Tears Of The World: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 4)

by Boyd Craven III

  There was no pulse and with barely a moments warning, he rolled off the side of the trail and vomited. He retched until his throat and stomach felt raw and sore. His tears flowed freely and he thought “I killed a man,” which played over and over in his head. The horror he felt was tremendous and crushing.

  “I can’t do it,” he said between wiping his eyes and his nose.

  He had to find help, had to call someone, do something. He pulled the body by the legs off the main part of the trail. No attempt was made to cover the body, as he hadn’t planned on doing anything more than flagging down a cop as soon as he could. He worried half a second that he’d get in trouble, but the guy was acting irrationally. He attacked a minor. What he did was self defense wasn’t it? He put the shovel back into his day pack, more out of habit than keeping the trail clean, or to hide evidence and went to his bike. He had the combination open within a few turns and wound the chain up under the seat and locked it back into place.

  He got onto the bike and started towards the road that would take him back to civilization. His muscles were still shaky and he twitched from the adrenaline overload. The trail quickly led him to a gravel parking lot where one car was parked under a tree, within walking distance to the public restrooms. Michael had a sinking feeling on who’s car that was, and it was one more punch to the gut that he felt guilt over. He stopped his bike on the side and locked it once again.

  He used the men’s room, and out of habit, he turned on the faucet to wash his hands. Water came out, but the pressure wasn’t great.

  “Shhhh, did you hear that?” A young feminine voice startled him. There was nobody else in the men’s room but he looked up to look at the drop ceiling. It must be coming from the other bathroom.

  “Linny, I’m scared. Where’s daddy?” The voice was different than the first, younger, no way to tell the gender.

  “He went to go find help. Now you have to be quiet, you don’t want wild animals to eat you. Shhhhhh….”

  “Uhhh, hello?” Michael called out, his voice echoing in the cinder block room.

  “Daddy?” The little voice called hopefully.

  Michael walked out the open sided doorway and around the corner and stood at the drinking fountain where two kids walked out. A girl no more than ten was holding the hand of a younger brother who had a crew cut. Both of them had a strong family resemblance to the man he’d killed in the forest. His heart threatened to give out, when they looked at him in disappointment.

  “You’re not daddy,” the little boy pointed out.

  “No. I’m sorry, I’m not. I’m Michael Lewiston,” he told them, holding his hand out to shake.

  “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” the girl interjected.

  “Ok, well… I was just using the bathroom. Have you two been out here alone?”

  “Yeah, for just a little while. I think, I slept some-“ the boy started to say but his sister squeezed his hand to shut him up and gave him a glare.

  “Stranger,” she reminded him.

  “Oh, well, Mister, if you see my daddy, can you tell him we’re getting hungry?”

  “I can do that,” he said, fighting back tears.

  “Here,” he took off his pack, “I’ve got some granola and power bars,” Michael pulled out all of his food.

  “Well…” The girl began to say something but the sight of the food stopped her.

  Michael was having an internal struggle. He was horrified about thinking about leaving them here alone, but he had to go check on things and call the police. He’d killed a man, very likely the father of these two kids. If the man had told him he had two kids to look out for “here” it might have made a difference. Maybe he would have stayed down and never threw that rock…

  The pile of food made the little girl look at him funny, but in the end, her stomach won her over. “I’m Linny, and this is Bret. Thanks for the food. You’ll help us look for our dad? I mean, you’re coming back aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming back.”

  “Good.”

  “Your car, it doesn’t work?”

  “No, daddy said the battery died or something. My DS is dead too,” The boy held up a square piece of technology, one that Michael himself owned.

  “Wow, well… I’ll tell you what. No matter what, I’ll be back up here. It’ll take me two or three hours to get home. Do you guys live around here?” He asked in hope, wanting to leave but hating to leave them.

  “No, we’re from New Hampshire. We’re going to travel the Pinhoti and take lots of pictures.” Linny said proudly.

  “Where’s your mom?” Michael asked.

  “She died last year. Cancer,” Bret told him, making him want to flee.

  “I uh… I’ll be back,” he hurried to his bike, the tears starting to come down his cheeks.

  “Ok, thank you,” Linny called to him.

  +++++

  His bike ride to Daniel’s house was a lot shorter than he expected, but his sore ribs and shaky legs were complaining that he’d pushed himself, pushed hard. Daniel’s father was in the driveway, packing an old three wheeler with his lawn cart attached to it. Food and clothing was piled in the small trailer.

  “Oh thank god. I was going to try to come find you soon,” Daniels father said, getting off the quad.

  “What’s going on?” Michael’s chest was heaving still, sweat running rivers off his temples.

  “I don’t know, but it’s bad. Nothing electronic seems to work, the cars don’t work,” they walked towards the garage and the shade, “and there were several planes that crashed.”

  “Five thousand,” Michael mumbled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Some random fact I learned in school. There are five thousand jets flying over America at any given moment. I wasn’t imagining things, was I?” Michael’s voice was bewildered.

  He sat on the edge of the cracked pavement and took an offered bottle of water before Daniel’s father sat next to him.

  “I’m glad your parents were already landed then, they should be safe.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you remember what I did before I was a plumber?”

  “You were in the Air Force?”

  “No, Navy. I’m pretty sure we had an EMP or a CME go off. It fries circuit boards. If I’m right, things are about to get really, really bad.”

  “Are my parents going to be ok?”

  “The ship they’re on is going to be fine if they made it away from the coast. They should have been outside the effects. Now, I need you to pack your stuff and together we’ll…”

  “You’re leaving for somewhere,” he stated, not understanding the man’s sudden urgency.

  “Yes, we have to get you packed up,” Mr. Norton said, walking to the three wheeler.

  “There’s something I have to do first,” Michael said, and with a fresh flow of tears, explained everything.

  He’d never cried this hard in his entire life, it left him feeling crushed and hollow. When he was done explaining everything, Daniel’s father remained silent for a long moment.

  “We can try to talk to the Chief if you’d like. I don’t know if they would be in any shape to help.”

  “What do you mean? They’re the police, they handle things like this.” Michael was worried.

  “Everyone has been thrown back in time by a hundred years. Things are going to get ugly. There are only so many of the police, and they are having the same problems that the rest of us do. No cars, no phones, no radios…”

  “Is this why you’re leaving?” Michael asked quietly.

  “No, it’s the fires.”

  The smell of smoke was a lot stronger, and he realized that he’d been smelling it all day, just not the variations of intensity.

  “Five thousand planes…” Michael’s voice trailed off.

  “Like five thousand bombs going off, all over the country.”

  “Mr. Norton, do you…”

  “Jo
hn, call me John. Let’s go try the police first. Then we’ll pack you up and head out. Deal?”

  “Yes Mr. I mean. Sure, John,” his voice sounding less confident than he felt.

  In truth, he felt wonderful for having somebody to share the burden with, of not being stuck alone.

  Chapter 5 -

  Robertson’s Ranch, Kentucky

  “I keep telling you that you should eat,” Kenny told the still form in the bed.

  No reply.

  “Come on sweetie. Look, I got your medicine. Hopefully this dose will work?” Kenny held the syringe up to the still form covered in a sheet.

  He pulled the sheet back and pulled his daughters sleeve up. He guided the needle to her shoulder and had to work to get it in. He depressed the plunger. When he pulled the needle back out, the old insulin dribbled out of the dried flesh of his daughter.

  “I’m sorry sweetie, I hope that didn’t hurt too bad,” he put the Band-Aid he’d had ready over the spot, keeping it from making a mess. He pulled the sheet back over her body and tucked her in.

  “If you want breakfast, let me know.”

  Emily had always been a vibrant young girl, but it was quickly found out that she was going to be insulin dependent her entire lifetime. When things ended, there was a horrifying week when Ken had scrambled and finally looted a pharmacy. The insulin had been warm to the touch, and he knew how badly it degraded its usefulness, but he’d kept giving it to her, praying for a miracle. She grew weaker and more tired. Listless. She would sleep for long stretches. He hadn’t remembered her waking up in any recent time, but once in a while, some of her food was gone when he was out of the house. So she must be fine.

  Marv and Jerry moved into the main house. The only solace Ken had, was the hunt. The thrill. The screams as he pulled his knife through another humans gut. With his morning ritual of the medication done, he took the uneaten food from last night to the kitchen, then to the bathroom to use the mirror. He stripped to his waist and washed up.

  Whatever the cold man had thrown into his face really messed him up horribly. Acid, probably, thought he didn’t think he had any acid in there. The fumes from it had made him choke and gag. He still had a hard time breathing after the fact, but the wounds were open and sore on his chest and half his face. If it got infected he was done for, and he’d have no one to take care of his Emily. He could forgive the cold guy for messing him up, he was pretty sure he did, even though he put a .270 round through his back as they were leaving.

  That felt good, watching him twitch in pain… But his focus was brought back to the mirror where he used warm soapy water and a clean-ish wash cloth to wipe the oozing weeping ruin of his face. It horrified him and it probably horrified Emily, that’s why she must be ignoring him. He freaked her out.

  “Kids. Who understands them?”

  When he was done, he carefully shaved. Just because the world ended didn’t mean he had to be uncivilized. With his house virtually empty and his friends dead, the food he needed would be reduced greatly. In all honesty, he was pissed about Marv and Jerry, but the rest just gave him strange looks when he talked about eating things that humans normally wouldn’t. He’d been building up to showing him his game, the rules. The stalk, the hunt, the kill, the feast. It was his religion. He’d been a professional hunter and guide for well over twenty five years.

  It was the last and only thing he’d enjoyed in life. Now his life was in tatters. Dead friends, a daughter who ignored him and there was the threat of those folks coming back and attacking him. He didn’t miss the irony of the situation and had plans to prepare for their eventual arrival. He’d positioned guns in every upstairs room and made sure all the magazines were loaded. He considered setting up traps, but discarded it. He wasn’t Arnold Schwarzenegger in the move Predator. Tricks and traps… tricks and traps… His mind slipped.

  +++++

  Ken woke up, rubbing his face. The stubble was back, so he must have lost another day. He could only hope Emily had eaten, she hadn’t woke him up. He knew it was time for her shot, so he hurried to the bathroom and flushed his waste down with a bucket of water. The water level seemed down, so Emily must have been in here and washed herself up. That made him smile. He got another syringe prepped and a new Band-Aid ready and headed in to give her the injection.

  He talked to her softly, lovingly. He smiled when he saw half the food eaten and ran his hands through her hair, told her it was ok if he scared her, that he’d heal up soon. Clumps of her hair came off in his hands and his mind slipped again.

  +++++

  Another morning. He did what he needed to do with Emily. Her indifference was starting to bother Ken, but he promised to go make her favorite. He vaguely remembered hanging a pork belly in the smoke house the day after he got hurt. As long as he had remembered to add fuel yesterday it should be done by today. His head hurt, his mouth was dry so he decided to go check on things. He’d walked out there, marveling at the quiet and solitude of the ranch. Somewhere in the distance, a turkey gobbled. A hen squeaked and birds and squirrels made their own song in the branches. The sunlight felt good on his face and he smiled, the scabs on the ruined side tearing open.

  The pain didn’t bother him, it made him feel alive. Today was going to be a good day. He’d check and see if he could make his daughter’s favorite hickory smoked bacon and then he was going to work on his plans of revenge. Hit the homesteaders before they hit him. He had a pretty good guess on where they were, vaguely recognizing Blake from town. He was the crazy prepper guy who lived far away from everyone, didn’t even have power or running water according to the rumors. Knowing who he was, he knew who his family was. They had farmed a tract of land that was almost impossible to get to and when the family died off, Blake was sent to finish his years growing up with a foster family. When he graduated, he’d returned home. He hadn’t been sure of that when he had tried to question him, but the pain had sharpened his memory since his injury.

  That was about the extent of what Ken could remember, but he roughly knew where that old tract of land was, and had hunted near there plenty of times. Ken’s wealth and fame over the years had allowed him to open his own ranch, with thousands of acres, but “The Game” was never as much fun unless there was some element of risk, so when hunting alone, Ken would trespass and poach. Just for the sheer thrill.

  He opened up the door to the smokehouse and lovingly checked the meat. It wasn’t ready yet, so he added more apple wood and went back inside to make sure the smoke was coming in good. He smiled, and pushed Weston’s body and waved goodbye to Marv, Jerry and the rest.

  “Thanks for hanging around guys,” he joked to himself but was cut short when the sound of a motor made him pause.

  He’d heard that sound off and on more than once since he’d been hurt a couple days ago. Then he stopped dumbfounded. Had it only been two days? He’d been losing time a lot. Nobody had ever commented on this, but he would just have blank spots in his memory. It’d started when he was younger, but had progressively gotten worse over the years. It wasn’t unusual to have two to three episodes per week. Had it been a week? The motor cut off, but a weird combination of acoustics in the hills and the silence of the world made it possible for him to hear it, even if it was over a mile away. It was the closest sound he had heard since Blake and that woman had burned his truck and stolen the other one.

  “Rat bastards,” he said to no one.

  He headed to the garage and got his camo on. He hesitated when it came to the camo paint, knowing it was going to hurt his face and instead went with a boonie hat with mosquito netting. He could still black out the rest of his exposed skin, but his Scentlock gear was light weight and covered all but his hands which would be in gloves.

  “Still, a mile is a mile. Let’s go hunt,” Ken told nobody again, picking up his favorite weapon.

  It wasn’t as fancy or flashy as the guns he staged in the upstairs, nor did it hold a lot of shells. He opened the bolt, catching the live round
and filled the internal magazine of his Remington 700 chambered in .270. If the engine noise he heard was Blake, he was going to give that prepper hippy a taste of justice for messing him up. He briefly considered telling Emily he was heading out, but his soul was crushed every time she ignored him. Like coward, he decided to have a talk with her later on. He patted his pockets, finding the railroad map that Patty had on her when he took them. Perhaps he’d take a shortcut to Blake’s.

  “Let’s go get some,” Ken walked across the small parking lot of the ranch towards a set of groomed trails and then ghosted into the foliage, invisible to the naked eye.

  +++++

  Two tics on the radio alerted the squad. The forward observer was alerting them that a target was on the move.

  “Lost him,” the voice was quiet.

  The remainder of the platoon was fuming. They had brought in two more squads to make a full platoon, but they had deserted twenty minutes ago when they learned the real reason they were staking out the hunting lodge. Their muffled trucks firing up had been the loudest thing they’d heard in a long time. They’d been out here a day earlier than even Gerard, their Sgt Major could have guessed. For once, the roads were relatively clear and they bivouacked in-between long stretches of nothingness.

  The only reason the confrontation hadn’t turned into a blood bath was that for many of the young men who were splitting away from Gerard’s, was they held the superior firepower. Their two towed mortars were the first to break formation and head back. Supplies and parts were non-existent so many of the vehicles were old pickup trucks with mounted heavy machine guns. They looked like technicals from a third world country, but the two squads or almost twenty people had left with stern faces and their ideals intact.

  Gerard hadn’t cared much. He’d pretty much gone rogue a month ago and figured it’d catch up with him sooner or later. His three squads versus their two. Nobody wanted to fire on another soldier… so the stalemate happened and they split ways. Nobody died.