by K. M. Fawkes
He stumbled over something in the road, going to his knees. The snow came up to his waist in this position and the cold began to seep in. Even with that motivation, it took him several minutes to be able to force himself upright. As he began to walk again, he came to the very real understanding that this might be his last day.
“No,” he said. “I’m not gonna die like this. Not out here where they’ll never find me. Come on. You can do this. It’s only knee deep. You can—”
It began to snow again, this time in soft, massive flakes that would make the snow hip-high in no time at all.
Chapter 4
Would it really be such a bad thing? Brad asked himself. The cold was setting in more deeply, making his whole body shake. He’d lost too much weight since losing the cabin. He clenched his jaw tightly, and it ached as he tried to control the shivers. He couldn’t manage it and it only made him hurt that much worse, but the tension remained.
He’d done everything he could. He’d taken people in; he hadn’t let the situation beat him. He’d stayed true to his values. And now, he was going to die on some random road. Alone.
Wasn’t there some philosopher who had said that everyone died alone? Maybe if he’d thought more about things like that, he wouldn’t be so terrified right now.
If he died, he’d freeze. And then, when spring came, he’d melt right into the ground and looters would probably take his clothes and then—
Something in distance caught his eye. The shapes were tall and dark against the sky, a welcome oasis from all of the bright white that surrounded him.
Houses. They were houses.
Brad hadn’t been aware that he’d stopped walking until excitement pushed him into motion once more. He picked up his pace, wincing at a fresh stab of pain in his ankle. Apparently, he had a bit of feeling left in his extremities. And maybe he had a little bit of survival instinct left, too.
It had been a neighborhood, and a newer one at that. The houses were set so close together that kids could have set up tin-can telephones. If they hadn’t had real phones. And if they’d still been alive. He needed to warm up; he was starting to get loopy.
Brad wasn’t picky. He went straight up to the first house he reached and pushed his way inside as fast as he could. The door hadn’t been locked, but he didn’t think much of it as he took a deep breath of snow-free air; the place had probably been looted long before and there was no reason for a vandal to lock the door behind them.
He pressed his back to the front door and slid down it, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as he caught his breath. It wasn’t much warmer inside the house, but at least he was out of the wind. Gradually and painfully, feeling returned to his fingers and toes, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to risk it yet.
He was dizzy with hunger and exhaustion, and the floor seemed to tilt and sway underneath him, even when he was just sitting still. He needed to get up and find some food, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet.
What would they have, anyway? He gave a mental shrug. It didn’t matter. He’d take anything at this point. Surely there would be something that had been left behind, and he wouldn’t be so dizzy once he’d had some food. And he could melt some snow for water. Eating it would have only made him colder, so he hadn’t had anything to drink all day.
With a massive amount of effort, Brad opened his eyes. And that was when he saw the bodies sitting snugly on the couch to the left of the door. Actually, to be completely accurate, he saw what was left of them.
One of them had been a big man. He still held the shotgun in his lap, even though a lot of him had rotted away. The other, a petite woman on the couch beside him, had no face. Everything from her jaw to her forehead was missing. Dark smears of dried blood and brain matter painted the walls behind them.
Brad stumbled to his feet, holding onto the doorframe as the house seemed to tilt and sway. This was the first time he’d seen a body in a long while. Maybe it was the way the couple was sitting. Maybe it was the fact that he could tell that the man had shot his wife and then not had the courage to pull the trigger on himself. Or the way they he was holding her hand in his.
Whatever it was, it was more than he could take.
Brad yanked open the door in a blind panic. He was out of the house and back into the snowstorm before he’d thought twice. He stumbled through the rapidly deepening snow to the house across the street.
The door there wasn’t locked either. There were three bodies here, each of them lying sprawled on the floor. Apparently, the woman of the house had been the shooter in this case; the small caliber pistol was only inches from her decaying fingers. He almost wished she’d used a shotgun, too. He could see the level of decomposition too easily on what was left of their faces.
His heart seemed to be pounding in his ears as he lurched back to the door. The dizziness was getting worse, but still he couldn’t bring himself to look in either of these houses for food. Death tainted everything here. Some part of him that was still logical knew better, but he could swear that he could smell it.
Brad was shaking, not even aware that he was speaking as he walked up onto the porch of the house next door. Begging it to be empty, repeating himself like a prayer.
“Please, please, please,” he whispered as he pushed the door open.
His legs were shaking so badly that he could barely hold himself upright. The front rooms were clear of death and Brad gripped furniture and door frames as he moved from room to room. His vision was starting to get black around the edges, even though bright sparks of light kept flashing in front of his eyes. The kitchen…
The family had chosen to have one last meal together, it seemed. He didn’t know what they’d used to poison the children, but he doubted that it had been as fast as they’d hoped. There were nail marks on the table, long scores drawn in the final throes of death. The boy had been around Sammy’s age. The girl was much younger. Her small hands were clenched into tight fists.
Brad stumbled back outside, gagging. This was it. The last straw. He knew he wouldn’t survive if he stayed out here, but he also knew that there was no way in hell he’d go into any of those houses again. If this was all that was left, he was happy to go.
His knees buckled once more. This time, the snow came up to his chest when he sank down. A roaring sound filled his ears and he closed his eyes, happy to hear something beside the snow-muffled quiet.
Was this what death sounded like? It was almost like an engine. And voices. He thought that he heard those, too. Maybe this was his welcome to the Pearly Gates?
Strong hands grabbed his arms and yanked him up. Saint Peter was a rough guy, apparently. A rough guy who was dressed a little strangely. He should have been wearing white robes, shouldn’t he?
Brad couldn’t quite get his eyes all the way open, but he saw a murky flash of green and brown as he was hauled into a standing position. He highly doubted that saints wore camouflage. Rational thought managed to break through the static in his brain. Had he come all of this way to end up with the soldiers again?
He didn’t mind dying. In fact, he was exhausted enough to welcome it. But he really didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of killing him. Brad tried to struggle, but since his muscles were basically frozen, but he didn’t accomplish much.
“It’s okay,” a soothing voice said. “You’re with friends now.”
That didn’t really make Brad feel better, but the darkness that had been around the edges of his vision for a while finally took over. With a muttered swear of helpless anger, he went limp.
Chapter 5
When Brad woke up later, he wasn’t quite sure where he was. Someone had put a few rough blankets over him and one underneath him as well, but the surface he was lying on was extremely hard. There was also a strange swaying feeling. Was he still that dizzy?
Then, the truck he was riding in hit something that had been buried in the snow and jounced the passengers around roughly and he figured i
t out. It had been an engine he’d heard as he’d collapsed in the snow. And now, he was riding with the people who’d caught him.
He glanced around. There were three men in the back with him. They all wore camouflage and they all had gray blankets wrapped around their shoulders. It made them look like fellow refugees, but Brad saw the guns in their leg holsters and knew that was as far from the truth as it got. All that remained was to find out what they were going to do with him.
“Take it easy up there,” the man closest to Brad called up to the driver. His tone was good-natured and Brad thought that he saw a smile on his face as he spoke. Of course, this guy had every reason to be cheerful. He was in control.
Brad sat up, leaning against the back of the driver’s seat when his head spun. He was still a little dizzy, but it wasn’t nearly as bad now that he’d had some sleep and could feel all of his extremities again.
“Hey, you’re awake,” the man who’d been joking with the driver said. “Want some water?” He held out a bottle invitingly. “I’m no doctor, but I’d say you’re probably at least a little dehydrated.”
Brad blinked, thinking. He needed to make the best decision. The water could be poisoned or drugged. On the other hand, they’d had ample opportunity to kill him while he was unconscious and they hadn’t taken it.
And he was really thirsty. He couldn’t even swallow properly because his throat was so dry. He reached out and took the bottle, drinking half of it down in a few gulps. He wanted to hang onto it while he caught his breath—those few drinks had only whetted his thirst—but the man reached over and took the bottle back.
“Let that settle for a few minutes,” he advised, tucking the bottle back into one of the inner pockets of his jacket. “You don’t want to get sick back here and we don’t want to have to clean it up.”
He smiled again and then reached into one of the packs, pulling out a vacuum-sealed packet that Brad recognized all too well. Military MRE rations. All of the calories a person needed in a day and none of the taste. The packet said apple-cinnamon flavor, but Brad knew from experience that the claim was bullshit. Every single one tasted like cardboard. The man broke the ration biscuit in half and handed it over.
“They’ll have better food back home,” he said, his tone almost apologetic. “But you look like you could use some calories right now. How long were you out there?”
Brad realized suddenly that he’d lost track of the days. “How long was I out?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Not long,” the man replied. “About an hour.”
That came as a relief. Brad forced his mind to slow down and thought the problem through, going over the days in his mind. “I’ve been out for eight days.”
The man’s eyebrows went up. “Eight days?” he repeated. “In these storms?”
Brad nodded. “I had a place before,” he said, seeing the question in the other man’s eyes. “But I…I lost it.”
“That’s rough,” the man said with sympathy. “Go ahead and eat. We can talk later.”
Brad took a bite of the ration bar, noting that they tasted a little better when they stood between a person and starvation, but not a whole lot. He munched slowly, because the man was right. He did not want to be sick back here. As he ate, he watched the scenery pass out of the window as the truck continued to move forward.
It took him a second to realize that they were passing through a city. Or, at least, that they were passing through what was left of a city. Buildings were crumbling into piles of black ash almost in front of his eyes as the strong wind blew around their charred frames. Some of the buildings were still smoldering, their heat sending billows of smoke through the cold air.
The smoky smell rose up as well and permeated the vehicle, even with the windows up. The scent of wood smoke made Brad’s chest grow tight with memory. He got to his knees and leaned close to the window, trying to get a closer look at the burning city and figure out just what the hell had happened to make someone do this.
If it had been summer, he might have thought that a cooking fire had gotten out of hand or that someone had fallen asleep instead of tending their fire. But at this time of year, with snow still falling around them, destruction like this couldn’t be accidental. With resources so limited, it simply didn’t make sense to destroy things so thoroughly.
The work of an extremist? A madman? Both?
As the truck moved through the rubble, Brad remembered Anna’s insistence that they head for a city. Had she and the kids come here? Were his dreams of them dying in a fire more accurate than he wanted them to be? Finished with his half of the ration bar, Brad slumped down again and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see any more destruction. He didn’t want to wonder who had caused it.
He was surprised to find that he hadn’t even had time to drift off again when the truck stopped. The other man in the front—who Brad now saw wore a pair of fatigues that were nearly black with soot—and the man who’d given Brad the ration bar and water both jumped out of the vehicle and jogged around to the front. Brad got to his knees and looked out the front windshield. He saw the two men push open a heavy iron gate. Then, the truck rolled through.
By turning his head and looking as the gates closed, Brad could just make out the name of the place: Fall Pines Retirement Community. Something about the name struck a chord, but he couldn’t figure out why. He’d certainly never been here. Both sets of his grandparents had been gone by the time he’d been five.
“Come on,” the driver said as he put the truck in park and looked back at Brad. “Let’s get you over to HQ.”
“What are we going to do there?” Brad asked, wincing as the wind blew into the opened truck doors. He’d finally gotten warm on the ride. He wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders as he stood up.
“You’re going to meet the Major.”
Brad slid out of the truck and walked across a courtyard with the men. They weren’t joking around now, and he could see that their posture was growing stiffer the closer they got to the row of buildings. They’d been pretty cheerful guys before. He wondered what exactly he was walking into.
“Who’s the Major?” Brad asked.
“He runs the place,” the driver said. “No one stays here without seeing him first.”
“What will he do?”
“He’ll meet you,” the man who’d given him the food said. “He’ll ask some questions, see what he thinks of you.”
“And if he doesn’t like me?” Brad asked. “What then?”
Neither of the men answered. He saw a few people standing in their doorways in the row of apartments to his left. They were watching him silently and it made him feel nervous. But he kept walking; what choice did he have?
“Here we go,” the driver said, stopping in front of a standalone building. It had been made to look like a house, but it was clearly an office.
The driver opened the door and they all stepped inside. Warmth—real warmth—wrapped around Brad’s whole body, and he let out his breath in relief as he stepped forward into the carpeted front room.
“Wait here,” the driver said before going through a door to the right.
Brad and the other man stood in silence while the driver was gone. Brad glanced around at the office. Not much had been changed since the place had been run as a retirement home, it seemed. The same blandly inoffensive art that all offices of this type had was still hanging on the walls. There were even brochures on the table against the wall.
Brad picked one up out of curiosity and opened it up. There were sixty-eight acres to the property and nurses always on duty. Brad somehow doubted that last part. He dropped the brochure back to the dusty table as the door swung open again and the driver stepped out.
“You can go on in now,” the man said, standing to the side so that Brad could step through the doorway.
Chapter 6
“Welcome,” a tall man in military uniform said, stepping out from behind the desk near the window and
holding his hand out with a smile. “I’m Major Walker. It’s good to have another survivor with us.”
Brad shook his hand, looking him over. He would have guessed that the Major stood at around six four. He was pretty muscular, too, his body much bigger than Brad’s lean frame, and clearly took a lot of pride in his appearance; he was clean-shaven and his blond hair was neatly combed. A glance down showed that his black boots were impeccably shined. Brad could see the firelight reflecting in them.
Walker nodded to the man standing behind Brad, the same one who’d given Brad the water and the ration. “Neal. Why don’t you grab our guest something hot to eat while we get acquainted?”
The man nodded and left the room, and the Major gestured to a wing chair near the fireplace. “Have a seat,” he said, turning to add another log to the fire. “Get yourself warm. I’ve never seen a winter like this, have you?”
Brad shook his head. “No, I haven’t.” Were they really discussing the weather? It seemed surreal.
“Oh, I haven’t asked your name,” Walker said, taking the seat opposite Brad. “Sorry about that; we do try to observe proprieties.”
“It’s okay. I’m Brad.” He didn’t give his last name. It just didn’t seem terribly important anymore. Maybe this man wanted to keep up good manners, but Brad wasn’t sure he cared. “Are you really military?” he asked bluntly. “All of you, that is—not just you personally.”
A bowl of soup was placed in front of him at just that moment, but despite the delicious aroma of meat and herbs wafting up, Brad kept his eyes on the Major. The man gave him a quick grin.
“Please. Eat. I guess our group is about half and half,” he said. “Some of us, myself included, didn’t like our orders when things started to fall apart.”
“You mean the forced conscription?” Brad asked, wrapping his hands around the bowl and letting it warm his fingers. Even the short walk across the courtyard had chilled him again. He wondered if he’d ever feel truly warm again, now that he’d come so close to freezing to death.