The Survivor Journals Omnibus [Books 1-3]

by Little, Sean Patrick

  “Georgia is all about peaches. State fruit. They produce a ton of them here.” I pointed to a license plate with a big peach on it. I slung my ruck over my shoulder, fastened a gun belt with the semi-auto at my hip, and picked up my shotgun and a MagLite. Ren had her own Maglite now, too. She was an old hand at camping and scavenging now. It had become second nature to us. We walked to the office building in front of us. The doors were locked. None of the glass was smashed. All good signs. We walked around the building trying other doors. A freight entrance was unlocked on the backside of the building. We walked in, flashlights illuminating our way.

  The office building was plain and boring. Much like the tower I climbed in New York, the place was full of different companies using different floors as office space. The offices were pretty standard in that they usually had a reception desk, a cubicle farm, and a couple of executive offices on the corners. There were restrooms on every floor, and every office had a break room with vending machines. On the first floor, at the first vending machine, Ren used her flashlight handle to shatter the glass. She pulled out a bag of Cheetos and read the expiration date printed on the crimped foil edge. “Sell by twelve-sixteen.” She frowned, opened the bag, and sniffed them. “Hell with it, I’m eating them anyway.” Office buildings were goldmines for expired junk food and packs of ramen.

  We walked up the darkened stairwell to the twentieth floor. We could have gone higher, but neither of us had a desire to keep going. Twenty stories gave us plenty of view over the area. We moved through the offices looking out the windows. I took the offices that faced north and east. Ren took the south and west corners. I saw nothing. I hadn’t expected to see anything. Ren called for me, though, her voice betraying excitement and nerves. “Twist. Get over here!” From her vantage point, she was able to look down into a cluster of buildings. Nothing was immediately visible. I raised an eyebrow, but she pointed at a dark brownstone building. Against the dark of the stonework, I noticed something ghosting past it. Smoke. White smoke from a cooking fire. Someone was alive.

  Ren and I sped down the stairs in near darkness. We hit the front entry of the office building near the Greyhawk. There were emergency exit push-bars on the doors so we could get out easily. “Should we take the RV?” Ren said.

  “It’s not too far away. Probably be better to go over there and see what we’re dealing with first,” I said. “Could be someone harmless. Could be a bunch of ass-hats like the Patriots. We can’t risk losing the RV.”

  We made a beeline toward the area where we saw the smoke. It quickly became evident that there was definitely a person, or people, still alive there. Garbage was piled neatly in the alleys toward the block of brownstones. Wood was stacked in the alley, mostly from old shipping pallets, and there were open plastic barrels under downspouts to catch rain water. As we got closer, I could hear singing. The Great Pretender by the Platters was being belted out by someone with a mellow bass voice. He sounded really good, too.

  I grabbed Ren’s wrist. “Stay back. Stay hidden. If it’s safe, I’ll come get you.”

  Ren nodded and fell back behind me. “What if it’s not safe?”

  “I’ll need you to come rescue me.”

  “Like a damsel in distress?” Ren winked at me. She started to creep back to hide behind a pile of trash bags. “Should we have a code word or something so I’ll know to come rescue you?”

  Code word? I think she needed to stop reading my spy novels. “How about if I just scream, Help?”

  Ren blew her hair off her forehead with a puff of air. “Good plan, genius.”

  I pressed myself against the wall of the alley and moved toward the street. At the corner, I steeled myself and peeked at the row of tenements. I wasn’t exactly prepared for what I’d see; it’s hard to be prepared for something like this. A large, black Weber kettle grill was standing in the middle of the street. A fire raging in its cauldron shot flames a foot or two into the air. A large steel pot was sitting precariously in the midst of the flames. It was black from heavy use and lack of cleaning, as camping supplies tend to get over time. A full dining room of expensive patio furniture was arranged in the street including comfortable chairs, a metal table with large umbrella in the center, and plastic tableware set for four. The master of the feast was a rather large, elderly black man. He had a large, scraggly beard that was almost purely white. He wore a pair of thick, black-rimmed spectacles straight out of 1955. He also wore a full suit of plate armor complete with a lancer’s helm, the face-guard flipped upward so his face was unblocked. He had a medieval longsword buckled to his side with an elaborate, jeweled belt. He was rocking back and forth next to the grill while singing Oldies. He had a wooden spoon in his hand and a cooking mitt on the other. He poked at some sort of animal carcass that was bubbling away in the stew pot. Judging from what I could see, it may have been a cat or a small dog. I couldn’t be certain. Over his suit of armor, like a tabard, he wore an apron that proclaimed in bold font:

  This Ain’t Burger King--

  You Don’t Get It Your Way;

  You Get It My Way

  Or You Don’t Get the Son of a Bitch.

  I set my shotgun down at the corner where it would be out of sight, but close enough for me to dive back and grab it, if I needed. Fear started to clench my guts again. I had no idea how this man would react, especially since I caught him wearing a full suit of armor on a one hundred degree day. I stepped around the corner, my hands in the air. I cleared my throat and said a very respectful, “Hello.”

  The man’s head snapped up and his eyes grew large. He drew the sword. “What, ho! What demonry is this? Be you a minion of Hell sent to claim me? You’ll not take me without a fight! Prepare your greasy talons, demon!” He advanced, sword-tip making slow circles in the air.

  “Easy, sir.” I held my hands up higher so he wouldn’t think I was going to go for the gun at my hip. “I’m not a demon. My name is Twist. I’m from Wisconsin.”

  The sword stopped twirling. The tip lowered a bit. The man squinted. “Wisconsin? Is that in my northern realms? Have you come to swear fealty to my realm and pay your taxes?”

  I looked at his eyes. I saw not one hint of jest in them. I think he was dead serious. I went with it, playing into his game. “Yes…uh…sir.” Thankfully, I’d read more than my fair share of fantasy novels over the years. I knew what swearing fealty meant. I dropped to a knee and bowed my head. “I am…Twist, of the Northern, uh, Prairie Lands. I have come to swear fealty to…uh, you.”

  The sword-tip flipped up and rested on his shoulder. The eyes went wide and he smiled a filmy, yellow-teeth smile. “Good, good! I have been awaiting messengers from the Northlands for many moons. Tell me, Northman, how goes the battles? Have we a full army in the north yet, or have they succumbed?”

  I don’t think it was a game; I think he was mentally ill. Maybe he was sick before the Flu, maybe isolation made him snap. I couldn’t be sure. I decided to continue to play along. I bowed my head to my chest. “I’m sorry, m’lord. The Northlands have fallen. I am the final emissary from the Central Northlands, the only one left. I met up with an emissary from the Eastern Northlands, and have brought her with me. We are sad to bring you news that the dreaded pox riddled the armies of the Northlands, much as it did in the Southlands. I fear the kingdom is lost, your majesty.”

  The man—the king?—sat heavily in one of his patio chairs, his armor clanking in protest. “Then it is as I feared. The realms have fallen. I was named knight-protector of the realms, but if they have truly fallen, then the Archangel Gabriel sent unto me the proclamation to become king.” He tore off the lancer’s helm and chucked it aside. It bounced into the street. He ran to a box of stuff on the steps of the brownstone. He thrust his hand into the box and withdrew an actual gold crown studded with jewels. He placed it on his head slowly, with great reverence. It reminded me of the painting of Napoleon crowning himself Emperor. “As the Archangel decreed unto me, I proclaim myself King Francis Delacroix, fi
rst of his name, First King of New America, Ruler of the Divine Province of Atlanta, Protector of the Southlands, the Georgian Realm, and Defender of the Remnant of the Living World.” He pulled his hands away from the crown and stood in glory on the first step of the tenement, staring into the sky with wide, wild eyes. Then, he turned those eyes to me. I sensed he was waiting for something.

  “Oh…uh, long live the king!” I shouted.

  “Long live the king,” King Francis repeated. “Long live the king.”

  Ren came out of the alley after me. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m not certain. Kneel.”

  Ren, without questioning it, dropped to a knee next to me. “Who’s the geezer?”

  “Our new king.”

  King Francis strode over, sword in hand. He stood before us. “And who is this brave young woman? Is she my emissary from the Eastern Northlands?”

  “She is, uh…your Majesty. I present, uh, Renata of Brooklyn.”

  King Francis stared at her. “Speak truth, Renata of Brooklyn—is it as my emissary from Wisconsin spoke? Have the Northlands succumbed to the pox? Is my kingdom fallen?”

  Ren looked to me, and I nodded slightly. She cleared her throat. “Uh, Twist speaketh truly, your Highness. We have traveled many days and found very few have survived the pox. There is an enclave of…uh, orcs in the Eastern Northlands. They have seized control of…” She looked to me for help.

  “The orcs have seized York and Jersey, sire. Those provinces are a lost cause.”

  King Francis’ face fell into a stern mask. “This is grave news indeed. Grave, grave news.”

  The pot on the grill behind him began to bubble over and the water and fat in the stew made the fire wildly hiss and spit. Steam rose in great clouds. King Francis spun and pushed the pot away from the center of the grill with his cooking mitt.

  He turned back to us. “There shall be a feast this eve. We shall celebrate your safe arrival in the Southlands, and we shall celebrate my coronation.”

  “What’s cooking?” Ren stood and eyed the fatty gray-brown stew in the pot.

  “Nothing you want to put in your mouth,” I whispered. At that second, a skull with bits of meat clinging to it and a melting jellied eye rose above the lip of the pot. It was a raccoon. Definitely a raccoon. The stew had a thick, gamy smell. It smelled like manure and copper pennies. It was enough to gag me.

  King Francis strode toward us removing his cooking mitt. “But first, we must reward my subjects for their bravery. Kneel, and be recognized.”

  Ren gave me a look that clearly said, He has a sword, should we run? I shook my head. I dropped back to a kneel and hoped for the best. The old man seemed harmless. Delusional, but harmless. Ren took a knee beside me, reluctance etched on her face.

  King Francis lowered his sword to my left shoulder, lifted it over my head to the right, and then back to the left. “I knight thee Sir Twist, of the Northlands, Defender of New America.” He repeated the sword motions on Renata. “I knight thee, Sir Renata of Brooklyn, Defender of New America. I shall now hear your oaths.”

  Ren’s eyes went wide and she whipped her head around to look at me. “Oaths?” she mouthed.

  I stammered for a second. “I, Sir Twist, do hereby swear fealty to the Kingdom of New America, and to its rightful sovereign. I shall defend my King and his shores from all enemies foreign and domestic. So say we all.”

  King Francis smiled. He seemed pleased with my oath. He repeated, “So say we all.”

  Ren’s mouth worked like a guppy for a second. “Uh…I, Sir Renata of Brooklyn, do hereby swear fealty to King Francis and his country. None shall harm my king while I hold breath in my chest. So say we all.”

  “So say we all,” King Francis repeated. “Rise now, my knights, and we shall feast!” He turned and walked back to the bubbling stew pot on the grill. He put on a pair of heavy leather gloves and carried the pot to the table. When the pot moved, the smell seemed to fill the entire street. It was awful.

  Ren grabbed me before I could move toward the table. “Is he mentally ill?” She said it low enough so that King Francis couldn’t hear.

  I nodded. “I think so. I’m pretty sure he is.”

  “He is definitely crazy if he thinks I’m going to eat that stew.” Ren leaned closer. “Did you really quote Battlestar Galactica?”

  I felt a sheepish smile play on my lips. “I did.”

  “Nerd.”

  “Hey, you knew where it came from,” I said. “Takes one to know one.”

  We sat at King Francis’ round table. He ladled big servings of fatty, nasty stew onto the plastic plates at the table. “Wait! This shall be a grand feast!” He ran inside the tenement, plate armor clanking, and returned moments later with a large wooden bowl full of fresh, beautiful peaches, and a bottle of wine. I don’t know anything about wine, but judging from the bottle’s design and how it was corked, it looked expensive. My parents usually drank wine out of a box they bought on sale at the local grocery store. I’m hardly a connoisseur.

  King Francis used his sword to smash the neck off the wine bottle. He poured wine into yellow plastic wine glasses on the table, slopping excess liberally over the edges and onto the metal table. “Eat! Drink! This is a celebration!”

  Ren practically face-planted the peaches. She bit into one and her eyes rolled backward into her head. “Oh, sweet heaven…these are ah-maz-ing.”

  I grabbed one and bit into it. Ren wasn’t exaggerating. I’m from the Midwest. My experience with peaches was that I usually only saw them canned in a thick syrup. Those are pretty good. I liked those. I did not know how much I was missing with fresh peaches, less than a day from being on a tree. The smell, the texture, the taste—the only word for it is amazing. I understood why the little things were on the license plates. Over the past year, I’d eaten very little fresh food. The difference in quality made me realize that I was missing something important. I made a mental note to eat more fresh food. That meant I was going to have to learn to farm, to grow my own fresh food. Prior to the Flu, the only gardening I’d ever done was helping my mother plant a few herbs in a window box. And they mostly died.

  “Eat up! Eat up!” Francis insisted. He wiggled out of the apron and breastplate of his armor and cast them aside. Underneath his armor, he was wearing an Atlanta Hawks basketball jersey. It looked like a real one, like he’d taken it directly from the locker room. I was willing to bet that was where he had found it, even. King Francis sat and picked up a fork. He used his sword to cut his meat, awkward as it was. He didn’t hack at it, either. He used it daintily, sawing back and forth like someone would with a standard table knife. It did not work too well, but I was not going to argue with him about it.

  I stuck my finger in the sauce of the stew and brought it to my tongue experimentally. When I tried to wipe the sauce on the tip of my tongue, my body rebelled, and I gagged. The stew went untasted. I wiped my finger on my napkin. I devoured the peach I had and picked up another one. “So, King Francis…” I didn’t know how to breach the subject of the past year. I wasn’t certain how far gone his mental state was. “Do you have…a queen, to whom we could pledge ourselves?”

  King Francis’ eyes narrowed, and he smacked his lips. He chewed some of the filthy meat and swallowed. “Ah, you speak of Good Queen Denise.” He set down his fork and touched his fingers to his forehead. “The pox, I’m afraid. She has been gone from us a year, at least.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “That is a tremendous loss for the kingdom.”

  King Francis didn’t seem to hear me. He was looking off into the sky. “A year, at least,” he repeated. “And then Prince Francis fell…and then Princess Janelle, and Princess Michelle…and the grand-princes…and grand-princesses.” Francis’ lower lip trembled for a second, but he inhaled sharply through his nose and snapped back to whatever his reality was. He squared his shoulders. “A great loss for the kingdom, indeed.”

  Francis stood. “Come, c
ome.” He beckoned me toward the tenement. I followed and so did Ren. We stepped into his home. The living room was a disaster, cluttered with all manner of odds and ends scavenged from all sorts of places, scraps from museum exhibits, hospital supplies, and expensive cookware from a restaurant supply shop. There was a single recliner, well-used, that could be accessed from the entry, but that was it. All the other furniture was buried in junk. The bathroom in the home was filthy. King Francis used a five-gallon bucket for his business, and then took it out into the alley behind the home to dispose of it when full. The smell of urine and feces was thick in the hall.

  Francis led us to the second story. He took us down the hall to a bedroom, paused, and whispered, “The queen rests waiting for the day that the goodness of my service inspires the angels to resurrect her.” He opened the door. Inside, the dried corpse of Good Queen Denise was lying in the center of a queen-sized bed. Her decomposed body was melding with the sheets. Her face was dried and stretched tight to the skull. Her hair was scraggly and limp around the skull. The room was immaculate, though. It had been dusted frequently. Everything was in its place. There was no clutter.

  “Jesus.” Ren backed down the hallway to the stairs.

  “The pox claimed her,” Francis said. “But in my wickedness, I was not claimed. I was not allowed to join her. So now, I must repent for that wickedness and hope that my efforts please the Archangel. They will bring her back to me. This was promised.” Francis knelt by the foot of the bed and pressed his hands together in prayer. “Each day, I beg forgiveness and pledge my service to the kingdom. Soon, the angels will return to resurrect her. Very soon.”