A Town Called America

by Andrew Alexander

  The only way to go was back up the hill. The gunfire seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Trees burst all around as the bullets came within inches of them.

  Rick turned back up the hill, shoving Chris in front of him. He yelled at her to move to the top of the hill as fast as she could. “Follow the path by the lake until you get to the first house you see,” he told her. “I’ll meet you there. Now go!”

  Chris hesitated for a moment, trying to grasp everything that was happening, and then she did as Rick asked. She moved up the hill until she reached the top, where she saw that the cabin was on fire. The smoke quickly filled the air, and ashes skewed her vision. A moment later she was gone.

  Rick was still at the bottom of the hill, firing his weapon like the soldier he once had been. He hit his targets and watched them fall to the ground one after another. The first one fell and then a second. It wasn’t long before two more men attempted to flank him from the left side. He knew at that point he had lost his fortress, because at the same time, he was being flanked three people who had just ripped open the hatch to the RV. He was now losing the only thing he was desperately trying to hang on to from his life before, he was now loosing.

  The cabin, the property, and the few belongings he had worked so hard to obtain—he was losing it all. If there ever was such a thing as the American dream, it was now dead, and Rick knew there was nothing he could do to change it.

  With a flood of anger, he turned to move up the hill when a bullet ripped into his left side and another into his arm. Rick dropped to the ground as the burning sensation shot up his spine into his brain; then his vision began to go black. Unable to breathe he felt as if his mind also were on fire.

  Chris had been running as fast and as hard as she could toward the lake. She barely found the trail through the smoke, but when she did, she followed it through the woods until she came upon a black iron fence with decorative spikes on top, preventing her from climbing over.

  Without a second thought, she pointed her pistol at the lock and fired. Then she fired another shot, this one opening the way to her destination.

  At the bottom of the hill, Rick’s vision started to return. His sight was still somewhat blurry, and he was bleeding, but when he opened his eyes, he was looking up at a man he didn’t recognize standing over him. The man was tall and slender, with long dirty hair and a beard. His clothes were tattered, and he was looking straight down at Rick.

  “I like your boots,” he said in a condescending tone.

  Rick tried to reach for his shotgun with his right hand, but it was a moot point, as the man stepped on the weapon, preventing Rick from grabbing it. With no words exchanged, the two men looked at each other for a moment before the man pointed his pistol at Rick’s head.

  A moment later the man lurched backward, screaming in pain. Rick had managed to stab him through the foot with his seven-inch Elvis knife, which was now sticking out of the man’s right boot. With the last of his energy, Rick rolled over and reached for his shotgun. Grasping the weapon, he turned onto his back and shot the man in the chest. He flew backward as hundreds of tiny pellets ripped through his chest. Blood instantly splattered on Rick’s face.

  With the little energy he had left, Rick crawled over to where the man’s body now lay and pulled his knife from the man’s boot. He looked at his hand and the blood-soaked knife he held. The handle had an inscription that read, THE KING. Gazing at the man’s body, Rick struggled to stand. Once he was on his feet, he looked down at the corpse and with a slight grin said, “In the end the king always wins, baby.”

  Rick then ripped his shirt apart in order to apply pressure on his side and arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Again he scanned the area. This time he saw the others had no interest in him, as they were preoccupied with the contents of the RV.

  He turned and staggered through the smoke and past the fire that was engulfing his cabin. Using his shotgun as a makeshift cane, he made his way slowly up the hill. Every step was like walking on the surface of the sun. Hardly able to move, Rick kept going like a machine; he wasn’t going to stop until he reached Chris.

  Chris entered the first house she came upon. It was two stories and at least three or four times the size of the home she had lived in as a child. It was a huge house with light-blue vinyl siding. Chris looked at it for a moment, wondering what kind of people once lived there.

  Stopping at the back door, she turned and looked down the street before she entered the home. These homes, all of them, were once the pride of their owners; now they were all in shambles. Lawns that once had been manicured were now overgrown, and nearly all the windows had been shattered. The glass that once provided protection from the elements now lay in tiny pieces on the ground.

  Every home she saw on the street told the same story. All the homeowners who had survived either had killed themselves, starved, or died trying to hold on to their precious belongings while invaders looted everything in sight.

  Chris made her way to what appeared to once have been a family room. She sat on the dirty couch next to a giant hole that once had been a bay window; it overlooked the backyard and the iron gate she had come through. She sat and waited for Rick to come walking through, but he never did.

  As she waited she felt truly alone and as far away from any place she called home as she possibly could be.

  ELEVEN

  Every day Chris searched the homes within a three-block radius. She scavenged for food, medical supplies, or anything else that could help her. She foraged through the stench of rotting human and animal flesh; dead remains lay in nearly all the homes. Trash had been left in nearly every home, scattered throughout, making it almost impossible to find anything of value.

  Nevertheless Chris continued to search, and as before, water wasn’t an issue, as it had been raining for the last few days. Food, however, was becoming a greater problem than ever. All she was able to find were a couple of cans of peas and three bottles of Jim Beam. As hungry as she was, the bottles of Jim were more of a prize than the peas.

  Chris sat down on a bed and threw her backpack on the floor next to her. She pulled out a bottle of liquor and began to drink. It didn’t take long before she was intoxicated. The more she drank, the more emotional she became, until she wondered whether she’d ever be sober again. About a third of the way through her first bottle, lying on her back, she drifted off to sleep, thinking about Rick.

  The next morning she awoke to find herself with a headache and a queasy stomach. She had eaten the pees the night before and realized that if she didn’t find more food soon, her situation would go from bad to worse.

  Unknown to Chris, Rick had made it all the way to the lake with no assistance, but that was all he could manage, as he had lost far too much blood. He lay on the ground, gripping his side. With his head canted slightly to the right, he could just barely see the water in the lake.

  How calming he thought it was, wishing he could float off into the sunset until he went wherever people go when they die. The water was perfectly still, with no sound to it. It was just there, and there was where Rick wanted to be.

  He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of trying to survive, and most of all, tired of losing everything precious to him. His wife, son, and cabin were gone. Now, and most important, he was losing Chris. Certain that his time was on earth was finished, Rick closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, hoping he wouldn’t wake up.

  When he did wake, his vision was again blurred, and again he knew something wasn’t exactly right. Although he couldn’t see clearly, for a moment he was unsure whether he was alive or had died. “Am I dead? Hello?” he said.

  He wondered whether he actually had said that aloud or if it was just in his head. His mind unclear as his head pounded in pain, he lay there, wondering where he was, how he had gotten there, and whether he had gotten a second chance by some miracle.

  Had some unseen force stepped out of the shadows and aided him in his time of need?

&nb
sp; A voice, he thought. Did I hear a voice just now? Am I losing my mind?

  “Where’s Chris?” he asked.

  “You’re not losing your mind, but you need to rest. I’m going to give you something to help you sleep,” the unseen female responded to his pleas in a calming tone.

  A voice. I hear a woman’s voice, Rick thought, as his mind drifted into an endless abyss.

  Chris had hit her rock bottom. It was her breaking point, and she knew it. She didn’t know whether Rick was dead or alive, and although she had thought about leaving the area on more than one occasion in the previous weeks, she ultimately had decided she wasn’t going to do to Rick what so many others had done to her.

  If by some miracle, there was a chance he was alive, she’d be here when he arrived. That was a promise she had made to Rick and herself, and she intended to keep it.

  She wasn’t staying because she was scared to go but because, for the first time in her life, she knew she loved someone, and he actually loved her too.

  Several months earlier, Rick had told her he loved her for the first time. She didn’t know what to say or how to react, as she’d never allowed herself to feel the way she did before. When he said it, the only thing she could think to do was kiss him softly on the lips, and then, without words, she walked away.

  Even after that he stayed with her, risking his life to protect her. To her, Rick was the greatest gift she never deserved, but at that moment, alone in an empty house, it wasn’t enough. She was still, after all, alone.

  If she could only know what had happened to Rick. Did he die? If so, where was his body? Why would anyone take his body? She had walked that trail by the lake more times than she could count since the cabin had burned down. Each time she found no sign of what had happened to him.

  The cabin had been destroyed, and the RV had been gutted. Where they once had found shelter and security, there was now only a hole in the ground. Chris’s greatest concern was that she hadn’t found his body. In a sense it gave her hope that he was still alive, but the unanswered question of where Rick was ate at her mind.

  People from the area now knew where the cabin was, and Chris knew she never could go back. There was no way they could ever rebuild it.

  Every day she felt as if she were drowning, desperately trying to stay afloat. Anytime things began to look up for her, a wave would hit her and push her further underwater. She only wanted to be able to take a breath, but because she felt like as if she were unable to breathe, she continued to drink her pilfered Jim Beam.

  It was a temporary fix, and her problems would be there when she sobered up, but it didn’t matter. If she was drunk, she wasn’t thinking about being alone, tired, or hungry.

  With the walls closing in around her, Chris staggered to her feet and moved to the balcony just off the upstairs bedroom. The balcony overlooked an empty swimming pool twelve feet below. If she centered herself just right, she thought, she’d have another ten feet before she hit the concrete bottom.

  Confused and with her thoughts clouded, she wanted to hang on, to live, to find Rick and leave this nightmare and all her awful memories from Brick Creek behind her. Nevertheless she was alone and without food, and Rick certainly was dead. So what’s the point? She thought.

  Then the “what ifs” began: What if he’s alive? What if he’s dead? These thoughts repeatedly played out in her mind until she stepped down from the railing and back into the bedroom, where she curled up in a corner once more to sleep.

  TWELVE

  Rick again woke up in the same room he didn’t recognize. This time the room was empty except for the bed he sat in. A makeshift IV bag was hanging from a coat hanger on a nail in the wall to his left. A dim light flickered on the wall next to the only door in the room, and a slight buzzing sound of electricity came from a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  The walls and floor were made of concrete, which ruled out Rick’s first thought that he might be in a hospital.

  Where was he, and how did he get here? He pulled the IV from his arm after sitting up in bed. Examining himself he pulled back the bandages, which revealed not only that his wounds had been dressed but also that someone had stitched him up.

  He didn’t have the answers he wanted, and it was driving him mad. He was grateful for sure, but he hated the idea of not being in control.

  As Rick got out of bed, he felt the cold of the concrete floor beneath his feet. He was wearing a standard hospital gown, and the chill of the air went right up his open back as he made his way across the room toward the door. Using the dirty concrete wall for support, he opened the door. Just on the other side stood a rickety wooden bookshelf with his belongings as well as a pair of dingy overalls that looked to be two sizes too big for him.

  Taking his time to carefully dress, he wondered why his pistol and shotgun were there. Why wouldn’t someone keep them for himself or herself?

  He made his way through a dimly lit hallway that also was made of concrete. At the top of a wooden staircase, he opened a door, which led to another surprise: the door was unlocked, just as the one had been in the basement room where he had woken up.

  He found himself standing in a small kitchen of what appeared to be a small house. Bloodstained bandages were in the sink and a variety of doctor’s tools lying about, none of which looked pleasant. The counter was disgusting, and throughout the kitchen, he saw used needles, syringes, and a multitude of medical supplies he didn’t recognize.

  Surprisingly, other than being extremely sore and quite hungry, Rick didn’t feel that bad. He was sure that whatever drugs the unknown Good Samaritan had given him hadn’t worn off yet.

  “Hello. Anyone there?” There was no answer, only the faint sound of what he thought could be a small generator far off in the distance.

  As Rick walked through the small house, it occurred to him that this was no different from any other house he’d seen in recent years. It was just another dump that scavengers had cleaned out. The only difference was that someone had turned the place into a makeshift medical center. How odd, he thought.

  Outside he found himself in a neighborhood he didn’t recognize. Bags of trash were scattered as far as he could see. Rick stood next to a worn, broken wooden fence in knee-high grass and weeds that consumed the small backyard of the redbrick house. He knew he wasn’t in Brick Creek but had no idea where he might be.

  The sun was beginning to set, which was fine because the darkness would allow him to travel with less chance of running into anyone. However, at the same time, it would make it more difficult for him to get his bearings. Judging from the shabby surroundings, he was sure that anyone he might come across would be less than kind.

  After walking for a short time, he could heard a baby crying and every now and then a scream. The street was, of course, without power, and the stench of what could be rotting human or animal flesh filled the air. He figured this neighborhood probably wasn’t much different than it was before the global collapse.

  After walking for six or seven blocks with his shotgun drawn, Rick was beginning to feel weak when he realized that his medication—whatever it was—was wearing off. As he walked to the side of the two-lane road, attempting to keep a low profile, in the distance he saw the underpass he had driven through on his way to Brick Creek so long ago. He now knew exactly where he was. He was in a town slightly larger than Brick Creek that was just off the interstate. It was on the east side of Brick Creek; its name was Dale Port. It was a town that the more prosperous and influential areas once would have considered the other side of the tracks.

  The good news was that Brick Creek was only a couple of hours up the road by foot. The bad news was that Rick was feeling every bit of the pain from his wounds. The pain was slowly creeping up on him, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.

  Three blocks later Rick found a small trailer off the main road that looked decent enough for him to use for the night—nothing fancy, but it was shelter, and mos
t likely it had a bed. Maybe not clean but a bed nonetheless.

  The trailer sat alone on the corner of two adjoining streets. There were three junked cars in front as well as a pile of black trash bags Rick thought had to have been there for years. The wet grass that surrounded the trailer was nearly knee-high, which made it difficult for him to see what was on the ground. The last thing he wanted was to step into a bear trap or stumble across a snake.

  Through the grass he made his way toward the steps of the trailer then reached out to open the door. By then his entire body was freezing cold, and he was quickly losing his strength. As Rick opened the door to the trailer, before he could do anything to react, someone hit him across the forehead with the butt of a weapon. Again he was knocked out; only this time he was far from the shelter of his RV fortress or the makeshift hospital.

  A few moments later, he opened his eyes, trying to shake off the pain. He was still near the steps of the trailer, but now he was on his back, as three armed kids, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, stood looking over him.

  “Is he dead?” the shortest of the three asked.

  The oldest was only slighter taller than the other two, but all three looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days. They were all skinny, with torn clothing, and wore looks of desperation. The oldest was wearing an old army jacket that was two sizes too big for him, and other than a 9mm Berretta that was pointing at Rick, he couldn’t see any other weapons on the boy. One of the other two kids had a 9mm as well. The last one, who was the smallest of the bunch, had what looked to be a Glock .45, but with Rick’s head and body in so much pain, he couldn’t be sure.