. The puppy, also a Staffordshire bull terrier, barked at Greg, refusing to move. Greg lunged at it. Alpha Dog leaped between them. I gained a new respect for how this alpha took care of his pack.
I started to run. But where to? Other survivors emerged from inside parked cars and buildings. All of them covered with boils and wearing oil-stained clothes. Except it wasn’t oil. It was blood. The streets echoed with the growls of Puppy and Alpha as they defended their territory. I should have left—they were just dogs—but would their cries alert Army Brat with her AK-47?
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p; The Doberman crouched to the ground on his front paws when the creatures got too near. The dog butted his head into them, or leaped claws first, but he never attempted to bite. I took that as a warning not to let the survivors’ blood or pus get on me, either. Greg’s apprentice, Josh, stepped onto the street. We’d had him out to the house for repairs since, as my stepfather told us, he knew how to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t in as bad a shape as Greg, but his stomach looked as if someone had chewed it away.
How are you walking around without a stomach?
He headed toward the puppy. The tiny terrier looked from me to the left and then to the right. It circled, and darted between the survivors who were getting closer.
“Shit.” I sheathed my machetes and took out my slingshot. I had only a pocketful of marbles. Josh reached out for the terrier as I pulled back the elastic. I could shoot the puppy, end its suffering here and now, stop the wailing for good. The marble flew, cracking Josh in the neck. He looked at me but didn’t cry out in pain or bring his hand to the wound or do anything that a normal person would do when shot in the neck. I wondered if maybe I had missed. But yellow pus was draining from where I had struck him.
Greg was still fighting the alpha when Josh wandered away from the terrier and started at me. I readied another marble, but a crash from behind reminded me that more survivors were coming. One glance over my shoulder told me I was in trouble. A mob had flooded the street around me.
The bodies surrounding my home were as decayed as the ones lumbering toward me. Their one thing in common: one bullet to the head. I aimed again, and this time I got Josh in the forehead. He went down. “Thanks, stepfather,” I muttered. One shot to the brain was the only thing that killed them for good. I put away the slingshot. Not enough distance to reload. I drew my machetes. A few of those bastards were coming with me if this was going to be my death.
The damn dog was still wailing. Greg now limped his way toward me, so I ran in his direction away from the mob. I slashed out and lopped off Greg’s head, and stood over the puppy. If a shot to the head kills them, let’s see how well they get on without a head! This would be my last stand. I would die for something.
At first the survivors—no, not survivors, but creatures—circled me, as if trying to cut off my escape. As if they were working in a pack. As though they weren’t completely mindless. But I had to think of them as mindless. I had to look at them as creatures; otherwise, I couldn’t defend myself against them.
One creature rushed in to bite me, but I struck it with the machete down the side of the head. Not a direct head hit, but enough to drop it for good. Another rushed me from the side, and I dropped down to hit it in the kneecaps. The pain didn’t even slow it down. I wasn’t even sure it felt any pain. Surely not even these creatures could stand on broken legs! It toppled over with only one good leg left. As it collapsed, I hacked down on its neck with the machete.
Two down . . . but more were piling in around me.
If they rushed me, I’d be a goner in a matter of seconds. But they didn’t. They each almost seemed to be waiting to see what the other ones did first. I couldn’t help but compare them to the dog pack. I spun around when I heard a scream from behind me, and I saw a big creature lunging over me. But the Doberman had come back and tackled it. Teeth bearing down on the creature’s neck, blood pouring onto the dirt road. I guessed we’d find out if the infection affected dogs. The creature struggled—how are you not dead?—but the dog wouldn’t let go and the creature couldn’t bite back. That skirmish diverted the other creatures’ attention away from me.
One of them fell suddenly when a crossbow bolt slammed into its head. A second bolt followed. After that several more bolts dropped enough of them to make a path to one of the buildings—the credit union—ahead of me. It had a flat roof and, I hoped, access to that roof from the inside. There had to be people on the roof; they had just saved my life.
I grabbed the puppy before taking off, but it bit down hard between my thumb and finger. I stifled a scream. Noise would make me visible again. I forced myself to run toward the credit union’s doors, ignoring the few creatures that followed. After pushing through the doors, I slammed them shut behind me. The only way to keep them shut as creatures pushed on them was to slide my baton through the door handles.
I was safe, for the moment.
Chapter Six
The blood I was losing was the least of my worries. I had to see what was in this credit union with me. A few decapitated bodies were scattered on the floor. Above me, sunlight poured through a skylight much too high to climb to get out. No ladders. No ropes. Maybe there was a back door? The creatures were piling against the front door and had probably surrounded the building by now.
I clenched my hand, the sheering pain a reminder I was hurt. If I couldn’t close my fingers, I couldn’t fight with that hand. I wavered on my feet because the blood loss made me woozy. I was in trouble. The puppy backed away from me, growling. What was I thinking, grabbing the stupid dog anyway?
“Believe me, Pooch, I wish I’d left you to die,” I said, without really meaning it.
What I needed was a first aid kit. Or for those creatures to stop banging on the doors. I wished I hadn’t come. I wished I’d stayed in my hole.
That’s because you’re weak! my stepfather’s voice said in my head. If you want to have a place, you earn it!
“I survived!” I screamed back at the voice. The puppy stopped growling and cowered onto its back with its tail between its legs. “I SURVIVED!”
I swore I heard an echoing plip sound as the blood dripped from my hand and pooled on the floor. Without quick action, if this wound got infected, I’d be a goner. The creatures weren’t the only danger in this new world. I needed a bandage.
I took off my leather jacket and the bike armor. I ripped off my T-shirt and tore a strip from it by standing on it and pulling as hard as I could. I couldn’t cut it with the machete because infected blood covered the blade. I tied the strip around my wound and, using my free hand and my teeth, I pulled it as tight as it would go. I donned the armor and my jacket as quickly as possible.
Now what? Now you die? I heard my stepfather ask.
“No,” I told the voice. I scanned the roof and tried to see how I might get up there. If others were up there, how had they climbed?
I moved about the credit union trying to get a better look. Trying not to notice the people crushing each other against the glass door. Suddenly a kid slightly older than I with a shaved head and dirty face appeared at the skylight, and we stared at one another.
He waved his arms and mouthed the word “MOVE.”
This time when I scooped up the dog, he didn’t bite. When I pushed myself against a wall, the glass came smashing down on the floor with a crash. Shards everywhere. I moved my back to the explosion, covering the puppy with my chest.
A rope lowered. I heard a boy’s voice. “Climb up!”
Blood made my hand so slippery that climbing the rope was out. I grabbed it anyway and wrapped it around my good hand. Two kids stood at the skylight, the shaved-headed one waving me to start up the rope.
“I can’t climb up with the dog!”
“Leave the dog!” the boy with the shaved head yelled.
“And my hand is injured! You need to pull me up!”
A worried look passed between them, as well as words I couldn’t hear.
“Did you get bit?” a skinny guy asked, his voice shaking. He put a knife to the rope.
“By the dog, not by the people.”
They argued again, so I yelled up, “If you don’t pull me up, I’m as good as dead!”
The skinny guy kept his knife to the rope. A loud, high-pitched crack warned that the glass doors were beginning to give way.
The dog licked my cheek, and I wondered at my stupidity. Yet I didn’t let go of him. He licked my face and wagged his tail a little as if finally understanding my sacrifice. The boys yanked on the rope and my arm wrenched as though it m
ight snap from its socket. My feet lifted off the ground just as the creatures piled into the credit union. I rose just high enough so they couldn’t reach me. The rope burned into my palm with every pull, but I refused to let go.
When I finally reached the top, I saw what looked like a linebacker pulling up the rope. The guy with the shaved head ran to help me onto the roof. My first instinct was to collapse onto my back, but I remembered they had almost left me down there. I held the dog in one hand and pulled out a machete with the other. My hand hurt from the rope, but I grasped the weapon with what might I had left.
“Cool, man. Cool,” the bigger guy said to me. Now that I’d gotten a better look at him, I saw it was Tom. Quarterback Tom. His lips parted into a smile as if remembering when he had beaten me up.
The guy who was going to cut the rope lay on his back, massaging his shoulder. He glared back and forth between the shaved-headed guy and me. Shaved Head held his hands out to me as if saying “Relax.”
“If he’s been bit and dies, we’re all dead,” Skinny said.
“I’m not gonna die,” I said, knowing that I should have repeated, I wasn’t bitten.
“You will if you don’t let me tend that wound,” Shaved Head said, nodding toward my hand.
“If we wanted you dead, we would have left you down there,” Tom said matter-of-factly. I decided to call him by a nickname, Big Guy, just to push him.
I put the puppy down, and he backed up between my staggered feet. The cloth around my hand was bright red. I looked down at the credit union where several creatures were kneeling on the floor licking my blood. I slid my machete back into its sheath.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
Children of Ruin Page 4
