by AJ Powers
No response.
Clay waited a while before shouting again. He waved his arms in front of the camera as if he was stranded on an island and saw a low-flying plane passing nearby. But once again, nothing.
The sun had only been up about an hour, so Clay started to wonder if Smith had left before dawn to go hunt. The FEMA campsite was massive, so even if Smith had stayed on the property, it could take hours to find him.
Resigned to the idea that he could be waiting all day, Clay decided to use the gate code Smith had given him on his last visit. Being inside the walls would at least offer Clay protection from a wandering bandit. He would just need to be careful with how he announced his presence to Smith.
“Five-one-three-nine-seven-two,” Clay said aloud as he punched in the code onto the panel.
After three solid beeps, a buzzing sound erupted from the gate’s lock, startling Clay. Then, there was a loud clanking sound. The gate cried out with a hideous screech as it swung open, grating on his already tense nerves. Upon closing the gate Clay heard another, quieter clanking sound. The lock was re-engaged and Clay was safe—as safe as one could be these days.
There were several large, plastic crates lying around the concrete courtyard. Even if there had been anything of value in the crates when the place was abandoned, Clay was certain they were empty now. But he checked them anyway.
Though the concrete walls cut down on the bulk of the wind, the slight breeze that managed to get inside was intensified by the chill of the morning air. After dragging some of the crates over to the wall of the bunker, Clay stacked them two-high and created a little horseshoe fortress. Concealed by the bunker wall and crates, Clay sat down and waited for Smith to return. Boredom struck fast and hard. Clay even considered grabbing one of the paranormal romances in his pack, but the thought of Smith finding him deep in a romance novel kept the book safely hidden away.
Hours went by and Smith was still gone. When Clay had decided he would wait all day, he didn’t actually believe he would need to, but that prospect looked more and more likely with each passing minute. As the afternoon crept closer to the evening, the silence and boredom was shattered by a distant rumble.
With a frustrated sigh, Clay grabbed onto one of the crates and pulled himself up to locate the source of the sound. Pins and needles terrorized his foot as the feeling crept back into his toes. He scanned the horizon, quickly zeroing in on the dark clouds a few miles away. They were headed straight toward the camp.
At first, Clay was worried about the approaching storm, but he figured Smith would have heard it, too, and would be rushing back to avoid the downpour. Being out in the rain is never fun and it is particularly dangerous this time of year. Hypothermia from the icy rain would claim its victim faster than being naked in a blizzard. Smith will be back soon, Clay reasoned as he waited.
Clay held out as long as he could, but it only took twenty minutes of rain before he gave in. His shivering had become so violent that he started to feel lightheaded. Of course, not eating in nearly eighteen hours played a significant role in his involuntary shudder, but his body’s natural response to warm itself only made matters worse.
If he was going to survive the night, Clay needed to get out of the freezing rain. With what little energy he had left, Clay repositioned the plastic bins to create makeshift steps up the wall. Once standing on the highest crate, he could grab ahold of the metal railing of the catwalk Smith had used when shooting at the cat.
His biceps felt like they were being fed into a paper shredder as he struggled to pull himself up and over the railing. After several attempts, Clay managed to swing his leg up high enough to hook around the lower bar running along the railing. It gave him the leverage he needed to hoist himself up onto the walkway. He fell onto the catwalk and lay face down on the cold diamond-plated steel. Though the catwalk was covered, the damage from the storm was already done—Clay was soaked and the mercury was still falling. It was a situation Clay had found himself in more times than he cared to remember and each time his saving grace was finding a dry place and getting out of the wet clothes.
Growling through the exhaustion, Clay pushed himself off the catwalk and stumbled over to the door leading to the observation room. He immediately felt relief—albeit just a little—from the protection the room provided from the wind and the rain. The temperature inside, however, was negligibly different from outside. The basement was his only option.
As Clay pressed on the call button, he was both relieved and terrified as the button’s light activated. He kept asking himself What if Smith is down there? It wasn’t unrealistic to think that the security system had malfunctioned and was offline, cutting all video feed and deactivating the motion sensors around the camp. And the sound of the elevator suddenly ascending to the second floor would be cause for more than a little concern for the occupant below.
“Crap,” Clay mumbled between his heavy breaths. There was no turning back now.
The elevator’s pitiful tone sounded and the doors parted. Clay took a deep, painful breath as his lungs started to warm before stepping inside. As if he was venturing a bit too close to a bear’s den, Clay began shouting as loud as his body would allow.
“Smith! It’s Clay! Don’t shoot!”
The elevator wrenched to a stop, and Clay cut himself off midsentence and held his breath. As the doors opened, he squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the worse.
Silence.
Clay kept his eyes shut until the doors automatically closed. At last, the relief from being inside the compound boxed out the fear and anxiety of breaking into an ex-Marine’s stronghold. If Smith were here, he would have already announced his presence via multiple .30 caliber bullets.
He reached up and pushed the open button on the panel and the doors parted once more. This time he heard something. CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK.
Chip!
The half-blind dog rounded a corner and darted toward Clay, barking insanely all the while wagging his tail. The high-pitched, almost shrill bark of the little dog made Clay keenly aware of the headache he had developed. What is it with this place and headaches, he thought as he left the elevator.
Despite his body aching, Clay made the effort to kneel down next to the excited dog who only stilled his body once he was scratched behind his ear. The dog seemed eager for attention and was satisfied to get it.
Clay groaned as he stood back up to his feet and stretched his back. The effort had little impact on his tightening muscles. After watching Clay stretch with his head cocked to one side, Chip took off the way he had come, continuing his awful bark—as if inviting Clay to follow.
Clay stumbled down the dimly lit corridor wondering when Smith would be back. It felt wrong to just let himself inside; Clay was breaking and entering. But he had no choice in the matter and once he explained the whole thing to Smith, he knew the burly man wouldn’t fault him for the decision.
Chip darted into Smith’s dining room. As Clay followed him, he felt pebbles under his feet and after studying them as he walked, he realized it was little piles of dog food. Clay started to joke with Chip about his eating habits as he turned the corner into the dining room and had the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for air and his body trembled as the sight in front of him sank in.
Smith was on the floor, his lifeless body leaning up against the wall in the corner of the room. With a pistol in his right hand and blood splattered on the wall behind him, it didn’t take a forensic scientist to figure out what had happened.
The trembles turned into uncontrollable shaking as Clay stared at the catastrophic aftermath the .357 hollow point had left behind. Like a helpless bystander watching a devastating crash, Clay couldn’t seem to look away. He just stared at the slouched body in front of him, almost as if he was waiting for the corpse to spring to life and yell “Gotchya!” But the gray tone in his skin and the vacant eyes reassured Clay that the scene before him was no prank.
A dark aura began to smother Clay
as he recalled the times he had contemplated the same end Smith had chosen; to escape the frozen hell on earth once and for all. To be released from the stress and burden that fell with the ash ten years ago could be an appealing alternative during Clay’s darker days, but it was always his family, both blood and adopted, that pulled him away from that obscure abyss. Had he lost that reason…like Smith had…
The thought shook Clay to his core.
Though he had only just met Smith earlier in the month, Clay felt as if he already knew the man quite well. Smith, whether he intended to or not, revealed more about himself to Clay in a single night than most people had over the course of several years. Most folks, including Clay, were not quick to divulge details about their past to people they had just met. Far too often, such information was viewed as vulnerabilities and was used as weapons. But, as it would seem, Smith wasn’t concerned about that since he had nothing left to lose at that point.
As Clay looked down at the body, he wrestled with what words to say. Not that it mattered much—the only ones to hear him would be the All Mighty and the dog. But still, it felt wrong not to say something.
“Some wars are just too big for one man to fight…” Clay said with a wavering voice—he could no longer determine if his trembling was from low core temperature or from the loss of his new friend. “I hope you found the peace you were looking for, brother.”
Unable to stay in the room any longer, Clay headed to the bedroom he had slept in on his last visit. He took his wet clothes off and wringed them out as best as he could in the corner before draping them over a chair. He grabbed a blanket off the bed and pulled it around his shoulders. Feeling warmer, but still battling violent shivers, Clay explored the rest of the compound to try and get the blood flowing, eventually finding himself in Smith’s workshop.
Toward the back of the room was a work bench sitting beneath a hanging light—the only one in the room. Tools and hardware were strewn about the bench, but right in the middle was a small, polished metal cylinder sitting on top of a piece of paper. It was Clay’s new firing pin.
Clay battled whether he should be mourning the loss of Smith or rejoicing over the regained functionality of his rifle. But his internal struggle was eclipsed by the gut-wrenching message scrawled across the piece of paper previously holding the firing pin.
Thanks for the closure, Cowboy.
“Damn this world,” Clay said through a clenched jaw.
Chapter 14
Morning came too quickly. But as the sunlight slipped through the blinds, Clay’s natural response was to get moving. If the sun was up, there was work to be done, or so his mind always convinced him, regardless of his body’s wishes.
But not today. Over the past few days, Clay had been hard at work helping the town of Liberty prepare for the festival. Far more went into pulling off such a large event than Clay had ever realized, and he had not been ready for the task list awaiting him. However, except for a few odds and ends, everything was ready for the festivities to kick off later in the evening. So Clay lay in bed, alone with his thoughts—a dangerous situation.
Still drowsy, his eyes closed once more, immediately greeting Clay with images of his discovery at the bunker four days earlier: the pool of blood collecting around Smith’s body, the pain and sorrow still lingering in his hollow stare, his hand still clutching the revolver as if it was a life raft amidst choppy seas. The images relentlessly invaded Clay’s mind like a mental Blitzkrieg, snuffing out any chance of respite from the nightmares that had plagued him since leaving the camp. Because moments of idleness quickly turned to terror, Clay had made it a point to work sun up to sun down since he arrived at Liberty, allowing himself to be blissfully distracted throughout the day.
He tried to roll over and force himself back to sleep, but the muscle he had pulled while moving Smith’s body outside still nagged him. Clay arched his back and applied pressure to the spasm with his hand, which brought some relief. Although the strain felt better than it had all week, he would have given anything for some truly potent pain meds.
Along with the pain came the memory of standing in front of the pile of dirt that was covering Smith’s body. When he arrived at the camp that morning, the last thing Clay had expected was to bury his new friend. But such was life in the frozen wastelands of Texas. Nothing should be taken for granted, especially life.
As he towered over the shallow grave, Clay thought back to his great-grandfather’s funeral a few years before the eruptions. Because he valiantly served in World War II, there was a large military funeral held for him in Fredericksburg where he had lived most his 104 years of life. Chills still crept through Clay as he recalled the officer ordering the twenty-one-gun salute and the sounds of the rifle shots echoing throughout the cemetery. It was the most unforgettable moment of the entire ceremony.
At Smith’s grave, Clay charged his AR-15—with Smith’s new firing pin securely in place—and shouldered his rifle. Smith had served his country and Clay was determined to honor him for his sacrifice, despite the risk posed by the successive shots. He fired his first three shots into the air, timing each trigger pull about one second apart. As the final gunshot echoed across the massive field of decayed, temporary housing, Clay heard in his head a brilliant rendition of Taps being played.
“So long, Justin.”
The “funeral” was hardly fitting for a man who had fought and nearly died for his country, but it was better than just letting his corpse rot in the dank basement of the bunker. And though it seemed cold-hearted to think about while he dug the man’s grave, Clay had every intention of utilizing most of the bunker in the future. The dining room, however, would forever be off limits.
A barely audible yawn and high pitch squeak emanated from the foot of the bed, pulling Clay from his wandering thoughts. He looked down and saw the little dog stretching as he roused from his slumber.
“Morning, Chip,” Clay said.
Chip crawled toward Clay, expecting the quick attention he felt entitled to. As Clay scratched Chip’s head with one hand, he used the other to tilt the dog’s red, bone-shaped tag on his collar. The inscription made him laugh.
Devil Dog
Glancing over at his watch sitting on the bedside table, he decided it was time to get up. Kelsey and the others were supposed to arrive sometime after lunch. It was almost two weeks since he left Northfield, so once he realized that he was finally going to see his family in the afternoon, it was as if all became right with his world again. Even the haunting memories that previously consumed his thoughts struggled to compete for his attention.
After a few groans and grumbles, Clay managed to climb out of bed and get dressed before heading down to Vlad’s store. The house was mostly empty, save a few out-of-towners that had also received one of the limited invites from Shelton. It truly was an honor to be on that list.
“Good morning, Clay, how are you?” Vlad asked.
“Better than yesterday,” Clay replied.
Vlad nodded. Clay had told him about Smith. He wanted Vlad to know so he didn’t send anyone else to the camp just to be stopped by locked gates outside an empty bunker. But what started as a simple “for your information” turned into a night of venting and vodka drinking—both of which helped dissipate some of the darkness that had been lingering in Clay’s heart since discovering his friend. And as hard as the last couple of nights had been, Clay could only imagine how much worse it would have been if he hadn’t been able to talk to someone about it.
“Oh!” Vlad suddenly shouted. “I have surprise for you,” he said as he walked over to a metal cabinet and unlocked it.
“What is it?” Clay asked, his curiosity piqued.
Vlad looked back with a smile as he unlatched the lock. “You will see, my friend.” He opened the door and retrieved a wooden box that he then set down on the counter. “Have look inside,” he said, gesturing to the small crate.
Clay walked over and stared at the box for a minute, like a kid starin
g at a Christmas gift, speculating as to what was inside. With curiosity now running rampant, Clay placed his hand on the box and lifted the lid.
He gasped.
“Is that?”
“It is,” Vlad said with assurance.
“How…How did you get it? Did he sell it to you?”
Vlad shook his head. “He had bad poker face.”
Clay’s eyes were still as wide as they were when he first lifted the lid. He started to reach in when he quickly stopped himself. “Oh, sorry…may I?”
Vlad laughed. “Of course, it is why I show you.”
With a mixture of eagerness and respect, Clay pulled the pistol out of the box. The old gun demanded admiration. Even in the post-apocalyptic day, it was an incredible design, and in his mind, was visually nothing short of perfection. He ran his fingertips along the slide, feeling the etched words Model of 1911. U.S. Army along the side. He was still in disbelief as he held his grandfather’s Colt 1911 in his hand again.
Every scratch, every scuff, every stain on the beautiful pistol had a story with it—some dating back to the 1940’s, while others more recent. The old .45 had had a tough life, but she was still ready for more.
Managing to tear his gaze away from the gun, Clay glanced inside the box and saw two spare magazines and a handful of rounds—twenty to thirty at most. His eyes shifted between the gun and Vlad. “What do you want for it?” Clay asked, but the tone in his voice came across more as a demand.