Surviving the Collapse: A Tale Of Survival In A Powerless World- Book 2

by James Hunt

  “I can put on an extra coat,” Holly said, stepping forward as she clasped her hands together, her movements still slow and restricted from the bandages around her ribs. “Please, Mom? Please, please, pleeeeease?”

  With Holly batting those long eyelashes and puffing her lip, Kate caved. “All right, but put your gloves on, okay?”

  “Yes!” Holly hugged Kate’s legs. “Thanks, Mom!”

  Kate smiled and smoothed the unruly hairs that broke free from Holly’s ponytail. “You’re welcome.” She watched Holly grab her coat and sprint out the door. She stepped forward, extending her hand as if she could reach her daughter from twenty feet away. “And stay where your father can see you!”

  Giggles answered back, and Holly squealed as she burst outside.

  Kate smiled. It was good to be on speaking terms with her daughter again. In fact, it was the only good thing that she had been able to salvage from the situation. Her life as a pilot had given her wonderful opportunities, but it had also kept her away from home. Gone days at a time, she had missed a lot of Holly growing up, and that had strained their relationship. But it was slowly starting to turn around. But she had traded one child’s indifference for another.

  “All right,” Rodney said. “We’re all set here. Let’s go to the lake.”

  Rodney stepped out first, and Kate lingered behind, staring at the closed door to Luke’s room. It had stayed like that upon arrival. Her son had refused to come out, refused to talk to anyone, and wouldn’t even look Kate in the eyes.

  Luke’s bitterness was Kate’s own doing. She had fed him a lie to spare him pain, and from that lie was borne an inevitable anger. But she knew the truth would hurt him worse. All that mattered now was that he was alive. And even though her family was finally all together, it still didn’t feel whole.

  Outside, Kate found Mark and Holly engaged in a snowball fight. She smiled, donning her snowshoes, as small clusters of white exploded on their jackets. Holly ducked behind the piles of wood for cover then resurfaced, flinging a snowball that missed her father and smacked Rodney in the face.

  Holly covered her mouth, freezing in place like a child who knew she’d done something wrong. But when Kate burst into laughter, Holly squealed with excitement.

  Rodney spit out bits of snow and wiped his face, trying to hide his smile. “How about a little warning next time?”

  “Sorry,” Holly answered, giggling.

  “I’ll get her back for you, Rodney,” Mark said, packing another snowball that sent Holly running.

  Kate helped Rodney carry the pump and turned back as Mark chased after their daughter. “Don’t go easy on him, Holl!”

  “I won’t!” Holly answered, laughing as Mark chased her around the side of the cabin.

  The lake’s close proximity to the cabin made water retrieval slightly easier, but it was far from convenient. Most of it was frozen, and every day, they were forced to chop away at the six inches of ice before they struck water.

  The embankment to the lake’s edge was steep, and Kate’s knees groaned about the harsh decline, but she didn’t stop until she felt the hard surface of ice. They set the pump down, and Rodney lifted the sledgehammer high then slammed it down hard.

  Ice splintered, spreading spiderweb cracks from the point of contact. Rodney whacked again, the cracks multiplying, sending bits of ice shavings against the front of his pants. Six heavy hits later, and water bubbled up. Breathless, Rodney squeezed his hands, the cold wearing on his joints.

  Kate slid the tube into the hole and then siphoned water until the twelve-gallon tank was full. It was enough for them to drink, cook, and bathe for one day. Though “bathe” was a loose term. With the freezing temperatures, they had done little more than just splash water under their arms and over their faces.

  “All right,” Rodney said, pulling the pump’s tube from the lake. “We should be good.”

  “Weather’s been holding up pretty well,” Kate said, dismantling the pump to make it easier to carry.

  Rodney glanced up toward the sky and nodded. “That blizzard probably took a lot of the bad weather with it.” He wiped the snot dripping from his nose, and Kate mimed the motion.

  “I think we should take advantage of it,” Kate said. “Before things turn bad again.”

  Rodney paused. With one arm propped against a bent knee, he turned toward her. “Kate, I told you that we need to keep our heads down.” He stood and grabbed the pump from her hands.

  “But we don’t know what’s out there,” Kate said. “What if we need help? What if we need—”

  “Why would we need help?” Rodney spread his arms wide and turned in a circle. “We have everything we need right here. Food, water, shelter.”

  Kate glanced around at the frozen tundra, the dead and barren trees covered in snow. “Yeah, it’s a real paradise.”

  “It’s better if we stay put,” Rodney said, grabbing the left handle of their water tank, as if that meant the discussion was over. But Kate pressed on.

  “Luke has a bullet lodged in his chest,” Kate said. “He needs a doctor.”

  “Mark and I told you what happened to the hospital,” Rodney said. “I’ll have to fish the bullet out myself.”

  Kate knocked the pump’s tubing from Rodney’s hand and stepped closer. “And you think you can get close without striking an artery near his heart? Well, I don’t. You’re skilled, Rodney, but you’re not a surgeon.”

  “Kate, we don’t—”

  “And what if those people you saw at the hospital come back?” Kate felt herself tremble beneath the bulky winter clothes. “What if they find us? From the numbers you saw, they could—”

  Footfalls echoed to the east, and Rodney and Kate both reached for their rifles. Rodney aimed with his finger on the trigger before Kate could even get into position.

  Rodney placed a finger to his lips and then slowly crested the slope, his feet soundless with each step, while their intruders stumbled loudly.

  Kate followed, staying to Rodney’s right. The sights of her rifle wavered, her muscles twitching with a mixture of adrenaline and fear. She couldn’t rid herself of the thoughts of finding Dennis at the top of that slope, those dark eyes smiling at her.

  After another minute, breathless voices were paired with the crunch of feet in snow. And while Kate couldn’t hear what they were saying, she recognized the tone. It was a tone of panic.

  “Don’t move!” Rodney barked the order at the top of the embankment, rifle aimed, his composure still and calm. “Hands up where I can see them. Nice and slow.”

  Kate crested the top next. She saw their hands first and then their reddened cheeks and shivering bodies. But what caught her eyes the most was the shimmer of blood.

  There were five of them, all underdressed for the freezing temperatures. It hadn’t gotten above twelve degrees all morning, but they were in nothing more than flannel pajamas, with boots on their feet. They wore no gloves, no hats, and from what Kate saw, they carried no weapons.

  An older man stood in the center. He was flanked by two older women on his left and a middle-aged woman around Kate’s age on his right, who cradled a boy in her arms. The mother stepped forward, sobbing.

  “Please,” she said, her voice hysterical. “My son.” She glanced at the boy in her arms. “He’s hurt.” She stepped forward quickly.

  “Stay where you are,” Rodney said, his tone stern, but remaining calm.

  “Please,” the old man said, his glasses halfway down his nose, and shivering. “I’m a physician.” He gestured to the mother and son. “He was shot as we were trying to escape. If you have shelter, I can—”

  “He’s dying!” The woman shrieked, unable to control her heaving sobs, adjusting the boy in her arms, separating herself from the others until she stood halfway between her group and Rodney with his rifle. “Help us!”

  Kate lowered her rifle. “Rodney. They’re not here to hurt us. Look at what they’re wearing, for Christ’s sake.”

>   The seven of them stood like frozen statues, and the mother in no man’s land dropped to her knees. Tears had frozen to her cheeks, shimmering like the blood that covered her body. Her son’s blood. Kate reached for Rodney’s arm and for a moment felt his muscles stiffen beneath her grip.

  But the moment passed, and Rodney finally lowered the rifle, and the torn and tattered survivors lowered their arms.

  “Follow me,” Rodney said.

  3

  Holly had collapsed into the snow, her arms and legs thrust out in straight, rigid lines for her third attempt at a snow angel. Mark watched from the chopping block, smiling as he split another log.

  “Okay! I’m done!”

  Mark wedged the axe’s head into the stump and walked over, yanking Holly from the snow. He spun her around so she could see. “Looks like third time is the charm.”

  “I messed up on the wings a little bit,” Holly said, frowning, and then turned to her dad, a tiny smirk creeping through the frown. “I think I need to try it again.”

  “Well, I think you need to go inside and warm up.” Mark directed her toward the cabin door, and she gave a little humph as he patted her bottom and ushered her forward. “We’ll see how your brother is doing. I need to check his bandages anyway.”

  Holly reluctantly sat by the fire, defiantly crossing her arms as Mark made his way toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” Holly kept her face toward the fire, away from her father.

  Mark reached for a can of chicken soup, which was her favorite food. When she was little, she’d pretended to be sick on several occasions just to have it. And it wasn’t until Mark and Kate explained to her that she didn’t have to be sick to eat chicken soup that she finally ended the charade.

  “No?” Mark asked, his voice curiously high. “Not even for a little, oh, I don’t know.” He quickly slammed the can onto the counter in a dramatic fashion, and the commotion made Holly turn around. “Chicken soup?”

  Holly smiled, the anger melting away. “Okay.”

  “Come here and get it ready. I need to check on your brother.” Mark kissed the top of Holly’s head and moved past her toward the bedrooms.

  The cabin was a good size, having four bedrooms. Three were clustered on one side, the kitchen and living room in the middle, and on the other end was the master bedroom where Rodney slept. The three bedrooms behind the kitchen were smaller, more closet than bedroom, and the beds were uncomfortable, but the fireplace kept everything warm.

  Mark gently tapped on Luke’s door, his mouth a breath away from the old wood. “Luke?” He grabbed the cold bronze of the doorknob and slowly pushed it open. The hinges groaned, and the sliver of space between the door and the frame widened as Mark squeezed his way into the gap. “Luke?”

  His son was asleep on the bed, with the sheets up to his chin. His head lolled lazily to the left, revealing the growing scruff on his cheeks. Mark involuntarily reached for his own cheek, finding the start of a beard. It was dark brown and thicker than Luke’s, coarse from age and the cold. He could break off a hair like an icicle if he wanted to.

  Mark pressed his hand against the boy’s forehead. Luke’s head was like a stovetop, and Mark immediately ripped the covers off him and tried to stir him awake. “Luke? Can you hear me?”

  Luke groaned. “I don’t want to go. You can’t leave her. I won’t— Can’t go. Don’t go. Claire.” The words faded like a whisper, and Luke’s eyelids fluttered.

  Mark hurried into the kitchen and opened the pantry, where his fingers tore open the nearest plastic case of water. He ripped the bottle out and grabbed Holly’s arm. “Go outside and scream for your mom to come back.”

  “What’s wrong?” Holly asked, her voice trembling with fear.

  And before Mark could explain, he saw figures dart past the widows, Kate leading a crying woman in boots and pajamas that carried a bloodied boy inside, followed by three others dressed in similar garb. Rodney followed suit, shutting the door.

  Kate cleared off the round kitchen table, and the woman gently laid the injured boy down, and Mark noted how still the boy looked.

  Rodney hurried past Mark in the galley, forcing him flush against the counter and cabinets, and then he snatched a bag from the pantry and brought it to the table, where an old man hovered over the boy.

  “I’ll need to sterilize the wound,” the old man said, rolling up his sleeves, exposing frost, dirt, and blood. Rodney handed him a bottle of peroxide, and he doused his arms with it, the excess spilling onto the table and floor.

  “Scissors.” The old man held out his hand, and Rodney handed him the silver-plated tool. He cut the boy’s shirt from the collar straight down the middle and flung the tattered remnants aside.

  What small patches of the boy’s stomach and chest weren’t covered in blood were pale shapes of white flesh. A gruesome wound rested to the left-hand side of the boy’s navel, oozing fresh blood. The old man snatched a handful of gauze and pressed it hard against the exposed wound.

  “I need a hand, quickly.” The doctor’s orders were frantic but mechanically efficient. Rodney offered his hand for assistance but was knocked away. “No, I need you to keep handing me the tools. You.” He pointed at Kate, who stepped up. The old man grabbed her hand and placed it over the wound. “Press hard.”

  “O-Okay, I got it,” Kate said.

  Mark watched as the old man frantically gathered the tools from Rodney’s bag, smearing blood over the clean silver of the instruments. And though his arms and hands trembled from the cold, they moved with skill.

  The woman who carried the boy inside kept hold of his hand, pressing it tight against her lips, and then whispered prayers and pleaded to God the way only a mother could.

  “Move the gauze.” The old man waved Kate out of the way and then plunged small metal tweezers into the boy’s gut, which triggered the first signs of life.

  “Ahhhh!” The boy bucked wildly on the table, and the tweezers were thrown to the floor at Mark’s feet.

  “Hold him down! Keep him still!” the old man said.

  Kate, Rodney, and the mother placed their hands on the boy’s shoulders, arms, and legs. The screams curdled the blood in Mark’s veins, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the boy’s kicking legs, the blood, the—

  “Mark!” Kate said, whipping her head back at him, then gestured to the floor. “The tweezers!”

  Mark stared at the bloodied piece of silver circled by scattered blood droplets at his toes. He picked it up and then put it in the doctor’s extended hand.

  “Give me the peroxide.” The old man poured more of the liquid over the tweezers, and Mark lingered close by and watched him plunge the tweezers back into the wound, which produced another eardrum-shattering scream. But after a few seconds, the scream died as the boy passed out, his head lolling limply to the side.

  “Chris!” The boy’s mother reached for his face, pulling it toward her.

  “Got it.” The old man removed the tweezers and dropped the nine-millimeter bullet on the table, where it rolled off and clanked against the floor. He then stuck his fingers in the hole, examining the rest of the wound. “I can’t tell if any organs were struck.” He removed his finger and pressed around the abdomen. “Needle and thread. I need to sew this up quickly.”

  Rodney handed the old man the requested supplies, but the mother stepped in the old man’s way, her eyes frantic and wide. She was a frightened animal, a creature unsure of any future. She reminded Mark of Kate when she first arrived at their apartment in New York after the EMP.

  “Is he going to live?” the mother asked.

  The words hung in the air, and when the doctor remained silent, she gasped, stepping backward until she hit the wall and collapsed.

  The old man ran the needle and thread through the boy’s skin, pulling the wound closed, until there was nothing there but blood and lines of thread. “We need to get him to a bed, and we need fluids in him.”

  “I have an IV bag
,” Rodney said, getting his arms beneath the boy. “Kate, you know where they are.” He lifted the boy off the table and carried him to Holly’s room, the mother trailing behind.

  Mark stood motionless in the kitchen amid the flurry of action. He stared at the fresh blood on the table and the floor. Crimson droplets hit the floor in slow, methodical drops at the table’s edge. He saw the bullet near one of the table’s legs, and he picked it up. He rolled the metal between his fingers. It was still warm from the boy’s gut.

  Kate stepped out of the room and staggered a little bit, unsure of her footing. She clamped her hand around Mark’s arm and snapped his attention away from the bullet. “Are you all right?”

  Mark peered into her concerned eyes and then looked back at the bullet. “Luke is sick. I think he has an infection.”

  “What? He was fine last night.” Kate walked toward Luke’s room and disappeared inside. Mark was still staring down at the bullet when she rushed past Mark and retrieved the old man, dragging him to Luke’s room. There was silence for a minute, and then Kate was screaming.

  “Help him!”

  His wife’s hysteria triggered Mark back into action, and he joined Rodney in the room. Kate stood at the head of Luke’s bed, the veins in her neck throbbing and her jaw square. The old man was at the foot of the bed, his back toward the door. Kate was fuming.

  “We helped you!” Kate shoved the old man hard in the chest, and he stumbled backward to the floor. She hovered over him, fist raised, and it took both Mark and Rodney to keep her still.

  “Whoa, hey, what is going on?” Mark asked.

  Kate’s eyes bored into the old man, and while her snarl remained, the tension in her body released. “He won’t help Luke.”

  Rodney and Mark both turned to the old man. Mark stepped first, picking the old man up to his feet and then slamming him against the wall.

  “Help. Him.” Mark spoke through gritted teeth, the old man’s shivering throat in his hand.

  “My niece,” he said, limply groping at Mark’s arm. “She’s back at the town. With those people who attacked us.” He leaned into Mark’s hand. “Help me get her back.”