Pilgrimage_A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story

by Tom Abrahams

  Men often find God as they reconcile their own mortality. For James, the faith was nothing new. But it was acute as he considered the danger, the violence which lie ahead.

  What would be, would be. God’s plan was his plan, whether James understood the reasons for it or not.

  But damned if he would let that fate come to him. He was going to meet it head-on and with a semiautomatic rifle in his hand.

  CHAPTER 72

  EVENT +1 Week, 3 Days, 15:32 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  The breeze was stronger than James remembered it. It carried a mist, which added a milky hue to the darkness. The grass was wet and slippery under his feet as he, Sonny, and Grant made their way across the Gilberts’ backyard, moving toward 819 Fletcher Road.

  The men were quiet, trudging carefully to the far northeast corner of Stuart’s property. Conveniently, there was the ladder to a play-set slide adjacent to the fence, which made climbing up for a better view more feasible.

  Sonny, carrying a pair of binoculars, climbed to the top of the slide and pulled the lenses to his eyes. He gripped them with his free hand, spinning the focus dial with his finger. His rifle was at his side on the small platform between the ladder and the slide.

  “I see candlelight,” he said, his voice barely audible underneath the breeze and its whistle through the trees. “On the first floor and on the second. I think one of the lights is in the family room.”

  “Anything in the basement?” James asked. His house, on a steep upward slope from the back fence line, had an exposed basement entrance.

  “Not that I can see.” Sonny dropped the binoculars. “I think we’re clear there.”

  Sonny climbed back down the ladder, grabbing his Bushmaster, and moved to the fence. He pulled the binoculars from around his neck and placed them on the ground, next to the play set.

  “Won’t need these,” he reasoned. “Better to travel light.”

  “All right.” James led the huddle. “Our plan stays the same. We enter through the basement. Then we head upstairs. Good?”

  “Good,” Sonny and Grant answered simultaneously.

  “Sonny,” suggested James, “you lead the way.”

  Sonny nodded, handed his rifle to James, and climbed up the fence, heaving himself over to the other side. Grant followed with some difficulty. James was last.

  He found himself in his own backyard, looking at the faint glow emanating from a pair of windows in the house he’d called home for a decade. He’d lived in that house when one child was born and another died. They’d mourned and rejoiced inside those walls, in the pie-shaped expanse of their backyard.

  But it may as well have been a moonscape for James. It felt cold and unfamiliar. The sanctity of the space was defiled. He felt violated.

  He stood there for a moment, lost in the surprise of the emotions seeping into his skin with the mist, and lamented what would never be.

  “James,” Sonny called to him, apparently noticing his friend’s sudden disengagement. “James!”

  James blinked past the wave of melancholic anger and joined Sonny and Grant at his family’s own play set. It sat on a small plateau in the steep drop of his backyard.

  “So far so good,” Sonny observed. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.” James nodded, suppressing a cough.

  “You got what I need?” Sonny’s left eyebrow arched higher than his right. “If you don’t, we’re pretty much S.O.L.”

  “I got ’em.” James patted his pocket. “We’re good to go.”

  Grant wiped the sweat from his forehead and then pinched the front of his T-shirt, picking it away from his chest to fan himself. His breathing was labored and Sonny reminded him to use his nose rather than his mouth. Grant grunted something and ignored him.

  Without warning, Sonny crossed from the play set to an unfinished concrete slab that abutted the back of the house. Grant followed, huffing his way under the large wooden deck extending outward a floor above.

  James was last, cursing himself as he approached the slab, that he’d never taken the time to cover it with brick pavers as Leigh had asked him to do. He looked up through the slats of the deck, seeing the faintest hint of candlelight from the family room illuminating the cracks. The deck needed a fresh coat of weather-resistant stain. It was three or four years since he did it last.

  Refocusing, James dug into his pocket and pulled out a pair of manipulated paperclips. He handed them to Sonny.

  “Here you go,” James said with a hint of a smirk. “I didn’t forget them.”

  Sonny worked the paperclips with aplomb, and inside of forty-five seconds, the door was open and the trio was inside the basement.

  James checked his gun safe. It was locked and secure. That was a good sign.

  “Are you ready?” he asked the men. They acknowledged they were as ready as they would ever be.

  They ascended the stairs toward the first floor. They assembled at the top of the steps, James’s hand on the door.

  “The kitchen is mine,” he said, after Grant agreed to take the hallway and Sonny the family room and stairs.

  James sucked in a deep breath and opened the door.

  CHAPTER 73

  EVENT +1 Week, 3 Days, 15:41 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  She saw James an instant after he rounded the corner. He knew she did. She was standing at the sink, her hands pressed against the stainless steel edge. She was leaning in, her elbows locked. Her jet-black hair, hued red from the candlelight, draped at her shoulders. It was thin and stringy, like and old frayed grease mop.

  She turned almost imperceptibly, to pick at her cheek, when he knew she spotted him with those blue eyes. Her eyes narrowed as James calculated she was trying to rationalize what she was seeing. As her brain processed the intrusion of three men, James put just enough pressure on the Bushmaster’s trigger to unleash a single bullet.

  A slight thump and whoosh were likely the last things she heard as the rifle slung the thirty-caliber bullet into her chest. Her mouth opened as the force of the slug knocked her off balance. She dropped with a thud onto the tile floor.

  James looked over at his neighbors. Both of them were okay, their areas of responsibility clear of danger. James moved to the kitchen and stepped behind the counter.

  The woman was still alive. James saw fishlike gasps for air, her head jerking slightly with each breath. He stood over her, watching the depth of those attempts at air lessen in strength and frequency. The jerking stopped. The flow of blood from the gaping wound beneath her collarbone looked like oil leaking from a can.

  James stood over the body, straddling the thickening pool of blood. He felt an unexpected smile creep outward from the corners of his mouth.

  Except for the blood on the tile, which he knew he’d need to clean before Leigh saw the mess, this was good. God would forgive him as James knew the world, as frail as it was, was a little stronger without that woman in it.

  Two down.

  Grant protested and Sonny rationalized James’s quick trigger pull. None of them was watching the stairs. Then James turned and noticed the shadow cast along the wall leading up the stairs.

  He leveled the Bushmaster, ready to fire again, but something stopped him. He hesitated. It was just enough of a pause for the figure to emerge.

  “What happened?” asked the boy. He was in a T-shirt and shorts, his hair matted from sleep. His hands were empty. He was the older boy James had seen in Sloane’s window. He looked much thinner now. “I heard a noise.”

  James looked for help from Sonny and Grant. None was coming. So he handed Sonny his rifle and walked to the bottom step. He spoke softly, but clearly.

  “Your mother is dead.” James wasn’t one for candy-coating things with his children, why should he be that way with those belonging to meth-addicted squatters.

  “I know.” The boy’s brows arched, sh
rinking his forehead. “She died nine days ago.”

  James took another step closer to the boy, resting his hand on the bannister. “What do you mean?”

  “Our mom,” repeated the boy, crossing his arms in front of himself, gathering his shoulders, “died the day after the power went out. How did you know she was dead?”

  “What about the woman who brought you here?” Sonny interjected.

  “She’s not my mom!” The boy backed up a step, his face slipping from the light.

  “Who is she?” James asked.

  “The devil.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not my mom,” the boy repeated. He was scratching at his elbows with both hands. “He’s not my dad.”

  The other squatter!

  In the haze of the gunfire and the boy’s appearance, all three of the men had forgotten about the squatter, the man who escaped the Whistlers’. James’s eyes widened. He felt his pulse skip into his throat.

  “Where is that man?” James tone was forceful. “The man who’s not your dad.”

  “I-I-I don’t know.” The boy shook his head. “He left with his cousin a while ago. They said something about getting food and they left. That’s all I know.”

  “So he’s not here?” James pressed.

  “No.”

  “Then he’s…” James felt flush. He spun and yanked his rifle from Sonny and ran toward the front door. His family was in danger.

  CHAPTER 74

  EVENT +1 Week, 3 Days, 15:49 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  James couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him as he raced across the cul-de-sac toward Sonny’s house. He tripped on the curb separating the street from Sonny’s front yard, but regained his balance as he galloped awkwardly to the front door.

  He felt the bullet tear through his skin, searing its way into his waist from his back before exploding out the front. Then he heard the shot from somewhere behind him as he collapsed against the door, grabbing at the bleeding, jagged hole while struggling to find the source of the gunfire.

  Another bullet zipped past his head, boring through the front door. James inchwormed his way onto his back, grunting against the pain.

  He knew he was bleeding, but he had no concept of how serious the wound might be. He lay flat on the ground, moderately confident the squatter couldn’t see him well enough to hit him.

  Pow! Zipppp!

  Another bullet, this one to his right, but just inches above his face. James knew he couldn’t stay in the doorway. He quickly laid the rifle on his chest and crossed his arms over it tightly. He logrolled away from the door and into the grass. Against the front windows to the right of the entry door was a row of boxwood hedges.

  James managed to maneuver himself between the hedges and the house. It was a narrow space, maybe two feet wide, and didn’t provide much room for maneuverability.

  James rolled onto his back, releasing the rifle, and pressed his hand against his shirt, just above the outer edge of his ilium. It was warm and wet. There was a lot of blood. At least it felt that way. He knew he was bleeding from his back too. It wouldn’t be long, he imagined, before he’d begin to lose focus. And that was assuming he didn’t suffer any organ damage.

  James closed his eyes, listening for any sounds coming from the street. There was nothing. The breeze had stopped. The mist was gone, leaving behind a palpable thickness. He could feel the sweat under his arms and on the back of his neck. It was as much the pain as it was the humidity.

  He opened his eyes and looked into the sky. The clouds had given way to a beautiful starry night. There were so many twinkling, shimmering white dots above him.

  They sat there, hanging in their spots, burning balls of gas held together by their own gravity. James winced against the pain and refocused on the incandescent spots. He was looking into the past as his eyes danced from one to the next.

  Even at the speed of light, one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second, they were so far away, the specks of brilliance emitted from the stars took thousands, or even millions, of years to reach earth. The energy that left a star a million light years away had traveled 99.9999972 percent of its journey when James’s world shifted on its axis. It was a time machine, a concept he loved explaining to his high school students.

  “Time travel is possible!” he would begin the lecture. “All you have to do is look up!”

  James stared at a lone star, absent a constellation. It was dim, its flicker like a dying candle. He considered that three hundred and sixty-four million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety days from now, someone might be looking at the same sky and see the light that left the star the day his family survived a car crash, a tsunami, would-be pirates, and a bloodthirsty militia.

  He pressed his eyes closed again and rolled over onto his stomach. From his position behind the boxwood, he might be able to see the squatter advance before the squatter spotted him again.

  James brought the rifle into position and rested it on its magazine. It was awkward, but he didn’t have the strength to hold it properly as he lay prone in the wet mulch.

  Pow! Zipppp!

  The squatter’s bullet found its way into the glass above James’s head, shattering it. James’s plan didn’t work. The squatter knew exactly where he was. He’d eventually hit him. James was pinned. And despite his effort to see past the sting of sweat in his eyes, he couldn’t make out the squatter’s position.

  Figuring he had nothing to lose, he adjusted the Bushmaster and pulled the trigger, holding it for several seconds.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  He felt the recoil pound against his shoulder as he fired. He hadn’t pressed the butt of the rifle tight enough against his body. He released the trigger and listened. Still nothing.

  James pressed his finger to the trigger again, ready to pull, when above his head he heard the familiar sound of a suppressed Bushmaster 300 AAC Blackout.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! A quick burst and then another.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! It was coming from the second floor of the house. Somebody was helping him!

  Pow! Pow!

  Thump! Thump!

  James finished the pull and let loose another volley.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Then from his left, close to Stuart’s house, Sonny opened fire.

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  And then the shots came from above again, but this time the shooter was on the roof.

  Thump! Thump!

  It sounded to James like what he imagined a firefight in the midst of war might be. It was a four-piece orchestra of Sonny’s Bushmasters blistering the squatter with bullets.

  James thought they’d succeeded in stopping the squatter. He was certain there was no way the man could have survived the onslaught of semiautomatic fire from four weapons at once. But he was wrong.

  James heard the squatter before he saw him. As he pushed himself to his knees, leaving his weapon in the mulch, the man was already just feet from him. He screamed and bellowed something unintelligible as he left his feet, his dark figure lunging at James.

  It was a final, primal attempt to finish off the man who’d come home and taken back his neighborhood. But it was futile.

  Thump!

  A single shot caught the squatter mid-leap, stopping the man as if he’d hit a wall. The bullet, coming from a steep angle downward, killed the man instantly. He was dead before his limp body hit the boxwood.

  James fell back against the house, sinking against the wall, the adrenaline leaking from his system. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he was unaware it was his wife, Leigh, who climbed onto the roof through the gable with the rifle in her hand. And he would not find out until he awoke, it was his son, Maxwell, who armed himself without the adults’ permission and fired the fatal headshot that saved his father’s life.

  CHAPTER 75


  EVENT +2 Weeks, 1 Day, 5:00 Hours

  University Park, Maryland

  Temporary Recovery Zone 5

  James stood in the middle of the cul-de-sac, his arm around Leigh, as they visited with Sonny for the first time in two days.

  “How are the boys?” Sonny asked. “Are they adjusting?”

  “As best they can.” Leigh sighed. “It’ll take them a while to trust us. I think they already like Max and Sloane. And Max has really taken on the role of protector. He feels strangely empowered by what he did.”

  “So,” Sonny said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “tell me again what happened to them? I only caught pieces of it.”

  “You mean because you were busy sewing me up?” James patted his hip. “Making sure I didn’t bleed out?”

  “You were lucky,” Sonny acknowledged. “That bullet went straight in and straight out. If you had any real organ damage, you’d know it by now. Back to the kids…”

  “Yeah.” Leigh nodded. “They still don’t talk a lot about it. But the best I can tell is that the three adults were a pair of cousins and a girlfriend. Somehow, they carjacked the kids and their mom in the Camaro near Richmond, Virginia. They were on their way home to Bluefield, West Virginia.”

  “They killed the mom,” said Sonny.

  “Yes,” answered James. “But they kept the kids. They abused them, made them their slaves, essentially. The older one seems to think they used them to fool the guards at the TRZ checkpoints. He said the woman told the guards that the kids were hers and they let them through. The men threatened the kids to stay quiet or they’d kill them too.”

  “Poor kids.” Sonny shook his head. “It’s good of you to take care of them.”

  “What else are we going to do?” reasoned Leigh. “We can’t kick them out, make them fend for themselves. They’re sweet kids.”