Escape To Survive

by Ryan Gawley

  Escape To Survive

  Ryan Gawley

  Published by Ryan Gawley

  Copyright 2017 Ryan Gawley

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material, as this violates author’s rights. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite eBook retailer and purchase an authorized copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, settings, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, names, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental

  This book is also available in print at most online retailers

  Please remember to leave a review for my book at your favourite retailer. Thank you

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the author

  Connect with Ryan Gawley

  CHAPTER 1

  Freezing wind and rain lashed Sam’s face and stung his eyes as he pulled the hood of a faded army surplus jacket over his shaved head and pushed through the heavy windowless door. A stream of despondent souls trudged in line ahead of him and many more followed behind as he made his way toward the imposing factory gates to collect his final earnings from the bookish payroll clerk who wore an apologetic expression as he was forced one last time to do the company's bidding. It was a typically miserable evening for this time of year and Sam had just finished his final shift at Central Food Plant Three. The factory was one of several large processing plants where raw ingredients were ground and mixed to provide basic food supplements to the Dreg masses. It would now be decommissioned like plants two and five had been a few months earlier.

  The clerk and his cash box were guarded by two surly, well-built men standing in close formation. They wore dark grey helmets with a clear polycarbonate visor lowered over their eyes and every inch of their body was protected by thick black leather and heavy black Kevlar body armour. Both held Mossberg 590A1 pump action 12 gauge shotguns and their red and black arm insignia proclaimed them to be Enforcers, the city’s militarised guard force under direct command of General Curran. They were stationed to provide crowd control ensuring no one would dare argue about the measly sum handed to them in this final payoff. Sam took his envelope and paused to open the packet and check its contents.

  ‘Move along,’ barked a harsh voice.

  Sam looked up to see an Enforcer had moved a step toward him. He opened his mouth to say something but quickly thought better of it before stuffing the thin packet deep into his inside jacket pocket and re-joined the procession of ex-workers, following them through the gate. Once out onto the wet, crowded streets Sam made his way through the hurrying masses, everyone trying to just get home or perhaps to a favoured bar or someplace else that suited their mood. Nobody looked at anyone else; everyone disconnected, all part the same crowd yet each of them alone. Sam always had a deep sense of anxiety in the city. Something always felt very wrong to him but since martial law had been enacted few Dreg citizens had any choice about their circumstances. What puzzled Sam was how most people seemed to accept their lot like they truly believed their confinement behind the oppressive city walls was somehow for their own well-being.

  'Some people just aren't meant to live in the city,' he thought to himself and quickened pace to hurry his escape from the noise and chaos.

  Most people used the remnants of the old underground transport system to travel in Rook City but Sam preferred to walk. It took longer to move around but cost him nothing and the exercise kept him in shape. He enjoyed being in control of his own journey and it also minimised exposure to the incessant advertising streamed live by Central Media from most places of public gathering. Sam was stubbornly independent almost to a fault and he found it hard to allow other people do things for him, only accepting help when he had exhausted all other options. It made life difficult at times but in a world where the Elites had control over many elements of his life Sam took pleasure in finding every possible thing he could do or provide for himself.

  'Now. Hand it over! Just give me the wallet or your wife will be crying over a corpse tonight!'

  ‘Shit,’ Sam muttered to himself as he walked past the scene with the hundreds of other citizens like sardines escaping a barracuda by staying with the shoal. They seemed oblivious to just another street attack and were only too glad it wasn't them this time.

  'I’m not gonna ask again you old bastard. Money, now!'

  The voice wasn't one Sam recognised but he'd heard the same intent in words from a time in his past that he cared not to remember. After just a few yards he ducked into a doorway and watched through the flow of passing commuters as an old man in a torn black duffel coat with what looked like a half bottle of whiskey in one pocket and a loose package of some kind of meat in his left hand reached nervously under the coat to his wallet.

  'Damn it, this old guy's got nothing but he's probably going die for it all the same,' Sam thought aloud. He figured the attacker to be in his late twenties, tall, wiry and looked like any remaining muscle on his bones had withered. He held a rough, pointed scrap of iron wrapped in cloth as a makeshift knife, a stabbing weapon no less effective despite its crude construction.

  'Probably a junkie needs a fix,' thought Sam noticing the red sunken eyes and clustered scabs on exposed forearms. His thoughts raced as quickly as his heart and he dived into the stream of human traffic before he had even decided what he would do. In a few seconds Sam was moving behind the old man toward the addict. He passed on by, not making eye contact, as if just part of the uncaring crowd but quickly he turned about to come up behind the attacker.

  Sam darted forward as the ragged spike was thrust toward the old man's gut. He reached past the junkie's left side and caught the offending arm, pulling it back just as the weapon’s sharp tip punctured the thick fabric of the would-be victim’s coat. At the same time Sam wrapped his right arm around the attacker's neck and tightened his grip into a choke while dragging him backwards and off balance. Caught by surprise the assailant offered little resistance at first but quickly began to struggle.

  Sam had an iron grip on the left arm which still held tight to the rough blade and while wrestling to maintain control of the writhing figure he saw a spray of blood erupt from the junkie's nose as the old man rammed the base of his whiskey bottle hard into his attacker's face. The knife made a loud metallic clank when it fell to the ground as the junkie stopped struggling and tried to bring his free hand up to protect his smashed nose. Sam took the opportunity to release the choke and heaved the attacker round, slamming his head into a lamp post leaving him crumpled on the ground and out cold. Sam knelt and checked the unconscious man’s breathing and propped his head up with a discarded cardboard box before kicking the fall
en knife into the opening of a nearby drain.

  It wasn't an elegant rescue by any measure but no one had been killed and that was a result. The crowd continued to hurry past like a river of bodies as if unaware of the violent scene, none daring to risk involvement or draw attention.

  'If that bottle's not broken I could really do with a drink!' Sam said to the old man who was visibly shaken but otherwise none the worse for his ordeal.

  'No bother my friend,' replied the man, offering a sip from his bottle. 'I thought I was for the city furnaces there, thanks for stepping in.’

  After a good pull on the bottle and feeling the warming liquid run down to his stomach Sam felt his nerves settle.

  'We'd better get moving before an Enforcer patrol sees this, where's home for you?'

  'It’s just a few streets up and on the left, and the name’s Arthur'.

  'Okay, I'll see you that far Arthur then I'm heading for home myself, these bloody streets get worse every day,' grumbled Sam, mad at himself for getting involved but knowing he couldn't have done anything less.

  The pair turned and walked quickly away as the downed man groaned and began to regain consciousness. They merged with the swiftly moving crowd to make their way toward Arthur's house before a bored cop spotted the disturbance on his surveillance display and dispatched a patrol wagon. The lobotomised Enforcer thugs sent from Central Command regularly rounded up trouble makers and brought them to one of the city’s numerous detention centres for “processing”.

  'It's this left here,' said Arthur indicating that they'd reached his turn. Sam dropped out of the crowd to say goodbye to his temporary companion.

  'Will you join me for another drink?' asked Arthur.

  'Thanks but I’ll pass. I appreciate the offer but I really need to get home.'

  ‘Please, I insist. It's the least I can do after what you did for me.’

  Sam thought about it, he had to get back and walk his dog Molly before it was too late to safely roam the streets. ‘I suppose after the day I’ve had I could use a drink and sure I've come this far with you.’

  The street here was like any other in the Dreg sector of Rook City. Once proudly maintained homes were now personal fortresses. Bars on every window, reinforced doors and those that could find and afford them had cameras monitoring their barbed wire topped boundary walls. At the door to his house Arthur didn't take out a key but banged two times fast, paused, then banged once more. After a few seconds an elderly but strong female voice shouted from behind the door.

  'That you Arthur? I heard another voice, is all okay?'

  'Yes love, it's me and this is Sam. He’s a friend, he's okay. Come on now and let us in, I promised this man a drink.'

  Sam could hear a heavy bolt or bar being drawn back and several locks being disengaged before the steel reinforced door swung easily back on its upgraded hinges revealing an old but still attractive lady, her shoulder length silver hair casually held back in a simple pony tail. Sam could tell she'd been through tough times as everyone had these past years but she hadn't lost the light in her soft blue eyes which sparkled when she welcomed him into their home.

  Sam mostly kept to himself these days but still had a good intuition for character. 'These are good people,’ he decided. He followed Arthur and his wife to the kitchen where he took the offered seat at a small table. The kitchen felt warm and cosy, a poor house but no less homely for it. An old wood burning stove radiated heat and on one of its two small hobs a pot of something thick and green bubbled gently filling the room with a faintly unpleasant but somehow still appetising aroma. Sam thought to himself how people used to remove these stoves for more modern appliances but this old couple seemed so wise now for holding onto their wood burner since most other folk couldn't afford black market drums of gas or heating oil and had to depend on the unreliable electricity service from Central Supply to provide their main source of power and heating.

  ‘I’m Alice by the way,’ said the old lady, throwing a mock scolding glance at her husband for failing to introduce her then hurried over to a cupboard to retrieve two glasses and a tall unlabelled bottle of amber liquid. 'I don't drink this stuff myself, gin is my sin!' she chuckled to herself while Arthur hung his wet coat on the back of the kitchen door to dry near the stove then gave Alice the packet of meat he had held tightly in his hand since before Sam met him on the street.

  Unwrapped from his coat and scarf Arthur defied his aged appearance and retained quite an athletic build and seemed in good shape. His white hair, wild and crazy was still fuller than many men half his age. He would happily tell those that passed comment it was his dear Alice that kept him youthful.

  Arthur unscrewed the lid of the bottle and poured two generous measures for Sam and himself. ‘Get that into you, it’s a distillation of my own creation,’ he quipped proudly.

  ‘Really? You make this stuff yourself?’ asked Sam genuinely impressed before taking a long sip of the liquid and held it in his mouth for a few seconds to fully appreciate the flavour then swallowed it down. 'Well, that’s a fine whiskey indeed,' he exclaimed enjoying the warmth and comforting aroma of the intoxicating liquor. 'I make a few gallons of beer from time to time and haven't tried my hand at spirits but this would encourage me to try.’

  Arthur was visibly pleased at the compliment while Alice smiled to see her husband moved over such a trivial thing and she delighted in seeing him excited about something again.

  Pouring another glass each Arthur appeared to come to some decision. 'Would you like to see my still?' he asked.

  Sam, anxious to get home to take Molly for her walk knew this was a great gesture of trust on behalf of the old man since brewing or distilling was breaking numerous contraband rules and so, not wanting to offend, he agreed. Arthur grabbed his coat from the kitchen door and threw it loosely over his shoulders.

  'Bring your glass, you can finish it in the shed,' he said gesturing for Sam to follow him out the rear door of the house.

  Arthur led the way down a short path to a large block-built shed at the back of a well-kept garden. As far as Sam could tell from the light thrown out from the kitchen window the back of the house appeared almost old fashioned with its potted plants, neat lawn and wooden garden furniture. You just had to ignore the high iron fences and razor wire protecting each house from the next.

  Arthur took a key from his pocket and unlocked a large well-greased brass padlock then slid open a heavy bar securing the shed door and stood aside to allow Sam to enter ahead of him. As he made his way into the pitch black interior Sam felt an oily curtain or tarpaulin to his left side and followed its length part way until Arthur hurried in behind to get out of the rain and turned on the dim single light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

  'There she is,' said Arthur eagerly pointing to the right-hand wall of the shed about twenty feet from the entrance as he took Sam by the arm and directed him away from the dividing sheet which hung from ceiling to floor across the breadth of the room.

  Set against a cleared wall beyond the workshop tools, gardening equipment, odd scraps of timber and the usual shed detritus stood an old copper hot water tank, an ancient looking oak barrel, propane burner and an assortment of copper tubing, pipes, glass jugs and bottles. The product of this home-made chemistry experiment was some of the finest whiskey Sam had ever tasted. Not that he considered himself a connoisseur given the poor quality liquor available in the city’s bars and off-licence shops.

  Arthur keenly began to explain the processes of his art but Sam really needed to be going as Molly would be eagerly awaiting her evening walk and it was dangerous to be out too late at night in this side of the city. Sam politely made his excuses and followed Arthur to the door but near the exit he absent-mindedly pulled back the soiled curtain and glanced into the gloom beyond. Despite the poor illumination from the low wattage bulb enough light filtered through rips and gaps to allow Sam to identify several rows of shelves loaded with canned food, bottled drinking water, reference book
s of various size and subject and all manner of camping equipment. On the floor in front of the shelves were two rucksacks, one large size, one medium and both apparently packed and waiting for an expedition as they had rolled foam mats and sleeping bags tightly secured to their exterior with straps. Apart from the distillation equipment the backpacks were the only thing in the shed not covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs.

  'Do you go camping much these days Arthur?' enquired Sam casually. 'I used to really enjoy getting out in the mountains back home before my family moved here but it's not so easy to enjoy the wilderness when you're trapped in this damn city'.

  'Ah my old bones find the cold too much for comfort these days...' Arthur replied irritably.

  'I only ask because I see you like to keep your pack ready.’

  Arthur glanced back at Sam but said nothing. He had opened the shed door to leave but now he pulled it shut again locking it from the inside. Suddenly he lunged at Sam driving a shoulder into Sam’s chest which sent him reeling backward. As Sam’s back slammed against the wall of the shed Arthur leapt at him in a flash and pinned his forearm across Sam’s throat. The younger man had been caught by surprise but had superior strength and grabbed Arthur by the shoulders shoving him off then dropped low and punched him hard in the gut immediately winding the older man who doubled over, clutching a battered workbench to steady himself as he gasped for breath.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ shouted Sam keeping his distance but scanning around for anything he could use as a weapon, ready to defend himself.

  ‘You shouldn’t have looked back there, it’s none of your business. Why so interested in my backpack?’ wheezed Arthur. ‘Why all the damn questions?’

  Sam held Arthur by the shoulders again but this time to help him stand upright. ‘I only asked because it looks very much like the one I have at home,' he said staring Arthur right in the eye with a conspiratorial look. ‘You know, just in case.’