But still the thought of leaving his grandfather’s body there in the house, probably to rot, was not appealing in the least bit. He’d been planning to bury him. That would never happen.
Dan bit his lower lip in frustration, squeezing his fists hard, his nails digging into his palms, leaving marks.
He’d had a getaway bag packed for some time now. Dan grabbed it from where it’d been resting on the kitchen floor. It was full of everything he’d thought would be useful. Unfortunately, aside from food, there hadn’t been a lot to choose from.
He’d packed all the food he thought he could carry. Most of it was canned, and it weighed a lot. The good thing was that the canned foods were heavy on water, meaning he could get his daily water requirements that way. He had two large soda bottles filled with water, one bottle of soda, and the couple cans of tuna fish that were still left in the pantry.
He had the kitchen knife with him, and he’d packed two smaller kitchen knives, a fork and a spoon.
For medical supplies, he didn’t have much. Just a couple bandages, some aspirin, some baking soda. The baking soda was an old trick his grandmother had taught him. She’d always told him it’d help with nearly everything from an upset stomach to headaches. Dan wasn’t so sure that it really helped with anything, and he’d packed it more as a reminder of his grandmother than anything else.
Originally, he’d packed some photographs of his family. But he’d taken these out, telling himself he couldn’t spare the weight. And he’d been right.
When he went to shoulder the pack now, he realized it was still far too heavy for him. When he’d packed it two weeks ago, he hadn’t been as exhausted as he was now. He hadn’t gone days without sleeping, and he hadn’t just been attacked and nearly killed.
Quickly, almost in a frenzy, he zipped open the large schoolbag and started tossing items onto the kitchen floor.
He wasn’t going to get very far if he couldn’t walk, let alone run, because he was weighed down by his backpack.
The baking soda was the first to go. Then some of the canned soups. He didn’t bother looking at them, or deciding which ones he liked more than the others. It was purely a matter of weight.
With finality, he zipped up the bag again, shouldered it, and grabbed the large kitchen knife.
Dan had a tear in his eye when he made the decision not to go upstairs to say goodbye to his grandfather. His grandfather would want Dan to live, to get out of there as fast as possible. At least, that was what Dan told himself. It made it easier.
He walked out the front door for what he knew would be the last time.
Clouds obscured the moon, rolling past swiftly. The street seemed once again dark. It was that darkness that Dan had never experienced before, with the absence of the streetlights and light pollution creating a type of night that not many had lived through.
Dan kept in the shadows of the sidewalk, where the trees were tall. The leaves from the fall had never been raked up, and they drifted here and there, propelled by the gusts of wind.
The trees themselves looked skeletonized, like giant ominous stick figures towering over everything.
His neighbor’s body was lying there, across the street, unmoved since earlier.
Dan walked with a sort of breathlessness. He was on edge, anxious, and afraid. He was unprepared and he knew it.
He didn’t like the idea of walking. He felt completely out in the open, completely exposed, despite the cover of the darkness. Soon the clouds might zoom on past, heading somewhere else, leaving the moon exposed again, able to illuminate Dan and the rest of the street with an eerie accuracy.
His Grandfather had sold the car not long before the EMP. He hadn’t been able to drive, and he’d figured it was the last car he’d ever have. Dan took the bus to school, and usually got a ride to the hardware store, or walked when he couldn’t.
Not that Dan knew how to drive, but he figured he’d probably be able to figure it out. A car would have been good. Maybe he’d get lucky and find some neighbor’s car abandoned, the keys nearby in an easily-noticeable hiding place, like over the tire or under the chassis in one of those little magnetic boxes.
But if he found a car, found the key, and figured out how to drive, what would he do if he were driving down the road and ran into the that convoy of military vehicles?
He’d probably wind up dead. Dan didn’t hold any illusions that being a kid would protect him. Those men had been willing to shoot his neighbor dead like that. There wouldn’t have any reservations about slaughtering whoever got in their way.
And he’d be a bigger target with a car.
Then again, he did have a road map packed away. Maybe he could find a route that was off the beaten path.
Towards the end of the road, there was a curve. Dan followed it around, feeling even more on edge the further he got from the house.
There was a red house situated on the bend that Dan knew well. It was the home of one of the boys in his grade who’d never missed an opportunity to torment Dan for his stature or anything else he could think of.
The red house had a large lawn, the largest in the neighborhood, because of the way the front yard curved around it.
The front door was wide open. It opened to the outside, without any screen or storm door. The front door was blowing in the wind, which kept knocking it earlier against the side of the house, the lower portion made of brick.
Dan peered through the darkness. There was something on the lawn. As he got closer, it came into view.
It was a body. A man. Mr. Davies, the father of Tommy, Dan’s school bully. He was lying on his back in the front yard, his stomach pieced with bullets. Another victim of the unknown military vehicles, figured Dan.
Dan may not have liked Tommy, the son. But he felt like he had a duty. Was Tommy still there? He’d figured his family had left long ago, off to some unknown destination right after the EMP, when it had seemed like everyone in the neighborhood was fleeing.
Dan gripped his knife tighter as he approached the house. He stood at the threshold, with the door banging against the house next to him, gazing into the yawning darkness.
He had no flashlight. Sure, he’d packed candles, but they weren’t going to be any good in this wind unless he went in and closed the door behind him. And he had no intention of doing that.
“Tommy?” he yelled.
He didn’t know if he was hoping for an answer or not.
Sure, he’d hated Tommy with all his guts. But that was before the EMP. He didn’t want him to be dead.
“Anyone there?”
No answer.
If someone had been there, the door would have been closed.
Should he go in and look for supplies?
No.
He couldn’t carry anything more than what he had. There’d be other houses along the way. When he ran out of food, hopefully he’d be able to find some.
Dan stepped away from the open door, walked past the body of his neighbor, and continued on his way.
He roughly knew the way. He had a road map with him. At some point he’d have to consult it.
The darkness seemed to surround him as he got farther and farther from the home he’d lived in all his life. The reality of the situation started to sink in more than it had so far. It seemed as if everyone he knew was probably dead. He’d narrowly missed being killed himself only hours earlier.
And there was no one to help him.
11
ART
The coin-filled sock smashed into Art’s stomach yet again.
“Just kill me,” he muttered. “Just do it. There’s no point to this. There’s no point in keeping me alive.”
He knew that there must have been some point. Otherwise they wouldn’t have taken the measures they had, wearing the marks, using the sock rather than something simpler like a knife.
They didn’t want to just torture him. They wanted something from him.
But so far they hadn’t told him what it was. They hadn’t said
anything in some time. They’d just been hitting him, causing him as much pain as they could. They took breaks when they needed to. They’d hand the sock between themselves when one of them got tired.
Maybe they were trying to break him down enough that he’d do what they wanted.
He was hoping to spur them on, get them to start talking.
“Just kill me already,” he said again, knowing full well that they wouldn’t.
Art waited for the next impact, the next blow. His abdominal muscles tensed instinctively, already trying to fight against the impact.
But it didn’t come.
He opened his eyes, which had been closed out of fear. Fear of the pain. He couldn’t help it.
The three plastic bag faces were clustered together, right in front of him.
“You think he’s ready?”
“Yeah, he’s had enough.”
“So you’re from the militia,” said one of them.
“Yeah,” said Art. It hurt him to nod his head. It hurt him to speak. But speaking was all he had left. It was the only way he had out of this. It was almost funny, he thought, his mind going to a strange place. Before entering the house, he’d been on the verge of suicide. Everything had seemed so pointless, so hopeless, that he’d found some perverted solace in the thought of simply dying.
But now that his life was threatened by others, he was desperate to save it. And it was even stranger that he was now in great physical pain, with every reason to want them to simply end his life. Maybe it was the sense of adversity, the sense of a real challenge, that plunged him into that instinctual world where the will to survive grew strong once again.
“They sent me here to take your plans. They want to eliminate all you. But don’t misunderstand me. I’m not really one of them. They forced me to join. They were going to kill me if I didn’t.”
“That’s what all of you say.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
“Not for all of you. There are plenty of you who joined up for all the wrong reasons. Or the right reasons, as you call them.”
“I’m not like that,” pleaded Art. “Trust me. I’m not really one of them.”
“Maybe you’re telling the truth. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
“Yeah, I think he’s definitely ready.”
“Are you kidding? Give him a few more good whacks.”
“Why?”
“He’s obviously not ready yet.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can’t. And neither can you. That’s the whole point.”
“Screw it. Just try it out. If he’s not ready, we’ll beat him some more.”
“I’m ready,” said Art, not having the slightest idea what he was supposed to be ready for. “I’m ready. Whatever you want.” He spoke with pain, breathing hard between every word.
“OK. Here’s the deal. We want to use you for our own purposes.”
“Hey, don’t tell it to him like that.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’ve got to sell it.”
“I’m not the one who was a used car salesman before the EMP.”
“Don’t knock it. It was a real job. More than you ever had.”
“Well I wouldn’t call it a noble profession.”
“Knock it off you two, or we’re never going to get this done.”
Art was starting to differentiate the voices coming out of the plastic bag masks. The one who’d just spoke was the more serious one. The other two, both male voices, seemed to be at odds with each other.
“What do you want me to do?” said Art.
“First I’ll tell you what we’re all about,” said the more serious one.
Art tried his best to look eager for information. It was hard when almost every part of him hurt. His existence was almost nothing but pain. His head still throbbed and his vision was getting blurry again.
“We’re a resistance group. If you take a step back from your activities in this so called militia, you’ll notice that nothing good is coming of it. We can’t let what’s left of our culture dissolve into nothing more than a terroristic group of semi-militants, hell-bent on taking whatever they want at any cost.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Art, managing to speak the words despite the pain.
“Don’t think I’m buying your act for a second,” said the man. “But we’re going to make you an offer that’s going to be very difficult to refuse.”
“No need for that,” said Art. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop hitting me.”
The blow came suddenly, smashing again into Art’s stomach, right on a particularly sore spot.
“Why the hell’d you do that?”
“I dunno. I thought he deserve it.”
“Cut it out, you two. That’s the last time I want to have to warn you.”
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
“Good.”
The serious one was clearly the leader.
“Just tell me what you want me to do,” said Art. “I can’t take getting hit like this anymore. They beat me up all the time in the militia. Just today, Sarge gave me a really good one right on the head. Still hurts like hell.”
“Who’s this Sarge? What’s he like?” The serious one spoke with an interest that Art hadn’t heard yet.
“He’s…” Art was trying to think through all the fog in his head. Surely he knew something about Sarge worthy of telling.
“Come on, out with it.”
“Just tell him.”
“Guys…” said the serious one, as a warning. “Let him think.”
“I don’t know,” Art finally said. “I’m sorry. All I know about him is that he’s a mean son of a bitch.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“They only call him Sarge. Or the Sergeant. I think he might have been in the military. I don’t know. He doesn’t live with us. He just comes in and gives us orders. He’s the one who gave me this special assignment.”
“You think it’s him?”
“No, his name isn’t Sarge.”
“You ever hear of a man with a strange name. Goes by the name of Kor, or something like that?”
“Yeah,” said Art. “Sure. Everyone’s heard of him. He’s the leader.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“No,” said Art. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” said Art. “Because he’s above all that. He relays his orders through the chain of command. I’m at the bottom.”
“So you get your orders from this Sarge?”
Art nodded. His neck strained, pain rushing through it, as he did. His vision seemed to getting blurrier.
“He’s nodding off.”
“Throw the water on him.”
“What? And waste all that water?”
“Fine, just hit him again.”
More pain. Right in his stomach again. They’d hit him with the hard sock.
The pain was all that was keeping him from passing out. That blow had sent the adrenaline flowing through him once more.
“You get your orders from Sarge?” This time the serious one was barking at him.
“Yes,” said Art, nodding as vigorously as he could. He didn’t want to nod off. He didn’t want to be hit again. “Just please don’t hit me again.”
“Is there any chance you could get close to this Kor? The leader?”
Through all the fogginess, Art’s thoughts suddenly took a turn. He suddenly understood what this was all about.
And it was so absurd and farfetched that he laughed, a sickly demented laugh coming from deep in his guts, making the little stomach fat he still had left jiggle, his abdominals shaking, sore and painful.
“So you want me to kill him? Is that it? Is that what this is all about? Your plan was to kidnap one of us, someone from the militia. Happened to be me. So you torture me. Not for information. But you want to somehow tur
n me psychologically, and then send me back out there, get close to the leader and just kill him. Just like that?”
Speaking all those words had completely exhausted Art. He could barely keep his head up. It began to slide to the right, his neck too fatigued to support it properly any longer.
“That’s about right. We want you to kill him.”
“Look, I’d happily….”
“He’s too tired.”
“No wonder. You were hitting him too hard.”
“Me? You were the one really giving it to him.”
Art knew he didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just the pain. It was something else. A new sensation. Maybe he was about to die.
He didn’t fight it. He didn’t care if he lived or died now. It’d been too much. The stress of constantly wavering between clinging to life and the urge to take his own.
He passed out, his head lolling off to the side, unsupported by his neck. His world went black as he fell into violent nightmares. The story of the dreams was strange, involving various weapons, unknown persons, blunt objects, and more violence than he’d ever experienced even in his real life. And he’d experienced a lot.
12
JOHN
“Tell me who you are,” said John. “This is your last chance. Or I shoot.”
“We’re nobody. We’re not armed. Don’t shoot us, please.”
“There’s no reason to hurt us.”
They were middle-aged men wearing ragged clothing. They had dirty hair and dirty unkempt beards. They looked almost like hobos in the movies, the sort of person that had, in a way, died out a long time ago, those men who would hop trains and travel from place to place with their belongings tied up in a handkerchief on a stick.
“Be more specific,” said John.
They gave their names. John didn’t even listen. He knew that their names didn’t matter at all.
“What’s your story?” said John. “Did you know this man here?” He gestured with his head to the dead man lying there with a stream of blood trickling out of him.
“We don’t know him.”
“But he’s been following us. I think he was after us, not you.”
Defending Camp: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (The EMP Book 6) Page 7
