Survial Kit Series (Book 1): Survival Kit's Apocalypse

by Williams, Beverly

  “Blowtorch,” I said, allowing myself to trace my fingers over it.

  “Really?” he asked, his eyes wide. “I have no memory of that. Must’ve been pretty bad, to block it out.”

  Belatedly, I realized we’d stopped walking again.

  He got down on his knees and looked up at me. “Okay?” his eyes beseeched.

  “Okay, fine,” I grumbled, pulling the fabric of my pant leg up to my knee and searching for the right words.

  He fingered the design. An etched filigree of stippled flowers, intertwined branches, and leaves crept up the side of my leg. Wild roses.

  I found the image my brain had been searching for. “Like a wide, tooled leather belt. It goes here.” I swept my arm up from my foot to my calf, to my side, under my armpit, and down the inside of my upper arm, to indicate its span.

  My stepfather had carved it into my skin over a period of years. He’d kept adding, letting parts of it heal while expanding the design. He’d gone back over it repeatedly until it had the texture he desired. He used to tell me he was going to turn it into a lampshade when I was gone. I relayed this information to Eric, who sat shaking his head and mumbling something to himself.

  “What’s that?” I hadn’t been able to make out his words.

  He looked up. “How can there be so much beauty from something so vicious?”

  “I was thinking the same about your blowtorch thingy.”

  “Yeah?” He looked me over, wondering what other scars my clothing hid. “You have one,” he realized.

  “Mine’s small, though. And it just looks like what it is. Melted flesh.” I wasn’t about to show him.

  Understanding we’d nearly taken it past the limits of what I could deal with, he changed tack. “Shall we return?”

  I answered affirmatively, offering a hand to help him up. He didn’t let go until we passed the first tent.

  hey wept and wept and wept and wept, and the more they did, the less I cared.” Disclaimer, “Scurry! Scamper! Skitter! Scuttle!”

  I’d been on a night stroll, and explored an abandoned garage. There wasn’t much in it, though I’d found a full case of beer and lugged it back to camp. I anchored it in the lake so it would be cold when the guys were ready for it. I was pleased to have a treat to offer them when they returned from hunting. As the sun rose, I passed through the tent area, awed by the sky’s beauty.

  Without warning, Buck jumped out at me from his tent, reeking of alcohol. He slurred something completely unintelligible but clearly malevolent. Buck was the biggest disruption to camp life. He was a complete asswipe. His girlfriend, Sam, chose to tolerate his abuses, but Jeff and his friends (or Eric, or Matthew) were constantly called on to get Buck to stop one undesired behavior after another. Buck’s brother, Chet, was better… but not by much. I figured they hadn’t been exiled from the group solely because Jeff didn’t think he could keep them from pestering us, so it was easier to keep an eye on them here.

  So Buck jumped out, drunk, brandishing a large knife. I’m not sure what his true intentions were, but his action was swift and brutal—he cut me along the length of my right arm, from the shoulder to the back of my hand. I took him down in the blink of an eye, twisting his free arm behind his head, placing one foot on his wrist and a knee at his throat. If rotters ever take over this camp, I thought, he’ll be one of the first to go.

  “Drop it,” my voice demanded. It was a surprise to hear this, for the world had gone silent. Like it was holding in an antique breath of air. My voice didn’t usually carry. Sam watched from the tent. People were gathering at the edges of my vision. For once, I paid them no mind.

  Buck complied with my demand, and I picked up the knife, tempted to use it on him. The impulse wasn’t enough for me to risk exposing him to my blood, though. It could kill him, it could turn him, it could… I didn’t know what my blood could do. On the other hand, I also didn’t know whether it offered any protection, but if it did, he certainly didn’t deserve it. Otherwise, I might’ve risked those other outcomes in order to give him some visual reminders about behavior.

  “If you try that again, on anyone, I will jam a funnel in your mouth and pour rotter blood down your throat. I will turn you,” I threatened.

  Buck’s complexion was becoming pale grayish-blue. Tears welled up from his eyes and flooded his face. I watched him bounce it up and down in agreement, because he couldn’t speak or breathe. Good. We had an understanding.

  “Kit,” Jeff said nervously from a few yards away. He didn’t dare approach us. “Kit…” A note of warning was in his voice.

  I continued, “And then I will end you forever, just so your girlfriend will get to see you die twice. Clear?”

  He tried to say, “Clear! Clear!” but could only mouth the words. I rose, released him, and started to walk away, then turned back.

  “This is mine now,” I said of the knife.

  Buck had stood and was gulping in air and sobbing. Then he threw up, bent over with his hands on his knees.

  I left camp for the quiet picnic area up the road, and on the way there, I wiped my new knife on some leaves and inspected it. The knife was a nice one, heavy and well-balanced. I examined the phoenix engraved on the hilt―it rose from flames which crept along the base of the blade. I pushed this knife into the sheath where the knife I’d lost used to belong, and sat down on top of a picnic table. I removed my leather gloves. Buck had sliced halfway through the back of the right one, so I’d have to pitch the pair. Dammit. I’d liked those a lot. I pulled a pair of dark gray fingerless gloves from my backpack and put the left one on. I angrily tossed the right one on the table beside me. I needed to stitch up my cut before I could wear that one.

  I retrieved my first-aid kit. It contained, among other things, a small plastic bag of sewing supplies. I splashed saline over my arm and used a few alcohol wipes to clean my hands and the sewing paraphernalia. I worked on stitching my arm. Never having tried to sew one-handed before, I found the task terribly frustrating. Progress was slow.

  The distinctive sound of Matthew’s footsteps, deliberate and carefully placed, registered in my consciousness. He entered the clearing and we greeted each other.

  “I heard what happened,” he said, ripping open a few alcohol wipes to clean his hands. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. No big deal.”

  “That’s not how they tell it.” He spoke the words gently. Nevertheless, they stung. He stretched out an upturned hand and I forfeited the needle. With (mostly) even stitches, he pulled my flesh back together.

  I watched Matthew quietly, pressing my right hand on my leg to keep its scars hidden. He looked up afterward, peering into my eyes the way a psychic looks into a crystal ball. “You’re not one of those people who can’t feel pain, are you?”

  “I wish! No, not me.”

  He shook his head. “You’re such a badass. Trouble can never sit still for this stuff. He cringes and curses and usually ends up drunk.”

  Usually? How often had they done this?

  Matthew swiped iodine solution down the length of the cut. He followed this by swabbing a reddish-brown “X” on the back of my hand. I continued to conceal my palm by making a fist, and Matthew didn’t seem to notice the scars. He bandaged my cut so it would stay clean.

  I examined the “X.” “What’s this?”

  “It’s a Cross of Courage!” he answered, as if he’d given me a badge of honor and distinction. “Eric used to do this when we got hurt. I don’t know if it’s something our mom taught him or something he made up to get us to stop crying.”

  I smiled. “Cross of Courage.”

  Matthew smiled back. “Yep!”

  “Badass!”

  I donned a long-sleeved shirt to cover the ugly new cut. Another scar.

  It shouldn’t matter to me anymore, but still, it does. This thought was like a stoplight. I felt stuck before it, waiting for the light to change. Maybe I’d missed tripping it. Then I realized my premise was fallacious. Why
shouldn’t it matter to me? It was part of my life and part of me now. Of course it mattered.

  I was learning from Eric that feeling is fundamental. Exploring those feelings was still too much to tackle, though. Allowing them could be enough for now.

  During dinner, Eric returned from a scouting trip. He noticed the end of the bandage tucked under my fleece glove. He felt lightly along my sleeve up, up… up.

  “Whoever did that is dead,” he stated.

  “Already dealt with it,” I tried to assure him. “Won’t happen again.”

  I blamed myself for not being more alert. More careful.

  Eric shook his head vigorously. “I’m gonna make him pay.”

  “He’s not worth the effort. Let it be.”

  Matthew had observed the exchange. I realized he, or someone else, would tell Eric what happened later. I took another bite of Spam and concentrated on not throwing up.

  he next day, when I entered the lake area, Andrew was telling John, “If the head of the dragon ain’t breathin’ fire, then the body and tail of the dragon ain’t doin’ shit!” and they chortled, continuing their talk with a raunchy story. They were eating clam chowder from cans. I walked on past them to the water and then along the rocky edge of the shore.

  It was suppertime at camp. Food smells wafted through on an easy evening breeze. I sat on a boulder, watching as a flock of mallards swam about on the far edge of the water.

  A Tar Pit memory had become fixed in the background of my consciousness since it first emerged: My wrists are bound, hugged around a pole. One of my stepfather’s Programs. Tonight he’s traded the bullwhip for razor wire. I watch as he uncoils and twists it into a stiffer implement, and then I lean my forehead against the stained and splintered wood of the pole. My mind had shoved away the details of what followed, though how it must’ve gone was pretty clear. I was glad not to be able to recall the full picture. It’s for the best, anyway.

  My stomach ached. It was hungry, but I wasn’t. My Tar Pit vision had usurped my thoughts. The studded bindings which held me that night had bitten into my wrists and left tiny dots. It wasn’t that I hadn’t worn those bindings other nights; I just hadn’t tugged them so tightly on any other occasion. They left those dots, and I hadn’t thought about them for a long time, until Eric noticed them.

  Thom sat down next to me, trying to pass me something. A Twinkie. I neglected to raise my hand to accept it. I hadn’t eaten in a couple of days, nothing major. But the brothers had picked up on it. My stomach chose this moment to rumble. Thom pressed the Twinkie into my hand.

  “Gotta eat sometime,” he encouraged.

  I stared off at the ducks. Thom watched them with me for a bit. Then he returned to the group, to his brothers, to his supper.

  I hugged my knees to my chest, caught up in my memory.

  Eric came over. I shivered, and he put his flannel overshirt around my shoulders. He picked up the Twinkie, which had fallen to the ground. When he tried to pass it to me, I shook my head and he put the snack away in the loaner shirt’s pocket for later. We watched as the water became calm and glassy and the sky grew dark.

  He spoke in my ear, “You know where to find me.”

  I sat there for most of the night, watching as Thom’s Post Watch began, then ended, and he was replaced by Patrick. I watched the clouds drift in to veil the moon’s light. I watched the way it changed how the calm water glowed. A rabbit screamed in the distance, a high death cry that abruptly ended.

  I got up and walked swiftly away into the night, not knowing where I was headed or even why. Finding my way back wouldn’t be a concern. The farmer had taught me how to navigate in the woods.

  I wasn’t entirely sure I would even go back.

  On my walk, I found something that helped begin to free me from my swampy sadness: an airport! Its short runway, overgrown and damp with dew, was glistening under the light of the mostly-full moon. I thoroughly explored the property and vowed to return.

  When I did get back to camp late the next morning, there was fussing. People had been worried. I didn’t want them to be. Mind your own business, I thought. I crawled into my tent and fell into an uneasy sleep, fitfully rolling in my sleeping bag as terrible dreams took over.

  When I emerged into the afternoon, a light rain had been falling for some time. Most of our campers were huddled in their tents. I sat out by the lake, staring off at where the ducks had been, forming a plan for the airport.

  “Where’d you go?” Eric plopped down next to me, already as soaked through as I was.

  “Off,” I told him. He deserved a better answer. “I needed to cut out of here for a bit.” I shivered in my sodden clothing, and Eric put an arm around me.

  “Did it help?”

  “I think so.”

  “So you’re going to stay?” Anxiety was woven into his voice.

  I gave him the best answer I could. “For now.”

  It didn’t seem to help him, and I felt bad about it.

  I stole away secretly over the next few days, preparing the small Cessna 150, mowing the runway with a push mower I found in the hangar, studying maps, calculating. Rebuilding my desire to keep moving forward with life—and to keep from running away.

  And then, finally, Eric and I were on a mission. We had Scout Duty and I had a plan. Eric was content to let me choose our direction and objective if I was inclined to do so, and I was excited. Today was a day for adventure!

  “Whoa, KitNellie!” he exclaimed, jogging to keep up. It was all I could do not to break into a full-out run.

  “We’ve got somewhere to be!” I told him.

  Eric and I arrived at the edge of the small grass strip. He looked at me, his eyes asking, “What is this?”

  “We’re going up!” I announced.

  Eric looked down the runway.

  “I know what I’m doing. Farmer taught me,” I asserted.

  “Let’s go!” He was game. Excellent.

  We opened the hangar and I pulled the airplane out, putting my arm over her tail and hanging most of my weight on it to get her in motion. She was a pretty little red-and-white plane, well cared for, older. I’d already torn apart, rebuilt, and tested the engine. I’d inspected her from tip to tail. She was aching to fly, too. I double-checked the fuel tanks in the wings while Eric climbed in.

  “I’ve never been up before,” he said loudly through the open door.

  “I have,” I answered, doing a final walk-around check.

  “Well, that’s a great comfort.” He fiddled with the seatbelt. “How does this damn thing work?” he finally asked.

  I showed how on the belt reserved for me, performing a caricature of a stewardess’s demonstration.

  “Oh!” He got the belt on.

  I primed the prop and climbed in.

  “Ready?” I asked him.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Trust shone in his eyes.

  “CLEAR PROP!” I yelled out, and then I secured my window.

  Flying! It had been far too long. I’d loved flying lessons with the farmer. We used to watch the matchbox-sized cars on miniature roads. We used to spot fish in the water. We used to buzz his friends’ houses.

  As we soared up into the cold morning sky, Eric peered out the window to the land below. “It looks like a toy!” he shouted, gesturing at the Earth. No headsets for us today; I’d need to find some.

  I pointed us in the direction of our target: supplies. We were headed to the military outpost I’d spent a short time at before moving on to my current camp. When I left, it had been well-stocked with supplies, and it wasn’t too far away. Not far by airplane, that is. I knew the code to get us into the compound. Their security had been run on a solar-powered system, and I hoped it would still be functioning.

  We approached the property, flew around it, performed a low-altitude flyover, and finally assumed a landing pattern. The area was mostly deserted—most of the rotters had left after all the humans had been devoured or turned. Eric gave me a th
umbs-up when I asked if he thought we should land.

  Once we were on the ground, the first real order of business—after putting down some rotters—was refueling. Keeping the tanks as full as possible seemed like a good idea. We set the plane up so she’d be ready to leave when we were.

  Next, we cleared another batch of rotters from our path and I punched in the door code so we could enter the mess building. I led us down the hall to the food storage area.

  “You’ve been here before,” Eric observed.

  “Not for long. It went sour pretty fast.”

  I studied the label on a large box of MRE (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) ration packages.

  “We can handle five of these boxes,” I calculated. It would make us overweight by the airplane manual’s charts, but I knew my strong little Cessna could handle it. And I could handle her.

  I looked around the room and dug a cart out from under some cardboard boxes. We stacked the MREs on the cart and wheeled them all out of the mess building. We loaded our treasure into the plane and took off, climbing into the sky again, headed for the airport. A good haul, with the promise of more to come.

  I opened a box of Minute Rice for supper, and hundreds of cigarette beetles fell out into the boiling water.

  “Seriously!” I said, disappointed. There went my meal. I supposed I could eat them along with the rice, but the situation wasn’t that desperate. Besides, my stomach was performing an acrobatic act, flip-flopping around in my gut at the sight of them.

  “‘Sup?” asked Matthew.

  “Bugs,” I answered. I felt like a mass murderess.

  He scrutinized the mess in the pot and made a face. I let the beer can burner die down, and watched the bugs and rice boil for a moment more.

  Matthew set a small can of Vienna sausages on the table. “You can have this.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, troubled that he’d offered to sacrifice his entire meal for me.

  “Why not?”

  “How ‘bout we share these?”

  “Sure,” he agreed.