Dark Survival

by Ryan Casey

  A foot.

  A foot landed on the man’s wrist.

  The man let out a yelp.

  Martin looked up.

  Ella stood by his side.

  “Come on,” she said. “Quick!”

  Martin looked down into the man’s green eyes. He grabbed the rifle from his hand as footsteps raced towards the caravan site from somewhere on the other side of the caravans. He pointed that rifle at the man. Pushed it right against his head.

  “You’ll regret this,” the man said. “You’ll never get away with this.”

  Martin took a deep breath. “We’ll see about that.”

  Then he pulled the trigger.

  He looked up in the distance. Heard shouting. Footsteps racing towards them.

  Then he looked around into the trees, over towards that barking.

  He looked at Ella, and he nodded.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And as the footsteps continued to race towards them, Martin held on to Ella’s hand, rifle in his other hand, and he ran towards the darkness...

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Don’t you dare move a muscle, darling.”

  Harriet held Oscar close to her chest. Somehow, he still had his eyes closed through all of this. Not sleeping. Frozen solid. But in a way, as horrible as it was, she knew it was for the better. She didn’t want him to watch any of this. She didn’t want him to see how much danger they were in. She didn’t want him to have to fear anything else.

  Even though fear was an inevitability now.

  The dog stood by her side. Squared up to this man, who held a rifle. Growled at him.

  “Get that mutt away from me,” he said. “And don’t you dare move a muscle or scream for help.”

  She realised something then, as the gunfire died down, as the massacre finished. This bloke thought she was one of the people from this caravan site. She wanted to stand up. Protest her innocence.

  But at the same time, she wasn’t sure it mattered.

  She knew how guys like this operated.

  She could see it from the look in his eyes.

  He was all about power.

  “Whatever you do,” Harriet said. “Whatever you’ve got planned. Promise me something. Please promise me something.”

  The guy tilted his head. That tattoo of a bull became more visible in the moonlight.

  The dog carried on growling.

  “I can be a reasonable fella,” he said. “Try me.”

  Harriet felt Oscar’s body shuffling in her arms. Heard him mumbling. Prayed he stayed still. Prayed he didn’t open his eyes and realise just how much danger they were really in.

  “Just don’t touch my son. He’s innocent in this. He’s... he’s a sensitive kid. He’s a compassionate kid. He’d do anything for anyone. He’s suffered a lot in his life already. I’m just trying to do my best by him. As hard as it is. So please. Whatever it is you’ve got going on here. Whatever your problem is with these people. I’m not from here. Just... just spare my son. Even if you have to take me. Spare him. Please.”

  The man stayed quiet for a few seconds. Stared right into her eyes.

  And then he took a few steps towards her.

  Right up to her face.

  So close she could smell the sweat on his skin.

  “That’s very honourable of you, sweetheart,” he said. “Truth is, it’s not up to me. Unlucky for you, I don’t make the decisions around here. Someone far, far harsher than me gets to decide how we deal with things.”

  Harriet’s stomach turned.

  This guy was toying with her.

  And she had to act.

  “So there’s no point begging, my love. There’s no point trying to bargain with me. The best thing you can do right now is keep that pretty little mouth shut, and—”

  She didn’t even think about it.

  She cracked her head right against his nose.

  The dog started barking right away. Everything happened so fast.

  The man fell back to the ground, squeezing his bleeding nose.

  Harriet raced away into the woods, as fast as she could, Oscar in her arms. Awake now. Asking her what was going on. Crying.

  She kept on running as gunfire cracked in her direction. Her head stung. She’d head-butted him far harder than she’d first thought. So hard that her ears rang. Colours filled her vision. Her own nose felt like it was bleeding.

  “Mummy? What’s happening?”

  “Ssh, love. Don’t you worry. We’ll be okay. We’ll be—”

  Another blast.

  Some of the tree bark on her right blasted away.

  So close to hitting her. To hitting Oscar.

  She knew she couldn’t keep running. He’d catch up with her.

  She had to find somewhere to stop.

  Somewhere to hide.

  All the while, the dog ran alongside her. Panting. Hackles up. Like it wanted to protect her but didn’t know how. A wild animal in a domesticated animal’s body.

  She rushed over to her right. Crouched down behind some thick trees. Held Oscar close. Pulled the dog close. Held her breath. Kept as still as she could.

  Those footsteps kept on approaching her.

  Grew closer to her.

  Closed in.

  “I know where you are! And you’re gonna pay! You’re gonna pay!”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Held Oscar close. Please. Please don’t find us. Please don’t hear us.

  She heard those footsteps pass by.

  So close.

  So close she could hear him breathing.

  “I know you’re around here!” he shouted.

  And she just had to keep quiet.

  She just had to hope nobody made a sound.

  She just had to—

  The dog growled.

  Her stomach sank.

  Her eyes opened.

  She looked up to her left and watched the man turn around.

  A smile spread across his face.

  He walked towards her.

  Rifle in hand.

  And then he lifted it and pointed it at her, blood pouring right down his ugly face.

  “You can run, but you can’t hide, princess. Now get to your feet. The pair of you. And I’ll make damned sure Ally hears about this. I’ll make sure he treats you extra nice for this.”

  She heard the dog’s barking.

  She heard Oscar’s crying.

  And she wanted to do so much.

  But there was nothing she could do.

  “Get up! Right this second. Or I’ll—”

  A bang.

  A bang from nowhere.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Waited for the pain to register. Or for the dog to whimper. Or for Oscar to cry and go weak in her arms.

  But none of that happened.

  None of it.

  She kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to open them. She didn’t want to look.

  But then she heard a thud somewhere in front of her.

  She heard something hit the ground.

  She opened her eyes.

  The man wasn’t standing there anymore.

  He lay across the ground.

  Bleeding from his head.

  Wide eyes staring into space.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  A man stood beside him. Rifle in hand.

  Tall. Dark-haired. Bearded. Rugged. Pretty good looking.

  By his side, a young girl. Tall. Very slim.

  “Bruce?” the girl said.

  The dog went running over to her. Jumped up at her. Licked her face, then went to the bloke for more attention.

  And then the three of them all turned around. All looked at her. Silent.

  It was the man who finally spoke.

  “You two need a hand there?” he asked.

  She wanted to push back.

  She wanted to resist.

  She wanted to stay strong, for Oscar.

  But all she could do was nod.
<
br />   All she could do was cry.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. I think—I think we do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Martin sat at the fire in the woods and kept his attention on the woman and the boy at all times.

  It was pitch black. He had no idea what time of night it was. Being cooped up inside that caravan for God knows how long had screwed with his perception of time. He supposed it didn’t really matter in a way. He didn’t have to be back anywhere for anything. He didn’t have anywhere to go.

  The only thing that mattered were those two people he’d found.

  The woman stared into the flames. She had dark, curly hair, slightly dark skin. Her chocolate brown eyes flickered in the flames. She was tall, slender. Every time Martin moved an inch, she looked right at him. Martin figured he wasn’t the only one on guard.

  Her son looked about five or so. Cheery chap, he was. Curly dark hair. His mother’s chocolate brown eyes. A constant smile on his face, as he chattered away to himself, and kept on asking his mum questions. He moved between happiness to concern and tiredness at the click of a finger. It looked like he’d been through a lot. Looked like they’d both been through a lot.

  Ella lay against a tree a few feet away. Her eyes were closed, and her arms were wrapped around her body. Martin couldn’t see that stub of a finger from here. They hadn’t spoken much about it since they’d been locked in that caravan. But he knew the topic would come up again. He’d made the call to raid that caravan site. He’d got the pair of them caught up in that mess.

  And they’d only just managed to escape for the luck of a dog barking.

  Gave Martin an opportunity to snatch that rifle from the man standing opposite.

  To knock him to the ground and fire a bullet into his skull.

  And then to race away from Ally’s people as quickly as he could.

  Only he’d run into one of Ally’s people holding a rifle to this woman and her boy.

  He’d had no choice but to take him out and to run, too.

  Two rifles in hand. But still looking over their shoulders. Still in danger.

  He knew Ally’s group would be after them. He knew they’d be searching. They weren’t all dead. They weren’t just going to give up.

  But Martin hoped they’d got far enough away from them to give them some breathing space. Until morning, at least.

  Until they figured out what the hell they were going to do next.

  He looked up at that woman again. He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know who she was, where she came from. It was strange, having company other than Ella and Bruce. Felt like he’d spent an eternity on the periphery of society, even before the EMP struck.

  But now he’d been thrown into a situation where he had to interact. He had to learn who these people were.

  And as hard as it might be—as overprotective of Ella as he might feel—a part of him knew he had to find some way to trust.

  “So where did you two come from?”

  The woman looked up at Martin. Then back down at the fire. For a moment, Martin didn’t think she was going to say anything. “Lancaster.”

  “Lancaster?” Martin said. “I can only imagine the towns and the cities aren’t great places to be right now.”

  The woman tilted her head. Rubbed her arms. “For a while, it was okay. The police. They… they gave us rations. Kept us going, y’know. And then things just flipped. People got angry. Took the place over. So I had to get away. We both had to get away.”

  “And Mummy killed the bad man!”

  The woman peered at her boy. “Oscar, don’t—”

  “But you did. You killed him. There—there was all the blood.”

  “Oscar, this man doesn’t want to hear about—”

  “It’s okay,” Martin said. “I get it. We have to do what we have to do. To get by. I’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through. But at least you’re out of that place now. Right?”

  The woman stared at Martin for a few seconds. Like she was trying to figure out if he was just being kind, or genuinely sincere. “Yeah. It’s great. No roof over our head. No food. No shelter. No future. Really promising stuff.”

  Martin smiled. “Well if it makes you feel any better, me and my daughter have been living in a log cabin for the last month. Surviving off the few animals we caught and the water we filtered. Until some nut-jobs—the same nut-jobs who attacked that caravan site—decided to burn our home down.”

  “Jeez,” the woman said. “Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s had it rough.”

  “Nobody still here has had it easy. But we are still here. That has to count for something. Right?”

  The woman smiled at Martin, just for a second. Then that look of guarded protectiveness returned.

  “It’s never been easy. It’s just a different degree of shit we’re putting up with now. But we’ll make it. One way or another, we’ll make it. We always do.”

  Silence between them. The smell of fire. The crackling of the flames. A desire to know more about this woman. About her past. About where she came from, and what she’d been through.

  “What’s your name anyway?” Martin asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “What does it matter?”

  Martin shrugged. “Well I’m Martin. That there’s Ella, and the dog’s called Bruce. Your boy I gather is called Osc—”

  “Don’t say his name.”

  Martin held up his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just… Well. We’re both out here. We’re both far from a place we called home. I figure… I figure we have to work together, one way or another. To find somewhere new.”

  Martin wasn’t sure where the words came from. He didn’t expect them to come spilling out so easily. He was reluctant to trust outsiders.

  But at the same time, he saw this woman and her son, and as strong as they were, he knew they needed help.

  And at the same time… he liked the idea of someone else being around, too.

  “Harriet.”

  “What?”

  “Harriet. My name’s Harriet.”

  She held out a hand. Martin took it. Felt its warmth in his palm.

  He looked into her twinkling eyes. And for the first time, he saw a genuine, warm smile.

  “Are you my daddy now?” Oscar asked.

  Martin smirked. Harriet pulled her hand away, cheeks flushing. “Be quiet, Oscar.”

  But as Martin sat there, cheeks on fire, smile on his face, he couldn’t deny the optimism he felt.

  “So what’s the plan, seeing as you’re such an expert on surviving out here?”

  Martin looked around at the woods. He looked into the darkness.

  And he felt his smile widen.

  “We’re going to find shelter,” he said. “We’re going to find a new home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Owen looked down at Peter’s body lying there in the middle of the kitchen, and he knew right then something needed to be done about this bullshit.

  It was night. Word of Peter’s demise was being kept on the low, so he’d only just heard about it. Peter’s allies were trying to keep this shit quiet. They knew if anyone got word of Peter’s fall that wasn’t in his immediate circle, it could cause a collapse. It could cause a mutiny.

  He stood there in the kitchen. Stared at his body lying there on the kitchen floor. The smell had kicked in. So strong it made him heave. But to be honest, Owen was better at handling these smells than most. He used to work in an abattoir, in a life that seemed long ago now. He was used to the taste of blood. Used to the smell of death.

  Not that you ever got over that reaction to it. Not that it ever got any less disgusting.

  And this was a person. This was someone he’d looked up to. Someone he’d admired.

  This was different.

  He looked into Peter’s vacant eyes. Looked at the gash in his neck. He ran the story through his head, time and time again. Clive was responsible. Ian and Bert h
ad walked in here and found him trying to escape; trying to flee.

  But there was something about this that didn’t add up.

  Something just didn’t feel right.

  He crouched down beside Peter. Put a hand on his chest. He remembered the first time he’d met Peter. They’d got along from the very start. He was one of those guys that just wasn’t afraid to say it as it is. Didn’t care about political correctness or offending people or any of that crap. He saw the world the way it really was.

  They’d got along. They had the same ideas for the future. The ideas about the strong surviving. About people taking what they were owed for themselves. About toppling the old order. They’d had their chance to make this world work. They’d screwed it up. They’d got everyone in the mess they were in now.

  And now he was here.

  He was gone.

  And it just didn’t sit right.

  Even though Peter’s demise gave him an opportunity to lead this place.

  And he wasn’t gonna put up with the same kind of shit Peter put up with.

  He was gonna lose the people who brought nothing to this place. Maximise the remaining rations for themselves.

  ’Cause there were too many people here. It wasn’t sustainable. Not for much longer.

  He looked at that gash on Peter’s neck. The sharp shard of pot buried deep within. A strange weapon, in all truth. Owen wasn’t a detective or anything, but if there was one thing about Clive, he didn’t think this was his style. He didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d stab someone in the neck then run off in a panic.

  He wasn’t Peter’s biggest fan, sure. But he stepped in line. He’d do anything for a comfortable life.

  But this?

  This didn’t seem right.

  This seemed out of character.

  He grabbed that shard of broken pot. Yanked it out of Peter’s neck, with a little struggle.

  And then he lifted it up in his hand. Studied it.

  The piece of a plant pot. One that’d sat in the middle of the dining table, which was on its side. So there’d been a fight in here. There’d been some kind of scrap. Clive had grabbed that piece of pot and swung it towards Peter’s neck. A moment of panic. A moment of uncertainty. That explained the messiness.