Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel

by May, L M

  It made him wonder what she dreamed about. Did he feature in her dreams the same way she featured in his?

  At eighteen, Christopher believed they would grow old together; that they'd get married, have children. A whole brood of them.

  He felt a little whimsical at the reminder of a time when the future had stretched out before him, filled with promise and dreams and endless possibilities.

  His wanderings through the past snuck up on him before he realized what was happening, striking him deep in the pit of his belly as he imagined a child of his own blood – a daughter with Gemma's dark hair and flashing green eyes. A son with her strength of character and cheeky grin.

  He shook his head; what had gotten into him? He had no idea where that thought even came from.

  And now Gemma was going to be bringing up someone else's child.

  Christopher sucked in a breath, his thoughts going in a direction he hadn't allowed yet.

  It had been pride that stopped him from going to see the doctor. He'd even entertained the idea of adopting, but Melinda had been dead set against it.

  Had he given up too easily? Had he let Melinda's obsession define him?

  When Gemma's sleep grew more restless, Christopher gathered up his sleeping bag. He stretched out on his side on the scrap of mat behind her and slipped one arm under her head, pulling her toward him.

  Gemma had always brought out the protective urge in him, and once again he was pulled back into the past; how many nights had they slept like this as teenagers? How many times had he soothed her restless dreams, lying awake long into the night? Angry at her mother and the men she brought home. Angry that Gemma felt the need to sleep with a baseball bat under her bed.

  Gemma's eyes popped open, wide and frightened.

  Christopher smiled down at her, but it wasn't him that she was seeing. She was still caught in her nightmare.

  “CJ, run,” Gemma shouted, her face contorting with fear so naked and raw that it hurt his heart.

  Christopher felt as helpless as he had when he was a teenager. He wanted to take her fear away. Make everything right.

  He kissed her gently on the forehead, holding his lips there until she settled. Just like he'd done so many times in the past.

  Then he reached over and turned off the camping lantern, casting them into darkness.

  Gemma rolled into him, a soft sigh escaping her as she buried her face in his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. He never wanted to let go.

  26

  “So – do you really think we'll get home tonight?” Gemma asked, reaching into her pocket for one of Alison's delicious scones.

  “Not if you slow down every five minutes to eat,” Christopher scolded, but he had a smile on his face.

  “Ha ha, very funny,” Gemma said as she chewed, putting on a burst of speed to catch up. She could hardly believe how much energy she had compared to the last few days.

  She raced ahead, looking back over her shoulder. “Come on, slow coach.”

  Christopher ignored her of course, cycling at the same steady pace.

  “You know what would be nice right now?” Gemma said a few hours later.

  They'd just passed through a small, friendly town that was far enough off the beaten track to have avoided trouble so far. The tiny community had been eager for news, and they'd found it hard to get away.

  Even as they left they'd been surrounded; children of all ages – some as young as three or four – had run alongside them until they could no longer keep up. The older ones raced ahead on their bikes, turning it into a game, until one of them said they'd better go back – all of them with big, beaming faces.

  Christopher and Gemma had been a welcome distraction to a community completely cut off.

  “What?” Christopher rose to the bait.

  Gemma couldn't get the image of the dark, silent bakery they'd passed out of her mind. The imagined smell of freshly baked goods haunted her. “A croissant. With jam.”

  “And cream,” Christopher agreed.

  “A Big Mac.”

  “And an icy cold Coke and fries.”

  “Well, we've got the Coke,” Gemma said.

  “That we do,” Christopher agreed. “And the jam Alison gave us.”

  The muscles of Christopher's thighs rippled as he slowed down, drawing her eye; he was so lean, with a healthy golden tan. It wasn't the first time Gemma thanked (and cursed) Jerry for the skimpy black gym shorts he'd given Christopher. Gemma had spent most of the morning staring at his legs: it was a wonderful distraction.

  The ropy veins of Christopher's forearm stood out as he got off the bike, extending his hand toward her. “Would you care for a picnic, fair lady?”

  “Are you asking me on a date?” Gemma teased – but her heart sped up at the look in his eyes.

  Christopher shrugged nonchalantly as his strong hand closed around hers. “I don't see any other suitable candidates about,” he said lightly, glancing up and down the empty road. “So I guess you'll have to do.”

  “Such a comedian,” Gemma thumped him lightly in the chest.

  Christopher made a great show of shaking out the sleeping mat and placing it in the shade by the river, and Gemma found herself staring at the muscles flexing through the thin t-shirt he was wearing.

  He carefully placed two Coke's on the mat, followed by two flattened aluminum cans. He put three scones on each makeshift plate and set down the small jar of jam between them.

  When he started to walk away, Gemma turned her back, assuming he needed to relieve himself. But when he returned he was holding a small bunch of purple and white wildflowers, looking almost embarrassed by the gesture.

  “They're beautiful,” Gemma breathed as he handed them to her with a flourish. “But it's going to take a lot more than a few pretty flowers and a picnic to get into these pants.”

  Gemma's hand came to her mouth as she gasped – she couldn't believe she'd actually said that.

  Christopher chuckled as he grabbed her elbow, guiding her toward their picnic.

  Actually – she could believe it. She'd been thinking of little else all morning, staring at the powerful line of his muscles as he cycled, remembering the way he'd comforted her the night before. The desire that had flared through her.

  “What would it take?” Christopher's voice was a hot whisper in her ear, loaded with meaning.

  “Wouldn't you like to know,” Gemma shot back, her face flaring with heat.

  Christopher grinned disarmingly, making her heart race, and she realized she was going to have to be careful; once they got home they'd go their separate ways, and she could go back to being annoyed at him for rejecting his son. But out here, on the open road, it was hard to stay angry at him when he kept doing things like this.

  “Gemma?” Christopher said when they finished eating, his voice low and husky.

  She glanced up, recognized the look in his eye, and quickly got to her feet, dusting the crumbs off her hands. There was no way she was going down that road again. He hadn't changed. He was still the same man who broke her heart – she'd heard the rumors in town. Caroline wasn't the only woman he'd bedded.

  And then there was CJ; she didn't have the heart to have that one out with him again. Not yet. But she knew time was running short. Soon they'd be home. She'd be on the farm, ten miles from town. She doubted she'd see very much of him once they returned.

  But she couldn't help thinking about how it had been, her mind taking regular jaunts back to the past; the way they'd fit together so perfectly. How right it had felt.

  Then there was the way he'd come to her aid when she so desperately needed it. She'd been so scared – convinced she was going to spend the rest of her life in jail. But Christopher had quickly taken control of the situation without regard for the way he was implicating himself. Without thought, without hesitation, he became her accomplice.

  Things had grown awkward after that – what they'd done brewing unspoken between them. It wasn't lon
g after that he went to college, and they drifted further apart.

  Maybe their breakup had been inevitable. She was the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. He was the boy with his whole future ahead of him, and the wealth and power of his family name behind him.

  It had been so much easier to be angry at him – to blame him when she found him fooling around – but it had been a long time coming, and she'd known it even if she hadn't wanted to admit it.

  He'd been her one and only. Her constant. She hadn't been able to imagine a life without him, so she'd stubbornly held onto her anger, feeling hurt and betrayed. Determining that no man would ever have that sort of hold over her again.

  She'd thrown herself into her final year of high school, determined to escape the small town where everyone knew her mother's sordid past. And when her mother died a few months before she graduated, her need only grew stronger.

  The official cause of her mother's death was the toll on her body from all the drinking, a body already weakened from years of abuse at the hands of her lovers. But Gemma was convinced she'd died of a broken heart.

  When Gemma left for college she truly thought she would never return.

  She wasn't exactly sure what drew her back in the end, but she remembered how much she missed the country – the familiarity of places known. Her family who wasn't her family; Daphne and Caroline.

  The city just wasn't for her. She'd tried to adjust, but she knew it before she'd finished her first year of college.

  Maybe it was the memories of the time before her father died. Back when her mother had been a woman crazy in love with her family and not broken.

  Gemma was often surprised by how much she still missed her father, and the intensity of the feelings that would creep up on her. The pain as raw as it had been in those early days when she pictured his weathered, smiling face. The way his hat always sat a little crooked on his head when they were out shooting – the time alone as much a bonding experience as anything else.

  And she couldn't help but feel a little guilty that the sharp sting of her father's death was so much stronger than what she felt for her mother.

  They reached the outskirts of Carlisle with the lengthening shadows of the evening, the familiarity of a place well-known making them less cautious than they should have been.

  The moon sat low in a sky that was already heavily dusted with the freckles of the night.

  This was the sort of evening that Gemma loved. It put a sense of magic and mystery in her heart.

  She breathed in deeply, taking it in. The deep purple hue that silhouetted the world around her, framing the trees, the buildings, and the mountains in the distance. The sky was so clear, the stars so bright, in a way that was only possible in the country. Even the air felt fresher.

  “What do you think?” Christopher asked. “Maybe we should stop for the night.”

  But it was obvious he was as eager to continue as she was.

  Gemma shrugged. “Looks safe enough.”

  She wanted to see CJ and Daphne before night's end. Her urgency had grown with each and every mile that brought them closer to home.

  From the outskirts, Carlisle looked dead. There was not a soul in sight, and maybe this should have worried her more than it did. But they were so damn close now.

  It quickly became apparent they should have waited until morning.

  As the night deepened, there were more signs of life, and in the distance a flashlight beam arced into the air.

  Tall, wraith-like figures crept through the side-streets, taking advantage of the dark umbrage. The trees shimmered in the light breeze, their flickering shadows taking on a menacing undertone that had them both glancing about warily.

  A dog barked nearby, setting off a chorus of howls.

  The road ahead was clear, but Gemma's unease only grew. She jumped at every sound; the wail of a cat as it knocked something over, the metallic ring echoing loudly through the night; something rummaging through a dumpster in an alley beside a restaurant. Imagined footsteps that seemed to be hurrying toward them.

  Something felt wrong.

  The underlying unease Gemma felt was more than what she'd experienced in the other towns they'd passed through. There was no one peeking out the windows. No sign of life whatsoever in any of the buildings. Not even the flicker of candlelight.

  Carlisle was more of a city than a town, with close to fifty thousand people. But it was still small enough to be a close-knit community with roots stretching back hundreds of years. There was no way the majority of people had left.

  A river ran straight through the city center, and there was plenty of farmland surrounding the area, heavy with crops ripe for picking.

  So where the hell was everyone?

  About five hundred yards ahead of them, another flashlight beam arced into the air. As though responding, a second, and then a third beam shone into the night, coming from different directions.

  Wary, they slowed, their eyes darting about nervously.

  “We should get off the road,” Christopher said, his voice low.

  “I think it's a bit late for that,” a deep, smooth voice said.

  Suddenly dozens of dark shadowy figures were rushing at them, coming from behind cars and trees and fences.

  Gemma pedaled as fast as she could, but there were just too many of them. Zeroing in on the trailer, they swarmed Christopher.

  The bike clattered to the ground as Gemma leapt off. She ran for cover, the dark shadows concealing her as she ripped the bag from her back.

  “Where did she go?” a voice shouted.

  Gemma pressed her back against a tree, her breath coming hard and fast.

  “Find her,” commanded the man with the deep voice, revealing himself as their leader.

  A flashlight beam swept past the tree, the light staying close to the ground.

  “Turn it off,” the leader growled.

  Confused by the command, Gemma scanned the area looking for a place to hide.

  Small pockets of darkness surrounded her, not looking especially inviting.

  About thirty feet away was a low, solid-looking wall.

  “Let her go,” Christopher pleaded. “Everything we own is in the trailer.”

  “Maybe it's her we want,” the leader said.

  There was a violent undertone to his smooth voice.

  “Gemma – get the hell out of–” a thwumping sound cut Christopher off, his grunt of pain cutting through her.

  “Shut yer mouth,” a voice growled.

  Gemma's hand flew to her mouth to stifle the scream rising inside her.

  The sounds of fighting broke out. Shoes scuffling on the asphalt. The thump of fists connecting with flesh.

  Footsteps running away from her, toward the fight.

  Taking advantage of the unwelcome diversion, Gemma stuck her head out.

  There had to be ten of them at least – all of them headed straight for Christopher.

  Several others already surrounded him. A huge bear of a man laid into Christopher, who was giving as good as he got.

  But how long would it be before the others joined in?

  Gemma sucked in her breath. Backing slowly toward the wall, she kept the width of the tree trunk between her and the attackers to shield herself.

  She tossed the bag over the low brick wall, quickly following it.

  Terrified for Christopher, and with her heart slamming against her chest, she twisted her body and poked her head over the wall.

  None of them were paying her the slightest bit of attention.

  She crawled along the ground on her hands and knees. The heady scent of the earth filled her nostrils.

  This time when she stuck her head up – using someone's prized rose bush for cover – she held the gun firmly in her hands.

  Christopher was on the ground, curled up in a fetal position.

  Four men were laying into him. Kicking and punching.

  Gemma's mouth fell open; one of them wasn't a man at
all. One of them was a woman.

  Another five or so were standing back, watching the fight, which struck Gemma as being unusually silent.

  Several others were rummaging through the trailer.

  Ignoring the thorns digging into her side, Gemma rested her gun hand on the brick wall.

  Crouching on her feet, she pressed her knees against the wall to steady herself, ready for a quick exit.

  One shot, Gemma told herself.

  She had to keep a clear head. She wouldn't do either of them any good if they caught her.

  One shot, then she would flee up the side of the house. Circle back around from another direction.

  But would it be enough?

  What if Christopher was already too badly hurt to escape?

  Damn it – they were so close to home. Why did everything have to go wrong now?

  Gemma pointed the barrel of the gun at the ground, directly behind the feet of the bitch who was cheering the others on.

  About a hundred yards away a flashlight beam shot up in the air. She was beginning to think it was a signal of some sort.

  Horror struck her; it would take them no time at all to find her with such a powerful beam.

  She was out of time.

  Gemma steadied her hands, her finger squeezing the trigger.

  The recoil almost knocked her on her bum, but she was pleased with the sudden panic she created.

  The woman ran for cover. Several others threw themselves to the ground. The one laying into Christopher dived behind him, using his body for cover.

  Gemma knew she should get the hell away in case they returned fire, but she couldn't bring herself to run. Not when Christopher was still lying on the ground, no longer moving.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” said the leader in a horrid, singsong voice. “Otherwise I will shoot your friend here.”

  Gemma stiffened.

  “Night squad,” a woman shouted as another flashlight beam sliced through the night.

  Less than twenty yards away, the flashlight let off three slow pulses of light.

  “Shit, get out of here,” the leader shouted at his team.