Gentle murmuring and movement at his side made him drag his eyelids open. The sun had come up some time while he was out. The light inside the living room from the comfort of the couch was soothing and not jarring like he’d expected. Had he been taken prisoner? He would’ve expected to be thrown to the ground somewhere and beaten rather than comfortable on the couch.
Margie, Cady’s mom, moved in and out of Scott’s field of view, seriousness creasing her brow. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun and she looked more tired than Scott felt. Which was saying something.
She glanced at his face then did a double-take. She paused what she was doing and moved in close, speaking slowly. “I’m glad you’re awake. I had to dress the wound to get it to stop bleeding and then we all got some sleep. I don’t have the eyes I used to have, but I’m going to stitch you up and we’ll hope it works.” She smiled and patted his shoulder. Her touch was confident and reassuring.
“You… did your husband make it then?” Scott’s parched throat didn’t want to work. He licked his lips and swallowed. Margie had said them or we or something that would suggest more than just her.
Margie’s movements stilled and then she returned to dressing his leg, keeping her eyes averted. “No. David… He didn’t make it.” She pressed her lips together and ducked her head, bright pink spots high on the balls of her cheeks.
Scott closed his eyes and nodded. For whatever reason Margie wasn’t saying more and he didn’t have the energy to press. Plus, if she had half the pain in her life over the last few weeks that Scott did, he didn’t want to pry. Some things were better left alone.
“Okay, you’re done. I’m going to help you sit up and then I want you to fill me in on some things.” Margie leaned over him and slid her arm under his shoulders, lifting him up. “Take a second. You’ve lost a lot of blood and you’re going to be disoriented for a minute. Here, drink this.” She handed him a small bottle of red Gatorade.
Scott pressed his hand to his forehead and waited for the wave of nausea and dizziness to pass. He sipped the drink and felt better in moments. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he finally took the opportunity to look around the room. Margie sank onto the cushion beside him. They were on Cady’s couch in Cady’s living room – where Cady no longer lived.
A teenage boy with dark coloring sat on the other couch, his hands clasped tightly in his lap and his worried expression more like a frown than anything else.
“This is Ryker. He’s… a friend.” Margie offered a smile at the young man.
Scott stared at Ryker. There was something about him that Scott had seen in Jason, a gentleness about the eyes. Something… He realized he was staring and he inclined his head carefully. “”I’m sorry. It’s nice to meet you, Ryker.” The boy reminded him of his nephew and that saddened Scott. He turned questioning eyes toward Margie. “Where’ve you been? The girls were so worried… I wish I could see their faces.”
“I was trying to get here.” Margie held up a hand, half-shaking her head. “My turn first. Where’s Cady and Bailey? Are they…” For the first time Margie’s vulnerability showed in the quiver of her lower lip and the mistiness of eyes. She lifted her chin. “Are my daughter and granddaughter dead? Now, be honest. I can take it.”
Scott held her gaze, determined not to sugar-coat anything. “No. At least as of the last time I saw them they were alive. They’ve headed back to your place.” Cady was determined to keep her daughter safe – no matter what it cost Cady.
Margie’s face paled and her eyes widened. She reached out a hand to no one in particular but used it to steady herself on the back of the couch. “No.” She shook her head and shouted it again. “No!” Her voice quivering, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and hanging her head. “They couldn’t be headed to my place. We were coming here to be safe.”
“Not here. We can’t stay here anymore. It’s not safe here. Cady said you were fairly remote and set up better than she is. I… I stayed when I should have gone with them.” Scott shook his head. “So many have died. I wouldn’t have gotten injured, if I hadn’t stayed.”
“If you hadn’t stayed, we would have driven into a terrible situation. I’m glad you’re here.” Margie nodded, straightening up and stretching her neck to the side, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “There are more dead than we can guess at. There are even more dying left and right because of the wrong types of people being let loose to do whatever they want.”
They sat there in silence for another moment.
Scott rested his hand on the bandaged place Margie had treated on his leg. “I’m glad you came, then. We need to figure out a way to make this place steadier.”
“No. You don’t understand. It’s not safe up at my place.” Margie’s words sent a shaft of frozen fear through his chest. She motioned with her hands while she spoke, her fingers trembling. “There’s a group… They’re radicals. If there are enough of them still alive after the virus, the Gulch isn’t going to be the same place she probably remembers.”
“What are you talking about?” Scott blinked hard, fighting the fuzziness in his vision as he tried to focus on Margie.
“A prepper group up in our neighborhood, I guess you would call it. They were intense. Cady never could understand why David and I kept our distance. The head of the group was charged with rape multiple times but was never found guilty because of a lack of testimonies.” Margie inhaled and exhaled, closing her eyes for a swift second.
They sat in silence for a moment and then Margie slapped her lower thighs, just above her knees, with both hands and stood up. “Well then, we can’t stay here. We’ve got to get to Cady and Bailey before they get to the homestead.” Margie turned to Ryker. “There’s an expedition out there. Load up as much as you can find. I’ll open the crawlspace to get the most we can. Guns and ammunition first. I’ll get Scott to the rig and then help you get more.”
Scott cleared his throat. “I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience, but I need to take my dog. I can’t leave him again.” Scott gritted his teeth. Things were moving too fast but at least he was heading toward Cady and keeping his niece safe. He had a lot of mistakes to make up for, but at least he could do something about that one.
Scott responded to Margie’s take charge attitude. He needed that right then. He would just question his decisions. If he could rely on someone else, he wouldn’t be frozen to move, to act.
Cady was in danger, if Margie was correct. Scott wasn’t sure where he and Cady stood, but he couldn’t let her die or be in danger while she’d taken on his niece and gone off on her own with her daughter. That wasn’t how he was going to meet his Maker. He had enough regrets. He could at least try to remove some of them.
Thanks to Margie, he would have a chance to try to fix something he’d messed up. He would tell Margie later how much he appreciated her showing up and taking him on.
Right then, he had to help get his injured self out to the car. They had a trio to save.
Chapter 21
Perry
The wall wasn’t going up nearly fast enough. The women were pushing back since five of them had taken a dive off the ledge and killed themselves. If they wanted to have a completely safe place to live, they needed to close themselves off from the rest of the crazy world. Who knew what was coming after the virus.
Dick approached with a mincing manner, his hands held to his chest and a simpering curve to his lips. The man was annoying and Perry couldn’t wait to kill him. And kill him he would. It was only a matter of time.
Rolling his eyes, Perry half turned to Dick. He didn’t bother hiding his derision for the man any longer. “What do you want?”
Eyes shifting around the semi-circular wall going up, Dick licked his over-sized lips. “Ted, the night scout said he was coming up from town on rounds and there were two women in the woods by the old Parks place. When he doubled back after putting down his loot to grab them, they were gone. He searched for them, but he couldn’t find an
y sign. He suggested they might be in with Old Dusty, but he wasn’t prepared to go against the old guy by himself.” Dick rolled his eyes like his opinion of Ted was low, but they both knew that if Dick had been in Ted’s place, he wouldn’t have even doubled back to get the girls.
Dusty Parks was fearsome and Perry had given him wide berth.
Until now.
“There’s our new workers. Two is better than none.” Perry narrowed his eyes, excitement growing in his chest. More women. And they wouldn’t be used like the camp ones already. The time for mercy was at end. He had to tighten up the reigns and start getting rid of the loose ends.
If the men wouldn’t do as they were instructed, then Perry would start adding them to the worker list. If they wouldn’t contribute there, then he’d walk them off the same ledge as the women.
Perry didn’t care what people thought, so long as they did what they were told. He had to protect them from the world.
Chapter 22
White House
Danvers, the old security guard, and Jenkins, an assistant to the Press Secretary stood on the lawn of the White House in the rays of the sinking sun. Green grass that had, for the first time in generations, grown up to reach mid-calf was thick and fragrant.
“Do you think we’ll be able to rebuild?” Danver’s voice was husky, permanently ruined by the effects of the virus. At least he’d survived. He’d been too tired to seek out the Cure and so he hadn’t suffered its side effects.
“With what? At least the Vice President isn’t dead, but that doesn’t mean anything. We need military and people to do the work. We can’t do it all by ourselves.” Jenkins glanced at his new acquaintance. “What if we just walked away? No one would know.”
“We would know. And do what? Where would we go? What would we do?” Danvers slumped his shoulders. No matter what they did, it wouldn’t be easy. They needed manpower. They needed governmental leadership. At what point would another country get back on their feet and decide America was what they wanted?
No one would be in a position to stop the takeover.
No, no matter what they did, it wouldn’t be easy. Rebuilding never was.
~~~
Find out who survives another day in Death Days, book 10 in the 180 Days and Counting… Series.
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Hey Survivor!
The series of 180 Days and Counting… Series mentions cannibalism which is a topic I find very fascinating. What started out as a joke, became a full series in the work. I even was joking about how I would write it, more like a satire, but then the characters came alive for me and I started to explore the actual psychology behind cannibalism. If you haven’t had a chance to check out Memoirs of a Cannibal, book 1 of the I am a Cannibal series, keep reading for something a little different, a little fun.
Book 10 is coming for 180 Days and Counting… Series. Cady and Margie are getting close, but will they make it in time to save Bailey and each other?
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***BR Paulson Books***
180 DAYS AND COUNTING… SERIES
No Time, bk 1
Last Chance, bk 2
Hold On, bk 3
Too Late, bk 4
Look Away, bk 5
Find Them, bk6
Try Hard, bk 7
Move On, bk 8
Fit In, bk 9
Death Days, bk 10
Long Gone, bk 11
No More, bk 12
WORTH OF SOULS SERIES
Cost of Survival, bk 1
Exchange Rate, bk 2
Worth of Souls, bk 3
BoxSet books 1 - 3
INTO THE END SERIES
Into the End, bk1
Through the Flames, bk 2
Out of the Ashes, bk 3
BoxSet books 1 - 3
BARELY ALIVE SERIES
Barely Alive, bk 1
Falling Apart, bk 2
Mostly Dead, bk 3
Viral Intent
BoxSet books 1 - 4
MEMOIRS OF A CANNIBAL SERIES
Memoirs of a Cannibal
Cannibal Holiday
Cooking with the Cannibal
Cannibal CookBook
Keeping up with the Cannibals
My First Time
Chapter 1
The first man I ever ate was Uncle Bob.
No, no. I didn't kill him.
I guess it kinda came down to a survival situation. Maybe that's what it was. Maybe that's what it wasn't. My confidence in the situation is dismal, based on the memory of an eight-year-old.
Coming from a large family – at least large by today’s standards – I have a hard time standing out.
Five brothers and one sister and they're all older than me. Dad said he'd been waiting his whole foray into fatherhood to find out which of his kids was like him. I'm the last one, and I guess I met his expectations. That’s a lot of pressure when you don’t know what you’re supposed to be.
Back to my monumental meal. Summertime in Montana wasn’t as hot as in a lot of places, but it was still hot to me. My parents sent me off for six weeks to stay with my Aunt Josie and Uncle Bob on their modest ranch.
Josie was my dad’s sister. Up until the day she died, she never understood why Dad had left the family land in Montana and gone to live in a small town outside of Spokane, Washington. Just up and left like he’d never been attached to the land in anyway.
I can't say I understand either sometimes.
If his abandonment had anything to do with the heat in the summers, why weren’t the fun times enough to override that?
Aunt Josie and Uncle Bob didn't have any kids. My own brothers and sisters were busy at Scout camp, cheerleading camp, art camp, reading camp, culinary camp, any kind of camp you could think of. I'm sure if they had an eating camp, my brother, Beau, would be more than happy to stay there for the year.
With all those camps and out of all of the options that they had, I was never interested in going to one. The people who came up with the camps never did one based on death.
No. That would have to be my dad's business. Bryant's Crematorium and Funeral Home.
And, boy, did I think of that as my camp. Every day after school I used to run there to be around all the dead people. One time, I set up snack-time in the lock-in with two dead men and a woman. Dad had rolled his eyes, but he’d sat down and drank the swiftly cooling tea.
He was cool like that.
But I digress. I'm supposed to be writing a memoir.
Yet, I'm not very good at it. This is my first one. Hopefully, I live long enough to write a second one. Or maybe I could write another kind of book.
I don't know.
Back when I was eight and at my Aunt’s house, we spent a lot of time together. I was never second or third or tenth. I was always first.
The day… the big day. Or maybe it was the start or the middle, I’m not sure. I just remember it starkly like a turning point in my life that I couldn’t change, even if I wanted to.
We shared a cup of lemonade, rocking back and forth on the Adirondack porch swing, Aunt Josie lazily pushed the swing forward and backward with a toe on the deck railing. We watched the chickens as they pecked around the base of the faded wood barn.
I sipped the tart drink and passed it to Aunt Josie. “Do you think there are ants under there?” The chickens only spent time on something they could eat – it didn’t h
ave to even be alive.
“Of course, there are ants. But what kind?” She sipped from her pink colored straw, leaning my green straw to the side.
The blast was so sudden we about toppled from the swing. I'm not sure exactly what happened but I remember the ringing in my ears as I stumbled toward the steps of the deck.
Uncle Bob had a side job as a gunsmith. He loved farming but that vocation wasn’t enough to pay the majority of their bills. Truth was, he made more money doing the gunsmithing, but he didn’t claim any of it on his taxes. He created silencers and sawed-off shotguns and other illegal “stuff”.
My aunt and uncle were pretty big on the conspiracy theories and antigovernment agendas. My favorite one they told was that the meat industry was a ploy to get rid of the prisoners and miscreants of society.
Cows and pigs were bad? I couldn’t understand that one.
I learned many survival tips around them. I could skin just about anything, but that could've been my dad’s training, too.
Anyway, they were always worried about cops and stuff, which added more stress to Uncle Bob then he needed. He liked to lay the alcohol on thick when he was getting to the end of a big project, because the end was the worst time to get caught.
The most recent job he’d been contracted for was for a guy visiting from Alaska. He’d commissioned Uncle Bob to work on this really nice trigger guard for an old-fashioned style revolver. The filigree in the guard was finite. Uncle Bob had done a really great job with the piece. He admonished me to stay away from it because the owner wanted the trigger to be extra sensitive.
Well, Uncle Bob drank stout whisky. Which, again, was something else Aunt Josie made herself. So, it was more alcohol than whiskey which could probably take the wood grain off the side of the barn.
I'm not sure how many drinks he’d had. It was enough, though, that Uncle Bob got careless.
The gunshot was thicker, more solid than the guns from today.
Fit In: a post-apocalyptic survival thriller (180 Days and Counting... Series Book 9) Page 9