Find Them: an apocalyptic survival thriller (180 Days and Counting... series Book 6)

by B. R. Paulson

  He’d take it. The discomfort in his body was similar to after a long day’s work. His muscles were sore, but not burning. He was tired, but not beyond exhausted. Breathing wasn’t close to impossible.

  Was it reality, that he might survive this thing?

  The questions roiled in his mind, but he clung to the gun as if it held all the answers. He couldn’t let it go. The incident with the coyotes too recent for comfort.

  Scott let out a low whistle and Ranger fell into a trot behind the trailer as Bailey drove toward her house with caution. She didn’t seem concerned about coyotes, wolves, or other predators. Why should she? She wasn’t weak or sick. She was fully in control of her faculties.

  Embarrassed Bailey had to retrieve him, Scott worked to get himself ready to exit the trailer by himself.

  She pulled to a stop in front of the house and climbed down to help him. “I’m going to put this away. I’ll be back in just a minute, if you want to wait here on the porch.”

  Scott nodded, grateful for help and glad to be back at Cady’s. Yes, he wanted to get to his own home, especially when he’d thought he wasn’t long for this world and he didn’t want to be a burden on Bailey and Jason.

  But as he continued to pull further from the clutches of the virus, he realized he would be able to help at Cady’s. Bailey wouldn’t have to do anything by herself. Not for long anyway. Sure, Scott was tired, but not an invalid. He could do more than he’d thought he could.

  Ignoring the sharp pain in his feet, Scott heaved himself upright when they stopped. Dark shadows in the shape of Zach’s sandals had been pushed to the side of the porch, against the wall of the house. Scott remembered seeing them there when he’d come by a week or so ago.

  It seemed like longer than just a few weeks since the world started falling down around them. He would need those sandals on his feet, before he could go inside. He didn’t need to see the blood to know he was bleeding.

  “I knew the power went out, but I didn’t realize just how quiet and dark it would be.” Scott murmured as Bailey stood beside him, helping him cross the few feet to the deck. He didn’t turn and sit on the steps like she indicated wanting. Instead, he carefully reached out and grabbed the closest post and pulled himself up the two steps.

  He had to get those sandals on. The tender flesh of his feet would need first aid attention, but first he had to make sure he didn’t get blood all over the place.

  Bailey stepped away from him and revved the four-wheeler, disappearing around the side of the house to put the ATV into the shed. Scott knew his way around Cady’s place. As soon as he was able, he’d help Bailey with taking care of the homestead.

  After his adventurous night, he just wanted to say goodnight to Jason and Jessica and get some sleep.

  Slipping the sandals on his feet, he sighed at the cooling pressure of the rubber soles on his feet, like a bandage that pushed all of his flesh together. Standing at the front door, waiting for Bailey to return from the shed, Scott glanced through the slim front window.

  Even though the power was off, the moonlight glowed through the windows in the dining room, shining down the hardwood floor into the hall.

  Scott’s nephew lay on the floor, tucked against the wall with a pillow under his head. It didn’t take a fully lit house to see Jason wasn’t moving.

  Scott wasn’t sure how he was still moving himself, but he was. The new jolt of adrenaline wouldn’t be wasted. Scott didn’t wait for Bailey. Bursting through the front door, Scott knelt beside the young man and touched the side of his throat. Thready and fast, Jason’s pulse beat against Scott’s touch.

  Hanging his head, Scott’s temporary relief allowed him to droop beside his nephew. He couldn’t lose Jason. There was nothing left of his family that he knew of – only Jason and Jessica. That was all he had. He couldn’t let anything happen to them. If for no other reason, then he’d promised his mother.

  Pressing the back of his hand against Jason’s forehead, Scott shook his head at the incredible heat eating at Jason’s flesh. “You’re burning up, kid.”

  Jason didn’t respond. Not that Scott expected him to. Hoped, yes.

  If Scott were stronger, he’d carry Jason up to a bed, but Scott didn’t even have enough energy to drag his nephew into the living room.

  Bailey pushed through the front door. “Let me get some candles lit. I didn’t have time after the power went out and I had to find you.” She wasn’t guilt-tripping him, but Scott didn’t need to be reminded that he was mostly to blame for adding more stress to an already stressful situation.

  She passed him, feeling with her feet to make sure she didn’t step on Scott or Jason. The closet door opened and Bailey made a few passes between the doorway and the table. After a few minutes, the door closed. The sound of a lighter grating and clicking and then suddenly a small flame appeared.

  Lighting multiple candles set up on the table, Bailey soon had candle light flickering and casting a jack-o-lantern glow about the lower level of the home. The sensation of comfort accompanied the light, making up for the absence of the furnace humming in the distance or the disappearance of the fan above the fireplace displacing the heat.

  Scott rocked back to his butt from his feet, and looked up at Bailey. “Is Cady…” He didn’t want to know, but he had to. He could just revel in possibility for a little longer, but that wasn’t how he worked.

  Bailey shook her head, her expression tight. “She’s only been completely down less than a day. It’s… It’s still my birthday.” She glanced at Jason and then back at Scott, like that didn’t matter but she had to tell someone.

  Scott glanced at Bailey quickly, drawing his eyebrows together. “Today?”

  “For another couple hours. Jason didn’t know and Mom… well, she told me happy birthday last night when she helped you, but…” She offered a half-smile that tore at Scott and shrugged.

  “Yeah, I get it.” He pressed himself against the wall and used it as leverage to stand. “I’m feeling better. The pain is… manageable. My feet…” He glanced down and grimaced. “I wasn’t very smart. Do you think I can use some of your mom’s first aid stuff to bandage it?” The fresh air and moving around had seemed to help with the pain along his skin and the adrenaline had spiked, numbing him to the intense pain in his feet and back.

  Standing on his feet was about all he could do for the moment, but he’d take it. Glancing over his shoulder, toward the front door, a sudden sharp pang hit him. “Ranger?”

  His dog wasn’t an indoor dog, but Scott had to know he was okay.

  “Don’t worry. I set him up in the garage. He has food and water and a safe place to sleep. He dropped onto the blanket after drinking a bunch. I’ll watch over him until you get feeling better.” Bailey’s smile was hard to see as she stood with her back to the candles.

  His relief made it easier to breathe. “I missed him. He… Yeah, I missed him.” Scott couldn’t yet voice what Ranger had done to save him. Another thing to add to his list of regrets and guilt. He’d abandoned his dog to save himself and his nephew and niece. When faced with insurmountable odds, Ranger hadn’t budged from Scott’s side.

  That was loyalty.

  “Can you see in this light?” Scott angled, turning his shoulders toward Bailey. “Does it look like my rash is worse?”

  Bailey stepped closer, pulling out a small pocket flashlight from her pocket. She studied his shoulder and neck where the collar of his shirt didn’t cover it. “No, actually, your pox looks lower, not gone, but lower.”

  The burning was drastically lessened, but an itch had taken its place. Was the itch like the chickenpox, where if you scratched, it would just get worse?

  “You mentioned Jessica has it. Is she okay?” Worry clenched in his gut and he turned around. “Can I see her?” There were so many things piling on him. He couldn’t keep them all straight.

  Jason was lying on the floor, sick, but at least he was safe. There was nothing they could do for him at that momen
t, but let him rest. Jessica had been sick or was getting sick. Cady was sick. Bailey had everything on her plate and she seemed to be holding up pretty well under the circumstances. Scott had to contribute. He had to help out. He couldn’t be another item on her checklist of responsibilities.

  Bailey disappeared into the living room and then came back. She held out her arm and offered him help. “She’s sleeping on the couch. You want to sit by her? I can grab the first aid stuff and move some candles in there.”

  Scott didn’t have enough energy to sit down and then get back up. He had to check on Cady. “Let me check on your mom first. I’ll come down and watch over Jessica and Jason while you get some sleep. I’m not sure how much sleep I’ll be able to get since I’ve been sleeping the last three days already.”

  Bailey chewed on her lower lip and shot him a grateful look. She didn’t fight him which meant she was more tired than she’d let on.

  Scott waited for Bailey to return to Jessica in the living room before falling to his knees on the steps. He could crawl up, if he split the load between his hands and legs. Each movement pulled at his energy, but he could do it. He’d just walked to his house and survived a coyote attack. Climbing those stairs was a no-brainer.

  After an agonizing amount of time, Scott found himself kneeling beside Cady’s bed.

  Her eyelids fluttered when he took her hand. She was deep in sleep and a fever flushed her skin. “I’m better, Cady. It might not be permanent. I might just be dealing with endorphins, but I feel better. I’m not sure what’s going on. If I can get better, though, this should be cake for you.”

  Fatigue dragged at him and he touched her hand before pulling back. He hadn’t wanted to be touched when he’d been down. His skin had hurt too much.

  Cady would feel the same.

  What could he do to help Bailey have a better birthday? Survive?

  Chapter 7

  Beth

  Night was the time of nightmares. Shooting one’s husband had to be the epitome of nightmare fodder.

  Beth fell to her knees beside her husband. Faint traces of his cologne reached her as he gasped for breath. The concrete flooring was unforgiving as she panted.

  She’d shot him. No, seriously. How had she shot him? Why hadn’t he said anything? He was a cop. He knew better than to go into a situation without identifying himself. If he’d only called out, she could have recognized his voice instead of thinking he was a looter or worse. What was worse? Did it matter? She’d shot Steven and she wasn’t in the position to play nursemaid.

  How bad was it?

  He’d fallen to the cement floor of the garage, his flashlight beaming toward the side, into the corner. The light reflected off the white wall, illuminating the dark splotch of blood spreading from his shoulder down his chest.

  Okay, it was only the shoulder. She’d shot him in the shoulder. Maybe he could still live. Turning to the workbench, she grabbed a wad of blue paper towels and pressed them against the curve of his upper arm and chest.

  He moaned, his eyelids opening as he tried to pull from her touch. His legs dangled over the edge of the unfinished steps. Beth pulled him further off the stairs onto the ground. She couldn’t think. She’d shot him and guilt ate at her like acid. Her thought processes were screwed up.

  Was it possible for her to go into shock even though she hadn’t been shot? Would she be eligible for shock since she’d been fine after her children were dead? Well, maybe she wasn’t fine but she’d been functioning. She had to get back to functioning.

  Gathering a sleeping bag from the shelf on the far side of the garage, Beth pulled it from its bag and tucked it around Steven. She couldn’t lift him, but she could try to keep him warm. There was no way to elevate his shoulder, but she returned to his side and held pressure as long as he would let her. The smell of blood was vastly preferable to the scent of rotten bodies or disease.

  “Beth?” Steven’s strained voice didn’t need an excuse with obvious reasons for his stress. “The kids…” His voice ended on a groan of despair. He rocked to the side, but returned to lying on his back.

  For a little bit, Beth had been able to forget – if not forget, she’d been able to shove them from her mind. Dwelling on their deaths wouldn’t return them to life. Regretting their deaths would be like regretting who they’d been and how they’d been present in her daily life. Reliving the last few days wasn’t an option. Not right then while her skin chilled and her blood flow slowed.

  She shivered, grief all-too ready to consume her from a conscious level. “Yes…” But that’s all she could say.

  He hadn’t asked a question, but he got that response all the same.

  Beth checked Steven’s neck surreptitiously for the rash but there was nothing on his skin. How was that possible? Was the virus something that only infected the young? If that was the case, then Steven had a chance, if he could stay alive from the shot.

  But her neighbors negated that theory. How many of them had become infected and died? They weren’t all children. In fact, Beth wasn’t sure who had died from the virus and who had died from the Cure and who was still alive out there like she was.

  Sweat broke out on Steven’s forehead and his breathing grew shallower. He moaned, reaching up to push at Beth’s hand holding the towels there. She wasn’t even sure where her first aid kit was.

  Beth shushed Steven.

  The wound didn’t want to stop bleeding.

  Chapter 8

  Manson Stint

  Manson jerked awake at the sudden silence. The air slowed and no longer blew from the thin vent slats in the air. The air circulation was no longer running. He could hear the absence of the electricity as the lines stopped humming.

  He’d taken for granted the movement of the smells in the building. The odor of unwashed bodies settled around him. He took a deep breath.

  A general rustling and murmuring filled the air, as others woke to the difference. When you lived in the same environment for days, weeks, months, and years, the slightest change was more noticeable than an earthquake.

  The all-encompassing darkness covered any possible searching that might be going on in the corridor.

  Manson sat up, reaching for the crowbar he’d snuggled against his side when he’d lain down for bed. There were no other weapons in the prison community that could beat the bar. Not yet anyway. No one had searched out Phil and the security office as they looked first for food. Some of the prisoners had snuck food into their cells. Those prisoners were no longer alive and their food had been confiscated.

  He stood, slipping his boots on and tying the laces. He’d been able to keep the men in line as he’d promised that the locks would no longer work with the absence of power. That’s the only thing that had kept them in line – the promise of change, the promise of freedom.

  Manson had no idea the power would go out so soon. The outage would give him opportunity sooner rather than later and he was grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.

  What did he need? He didn’t want to return to his cell ever again. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. Judging by the sounds of the other inmates, he wasn’t the only one.

  General talking filled the air as voices charged with excitement rebounded off the cement block walls. Many lingered in their cells, unsure of where to go and what exactly they would do since they hadn’t been anywhere else but the penitentiary in more years than they’d been out.

  Manson was ready to leave. Murder wasn’t something he wanted to do. It was something he needed to do. The inmates he’d killed had been covered with a grace period and most hadn’t yet been acclimated into a gang or group so they weren’t protected. Manson wasn’t stupid. Everyone was afraid of him, but even he knew that if a group of them got mad enough, they could kill him and there’d be nothing he could do to stop it.

  He wanted nothing from his cell but the bar. Gripping the warm metal, he left the small room, grateful his roommate had died a few days ago. Manson had slid the man
’s body to the catwalk and pushed him over. The pile of dead accumulated under the stairs of the cell pod. The stench was getting to them all, even stronger now since the air had stopped.

  Hurrying toward the exit doors where the exit sign used to glow above the double panels as it taunted the inmates, Manson pushed through a few slow straggler groups. Of course, it was only an exit for a fire escape and it led out to another tightly patrolled yard with a fence that was also monitored with electric access. But that didn’t matter. Just testing to see if it was open or not was the point. If the door was open, they should be able to get out of the rest of them.

  And wasn’t getting out the point?

  The exit doors were impossible to open when the power was on. There had been a power outage once when Manson had first arrived a few years back and he’d been by the doors. Another inmate had pushed against the handle in frustration and been rewarded with the door popping open. Sunlight had spilled into the common area and the inmates milling about had become paralyzed as they’d stared at the door for a split second.

  The prisoner had rushed into the yard and ignored all orders to get back inside. He’d stood in the center of the yard with his arms held out and his head tilted back – as if he’d really found freedom. He did a week in solitary confinement for that stint, but Manson had learned from his mistake.

  Electricity held the prison together at the seams.

  Manson approached the doors, his palm sweating with excitement. He wanted out. He needed out. As he reached the doors, other men fell into step behind him as if he needed a posse to push open some doors. He ignored their presence and slowed as he reached the panels.