The meadow is overgrown with weeds and tall grass. A gentle breeze sweeps through the field causing the grass to sway in a rhythmic motion. I can't remember the last time I walked through a meadow on such a beautiful day. The sun has lowered since I started out from the Grays' farm, leaving me a few more hours of daylight to search through the house for my father's gun. I pick up my pace to a brisk walk through the meadow, looking forward to eating something once I reach the house. As I daydream about the sweet taste of canned peaches, I notice movement to my right. Far down the meadow, the thin Mindless man is walking through the grass toward the forest. I freeze for a moment, stricken by fear and unable to move. The Mindless stops and turns its head in my direction. I drop to the ground.
Did he see me?
My chest pounds hard while I cower in the tall grass, wondering if I'll die here. Tiny bugs flit around me, irritating my skin. I try to control my loud breathing and the blood whooshing in my ears, so I can listen. At first, the gentle rustling of the grass in the breeze and stray bird calls are all I hear. But then the sound of feet shuffling in the grass nearby causes me to tremble.
The metallic, computer-like voice of the Mindless cuts the air when it speaks in its unintelligible language. The phrase, "quaero hominibus," is repeated every few minutes. His voice draws nearer and I squeeze my hand tight around Zechariah’s bat. Grass crunches mere inches from my head. I shift my body to look above me. The Mindless stands like a monolith over my hiding spot. His face is an eerie sight—the glowing eyes and chrome skin resemble an alien more than a man. To my relief, he doesn't look down to see the prey lying beneath his feet. His head darts all around the countryside, searching like a hungry wolf on the hunt for game. I swallow hard and wonder if he can detect the electric impulses in my brain. I remain still and control my breathing, hoping he can't detect me. After a few minutes, the Mindless keeps walking south. I wait in the grass, listening to his lumbering gait push the long blades of grass down. When he's out of earshot I risk peeking above the grass and watch him until he disappears into the cover of the forest.
I wait until sunset to stand up from my hiding spot. My body is sore from lying prone in the same position for hours and my stomach cramps in protest at being neglected so long. I race toward my house as the light of day wanes in the reddish sky. When I cross Itasca and reach the driveway of my home, a flood of memories pours over me. Images come to mind of my parents sitting on the porch reading while I dribble a basketball in the driveway. Days when I built snow forts in the yard during winter and camped outside with friends in the summer replay like an old film stream. But the porch is empty, and the yard is a tangled mess of crabgrass.
I walk up the creaky steps of the porch and open the unlocked front door. The place is a mess of clutter everywhere I walk, evidence of looting. Books lie scattered across the floor of the living room and most of the furniture is overturned. The chaos continues inside the kitchen. The doors of every cabinet and cupboard are open, no longer stocked with food like I remember. Broken dishes and glasses crunch under my boots as I make my way to the basement. The pungent odor of mildew hits me when I walk down the basement stairs. It's dark and humid at the bottom. Faint rays of light from egress windows pierce the darkness, but it's not enough for me to see the mess inside. Part of me doubts that the looters didn't comb through all of our junk down here and find my father's gun. But I’d hate to leave without at least looking. So I move some of the boxes beneath an egress window and search before the sunlight fades.
Ten
A dozen empty boxes lie at my feet and my eyes are strained from looking at useless items in the dark room. I head upstairs and realize it's only a little brighter in the kitchen. My stomach growls for the hundredth time, so I unpack some canned food and an MRE and sit down at our old dining table. After inhaling an MRE of turkey chili and the can of peaches, I lean back in the rickety wooden chair to rest for a minute. Memories of this house are fresh in my mind. It's surreal to think a year ago I sat here and ate dinner with my parents. One day changed everything.
I'm tempted to sit in the dark and reminisce about the past, but I have to keep moving. There's not much I can do without light inside the house, except sleep. Camping here would be a mistake though. Looters could still break in to search the place and if they found me asleep, I'd be out of luck without a firearm. Using the flashlight to retrieve the gun will be the most efficient plan. Mr. Gray said to use the flashlight when necessary. He'd want me to wait until morning to search the basement. Truth is, I can’t stay in this shell of my former home—too many memories.
Descending downstairs, I grab the flashlight from my backpack and wait until I've reached total darkness to give it a click. Warm light radiates from the device, illuminating the dingy basement in an incandescent glow. More of my parents' storage boxes are stacked along a wall with shelves full of garden tools and old appliances above them. Discarded files and various piles of documents lie everywhere. Large totes in a corner are ransacked and overturned, the work of looters searching for valuables. I rummage through an open box and find a family photo with me and my parents at the state fair. My father is stoic as usual; his blond hair is coiffed and his pale blue eyes intense. Next to him, my mother is smiling, which shows off her dimples. Her hair is wavy and dark, falling beyond her shoulders. In front of them, I flash a broad grin for the camera, looking every bit my father's son. I've never realized how much I resemble him until now.
I tuck the photo in my pocket and search for the gun once more. The first fifteen minutes are wasted on digging through heaps of books my parents accumulated throughout the years. Once I get through a handful of large storage bins without success, doubt sets in and I wonder if the gun is here anymore. It's unwise to keep the flashlight going for too much longer. Even though it runs on simple batteries with a low electric output, the Mindless or sparkhounds might still detect it. I keep it on despite the danger. Two more boxes are emptied, but still no gun. As I bend down to pick up another box, I notice the light bounce off something reflective on the floor. It’s a rectangular aluminum case. The kind someone would use to store a gun.
A padlock is affixed to the case, confirming my father's paranoia about me finding his gun. I let the irony sink in as I bash the case in with my baseball bat. A few hits bust the case open enough for me to slip my hand inside and grip the cold steel of the handgun. The gun is lighter than I expect, but has enough heft to require two hands for proper aiming. I've never shot a real gun before. The closest I've come to it is neuro game simulations at the mall. In summers past, Zechariah and I would sneak off to the neuro game arcade to play military simulations without either of our parents' knowing. I hope shooting a Mindless will be second nature after hours of play sessions killing cyber terrorists. I slip the gun into the back of my pants and give the crumpled case a shake to check for anything else inside. Two magazines for the gun clatter onto the floor. I load them into my bag, calculating in my head how many bullets I have.
A loud creak from the basement stairs nearly stops my heart. I whip around with flashlight in hand. The Mindless from the meadow is standing on the landing. The infected man leaps down into the basement a few feet in front of me. My right hand finds the grip of the gun. A muzzle flash brightens the basement from the trio of shots I fire at the Mindless' head and chest. The hard recoil almost snaps my wrist. Pained groans escape the infected man before he yells, "hominem inveni!"
I switch off the flashlight and run around him, doing my best to avoid the clutter on the floor. Somehow my feet find the basement steps in the darkness and I hurry to the kitchen. The Mindless is behind me in seconds, tugging on my backpack. I turn on my heel at the top of the landing and fire two shots into the man's face. His grip on my bag loosens, allowing me to escape through the doorway and shut the door behind me. My mother’s wooden china cabinet next to the door gives me an idea.
While the Mindless punches a hole through the locked door, I push on the large cabinet with all
my might. It crashes down sideways, blocking the basement door from opening. I let the Mindless punch another hole into the door until I can see his ugly face through the splintered wood. Five more shots resound in the kitchen. Bullets tear through the man's chrome head and chest. He reels backward then tumbles down the steps and into the darkness.
I keep the gun aimed at the punctured door, waiting for the Mindless' infected visage to appear. But he doesn't return and all I can hear is the rapid breaths escaping from my mouth. I holster the gun in my belt and take a cautious step toward the door. I clutch the flashlight in one hand to switch it on and look through the hole. The light reveals the crumpled body of the Mindless lying at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn't move and a pool of blood has formed beneath him. The tightened muscles in my neck loosen at the sight. I turn off the flashlight and exhale. I push the kitchen table against the doorway and stack chairs over it to cover the hole in the door. Then I search the kitchen and living room for more furniture to block the door. There's plenty of reason to be overly careful. Most Mindless don't die this quick.
Once I'm satisfied the Mindless won't escape the basement with a great deal of effort, I head toward the front door. Upon passing the stairs in the living room, I feel compelled to go up. I'm thinking there might be supplies up there I could use. The stairs creak underfoot when I climb up. My bedroom is at the end of the hall and my parents' room is across it. I go to mine first, trying to remember if I left behind anything useful. Inside, the room is a mess. Some of my old clothes are piled on the bed along with empty dresser drawers. The shelving in my closet has collapsed, leaving a mess of boxes and clothes on the floor. Five minutes of searching in there yields nothing of use. I glance around the room one last time before I exit until my eye catches something familiar—a samurai sword displayed prominently on its stand on top of my dresser.
The sword was a gift from my uncle on my fifteenth birthday, two months before IlluMonday. I can't believe the looters didn't take it. Could they have missed it? No, the stand is easily visible at eye-level and the hilt has a reflective finish. It's a miracle the sword wasn't stolen. I take the sword off the stand and unsheathe the blade from the scabbard. The blade is impeccably sharp and light, untouched since the last time I held it. I swipe the air a few times with it, recalling the days I spent learning martial arts techniques to master wielding it.
My father hated that my uncle got me such an expensive gift. They argued about it outside after my party, neither aware that I could hear them from my opened bedroom window. Uncle Richard insisted that the blade was a fraction of the cost of an authentic blade because he built it himself. My father didn't care. He didn't want my uncle corrupting me with extravagant gifts or the eastern mysticism of samurai culture. It annoyed me he thought I would turn into a Buddhist monk just because I enjoyed learning about Asian history. Their argument about what presents were appropriate for me inevitably turned to my uncle’s resentment toward his brother abandoning the business.
“You were never so rigid when we worked together, Tom. This whole Christian business has really made you uptight,” Uncle Richard had said.
“We’ve been over this, Richard. That’s the past. I have a family now and a calling to fulfill,” my father replied.
“So leaving your brother in the lurch is fine, so long as God gives you a calling?”
“Richard, it’s not my fault the business didn’t succeed after I left,” my father said, raising his tone.
“Oh, oh! So it’s all my fault?” Uncle Richard countered, pointing at himself.
“That’s not what I meant, Richard. You were capable as a leader. The industry just changed. Our firm would not survive whether I stayed or not.”
“Fair enough, but I needed you, Tom. You have a gift with nanotechnology and business management. I can design stuff, sure. But if you were on board with me at Dronis, we could make so many advancements in the neuro-implant market and in nanogenetics.”
“Richard,” My father said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not where I’m meant to be anymore.”
“Tom, listen to me. I’m heading up a huge project for the Illumen product line. The potential for neuro-implants to cure terminal diseases, increase cognitive capacity, and even halt the aging process is at our fingertips. We’re talking about the future of mankind here. Imagine how much good can be done if we can crack the secrets of the human genome?”
My father shook his head at Uncle Richard's words. From my window, I could see his posture stiffen. "Richard, I am not concerned with creating an eternal paradise on this earth through technology. My hope lies somewhere else—beyond this world, in an eternal kingdom where disease and pain do not exist."
Uncle Richard sighed. "What about the here and now, Tom? I thought your gospel talked about treating the sick and caring for the helpless."
"Yes, it does. We just disagree on the approach," my father said, jutting his jaw.
"You're just as stubborn as Dad was. Well, good luck with your approach," Uncle Richard said. He turned around and walked back to his electric hybrid, driving off as my father watched on the porch.
I never understood why he objected so much to Uncle Richard's ideas to improve the world through technology. Sure, they were ambitious and lofty goals, but they were good ideas. It's not like he wanted to build weapons of mass destruction or become a multi-billionaire. He wanted to help people just like my parents did. Part of me thinks my father was jealous of his younger brother's success, but maybe he knew something about Richard that I didn't know. Something went wrong when Navitas uploaded, which might be related to the big project he was excited about. I don't know. My head hurts trying to figure everything out with so little information.
After checking every inch of my bedroom for supplies, I tuck the samurai sword into a belt loop on my jeans and head to my parent's room. The time I spend there is less than my room. It's cluttered like the rest of the house, but in the mess I find a box of batteries and a sleeping bag that belonged to my father. I roll up the sleeping bag and tie it to the top of my backpack with some rope I found. The batteries are also stowed away and my sword takes the place of the baseball bat, which I leave behind. The backpack is much heavier when it's slung over my shoulders again, but I'm sure I'll get used to the weight.
I take one final walk through the upstairs and downstairs with the flashlight, moving swiftly to avoid alerting any more Mindless. The basement barricade I made is still intact, which is a huge relief, but now I feel silly for spending so much time building it. Oh well. Mr. Gray would appreciate my cautiousness.
I exit the front door and lock it. There's nothing more for looters to steal, but it's my family's house and I don't want any more looters traipsing through it. With a final glance, I bid my home farewell and don't look back as I head down the road.
Eleven
The night trek through the backwoods of Forest Lake is an unnerving experience. The sounds of small animals scurrying in the bushes and hooting owls in the distance startle me more often than I expect. My eyes focus in the soft, dim light of the crescent moon overhead as I traverse the acres of farmland east of the road. Abandoned barns and houses dot the countryside, casting eerie shadows on the fields I pass through. Every few minutes I glance at the buildings near me, searching for any signs of a sparkhound or Mindless. Nothing stirs in the dark except the quick pace of my feet swishing through the tall grass.
Around midnight, exhaustion sets in. A few yards away lies a thicket which seems suitable for camping out until morning. Once I reach it, I collapse to the ground as my legs give out from all the walking. I’ve covered about five miles of land in two hours, taking it slow to avoid being seen. I promise myself to do more leg exercises the next time a trip on foot comes around.
The consistent sound of crickets soothes me as I lean my back against a tree in the thicket. I’m hungry, but too tired to open my pack and grab something to eat. Within moments, I drift into a dreamless sleep.
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sp; The light of dawn peeks above the horizon and wakes me. I immediately regret falling asleep sitting against a tree. My lower back twinges when I lean forward and there’s a stiffness in my neck from resting my head on the hard trunk for so long. How did anyone like camping outside decades ago?
Breakfast consists of canned green beans and a packaged cinnamon roll that’s way past the expiration date. The roll is dry and sticks to the roof of my mouth. A few gulps of water from my canteen help me swallow the stale roll. If there's any packaged food left in town, I hope some of it isn't expired like everything else in the Grays' pantry.
Thy Kingdom Come (Navitas Post-Apocalyptic Series) Page 7
