He climbed up on a couple boxes and peered over the door through the window. "Dadgummit!" he whispered harshly. "Forgot to close the door." Rotters had poured in over the night and now the room was chock full of them. One round was all he had. He looked around the room for something else he could use as a weapon. Finding nothing at first glance, he hopped down from the boxes.
"Ooooh," he groaned as the landing jarred his head. He began to open box after box in a frantic attempt to find something to use. Finding nothing, he sat slowly down on a bench and dropped his face into his hands as the rotters moaned and shuffled around outside the door.
He exhaled deeply and looked up around the room again. In the corner sat a large wooden crate. Pushing himself off the bench, he walked over and lifted the dusty lid.
"Wood shavings," he grumbled. He was about to drop the lid back down when he saw something poking out of the shavings near the corner. Franklin brushed the shavings back, revealing an old, hand-forged ax. Looking back at the lid, he used his arm to broadly sweep the lid of debris. In black block letters, "ANTIQUE AXE COLLECTION" was stamped into the wood.
Franklin excitedly tossed the lid off to the side, knocking it into a bucket with a loud clatter. He dug his hand into the shavings and pulled out antique ax after antique ax. He grinned as he lifted a heavy double bladed ax and swung it using both hands. Satisfied with it, he laid it down and lifted out another one, lighter, but still with enough heft to please him. He swung again, but this time the handle slipped out of his hands and sent the ax flying through the air towards the wall at the far end away from the door. It slammed into the dry wall and disappeared in the newly created hole. Franklin picked up another ax and walked over to the hole. Peering inside, he could see an empty room and the ax laying on the floor.
He wasted no time and began clearing the dry wall away from the studs with the ax in his hand. Once he chopped a big enough hole, he stepped sideways through and into the other room. It was completely empty, dark wooden floors smoothed with age and use covering the wide expanse. A large window faced the street, just high enough off the ground that no one could see in without jumping up.
Franklin slid back into the storage room and grabbed a few boxes. He stacked them under the window, and then went back for more axes. Finding a few smaller ones, he chose the two he was most comfortable with and hung them on his belt. Satisfied, he left the storage room and grabbed the one he had sent through the wall. Climbing the boxes, he viewed the street on the other side of the glass and didn't see a single rotter. He was about to swing the ax into the glass when he stopped himself. Looking up, he saw that the large amount of glass that would rain down on him. He went back into the room and found a box of rocks and threw them at the glass until it broke a large enough hole for him to climb through. With a leap, a tuck, and a roll, he was out of the building and into the street again.
The commotion attracted the attention of the rotters inside the building and from other surrounding areas, and they soon began streaming out like rats to an overturned cheese truck. Franklin ran away from one wave only to run towards another. In the middle of the street, he spun around, looking at the rotters surrounding him. He swung at the nearest one with the long handled ax, connecting with its head and resulting in a hollow thud. The top of the skull disconnected from the bottom, soggy brains dripping onto the asphalt as the body sunk to its knees and collapsed. Several advancing rotters tripped over the fallen, only to be stomped by Franklin's boot.
A roar emanated from his chest as he swung the ax in a wide arc, knocking several to the ground. He pushed down several others and tried to run past them, but they were too thick. He turned to run the other direction but one grabbed his ax, and then another. He dropped the ax and yanked the hand axes from his belt and collided their blades with the nearest skulls. It sounded like a Fourth of July watermelon fest with melons splitting everywhere, as Franklin continued to swing his axes with frantic precision. He was beginning to gain some hope that he was going to make it when his right foot slipped on a small pile of gore that had been collecting. He staggered and then went down.
In a brief moment while on his back, he saw white, cotton-like clouds float peacefully by. Then the light went out as rotters shuffled over him.
"This is the end!" Franklin said through gritted teeth, kicking one right in the teeth with his right foot and shoving another into one just about to bite his left thigh.
Just then, Franklin heard several soft thuds followed almost immediately by the same number of sharp cracks. Rotters began falling on him and around him, gore dripping onto his face. Franklin held his breath until he couldn't hear anymore movement or shots and then slid himself out from under the pile. He got up to one knee and tried to wipe the rotting goo from off his face onto his shirt sleeve but his shirt was even more soaked with it.
"Dang it," he said softly. He stood up the rest of the way and noticed that except for a few straggling rotters hundreds of meters away, none were left moving. He held up his hand to his eyes and scanned the building tops, eventually catching a glint off something on top of a midsize building about half a mile away. He waved broadly and began picking his way through the rotters towards those who had saved him. As he neared the base of the building, a sturdy steel door opened quickly and two well-armed men stepped out.
"Come inside quickly," they ordered. "And drop your weapons in the bucket inside the door." Franklin slipped inside and dropped his hand axes into a bucket of bleach. Then the men stepped back inside themselves and barricaded the door.
"Remove those clothes!" one of them barked. Franklin was more than happy to get out of his gore soaked shirt and jeans, and hastily removed them.
"Now toss them in the stove!" the man barked again. Franklin did so and then looked inquiringly at the man, feeling a little sheepish in his unclothed state.
"Go to that cleaning station and wash thoroughly." The man was a little less authoritative now, but there was still no arguing with him. Franklin went over to the make shift shower and turned it on. The icy water hit him and made him gasp, but he grabbed the soap and cleaned himself thoroughly. Even a brush was there for him to clean under his fingernails.
"Am I done now?" Franklin asked the man who had been making all the demands.
"Yes," he said, finally relaxing. "Here's some clean, dry clothes. Put them on, and we'll talk in my office."
Franklin pulled the thick tube socks over his battered feet. They felt soft and comfortable. He put the under-britches and sweatpants on next. A gray sweatshirt followed. Normally, he was a button up shirt and jeans kind of guy, but he didn't complain anymore. The man gestured to a manual elevator, and Franklin stepped in.
The climb to the top was slow and mostly silent, as the second man pulled the rope down again and again. Franklin offered to help but he was glad when the offer was declined. His head was still aching and his muscles were sore when he overstrained them trying to survive the rotter onslaught. Finally, they stopped, and the man gestured off the elevator. Franklin stepped off and was shown to an office overlooking the city. The room looked just as if a CEO was about to come into work later that day to complete a few tasks. The man sat down behind the desk and pointed to the seat in front. Franklin got the hint and sat down. The other man stood by the door, his rifle ready.
"So, tell me your name and story," the man said simply, placing his elbows on the desk in front of him, folding his hands in front of his mouth.
Franklin nodded and recounted his name and story, starting from the beginning of the outbreak when he left his store. He felt almost like he was in an interview trying to gain approval. Many times had he interviewed potential employees as a store manager, but it wasn't often that he was at the receiving end. The man interjected periodically, asking for clarification on some points and more detail on others. When Franklin reached the shootout in the train station, the man's glance darted to the rifleman at the door, and their eyes met.
"You said this happened at a
train station?" the man asked, looking back at Franklin, his right eyebrow rising slightly.
Franklin nodded, and replied, "Do you know it?"
The men exchanged looks again, and the one behind the desk ignored his question and said, "Keep going."
"Wait," Franklin protested, his hands up, palms out in front of him. "I've pretty much told you everything. You could at least tell me a little about you two."
The man leaned back in his chair and rotated to the side a little bit. "My name is Ben, and over there is my son Kenneth." Kenneth took this as a cue that he could relax and he pulled off his helmet to reveal a boyish looking face with patchy scruff trying to sprout. He nodded at Franklin, and Ben continued.
"We're a group of four total. My wife and daughter are the other two, and you won't see where they are, no offense."
"None taken," Franklin replied quickly.
"We are from this area," Ben returned quietly but determinedly back to his story. "When it all went down, we took advantage of what was left behind and have been wary and resourceful. We live well, but alone. I could go into great detail about what we have set up--and it's incredible--but we find ourselves missing human interaction. What good is living for the next fifty years if we leave just like this? Seeing no one? No grandchildren? No cause to belong to beyond simple survival of ourselves?"
Franklin nodded slowly, allowing his thoughts to drift to Jackie and Seth. He snapped back to Ben's words as he continued.
"I almost don't believe in fate anymore, but you, sir, arriving as you did, might be our ticket to a normal life again."
"What? Me?" Franklin chuckled. "Nothing is normal these days, but if you're talking about our stockade, it's not without dangers. You heard how it was sabotaged and almost overrun. You're more than welcome to go join, but are you willing to make that risk?"
"We might be," Ben shrugged. "It's something I'll think about."
"So where do we go from here?" Franklin asked.
"Good question, because as I already told you, you're not seeing where we live, and we will make sure you don't follow us. Here's what we'll do: we gave you clothes, and over there is one of our bags with water and food," he said pointing to a backpack near the door.
Drawing a 9mm pistol, he continued, "I'll give you my pistol and a box of twenty rounds, but I'm going to take it down with me on the elevator. By the time you get down, we'll be gone."
"More than fair," Franklin replied.
"Now let's trade some info," Ben said standing up. "I've been generous, and what I've given to you is yours to keep, regardless of your answer to what I'm asking for right now. Would you be willing to show us on a map where your stockade is, so we can go join that community and regain some normalcy in our lives? And, in return, I'll give you some information about how you might be able to find your wife?"
"You drive a hard bargain," Franklin admitted. "But I have more to lose here, so how about you tell me this info, and if it's good, I'll show you on your map."
"Fair enough," Ben chuckled.
Then looking at Kenneth, Ben said, "Why don't you tell him what you told me about the trains the other day?"
Kenneth cleared his throat and spoke up. "I noticed it while on a supply run two months ago. Every two weeks like clockwork, a train comes into that station you were in yesterday. It picks up supplies--people, food, tools, weapons. It's not always the same stuff. I was watching them to find out what they were up to, because something didn't seem right. All those survivors that were put on the train were tied up."
"So," Ben interrupted. "That train also sticks around for two days as it gathers things. I'm thinking if you find that train and take it back to its home, you'll find your wife. It's the best I can give you."
"Thank you!" Franklin exclaimed. He stood up quickly and shook Ben's hand. "Let's see that map."
The transaction was completed, and Ben was a man of his word. Franklin reached the bottom floor of the building and found a 9mm with twenty rounds sitting there right when he opened the door.
He walked over to the cleaning station he had used earlier and looked in the mirror. His bearded face met his gaze and his eyes were sad. He splashed some cold water on them and looked back again. "I will get her back!" he shouted emphatically, and this time his eyes burned with a blue fire. "I will get her back," he repeated softly.
* * *
Waking early, Franklin gathered his new gear together and headed to the train station as the sun began to appear over the horizon. A frost had settled overnight, and the nippy air caused Franklin to shiver a little. He breathed on his hands and rubbed them vigorously together as he jogged through the quiet streets. A few sluggish rotters attempted to move towards him, but his movements were too quick, leaving them behind to warm in the growing light.
Nearing the station, he opted instead to circle around the back fence where there was a line of thick bushes. Looking through the bushes, Franklin could see the activity going on around a running diesel locomotive. A small team of men loaded boxes and crates into boxcars, while others shoved bound survivors inside.
"Freakin' like the Holocaust," Franklin hissed out loud to no one in particular. He looked carefully up and down the rails and saw an unwatched gap near one of the last cars. He hopped quickly to his feet and sprinted his way across the open ground, diving into the open car. He rolled and then hopped up to a crouching position. He listened to the men as they continued working, oblivious to the stowaway they had just taken on. Satisfied he hadn't been caught, Franklin made himself a little fort in the corner of the car so that no one could see him. He saw a cardboard box marked "blankets" so he took a few thick quilts out of them and wrapped himself up tight. About an hour later, the train began to move, and soon he was fast asleep.
* * *
A knock sounded at the door and Jesse groaned in displeasure. He hastily threw his towel on the back of a chair and slipped on a pair of boxers.
“In a minute,” he called out, frustration evident in his voice. Since his arrival, Adelaide had insisted on putting him up in a luxurious suite, complete with a balcony overlooking the Ohio River.
Every morning, like clockwork, she arrived to escort him around more of the facilities. Long drawn out details of the operation, personal stories, and ideologies bombarded Jesse throughout the day. At first it was a nuisance to him to constantly throw up a defensive, but in the last day he felt his mind succumbing to the new environment. No longer did he subconsciously pass judgment upon every activity he encountered. On the contrary, he began to see it as a complex but efficient operation. True, Adelaide might be a little unorthodox, but she sure as hell knew how to give humans a fighting chance.
The sound of the door opening, followed by footsteps startled Jesse as he struggled to locate a pair of shorts. In front of him stood Adelaide, clad in a black skirt with a white blouse. She started at Jesse and smiled.
“You look nice this morning,” she cooed.
“Why did you bother to knock if you were just going to prance in here?” Jesse grunted. As she strode over to a window the scent of her perfume caused an excited stir throughout his body.
“You’re late,” she retorted, watching a raptor pluck a small fish from the muddy waters of the Ohio.
“And you’re rude,” Jesse shot back, as he finished dressing himself.
“Now Jesse, is that any way to talk to a lady?” Adelaide turned and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me. Today is important.”
Adelaide led the way out the door and immediately launched into another lecture. “We have opened up a new line of track to another colony near St. Louis. It will bring our total colonies up to six, counting our base here in Louisville.”
“Which are?” Jesse inquired.
“Frankfort, Indianapolis, Nashville, and Cleveland are the others.”
“And St. Louis is the urgent news you needed to share with me?” Jesse scoffed.
Adelaide gave Jesse a smug look. “I find your attempt at atti
tude to be quite charming. But to answer your question, no. We have another train coming in with supplies and people to ship to our colonies. You’ll be in charge of sorting the survivors… Consider it a test. Pass it, and you stay here with me.”
“And if I fail?”
Adelaide smiled and lowered her voice. “My dear Jesse, I would hate to think of what those ravenous feeders would do to your perfect masculine body.” She stopped in front of the doorways leading into the clinic. “Wait here, I have something I must attend to for a few minutes.”
Jesse leaned against the wall and sighed in frustration. He placed his hands atop his head and struggled to make sense of everything. Being a compassionate young man had always been one of his strengths, he thought. It just seemed like in the screwed up world in which he now resided there was no room for compassion or mercy. In a world that now lived by survival of the fittest, Adelaide was actually doing people a favor. Men struggling to protect their families could now work to help provide for multitudes. Young girls who would otherwise perish could now help repopulate the dwindling human numbers. What was wrong with that?
Jesse was so deep in thought he failed to see the attractive female lab technician, wearing a white flowing coat, step out of the clinic door.
“Pardon me,” the woman said, out of social habit. Her expression changed, however, as she recognized the man leaning against the wall. “Oh my… Jesse!”
Jesse immediately straightened his posture and stepped away from the wall. “Katelyn?”
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