Survival_Book 1_And Tomorrow

by Ralph F. Halse

  Kitch nodded, flinching at Junior’s description of his father’s possible fate.

  “You two run out of grub?”

  “Dad went out every other night to bring it back. But he’s not returned,” Kitch replied.

  Junior shrugged. “I don’t cotton to his chances, Twitchy. That’s why I’ve got a band of Viking warriors backing me. There’s safety in numbers,” he said as if the thought was something new. “Y’all come across many infected between y’home and here?”

  “I just made it,” Kitch responded, not mentioning the boat. “They’re everywhere. Say, how’d you find this place anyway?” he asked, looking around and changing the subject.

  Junior ripped off another hunk of meat between his teeth. While he chewed, he regarded Kitch observing the building site with obvious amusement. Around the meat and between great, open-mouthed chaws, Junior answered after a time. “When the infection was first out of control, I found myself separated from my family, so I hid in the mall power control room. Just at dawn next day, I saw a construction worker open these gates, then lock them behind him with a set of keys. Fucker was quiet,” he said raising a meaningful eyebrow as he waggled the disappearing haunch knowledgeably at Kitch. “Sneaky quiet. So, I watched him real close. Damn me, if the dumb fuck went the wrong way.” He shoved the haunch between his teeth and slapped his huge palms together, creating a mini explosion of sound. “Bam!” he shouted, after taking the haunch out of his gaping mouth. “The infected shredded the dumbass in the car park. After sundown, when they’re a bit slower, I snuck over quiet like and fished the keys out of his pocket. I figured this place was safe ‘cause he’d locked it.”

  He waggled the haunch again. “I could tell that sneaky asshole was coming back, otherwise. Why lock up? It musta been safe. I let myself in and waited for the sun to come up. When it did, I found this club and searched the site. Sure enough, it was free of infected. The construction worker killed them all with this.” He tapped his improvised weapon. “Burned the bodies too. Been here ever since, running this place. Person by person, I’m gathering a clan of Viking warriors around me.”

  Flipping the now stripped bone into the fire, he wiped the flat of his hands on his shorts in a downward motion. Placing his palms on his weapon, he added, “You know how I was a leader at school and people always looked up to me for advice’n stuff? Well, things aren’t that cozy anymore. There’s no more cops, no soldiers and best of all, no peckerhead doctors or useless fucking teachers, just teenagers nineteen and under. You’re welcome to stay—” he tapped his chest “—but y’all follow my rules, Twitchy.”

  To his red-faced embarrassment, Kitch’s right shoulder pointed his arm skyward. Lowering it with his left hand, he asked sheepishly, “And they are?”

  Junior’s mean cast eyes narrowed as his fingers closed dangerously around the spiked weapon, but then they regarded the slowly lowering arm with a glint of amusement. He displayed two rows of teeth filled with chunks of meat around a sarcastic smile that was reflected in his tone of voice. “Whatever the fuck I say they are. Look, numbnuts. This is my place, run my way. No one gets a free ride here because they’re sick or fucked in the head, like you. So, let’s get this straight, jerk off. I don’t give a flying fuck whether you’ve got the great leaping farts or those twitches. You work to earn your keep, or you can fuck off,” he said, jerking his thumb at the double gates. “But if you stay, that means you do what I say, when I say, and without answering back and by fuck, you leave the breeders alone, unless I say so. That clear?”

  “Breeders? I’ve never heard that term before.”

  Junior threw back his great bald head, roaring with laughter. Slapping his thighs with the flats of both hands, he roared. “Course you fucking haven’t. I made it up. Breeders are gonna give me a generation of Vikings from the time they’re born,” he said tipping his head sideways at two females skinning a dog nearby. “Good for breeding, cleaning, cooking, fucking, and not much more.”

  “Uh, t-t-t-thanks. But I think I’ll m-m-m-move on t-t-t-tonight,” Kitch responded. If it wasn’t for the fact Junior was insane and carried a killing weapon, Kitch would have taken a running jump at the wall and his chances with the infected. But he knew Junior well enough to know such a move could prove fatal with the unpredictable teenager.

  “Pity, y’all could do worse’n stay’n here. Look,” Junior said with an indifferent shrug. Forcing what he must have meant to be conciliation into his voice, he added, “I’ve got a food patrol leaving soon. Y’all want me to have them take a look for your daddy? He’s probably holed up somewhere waiting for night before he heads home. Them brainless assholes go quiet after sundown, dunno why. But, hey, what the hell, beats the alternative. What do you say?”

  Kitch’s face lit up, but then he remembered who he was talking to. Returning his face muscles to a neutral expression, he replied, “That would be great, Junior.”

  “Boss, call me Boss while you’re here and that thanks will cost you a day’s labor. If we find him and bring him back safe, it’ll cost you both a week’s labor.” Junior leered—his response was more cruel than clever, though it served both purposes well. “Got lots ‘a jobs need doing, Twitchy. Jobs fighters won’t do.”

  Kitch nodded, avoiding the boss tag. “Jobs, like what? I can fight.”

  “You’ll be about as useful as shit on a stick on a food patrol, twitching and hopping around like a spastic Easter Bunny. You can dig shit pits and help the breeder’s skin dogs and cats, ‘til I think of something more useful. Food patrol will be back before dark. Any place special they should look for Daddy?”

  Kitch nodded again, wincing at Junior’s words. “Drug stores. Dad was looking for my medication.”

  Junior shook his head. “Of course he was, just look at you. Dumb old fucker was wasting his time, though. They’ve been cleaned out. Then again, he used to be a teacher.” Adding with a snarl and evil glint in his eyes, he said, “Not so smart now, are they, Twitchy? I’ll tell Connor to look for him anyways.” Staring intently at Kitch, he asked thoughtfully, “Vikings, do you know who they were?”

  “History was one of my major subjects. I studied the Viking emergence into Ireland and Britain from the Nordic countries for two semesters.”

  “You like them?” he asked enthusiastically, cocking his huge bald head sideways gauging Kitch’s response with lively, yet mad eyes.

  Wondering where the conversation was leading, Kitch answered cautiously, “Well, they were a tough group. Yes, I suppose. I liked learning about them.”

  “Great,” Junior said hunching forward. “We’ll get on fine, if you stay on.” His eyes shone enthusiastically as perspiration continue to roll in great rivulets from his bald head, down his neck, and onto his shoulders. “Because I’m gonna create—” he swept his left arm wide “—a settlement filled with real Viking warriors led by me, the first Viking Jarl in almost a thousand years.”

  “Err, shouldn’t you be a little closer to the river and have a longship?” Kitch asked.

  “Sure, sure but that can come later, after we’ve cleaned out the infected,” he said, flapping one hand in the air as if brushing the vessel significance aside. “But you’re not going to be a warrior if you stay, Twitchy. I’m figuring you and Spock can be artisans. You’re both clever little fuckers, but way too fucked in the head to fight. Can you make anything?” he asked seemingly as an afterthought, even though he had decided Kitch’s future in a twisted view of his new world.

  Kitch wondered whether Junior was trying to be funny, but then he remembered who he was talking too. On his medication, Junior was a violent, paranoid teenager. Off his medication, Junior’s insane and murderous nature had been given its head. Kitch figured that the pandemic had not only released a terrifying disease, it had also released the true Junior. Junior ruled there. Without a doubt, Kitch knew death, cruelty, and fear were Junior’s leadership tools of choice. Kitch understood his immediate future depended on keeping the psychopath on si
de.

  He shrugged self-consciously. “Not really, I’ve never tried.”

  “Well then, you’re more f-f-f-f-fucking u-u-u-u-useless, than you 1-1-1-looook,” he mocked. “I need Viking boats and proper weapons to raid other settlements with, not fucktards who feed off my hospitality.”

  “Raid... are you serious?” he blurted out without thinking.

  “Yes, raid. ‘Course I’m serious, dumbass. Look, this might not have occurred to you. But trust me when I say we can’t be the only ones who made it to safety. They’ll be others out there holed up somewhere. All I gotta to do is find them, kill the fuckers, and take their women to breed my warriors. I’ll keep some fighters alive, if they swear loyalty to me and join my army.”

  Kitch’s mind reeled at Junior’s perverse logic. “Wouldn’t it be better to trade with them, like the Vikings did?”

  “Trade?” Junior snorted with derision. Madness pulsated from his eyes with all the fury of a wild storm beating at a tropical coastline. That look chilled Kitch to the bone. “Fuck off! You’re a whiny little girl, McCall. Vikings were real men. Fuckers took what they wanted at the point of a sword. Fuckers killed those they didn’t enslave. Only people Vikings made alliances with were strong enough to stand up to them. Even then, Vikings fucked them over.” Wagging his finger, he emphasized, “Dead men can’t hunt you down later, that’s my motto. Now, I’ll ask you again. Is there anything useful you can do, besides twitch and eat my food?”

  “I can tell you where you’ll find boats like a Viking longship,” Kitch responded with a gulping swallow. Junior was so far into his psychosis that he’d lost all perspective on reality. Kitch had to bring him back to focus on the now.

  Junior’s eyes danced with mad glee. Jacking a thumb over his shoulder again, he said, “None of those guys or that smart little shit Spock can. So if you’re talking crap, I’ll toss you over the gate to the infected myself.”

  Kitch shook his head. “Charleston Whaling Museum has large boats handmade of old-fashioned wood, like Viking Longships with oars. Only they don’t have prows with dragon heads.”

  “Fucking brilliant! There’s only several thousand infected between us and the museum.” Placing his hand on Kitch’s shoulder, he added with false sincerity and a pat that knocked the wind from his lungs, “Well done though, you’ve earned a place here if you want it. We’ll start making plans to retrieve one tonight. Got any ideas how to make swords or shields?”

  Kitch shook his head. “No, but the old curiosity shop opposite the mall...”

  “What about it?” Junior snapped without warning as he dropped his hand. “Fuck me, but you can wander off the subject quicker ‘n anyone I ever met, Twitchy. That was one reason I could never take to you at school. Fuck the old curiosity shop and fuck you, you goddamn twitchy retard.”

  “Wait. It had heaps of replica war swords for sale last time I was there. You might find shields too.”

  Scowling, Junior grated between clenched teeth as his hands flexed dangerously on the haft of the weapon resting on his knees. “Do you have any ideas that don’t involve dodging thousands of infected?” Tipping his chin at two females gutting a dog carcass, he added in a snarl as he stood before Kitch could answer, “Go and earn your keep, help those breeders. When you’re finished there, you’re digging shit pits until you leave. One of the breeders will give you a shovel and show you where to dig.” Staring hard at Kitch, he asked, “Is that stick all you’ve got for a weapon?”

  “Y-y-ye-es-s.”

  A mist of stinking perspiration flew outwards as he shook his head. Junior added with amazement, “You’re one lucky SOB to have made it this far with that toothpick.” Turning contemptuously away, he approached the hovering Connor, who had not moved since Kitch arrived, shouting, “Fuck off, all of you. Patrol leaves now. See if you can find Twitchy’s father at one of the drugstores.” He leaned forward and whispered something to Connor that must be amusing and about Kitch.

  Connor’s eyes shifted to regard Kitch. His lips twisted into a sly smirk that didn’t leave his face until he turned abruptly on his heel and strode away. Every cell in Kitch’s body itched to deliver a powerful roundhouse kick to the base of Junior’s thick skull, sending him into oblivion. But while a chance existed these grubby teenagers could locate his father, he would contain his anger and play their game.

  Kitch approached then squatted opposite two females who by now had threaded the dog carcass onto a permasteel rod. Both were bent over the ashes trying to breathe life into charcoaled wood situated in a pit filled and coated with ash. Both visibly flinched as he rested on his haunches beside them. They didn’t look at him when he spoke. Long greasy hair obscured their facial features. Yet, Kitch felt certain they watched him with wary eyes.

  “Junior say’s I’m to help y’all,” he said without a stammer, now he was out of Junior’s immediate sphere influence.

  “Nothing to do,” the closest replied in a sullen tone. “Dog’s spitted.”

  “Okay,” he nodded, trying to hide the fact he was shocked they were eating someone’s family pet. Standing, he added, “Junior said I’m to dig pits. You’re to show me where and give me a shovel.”

  The two female’s heads snapped up. They glanced briefly at each other. The one who spoke rose first and, with her head pointing at the ground, mumbled, “Follow me.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kitch noted two armed teenagers, a bit younger than the rest, trailing them at a distance.

  “They’re ensuring you do as you’re told. They’ll report anything you say or do they think might offend Junior. Same as they do with us breeders,” she added quietly.

  Kitch opened his mouth to reply when the female snapped acerbically, “Don’t answer by looking at me. Keep your head turned away, that way they can’t see you talking. If those two gutter rats even think we’re talking about a subject other than the excrement pit, they’ll tell Junior. Don’t matter what I say I said... he won’t believe me. Guy’s paranoid and then some, always has been. You should’a known better’n t’come here. Shit, he’ll get that sick asshole Connor to beat me in front of the others if I get this wrong.” Stopping, she pointed to a stack of hand tools that didn’t require grid power leaning against a permasteel shack.

  As he bent to collect a shovel, he heard scraping noises emanating from with the shack. It was then the pungent odor of excrement, stale urine, unwashed bodies and stench of death assaulted his nostrils. Stepping back, he grabbed his nose between thumb and forefinger as his eyes commenced to water. He could hear distant sniggers. His two watchers joked at his reaction. “What in God’s name is in there?” he gasped, stepping away.

  Gripping him by the elbow, his female escort led him to a partially built cinder block retaining wall. Pointing at the ground beside it, she said without answering his question, “Dig there. A trench about so wide.” She opened her arms, indicating the width. Making a mark with her rotting shoe, she took some five paces and made another in the sand. “And this long. Go down three feet. Make sure you pile the sand on the far side as you go.” Squatting with her back to the partially constructed wall, she watched him through strands of greasy, lank blonde hair hanging over her face.

  Kitch dropped his backpack and staff, stripped off his T-shirt and started digging. After a short time, the female ripped a triangle of material from the tail of her dress. Handing it to him, she said, “Tie this across your nose and mouth. That way we can have a conversation without those two knowing.”

  His eyes shifted as he tied the cloth in place. His two escorts climbed onto a scaffold to watch him dig. As he built up a soil pile creating the trench, he heard the squatting female say, “I’m going to speak. Do not stop and do not look at me, even if you reply. And above all, do not stop digging until the pit’s finished. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t recognize me, do you, Kitch McCall?”

  Kitch’s shovel hesitated to tip the soil.

  �
��Don’t stop,” she hissed urgently between clenched teeth.

  “No.”

  “I’m Caitlin Kennedy from school, remember me now?”

  “Yes, bu...”

  “Keep digging. It was me who met you at the classroom door on the first day. We sat next to each other that year.”

  What Caitlin said next nearly caused Kitch to drop his shovel because the notion never entered his head.

  “And, God help me for being so pathetic, but I’ve loved you from that day to this miserable one. But you’re so tied up hating yourself that you couldn’t see beyond the prison you sentenced yourself to. Don’t answer, think about it. On the day your mother died, who held your hand while we waited for the ambulance and your dad to arrive? Yes, that was me. Forgot, huh? Do you think it was chance every time you went to the mall, university, or hospital I turned up? Don’t answer,” Caitlin snapped irritably. “I have to wait until I’m trapped in a madhouse with killer lunatics surrounded by hundreds of thousands of infected to have this conversation with you. I must be either simple or an idiot.

  “In any case, you’re wondering why I say so now? After what I’ve been subject to these past six months, I’m afraid if I don’t say what’s been on my mind for the past fourteen years, I may never have the opportunity again. Did you know I monitored your VOID from the day you turned it on? Of course not,” she answered for him. “You never looked at me, not once. You never acknowledged me in any way whatsoever. Tell me,” Caitlin asked cruelly, “are you still locked so tightly into your TS that you can’t see past your next stutter or twitch?”

  Pausing to wipe his brow, a shaky Kitch replied, “I had no idea you felt like that.”

  Suddenly countless instances of a smiling Caitlin’s presence took on a new meaning. How dumb am I? Kitch was acutely aware managing his affliction caused to him focus inward, but how could he have missed the clues Caitlin was throwing out? He accepted that his dad’s home tutoring him kept him away from the antics and amusements of other teenagers, making him not as wise to the ways of his peers as he should be. Goddamn it, Caitlin had done everything she could to attract his attention, and she was right. He was blind to everything but his own needs. Kitch had been too self-centered to see that, but not now.