I had to admit, I’d seldom felt this exposed and alone in my entire life.
With any direction except for the way I had come being good, I remained on my current course as I aimed for the next dark blotches before me. More trees, a small thicket of undergrowth, and still more trees. I did my best to pace myself, trying to find deer trails through the high grass but more often stumbling over my feet when a hidden obstacle appeared out of nowhere. I stopped at every tree to look for more creepy-crawlies to eat, but even that was a virtually impossible task. I crested that hill and continued on into the flat beyond it until I reached the last of the scattered trees and all there was in front of me was grass. I must have run a good three miles by then, and my feet were appropriately scuffed and bloody. Boots would have been really nice, but so would have been a juicy burger with fries and some ice-cold diet coke. Hell, stale crackers and water sounded like a feast to me. Lacking either, I forced myself to go on, heading out into the open.
Hour after hour passed as I continued to trudge on. It must have been late morning by the time I’d escaped the underground complex. I felt my strength take a noticeable downward dive at what I estimated was three in the afternoon. There was still no one coming after me, and I had yet to stumble over any sign of habitation. Deciding that it wouldn’t do me any good if I just dropped dead out in the open I stopped and reevaluated my course once more. Over there, west to northwest I thought I saw a straight line crossing the endless grassland. A road, or maybe just a fence. The grass was high enough that I could have easily disappeared from sight if I’d just dropped down onto my stomach, but I was still hesitant to head toward it. Taggard’s people would start searching the roads first, because it was the obvious route to take, rather than head into the endless nothing between the veins of transportation that crisscrossed our fine nation. Roads eventually led to people. I just wasn’t sure if I dared try that last resort yet.
In the end it was the sensation of my parched mouth and cracked lips that made me decide to head toward that line. If it turned out to be a road, I could cross it, or shadow it at a distance. Maybe it would lead by a barn. Or a cistern, with luck still useable. With no real shade available, it was as good an option as just lying down and waiting to die.
It turned out to be a fence, a few barb-wire cables slung between wooden poles, definitely having seen better days—in the eighties. It wasn’t hard to climb over it, but the way my hands shook as I tried to keep my body steady as I straddled the fence didn’t bode well. Beyond the grass seemed just a little less wild, for lack of a better word, and after about half a mile I finally hit a dirt path, the ruts so faint that it made me wonder if any tractors had rolled along it in the past ten years. I hesitated again, but then turned to the left and followed the path, running much easier on the even ground than cross-country before.
I rounded the slope of a hill, and there it was—a small farmhouse. Hovel more like it, similar to that house where Nate and I had stayed one night on the way to the Silo. There was a car and small tractor rotting in the yard next to the porch, and as I drew closer, I saw that barely any of the window shutters still hung straight. But it was shelter, and possibly food—even rats or mice sounded better than nothing by now. I still took my time as I approached, moving as silently as possible as I rounded the house once, looking it over from all sides. The front door was shut but the one in the back lay destroyed on the ground, torn off the hinges. I found a few animal droppings around, but they were old, likely from before last winter. I checked the car first, hoping to find a shotgun or hunting rifle in there, but came up empty. What I did find was a blanket that would make for a good sleeping bag in a pinch, and I took the heavy wrench from the toolkit with me, hefting it like a club.
Looking into the house through the busted door, I felt my shoulders sag with relief when I didn’t see anything inside except for dried leaves and the odd smashed piece of pottery. In the corner by the front door a raccoon or other small animal seemed to have nested over the winter, but it must have left long since, the air inside the house only faintly smelling of feces and fur. There was no fridge or dishwasher, and the few appliances I saw looked easily twice as old as me. There were a few chairs and a sofa scattered around the house, but not even an old pair of shoes. What I did find was an old bag of cornflakes, expiration date from before I’d graduated college. I tore the packaging open and started shoveling the yellowish stuff into my mouth, chewing just enough to moisten it to the point where I could swallow. It felt like sandpaper going down, but I forced myself to stop caring. Food now. Water hopefully soon after, but I didn’t exactly have the luxury of being picky.
It took me some time to finish the entire bag. Sitting on the threadbare sofa, out of the sun, was in and of itself a blessing. Under different circumstances, the hovel would have made a fine sleeping place, but I didn’t dare linger too long. As soon as I felt like I could move again after the sawdust I’d just ingested had settled into my stomach I got up to look for the toilet. I was sure that the water in the tank had long since turned brackish, but there was no reason to waste the opportunity to use the facilities instead. Behind the house I also found a covered well, and I felt like I’d hit pay dirt when the bucket I dragged up was full of clean-smelling water. Without a sense of taste I couldn’t verify if it was actually good, but I figured that right now water that wasn’t entirely safe to drink was still better than no water.
I used the rest that remained in the bucket to try to clean myself up a little, but it was hopeless. It still felt great to douse my hair and head with the cool liquid and soak the hospital gown to the point where it would feel somewhat fresh at least for a while. There was nothing I could do against the sunburn that I felt developing down my back and all over my face, so I didn’t bother. If that was the worst that would remain from my stay…
But I already knew that it wasn’t as I whipped around at the sound of a branch cracking somewhere behind me. Just the wind, I realized, but it had been enough to send my mind into high alert. There was nothing I could do about that right now, so I didn’t bother. Looking around me one last time, I set out west once more, falling into an easy jog that I would, hopefully, be able to maintain as long as I needed to. Too paranoid to backtrack on the road that had led me to the hovel I went across the meadows again, doing my best not to break my ankle if I could help it.
Before long I came across a real road, paved and all. I hunkered down in the shade of one of the sparse trees close by and watched it for a while, listening to see if I could hear cars or people in the distance. The wind kept blowing whiffs of something I couldn’t quite place over to me—roadkill most likely. Something to smash a small animal might mean cars, and that might mean a way to communicate with someone who could get back to my people so they could find me. It could also mean more soldiers who were just waiting for me to walk straight into their trap. And even if I was lucky and got picked up by traders, it didn’t mean that they wouldn’t sell me out to the highest bidder—or like the unlucky folks we’d run into on the way to the Silo got picked off themselves. Too many possibilities, too many options.
Yet further down the road I could just make out a sign post, and that was definitely something useful. If I knew—roughly—where I was, maybe I could find a settlement, or the next larger body of water that might make travel just a little easier. Boats would still work, at the worst as a raft. Trying to find spare car batteries all spring long had taught me that a year into the end of the world simply hot-wiring any car wasn’t a thing someone like me just did—and I doubted that even a car fanatic like Martinez could have pulled that off unless he got exceptionally lucky.
I kept watching over my shoulder the entire way over to the sign post, and just standing there, in the middle of the road, when I finally reached it gave me the creeps. There was no indication what state I was in, but the signs read “Brewster” and “Dunning,” both less than fifteen miles away. I doubted either town was still inhabited, but chances were g
reat that I would find something to wear, and likely a lot to eat that was more nutritious than stale cornflakes.
The asphalt was hot underneath my raw feet, but not having to pay attention to every step made for much easier going. I stopped every few miles to seek shelter under some trees and get out of the open, but except for some minimal wildlife the area was completely deserted. Every time it was just a little harder to get up and move on, and more than once I debated resting in the shade until sundown. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept, and not being out in the blistering heat sounded like my salvation. But I was too afraid that if I let myself fall asleep I wouldn’t wake up again, so I made myself go on.
I was so lost in trudging along the almost straight road that it took me half a mile to realize what the stark glistening to my left meant—water. And not just some puddles in a field, but a stream, wide enough to maybe even be called a river. There was no debating involved as I veered off the road and ran straight across the field until I reached the river bank. Sliding down, I eased myself into the river feet-first, chuffing at the ice-cold water. It was probably warm, shallow as it was near the edge, but in contrast to the redness spreading all over my skin it was heaven. Considering how running through the dusty day, sweaty as hell, had contributed to my already far-from-clean state, I waded out into the river until I could crouch down and let the water run over me, dunking my matted hair last until I was fully submerged. I started to shiver all over, and long before I ran out of air I had to surface simply because it got too cold, but it made me feel remotely like myself again.
Half-swimming, half-crouching I made my way across the river, crawling out onto the other bank where the small bridge threw shade across the lush vegetation surrounding the water. I stretched out, staring at the dark band of the bridge surrounded by all that mercilessly cloudless blue of the sky. It took me a little to manage to roll over onto my stomach and scoot back to the edge of the water so I could scoop up some and drink it, feeling the liquid burn down my throat into my stomach.
As I kept looking around, I noticed another, smaller bridge spanning the river to my left. It looked somewhat rickety—likely the old bridge that the one I was lying under had replaced—but not fallen that much into disrepair yet. It reminded me too much of the railroad bridge close to that town with the school that we’d stayed in for a few hours last summer not to get my hopes up. Bridges spanning rivers you had everywhere. But alternate, old ones that were still maintained?
Scrambling up the river bank, I craned my neck, letting out a whoop that sounded more like a grunt when my eyes fell on the structure in the—rather near—distance. A house. Not just a barn or shed, but a real house where real people had been living. Something rustling in the grass reminded me to remain quiet, particularly this close to what might turn out to be more than just one single building, but still. Civilization. Which meant clothes, food, and all the other modern comforts that on the road I’d never fully appreciated until they’d been torn from me.
I still made sure to stay alert as I approached. I hadn’t yet crossed half of the distance to the first house when I saw a few more properties behind it, dusty roads connecting them. Stopping for a moment, I tried to decide what to do before I strode toward the next house, farther to the right. That first one would have had everything I needed, I was sure—but even armed to the teeth and with heavy backup I would have avoided it. It was several stories tall with easily ten rooms, and the boarded-up windows made it plain that someone in there had tried to hold out when the shit had hit the fan. That meant likely they’d died in there and were still around. A smaller, more accessible house had much lower chances of something trying to chew my face off as I drew closer.
The second property had some buildings at the other side of the grounds, hidden by trees. I skipped that for the third where I saw a bungalow-like structure, likely a trailer, sitting right next to the road, a good distance away from other obstacles. The door was open and I could see some debris littering the lawn—either something had come out of there or tried to get in. I hesitated before I rounded it slowly until I was back at the only entrance. Picking up a few stones, I threw one against the wall below the first window, but the “thunk” it made was the only sound I heard. Exhaling to steady my nerves, I sneaked up to the trailer before I peeked in through the door, expecting something to come at me any second now—but nothing. There were a few leaves that the wind must have blown in, and the interior smelled faintly of animal, but none of the decay that I dreaded. Raccoons, again, I told myself as I stepped inside, blinking rapidly to let my runny eyes adjust to the gloom.
One thorough look around, and I felt my shoulders sag with relief as much as disappointment. This was clearly an old lady’s home. There were bona fide lace doilies on the small table in the kitchenette. Except for the open door it had probably looked much like this before—slim pickings for everyone except the truly desperate.
Trying to remain as quiet as possible I started making my way through the trailer. The fridge I ignored—never a pleasant surprise in there—but there was a small shelf packed with cans and preserves. Not caring about heating anything, I rooted around for a can opener and spooned some beans and diced fruits right out of the containers, not giving a damn whether I tasted anything or not. It must have been just my imagination that the flutter I’d felt in my muscles receded—even if my metabolism was fast, it wasn’t that fast. But it felt good just to eat something that had the proper consistency, and while I didn’t smell much, it was definitely better than the cornflakes from hell.
With one need sated if not satisfied, I searched deeper into the building, looking into any nook and cranny I could find. The baseball bat I deposited on the table by the exit, ready to be grabbed should I have to make a quick exit. Much more suitable than the wrench, which I left in the kitchen. There was a small bathroom with a well-stocked first-aid kit that joined the bat, and a lot of meds that I ignored. None of it worked on me, and I didn’t have a pack to carry it in, anyway. I found an old suitcase and a bag but neither was made for easy carrying so I ignored them. Last I searched the closet in the bedroom, finding more evidence of the previous owner of this fine home. The shoes I discarded at a glance but I found a pair of gardening clogs that I could wedge my feet into until I got anything better. The underwear was hopeless unless I intended to wrap myself in it. After sorting through the meager selection of what remained twice, I gave up, and instead grabbed a roll of bandages from the first-aid kit. Starvation might have eaten away at my rack, but there was still enough left to bounce uncomfortably if left unsupported. Once my makeshift bra was as good as it got, I pulled on a hideous beige undershirt and a long-sleeved blouse—complete with delicate floral pattern in pastels—rolling up the sleeves and knotting the front parts over my chest. Nights could get mighty cold and I would need something for covering up. There were only two pairs of pants there next to an abundance of skirts, and I chose the one that I could better bunch up with a belt—that I had to knot rather than buckle—but it was better than nothing. Last but not least I picked up the straw hat by the door.
Grabbing the bat and kit, I left the trailer, happy that I didn’t have to see just how much of a fashion disaster I had going on. Outside, the yard was still quiet, but the birds had stopped chirping, making my hackles rise. I listened but couldn’t hear the sound of cars approaching, yet it was impossible to ignore the tension rising in the air. I thought about hiding out in the trailer, but being locked in there without a working door and walls flimsy enough that I could knock them down wasn’t a good idea. So it was either back to the road or deeper into the village, although I doubted that there could be more than twenty houses.
The road was the likeliest cause for concern, so I set out in the other direction, toward the next property. Behind the trailer, over in the next yard, I saw what used to be a small swimming pool next to a house and shed. There was something moving behind one of the windows, making me backtrack to the small road
at the other side. Probably just a curtain, but I didn’t want to risk it.
I should probably have made a wide berth around the other houses, but I still didn’t have a pack or anything I could carry water in. Walking as silently as possible in my squeaky plastic clogs, I made it past the trees that kept that house set off from the back road, but decided to chance the front of it when beyond the next road crossing there were just more abandoned yards and weeds. From the front it looked even more inviting—and judging from what I could see further down that street it was one of very few somewhat respectable houses—but I still hesitated before I sneaked up to the front porch. Pressing myself against the wall next to a window I listened—nothing. Glancing inside, all I could see was the sky reflected in the dusty windows, the flimsy curtains only letting me see where the windows were on the other side of the room. Looking around, my gaze fell on the small plastic combine and train next to the door, bleached after being exposed to the sun and elements for an entire year now. Toys meant children, which also meant lots of bags and food—and as much as the aspect of being jumped by child-sized zombies always gave me the creeps, they were a lot easier to kill than the former bodybuilder ones, few and far between as they were. Not many had made it long enough to rise again.
I wasn’t exactly on a schedule—or so I hoped—so I took another couple of minutes to just stand there and listen, hoping that my senses would pick up something except for that underlying feeling of wrongness that, considering how my last few days had gone down, could be entirely in my mind. I couldn’t help but miss Nate and the guys—not just because I could have really used a hug, but to have someone to bounce my paranoia off of. And the physical backup would have been great, too. Even with my pulse galloping and my nerves on end it was hard to stomp down on the impulse to simply burst into the house and chance getting jumped. It had happened so many times—and each and every time we’d walked away, mostly unscathed. Strength in numbers wasn’t just a concept—it was a survival factor. One I was sorely lacking at the moment.
Green Fields Series Box Set | Vol. 2 | Books 4-6 Page 63