by Ison, S. A.
16 July
The White House, Washington D.C.
The president and his wife sat in their bedroom on the upper story. It was early evening, and the windows were open, though the air was not fresh. The stench of fires and rotting flesh wafted into the room. They’d finished eating their meager dinner, a can of stewed tomatoes. The room was hellishly hot, so it was either suffocate or open the windows to the stench beyond. It was noisy, with screams and shouts coming from outside. Periodic gunshots peppered the air. They made Julia jump. Mike’s lips tightened. He hated seeing his wife so afraid. And he felt so completely helpless.
Julia walked around the room restlessly. More of the secret service people and marines had disappeared, taking most of the food supplies with them. Now there were only two marines and two secret service men left. Julia looked over at him; he was sitting on the bed, a pistol by his side. He could feel the sweat run uncomfortably down his body and absorb into the dirty shirt he’d been wearing for the last two days.
They had moved one of the heavier chests in front of the door. Gunfire from below made Julia jerk again, and she moved away from the window.
President Blake got up from the bed, gun in hand, and went to the window. His face tightened. He could just make out dozens of people climbing over the fence. Behind them, more people were shoving and moving closer. Another shot, and someone fell. This did not stop those behind, and the surge of humanity pushed and shoved. The large fence wavered, then fell, and hundreds of people, if not thousands, pushed forward. Rapid gunfire popped, but it didn’t slow them down.
Mike turned to his wife and drew her into his arms, holding her and kissing her. He told her he loved her with all his heart, then put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain matter splattered all over his face and shoulders, but he didn’t notice. He caught Julia’s falling body and dragged it to the bed. He laid her down, then crossed over her and lay down beside her.
From below came shouts and screams, more gunfire. He could hear the thunder of footsteps on the stairs and coming up the hall. Doors were being kicked open, more screams, and more gunfire. He brought the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
Bridgman, Michigan
Alisa was eating cereal out of the box, which rested on her large belly; she sat on the dock, overlooking the lake. Loons called over the lake, and jays called from the trees around her. Her brain was numb, and she couldn’t shake herself from the cocoon that had wrapped itself around her. She was wearing an old cotton robe, threadbare and faded pink. The hem was grimy as it dragged the ground, several sizes too big for her frame. Her blonde strands were messy and blowing around her face as she watched Stephen and Mike out in the little rowboat, their fishing poles in hand and a net bag of beer hanging off the boat. Both men were talking and laughing and she wondered distantly what they had to laugh about.
Taking another handful of cereal, she crammed it into her mouth and chewed methodically, then rubbed her nose with her knuckle. They’d told her about the planes crashing down, and that nobody had power. And Mike had said he thought they never would get power, so what in the hell were they laughing about? It seemed like ages since they’d lost power, and many of the people who’d lived on the lake had left. A lot of them had said they were heading back to Chicago to see if there was help there from the government or National Guard. When she’d suggested they go back to Chicago, Stephen had refused. He had told her there was no help coming, and there sure as hell wasn’t any help in Chicago.
Her cheeks turned red at the memory, feeling the heat of it creep up her chest and neck to her face. The cocoon began to disintegrate. She became aware of a man standing in the trees, near the shore, watching her. The hair prickled on her arm. He was thin and dirty, and his face had a feral look. He looked out to the small boat, then back at her. The wind shifted, and she nearly gagged when she smelled the sour, musky stench of him.
He licked his lips, pulled at his crotch, and began moving toward her, his eyes unblinking, like a reptiles. Alisa sat frozen in her Adirondack chair, her hand in the box of cereal. Her mouth hung open, the cocoon burning away quickly and her brain beginning to function in fast forward, neurons firing off rapidly. The baby began to turn as though picking up the alarmed transmission that made its way through her body. With her free hand, she reached down in the pocket of her robe as the man drew closer.
As he came within three feet of her, his dark eyes burning, his hands convulsing, Alisa raised her hand, the gun in it, and fired one shot into the man’s face. His look of surprise melted away as blood bloomed out of his mouth and poured down his chest. She had shot the bullet up and into his mouth, and into his brain.
She looked at him, looked at the smoking gun, then back at the filthy man. Then watched as his legs gave out and he toppled backwards without a sound. She looked at him lying on the ground and then she looked out at the two men who were now standing in the wildly rocking boat. She noticed that they weren’t laughing now.
Topsfield, Maine
Kelly drove the truck while Tim sat shotgun, literally: he was still weak, but could at least shoot a weapon. His own weapons were back at his cabin; he had asked her to stop by his cabin, and he’d dressed in protective gear, plastic sheeting taped around his body, and bandana and rubber gloves. He hadn’t gone into the cabin, however, but to his hidden shallow bunker, where he kept the bulk of his weapons. He’d only wanted his Ruger and more ammo; he planned on coming back when he was stronger, but for now, the Ruger would do him.
He held a shotgun across his lap, and had his trusted Ruger in a shoulder holster. He had a box of ammo in the glove box. Kelly had her Smith and Wesson tucked between her legs. She wanted it ready to draw. In the bed of the truck was an empty five-gallon gas can. They had nearly a full tank in the truck, but if they came across an abandoned car, they wanted to try to get gas from it.
Driving down route 6, they saw many homes, doors open with an air of abandonment. They dodged vehicles that had been stranded in the road. They came to a halt at an intersection. The hairs prickled on Kelly’s arms. She could feel eyes on her, and she looked over to Tim, telling him so. He too felt something wrong.
“Drive on, but keep your gun in hand,” he told her calmly, his eyes looking everywhere.
Up ahead was a cluster of vehicles, looking as though they had been made into a blockade. “Be careful up near those cars, and be ready to shoot anything that comes at us.”
“I see anything, I will run it the fuck over,” Kelly said.
A light brow went up in question as Tim’s eyes cut over to her set face. A smile trembled on his lip, but he bit down on the urge to laugh. Kelly turned the truck toward the side of the road to avoid the cluster of cars. From the side of a house, a man stepped out; his rifle rose, but he didn’t aim. Tim nodded an acknowledgment to the man, and the man returned it and lowered his rifle.
“It’s okay. I think they’re just watching out for strangers. That’s Bud Thibaut. He has the bait store down by Silver Lake,” Tim said, lowering the shotgun.
As they drove closer to town, they found more such barricades. People were clustered in small groups, families joined to pool their resources. Tim nodded to one house, and had Kelly pull into the drive. Kenneth Summers was sitting on the front porch, an old shotgun across his thighs. He was shirtless in the summer heat.
He nodded to Tim, and Tim lifted a hand and got out of the truck.
“How ah yah?” Kenneth asked.
“Fair. Coming out for the first time in a month or so, was a little under the weather. Any news?”
“Ayuh, wicked bad from wha’ I heard. Honkin’ from aways, headin’ north. Wicked lots of violence comin’ our way apiece,” Kenneth said, his face turning sour, and he leaned over and spat into the dry grass.
Tim translated this in his mind: Very bad, lots of people not from Maine coming up north and bringing violence with them.
“Brutha-in-law has that shautwave, ya know, said was
wicked lots murda an’ lootin’ in them cities. No law, now gubment. Ain’t that a god-dammah! Hada kill a few pesky neighbors maself. Helleva bad,” Ken continued, and nodded over to a grouping of mounds on the side yard.
Tim’s brain automatically translated: Brother-in-law had a shortwave radio and lots of murder and looting. Had to kill a few pesky neighbors, Everything is bad.
“A man’s got to protect what’s his, and his family,” Tim said, nodding his agreement. “Was heading to Lincoln, see what’s what,” Tim continued.
“No son, you don’t wanna do them there. Hear they that Ebola virus still there an’ flatlandah comin’ round, lookin’ for food an’ trouble. Ahm tellin’ you, gutter back ta them willy wacks, stay there apiece. You come back about end of Octobah, before the first snow, an’ maybe we can do a some tradin’. Ah seein’ ifnin’ ah can get a shautwave for you an’ we do sommat tradin’. Maybe that trouble will ha died down by then, or else starved to death.” Kenneth laughed at that.
“Kenny.” A woman’s voice drifted out in warning.
“Yes dee-ah.” He sighed. He smiled at Tim, winking, and stuck his hand out. “Good luck to ya son, take that woman an’ get back to dah willy wacks. There’s nothin’ out here but death an’ struggle.”
“Yes sir, good luck to you and yours. I hope to see you in a couple months. Maybe I can bring some meat and we can do some good trading,” Tim said, and they spoke for a few more minutes, then shook hands once more and Tim left the porch.
“Turn the truck around, let’s head back,” Tim said softly.
Backing up, she turned the truck around and pulled away, heading back the way they’d come. After a few minutes, Tim spoke. “It’s done. Civilization as we know it is done.” He lifted his hand to forestall her questions. He noticed his hand was shaking, and made a fist to stop the trembling. “Ken says there is no law, and no government. It is pretty much every man for himself. He said the Ebola virus is still running rampant.” Tim’s hands scrubbed his face hard, as though trying to wipe away the bad news.
He continued in a low voice, “He suggests we stay in the woods for a while, a lot of violence going on right now, even in Lincoln. Said a lot of strangers are coming up north. He said maybe come back near the end of October and do some trading. He said he might have a shortwave radio for me when we come back. That would be good, so at least we can stay in communication with him and his people.”
“Shit and god damn it to hell and back. I know things had gone to the toilet, but I was still hoping against hope. Is he sure?” Kelly hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, and then flexed it.
“Yeah. Kenneth was a sniper in Vietnam. He knows good intel when he hears it. He has family all over Maine, and has more connections than a spider’s web. If he says it’s so, then it’s so. We’re on our own.”
San Gabriel Mountains, California
They could no longer hear gunshots, or other sounds of humanity. The sun peeked through the trees overhead. The canopy formed of conifers, their thick, deep green needles making soft rasping sounds as the breeze snaked its way through the branches. Beneath their feet were pine needles, the forest floor soft, quieting their steps.
Both men were sweating copiously, their clothes wringing wet. Their breathing was labored, and it was difficult to put one foot in front of the other. Larry watched as Jake staggered and caught himself on a tree. Larry looked back, and stopped. He couldn’t speak, his breath coming harsh and hard.
A loud crack in the forest froze both men to the spot. They listened, trying desperately to breath shallow; they nearly fainted when a deer came out between two bushes. Before Larry’s brain could tell him what he should do, he launched himself at the deer. It was a small one, a yearling. He wrapped his arms around its neck, and then his legs joined in. He began to twist the deer’s head around with all the strength he had left.
Larry’s harsh cries for the knife filled the air. Tears and snot were pouring down Larry’s face as he took the knife from Jake and plunged it over and over into the deer’s neck. The deer’s body jerked and quivered, then stilled. The only sound was Larry’s dry sobs, his arms still clutched tightly around the bloody, butchered neck of the deer.
Finally, he dropped the knife, sat back, and began to weep in earnest. Jake joined him, and both men clung to each other. They wept for what they had and for what they had lost, and what they would never have again. After a time, the crying eased for both men.
“You want to make a fire?” Jake asked.
“Yeah, but not here. We need to find some place private, so no smoke will lead anyone to us. I don’t want anyone finding us and this meat,” Larry said, looking around nervously.
It hadn’t taken long for civilized men to dive right into chaos, and both young men had been staggered by the impact. Looking around, Larry nodded to a heavy copse of trees. They dragged the limp carcass, which was surprisingly heavy, over to it. Both were sweating heavily by the time they got into the dense wood.
They gathered dry wood and sticks, as well as pine needles, and built a small fire. Larry had packed a lighter in his backpack. He took the knife and plunged it into the rump of the deer, and cut a large bloody chunk out and handed it to Jake. Jake jammed the meat on a stick and held it over the fire. The stick broke and the meat fell into the fire.
Jake took the broken stick and raked the meat out. Larry watched Jake’s hands shake and wondered if he would drop the meat.
“Dude, you did it. You killed a deer. You are the man!” Jake laughed
Larry smiled weakly; the fight with the deer had taken all of his reserve energy. He felt weak and light-headed. His mouth watered as he smelled the cooking meat. His stomach growled loudly. Both men grinned at each other.
Jake shifted hands and turned the meat over the fire to cook another side. After a short while, he handed the stick to Larry.
“Take a bite, then I’ll take a bite and keep cooking it.”
Larry smiled and leaned forward, and chewed and sawed his teeth as he pulled at the stringy meat. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He watched Jake take his turn, and smiled at the sublime grin that lit Jake’s face.
Later, Larry sat by the small fire, feeding sticks and twigs into it. Jake lay on the ground, staring into the small flame. He added dried leaves and watched as the flames licked around and caught the material. Both men were sated and drowsy.
“Tomorrow, we need to find a place to hold up for a while. We gotta cook this meat so it doesn’t go bad. The survival book says we gotta cut the meat thin and put it over a smoking fire. That will dry it and preserve it,” Larry said languidly, holding said book next to his chest.
“Yeah, it will be nice to have some meat; I was feeling a little weak,” Jake said.
Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina
Clive sat on the porch of his small home, smoking the last of his cigarettes. He was going to miss them, that was for damn sure. Maybe if they went out again on a scouting mission, he could find some, or maybe swing by the store; it was only about four miles away, maybe do a bit of trading. He watched the three large hens and a small bantam hen scratch around. They had traded some canned goods with a lady two miles down the road. Reed had been right. The woman had about fifty of them, and quite a few roosters, so they picked one of those up as well. They would need breeding stock. The woman said the bantam was a great brooder if they wanted little dittles.
They had agreed that they did. Overall, the hens were producing about a dozen or so eggs a week. The eggs were held for several days to ensure there was a surplus, and then they used them as they wanted. May had suggested they coat the eggs lightly with mineral oil: she said it would keep the egg fresh for months. If they could keep extra on hand, they’d always have some kind of easy protein. The women had become creative when cooking. The food was filling, especially when there was plenty of fish or crabs.
Clive had taught Roy how to set rabbit traps. They had caught a cat once, but the women’d
had a fit when it was suggested they eat it. Perhaps later, if things got bad, but for now, the cats on the island were safe. Jimmy’s German Shepherd, Mr. Smith, was also good at catching rabbits. Mr. Smith. Clive shook his head. What kind of name for a dog was that?
Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, and reacted. He pulled out his Smith and Wesson. Two men, both thin as dried weeds, stood looking at him. As the wind shifted, Clive smelled their unhealthy stench and raised his gun, taking in their oily, sweaty faces.
“You boys just turn around and head back the way you came,” he said in a loud voice, nearly a shout.
“You look like your black ass’s been eat’n pretty good there, mister. How ’bout you share some with us. We ain’t had a lot to eat lately,” the taller one with greasy blond hair whined.
“Yeah, you look like a fat fuck. Where the hell you get your food from?” the shorter one was sunburned and peeling. Clive noted that both had rotten teeth; meth mouth came to mind.
“I’m not going to tell you boys again, turn around and leave. There is nothing for you here,” Clive said louder, then cocked the hammer back on the gun.
“You ain’t gonna kill us, old man. That’d make you a murderer. Why can’t you be civil and just give us a little food and we’ll go. You won’t never see us again,” the blond tried again, his hand reaching behind him.
A loud blast came from behind, and the blond man flew forward, like someone yanking a puppet’s strings. The shorter man cried out and fell back. Another shot and he was dead.
Jimmy came from around the back of the house, a shotgun smoking in his hands. His light brown face had gone pale, but his mouth set in a hard line.
“That son of a bitch was about to pull a piece on you,” he said, reaching down and pulling a snub nose from the man’s back pocket.
Randal, Roy, and Reed came running up the street, guns in hand. David was behind, with a large machete, puffing as he went. Pearl followed at a slower pace, and when she saw what lay in Clive’s yard, she turned around and went back to turn May around. She didn’t want the older woman to see the bodies.