The Lucky Ones (Evergreen Book 3)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Is this how it used to be before technology?” asked Harper. “Like kids just playing out in the woods?”

  “No idea.” Cliff flashed a wry smile. “I’m not that old. Though, yeah, probably was something like this. Sticks made good toys, but they had some stuff back then I think. Wooden trains, dolls, jacks or some such.”

  Around a half hour later, Cliff called the kids out of the water. After a delay for feet to dry and bathroom breaks, the hike resumed.

  “More plants?” asked Harper.

  “Nah. I’m about ready to circle back to town. Just figured I’d make a loop around in hopes of finding a deer or something.”

  “Can we not?” Madison squinted up at him with the sun in her face. “I really don’t want to watch you shoot an animal. Bad enough I have to eat them.”

  “No one’s forcing you to watch.”

  “You know what I mean.” Madison scowled at the ground.

  Harper rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I’ll take her off a bit so she doesn’t have to see it.”

  “But I’ll hear the shot. You’re not gonna get me far enough away that I don’t hear it.”

  “Plug your ears?” Jonathan made a silly face, fingers in his ears.

  “Why does everyone wanna kill animals?” Madison stomped.

  Cliff stopped walking and crouched to eye level with her. “We don’t want to ‘kill animals.’ We want to ‘not die.’ We’ve had this chat before.”

  “I know.” She stared down. “I’m eating it, aren’t I?”

  “Hey what’s that?” Mila pointed.

  “Is it poison ivy?” asked Lorelei.

  “No, doofus. It’s like a house or something.” Mila jumped on the nearest tree and climbed higher. “Yeah. It’s a small house.”

  Cliff gazed in that direction. “Hmm. Yeah. You guys wait here. I’ll go take a look.”

  Harper gathered the kids into the undergrowth and crouched with them.

  “Be careful,” whispered Carrie. When Cliff turned toward her to respond, she kissed him.

  “Ooh,” whispered Madison.

  “I will.” Cliff winked, raised his AR-15, and stalked off toward the unknown building.

  Carrie joined Harper and the kids.

  Upon spotting a green caterpillar on a tree, Jonathan picked it up, holding it so it walked in an endless loop between his hands.

  Minutes later, Cliff called out, “Clear. There’s no one here.”

  Harper stood. Carrie and the children followed her in single file through the trees toward his voice. She soon found a trail worn into the ground that led down a mild slope to a clearing in front of a structure somewhere between a small house and large cabin. Walls of plywood stained and varnished rather than painted framed a boxy structure with a passable attempt at glass windows. About forty yards to the left of the building, a suspicious lump of vegetation resembled a pickup truck. Someone had either hidden it under camo netting, or it had been there for a long time.

  Harper descended the hill. As she neared the cabin, the smell of damp wood overpowered the earthy scent of the forest. By the time she reached the door, the cloying reek of spoiled meat added to the bouquet.

  Since Cliff had entered the place already, she walked right in, holding her breath.

  A single large room took up most of the building’s space; however, it had two interior doors, one at each corner of the back wall. An open area on the left contained an ancient cloth sofa and a recliner that had seen better days, patches of foam visible where the upholstery had ripped open. On the right, a small round table stood in front of a tiny counter with an electric range and steel sink.

  She let the air out of her lungs and risked a slight inhale. The bad meat smell pervaded the room, but not to the degree it made her nauseous. Nothing appeared obviously rotten—stove clean, table clean, sink clean—so she eyed the fridge.

  “No one open that freezer,” said Harper. “Or that smell’s going to get ten times worse.”

  Madison and Mila headed over to search the cabinets by the kitchenette and started gathering canned goods out onto the floor. The sight of the girls reacting to soup, Spaghetti-Os, and baked beans like kids on Christmas morning rooting around under the tree made Harper choke up.

  Jonathan went for the left door while Lorelei amused herself by jumping on the sofa. Harper checked the door on the right, nearer the kitchen—and discovered the most cramped bathroom she’d ever seen. The miniature toilet faced to the right, pointing at the shower stall. It looked uncomfortably small for anyone older than twelve. Most of a roll of TP hung from the ceiling on a loop of wire above the commode. If she sat on it, her legs would be in the shower stall. The itty bitty sink in the near-left corner didn’t have enough room to bathe a housecat.

  Worse, the bad smell appeared to be coming from that tiny room. Or at least, stronger in there. She cringed away, not daring to lift the toilet lid out of fear of what she’d find under it.

  “Wow. They converted a closet into a bathroom.”

  “Dad,” called Jonathan from beyond the other door. “There’s like guns and stuff in here.”

  “Don’t touch anything,” said Carrie.

  Madison hurried over with Cliff to the room Jonathan went into. Harper followed.

  A space about half the size of her new bedroom contained an improvised plywood worktable with an odd metal machine that appeared to be hand operated via a lever on the side. Four rifles plus over a dozen handguns of various types hung on pegs on the wall above it and to the left. Two metal shelves on the right held boxes upon boxes of ammunition as well as cans of gunpowder, boxes of primers, and loose bullets in varying calibers.

  Oh. That must be a reloading machine.

  Cliff whistled. “Nice.”

  “We shouldn’t touch anything.” Carrie leaned on the doorjamb. “Someone could still own this stuff.”

  “Where are they?” asked Jonathan.

  “I, uhh, wouldn’t worry about it,” muttered Cliff.

  “Maybe Scott and that other guy lived here?” asked Harper.

  “Who?” Carrie peered at her.

  “Umm. Two men who shot at us last week.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “Maybe. Or they just went out hunting.”

  Jonathan climbed up to stand on the worktable and lifted a large, black rifle off its pegs. “Whoa. This is like a space gun.”

  Cliff moved up behind the boy, bracing hand at his back so he didn’t fall. “That’s a PSG-1. Sniper rifle. Not cheap. Hmm. The guy who lived here had some money. FN-FAL, two AR-15s, two AK47s, .30-06 bolt action, 7mm Remington Magnum. Good grief is that a .454 Casull?” He plucked a huge revolver off its pegs. “Heh. It is. This will ruin someone’s day, though it would be better used for hunting bears.”

  Jonathan set the PSG-1 back where he found it. “We should probably not be in this room when the owner comes back or he’ll think we’re stealing from him.”

  “Could be a woman. You don’t know it’s a guy.” Harper folded her arms.

  “Whoever lived here had a .454.” Cliff held up the revolver. “Notice the chamber’s got five holes? Not saying it’s impossible a woman would use this gun, but it wouldn’t be my first guess. And the, umm. Never mind.”

  Harper gave him a ‘what?’ look, but he cringed and gestured at the kids.

  Jonathan jumped down from the worktable and opened the doors of a cabinet beside it. Eight large cardboard boxes sat inside it, one opened. “Whoa. MREs.”

  Madison screamed, sounding as if she’d gone outside and around behind the house.

  “Shit!” Harper spun on her heel and sprinted across the outer room to the door.

  “She just found the body,” deadpanned Cliff.

  Once outside, Harper veered left since the continuing screaming seemed louder in that direction, and went around the corner of the cabin. Madison dashed toward her, jumping into a hug before exploding in a storm of tears.

  “What?” Harper aimed the Mossberg at the
corner of the building, ready to end who or whatever frightened her sister. “What’s wrong?”

  Carrie ran up behind her, Cliff walking after, seeming unbothered.

  Mila hurried around the far corner from the back of the house where Madison had been. Harper twitched, but held her fire. The girl seemed a little paler than usual, but not visibly upset.

  “There’s a dead guy on the ground. Madison almost stepped on him. Does that mean we can take the stuff in the house?”

  Harper slouched with relief, lowering the Mossberg. Ugh. That stink isn’t bad meat in the freezer. Cliff walked past her. She slung the Mossberg over her shoulder, freeing up both arms to hold Madison. Having no interest in looking at a dead person, Carrie remained with them, sorta-hugging them together. Jonathan also walked to the far corner.

  “Jon, stay back here,” said Carrie.

  “It’s okay. I’ve seen dead people before.” He peered around the corner. “Oh. That’s not too bad.”

  Metal clattered.

  Madison quieted, still shivering a bit, but stopped crying. “So disgusting. He’s like purple.”

  “Poor son of a bitch. Talk about unlucky.” Cliff came back around the corner into view. “Guy probably fell off the roof and broke his neck. Still holding a screwdriver. Either that or he decided to have a heart attack right when he reached the top of the ladder.”

  “There’s a shovel in the gun room.” Jonathan looked at Cliff. “Should we bury him?”

  “Yeah. That’d be the right neighborly thing to do wouldn’t it.” Cliff handed his AR-15 to Carrie. “Hang on to this for a bit? Burying him is the least we can do in trade for that arsenal.”

  “Okay.” Carrie took the rifle. “I have no problem making a body if need be, but stickin’ them in the ground is past my tolerance. That smell’s already getting to me.”

  “I’d say you get used to it, but ya really don’t.” Cliff chuckled and headed back inside, Jonathan scurrying after him.

  Curious, Harper crept to the end of the wall and peered around in such a way as to prevent Madison from seeing. The dead man lay on his back, close enough to the wall that both his boot heels rested against it. His face and hands—the only exposed skin on him—appeared greenish black with smears of purple in places. A long, wild beard and decay made it difficult to determine his exact age. Older than Dad, but not elderly. She figured fifties or early sixties. His thick insulated vest over a lighter coat suggested he’d been dead since winter. Small rips in his jeans and gnaw marks on the face and hands hinted at opportunistic small animals.

  She swallowed bile and turned away. “Ugh. Poor guy.”

  Cliff went by carrying a shovel. Jonathan accompanied him, wielding a much smaller collapsible military-green shovel. They stopped about fifty paces from the house in a patch of open dirt.

  “This looks good.” Cliff jabbed his shovel in the ground, stepped on it, then looked toward Harper and Carrie. “Why don’t you guys go inside, gather up anything useful. Food. Clothes. Ammo. Tools. Whatever might come in handy. Pile it up in the middle of the room and we’ll figure out what we can take back to town with us.”

  “I could go get the big cart the militia always uses to move dead people.” Mila tossed her hair off her face with a quick sideways nod.

  “Don’t run off alone.” Carrie put an arm around her.

  “We’re not taking the dead guy to town,” called Jonathan.

  “Not for him, for the heavy stuff inside.” Mila huffed in exasperation. “And, if there are bad guys out here, they’ll come from that way.” She pointed north, and swept her finger around to the southwest. “Not between here and town. And I know how to hide.”

  “Ehh, not really enough of an emergency to take the risk.” Cliff tossed a shovelful of dirt aside.

  “I got from my house to yours in the middle of the night when the shadow men ran around trying to kill me.” Mila folded her arms. “I think I can handle going to fetch a pull cart. There’s a lot of guns and ammo, and they’re heavy.”

  Harper put a hand on Mila’s shoulder, but looked at Cliff. “Are you saying we should take the food first, then come back for the weapons and ammo?”

  He leaned on the shovel. “Community is great and all. But those MREs would go a long way to buying peace of mind. You know on airplanes, how they used to say secure your own oxygen mask before helping the kids? Can’t help anyone if you’re delirious. Thinking those MREs might be our oxygen masks.”

  Eight months ago, Harper would’ve been aghast at his suggesting they keep the food in the cabin for themselves. But, she understood his reasoning. Having a cushion of emergency food would be nice—especially to safeguard Madison, Jonathan, and Lorelei. “There’s nine cases. Do we take them all? What if we hit a rough patch and people are starving? Do we give them out? Could you look people in the eye, watching them get thinner and thinner while knowing we had food hidden away?”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. I…” He hung his head. “Nine cases of MREs over the entire town will be gone in one or two days. Twelve meals per case, but they’re about 1,300 calories each. In desperate times, we can ration them to one a day. They wouldn’t be much help if spread thin over the whole town. Not even one meal for everyone there. But, yeah… it would be damn hard to look someone in the eye.”

  “Looter’s Privilege.” Harper smiled. “We keep one case for emergencies. One to Mila, one to Becca’s family.”

  “Is Carrie our family yet?” asked Lorelei.

  Cliff busied himself digging. “Speaking purely in legal technicalities, she gets her own case.”

  “Technicalities, huh?” Carrie walked over to him, careful not to look at the body when she passed the corner of the house.

  Harper’s mood brightened. Invoking Looter’s Privilege for an up-front claim on one box of emergency food didn’t feel like being crappy to people. “Great. Let’s go get the cart.”

  “I can make it back to town.” Mila furrowed her brows. “I’m sneaky.”

  “You couldn’t even move that thing. It’s a trailer designed to carry small excavator machines. I can barely pull it.” Harper’s hands hurt from the memory of dragging the cart to Katherine’s house the other day.

  “Why don’t we use the truck over there?” Becca pointed at the lump of ‘vegetation.’

  “It’s dead.” Harper glanced at her.

  “You don’t know that. Did you even try to turn it on?” Becca started walking toward the camo-covered vehicle.

  “No way in hell are the keys inside that thing.” Harper pointed at the corpse. “They’re probably in his pocket. And the truck is toast.”

  Becca stopped, cringing. “I don’t wanna touch a dead guy.”

  “We’re way out in the middle of nowhere here.” Cliff squinted up at the sky. “Possible it could start assuming the fuel’s not rotted. Worth trying at least.”

  “Okay, but I’m not checking his pockets.” Harper shuddered.

  Even Mila backed away as if hoping not to be asked to do it.

  A tug pulled at Harper’s belt.

  She peered down at Lorelei.

  The little platinum-blonde sprite grinned up at her and dangled keys. “Onna table by the couch.”

  Cliff paused digging. “Go on and give it a try.”

  “Right…” Harper marched over to the camo netting.

  Yeah, this thing is as dead as civilization.

  It took her a few minutes to remove the concealment, which she bundled up in a wad and tossed aside to reveal a Chevy pickup that had to be older than her, spray-painted camo, with oversized, knobby tires. She couldn’t quite tell if the guy did the paint himself or it might have been an actual Army truck, since the bumper looked heavy duty and had a round metal plate with the number 384 on it.

  “Hmm.” She opened the door and climbed in.

  The interior looked so basic and utilitarian that she decided it had been an actual Army truck. Probably super old since it didn’t have a CD or even a cassette p
layer. She slid the key in, smirked, and turned the starter. When the low rumble of an idling diesel engine filled the silence, she almost screamed in shock.

  “Holy shit!” yelled Harper. “It works!”

  Lorelei slid down off the roof to stand on the hood in front of the windshield. She thrust both hands into the air and shouted, “Holy spit works!”

  Laughing, Harper cut the engine and jumped out. “C’mon.” She plucked Lorelei off the hood and set her on her feet. “Guys! Start grabbing everything useful.”

  9

  One Nightmare at a Time

  Harper lay in bed that night, awake and replaying the afternoon ride over and over in her head.

  Driving a truck through untamed woods proved to be both a challenge and an amazingly fun time. Cliff let her take the wheel since she’d only had her license for a little while before the war. As much as she wanted to keep the vehicle, she didn’t even ask. A working diesel truck needed to go toward the benefit of the entire town. Though, being on the militia, she might wind up driving it again at some point, or at least riding in it.

  They didn’t make good time, little faster than walking while weaving around trees, but the truck—which Cliff called a CUCV, or civilian utility cargo vehicle—allowed them to carry all the canned goods, ammo, guns, MREs, toilet paper, some clothes, and a few other miscellaneous items in one shot.

  Walter had been saddened to learn of the death of a man he believed to be Arthur Green, something of a local hermit who had been out there for several years. He’d been friendly in town but didn’t like people near his home. The guy evidently had a few demons left over from Iraq where he’d served overseas.

  No one objected to them claiming Looter’s Privilege on a box of MRE’s each, and the militia had been thrilled at the infusion of ammunition and weapons—not to mention a truck ripe for conversion to take biodiesel.