Eschaton (The Scott Pfeiffer Story Book 1)

by Shane Woods

  Surprisingly, everybody looked mostly healthy. Whereas people in our compound weren’t exactly thin, even Katie and Bri had lost weight since the beginning, and the rest of us had toned up probably more than ever in our lives.

  Nearer us, closer to the path to the water, a few women washed clothes in basins and hung them on lines and over plastic chairs to dry.

  Small fires burned here and there, both open, and contained to metal barrels. Most had various types of meat, fish, or vegetables being dried and smoked around them. There was even a large water still that had been set up, made out of an old tanker and various plumbing.

  When you took it all in together, the scene would have fit in any picture from the old settler’s days, save for the invasive anachronism of modern vehicles, housing, and clothing.

  Altogether, it was fairly pleasant. They’d had themselves a thriving community here. The one thing to give it away was a definite small-scale military presence. I could spot a few HUMMV’s, and a small handful of clear military types. And furthermore, every single citizen in sight was outfitted with a modern battle rifle and sidearm of their own.

  “Quite a setup you’ve got here, Mike,” I said, earnest astonishment not hidden.

  “Yeah, we’re doing alright,” he said proudly.

  “How’d you end up here, if you don’t mind my asking?” I inquired.

  “Man, so we were on that party bus, right? There were two buses,” he explained. “Major traffic everywhere, and the driver got out of ours to see if he could talk to someone and find out what happened. That’s when they attacked.”

  He detailed a flooding of the infected much like the one I’d experienced, and a short journey that paralleled my own in many ways. With the driver dead, Mike had taken the helm, and through a series of risk, chance, and blind luck, he got both buses full of people to safety in this small gated community.

  Being ‘everybody’s buddy’, many followed Mike closely, and the rest went where the numbers were, for the most part. He’d told the story of a few who tried to flee in the beginning, and how quickly and brutally they met their end.

  One had tried to run for a shop filled with people hiding. He got tackled before he even reached the door, running along the front, and was speared through the glass storefront, ending the tale for himself, as well as the thirty some odd people taking refuge.

  Mike showed me around the majority of his compound, barring the homes. He showed where a deep incline was being dug out of the earth, a full team working on it, being assisted and instructed by a couple of the military types. Mike described it as their bunker project, to hold more goods, and provide a safer fallback point should the walls of their community fail.

  “Might happen sooner than you think,” I warned. “Have you seen the big fuckers yet?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Mike replied, concerned and not without a bit of suspicion.

  I described the giant we’d taken down, and the details of how much it took, as well as the amount of damage it did to the building we were on. I told him of our dry moat, he agreed that he was going to be finding something then to bolster their defenses. He said he’d get with his engineers to plan that project.

  I won’t lie, the guy surprised me. He was so young, maybe early twenties. So lively, so friendly, but he carried himself in a way that told you he had things under control. A young metal head exterior backed by a fifty-year-old businessman on the inside. He departed for a few moments to use the restroom and grab us all some water bottles.

  “Don’t let him fool you,” one of the military types accompanying us spoke up for the first time. “Mike’s a hell of a good guy, acts almost clownish at times, but he’ll handle the things nobody else wants to.”

  “What do you mean?” I questioned.

  “He’s exiled people for theft, dishonesty, stuff like that,” the man continued, “even had someone executed for rape. Pulled the trigger himself, then went and had dinner. Guy’s good, wholesome as fuck, but don’t cross him.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I replied, and before I could dig further, Mike returned, handing out plastic bottles of clean, crisp water.

  “We purify our own here,” Mike said, holding up his water bottle, “they set up a system that filters it, distills it, filters again, then it gets cleaned up one last time.”

  We made more small talk about the way things were run here. Mike maintained direct control on most things, but when it was a larger matter, category three to five issues, as it was told to me, they would vote as a community. Every vote was private, and every vote counted. Fair as can be, he said.

  It was then that I’d suggested setting up trade between our communities. I gave our approximate location. General commodities, help with whatever projects, defense as a team, even river patrols between the colonies.

  He, of course, said he’d be down, but it would have to be put through a vote. We spoke on the subject a while longer, until I decided it was time to depart for now, promising we’d be back the next day on our way down through to home. I wonder what category he’d classified this as. I didn’t ask.

  I brought a handful of fresh apples to Rich and Dave, and we all stopped and had a bit to eat before setting off again.

  After we’d set off again, waves and good tidings exchanged on both ends, I felt confident we were parting on good terms.

  Once it all had been detailed and explained to Rich and Dave, they agreed it had a lot of promise if all went well, and that we should definitely bring it up as soon as we got back to our home.

  We travelled the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, until we were sure we were far enough. At least, as far as we dared to go. The city limits of Cleveland, Ohio, loomed ahead of us, and none of us wanted to dare venture any further. Not a place as populated as that, though clearly the military had been here as they had in Akron. Pillars of black smoke still showed, rubble still smoldering even this long after everything had been bombarded. At least, we’d assumed that’s what it was from.

  Cleveland wasn’t the best city to visit even when things were normal, let alone in the end of times. No thank you.

  We allowed our guests topside, one at a time, same as twice before. They did their necessary, ate, drank, Tyrone bargained for more time topside, but, eventually they were both stowed back away.

  Anchor was dropped right where we sat, and there we camped for the night. We all sat in near silence. No lights, no engines, nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the side of our vessel, and occasionally a low whisper between us.

  Okay, actually, Dave or Rich, and once, both, had to wake me up at various points due to my snoring. Aside from that, we were just shadows inhabiting this small section of the water, just for the time being.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Dawn broke slowly. It illuminated shadows into shapes, shards of glass as mirrors, then finally brightened the whole landscape.

  On my command, everyone was awake, and both prisoners were roused from sleep and brought up topside.

  “Can you both swim?” I asked, to which they eyed me suspiciously.

  “Of course, we can,” the unnamed man scowled.

  “Good,” I said, direct and without the positivity the word implied, “this is what happens from here. I’m turning this boat around and getting ready to raise anchor. These? These are yours.”

  I held out a small backpack for each of them. Neither man looked pleased. Tyrone was downright confused.

  “I thought you intended to execute us and dump us,” he said. “You’re letting us go?”

  “I can’t kill you as you’ve done nothing but pose a threat,” I explained. “You didn’t kill or harm any of us, but I couldn’t let you just walk straight back home from our place. You’re in Cleveland now. Catch a ballgame or something.”

  “What’s these?” no-name asked.

  “You ever going to tell me your name?” I asked, to which he turned his head and spat, “Okay. Well, Tyrone, Asshole, you each have th
ree bottles of water, three cans of food, one of you has basic fire-starting tools, the other has a basic med kit. Oh, and you have these.”

  I retrieved and offered two revolvers, one .32 ACP, the other a .22 LR. Both basic, simple, black, and cheap, but better than nothing at all. Each man took the proffered weapon and inspected them.

  “We get bullets, or we gotta find those?” Tyrone asked.

  I held up two packs, each about the size of a fist. Both packs resembled lumps wrapped in duct tape, and they’d been spray painted florescent orange.

  “Rounds for each. A full cylinder, and three full reloads for each gun,” I explained, then, “The second you two hit the water, I gun the engine, Rich throws them ashore. Best of luck, guys. Get in the water.”

  Tyrone dropped into the river and waited for his partner, holding the side of the boat as he bobbed along. The other guy, no-name, hesitated.

  “You fucking asshole, you can’t just leave us here!” he exclaimed.

  I wasn’t in the mood to bargain. I motioned to Dave and Rich, the two approached him, and as no-name swung his fist, Dave ducked and the two shoved him straight off the boat and into the water, sputtering and flailing for a moment until he got his bearings and started swimming. He muttered and cursed as he went. Tyrone nodded and began moving to the shore as well.

  As promised, I gunned the throttle, and Rich launched both neon colored packages to the shore, where they hit, rolled, and came to a rest in each their own tiny little dust cloud.

  Back southbound we went.

  ***

  The day remained warm and sunny as we made our way back down the river. We picked up a bit more speed, having reconnoitered the area we were now passing through. Conversation still remained muted at best, as we all felt the distance from home that we now held. What was once a thirty-minute car ride now had taken all day with a one night stay afterward. It was exhausting, to say the least.

  The boat still wasn’t exactly soaring through the water. Just a few knots faster seemed to be the ticket. It brought us into the realm of moving target, but felt safe enough, as we hadn’t had a chance to fully scan the river and remove any debris capable of causing hull breeches.

  An hour or so into the trip and something caught my eye. I was scanning debris along the bank on the starboard side when I caught a stir of movement. What had, on first glance appeared as a rock and some debris, stood up. I mean, it literally stood up, took the shape of a man, and crept away at a hunch.

  Rich and Dave clearly saw the man as well.

  “Sniper,” Rich said, matter of fact yet quiet.

  “Yeah,” I confirmed. “Holy fuck I thought he was just junk.”

  “Fuck that,” Dave proclaimed as he disappeared below deck.

  “Yeah, best of luck,” Rich confirmed as he followed Dave. “Best of luck boss man.”

  “You fuckers!” I exclaimed. “Fuck, man. At least give me something to hide behind.”

  I was expecting a pile of ballistic vests, or at the very least, some of the pressure treated boards we’d stacked our supplies on.

  Instead, Rich’s freckled arm appeared just long enough to toss a large piece of cardboard at my feet.

  “You’re getting your rations cut, you fuck!” I said, chuckling, as I lowered myself until I could just barely see the river ahead, crouching behind my protective…cardboard.

  For the next hour, I kept watch, while the other two sat below decks. They were stuffing their faces, as the smell of freshly heated and opened MRE’s wafted up out of the cabin, and I could hear the rustling of plastic.

  Finally, we rounded a sharp bend in the river, and were met with the now familiar MCTAGS turret containing the familiar head of long, dark hair that I knew as Jason.

  I cut the power down on the throttle, and slowly stood up to wave. For a moment, the turret swung my way, then as Jason recognized us, he too stood up to give a big wave.

  We pulled up and moored as we had before. This time, the smell of freshly cooking meat wafted down from the settlement above.

  “Jason.” I nodded to the man in the turret.

  “What’s up, dude!” he replied cheerily.

  “Y’all having a cookout?” I asked, smelling the air and eyeballing the smoke rising above us. My stomach grumbled on its own volition.

  “Oh! Shit, yeah, man! Go on up!” he replied. “You’ll find the boss man around the food!”

  The three of us thanked Jason and made our way up the stairs to the ground level. We had no hidden prisoners, and not much but day bags with us, so keeping someone with the boat didn’t seem as prudent this time around. Especially with Jason and his armored turret of death.

  We reached the top of the flight, and before us, maybe a dozen yards, was a large smoker. It was the kind you see the barbeque guys pulling down the highway. It was open and Hashman and another guy worked as a team pulling chunks of meat off of a smoked pig. I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was like I’d just walked into a dreamland.

  “Hashman!” I called.

  “What’s up, buddy!” he turned and replied with his usual upbeat tone. “You guys have a good trip? See anything cool? You hungry? Check it out man, we got plenty!”

  “I see that!” I replied, still astonished. “Is this typical?”

  “Kinda, man, yeah!” he said thoughtfully. “Every third Sunday.”

  “Sorry?” I replied, confused.

  “Every third Sunday we have a big barbeque,” he explained. “Nobody goes without, it boosts morale, and we dry whatever meat is leftover so it lasts us a while.”

  “No shit?” I replied, my mind finally grasping that yes, this was indeed a freshly smoked pig in front of me.

  “Yeah dude!” he replied with enthusiasm. “Jerry’s the shit with this stuff! Have you heard of pemmican? We make a lot of that with the leftovers. I guess you can’t with pig, but we still dry it and store it.”

  “How are you storing it?” I asked.

  Jerry, a robust biker looking type with a shaved head, full beard, and tattoos was the one to reply.

  “We dug up a root cellar,” he explained. “Dry that pig out, use lots of salt and pepper. It keeps purty good.”

  “Really?” I replied, “Nice!”

  I whispered quickly to Rich, who disappeared back toward the docks. Dave was already at home conversing with another group and passing around what looked like a joint the size of a finger. A few short beats later and Rich returned, our two bottles of whiskey in hand.

  I retrieved the bottles from Rich and handed them to Hashman. He took them graciously and invited us to eat.

  I was starved. Dave, of course, had the appetite of a stoner and didn’t hold back, either. Rich on the other hand was still full from their stowaway lunch in the cabin. He still managed to take a small portion of each item and do his best to stuff it in.

  Aside from the hog in the smoker, which was being doled out in great piles, there were many other items. Several large cooking pots stood on grates positioned over a rectangular cooking pit. Within the pots were creamed corn, canned green beans, and a favorite of mine, Bush’s baked beans. I was clearly in heaven. I had to be, right?

  “Well go ahead brother!” Hashman encouraged from just behind me, pounding me on the shoulder. “Looks good, right? They do so good with this!”

  “Damn, man,” I said, beginning to scoop food onto my tray, then, laughing, “I’m thinking about those beans.”

  We shared a laugh over this, then a meal together. Most of his crew seemed much like him and Jason. In general, they were good, warm, friendly people, despite their looks giving off standoffish vibes. A few weren’t as sociable as others, but that was fine, we had a similar mix in our community. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’d ever seen Chris Simmons say more than a couple of words at a time to anybody at all. Even Rich.

  There was clearly a pecking order in play here though. Without a word, Hashman, Jason, and a few other guys took seats and invited us over to the sturdiest, mo
st prominent table. Others grouped together in their own circles at other tables, and children sat happily with their mothers and caretakers in the grass. I wondered if the totem pole was this clearly established in our own camp. As I thought about it, I began to believe it was.

  We ate until we were so stuffed with food we became lazy. A nice slow buzz from the shared whiskey bottles crept in. Rich and Dave were having a great time. It really made me start to consider some better morale boosting for our own people. I’d honestly never considered it, what with all the projects and other goings-on at home.

  After the meal was finished, we invited Hashman to come down to our own place and marked it on the map for him. We talked again of trade and support between the settlements. He said he would love to check it out, and even offered us a couple of animals with promise we’d open up relations by gathering supplies that they might need in anticipation of his visit in return.

  We parted on a good note. We loaded up a male and female goat that he had chosen for us himself, both very healthy animals. Saying goodbye, we released our moorings and set off.

  The rest of the day passed with startling calmness. Almost lazy in its cadence of just birds, bug noise, and water lapping at the boat as the motor purred out its one long story.

  We began to see familiarity, and with it, a gauge of distance.

  Once we were close enough, I retrieved the flare gun to announce our arrival, and set the glowing reddish orb high into the sky about an eighth of a mile from our compound. It arced high, reaching its apex, and began to slowly fall back toward Earth.

  Approaching our mooring site slowly, I swung the boat wide in the water, and positioned it to park with its bow northward, facing upriver.

  Tony, Jennifer, and several others greeted us as we began unloading.

  “Are those goats?” Jennifer asked, amazed. “Where the hell did you get goats from?”