Thy Kingdom Come (Navitas Post-Apocalyptic Series)

by Daniel Adorno

  Before heading out, I unfold the map Mrs. Gray gave me and survey my location. I've traveled to the end of Itasca Avenue, which winds southwest into a dirt trail thirty feet from the thicket. I can't see much of where the dirt trail leads because of a tree line that obstructs my view. According to the map, the trail runs alongside Forest Lake—the actual lake not the town next to it. Somebody lacked creativity when they named the place. If I'm reading the legend right, it's about a three mile hike to Lake Street. I could cut across the open fields to my right where some farmhouses dot the countryside, but in the daylight I risk being seen by Mindless. The dirt trail provides better cover with the tree line running alongside it. I hoist my pack and set off toward the trail, glancing around the open plain with every step I take. The lumpy black dirt becomes visible when I crest a hill, wondering when the last time a car drove on it could have been.

  Snap!

  A twig or branch breaks behind me. I sprint down the hill as fast as my sore legs allow, hoping whatever it is hasn't seen me. I reach the tree line beside the trail and duck behind some bushes. Peering out from the leaves, I see nothing except the hill I descended from and the sky above it. A second later, there's movement at the top of the hill. A small animal comes into view within the grass. It lifts its head, revealing its mangy features and piercing eyes. A sparkhound. Looks like some kind of hound, maybe a beagle. The dog lowers its head to sniff the ground I just walked on and makes a slow approach in my direction. I'm frozen in place, unsure what to do. My dad's gun is in the backpack, so I could try shooting the dog, but the gunshot might alert other sparkhounds or Mindless in the area. I should run to the trail now. But what if it keeps following me? It's already caught my scent. I don't want to be hunted for the next three miles by this dog.

  I have to kill it.

  The pack slides off my shoulders and I dig inside for the gun, gripping the cold metal as the dog reaches the foot of the hill. It's about twenty feet from me now. I watch it sniff around and meander closer toward me. The sparkhound has several bald spots on its fur coat where swollen bumps of flesh protrude. One of its legs looks robotic—skinless and metallic.

  The dog rears its head up. Its ears perk up as if it caught some imperceptible call in the distance. Can it hear me breathing? I ask myself. I aim my gun from behind the bushes, hoping I can hit its small body. But without warning, the dog bolts back up the hill. The sparkhound bays loudly when it crests the hill then disappears from sight.

  What just happened? Did the dog know I was here and go call its friends? Or did it catch another scent? I can't be sure, but I'm not waiting to find out.

  I pack the gun and sprint down the dirt trail. Every few steps I look behind me, searching for signs of pursuit, but I don't see anything. My sides burn from the effort and after a half-mile, I slow my pace. As I catch my breath, I look around the area. Mature quaking aspens and birch trees surround the road, creating a picturesque nature trail. The air is dense with the smell of water, probably from the nearby lake. Further down the road, the trail dips down and turns into a muddy mess. The tree canopy shields the trail from the sun, trapping the water from summer rains and preventing it from evaporating. I've already noticed how much cooler it is on the trail compared to the open countryside, which will make walking in the daytime more bearable.

  Another mile of walking and the trees become sparse, allowing the sun to shine through again. The trail curves into what was once a rich neighborhood with large houses by the lake. The perfectly trimmed lawns of these estates are now overgrown with weeds and underbrush. To my left, I can see the shimmering water of the lake between the houses, which means I'm close to Lake Street.

  Cassidy might like some of these expensive homes right near the lake. She used to be on the swim team at school and loved taking beach trips during the summer. Boating, water skiing, and swimming filled up her schedule during the warm months. She invited me to those summer outings, but she enjoyed them more than I did. I hate being in the water, due to my irrational fear of drowning. "You just need to take swim lessons," Cassidy would say, but I shrugged it off. Aquatic sports are not meant for people like me. But I still went because of Cassidy. We had fun together, despite my fears. I wonder how she's doing.

  It's around 9 o'clock now, so she might be awake. I put my bag down next to a broken down electric car and pull out the CB handset. Before switching it on, I take a quick glance around me. The entire neighborhood is lifeless and still. Whoever lived here has either died or evacuated a long time ago. The radio crackles to life when I press the button and before I can say a word, Cassidy's frantic voice erupts onto the channel.

  "Burger Maid calling Finny Boy. Please help, I'm in danger!"

  My heartbeat speeds up. "This is Finny Boy. Burger Maid, do you copy? What's wrong?"

  "Dex?! Oh, thank God. It's my Dad. He tried to shoot me!"

  "What? Why?" I ask.

  "He came down to check on me this morning. The basement was still dark, and I didn't respond right away when he called me from the top of the stairs," she says, breathing hard over her radio. "Next thing I know, he's standing over my bed and pointing a shotgun at me."

  "What did you do?"

  "I didn't know what to do, so I kept telling him who I was—his daughter." Cassidy's voice breaks. "He didn't believe me."

  "But he didn't shoot you," I say, knowing where this is going.

  "No, but he thinks I'm infected. He told me he couldn't kill his own family again. So he locked me down here. I...I think he's going to starve me to death. I'm scared, Dex."

  Cassidy's sobs fill the channel and a flood of emotion rushes through me. I want to hold her tight and tell her everything will be all right, but I can't. Garrett has finally lost it. I clench the radio tight as I think about how much I want to hurt him for doing this to his own daughter.

  "Dex...are you still there?"

  "Yes, Cassidy, I'm here," I say. "I'm coming to get you. We'll find a way out. Then we can find my uncle together."

  "What? Dex, no, it's too dangerous to come out here," she says. "You need to stay with the Grays, don't run away."

  "Too late, I've already left. They let me go." I explain the whole situation with Zechariah and the medical supplies.

  "You can't come here," she says after a long silence. "They need you to come back and deliver that medicine."

  "You're not going to die there, okay? I'll bring back the supplies and then come to you."

  She doesn't respond for a long time, probably mulling the whole thing over. Cassidy has never been a selfish person and I know she hates the idea of being rescued if it means risking Zechariah's health. But I don't care. Aside from my uncle and the Grays, she's one of the few people I care about. We've always been friends—no, more than friends. I love her. I'm finally admitting that to myself. And to imagine any harm coming to her because I didn't act would ruin me.

  "Do what you need to do, Dex," Cassidy says, sighing. "Just be careful, okay?"

  "I will. Is there any food in the basement?" I ask. If Garrett left her with nothing, she'll only have a few days before starvation hits.

  "I think we stored a crate of canned food down here somewhere. I'll have to search for it."

  "What about water?" I ask, swallowing hard.

  "No, but there’s a rusted pipe down here that leaks water from the kitchen sink. I have a bucket catching the water, so I can drink that for now."

  I try to block out how disgusting that sounds, but then again, I’ve been eating stale food for months now, so rusty water doesn’t sound that bad. “What about batteries for your radio? Do you have any left?”

  “I’ve been rationing them. My Dad threw a whole box away after Mom died, but I kept a few. I’ve got four left now.”

  Four batteries will get her a half-week’s worth of talk time after the current batteries die, so we should be all right. “Okay, we’ll try to keep chatting to a minimum. I’ll call you around sunset each day to check up.”

  “
Okay, Dex,” she says, sounding forlorn.

  “Hey,” I whisper. “We'll get through this, Cassie. I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

  She sighs. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dex.”

  Twelve

  The path along the lakeside neighborhood eventually winds into a fork in the road. I check my map and realize that if I head to my left, the path circles around the lake's perimeter where more houses occupy the area. On the right, the road leads to Forest Lake and lead me a few hundred feet from Lake Street. I keep right, slowing my pace and examining the abandoned town around me. Many houses are boarded up and abandoned. Overturned electric cars and garbage litter the pothole-ridden street. It gets worse as I get closer to Lake Street. Storefronts are vandalized, showing visible signs of looting and graffiti symbols on every wall. The family-owned deli my parents used to visit on Sundays is in ruins. The windows are smashed in and the front door is torn at the hinges. I wonder if the owners, Max and Risi, escaped. They were nice people, always kind to my family and I.

  On a street corner ahead, I see the corpses of sparkhounds strung up on lamp posts with signs that read, "No Mutts Allowed." Someone's twisted idea of a joke. A mangled sign on the same corner shows I've reached Lake Street. Mrs. Gray's advice to keep off the street and find another way to the clinic in town echoes in my head. I look at the map and find the red circle Mrs. Gray drew around the clinic. It's a few blocks from Lake Street, but I need to get across to reach it. I peer down both sides of the road and see nothing but trash and vandalized cars along each side. Not a single person is anywhere to be seen. Across the street, a large feed mill towers above the old storefronts and offices of the downtown district. Mr. Gray used to come to the mill and stock up on everything from chicken feed to saltwater taffy. The clinic is two blocks behind that mill. If I follow the street I'm on—Baltimore, according to the sign—I can get across Lake Street and retrieve Zechariah's meds easily. The map doesn't show an easier way around Lake Street to the clinic. It's the longest street in Forest Lake and it cuts the town into two sections. I have to cross it to get to the clinic.

  I take the first step unto the street and jog across, looking in either direction for a gang member or anyone who might try to mug me. Nothing happens after I cross the street. Maybe the gang has disbanded or been killed by Mindless? I don't care, so I keep walking along Baltimore and past the old mill. That's when I see something unexpected.

  A red GPV is parked in the lot of the mill. Walking closer, I realize it's an old pickup truck that farmers would use to haul things before everyone converted to electrics. It's in pristine shape considering all the damaged cars in the area. The truck's owner is probably nearby, which means the keys won't be in the cab, but of out curiosity, I walk up to it anyway. I glimpse inside the cab and find trash and various tools cluttering the seats. The bed of the truck is stocked full of rusted propane tanks and...rifles. Lots of rifles. There are at least a hundred hunter rifles like Mr. Gray's piled on the bed. I've lingered around this truck for too long.

  I step back and start toward Baltimore, but a high-pitched voice stops me.

  "Hey, kid! Whaddya think yer doing?"

  I turn around and watch a shadowy figure emerging from the feed mill's entrance. A man walks out of the shadows and the light reveals his unkempt features. His hair is shaggy and reaches to his shoulders. A long, grizzly beard hangs from his jawline and black-rimmed sunglasses hide his eyes. He's slim and walks toward me with a cocky swagger. The beard and hair age him, but I'd guess he's probably in his twenties.

  "You trying to steal from me?" He asks, stopping next to his truck to inspect the bed.

  "No, I was just looking," I reply. Why did I stop and look?

  He spits on the ground and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "You ain't from around here are you?"

  "I'm just passing by," I say, wanting to run, but fearing what might happen if I do.

  "Hmm. Yer a good liar, kid. And pretty stupid to think you can steal from the Lake Street Gang," the man says, half-smiling.

  "I didn't take anything," I say, backing away now. The man steps toward me like a lion ready to pounce on his prey. I turn to run, but bump face-first into the chest of a large man with a bulbous nose. He's flanked by two more men. The guy on his right has a large gecko tattooed on his neck and the man on the right is wiry and wears a dirty trucker's hat.

  "What's the hurry, son?" The large man asks. He pushes me backward with enough force to land on my rear. "Avery isn't done talking yet."

  Avery, the one with the sunglasses and perhaps the gang leader, offers me a hand to help me up. I refuse and get up without his help.

  "You'll have to excuse Red and the boys, they ain't as nice as me," Avery says.

  I try to distance myself from them, but Red and his goons block me from behind while Avery faces me. From the corner of my eye, more members of the Lake Street Gang appear out of the vandalized store fronts and the mill. I'd guess there's around forty or fifty of them total. They all look like the kind of punks and hicks who never graduated high school or spend their days making meth in the country. How can I reason with these people?

  "I didn't take anything from you," I say, trying to control the shakiness in my voice. "I told you, I'm just passing through."

  Several men laugh and mock me by chanting "thief," over and over. Avery raises a hand and the gang quiets down. He strokes his scraggly beard and paces in front of me. "Let's say, I believe you. That just leaves the other offense I can't overlook—crossing our street."

  My insides churn. They spotted you, idiot.

  "You can't deny it, boy. There's only one way to get on this side of Baltimore. You have to cross Lake Street. Our turf. Our land."

  "I'm sorry, I...I needed to find the clinic," I say weakly. Are they going to kill me now? I can't believe this is happening.

  Avery chuckles and the rest of his gang join in. The laughter gets loud like a pack of hyenas just heard the funniest joke ever. But it halts abruptly when Avery slams his fist on the side of his pickup. He steps uncomfortably close to me. I can smell his rancid breath. It's unlikely someone like this takes the time to brush his teeth.

  "You are stupid, kid. And obviously new around here. Nobody crosses Lake Street without paying a price," he says, taking a step back. "But seeing as you're new to this and all, I'm willing to cut you a break."

  My heart skips for a moment, but when I notice the crooked smiles of the gang, I realize Avery is just toying with me.

  "We Lake Streeters—we're simple folk. We like to loot and pillage like the vikings of old. I've got a nice little stockpile of goodies in that mill o'er there. All I ask is for people to mind what street they travel on. When they don't, some end up like those mutts over there," he says pointing to the sparkhounds on the corner. "Sometimes, I feel merciful and collect a toll. I'm kinda feeling like that now."

  I don't have any money and it's useless in this town anyway. The only valuables I possess are essentials like food and water.

  Wait.

  The gun. I have my Dad's gun! But do I want to give this psycho another weapon to add to his truck full of rifles? I'll see where he's going with this and play stupid before giving up my only weapon. "What do you want from me?"

  Avery smiles. "That is a good question. How about that shiny sword you got dangling from yer pack?"

  No way am I parting with my sword. I know it's not as useful as a gun in a fight, especially with a Mindless, but Uncle Richard gave it to me. It's one of the last possessions that has meaning to it. Like a family heirloom of sorts. I can't give it up. But is it worth getting killed over?

  "How about a gun? I have a pistol if you'd like that instead," I say, regretting the words as they escape my mouth.

  "Hmm. A pistol, eh?" Avery says, clicking his tongue as he ponders the counter offer. "Nah. We got lots of guns, kid. I mean, you saw all the guns in there," he gestures at the pickup. "I think a ninja blade like that one would be a nice addition to my
collection. Make me look a little more...distinguished or something. Right, Red?"

  "Oh yah, boss. A king needs a sword," Red replies, flashing yellowed teeth as he smirks.

  "Listen, I need the sword. I've got food and water I can throw in with the gun—"

  "Boooring. Sorry, kid, not interested. Give me that pig sticker and you go free."

  "And if I don't?" I ask. I'm pushing my luck, but I don't care. Avery is a bully and thug like the jocks from high school. They act tough and pick on the weak, but deep down, they're weaklings themselves.

  "If you don't, Red and the boys will tie you to the back of my pickup and we'll go for a little ride on Lake Street. Make an example of you. Know what I'm saying?" He lifts an eyebrow waiting for me to respond.

  I droop my shoulders and consider my chances. Fifty against one is beyond stupid. As much as I hate to give in, I don’t see another option that doesn’t end with me being dead. "Yeah, I get it."