“Come on, catch.” The edge of a leaf blackens—“I don’t want to waste you, little match”—then flares into a bright orange. The fiery trail moves to the other leaves, a body without limbs eating its way through the pile and leaving the sharp burn of its teeth.
Gently, my breath blows to give the blaze more oxygen.
The kindling catches and a lively little inferno hisses and spits as tiny flames lap at the bulkier wood above it.
“Yes.” My triumph at this small feat dampens with a more pragmatic thought: I should’ve never let the fire go out in the first place.
Tired or not, fire is life—fire is survival. Not only does it cook food and give warmth, but fire also scares away wild animals.
“Don’t worry. It won’t be long now.” Taking care not to place dinner too close to the flames, I stretch it across one of the rocks near the blaze.
Now that the pit crackles a merry song, I dig a little skinning knife from my backpack.
The smooth, ivory handle of the blade in my palm feels good, feels right. This was dad’s knife.
I run my fingers over the carved ridges of the handle, tracing the worn patterns. Parts of his DNA still linger in the microscopic crevices of the ivory, connecting us in a bond that can’t break even in death. The idea is comforting.
Shadows of the past meld with the echoes of the future, building webs right under the touch of my fingertips.
I bow my head and pause the blade above the little carcass. With my left hand, I stroke the silky fur of the animal’s hair. I don’t relish taking life, but everything comes down to survival now.
“If we don’t eat, we die.” Needing reassurance, I glance over my shoulder in Kodiak’s direction. “Right, boy?”
His eyes gleam in the dark and wink out when he blinks—a short woof of agreement issues from his muzzle.
“See, little rabbit Foofoo? We gotta eat.”
Dead, black eyes reflect the red light of the fire.
The blade begins its grisly work.
An old wire coat hanger serves as a skewer, and I slide each chunk onto its straight section. The blade scrapes the inside of the hide, ensuring no piece of meat goes to waste. This little guy sacrificed his life for us, so I’ll make it count.
Every piece of salvageable meat hangs above the coals on the wire.
My fingers keep the metal in rotation, so the meat doesn’t blacken. The juices drip into the flames and sizzle, creating a small hiss. A rich, savory smoke fills the air.
“Good grief. My stomach is going to gnaw itself to my spine if I don’t eat soon. Doesn’t it smell divine, Kodiak?”
My best friend, a little farther away than my sleeping bag, sits on a dry patch of grass. His eyes never break concentration from my hands.
When a chunk on the end of the makeshift skewer begins to darken, I remove it to cool on a rock.
His blue and brown eyes stare at the meaty morsel, and he licks his chops.
I grin. “Hungry, boy?”
The hairy tail thumps the ground like the top of a drum, and he inches closer to the warm fire. A small whine sounds from his mouth.
The scent of cooking meat curls around me and my stomach growls for the hundredth time.
“Yeah, me too.” I chuckle. “I’m sure glad you found me. Not sure I could’ve made it this far without those epic hunting skills.”
How different would things have been in Abilene if I’d had Kodiak by my side? The image of the big dog tearing a bloody, meaty chunk from that thug’s leg causes a vicious glee to rise within. It cheers me up way more than it should.
“Here, boy, catch.” I toss the piece of meat into the air.
Kodiak springs into action and jumps, catching the bite-sized morsel in his mouth. Faster than a blink, he swallows it before his feet touch the ground.
“And the crowd goes wild as Kodiak the Canine shoots and scores.”
He grins his toothy smile, sits, and wipes the forest floor with his tail, swishing pine needles every which way.
Back resting on a fire-warmed rock, I savor each bite of the shared cooked rabbit. Pulling more cooled pieces free, I set them aside for his food dish.
He snuffles around the makeshift bowl—tail twitching in the air—and licks his lips after each smoky bite.
“Yum. I must say, you’re one fine hunter.” I chew a stringy bit of meat and relish the flavor. “It’s not chicken, but close enough, and it beats those artichokes.” Which you still haven’t eaten. Yeah, well, they’re on the menu for breakfast tomorrow—unfortunately.
Every inch of the dog’s bowl is clean; and he stretches on the ground beside me. The warmth emanating from his body transfers to my legs and heats my cooling skin.
Belly now full, contentment spreads throughout my limbs.
My head rests in a small, natural hollow in the stone boulder, and I stare at the unending stars high above.
“We—man that is—used to wonder if anyone else was out there.” The sounds of the forest fade, creating an eerie stillness. “And then we found our answer.”
The price of knowledge cost more than anyone would have ever expected.
Kodiak whines then places a paw over his eyes.
He wiggles his head into my blanket. “You ‘bout ready for bed, boy?”
Blanket high in the air, and away from my body, I wait while he turns around in a circle, repeats the process, and then lies down to rest his muzzle on my thigh. His mouth opens in another big yawn. Once it closes, so do his eyes.
“Well then, don’t mind me. I’ll keep sitting here while you use my body for a pillow. It’s not like I wanted to sleep, too.”
One eyelid opens, and a pale blue eye stares at me for a few seconds before it closes again.
“Fine. I get the hint.” The rock at my back digs into my spine, so I adjust my position to get more comfortable.
Kodiak’s warm dog breath tickles the hairs on my arms. I reach over and dig around in my pack for the map. No more Google maps to use for GPS. Those times are long gone. If I want to determine where I’m at, street signs and old-fashioned cartography now guide my journey.
Even with the bright moonlight filtering through the branches, I’m unable to see the tiny writing very well. Should’ve done this earlier.
Kodiak kicks his paws against my leg and blows out a breath that flaps his lips.
“Stop being a bed hog.” In a quick motion, I pull the blanket, covering his head.
His breathing evens out, and he begins to snore.
Wish sleep would find me that easily.
Unfolding the map, I stretch it out to find the area of Texas I’m in. Finding the current grid for this section, I grab a pen and make a mark—another milestone in the journey to trek across the country in search of my big sister.
If I know what I’m doing—and that’s debatable—we should be somewhere near Waxahachie.
I try to stay away from metropolitan areas. Even though they hold tons of supplies, most survivors know this and take advantage of newcomers. Abilene taught me this lesson two days into my journey.
No thanks. I had a sample of that life one night, and I’ll never live in fear like that again.
“The Piney Woods of East Texas, huh?” The sprawling branches provide a lot of areas to hide, and the fresh pine needles crunching underfoot fill the air with bittersweet memories of past holidays. “Much prettier than the squat mesquite trees back home.”
It’s daunting to imagine how many miles I’ve traveled so far, and how many more I’ve got to go. But, my aching legs like to remind me it’s not too hard to believe.
Survive and find Sissy, I chant to myself. One thing at a time, one mile at a time.
The blankets stir, and Kodiak’s head pops out. Pointing his nose directly up at the trees, a low growl starts in the back of his throat.
“What is it?” My voice comes out as a croak. Lifting my head, I try to see through the leaves and branches that hang above. Between the gaps, a few stars shimmer.
His growls increase in their urgency.
Every muscle in my body tenses, and I strain my ears. There, right there. Hear that high-pitched whirl?
“Shit.” Unfreezing my limbs, I scramble from the sleeping bag. Using my bare hands, I shovel heaps of dirt onto the fire. Lord, please don’t let them see the light.
After several mounds of dirt have adequately covered the burning wood, I dive down to the sleeping bag.
Quiet as possible, still lying on my back, I reach behind and grab the shotgun.
At least I’ve got this if the sphere tries anything.
The weapon lends me strength, and I rise to my knees and watch the sky.
A hoot owl, high up in a tree, becomes silent. Even the wind is holding its breath.
Kodiak, still growling, shifts his front paws a bit, and then moves his head for a better view.
This makes two sightings in a month, which can’t be good.
These alien orbs didn’t start appearing until about a year after the EMP. By that time, I’d adjusted to the new normal of growing crops and learning to survive without electricity. When the black spheres started streaking through the sky at night, they began hunting people with hot, white laser-fire.
Most people escaped and lived to tell their tale. After a few days, I learned the true purpose of the spheres wasn’t to kill outright but to transmit a virus.
Why are they coming back now? What else do they have planned? There can’t be very many survivors left to murder.
Kodiak’s growl gets louder.
“Shh. We don’t want them to hear us, boy,” I whisper.
My hand reaches out to calm him, or to reassure myself, I’m not sure. The lean muscles under his skin are taut, ready to spring into action.
His growls stop, but intelligent eyes still scan the sky. Moonlight reflects off their shiny surface.
The sound of the sphere gets louder, and I try not to panic. We’re sitting ducks, even with the tree canopy above as camouflage. It’s unknown how sophisticated the machines are; if they use infrared or some other unfathomable alien technology to root out victims.
My finger rubs the top of the cold barrel while Kodiak and I sit, barely daring to breathe.
Haven’t they done enough damage?
An unwelcome memory invades my concentration. Mom, reaching out to Dad in the bed, trying to mouth “I love you” right before her eyes closed forever. The stench of shit and blood permeating through the house.
Their moans and pleas for death still ring in my ears like it was yesterday.
A hot tear falls from my eye.
Let the dead sleep. It was a horrible day, but you need to focus on here and now. Kodiak needs you.
Several hundred feet away, the sharp crack of tree branches whipping back and forth breaks the silence.
Kodiak and I jump.
Unsure what the unseen orb is doing, and not wanting to find out, I frantically try to come up with a plan.
We can’t run, because they’re much faster than a human or dog, but we can hide.
The satiny cover of the sleeping bag under my knees gives me an idea.
I try to keep my voice low. “Kodiak”—unzipping the bag and trying to be as quiet as possible, I motion him inside—“get in here.”
It’s dark, but he gives me a stare that says he’d rather fight the sphere.
“No, get in here. Now.” Twisting my wrist in circles, I motion him inside.
Reluctantly, he crawls in, and I follow, throwing the corner over our feet. He and I lie still in the little cocoon, dog exhalations mixing with my acrid fear.
The sounds of crashing limbs falling to the ground gets closer. The whirring and zings of the craft are on top of my head, and I pray a large branch doesn’t break off to fall on Kodiak or me.
Positioning my face right next to Kodiak’s chest, I force shallow breaths into my lungs.
A few small twigs plop onto the sleeping bag, and it’s all I can do to keep still and not twitch. Each piece hitting the soft material is like a child’s game of chance.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. . .
Catch the girl before you go.
If she hollers, make her pay,
Earth is lost; we’re here to stay.
The nursery rhyme keeps repeating in my head, set to new words and an ominous tone. Great, I’m losing my mind.
Small debris continues to rain down. Kodiak and I hug each other close.
Unable to see anything in the pitch black of the bedding, I stare above—blind and unblinking—at the place in the sky where I imagine the craft hovers.
Go away—leave us alone.
Boom. Another loud crash echoes in the forest a few feet away. The ground shakes from the impact, sending a shock through my hip bones. It would take only one heavy limb falling on the bag and that’s it—me and Kodiak will be toast.
Well, more like jelly. This picture in my mind causes a hysterical laugh to form. It tries to push itself up and out of my chest.
I clap a hand over my mouth. Get a grip, Tilly. Don’t lose it now.
The sound of the orb becomes fainter.
Oh, thank God.
Lying here, quiet and still, I want to be certain it’s leaving. Tonight, I’m thankful we didn’t have a tent. Something that large on the ground would’ve surely caught the sphere’s attention and fried us on the spot.
The sudden quiet of the forest is a relief. Carefully inching my way out of the bag, I take stock of our surroundings. Twenty feet away, a broken, twisted limb leans on the trunk of a standing tree. Part of the bark has peeled away from its downward slide and light brown shavings litter the ground.
My feet take me closer to inspect the branch.
Ten feet away, it’s not a branch at all, but a full-grown tree. Bottom resting on the forest floor, it’s cut with something that burned straight through the wood. A scorched scent, like charcoal, reaches my nose. The fallen tree trembles and a low creak emanates from a subtle shift. The whole thing’s unstable.
I move away a few feet, in case the log decides to tumble all the way to the terrain.
“What the hell? Why would they be cutting down trees?”
Kodiak, sniffing the trunk, turns his head in my direction. His brown fur has a silvery sheen in the shafts of moonlight.
Realization dawns, and I tilt my head up. The canopy that covers our campsite is gone.
But why? To get a better view of what’s below, dummy.
The pounding of my heart is loud. “Damn. A few feet farther and I wouldn’t be talking right now.”
I suppress a shiver and head to the bedroll. It’s time to move out of the sudden flood of light from above.
“Come on, get away from that log. It’s not safe.”
He flicks his tail and hikes a leg.
“Kodiak, you don’t have to mark everything.”
The dog ignores me.
Shaking my head, I start the process of moving camp farther into the trees, away from the light and the fallen log.
“Well, no more fire tonight.”
I work to set everything in place one more time. The routine motions sooth my frayed nerves but every little sound in the woods seems too loud. Unable to quit, I keep searching the sky, sure a black orb will come crashing through the trees.
“Come on, boy. Lay here with me.”
Padding over to curl beside my leg, his tongue slides out to begin his night-time bathing ritual.
Stretching my legs, I try to relax, even though I don’t think sleep will find me tonight. The sphere’s near-miss has awoken a deep fear I can’t keep at bay.
Kodiak’s movements finally quit, and he falls asleep. Tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth, his back legs splay open. Head twisted to the side, he floods my arms and neck with rabbit-flavored dog breath. Pointy ears twitch, and with a renewed snore, he lapses into dreams of chasing rabbits and spheres. At least, that’s my guess since his legs keep moving in an open gallop.
�
��Must be nice to be able to fall asleep after all the excitement.”
Laying my head down, I stroke the side of his fur, enjoying the comfort of not being alone anymore.
I listen to the hooting of the owl and distant yips of coyotes.
The images of my parents dying causes me to bolt upright. A scream sticks in my throat. I make a fist and pound my forehead, trying to beat the memories away. The pain focuses my thoughts and forces the guilt into a drawer in my mind—one I can lock for later.
I’m not emotionally prepared to go through that experience again.
Seeing the spheres always causes that hated day to infringe upon my thoughts and dreams.
Kodiak whines then snuggles closer to the backs of my calves. He lays his head on top of my hip.
“It’s okay.” I take a deep breath to collect myself.
He gives me a stare with what I presume to be doggie concern.
“Don’t worry, boy. I’m fine.” But I’m not okay deep down inside. Every time the old memories of the past seep into my waking hours, the pain sears my heart like a hot poker and brings the nightmares forth to haunt the corners of my mind.
Comforted by the dog and feeling better, I scratch behind his ears. His right hind leg thwacks the sleeping bag.
“Ahh, you’re ticklish, huh?” My eyes soften. Adjusting my hips, I lay beside his warm body.
He’s a talisman—my amulet of immunity—to ward off the sadness of the world.
He woofs at me in answer to my unspoken gratitude.
“Is that so?” I stroke his silky coat.
Grunting and wriggling, he stretches, long pointy nose touching my own.
“Kodiak, sometimes I think you understand everything I say. You’re the best dog in the world.” With an arm thrown around his neck, I keep an eye on the sky.
Chapter Three
Golden rays from the morning sun kiss my eyelids. The glare forces me to shield my face with a hand. White tendrils of mist flow from my nose and mouth into the cool morning air.
Tossing the bedding away, I slide out. Fine condensation rolls from the outside of the material to fall on the packed ground below.
A small stick still leans on the ring of rocks. I use it as a hand tool to scrape the ashes of last night’s fire. If I’m lucky, the dirt from the previous evening preserved some coals.
The Descendant: Baltin Trilogy (Book 1) Page 4
