by AJ Powers
“I am well, thank you,” she said with a slight accent—nowhere near as heavy as her father’s.
While the three men spent a few minutes catching up, Olesya busied herself displaying recent trades on the shelves. Clay stopped her as she walked by with a stack of books. Preparing for the coming winter season and determined to improve his reading habits, he removed three of the fiction novels from the heap and set them on the counter.
As the conversation wound down, Vlad asked, “Are you preparing to go to war, my friend?” pointing to the rifles over each one of Clay’s shoulders.
Since Clay’s LaRue was not currently functional, he had to resort to a Chinese knockoff of the classic Soviet rifle—the SKS. It was far from ideal, but it was a better option than his Scout rifle—he still hadn’t found a magazine replacement.
“So, about that…you wouldn’t happen to have any spare AR firing pins lying around, would you?” Clay asked jokingly but with a tinge of hope in his voice.
“Ha!” Vlad let out a single, gravely chortle that originated deep in his gut. “You are very funny man, Clay.” He gestured to his store, which was emptier than Clay had ever seen it. “Sure, I have hundreds in back room, let me go grab you one,” he said with a chuckle in his voice. “And while I am back there, would you like brand new flat screen television?”
“Ha-ha, Boris, no need to be a wise guy,” Clay jabbed back. “I figured it was a long shot.”
“I think Lenin has better chance of rising from dead,” the Russian added.
“Well, how about someone to fix my current one?” Clay asked.
Vlad’s chuckle faded as he racked his brain for a name. “I used to do business with man from Lufkin, but have not seen him in years,” Vlad’s expression indicating that he assumed the man had left the area or was dead. “There is other man—never met him—but others have told me much.”
“Well, who is he? Where does he live?” Clay asked, a spark of optimism in his voice.
“They call him Smith, I do not know if that is real name. He is said to be north of here in FEMA camp. I am afraid that is all I know.”
Clay was torn. If he didn’t find someone to repair the rifle, he might as well melt it down and turn it into nails. However, traveling into an unknown area always came with risks. He wasn’t about to ask Geoff to come, which meant Clay would be going alone—only adding to the danger. And with all the epidemics that had occurred in the various FEMA camps since their installation, Clay could very well expose himself to something that had been lying dormant for several years—a germ without a victim. Despite his better judgment, he decided to go.
Clay and Geoff conducted some smaller trades with Vlad and then headed to a few other shops around town. Unfortunately, most of them had the same ominous look as Vlad’s—empty shelves. Fresh food now took up more shelf space than manufactured goods from the past. Though Clay was always on the lookout for food, the farm back home kept every mouth fed, even if it ran a bit lean at times. What they were running out of, however, were essentials like fabrics, functional tools, and other mass-produced items that were becoming harder to find. Clay imagined there were pockets across America—little towns and country houses—that were filled with undisturbed goods, but those places were out of reach without modern—rather, historical—means of transportation.
“So, I’m leaving for the FEMA camp first thing in the morning,” Clay said as the pair walked back to Vlad’s.
“What? You’re crazy. You don’t even know where it is, let alone who or what might live up there.” Geoff shook his head, “After what happened up in Mesquite, do you think it’s smart for us to go venturing into the unknown again—especially without Dusty watching our six?”
“You’re right,” Clay replied quickly, “it isn’t smart for us to go.”
“Okay, you’re not crazy. You’re downright freakin’ insane. There’s no way I am letting you go alone.”
Clay appreciated the concern, but it would carry no weight in his decision. “What are you, my mother?” Clay asked sarcastically followed by a grin. “Besides, you need to get back home to Ruth. Megan already told me the mornings have not been too kind to her. Plus, I need you to tell Kelsey that I am going to be gone for a few extra days. If neither of us come back, they’re going to start to worry.”
“Then don’t go yet. We’ll go back home, get Dusty, and leave in a few days.”
“No,” Clay replied, “there is too much we need to do to prepare for winter. Having you, me, and Dusty gone again for another week or so isn’t something we can afford right now. Remember last year? We started preparing for winter in July and we had a pretty comfortable ride. We’re nearly at the end of August and we still haven’t really started preparing.”
Clay had that bullheaded tone in his voice that warned Geoff of his stubbornness and because Geoff was too exhausted to try and argue, he relented. “Fine, I’ll head back in the morning. But here,” he said as he slid his sling over his head. “You take the AK.”
“All right. Thanks,” Clay said as they swapped rifles. Geoff’s rifle had a thirty-round magazine and several loaded spares to go with it. It was a much better option for Clay than the ten-round fixed magazine the SKS sported. Though not entirely without risks, the path between Liberty and Northfield was a relatively safe one, so Clay’s need for the AK-47 was greater than Geoff’s.
“Just don’t be stupid, and get back home in one piece,” Geoff said.
“You know me; careful is what I do.”
“Yeah,” Geoff replied sharply, “sure it is.”
After claiming their room for the night, Geoff took the opportunity to rest—sleep did not come easily for him out on the road and his exhaustion had overcome him. Clay, having slept on many a hard bed since the eruptions, was wide awake and wasn’t about to turn in at four in the afternoon, so he meandered around town.
The blue-haired Rose had a bottle of oil she wanted Clay to take back to Megan. It was a special blend that the two had talked about the last time Megan visited town. It was amazing that the contents inside were so potent that the tiny fifteen-milliliter bottle could last months, if not more, when diluted properly.
As he left Rose’s shop, Clay heard someone call his name. He turned around and was greeted by Mayor Shelton, who already had his hand extended.
“It’s good to see you, Clay. How are you and that lovely bride of yours?” Shelton asked.
“We’re good, Barry, thanks. How are things here?”
“Oh, we’re doin’ good, too. I’m sure you noticed that supplies are a little skimpier than they were the last time you visited, but we’ll get by. I suppose it’s just time for us to start getting more creative with how we use—or reuse—materials and such.”
Shelton’s optimism was a rare character trait to witness these days and one that Clay greatly admired, even if he had little chance of learning from it.
“Hey, what are you doin’ right now?” Shelton asked.
Clay shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing, really. Just killing time. We’re heading out in the morning.”
“Interested in joining me for a hunt? We’ve been havin’ a bit of luck over the past few weeks in a pretty secluded place a few miles from here.”
“That sounds great.”
“All right then, follow me,” Shelton said as they headed for the stables.
Shelton pointed to a black spotted horse toward the end of the row and said, “Saleen here hasn’t been out on a good long ride in a while, so you can take her if you’d like.”
Stopping short of Saleen’s stall, Clay said, “No thanks, brought my own ride today.”
Shelton nodded in approval. “Good looking horse you got there. I thought y’all didn’t have any on the farm?”
“We…unexpectedly acquired some recently.”
Noticing the grim expression on Clay’s face, Shelton abandoned the discussion. “Well, all right then. Let’s get going,” he said, climbing up onto the saddle.
&n
bsp; As they trotted through town, Clay asked, “Do you know how to get to the FEMA camp north of here?”
“I do not,” Shelton said, “However, Scott Adams and his wife came from there before they found their way here. I’m sure they could tell you where it is.”
Clay had heard the name before, but couldn’t put a face to it. “Scott is…”
“He’s got the furniture shop on the other side of town,” Shelton responded.
“Oh yeah!” Clay said, remembering the man. “He has some incredible pieces in there. He’s a gifted carpenter.” Clay looked forward to trading for a few of his masterpieces once they got the wagon operational.
“That he is,” Shelton said.
Their horses came to a stop at the gate while Shelton talked with the guards for a couple of minutes.
“Keep an eye out for us,” he said, “if the gettin’ is good, we might be out past sunset.”
Normally, this would be cause for concern; traveling at night was ill-advised, even for a group of well-armed men. But the Screamer activity near Liberty was virtually nonexistent. Clay had found himself on more than one occasion strolling into Liberty long after dusk without ever bumping into the nocturnal monsters.
“Will do, Mr. Shelton; have a safe trip,” the guard said as he opened the gate.
As they reached the end of the driveway, Shelton slowed his horse to a complete stop and locked his gaze toward the east. Clay watched as Shelton strained his eyes—he was focused on a very specific location. “Now, what is going on here?” he muttered to himself as he retrieved the hunting rifle hanging from his back and raised the scope up to his eye.
“What is it?” Clay asked, detecting the disconcerting tone in Shelton’s voice.
“There’s someone up in the second story of that house over there,” Shelton said pointing toward a small cluster of brick homes about a quarter mile away on the other side of the road.
It wasn’t uncommon to run into other people on the road, so Clay was confused as to why Shelton seemed so concerned. “Should we just go wide; try and avoid them?” Clay asked.
Shelton, still staring through his rifle optics, finally said, “I’m not really worried about that. I’m more concerned with finding out why he has a pair of binoculars sighted in on my town.”
Now Clay was as unsettled as Shelton. He also retrieved his rifle—Geoff’s SLR-95—from his back and ensured it was chambered.
“The deer can wait,” Shelton said before smacking his horse on the rear, tearing off for the house up ahead. Clay did the same and together they stormed the houses.
As they approached the house harboring the stranger, Clay jumped down from his horse and had his rifle at the ready. Shelton also dismounted and pulled out his Browning Hi Power in lieu of his scoped 30-30. Clay took point with his AK-47; Shelton covered. They were greeted by the back door swaying in the light breeze as they rounded the corner of the house.
Clay entered first, doing his best impression of a ghost. Although he was swift and quiet on his feet, his anxious breathing—which was exacerbated from the pounding in his chest—was the loudest sound in the abandoned house. Even though he didn’t want to give away his exact location, Clay figured the stampeding horses racing up the house had already ruined any element of surprise, and the creaky stairs only further spoiled their efforts.
Keeping the rifle stock pressed firmly into his shoulder, Clay kept one eye glued to the sight while the other attempted to spot any movement other than the dust carelessly passing in front of the arch window. He swung the rifle from left to right as more of the second floor came into view. Finally reaching the top step, they stopped and listened.
Clay’s fingers strangled the grip on his rifle as he sat in total silence. The lack of sound meant one of two things: either the men were already gone or they were waiting, guns raised, and ready to shoot anyone who walked through the door. After checking the two bedrooms to the right, all that was left was the master on the opposite end of the hall. Turning to look back at Shelton, Clay gestured toward the door.
Clay crept down the hallway, pressing his back up against the wall when he approached the door. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, quietly. He looked at Shelton again, giving a quick nod, then spun around the doorframe and into the bedroom.
“Don’t move!” Clay shouted as he dropped down to one knee and took aim, Shelton coming in just behind him.
The room was empty.
Clay immediately felt relief, but that feeling was quickly chased away by the realization that somebody was nearby. And Clay had no idea if he was armed or what his intentions were.
The rest of the house was more of the same—trashed, but empty rooms. Except for the back door being ajar—which wasn’t an uncommon sight on an abandoned house like the one they were in—there was no tangible evidence that anybody had been inside in a long time.
They expanded their search outside and through a few neighboring houses. Nearly a half hour after Shelton first saw the binoculars in the window, the men quit and returned to their horses. It didn’t sit well with Shelton to just give up searching and leave after seeing something as suspicious as a man watching his town from afar, but he found comfort in how well defended Liberty was. And if the small town could successfully fend off hordes of Screamers over the years, then a curious bandit or two wouldn’t likely pose much of a threat.
Still, there was something disconcerting about it all, so Shelton decided to head back to town, abandoning the afternoon hunt. He wanted to alert security to the threat, and if something was going to go down, he needed to be there for it. Since Clay was uneasy with the stranger himself, he was not opposed to returning to town.
After securing his horse for the evening, Clay stopped by Scott Adams’s store to get a general idea of where the FEMA camp was before heading back to his room for the night. Since he was leaving for the camp first thing in the morning, Clay hoped he would calm down enough to get a few hours of sleep.
Chapter 5
Finally. The end of the ocean of trees Clay had waded through for the past six hours had come into sight. Despite his compass being glued to his hand the entire time, he was convinced that he was lost. Following the road around the forest would have cost him at least an extra day, but punching right through wasn’t without risks. Risks, Clay realized, that were all too real when the sun began to set just beyond the silhouetted foliage in front of him. Another hour in the former nature preserve and Clay would have been forced to camp out for the night. Small drop-offs and creeks, among other natural hazards, would make traversing the woods nearly impossible without a strong light. And someone walking in the middle of a dark forest with a bright light might as well be holding up a neon sign that read, COME KILL ME!
The tightness in Clay’s chest subsided when he saw the weak sun glinting off a guardrail up ahead. It never dawned on him that someone could be claustrophobic while walking outside. Yet, when he lost sight of the tree line behind him as he delved deeper into the forest, finding himself completely engulfed by wooden skyscrapers, it felt as if he was receiving a loving hug from a Burmese python. The suffocating sensation forced him to stop to catch his breath on more than one occasion.
Because so much about the trip was unknown, Clay decided to leave his horse back at Liberty and make the journey on foot. It was about a thirty-mile hike, and he was on the tail end of day two. Clay was not looking forward to night camped out under the proverbial stars, but he had no idea how close he was to the campsite. If his navigation was true, then he should be a mile or two from the gates when he reached the road. If he had veered off course, however, there was no telling.
Clay took a deep breath as he stepped out from the wall of trees and left the forest behind him. As he approached the rural highway, he immediately saw a faded sign with an arrow pointing to the left that read:
FEMA 2A Regional Campsite
He was close, but how close? There were no signs except for those indicating the direction to t
he entrance. Though Clay would have no problem finding the camp now, the sun’s already stifled brightness was quickly fading.
Keeping low in a drainage ditch just off the pavement, Clay followed the road while searching for a street sign or mile marker that would help him get his bearings. He used the line of stalled out cars—presumably abandoned by those waiting to get inside the camp—as cover from anyone that might be creeping in the forest across the street.
At last, a mile marker. Clay knelt down and unfolded his map. It didn’t take long to find out that he had strayed off course—about twice as far as he had expected. The entrance looked to be another four to five miles away—out of reach before nightfall—so Clay played it safe. His unfamiliarity with the area, plus his own fragile state of mind after nearly going mad in the forest, was exhausting and distracting. He quickly decided to seek out shelter, and took up residence in a recreational vehicle.
He quietly stepped into the RV and, using what little light was left, confirmed it was vacant. The bedroom was, as expected, cramped. The bed, which took up most of the room, was lumpy and reeked of a terrible odor. It took a little while to get comfortable, but it beat sleeping outside in the rain—which had started pummeling the camper shortly after Clay walked inside.
Once he fell asleep, however, Clay slept soundly.