The Survivors: Book One

by Angela White

  Angela took her first break around four, pulling behind a faded billboard that warned buzzed driving was still drunk driving, and she rolled her eyes at the irony as she lit a joint. It didn’t matter now. Probably hadn’t as much before as the government had made out. Like every plant in nature, marijuana had its purposes. Right now it was keeping her calm, steadying her resolve, and she was very glad she’d found the big garbage bag in one of her neighbors’ apartments. She was terrified, but there was no way she could ever turn back and live with herself, knew it for sure as she sat on the warm hood, sweater pulled close. Her first-born son was out here somewhere in this hell, and she would find him or die trying.

  3

  Angela made camp her first night in an unturned corn field lined with patches of black ice and small, dirty snow drifts, in about half a mile from the jammed-up lanes of Interstate 74. The brown, brittle stalks didn’t quite come up to the roof, but when she threw a wide, dark tarp over the top, scattering slushy snow on it, the vehicle blended in, and she immediately felt better as darkness began to roll over the broken land.

  Angela went to the area she had driven through, straightening rows until the path looked normal again, and her eyes darting nervously at every small sound and movement of shadows. She didn’t see any insects or other wildlife, not even ants crawling over the dirt and yellowing switch grass as she set up camp. She did hear a robin, but was unable to pinpoint its location by the weak call. Things were no better here than what she’d left behind.

  Only getting out what she needed for dinner, Angela moved quickly and quietly, listening hard. Nursing a smashed thumb and a sore finger that she’d pulled a large splinter from (nailing things and lighting them up was what her Marine was good at), she left the back hatch open, and with the ends of the wide tarp hanging down to the ground, was almost completely shielded from the road.

  The sandwiches were gone quickly, as was the light, and she sat on the tailgate, surrounded by pillows, sipping on a hot cup of chamomile and relaxing. The warmth of the heater pushed back a little of the loneliness, and she drank her tea, watching the last of a vivid green sunset.

  She hadn’t heard anyone on the CB, just gunshots in the distance that made her drive faster, and she hadn’t expected to, but not seeing any people, at least not any alive, had bothered her too. When she filled in a page on her journal from now on, she would include how many people she saw on the way and what each town was like. She wasn’t sure why she was doing it, but instinct said she should, and so she would. In this new world, instincts were a defense that had to be used.

  Though she’d only come eight miles, it was a start. Enough to drive it home that once she found Charlie, there would be a price to pay for leaving when her man had made it clear he wanted her to stay, to wait for him no matter what. Until the War, she had never considered disobeying Kenny. They had a deal, and he got mean when she broke the rules. He would be pissed about her leaving - but about Marc Brady, he would be furious - and blood would be spilled, likely hers.

  Kenny would never believe anything she offered as an explanation, and she would have to warn Marc that it might come down to real violence. It was only fair he knew what he was getting into. Where was he now?

  "You can look," the Witch tried to seduce, but Angie didn’t. Not because it was wrong, but because a part of her was too excited, couldn’t wait to see him again. What if she still had feelings for him?

  Not only would it really complicate everything, but it had to be a mortal sin to long for one man while still firmly attached to another. She told herself she was eager to see him because it meant getting to her son and was finally able to sleep. Her dreams were not easy, haunted with visions of her son, vanished, gone forever, leaving her to spend eternity searching the new American wastelands for him.

  Chapter Eleven

  February 10th, 2013

  1

  “Angie!"

  Marc snapped out of the nightmare abruptly, heart thumping. His eyes focused on steamed-up windows, feeling sweat rolling down his neck and back in small torrents.

  He flipped off the heat and closed his eyes again. He could still see how her long, brittle hair had flared in the dust; how the blood-smeared footprints dragged out behind Angie as she walked the broken landscape, searching for her son while the radiation victims from his bus escape, the walking dead, followed on her heels. Was it only a dream or perhaps a vision, a warning? No way to know for sure, but it made him uneasy.

  Marc snapped his seatbelt on over his long black coat, telling himself it didn’t matter. Wherever she was, he would find her. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at the animal curled up on the neatly packed back seat. “How’s it hangin', Dog?”

  The big timber wolf ducked his head under a wide paw, and groaned.

  Marc grunted in agreement, wishing the sun would hurry up and rise so he could make good time…and because he was sick of the damp, cold air that always hinted of snow. Not yet. Not until he found her.

  “I hear ya. Few more days and we’ll take a break - get some fresh food and extra sleep.”

  As if he understood, and Marc wasn’t sure he didn’t, the blackish-red and gray animal rolled over onto his back and stared at his master upside down with piercing gold eyes full of patience.

  Marc yawned again, wanting a shave and shower, but he quickly swallowed a pill instead, wanting to be alert to drive. He was exhausted, making 250 miles in eleven days, 150 of it in the last five, even eating on the move. He had pulled over when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He figured Angie was roughly a hundred miles ahead of him, and he had pushed hard to get here. As a result, he wasn’t completely sure where in southwest Ohio he was.

  The roads were unbelievable and intersections required hours to get through in some places. It had taken him a full day just to get across the suspension bridge from Kentucky. Would have been faster if he’d left his vehicle behind, but he wouldn’t do that without having another lined up.

  He rolled down the window to view the foggy street sign. The first thing he noticed was the billboard above him wishing the city of Cincinnati a happy, prosperous New Year.

  “Some great joke,” he muttered, seeing a muddy, rusting CSX rail yard under inches of sludge. The dark trestles were barely visible through the fog, and even the graffiti he could see (Die Milton! Hondo eats draft ballz. Px2012) looked like it had been there for years, instead of just eight weeks.

  Nothing moved on the dirty suspension bridge swaying precariously behind him, just the same wind and rain-blown debris that was everywhere. Up ahead, were the burned frames of two Hum-vees11 with a charred Wright Patterson logo on the sides. Both had crashed into a stand of dead and dying pines. His frown deepened.

  It was bad here, contaminated, and Marc was glad Angie had left, even while he worried about her being alone. Clearly, it had become too dangerous to stay. Sighing, Marc consulted the map. Where was he? His heart jumped as he figured out his location. Close. Very close to the home Angie had left her ghosts in.

  A very short ten minutes later, the Sergeant was rolling up Queen City hill, seeing, but not worried about, the cleared lanes. Probably happened back in the first weeks after the War, when some cities had actually tried to return to normal…which was when their power had gone off.

  Marc wondered again why he was here. Angie had a man. Why wasn’t he helping get their son back? Had her husband run out on her? Maybe he’d been taken in the draft, along with the boy. Marc nodded. That made sense.

  "Maybe he’s dead," his heart whispered an alternative eagerly.

  The grunt shoved the thought away with revulsion as he braked gently in front of the yellow brick apartment building. He had been here a decade ago, but hadn’t possessed the courage, the callousness, to knock. She’d had a completely new life by then and he had realized it was one that didn't include him – one he had no right to disrupt.

  Marc had returned to duty and thrown himself into his career: saving, fixing,
and impressing. Eventually, he’d ended up in MARSOC, where they used his brains as well as his brawn, but he had never married, unable to even look for a woman he could settle for. He’d never regretted loving Angie, only that he’d let them get caught before they could run.

  “She’s not here now. Place is empty," Marc muttered, glad he didn’t have to face her man, but not really sure why he had come to this place.

  Chasing ghosts was always a bad idea, but here he was, drawn into the past again against his will. He had spent his entire adult life trying to convince himself that it hadn’t meant much, that she hadn’t been the one. Marc was filled with sudden, familiar shame - he'd taken advantage of her, had known it was wrong, but had been unable to resist, and oh God, hadn’t every orgasm since paled in comparison? He owed her a huge debt, and there was little she could ask for that he wouldn’t give. After all, she was family.

  I want to know what type of life she’s had, Marc thought. That’s why I came - Recon. I just don’t want to face her totally in the dark.

  He left the engine running, Dog watching anxiously, and Marc didn’t lock the door though the remote entry was in his pocket. Anyone who tried to enter the Blazer would get a big surprise.

  He jogged through the drizzle to the door, only vaguely noticing the burnt-out shape of a truck that looked more recent and a huge oak tree that had obviously been hit by something harsh. His mind dismissed it as yet another battle scene.

  Opening the cracked door, Marc slid his long coat behind his gun handles without even thinking about it. The hallway was very dark, and smelled like burnt sugar. Two sheets of paper on the carpeted floor immediately caught his eye and Marc knew instinctively who had written them.

  I’ll settle for whatever is in those pages, he decided, snapping on his penlight and picking them up from the mud-tracked carpet. He didn’t really want to go inside the home that another man had shared with Angie, where some lucky bastard had lived the life Marc had dreamed about every night since being ripped from her life.

  The Sergeant read the letters with a sharp-edged curiosity that missed little.

  Charlie, first, you should lock yourself inside and be as quiet as you can. Do it right now!

  If you’re reading this, we either missed each other or I didn’t survive the trip. I’m terrified of that, of leaving you on your own. I wish I could be with you now! I love you and miss you so much it feels like there’s a knife in my heart.

  I have a big secret to tell you, one that was supposed to wait until you were grown and out of the house. Kenny is not your Dad. I know you've suspected, but I couldn’t tell you before and I’m sure you understand why.

  Your Dad is Marcus Charles Brady.

  Our family was bible-strict Christian and when your dad and I fell for each other, only cousins by marriage, it was still too close for people to accept. We’d always known and we hid it for a long time, but feelings like that can’t be hidden…or fought.

  We didn’t plan on it, we were just swept away. We had planned to leave when I was older, but fate didn’t give us time. A bit after your dad was sent away, I realized you were on the way. And I wanted you more than anything, from that first second of awareness.

  I didn’t tell anyone, just ran as fast as I could. They had legal control until I was of age, and since I was only 16, they could have taken you. Worse, I’ll always believe they would have made me get an abortion. I ran and…Kenny found me.

  How it happened is my own personal hell – you already feel too much of my pain – and I won’t share that. Kenny and I made a deal that said you and I would become his obedient family. It seemed like the best I could do at the time. I know now that it was the wrong choice. How could I not, when I can see it on my skin, feel it in your looks?

  Yet, after all that’s happened, he has chosen not to come back for me.

  That only leaves one person you can trust – your dad. You have to call Brady, and you know what I mean. He’ll come once he knows it’s true. I’m so sorry now, that I never told Marc, never gave him the chance to be your father. He had no idea you existed, or he would have come back for us. I know it in my heart...

  There was more, but Marc let it go. Anger, guilt, and joy warred in his heart. They had a son. They made a baby! She should have told him! He would have come back a happy man.

  "Really?" his heart was cruel, "You wouldn’t have felt like a trapped criminal, sure it was wrong?"

  Marc let out a harsh sound. That’s exactly how it would have felt back then, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t knocked, and she’d been forced to turn to someone else.

  “I should have talked to her that day."

  "Yes."

  Understanding instantly that this man had been here all along, waiting for her…their son, Marc spun, Colt out and ready.

  “You must be the sinner she talks about in the letter. Her lover,” Warren sneered, body stinging from the burns, mind flaming at the defeat.

  Marc took in the charred skin and furious brown eyes, and instantly connected them to the wrecks outside.

  “You’re she couldn’t wait for me.”

  He was suddenly sure this man had forced Angie to defend herself. The rage was nearly overwhelming.

  Warren scowled at the confirmation of their relationship, raising his gun as he moved out of the dark corner where he had been lurking. His daughter and his leadership were long gone because of the Witch, but maybe he had another chance at her. If he could just wound her lover!

  Warren's face was alive with hatred. “Will she come back for you?"

  Brady’s stormy eyes darkened. “She’s not the one you should worry about."

  They moved at the same time, but only one shot lit up the darkness as the Colt barked loudly in a flash of justice and death.

  Warren’s weapon dropped to the carpeted floor, blood blooming on his chest. A second later, the broken preacher dropped to his knees, eyes almost relieved as scarlet ran in small streams from one corner of his mouth.

  Marc stared down at the shuddering man death was fast approaching. When Warren’s mouth opened, but no sound came out, he seemed to understand anyway.

  “She’s not here to serve any man. She’s special.”

  “A Demon!” Warren choked out.

  Marc’s eyes went colder, but he only frowned, watching the man take his last breath while either thunder or gunfire cracked violently in the distance.

  “Look at yourself. You have no right to judge.”

  2

  After pulling Warren’s cooling corpse out into the wet, morning light and around the corner of the building, Marc put the letters back together on the glass door where he was sure they had originally been, and left yet another ghost to haunt the world.

  Brady returned to his warm vehicle, giving the anxious wolf a quick rub of comfort as he turned on the wipers to clear the heavy layer of rain now thumping down on them. He wiped the stinking liquid from his hands and face as he drove away, then lit a smoke and tried to relax.

  Concentrating the way she had taught him so long ago, Marc called out as the riot-ravaged streets of Cincinnati began to roll by. He had to know she was okay. “Angie!"

  He hit the brakes as a child’s weather-faded ball rolled across the street, its color that of the dirty pavement he was driving on, and slowly rolled on as the wet wind gusted against the muddy 4x4.

  "Angie!"

  “I’m here, Brady." Her tone was cool, unreadable.

  “Where? I just left Queen City hill."

  Angela hesitated, knowing by his tone that he had read the letter that was meant for their son. How long had he known where she lived?

  “About ten miles north of Greensburg, Indiana," she sent as she got up and started packing her small camp neatly back into the Blazer, trying not to let her teeth chatter in the early morning chill.

  If he was in Cincinnati now, then he was still a week behind her and Angela wanted to keep that space for a bit longer. She had to be able to look back aft
er this was all over and know she had gotten the journey started. She also had no idea how to ask him for what she needed yet, hadn’t worked out the words in her head.

  “I understand why you didn’t tell me, but I wish you had. I’m thrilled. I never thought to have a child."

  His words made her heart pound. Hadn’t she longed to hear that so many times? Nevertheless, she ignored it as she pulled thick gloves on to muffle the bite in the air.

  Moving quicker, she sent a clear warning, “He’s mine. Parentage doesn’t matter."

  Brady didn’t respond, though he wanted to. If she sensed the things floating through his mind, she would disappear. The idea hit him again and he felt himself grinning. He had a son! It was a reason to have hope, a goal, and his heart was suddenly lighter than it had been since the War. He would now serve a child…and maybe his mother.

  “I ran into a friend of yours here. Had some burns.”

  Marc could feel her scowling at the words, aware of Dog watching with golden eyes.

  “Warren. He’s dead?”

  Now, Marc was the one frowning. Something else she should have mentioned…though, she hadn’t known he would go there. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. Killing wasn’t what I wanted. I had hoped he was no longer a threat.”

  “It was his choice.”

  There was silence between them for a moment, broken by the drumming rain and the squeak of his wipers, but the connection, the bond between them, was strong. It allowed him to hear stray noises - a clink, a snap, a grunt of effort. She was breaking camp, didn’t want him around yet.