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

by B. R. Paulson

  I didn’t want to look behind me, but I couldn’t fight the urge. I was like the rubber-necking fools at a bad highway accident.

  Multi-colored shirts marked a large group of people gathered at the north end of the parking lot.

  More cars stopped on the road and people jumped out of their doors. Random stopping and starting while they searched only created more of a traffic problem. Arms waving and voices raised in desperation, they worked to claim someone in the crowd or maybe to find someone who wasn’t there anymore.

  The dead boy’s fear-filled face crossed my mind and I squeezed my eyes shut for the briefest second.

  I turned forward, waving the caustic air from my face. Moving the smoke around didn’t help. In fact, I might have made things worse since little particles of ash coated my tongue and throat.

  My house still stood. Oh thank the heavens. Relief loosened the tension in my muscles and my stride steadied while my shoulders dropped to a comfortable position.

  The immediate houses around ours had escaped damage but the next street over had nothing standing except an old oak tree I had climbed once as a small girl. Dwelling on the damage and the memories wouldn’t get me home any faster.

  A piercing whistle drew my gaze as I jogged. My mom waved from our back deck. I coughed, lifting my hand to return the wave.

  I squinted. Was she holding a tea mug? Did she think the queen was coming or something? I picked up my pace, lengthening my stride. There we were getting bombed and my mother had a cup of tea.

  Rolling my eyes, I sprinted the last hundred feet across the road, dodging cars and panicked people carrying boxes from their homes.

  The acrid scent of burnt hair and flesh hit me at the same time I stumbled. Looking down, I recoiled, gagging deep in my throat.

  What was—

  Hand to my mouth, I held in my sob. My brother’s dog, Captain Pete, had somehow been burned – horribly. He whimpered, scratching himself closer to the open gate.

  I had forgotten to close the stupid gate on my way to school. Captain Pete had gotten out because of me. Hot tears coursed my cheeks and I clenched my teeth together. He stopped moving and his eyes closed.

  Oh, no. Twice? In less than an hour? No. Please, no.

  Standing, I sobbed and backed through the open gate. I couldn’t slam it shut. My increased speed combined with the discovery of Captain Pete left me huffing. Chemical-tinged smoke burned my throat as I gasped through my mouth. Breathing through my nose hurt worse.

  I stamped down my hysteria. Fear wanted to boil over. I had to pull my stuff together. Mom would not tolerate panic. She wouldn’t accept anything from me that we hadn’t practiced. She was nothing, if not prepared.

  Stopping at the corner of the house, I leaned against the shaded vinyl siding.

  Mom was okay. Captain Pete and that kid weren’t. Half the school wasn’t and judging by the damage in the neighborhood half the community wasn’t either.

  But Mom was. She was so fine, she took time to make and enjoy a cup of tea.

  “Kelly? Come on. Get up here.” Mom called me as if I was just getting in from hanging out with friends. Where was her panic? Her fear? Of course I wouldn’t be allowed to witness them. She would bury them beneath her faith, drown them in her tea. If she even had any emotions like that at all.

  I clamped my mouth shut. That wasn’t fair. Mom cared about me. She had more empathy than most people. She didn’t overreact to situations because of her faith. Blaming her for events outside of her control wouldn’t sort anything out or make the world safer.

  Pasting a neutral expression on my face, I bit back my fear. If she looked too closely, she’d see my hands shaking. I reached for the thin gold chain my dad had given me before… well, I didn’t want to think about that or my neutral expression would fade.

  “Hey, Mom. What do you think?” How unnatural to be blasé about the horror around us. But she expected control. She expected faith. We had a plan and we would follow the steps.

  She sipped her tea, focusing her eyes over the cup rim toward the deteriorating garden of houses spread every direction around our place.

  The explosions had all but ended. Dark eyebrows arched over eyes so blue she often styled her brown hair back from her face to enhance them. “Well, this certainly isn’t a drill, Kelly. Grab your father’s bug out bag and your hiking boots and meet me in the kitchen. We need to make some sandwiches and grab some fresh food before we leave.”

  I climbed the stairs two at a time, holding onto the railing, and stopped inches from my mom. She didn’t drag her attention from the tragedy around us. Turning to see where I’d escaped, I clenched my hands at my sides. “We have MREs in the bags. Do we really need to pack more stuff? And why Dad’s?” Not that I was really complaining. Something of his would go with me wherever I went. A plan I could get on board with pretty quick.

  Plus, I just needed to talk about anything mundane, anything to keep my mind off the last sixty minutes of my life.

  “Because I readjusted the bag’s contents. The majority of your stuff is in there, his bag is bigger, and can carry more.” She sighed, turning toward me and lifting her mug. “And we’re taking as much fresh food as we can because I paid for it and I hate to see it go to waste. Okay?” She narrowed her eyes and I caught a glimpse of fear she didn’t want me to see.

  I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Stomping wouldn’t behoove me. She would just make me walk the path again. I reined in my frustration and bit my tongue – not hard enough to draw blood but with enough force the sting dulled my anger. She didn’t ask how the people at school were handling the attacks. She didn’t asking anything, but issued orders instead.

  Her gaze slid downward, taking in my arms and the blackened soot over the tops of the forearms. “You’re burned. Is it bad?”

  Shrugging, I waited for her to examine my skin. As a nurse, she had more sense than most people did and a little bit of burning wouldn’t faze her – even on me.

  A large part of me didn’t care where or what we did and, in fact, the weightlessness of allowing my mom to plan and control everything released some of the stress of the moment.

  If everything went down the way my mom claimed, I would never see my home again. The pictures on the walls, the miniatures claiming the shelves, everything we collected over our lives would be left behind. Even the small personal items of Braden’s and my dad’s. Nothing extra was allowed to go.

  Once a few months ago, I asked Mom if I could fit something in my pocket, if it could go. She had stopped cutting onions and turned to study me. Eyes wet from the dicing, she pursed her lips before speaking slowly. “I’m not doing this to be mean, Kelly. Everything is planned out for a reason. Every ounce is calculated for survival. We might not even need any of it anyway. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  I had nodded, turning back to setting the table for the two of us. We would need it, but neither of us wanted to call out the fallacy of her statement right then. Why would we? Pressure mounted all over the world and many times we pretended we didn’t notice.

  The only items allowed would be the ones I could fit in my pack. How depressing. No tablet or music or teddy bear. Nothing extra.

  She couldn’t understand my bitterness.

  Upstairs in my room, I could almost pretend nothing was happening. Like I’d just gotten home from school and Mom had cookies in the oven or something.

  Waiting for me on my comforter my dad’s bug out bag sat beside my emptied maroon bag.

  She had transferred everything for me. Not one thing had been left behind. Her methods sometimes sucked in how she dealt with me, but with that act, she proved that she got me. She didn’t question why most of my stuff was gender neutral or leaned toward the more masculine side.

  The space! She hadn’t been kidding. The top third sagged with emptiness, which would be used for food, not my favorite books or my jewelry box handmade by my dad when I turned six. Everything would stay.

  I knew the drill. W
e were lucky in this scenario. I had time to change and time to pack appropriately. Based on Mom’s lack of pacing, I sensed we weren’t leaving in the next five minutes which surprised me.

  According to Mom’s explanations, I’d be missing out on showers for quite a while, which I didn’t find funny, but I understood. What I hadn’t quite figured out was why she wanted my chest flattened with three sports bras and an ace bandage.

  Yet, I complied, the tight material compressing my ribcage and decreasing my ability to inhale comfortably.

  After replacing my jeans, green shirt, and normal bra with dark cargo pants, three sports bras, a black thermal long sleeve shirt under a lightweight but warm t-shirt, I brushed my hair and pulled the strands into a tight braid.

  Yanking on my hiking boots, I glanced around my room one last time. My stomach hurt with the reality of what was happening. Everything my mother had ever warned me about jumped forward into reality.

  She’d been right. I didn’t want her to be right.

  Mostly though, I didn’t want to believe it.

  I pulled the bag onto my back and paused at the doorway. Rubbing the foot of a small teddy bear I had since my third Christmas, I looked at my bed. Then at my things, at the evidence of me – of what made my life, made me who I had become.

  Would I lose that girl? Would my mother’s predictions continue to settle on the correct side of the spectrum?

  I shut the door softly. I could hold tight to the illusion that my room wouldn’t change, it would stay unmolested and I could return one day.

  My heart sank. I would never be there again. I wasn’t stupid. Hopeful, yes. Stupid, not so much.

  “Kelly?” Mom’s voice broke my reverie.

  “Yep, coming.” I clomped down the steps and joined her in the kitchen. She’d changed in the small amount of time I’d been gone and her bag stood patiently on the table, waiting for more items.

  Bread and cheese covered the table. “Mom, there has to be enough here for thirty sandwiches.” I shook my head. What would we do with so much food?

  “Eighteen actually. Trust me, we’ll be grateful we have it tomorrow or the next day.” She cut more cheese, laying the slices across the bread. Nodding toward the mayonnaise container, she added. “Get going, please. I’m sure the looting will start soon. I want to be out of here before the real danger reaches the neighborhoods.” She slid baggies from the bright blue box and set one beside each sandwich.

  Looting and rioting. I focused on spreading the mayonnaise and the mustard.

  Once complete, each sandwich went into a separate baggie and Mom stuffed those into one of our bags. “I’m short two sandwich baggies. Let’s eat one now.” She retrieved plates from the cabinets for us and gently set our sandwiches on the shiny cream ceramic.

  To be honest, it had never occurred to me she would be missing things, too. I thought I was the only materialistic one.

  Swiping a knife over the last bread, I peeked at her solemn face. “Are you scared, Mom?” Part of me waited as if frozen in anticipation – like everything hung on her answer. What if she said yes? Would real terror set in? What if she said no? Would I be able to trust her? Because who in their right mind wouldn’t be scared in that exact second?

  She tossed in oranges and apples, yogurts and even a bag of mini-marshmallows. “You know what? The situation is frightening, and yet, I can’t help but be grateful for what we have. The steps we’ve taken to be prepared for this type of event. Scared? You bet. Is the fear debilitating? Nope. The Lord is on our side.” She winked at me.

  Throwing her faith into the mix answered the question perfectly. She was afraid but she didn’t doubt we would be fine. Only my mom would find a way to answer the question and comfort me all at once.

  A shot rang out a few houses down. Mom and I looked toward the front door and back at each other. Faith aside, my heart pounded.

  Things just got real.

  She dropped her voice into a muffled murmur. “Grab your coats and layer up. I don’t know when we’ll be able to stop.” She pointed at the chair where my jackets hung and she pulled on her own layers. I followed suit. What else was I supposed to do?

  A new urgency fueled our movements.

  Pushing at the tops of our bags, she clicked them closed and hefted mine onto my back.

  “Oh, wow.” Adjusting my shoulders, I shrugged at the pressure of the bag.

  She paused, turning to me and rubbing my shoulder. Mom ducked and met my gaze. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Her apology scared me more than any of the bombs or the screams of people emerging from fiery homes, or even the fact that I’d be leaving the relative safety of my life-long home. Because my mom didn’t apologize for things, especially stuff outside her control. At least to me.

  We grabbed our sandwiches and I followed her without another sound. Who knew when I would have to apologize for my rudeness or complaints – I needed to learn to keep comments to myself. And I would. I just needed patience. Wasn’t that supposed to be a virtue?

  Late March daylight faded around six pm in the northern Idaho region. Streetlights that hadn’t been blown to bits didn’t flicker on. Instead they stood along the streets with their heads bent as if in mourning. Homes on fire lit up the neighborhood similar to overzealous bonfires seeking the stars.

  Mom shut the back door. Her hand lingered an extra moment on the glass of the slider and she bowed her head. Probably to pray again. Another shot resounded off the neighborhood fences.

  I ducked around, looking for the culprit or group of people. The sound was so close.

  Her consistent praying made us late for anything and everything in our normal everyday activities. She was going to screw us over in the here and now.

  “Are we taking the car?” Naturally, I whispered. Undue attention wouldn’t be good with people already shooting in our neighborhood.

  She shook her head. “No. Too conspicuous and we would only get so far. With gas at six dollars for so long, I haven’t filled up the tank in a while.” Mom led the way down the steps to the backyard. “We’re going up through the new construction sites. Shouldn’t be anyone that way just yet and if we need to we can camp the night there.”

  “Why don’t we sleep here tonight? The looting shouldn’t reach us until morning, right?” I glanced up where my bedroom window would be, already missing the soft mattress and squishy pillow. But the shots had been too close and I was really just begging for the chance to cling a teeny bit more to what we had to leave behind us.

  Mom lowered her head and then lifted it again. She didn’t look back at me. “Do you really want to take that chance?”

  I couldn’t give her an honest answer. I didn’t know what chance exactly I would be taking, but I could tell her I didn’t want to find myself in any of the situations she had described as possibilities over the years.

  Not one of those scenarios had occurred in our house. I could pretend our house was magic and we’d be safe forever there.

  Or Mom couldn’t see herself living in a home where bad things happened. That was more likely and easier to swallow.

  Who wouldn’t want to believe the good or even the improbable good? Especially since Dad and Braden had been safe and protected at home until they had gone together on a business trip to Atlanta, Georgia.

  Their illness and death had occurred away from home. We had never gotten an answer regarding the disease – too many had died, too many to bury. Too many…

  I didn’t want to think of my dad and my little brother. Not right then. Not when I walked away from their memories.

  What were we doing? Were we so desperate to survive we would abandon everything?

  World War III couldn’t be all bad. Humanity wouldn’t change so much we wouldn’t be safe with other people.

  Right?

  Chapter 3

  Trudging down the empty sidewalk, I focused on placing one foot and then another in the shadow of my mother’s steps. The further from town we walked, t
he more deserted the streets and houses seemed.

  To our right, the grating sound of metal rolling on metal scratched through the smoky air.

  Mom grabbed my sweatshirt and shoved me behind a privacy line of arborvitae. The scratchy branches and foliage clung to strands of my hair, freeing them from my braid. She tucked me between her and the tall bushes. Through thin slits we watched in half-hunkered down positions.

  In the setting daylight, a man poked his head from the open garage. He checked the road, left and right, inspecting homes and their yards. For the briefest moment, I could’ve sworn he spied us, but his gaze moved on. After another heart beat, he disappeared back inside his garage.