by Angela White
“Then hurry up and find some clothes in them cars out there - you too, but only dresses or skirts. My women don’t wear the pants, I do.”
Samantha nodded obediently. Wanting desperately to spit in his face, she held her leg out for him to clamp the hated tow-chain over the raw, bruised skin of her ankle, and sighed in relief when he removed the rawhide leash from her neck. She forced herself to give him a small smile. Melvin was the one she might have to kill to get away. It would be best if he thought she was accepting her fate, so she would have the element of surprise.
As she stepped nervously down into the half-inch of gray and black flakes, her shoe landed on a slick piece of wrapping paper with a bloody Santa smiling happily at her. She slipped, awkwardly, crying out as the van’s sharp door caught her leg. The rusty corner tore through her skirt and she hit the wet ground, landing hard on her ass, as blood welled.
The two painters were laughing, Melvin doubled over, and Samantha’s anger grew as cold as the wind.
“Get shoes too. Dumb-ass woman."
Samantha picked herself up, rubbing at her throbbing thigh. She wanted to scream that she had been grabbed and thrown onto a government chopper, that she hadn’t been planning to walk in the snow or anywhere else, but turned away before she could. Fighting back now was not part of the plan - a weapon was.
Her feet were ice within the first minute and she stomped to the farthest car she could reach- a long, brown, dented station wagon. The frozen vehicle was, thankfully, empty of remains, and she began to find small, useful treasures as soon as she ducked inside the front and began searching. She stayed at it steadily, anger flaring hotter when her nail caught on the chain and ripped off in a hot flash of pain.
Five minutes later, she was still searching the wagon. First darting a quick glance at the two men struggling with the tow chain, Samantha saw they weren’t paying attention to her, and took a moment to evaluate what she’d found- a fanny pack, a lighter, two Bic pens, one of which she slid behind her ear and covered with her dirty hair. Half a pack of smokes and one unopened can of Diet Coke completed the stash, and she shoved it all into the small pack before moving to the rear. This vehicles was so crammed with bags, suitcases, and boxes, it was a wonder there had been room for the driver.
The suitcase at the very bottom of the far floorboard was newer, just barely in reach…and full of women’s clothes and belongings, she realized, staring at the lacy bra she’d fished out. Her numb fingers went back to exploring the many pouches and slots.
In the last pocket, when she could almost feel Melvin headed her way, Samantha found the Taser.
The cold edge of power filled her as she sought, and found, the symbols for a fully-charged battery. She grinned harshly at the footsteps crunching closer… at the man who didn’t know the coming battle had just shifted her way.
“What are ya…?”
Sam hit the button as her arm was jerked around, and the vicious blast of electricity slammed into Melvin’s chest.
“Uuhhh..!”
He began twitching, letting go of her, and she stared coolly into his pain-filled eyes as she held the button in, watched him stumble back, teetering. The instant she let go, he thumped heavily to the wet, snowy ground and his eyes rolled back into his head.
His yellow, nicotine-stained knuckles landed on her foot and she smiled coldly, kicking his hand away. “Shoulda been nicer, Mel.”
Sam's taunt was low; her tight smile seething hatred. That had felt good! She tossed the weapon and jumble of wire darts into the wagon’s backseat as Melvin’s body continued to twitch as if he was touching a live line.
“Hey!" she shouted toward Henry, choosing her next move quickly. “Something's wrong with Mel!"
Henry came on the run and dropped to his knees in the snow beside his brother, who was now drooling, trying to talk - to warn him.
Sucking in air, Sam snatched the pen out of her hair, keeping it behind her back as she let the cap fall to the frozen ground.
“What is it? What happened? “Melvin’s eyes had closed, body stilling, and the painter was looking up at her in helpless fear. He’d forgotten that they weren’t in this together.
Sam shrugged, trying to match his tone and keep her body blocking his view of the wagon and the weapon. “A seizure?”
Henry looked back down, and Sam immediately lashed out - swinging from the hip and leaning her weight into the unexpected blow.
The pen plunged easily into Henry’s neck, making an awful ripping sound, and she jumped back as his body went rigid, blood squirting.
Eyes bulging, Henry’s arms jerked wildly as he started suffocating. The end of the pen was protruding from just above his Adam’s apple, blood raining down his black shirt in furious streams.
He collapsed across Melvin’s chest, unbelieving eyes glaring up at her from his purple face as he slowly died.
Sam sucked in a ragged breath, glorious in her victory…then cold, hard reason took over. She couldn’t stand here and wait for Melvin to recover! He was definitely the more dangerous of the two. As if to prove her thought, the surviving brother moaned. She got moving.
Samantha clenched her teeth against a surging stomach, and used her foot to push Henry’s bloody body over. She quickly removed the dead man’s bootlaces and bound Melvin’s hands and feet, shivering violently as he stirred again. With this setup, he wouldn’t even be able to stand, let alone run after her, which was good because he wouldn’t take her body for this. It would be her life.
Satisfied with his bonds, she took a minute to clear the blood from her hands, using the icy slush to scrub with. That done, she lit one of the cigarettes from the fanny pack and looked around, making her final choices. That icy feeling inside had little to do with the wind. She was a killer now and she would act like one again if she had to.
Sam already knew she would avoid the burning city, and the Badlands to the northwest - she wasn’t going anywhere she had already been or Melvin might think she would go. There was also no possibility of traveling the Rocky Mountains that littered her hazy view to the southeast, not alone and on foot.
To the west, more smoke was rising, backdropped by distant purple mountains, and she shivered harder. Yellowstone. Bad things were happening there. That only left due east, or south. Samantha pushed off the wave of fear that wanted to overwhelm her. NORAD was south. She could make it that far.
“Ooohh…”
Melvin was regaining consciousness, and Sam made sure she was out of his range as she tossed the cigarette into a deep-looking drift and stepped back over to the snow-covered wagon.
The black flakes fell thickly, the wind gusting harder, and she pulled the suitcase of clothes out and set it on the hood. Behind her, the trussed man came fully alert, twisting and turning.
“What the...? Henry! What’d ya do t' Henry?"
Samantha ignored him, stepping casually by the feet that tried to trip her, hated ankle chain rattling.
“You killed him!” He glared at her, struggling against his bonds. “I got the keys, Bitch! Come get ‘em!"
Sam did look at him then, cold, blue eyes choosing his fate. Did he need to die, too? That was the only kind of death she was okay with handing out – the needed kind, like for rapists.
“Come on, whore!"
Samantha grinned, stepping back to the wagon. “It won’t take long to get the Taser ready again. I’ll 'come on’ after your heart attack," she stated ruthlessly, sitting down on the icy seat. Her teeth were chattering loudly as her fingers began to feed the wires into the small black box.
Melvin immediately started scooting backwards, balls drawing up painfully when she paused to give him a furious smile of anticipation. “Wait! Okay! We’ll trade. Let me go, and we’ll split up - never see each other again!"
Samantha nodded, but made no move toward him. She wasn’t sure the weapon could be reused this way, was sure it needed a new cartridge or something, but the backward hillbilly at her feet wouldn’t know that
and hopefully it would bluff him. Sam smiled eagerly. Then again, she didn’t know for sure that it wouldn’t work either. If not, if he pushed her, she had another pen.
The snow was falling in sheets now, the wind spinning small drifts in circles, and she moved faster, able to feel it getting colder as she watched the trapped man push himself backwards in the slush.
“Okay! Okay! The keys are in my front pocket. You can have ‘em. I won’t move!"
Sam nodded again, still smiling that tight, malicious grin, and Melvin began to beg, finally sounding sincere.
“I’m really sorry, lady, really.” His voice got louder when she stood up, anger burning hotly in her heart. “Please don’t, please."
“You don’t even know my name!”
“No, come on! You’ll kill me. No! I’m sorry for what we..."
The man froze as Sam dropped to a knee beside him in the icy slush, shoving the box hard against his crotch. “It might not kill you, but you’ll wish it had.” She sneered. “Be a good dog now, Mel, and don’t even breathe.”
His eyes pleaded with her as she sent a rough hand down into his closest pocket and came up with her freedom. Enjoying the fear on his dirty face, she jumped out of range of his kicking feet and immediately unlocked the hated chain - it fall into the dirty snow.
“I should lock you to the bumper and leave you here!" She landed a vicious kick to his knee as she stepped over him, going back to the hood of the car. She stripped while he watched, letting him see the dozens of purple and yellow bruises, and the dark blood crusted to her thighs. There was loathing in her look as she used the grimy skirt to clean up, and her face mocked him as she threw it in his direction.
She pulled on a pair of warm sweats with a taunting smile. “Who wears the pants now, you piece of shit?"
Melvin said nothing, only watched her and the Taser that stayed close by her hand. Her eyes kept track of his slow backward progress as she got what she needed from the weathered wagon.
“What’re you gonna do?" His voice was even, though he was starting to shiver.
Sam snapped on the pack and closed the suitcase before turning to look at him. “Henry always carried that knife, the one he used to cut my hair! Find it and stay away! Don’t make me kill you."
“Just 'cause you had a pass don’t mean you’re worth a shit out here in this world!” the captive man spat, hatred lining every inch of his face. “I hope it haunts you that we went right by that compound!”
Samantha walked away without responding to any of his taunts, threats, lies, or pleas, thinking she would have to watch out for him. Melvin deserved to die, that was the only way she would really feel safe, but she just couldn’t, not unless it was needed. One premeditated murder was enough. The feel of it was…heavy, as if a chain had just been clamped upon her soul – binding it to this world.
Samantha moved fast, glad when the snow became thicker and the wind blew fiercely. It muted Melvin's screams and would cover her tracks better. It also might kill her if she waited too long to take shelter, but Sam didn’t stop right away, going by house after warm, empty-looking house, to keep her enemy from seeing where she went. She longed to drive one of the vehicles she was now climbing over and around, but they had spent the first few days after the War looking for something quieter, easier on gas, and she’d been forced to tell them about EMPs and that they’d been lucky Melvin’s van - parked under a sewer overpass - had started. Anything with electrical components in a damage zone was now junk.
Samantha blinked back tears as the frigid wind stung her eyes, lungs aching from the cold in the thick air, and she sniffed before running a damp sweater sleeve across her dripping nose. Her feet felt leaden, sliding on black ice, and she curled her numb fingers tighter into the wet material as she caught her balance and pushed on.
Sam sucked in a surprised breath as another icy blast of wind hit her in the face, but didn’t stop. The more space between her and Melvin, the better. “By and by, Sammi,” she told herself, lowering her head against the wind. “One foot in front of the other.” She would stay away from highways and frontage roads. Maybe, with any luck, the storm would get worse, and Melvin would have other things to worry about.
Fifteen minutes later, the snow had become blinding, travel through it no longer possible on foot. Sam broke into a house set behind a thick row of trees - her hands, feet, and face burning. She grabbed a bag of treasures from the home: blankets, a man’s heavy trench coat, a pair of shoes, and a loaf of bread with only a little mold on it. Tempted to stay and enjoy some of the old comforts, she made her feet take her instead to the small tool shed behind the house. Being a girl scout had saved her life more than once in the days since the War had come and blown away everything she knew.
The shed held a small, green riding mower and three bales of inviting hay, and after putting her things inside, she opened the window and went back out into the cold. It was a struggle to close the door and lock it, the gusting wind pulling it from her numb fingers, and she tried to hurry, looking over her shoulder before climbing back into the window. Enough time had gone by for Melvin to have gotten free and started after her, and he would have his rage to drive him through the storm.
Sam closed the window, hanging her wet shirt over it, and wasn’t afraid of the pitch-blackness or the unfamiliar room. Her terror walked on two legs and she was very glad to be out of sight. She planned to lay low for a few days, then continue her solitary journey south, the Cheyenne Mountain complex housing NORAD now her goal. There was no way the compound had been breached. That bunker housed the President, the Joint Chiefs, and of course, all the records of those with a pass. All she had to do was get there.
Sam made a bed in the warm, scratchy hay and after two peanut butter sandwiches and the icy Diet Coke, she dozed. Covered in blankets and stiff garden bedding, she held a long kitchen knife tight in her grip.
4
Melvin didn’t find a knife, hadn’t thought to check his dead brother’s boots, and the wind-blown snow covered him in a very short time. His body temperature dropped steadily.
Just before dawn, as death arrived, the painter was dreaming of falling into the icy pond behind their childhood home in southern Michigan. The frigid water was suffocating, no Henry there to pull him out this time, and as his heart stopped beating in the dream, Melvin went into cardiac arrest under six inches of drifting snow. He never woke, getting off easier than he deserve. During sleep was one of the kinder ways to die in this harsh new world.
Chapter Three
January 6th, 2013
Outside Williamsburg, New Mexico
1
“Who’s in here?"
The call held equal amounts of control and command, and it carried easily to the 14-year-old boy huddled miserably under the far bunk of the abandoned barracks. The teenager had been here since the War and the evacuations, and to him, it seemed like a very long time.
Moving cautiously, the Lance Corporal stepped into the oval, dorm-style room, sharp eyes going over empty footlockers, their contents scattered. Someone had been looking for food. Had he found any?
Stopping near the middle of the 30-bunk aisle, the Marine saw grit and sand, but no footprints or signs of recent life. Was he too late then? The base was mostly empty, looted. Only a few had been left behind, overlooked, or escaped being dragged below ground. He had seen some of those and was hoping the boy was one of them.
“Come on out. That’s an order!"
LC Kenn Harrison winced as the sharp tones bounced back at him from the thin walls, and his hand dropped to the nine-mill on his hip. Instinct said he wasn’t alone in the barracks.
“Charlie?” Kenn called the name as if they were at home, ignoring the gunshots still going on outside the base, and was rewarded with a small shuffling noise that made him tighten the control over his emotions. He had been sure the boy would be gone - had been forced onto one of the evacuation choppers.
The Marine slowly moved to the end of the aisle,
preparing himself to react, as he read the heavy waves of the person. Desperation… and fear.
“Come on out." Kenn forced himself to be patient. He would not have been in the past, couldn’t, but the War had already begun to retrain him with things like compassion and understanding. He watched two filthy hands emerge from under the bunk on his right. Kenn grinned, freeing his relief. The boy was here! He was alive! He was... hurt? Was that blood trickling from his ears and Oh God! Where were his eyes?
“Sir?" The boy’s bloody, gaping eye sockets stared around, oozing crimson streams. The Marine automatically lunged forward to catch him when he stumbled, fell.
“Want... my... Mommy, Sir!" the dying child gasped, splattering them both with red droplets as he struggled to breathe. “… Mommy!"
Lance Corporal Kenneth Harrison snapped awake with a startled gasp. His eyes went to the boy who was laying close by, looking back with alarm. It was okay. He’d found the child in time.
Kenn began to calm his breathing. It had taken him two full days to search, the smart boy moving to empty buildings to avoid being taken, and he was still feeling the effects. The nightmare was a nasty reminder of the fear and hopelessness he’d felt when the chopper crashed into the officer’s dorm in front of him.
The darkness around them was absolute, their thick, black tent blending in well with the wet, New Mexico landscape, and that unwelcome sense of danger flared. When Charlie started to speak, Kenn shook his head, senses switching to full alert as he listened. Light rain drummed on the tarps over the truck, wind howling through the junipers around them…had that been a twig snapping?
Kenn quietly drew his M9, straining to see anything from the spyhole he had left when they made camp in the thick grove of piñon trees. They were too well hidden. No way was someone out there watching them, no way. He slid his wrist under the blankets to block the light, and checked the alarm console on his watch. It was armed and unbroken.