As an additional piece of motivation, Tori relished the idea that she could go shopping for a replacement Harley-Davidson.
BUBBA
April 18, 2033
Townsend, Tennessee
It was nine o’ clock p.m. and Tori was running for her life. Her heart was pounding and her breaths were deep. She couldn’t stop moving or they would catch her. The pain in her solar plexus felt nearly unbearable. Her abs were cramping and her pursuers were catching up. The fight-or-flight response that they taught in boot camps, police academies, and like disciplines was, and always had been, a true physiological response.
A Few Hours Earlier
Life was random. It was full of situations and circumstances, some of them planned, some of them unplanned. If there was one thing Tori had learned from the events of the previous two years, it was that it rains on the just and the unjust. She was an agnostic and believed in an almighty God, but that He minded His own business and didn’t interfere in the affairs of men. She wasn’t always like this. Her husband, Richard, had been a devout Catholic, and she was brought up Protestant but never went to church but maybe two or three times in her life. The church services she had visited were dry and void of anything she could give substance to. She knew what faith was, but found it hard to put her trust into anything she could not feel, taste, hear, see, or smell. It wasn’t that she was concrete in her cognition; it was more of a need to substantiate. She was very analytical in everything she applied herself to. So naturally, when she stumbled upon the sounds of gospel a capella, she followed her ears to a broken-down church building behind what used to be a Phillips 66 gas station.
She was empty-handed from her expedition through the Midwest. One of her recent encounters had left her battered and without supplies. She was looking for Bubba, her shiny 1911 Smith & Wesson .45-caliber pistol. She knew it was in the area, she just didn’t know where. It had been taken from her, and she was on a mission to retrieve it, no matter the cost.
That was another thing about Tori. Once she had her mind made up, there was no telling her otherwise. She was as bullheaded as they came. To her, it was a principle thing. They took something from her greater than the price of that pistol; it was her pride. In Bubba she found strength. It was her go-to when she felt the odds were against her.
As she closed the distance between her and what she thought was a capella music, she could hear the faint sounds of an acoustic guitar. While electricity had been restored in some parts of the US, it hadn’t been fully restored because several parts of the grid were still inoperable.
The white Catholic building was now in sight. Its windows were busted out and the front double door was knocked from its hinges. Only the right side remained; its top hinge being the only thing holding it in a semi-upright position.
What could be so joyful about a broken-down church in the apocalypse? she thought.
She crept up to a position beneath the window and slowly peered in. No sooner than the scalp of her head had appeared above the plane of the lower portion of the window, the guitar stopped and the people inside were silenced.
They saw me, she thought as she lowered her head.
Ducking behind a shrub of red-colored berries, she took cover, hoping to be concealed from whoever might have seen her. She looked over her shoulder to the rear but only saw a large parking lot. If she were to run in that direction, they may have a clear line of sight if they wanted to shoot at her. Her other option was to continue running around the side of the church until she found an avenue of escape.
There was something familiar about the berries. They had a recognizable smell to them. She peered through the front of the berry shrub one last time to see if anybody had exited the front door. The coast was still clear. So she picked a few batches of berries and began loading her pockets.
“Viburnum opulus var americanum,” a strong low voice said from behind her.
Startled, she quickly turned around to see a priest standing in all black, except for the dingy-colored clerical color beneath the man’s Adam’s apple.
He remained calm and was unarmed. He saw the look in Tori’s eyes and the bruises on her face. He knew she had been through an ordeal of sorts, but had no idea to what extent.
“Viburnum opulus var americanum,” he repeated.
“What, are you talking in tongues or something?” she asked.
“No, no, no. That’s the species of berries I see you’re putting into your pockets. I … I’ve been studying botany. It’s amazing how much time we have on our hands these days.”
“Look, mister, I don’t want no trouble, just heard some music and thought I’d be inquisitive. I’ll be going now.”
“They’re cranberries. You can eat them,” the man said, almost pretending to not hear her derision for the confrontation.
“Thank you,” she said, standing up to slowly back away towards a neighboring building.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you, ma’am,” he said.
“Thank you, but I learned a long time ago that chances are for the devil.”
“The Lord took a chance on me,” the priest said.
“What are you talking about, preacher?”
“He died for us, knowing we would make mistakes. I’d say that’s a chance. There’s people inside this building that thought they didn’t have a chance at redemption, but they found it.”
“Look preacher, I’m not savable. I’m broken and dangerous.”
“That’s fine. Please, come in and get something to eat. You look hungry.”
“How ’bout you bring it out to me? I don’t follow strangers into unknown buildings.”
“Keri Anne?” the priest called out. “Can you bring some soup out for our guest?”
Tori stood and studied the priest as she waited for a lady in her forties to come out of the church with a cup of hot soup. She slowly approached Tori, but Tori wouldn’t take the soup from her hand. Perceiving that she was afraid that she might be poisoned by the strangers, the priest took the soup and sipped it.
“I promise you,” he said, “it’s not poisoned.”
Tori reached out and grabbed the soup and gulped it down into her belly. It had the taste of canned chicken soup but had the consistency of a thickened bowl of broth. She could taste that flour was added for volume.
“Thank you,” Tori said.
“You’re welcome. Would you like to come inside?” the man asked again.
“No, thanks, padre. I’m on a mission for God,” she said.
That comment piqued the curiosity of the priest.
“A mission from God?” he said, as if he doubted any chance she could hear from heaven.
“That’s right,” she said. “A band of men in an armored party bus robbed me and had their way with me for six days. I escaped on foot and I’m going to find a way to kill them,” she said with determination in her eyes.
The priest just stood and stared at her.
“Every last one of them, padre,” she continued. “They’re all going to meet your God.”
“I, uh … I didn’t catch your name, child?” The man was obviously nervous at the turn the encounter had taken.
“My name’s Tori, and I’m not your child, but I do appreciate the soup. Do you have any weapons?”
“We have a rifle, but our bullets are limited, and we use it for hunting.”
“What’s that, you said? You use it for survival?” Tori was now twisting his words.
The priest didn’t answer.
Tori looked around and walked to the front of the church. She peeked in then turned back toward the priest. He had followed her forward about half the length of the side of the building then met Tori. She was moving much faster than him and he didn’t understand the reason for her rush.
“Look, padre, the men that I was with are very bad men. If they find me here, your whole church will burn. What’s left of it, anyways.”
“We can rebuild. The church is made up of people, and they canno
t destroy that.”
Tori took a good look at the priest and could tell by his composure and demeanor that he had never been exposed to any of the new horrors that were plaguing the post-America landscape. There were three men and four women inside the building, besides the children. A quick glance through the front door revealed about three kids.
“Where’s the rest of the town?” she asked.
“There’s a few people left here, but for the most part, they evacuated the area and headed toward Gatlinburg. There were promises of food and water for everybody that took the mark.”
“The mark?”
“The mark of the beast … that no man might buy or sell unless they have the mark.”
“You’re making references to the Bible?”
“Yes, it’s right there in Revelations.”
“Look,” Tori said, rubbing her head and a bit more frustrated, “I’m having a revelation right about now.”
The priest gestured with his hands as if to say, well, what is it?
The sound of a bus engine was heard in the near distance.
“It’s time to go,” she said as she took off to the inside of the church.
The priest followed her in.
“Just why is it you’re hiding from these men?” he began to ask incessantly.
“Where’s your rifle, old man?” she said with teeth clinched.
“First tell me why they’re looking for you?”
“The last stop they made, the one where I made my escape, they left me alone in the bus with just one man.”
Tori paused.
“Yes ...and?”
“And I sorta killed him.”
“With what?”
“With this,” she said, pulling a tomahawk from the back of her pants. “Now, please, we need to get out of here. Where’s the rifle?”
“Go get the rifle, Tommie,” he said towards the window of the church.
Tori entered the church and met Tommie. He handed her the rifle. It was a Remington .22 caliber.
“Really?” she responded. She snatched up the rifle and ran a few yards to the back side of the building. There was a dried-up riverbed that she ran through, and she hid in the trees, where she followed the sound of the bus with her ears. From Tori’s position, she could see the church, and she began railing under her breath because the priest was still standing outside near the front of the church.
The bus was finally in sight. It came in from the east and turned right down the little road that led to the church. Tori felt the driver must have spotted the priest because it took a last second sharp turn and headed straight for the church.
The bus was a tan-colored Department of Corrections bus that had been modified. The restraint systems were still intact, but the walls were carpeted and the windows were boarded.
That’s it alright, she thought.
She watched as the bus came to a stop and seven men piled out, heading straight to the priest.
Tori could see about half of the men from her position, but could not hear a word. She knew there was going to be trouble and hoped her new friends would not sell her down the road. She decided to reposition to an area on the opposite side of the bus. So with that in mind, she took the long way around the block and came up behind the bus, out of line of sight of the men.
She pulled her tomahawk out and took a look at the back side of it. The rear of the ’hawk was nothing less than a skull splitter. She pointed it in the direction of the tire and attempted to flatten it. With a hard strike, the tomahawk just bounced off. It was a heavy-duty tactical weapon, but not designed for popping tires. Looking around, she saw a two-liter empty plastic bottle. She put the barrel of the rifle inside the bottle and pointed it at the tire. When she pulled the trigger, the crack of the rifle was minimized, but the popping sound of the blown tire was greater than anticipated. She lunged upward and peered through the windows of the bus and saw the men looking in her direction. She was spotted.
The men gave chase, and Tori bolted into some nearby woods. She could hear them calling out to one another. “She’s over here,” one would say as she bolted from cover to cover, trying to lose them in the trees. They tried their hardest to maintain a visual on her, but no sooner than they had spotted her, she would disappear again. At one point in the pursuit, Tori slipped and fell into a ravine. Roots from one of the older trees were protruding from the muddy wall of the ravine and caught Tori’s back. Her coat snagged and slid upwards, exposing her flesh to the harsh and jagged roots. They tore into her flesh and into the area of her right latissimus dorsi. The cut started from the lower portion of her back and spanned the length of it just to the bottom of her right scapula. She needed medical attention, but it had to be ignored for the time being.
Off in the near distance, she could see a wooden cabin about the dimensions of a medium-sized shed. Its barky appearance gave it the perfect camouflage. Looking behind herself, she couldn’t see her pursuers anymore. Their voices were fading away as she stood up and made her way up the shallow end of the ravine, using the trees’ root systems as makeshift stairs, and headed towards the cabin.
The door was locked, but that didn’t stop her. She used her elbow to smash out the window and then reached in to unlock the deadbolt. Upon entering the room, she could see that the cabin was designed for just one person. There was a small twin-sized bed, a kitchen countertop, only one window on the back side, and no running water. Searching frantically around the room, she was looking for something to treat her cut with and found a small footlocker under the bed. She pulled it out and saw that it was padlock secured. Her tomahawk might not have been designed for this purpose either, nevertheless, she used it to bust open the lock. Inside she found a spare pair of socks, an emergency heating blanket, a canteen, a blanket, a sheet, and a first-aid kit. She spread the blanket out and threw everything inside of it and then knotted the corners together. Her intent was to carry the bag of goodies away from the area, but first she needed to treat the burning wound running the length of her back.
She couldn’t reach the wound, so she had to improvise by cutting the sheet with the edge of her tomahawk. She removed her upper garments and wrapped the clean linen around her core. When she was satisfied, she redressed and hid the blanket of goodies outside under a pile of dead shrubs. The temperature was dropping, so she returned to the cabin and tried her best to remain observant.
Nighttime fell quickly after those events. She had dozed off in her alone time and was awakened to the sounds of male voices from the outside. She sprang to her feet and looked out of the broken window. It was pitch black outside. Not being able to see, she had to cant her ear toward the sounds. It was her pursuers.
“Be careful, she might be in there,” a man’s voice said.
Remembering she had laid her rifle down on the other side of the room, she pulled her tomahawk out. Tori could feel her heart rate pick up.
Oh Lord, they’re going to hear my heart, she thought. It was beating that loudly. It was exaggerated by the physical pounding sensation that accompanied the rhythm. Common sense told her that they couldn’t actually hear her heart beat.
She slowly slid behind the door and paid close attention to the sounds of breaking twigs and any other movement.
The voices turned into whispers.
“Be careful,” he said one more time.
“Maybe we should go get the others,” a different voice whispered.
“It’s just one girl.”
“That chick’s not a normal girl, man.”
“Well, whatever she is, she’ll be dead soon. We can take ’er down by ourselves.”
“I’m not going in there.”
“Yes, you are.” The whisper was followed by a soft scuffling of feet.
“Fine, I’ll go. You got my back?”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
The door handle shimmied and the door pushed open.
“Somebody broke the glass.”
“Shut up, you id
iot. You’re giving away your position.”
The first man entered the darkened cabin and proceeded forward. Following closely behind him was the second man. Tori recognized the voices as two of the men that had abducted her and had their way with her while she was bound to the party bus.
Once the second man was in, Tori drew back her tomahawk and came down with enough force to split the second man’s head open. She had daydreamed that doing such a thing would be like splitting wood, where the axe head would be hard to withdraw, but it wasn’t. The man’s skull parted and he turned around quickly to look at his attacker. She thought she had sunk the tomahawk deep enough, but his reaction proved otherwise, so she thought. The man fell to the ground and started twitching.
The first man in the room heard the impact and turned around just in time to see his friend fall to the floor. Tori wasted no time sinking the second stroke into the man’s face. He fought back by shoulder charging her and lifting her off the ground. He carried her a few feet until they were outside again, and then he fell out of the cabin, landing on top of her. Tori was amazed to see the tomahawk was still in the man’s face. He ignored it like he didn’t know it was there. He was now choking her around the neck with both hands. She couldn’t breathe and was beginning to get light-headed. A desperate attempt to grab the tomahawk from the man’s face proved successful. She struck him in the face and head five or six times before he rolled off her. He was now lying motionless on the ground next to her, but her adrenaline had not abated. She rolled over on top of the man and continued to drive the tomahawk into the man’s head. The sounds alerted more of the nearby raiders, who in turn alerted Tori to their presence by shouting, “She’s over here.”
Tori jumped up from her position and fled into the woods.
It was nine o’ clock p.m. and Tori was running for her life. Her heart was pounding and her breaths were deep. She couldn’t stop moving or they would catch her. The pain in her solar plexus felt nearly unbearable. Her abs were cramping and her pursuers were catching up. The fight-or-flight response that they taught in boot camps, police academies, and like disciplines was, and always had been, a true physiological response.
Whiskey Black Book Set: The Complete Tyrant Series (Box Set 1) Page 11