Ashes of the World: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 2)

by Boyd Craven III

  “So in a zombie apocalypse, who would marry off the minister if he’s the one getting hitched?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t know, another minister? This isn’t a zombie apocalypse though. It’s probably a full scale nuclear war now.”

  “Yeah, I know. That scares me, that’s why zombies sound more fun.”

  “There’s nothing fun about what’s happening in the world right now,” Weston told him.

  “I know, but it takes my mind off things.”

  “How about we focus on those snares and finding a good game trail or path to set it up on? That pork is running out fast.”

  “You want to get another pig?”

  “If we can, but any meat at this point sounds good.”

  “I hear you.”

  With no specific chores to do today, they both had decided to do some hunting or trapping. Weston had brought a small .22 rifle with some subsonic short rounds for small game. He didn’t want to use a larger gun, knowing the whip/crack sound of a heavier load would travel forever, but a subsonic round wouldn’t go as far.

  They headed to the Northeastern portion of the homestead property close to where Blake had killed the hog and started looking at the tree line at the edge of the old hay field. They found tunnels through the dark grass leading to the tree line, so they put some of the small game snares they made and used a spool of bank line to secure it. They hadn’t figured out how to do the spring style traps yet, but Blake assured them that almost all animals are used to pushing through grass and branches to some extent and feeling the brush of the wire wouldn’t disturb them until it was tight around their neck, and far too late.

  They moved on, and sipped water out of their bottles when they got too hot. They found some larger game trails that Weston assured his younger brother were made by deer. He hung a snare almost thirty inches off the ground and further on another two sets, both higher and lower than the first. Without Blake to ask, they wanted to cover all of the bases. They were heading back when they heard the crack of a rifle and took off on a dead run toward the house.

  “Damn it,” Weston swore. “I didn’t bring a pistol, all I’ve got is this squirrel gun.”

  “I’ve got my .45,” Bobby panted, keeping pace with his brother’s long legged stride.

  They paused at the house long enough for Weston to grab his guns and he raced to catch up with Bobby who was already getting into the ambush position that Weston and Blake had used on the convicts. Weston took up a position near the toe tappers and started scoping the area.

  “See anything?” Bobby hissed, almost silent as the wind.

  “Yeah, Duncan’s got some folks at gunpoint.”

  “Do you think we should…”

  “Stay put,” he hissed watching two figures frozen by the bore of his gun.

  Duncan slowly approached the two figures, and pulled a ball cap off one, letting blonde hair spill free. A girl, maybe a teenager. The next one he had lift his shirt and patted the back of his pants. A minute later, Weston got a good look at the second figure and saw a teenage boy who looked to be the twin of the girl. Duncan raised one hand, and waved in the distance. There was no way he knew for certain someone was behind him but was counting on everyone to react the way they had talked at the dinner table a time or two.

  Slowly, the Cayhill brothers broke cover and walked slowly with their guns at the ready. It took them some minutes and when they got closer they were able to come to Holloway Lane where the kids were held at gunpoint.

  “Afternoon, Pastor. Have the hogs been fed yet?” Bobby said, breaking the silence.

  The kids hadn’t heard their approach, so when Bobby’s question floated out of the darkening day they jumped.

  “Jesus, mister.” The startled girl exclaimed.

  “Who are you?” Weston asked.

  “Melissa, and that’s my brother James. We’re looking for a place to stay.”

  “I’m sorry kids, this is private property,” Duncan’s tone was harsh, and not at all the jovial happy go lucky pastor that they had gotten used to hearing.

  “Please, mister?” James begged, “We’ve got no place to go and we’re awful hungry.”

  “Move on kids. Go straight back down this trail. Turn east or west at the road. I don’t care which way.”

  “How about some food? Do you have any food to share?” Melissa asked, no longer fearful looking and stepping closer to Duncan, making him raise the gun higher.

  “No, I don’t have anything-“

  “Here,” Bobby held out a Ziploc bag of smoked ham slices. “It’s kind of like jerky. Take it and do what the preacher says.”

  Duncan’s gaze shot daggers at Bobby, but he didn’t say anything. Melissa reached up and took the bag and Bobby fell back, getting his distance again, his .45 held loosely at his side.

  “Now go on,” Weston said, his rifle now raised, but pointing between the two kids.

  “Wait, kids,” Duncan said, his tone sharp, “don’t come back here. We’ve got lethal traps all over. Forget about this place.”

  “You don’t own all of this,” the boy said angrily, pointing to the woods and the fields.

  “We actually do. Now I suggest you move and if you stray off the lane here, you may set off something that will have dire consequences. Now get out of here!” The last was shouted, and the look of fear returned to their features and they turned to walk slowly away, mumbling.

  The three men watched them in silence until they couldn’t see them anymore.

  “Duncan, what the holy hell was that about?” Weston finally spoke.

  He was bewildered, whereas Bobby looked upset at the preacher.

  “Something about them wasn’t right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were too clean, too well fed. Hell, the girl was wearing perfume.”

  “So they were acting normal, and you run them out at gunpoint?” Bobby’s tone was tight, but you could hear the anger in it.

  “Cut your tone, Bobby. Something about them was off. They weren’t running scared and they should have been. They were spotless and the world from the highway and south is all ashes as far as I could see. They were asking for food, but they didn’t look hungry or thirsty.”

  “So they have to be sick and starving for you to-“

  “Shut up Bobby,” Weston said softly, cutting his brother off, “Duncan probably had good reason.”

  “But I thought you wanted to find survivors, that we needed more help?”

  “We do, but we’re not just bringing anybody in.”

  “Just drop it for now, Bobby,” Weston said.

  Bobby stomped off, all pretense of stealth gone. In the gloom, they lost sight of him after a few minutes.

  “I’m sorry, I wish I could explain better what I felt and why I didn’t think those kids-“

  “Duncan, one thing I learned in the police department that I hold near and dear. Follow your instincts. You’ll live longer.”

  “You’re brother going to stay pissed at me forever?”

  “I doubt it. Probably reacted the way he did because he’s young, and Melissa caught his eye.”

  “She did? But she’s just a kid.”

  “He’s barely 20. She can’t be too much younger.”

  “Well I’ll be. Maybe you’re right. It just felt like a trap to me.”

  “Yeah, something felt off,” Weston agreed.

  “We going to wait here for a while, and make sure they don’t come back?”

  “I am, probably for a few more hours.”

  “It’s getting dark out. How about we wait an hour or more, then we head back in.”

  “You don’t have to wait with me.”

  “I know, but if I come home without you, my mother’ll skin me alive.”

  “Yeah, she’s feisty, that one.”

  “You have no idea. Yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “Yeah, she’s taken a shine to you, preacher.”

  Duncan just shook h
is head and fell silent, a faint smile touching his features. Weston took up position Southwest of Duncan but kept him in sight and hunkered down to wait.

  Chapter 7 -

  Lisa listened from her makeshift bedroom in the basement as the men argued above her. She pretended to be asleep, but she was wrestling with her thoughts and feelings. Since the world had blown up, she’d been an emotional wreck, and she knew she was taking it out on her sons. Now, it sounded like Bobby was upset with Duncan and she didn’t know what to do. They spoke in angry tones at the dining room table, but no words were decipherable to her and she desperately wanted to find out what it was, but didn’t want to make things worse.

  Her sons explained over and over why they went to unload that truck in the dead of night, but none of it mattered when compared to what could have happened. She was blown away by the kindness, bravery and generosity of Duncan and the Jacksons and how they immediately made a place for her and her boys and she didn’t feel like they were doing enough. Now they were fighting above her.

  “… But you can’t know...”

  “They could have…”

  “Why don’t… Who cares?”

  “…Blake and Sandra.”

  Words started coming to her the longer she listened and she jumped when one of the freezers in the next room started, the quiet compressor the loudest noise down here, now drowning out the sounds of the argument above. After awhile, they stopped and she heard the door close and her boys headed down to the basement.

  “Is everything okay?” She asked, sitting up.

  “Yeah, just a disagreement,” Bobby said, smiling.

  “It sounded like you were arguing with Duncan.”

  “He kind of was, but he understands now,” Weston answered for him.

  “So everyone is good?”

  “Yes Mom. I’m bushed.”

  The boys headed to their own partitioned off room and bunked down. Soon she heard their soft snores. Sleep didn’t come easy, and she could hear the bed upstairs creaking as Duncan tossed and turned. She was wondering if the uneasiness she felt was also reflected in his heart. More and more every day, she grew fonder of the burly man. So much so it almost hurt. When sleep did find her finally, she dreamed of the wedding, but not Blake and Sandra’s. She smiled as she slept.

  +++++

  “You boys slow down,” Lisa hollered as Bobby and Weston were headed out the door. “I’ve got a ton of canning to do today, and I need you to bring me four cases of jars from the root cellar.”

  “How fast do you need them?” Weston asked.

  “In an hour.”

  “Good, we can go check the traps out and bring those on our way back through,” Bobby said, almost bouncing with energy.

  “Traps?” Lisa was bewildered.

  “Yeah, Blake showed us how to make some snares. We’re running low on pork, and it wouldn’t hurt to learn a new way to hunt that doesn’t make a lot of sound.”

  “Are they safe?”

  “Very safe. We’re taking guns as a backup,” Weston told her.

  “Okay, well, bring me those jars as soon as you can.”

  “You got it, Mom.”

  Bobby’s enthusiasm was infectious, and gone was the angry sullen man from yesterday. Weston could hardly keep up with his fast stride and broke into a jog a couple of times until they made the first set of traps. The first few sets were empty, but the last one in the string had a fat rabbit in it. They walked to the larger snares with a smile, using their scopes on their rifles to check out the land ahead of them. They could see something lying down in the grass near the first set and waited almost two hundred yards away watching.

  When they saw no movement, they creept up to the snare set. A fat doe had walked through the set and expired almost underneath the tree the line was tied to. Weston pulled out his hunting knife to begin skinning it but Bobby stopped him.

  “Let’s go check the other two, first,” he was excited.

  He felt that this meat had practically given itself to them because of the knowledge and skill between his older brother and Blake’s ingenuity, and wanted to see if they had anything else.

  “You go ahead. I’m going to gut this one first. If you don’t get to it quick, it can spoil the meat. Come let me know if you get any more. I’ll gut it for you.”

  “You know, it won’t make me puke forever.”

  “It probably will this time, that’s why you’re heading off alone.”

  “Shut up Weston,” he said lightly, but he was joking. Plus, his brother was right. It wasn’t something he’d ever been able to do without throwing up the few times he tried.

  “Fire a shot if there’s any issues and I’ll come find you.”

  With happy thoughts, Bobby headed to the next set. It was empty and he could hear something breaking branches probably a hundred yards deeper into the woods from where he was already. He approached slowly to witness the last moments of kicking of a younger deer as it too died. Bobby was slightly shaken on the scene of death, but he knew the meat would be greatly needed. He loved venison, and had tried to be the hunter that his father and older brother were, but he hadn’t quite gotten over the death, blood and guts part of it. Once that was done, he was fine. He could and had done it, but it still made him uneasy.

  Bobby looked around and found a fairly straight branch the diameter of his finger, and used his belt knife to cut it off. From six feet away, he slowly tapped the deer’s eyeball with the branch, ready to bolt if it was playing opossum. He’d listened to his father and brother always coach him to do this, to make sure it truly wasn’t alive. Nothing alive can stand having its eyeball touched. The reason for this was twofold – First, a deer will lie down and not move, trusting its camouflage and stillness to keep it from predators. Not all the time, but quite a bit. Second point, deer have sharp hooves and can break bones and kick a hole in your stomach if you aren’t careful. So the eye poke.

  Bobby dropped the branch and sheathed his knife. He worked the snare loose by using both hands, sliding the loop up and off, letting the limp head and neck drop to the earth.

  “This one’s small enough that I can probably carry it back,” he muttered to himself.

  “Can we have it?” The feminine voice startled him and he fell onto his back.

  Looking up, James and Melissa were half standing behind a tree, twenty feet away.

  “What are you doing here?” He pulled his rifle off his shoulder, remembering the disagreement the night before.

  “We’re looking for food, and a place to stay.”

  “I mean, how did you get up here?”

  “Oh, well, when we found your first set up traps, we headed into the forest. We’ve been walking in what feels like a big circle,” James answered.

  “Yeah, one big circle.”

  “You two don’t look like you spent the night in the woods. Hold it right there,” he pointed the rifle between them when they started approaching him.

  They stopped moving immediately, and James stepped in front of his sister.

  “We’re just hungry,” he told Bobby.

  “You know how to gut one of these things?” He asked, looking at the deer and then to them, the point on his rifle waving back and forth.

  “No, but we can learn. We really need the food. Could you show us?” Melissa asked.

  It was something in her tone of voice, or the way the sunlight hit her hair, but Bobby’s resolve melted and he lowered the rifle and leaned it up against the tree the snare was tied off to. He pulled his belt knife out and took a deep breath.

  “Come watch then. I’m Bobby, by the way,” he told them and considered offering his hand out to shake, but saw the look on James’s face.

  “Is there anyone else out here with you? I mean, I don’t want to get you in trouble with that big grouch,” Melissa asked him, taking over the conversation duties from James.

  “No,” he lied, “but they will come looking for me if we don’t do this quick.”

&
nbsp; He cut the deer’s throat and pulled it on its back, spreading its legs open.

  “The trick is to cut here. Not too deep, you just want to open the cavity and not puncture the guts. That’ll spoil the-“

  The heavy branch that hit him came from behind. His right ear blossomed in pain and he felt himself falling, landing beside the deer. His vision grew hazy as he fought for consciousness. He was helpless as he felt his pockets emptied, his .45 removed from his holster and someone was working on his boots when he heard a shout and a gunshot.

  “Hey bro, it’s okay. I got you. Wake up man, its okay,” Weston’s voice brought sharp focus to the world again.

  When Bobby sat up, Weston felt a surge of relief. He’d known his brother wouldn’t have gutted a deer on his own, but if he had one, he could have done the job two or three times already, so he went to investigate. He had come across James rifling through his brothers pockets. He’d fired a snap shot at James and only succeeded in making him fall flat and then use the dense woods as cover as he made his escape. He thought about chasing him, but he was more worried about the bloody mess of his brother’s face.

  “What happened?” Bobby rolled onto his knees and started dry heaving.

  “Easy man. You got hit on the head. Probably have a concussion.”

  “The girl said-“

  “What girl? I saw James, was that blonde here too?”

  “Melissa. They wanted to see how to gut a-“ his dry heaves turned into wet ones and soon the sounds of the woods were full of that noise.

  “Shit,” Weston pulled off his pack, and got out a bottle of water and a handkerchief.

  He wetted it down, and poured water across the back of his head, washing away the dirt and dead leaves that covered the injured side of his face. Other than some superficial scratches, his right ear looked shredded where something sharp on the branch had scraped the fragile flesh raw, making it bleed profusely.

  “They got the deer,” he said, sitting up and moving himself away from the mess.

  “Who got the deer?”

  “James and Melissa.”

  “You had one here?”

  “Yeah, probably the fawn of the one you were gutting.”