SUNFALL: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Fiction Series: Book 2: ADVENT

by D. Gideon

  “Ripley,” Marco said, a note of warning creeping into his voice.

  I tried the horn again. They kept coming. I revved the engine, and it sputtered a bit before roaring. Shit. Not even thirty miles and the fuel filter was already starting to get clogged.

  They didn’t move out of the way. I could hear banging coming from the back of the truck; either Corey or Mel were pounding on the wall. If they were shouting anything, I couldn’t hear them over the engine and the sound of the crowd in front of us.

  The first few ran forward the last few feet and banged on the grill of the truck, grinning broadly.

  “We need a ride! Give us a ride!” they were yelling.

  “They won’t do anything. There’s cops right over there-”-” I started.

  “You mean the cops that can’t see us because of the trees?” Marco said, pulling his fisherman’s knife from his sheath. “The ones that said private security isn’t their problem?”

  I eased up on the brake a little and let the truck inch forward. The men in front of us stumbled back, yelling angry curses. One of them sprinted around to my door and started banging on it. More of the crowd reached us, and in a heartbeat, the nose of the truck was surrounded on all sides by a sea of screaming people.

  “Let us in!”

  “You can take all of us in that thing!”

  “Open the fucking door, bitch!” A large man grabbed the door handle and pulled himself up, slamming his fist into the window. I revved the engine again and saw people running for the back of the truck. Corey could close the roll-up door, but he couldn’t lock it from the inside.

  “Hit the gas, Ripley,” Marco said, holding up the knife and showing it to the man hanging from my door.

  The man grinned, put his free hand down, and when it came back up, I was looking down the barrel of a pistol.

  I slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

  The truck lurched forward, the man at my window swung away, and there was a thunderclap in my ear. Pebbled glass sprayed all over my hands, my arms, my legs. A small spiderweb appeared at the top of the windshield and my brain registered that the bullet must have deflected somewhere into the cab, but I couldn’t hear it impact. The mass of people in front of the truck…oh my god.

  The ones in the back of the crowd were able to dodge out of the way. They sprang for the sides and landed flat on the asphalt. The ones pushing each other up against the grill, banging on the truck and yelling…I saw the shock on their faces just before they disappeared below the line of the hood.

  I thought I heard their screams over the roar of the diesel engine trying to pick up speed. That couldn’t have been possible; I couldn’t hear a freaking thing but a skull-piercing whine.

  I felt the thump of the tires hitting their bodies through the steering wheel. I felt the tires roll over them, spin for purchase as the truck tried to accelerate, and hit asphalt again. We bounced in our seats like they were nothing but soft speed bumps. Once, twice. Again. Again. Again. Both sides, both sets of tires, and then we were free and gaining speed.

  There was a hand scrabbling to gain purchase on the hood. That’s all I could see, the hand clawing at the sun-faded white paint. He must have been holding onto the grill or the bumper with his other hand for all he was worth. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I kept the gas pedal down as far as it would go. It had taken about fifty feet to really get moving, but now I flew around a bend in the road, feeling the truck tilt and hearing slams from the box behind us as bodies were thrown around inside.

  The hand slipped over the edge of the hood and disappeared. There weren’t any bumps this time.

  I blew across the double intersection of Route 8 and barreled straight down Pier 1 Road back towards the Bay. The truck bounced and lurched and I slammed on the brakes just before a curve, locking up the back tires and skidding to a stop.

  I burst out of the truck and ran for the side of the road. My knees had barely hit the ground when the water in my stomach came flying out of my nose and my mouth. I heaved and heaved, and somewhere in the middle I realized the reason I could hear screaming was because it was coming from inside my skull.

  I was the one screaming.

  Hands grabbed my hair and pulled it back out of the way, and then arms wrapped around me from behind, pulling me back against someone’s chest. They held me until my stomach stopped its violent spasming, and then started rocking me gently. I felt skin against my cheek; the soft scratch of a short beard.

  Marco kissed my temple and then pressed his cheek back against mine. He kept his arms tight around me, and kept rocking me as I sobbed in horror…

  My god…the people in front of the truck.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday, September 4th

  Easton, Maryland

  I was sitting in the back of the truck with my back to the side wall, watching the road go by through the two-foot opening we’d left in the door. King had his head in my lap, sleeping soundly while my fingers traced the scars on his head. Mel leaned against the wall across from me, smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes outside. Her hair was a mess now, having sprang from its bun when I was throwing her and Corey around in my flight from the crowd. They both had some lumps and there’d definitely be bruising later on, but at least they hadn’t broken anything.

  Trying to talk back here was pointless due to the road noise reverberating through the empty cargo space, but that was a good thing. I didn’t feel much like talking, even though the whine in my ears had finally abated and I could actually hear again. It had taken nearly twenty minutes for my hearing to return. My mind kept flashing back to the expressions on the faces of the people when they realized I was running them over. I had tried curling into a ball on the mattress that had slid to the front wall when I slammed on the brakes, but I quickly gave up that idea. The bouncing of the truck combined with the bouncing of the mattress was enough to make my already fragile stomach threaten to revolt again.

  The cache that I’d wanted to get sat next to Mel; another five-gallon bucket with some supplies. We’d buried it at the edge of the Kent Island airfield, where we knew there wouldn’t be any urban sprawl construction, and it had only taken Corey a few minutes to dig it back out. Originally, I’d insisted on putting it there in case we had to come across the water rather than the bridge. There were boats all along the waterfront on both sides of the Bay, and finding a little fishing boat or a yacht’s dingy to cross with would have been easy. Getting across the Bay with its high waves might not have been easy, so I’d wanted dry clothes and some replacements for our gear waiting for us on the shore. Ideally we could’ve buried a cache on the western shore with an inflatable two-person boat, but we just hadn’t had the money to do that.

  In my pocket now was the entire reason I’d wanted to stop: my Vivitar monocular from the old Marlboro rewards program. After Corey had chewed me out for selling my binoculars to a friend back at the University of Maryland, I’d wanted to prove to him that I hadn’t put us at risk by reducing us to only having his pair. Now we again had two methods to see the terrain and situation ahead of us…and all I’d had to do to get it was crush some people under the truck. My stomach rolled again.

  I should have just left the damn thing, I thought. It wasn’t worth it. I could’ve gotten us all killed. I could have kept those people from getting…

  I shook my head to stop that line of thinking, and looked at Mel. She was watching me, and she tapped her temple with a finger and raised an eyebrow. I sighed and nodded, and she shook her head. She wagged her finger back and forth in a stop that motion, and I shrugged. I’d love to be thinking about anything else. I couldn’t help it. She frowned at me and opened up the tiny, travel-size jar of peanut butter that had been in the cache. I’d packed a couple of plastic spoons with it too, figuring we could eat it straight out of the jar. We would have needed the protein after navigating across the five-mile width of the Bay. After cutting open the caulking seal we’d put around the lid of the bucket t
o keep ground water from getting in, I’d put the monocular in my pocket and scooped nearly half of the peanut butter onto the top of the jar lid. King had licked it clean in less than a minute. At least something good had come out of the whole situation; I’d been able to get the big guy some food.

  Mel too, I thought, watching her plop a spoonful into her mouth and squish it around. The thought of eating made my stomach twinge again, and I looked back at the road.

  We’d started with the door open further, high enough so that we could sit and watch the scenery go by and get plenty of air moving through the cargo space. Normally that would’ve been nice on a hot day like today. It hadn’t been ten minutes into the ride, seeing all of the abandoned cars, the looted or burned-out stores, the walking people staring with jealous eyes as we rolled by, that I’d gotten up and pulled the door down far enough that we couldn’t see anything but the asphalt. It was just too damn depressing.

  We’d been traveling for almost an hour when the truck slowed, sputtered hard, and made a turn. The change in momentum woke King up, and he lifted his head and started wagging his tail stub in anticipation of being let out again. We rumbled slowly across the highway, and I saw a flash of green grass go by. We were pulling into some kind of parking lot. After a moment we stopped, and the big engine went quiet. Mel and I stayed still, not knowing what was going on and not wanting to make any noise. I heard the truck doors open and shut, and then Corey and Marco were at the back telling us to untie the door and open up.

  I climbed out to find us standing inside a fenced parking lot next to a long steel building with multiple roll-up doors. The side of the lot was filled with stacks of paving stones, piles of mulch, and different sizes and colors of gravel. A small bulldozer sat among the materials, and at the back of the lot were a few old, large trucks that had seen better days. Past the truck, the lot opened onto an overgrown field, and once King hopped out, he sniffed the air and trotted that way to find something interesting to pee on.

  I knew where we were: the Contractor’s Supply just outside of Easton. I’d come here a lot over the years with my parents, getting supplies for Dad’s latest building project. Corey had even come with us a few times just to escape the boredom of another weekend in tiny Snow Hill. He’d loved walking past the building next door, over to the Porsche restoration shop, and looking at the beautiful little sports cars through the showroom windows.

  “I thought being someplace familiar might…help,” Corey said, scratching the back of his head and shrugging. “I wasn’t going to stop if it looked wrecked, but it’s fine and the fence was open. Plus, you know…duck boots over here.” He jabbed a thumb in Marco’s direction. I didn’t say anything, and he shrugged again. “If you don’t want to-”

  “No, it’s a good idea,” I said. “If we can get inside, I know they’ve got better boots, and we won’t get trampled or shot trying to get them.”

  “Boots? Here?” Mel said, looking around doubtfully. “You sure?”

  “It’s a contractor’s supply. They’ve got all kinds of stuff inside. Work boots—really nice ones too, Red Wings—work clothes, Carhartt jackets…you’ll see,” I said. “The boots in there alone are worth about $200 a pair, but looters never think of hitting places like this.”

  “I was thinking I could grab some tools,” Corey said. “I might be able to get that fuel filter off and get something to blow it out. It’s coughing enough that it’s starting to worry me.”

  “Would those trucks back there have fuel we could borrow?” Marco said, pointing to the trucks at the back.

  I shook my head. “Nah, those things have been sitting there for years. If they do have any fuel in them, it’s worthless by now. Let’s see if we can find a way in, before someone walks by on the highway.”

  We spread out, checking the big rolling doors, but they were all locked into their tracks. Corey ended up using his shovel to punch through the thin aluminum in the door furthest back from the road. It took a few tries to find the height of the lock bar, but once he did, he made a hole large enough for me to get my hand through and I was able to turn the handle and release the door. We rolled it up about three feet and ducked under.

  The warehouse was dark but navigable, thanks to the dirty skylights in the roof letting in dim light. I led the group up the main aisle, wide enough for two forklifts to pass each other, towards the small storefront attached to the front of the building. We passed pallets of expensive decorative edging; huge metal shelves lined with buckets of nails, screws, and bolts; ductwork; piping; and rows and rows of special-cut lumber. Even in the large, open warehouse with its raised roof, the sheer amount of stuff back here made the big building seem crowded. It was nearly a relief to step through the double doors into the little brick building that held the storefront and offices.

  “Here you go,” I said, gesturing to the shelves lining one wall holding dozens of Red Wing boots. Marco went straight for a pair that looked like hiking boots and started lifting boxes, looking for his size. The large windows up here made it easy to see, and Mel scooted off to browse through the hanging displays of clothing. Corey went to the other side of the store, where pegboard displays held tools of all types. He pulled down a pair of two-foot bolt cutters and held them up so I could see.

  “These might come in handy,” he said, and laid them on the floor. He turned back to the display and grabbed a long pry bar, lifting it to test its weight.

  I hopped up onto the sales counter and looked out to Route 50. I could see some people walking down the side of the road, and watched them to make sure they wouldn’t get the same idea we had. There was anti-glare film on the windows that would keep anyone from seeing us clearly, but it made me nervous. They kept going, not even looking towards the building. I knew from our hike yesterday that if they’d been walking for a while, they’d probably have tunnel vision by now, completely zoned out and just putting one foot in front of the other. Trudging down the side of a highway wasn’t like a pleasant, long hike through the woods. The heat radiating from the roadway sapped the energy from you, the ground was hard-packed and full of dangerous debris like broken bottles that you had to watch for, and the stress of being on alert for passing cars and threatening people wore you down quickly.

  “You should each come get at least one extra pair of shoes,” Marco said. He was sitting on the floor now, lacing up a new pair of boots. “If this will go on for years, you’ll need replacements eventually.”

  “You’re right,” Corey said. “I’ll get a couple when I figure out what size these tools are.” He had his broken glasses perched on his nose, and was trying to read the engraving on a wrench with one eye closed. I hopped down and went over to help.

  “You could just get an adjustable one,” I said, handing him one from a hook.

  “I am, but if I can’t get it to fit in there, I’ll still need the right size anyway. I’ll figure this out. Go get another pair of shoes,” he said.

  I made a face. “I’d rather not. It doesn’t feel right, you know?” He tilted his head so he could see me over his cracked lens and raised an eyebrow. “I mean, it’s okay for you guys to take stuff I guess, but I feel like I know these people. You’ve met them, you know how nice everyone here is. It’s…it’s too much like stealing.”

  “It is stealing, Rip,” Corey said. “There’s no way around that. But let me ask you something. You think the people that own this place would rather the stuff go to looters looking to sell it and make a quick buck, or do you think they’d rather it go to someone they know, who needs it and will actually use it?”

  “I think they’d rather it not be stolen at all,” I said, and when he glared at me, I shrugged. “If they were forced to make the choice they’d probably want it to go to someone they know,” I admitted.

  “So leave them an IOU. You can always come back later and pay them back in some way,” Corey said.

  I snorted. “You kidding me? You know I can’t afford a pair of Red Wing shoes, and neither can
you.”

  “I said in some way,” Corey said. “With the economy gone, that pair of shoes doesn’t represent $200 anymore. It’s just shoes in a size they probably can’t wear and won’t ever use. If you’ve got something they can use, it’s an even trade now. No matter what it used to cost a week ago.”

  I looked at the tools he already had laying on the floor. “I don’t even have anything someone else would need, Corey. What could I possibly give them?”

  “I was thinking we could get a deer in a month or two and bring it back, if we can get the gas to do it. Tools will be worth more than a pair of shoes,” he said. “Like you said, I’ve met the people here. Don’t think I’m not feeling guilty too, Rip.”

  “I’m gonna go back in the offices and see if I can find an address for the owner,” I said. “Bringing something back here to the store will be a waste of time if they’re not coming here anymore.”

  “Then you’ll get a pair of shoes? Maybe a Carhartt jacket for the winter?" he asked.

  I sighed. “Yeah, if I can find an address I’ll grab a backup pair of shoes. But if we’re ‘paying’-” I made air quotes with my fingers, “for everyone’s stuff, we’re gonna need a bigger deer.”

  Corey chuckled and I went back to dig around in the manager’s office. I was able to find a list of everyone’s contact info on a clipboard hanging by the employees’ time cards. I tore off the top corner of the paper with the owner’s address on it and stuck it in a pocket. Then I went out to get myself a backup pair of shoes.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday, September 4th

  Easton, Maryland

  I ended up with a pair of Red Wings that almost looked like normal tennis shoes, except for the really thick sole. They were made for electricians and had some kind of extra electrical shock protection built-in somewhere. I’d grabbed a heavy-duty Carhartt jacket with a liner for the winter, and two pairs of Dickies work pants. Mel had light-heartedly grumbled about the pants being “ugly as sin”, but she’d gotten a couple of pairs as well. Corey had already taken a load of tools out to the truck and had come back for boots. Now we were all headed out of the warehouse with our shoe boxes and clothes. I was in front again, eager to get back on the road and get home.