by AJ Powers
With little daylight left, Clay could see the small town up ahead. He could be there just after sunset. His pace had slowed once again, but he wasn’t worried about any negative encounters at that point. Screamers weren’t too active in that particular area. Liberty was well guarded, and the Screamers had discovered that first-hand on several occasions in the past. They learned their lesson.
Clay arrived at the long driveway leading to the gated community just after sunset as he had expected. As always, there were two guards posted at the gate. “Welcome to Liberty Township,” an older gentleman said from behind a wrought iron gate. Another man stood a few feet away cradling an SKS. “What brings you here this evening?”
Clay took the last few steps and stopped just in front of the gate. “I am here to do some trading,” he said.
“Name?”
“Clay Whitaker.”
The man pulled up a clipboard and flipped through some pages. He put his finger on one of the pages and slowly slid it down the sheet, coming to an abrupt stop. “Ah, Mr. Whitaker. Yes, come right in. Better hurry; it’s gettin’ to be closing time,” he said as he glanced at his watch.
Without saying a word, the other man slung his rifle over his shoulder and then unlocked the gate. Clay walked in and thanked them both before heading straight for Vlad’s.
Liberty Township used to be an upscale subdivision filled with large, high-quality houses that would have easily fetched millions back in the day. The houses were anywhere from five to seven thousand square feet perched on five acre lots, Clay guessed. There were about 50 in the community, and quite a few were either converted to shops or split into multiple houses. The neighborhood’s community center had been transformed into the town hall, and fairly decent additional housing had been constructed on vacant areas of the land. Nothing like the shanties most communities showcased.
The neighborhood mostly consisted of outsiders—people who couldn’t have afforded the annual taxes, let alone the mortgage that went with it. After the first winter, more than half of the population of the community had died, leaving a rather large void in skills and trade. The following year, they carefully—and limitedly—brought more people in to help build and secure the neighborhood. The following spring, they officially became their own little town. Now, most of the folks that call Liberty Township their home had never stepped foot in the subdivision prior to the eruptions.
A couple of families that lived there had been there for a decade before. Barry Shelton, the mayor, bought the first house constructed on the site back in 1994. Shelton was a tall man with a strong southern accent, he was the stereotypical Texan, right down to the boots and scorpion bolo tie. He was a very kind man. Clay had only met him once, but Shelton had given Clay the “welcomed guest” status within the community. Such a status allowed Clay to come and go at any time without being disarmed. It was a status Clay preferred since he made it a point to never willingly give up his guns.
After a 10 minute walk, Clay arrived at Vlad’s house and walked to the garage where he ran his shop. The sign said closed, but Clay knew better. He knocked on the door. Nothing. He pounded harder. A moment passed, then he heard footsteps.
“We are closed!” Vlad said with a thick Russian accent.
“Just open the door, Boris,” Clay said with a smile.
He could hear Vlad laughing on the other side. The door popped open. “I told you, do not call me that name,” the man said as he shook Clay’s hand.
Vlad and Clay met after the first winter and had been doing business ever since. Clay started by trading his surplus ammo and pre-ban magazines. As time passed, though, those items became rarer and Clay’s stock dwindled. He was down to his personal stock now, and he didn’t much like the thought of trading that away. But on occasion, it was something he had to do.
They spent a few minutes catching up over a drink while Olesya tidied up a bit around the store. She straightened some of the shelf items and swept up dirt stamped in by the customers. A few minutes later, she went upstairs to the loft apartment above the garage.
“How’s she holding up?” Clay asked quietly.
Vlad took a drink and sighed. “She does not speak much anymore,” Vlad’s eyes welled up, “but she is tough girl. She will be ok.”
“How about you?”
He nodded. “I am okay. Some nights are harder than others, but I get through. I still have my Olesya, and for that, I am grateful.”
They were silent for a couple of minutes while they finished their drinks. Clay wasn’t sure what words of comfort he could offer to his good friend. Clay had suffered loss several times before, but he recognized that there was something different about losing a spouse. It was a pain he was glad he had not experienced.
They finished their drinks and then got down to business. Vlad walked over to a steel cabinet and unlocked it with a key. He pulled out a brown paper bag and sat it on the counter. Clay looked inside. A gleeful look crossed his face like a kid on Christmas morning.
A trust between the two men had formed over the years which allowed both of them to extend benefits to each other that were hard to come by—benefits that included setting aside a couple of bottles of antibiotics for weeks until they could be picked up.
Clay pulled two bottles out of the bag and saw they were both amoxicillin. It was marketed as fish antibiotics, but evidently the majority of fish antibiotics were the exact same as those sold in pharmacies—so long as the pills didn’t contain additional ingredients that gave fish shinier, healthier scales. It had been available on the internet with no prescription and for a reasonable price. Of course, with health insurance and no need for the pills unless someone was ill, most people didn’t buy them unless they were preparing for a rainy day… or had sick fish.
Clay reached into his bag and pulled out three PMags, each loaded with 30 rounds, and handed them to Vlad.
Vlad removed one of the bullets and inspected it more closely. He ran his thumb over the green painted tip and then looked at the back of the shell casing. “Lake City? Green tip? These are factory load, yes?”
Clay nodded. “Yeah, I don’t have many of those left. They are probably worth more than what I am getting, but I know you’re good for it,” Clay said.
He wasn’t trying to hassle the Russian, but Clay had a point. Factory loaded ammunition was a coveted commodity. Everyone wanted it, and very few people had it. That particular type of ammunition, XM855, was a light armor piercing round with more than enough power to punch a hole through a quarter inch of steel. After they were banned from civilian purchase back in 2015, remaining supplies had dried up in a hurry.
“How about this,” Vlad said walking back to the cabinet to retrieve a box. “A man came to me few weeks ago for a trade. He gave me this.” Vlad handed Clay the box.
V-Max bullets, .224 diameter; an incredible find.
“I will throw these in to deal, but I want half back. Loaded,” he added.
Clay would have agreed on half for Vlad, but he knew it was still a lopsided deal. Bullets weren’t easy to come by, but brass, primers, and powder were just as difficult, if not more so. Since Clay had three-quarters of the components, it was only reasonable that Vlad got a quarter back. They settled on it, and Clay shopped around for a few more minutes. He was excited to find some Lithium AA batteries he could use in his EoTech. He had wanted some ever since the alkaline batteries leaked and made a mess of everything. Thankfully, the EoTech survived—a testament to its quality.
Vlad also had a hydration bladder for sale. The darn thing was brand-new, still had the company tag tied to it. Carrying multiple bottles of water was inefficient and also quite loud when the plastic bottles bounced off each other. The bladder would be a nice addition to Clay’s travel supplies.
Vlad preferred trading weapons, medicine, and nonperishable items, so he really never had much in the way of food. He did, however, have a couple of cans of deviled ham. It was a gamble to buy since the expiration date was about thr
ee years past due. Even though the can was not bloated—a clear indication of spoilage—it was never a guarantee it would be safe to eat. Clay took the chance. Though fresh food was always better tasting, having a preserved food to take on long trips was a welcomed treasure.
With only a few more items left to trade, Clay brought his order to a close so he could hit up a few stores on his way out in the morning. Megan would kill him if he didn’t find some fresher food than pasty canned ham.
“I assume you need room for night, yes?” Vlad asked.
“You assume correctly.”
The main house on the property was a hotel of sorts run by Vlad, which is why he and Olesya stayed in the apartment above the garage. Vlad always gave Clay a room for the night—no charge. He was a very gracious host, at least to Clay.
Clay walked out of the garage and heard Vlad lock up behind him. He walked into the house and spotted a few men playing poker at the dining room table by candle light. They asked if he wanted to join, but Clay politely declined and headed straight to his room.
Vlad had done some work to the house to split larger rooms into multiple smaller rooms. This time around, Clay had gotten a room smaller than the cabin; however, it was relatively warm, dry, and the bed was very comfortable. It was perfect.
After nearly 30 miles on foot, Clay was exhausted and had no trouble falling asleep.
Chapter 5
Clay’s room didn’t have any windows, so he had no idea what time it was when he woke up. He had slept so soundly—as he always did at Casa de Bezrukov. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was quarter ‘til seven. He was in good shape. After visiting a few shops, Clay planned to head straight home; no scavenging, no detours, just a straight shot home. With a little luck, he’d get there just before sunset.
He hadn’t unpacked anything when he got to the room, so Clay just put his shoes on and made the bed; he always felt it was the least he could do. On his way out, he stopped by Vlad’s complimentary water station to fill up his new hydration bladder. He stuck it in his pack and ran the extended straw over his shoulder. He gave it a test; it worked perfectly.
Clay stopped by the shop to thank his host once again, but Vlad was busy haggling with another customer over some binoculars. Clay just gave him a simple wave.
“Safe travels, my friend,” Vlad interrupted himself.
Clay made his rounds to the other shops in town. His first stop was Roses Are Blue. It was operated by a young woman around Clay’s age named Rose. The shop was one of his favorite stops in town. She always had an abundance of herbs, spices, and essential oils. And from time to time, she had some fruit and vegetable plants. The vibrant colors in her shop and the attached greenhouse made the world feel alive again. It was nice change of pace. Plus, Rose was quite attractive. Her black hair was punctuated with blue streaks. Though she joked that her color was natural, Clay wondered how she was getting ahold of the blue hair dye.
Other than a small potted aloe plant, Rose didn’t have much that interested Clay. If properly maintained, Rose said the plant would easily grow to 10 times its current size. Clay thought it would be a nice addition to their own garden. Rose also had a small bottle of lavender oil that Megan would have loved, but Clay didn’t have anything worth the trade. Rose mentioned a couple of things she needed so he could keep a lookout. Maybe next time, he thought.
Next, he swung by a shop called Short Stop—which was ironic because Clay could spend hours in there sifting through the inventory. It was like the Wal-Mart of the little town; it had a little bit of everything. Short Stop distributed the locally grown food for the community farmers who didn’t have their own stores, so fresh produce was usually available. Clay got a half dozen ears of corn, two tomatoes, and a five pound sack of beans. He also snagged a box of bandages that he could just barely afford.
He had planned to visit a few other stores but had run out of items to barter. On his way out of town, Clay stopped by the bulletin board for some updates. Placed in the middle of a large gazebo in the center of town, the bulletin board alerted the townspeople of news flowing in from the outside. People would tell Mayor Shelton things they heard or saw, and he would work with a few other folks to put up relevant, reliable stories. They had a small section for rumors or unconfirmed reports, but the mayor preferred facts over speculation.
There wasn’t much new since the last time Clay had stopped by. Only one new note posted, and it was substantial. Clay read it carefully:
Outbreak in Megora FEMA camp 7C. It appears to be some sort of advanced flu strain with an extremely high rate of fatalities—nearly 90%. Medical examiners are suspecting a mutated strain of H1N1, but they are unable to confirm. More than 80% of the camp’s population has been infected. The camp is now all but abandoned. Do not, under any circumstances, come in contact with those from Megora Camp.
It went on to explain in detail what a citizen of Liberty Township should do if they encounter someone from that camp or anyone who appears to be ill with the flu.
FEMA camps were the federal government’s response following the eruptions after nearly two-thirds of the continental US was declared a disaster zone. They set up regional camps across the country, but only half of them were ever brought to a fully operational state. Each regional zone was broken up into a dozen or more campsites with about fifteen to twenty miles between each. This would allow them to work together as one united camp, but separated enough to prevent outbreaks, such as the flu, from spreading to too many people. It didn’t work. Camp 7C was not the first to be lost to disease, nor would it be the last.
Clay was saddened by that news. Those camps had anywhere from 25,000 – 35,000 people. If it was indeed true, most of them were dead now. The families affected by it were in his prayers. How many more camps were there? How many people had died in them? Just before the major news outlets went off the air, Clay had heard the director of Homeland Security say it was estimated that 36% of the American population had died. That was roughly eight months after the eruption. A combination of ongoing seismic activity, civil unrest, starvation, and additional eruptions worldwide continued to hamper relief efforts. He had noticed a steady decline of people on the road in the past two years. He imagined that the nationwide death toll had long passed the 50% mark; it was more likely near 70% or 80%. Epidemics such as the one that hit Camp 7C only made survival harder.
There had been sporadic messages from the federal government for a little while following the collapse: promises of aid, encouraging tales of the government hard at work actively rebuilding what had been destroyed. For many, the messages brought hope, but it had been nearly three years since the last message was received. Like so many others, Clay had given up hope in the government and knew he was on his own.
As he left Liberty, Clay stopped and chatted with the gatekeeper about what he read on the bulletin board and then headed out. When he got about a half a mile away, he remembered that he had forgotten to get the parts he needed for his solar panel. He had been so enamored by the antibiotics and the hydration pack—even the batteries—that he hadn’t even looked to see if Vlad had the parts in stock. Clay was mad at himself for forgetting but knew that with what he had gotten, he probably wouldn’t have done things differently anyhow.
It was a little after 8:00. If the trip went smoothly, he would easily make it home by nightfall, if not a little earlier. Things seldom went smoothly, though, and Clay readied himself for rough travels.
About halfway through the trip, Clay had to cross over a large highway that spanned nearly 50 yards. It was almost always the worst few minutes of the trip. As he was preparing to dash across the road, he noticed a few rugged looking guys walk on to the asphalt on the other side. They were searching through some of the abandoned cars scattered around the road. Even though crossing the highway was always dangerous, Clay had chosen this particular spot due to the long North/South sightlines and very few hiding spots. Even the most ideal spots were never guaranteed coverage.
The scavengers took a break after searching through a trailer. One of them sat on the trunk of a car while the others sat on the pavement. They drank some water and munched on food while they joked back and forth. Clay considered just continuing down the highway and crossing elsewhere, but he knew that no other spot along that entire road provided such protection as this. He would have to wait it out.
After a short time, the men continued their search through a few more cars. Bearing no fruit from their efforts, they continued down the highway, ignoring the rest of the cars. Clay waited until they were mere specs on the horizon. Making himself as small and quick as possible, he darted to the other side of the highway without incident. After he got a safe distance away from the road, he checked his watch. He had lost about half an hour, but it was no real harm done.
Clay walked parallel with the highway but kept hidden from view as much as he could. He stayed at least a quarter mile away from the road but still used mile markers and exit signs as a guide to keep his bearings. Passing exit 254, Clay calculated he was about three hours from home when something caught his eye.
No way! he thought in disbelief. No more than 35 yards in front of him was a massive buck; he thought it was the biggest he had ever seen. Unbelievable! He could spend an entire day hunting for anything to eat without so much as seeing fresh tracks, and yet, when he had no intention to hunt, he came across this trophy buck.
The buck was alone eating some berries from a bush. Clay ever so slowly raised his M4. He took a few deep breaths and exhaled slowly to lower his heart rate. The shot would not be as easy as it would be with the .308. He was much closer than the last deer, but the 5.56 millimeter round was not nearly as powerful. He had some soft point bullets loaded in the magazine and considered going for the standard shot. But his gut was telling him that round would go right through the buck and he would run off. He didn’t want to shoot it a half dozen times as it pranced away, ruining precious meat or even spoiling the whole lot by puncturing its bowels.
