Pilgrimage: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story

by Abrahams, Tom

  “I’m sorry,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “For what?” Lana’s eyes shot up from the hole in the sofa to look at her boyfriend.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you for the bologna,” he admitted. “This is your house too. Plus, I should say thank you.”

  “For what?” Lana craned her neck like a chicken.

  “You made the bed.” Vincent smiled. “I appreciate it. I mean, I know things are tough and I say you don’t do stuff to help. So you made the bed. You helped. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “And I forgive you. Now sit with me. I’m bored.” She patted the empty seat on the sofa.

  “I can’t,” he said, sitting on the rectangular oak coffee table in front of the sofa. He was facing Lana. “I got some stuff to do with the guys tonight.”

  “Great,” she huffed and stuck her finger back into the tear. “Leave me for the boys.”

  “No,” Vincent explained, “this is great. I’ll be back in the morning with a big surprise for you.”

  “Oh really.” Lana’s right eyebrow arched higher than the left. “What?”

  “Can’t tell you.” He slapped her thigh and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “But you’ll be happy.”

  Vincent returned to the bedroom with more bounce in his step. He opened up a chest of drawers and pulled out a black Megadeth concert T-Shirt. He held it up to his chest. It would do. Now he needed to find a black beanie and his darkest pair of pants.

  “I’m going all Seal Team Six.” He laughed to himself. “Like Special-Ops and stuff.”

  He checked the pocket watch his father gave him. It was almost 6:15. He had an hour until he needed to be back at Bruno’s place.

  The plan was going to work. He was sure of it.

  CHAPTER 34

  EVENT +85:55 Hours

  Sweet Valley, Pennsylvania

  Max Rockwell was hiding from his sister. He’d climbed the tree house at the southwest corner of Camp Driggers. There was less than a half hour of sunlight left in the day and Leigh had already given the five-minute warning. Playtime was almost up.

  Max sat in the tree house with his knees pulled to his chest, relishing his sister’s inability to find him as much as the diversion of hide and seek. He looked up at the broad, green sycamore leaves over his head and took a deep breath.

  He wondered how many more moments he’d have like this: alone with his thoughts, no immediate worries about food, shelter, or pain. Max knew his family wouldn’t stay in this relative utopia forever, but he was glad to stay as long as his parents were willing.

  “Psst.” It was Connor, the Driggerses’ son. “You up here, Max?” He was climbing up the wooden ladder.

  “Yeah.” Max leaned forward to look over his knees and saw Connor poke his head through the opening. “Where is she?”

  “She’s wandering over by the cottage.” Connor pulled himself into the tree house. “Molly Kelly is trying to help her find you, but your sister keeps ignoring her ideas.”

  “That’s Sloane.” Max smirked. “A mind of her own.”

  “What’s with the stuffed bear?” asked Connor. “She carries it everywhere. My mom said she wanted an extra seat for it at lunch.” He snickered.

  “That’s a long story,” said Max.

  “I’ve got time,” said Connor. “It’s not like there’s a Pirates game on TV.”

  “Its name is Noodle,” explained Max. “And it’s a big deal to her because our older sister gave it to Sloane when she was born.”

  “Older sister?” asked Connor, crossing his legs in front of him, leaning back on his palms. “I thought it was just the four of you. Is she in college or something?”

  “No,” answered Max, his eyes finding their way to the dusty wood plank floor of the tree house. “She’s dead.”

  “What?” Connor sat straight. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “No, no.” Max waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t know. It happened a while ago.”

  The boys exchanged silence for a moment before Connor pressed, “What was her name?”

  “Nora.”

  “Can I ask how she died?”

  “The flu,” Max said. “She was a little younger than I am now. It was during the flu outbreak. So, like, six years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was always kinda sick,” Max revealed. “I mean, not in bed all of the time, but she went to the doctor a lot. My parents said she was born early and then had different medical problems.”

  “Oh.”

  “When the flu first started spreading,” Max remembered, “my parents pulled us out of school before everybody else. They didn’t want us getting it and passing it around, you know? Plus, Sloane was only a baby. She was two years old.”

  “Yeah.” Connor nodded.

  “We were all at home,” said Max, “and my mom was friends with a nurse who got us these sample packages of medicine. I remember they were these huge pills and we had to take them for a week.”

  “I remember taking those,” said Connor. “Those things were like horse pills. That’s what my dad called them.”

  “My parents thought we were going to be fine,” added Max, “but Nora caught it anyway. She got really sick. Nobody could help her.” His gaze drifted off past the walls of the tree house. He could see his sister’s weakened body struggling against the fever that racked her weakened body.

  She seemed so small, so tiny in that bed, he remembered. She was his older sister, but she didn’t look it. Nora was a shell of herself. And her hand…it was so cold when he held it.

  “Sorry to bring it up.” Connor snapped Max back to the present.

  “It’s okay.” Max shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

  “I didn’t know anybody who died from the flu back then,” Connor admitted. “I knew a couple of kids whose grandparents died. One kid’s mom got it and died. That was it.”

  “Did you live here?” asked Max, eager to change the focus.

  “No,” said Connor. “We lived in Scranton. It was crazy there during the flu outbreak. I don’t really remember too much. But my parents say it was super dangerous in any city. People went nuts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People panicked,” Connor explained. “They broke into people’s houses and businesses and stole stuff. My dad’s office got looted.”

  “Is that why you moved here?” asked Max. “To the country?”

  “Yeah.” Connor nodded. “My parents wanted us to be safer. My dad told us we’d never be unprepared again.”

  “That’s why you have the generators and the fences?” Max turned and looked toward the western edge of the property. He could see the fence in the fading light, outlined against the stretch of grass and trees beyond it.

  “And the cameras,” Connor added. “And the guns.”

  “Guns?” Max whipped his head back to Connor. “What guns?”

  “My dad has, like, a bunch of guns and other stuff in the garage,” Connor said before pursing his lips. “Don’t say anything. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. “

  “I won’t,” Max said, “but why’d he buy so many guns?”

  “He said he doesn’t trust people.” Connor shrugged. “He said that when things get bad, people get worse.”

  Max thought back to the men in the boat, the ones who tried to rip them from their kayaks to steal their backpacks. And more.

  He winced against the memory of his dad plowing holes into the men with his handgun. He’d never forget the blank, empty stare of the one with the blood spewing from his neck as he lost his grip on Max’s kayak and slipped beneath the surface of the water, leaking a red mushroom cloud behind as his body sank.

  “You okay?” Connor tapped Max on his knee, bringing him back to the tree house.

  “Yeah.” Max shook his head. “I was just thinking.”

  “Max!!” a squeaky voice called from directly underneath the tree h
ouse. “I found you!”

  The boys looked down the opening to see Sloane and Molly looking up at them. Sloane held up Noodle and waved a nappy paw for him.

  “Hey, guys,” Molly called, “your moms want you back inside. It’s getting dark and dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Okay!” the boys said in unison.

  “Remember,” said Connor as they began their descent, “don’t talk about the guns.”

  CHAPTER 35

  EVENT +88:00 Hours

  Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania

  Reggie was late. He was bouncing his knee up and down as he pulled his truck into a parking spot next to the tennis courts at Coal Street Park. Being late was not good.

  Two men approached him as soon as he slipped the truck into park. The larger of the two rapped on the window and Reggie rolled it down. Reggie was mean. These men were meaner.

  “Malcolm—” Reggie started, but stopped when the man held his finger to his lips.

  “Shhh!” The man, Malcolm Kepler, closed his eyes when he spoke. “You’re fifteen minutes late. I don’t like that.”

  “It took me longer to get back than—” Reggie was still trying to make a case.

  “I don’t care,” Kepler interrupted. His calm, even tone was more frightening than if he were to yell in anger. “There are no excuses here. Either you are capable of doing what’s asked of you or we will find someone who is.”

  Reggie nodded, masking his desire to stab Kepler in the neck. He knew better than to speak again, despite his dislike for the man. He couldn’t fight the hierarchy of things. It had been that way since prison. He knew the man’s power.

  Malcolm Kepler would have him killed if he had to “find someone else”. He’d seen him do it in prison and on the street. With a shiv, with a paperclip and pencil, and with his thickly calloused bare hands.

  Kepler, wiry and athletic, was the unchallenged leader of a small gang called the United Brothers, a skinhead splinter group of the more organized and much larger Keystone United.

  Before the event, they ran untaxed cigarettes, liquor, and a growing amount of methamphetamines. Their “territory” ran from Scranton and Wilkes-Barre to Williamsport. Since the event, they’d quickly seized upon the need for food, water, and medicine. They’d looted a half-dozen pharmacies and grocery stores in the three days since their area of influence went dark.

  “I have another small shipment for you,” Kepler offered, rubbing the stubble on his head, “if you believe you can handle it. On time.”

  Reggie nodded again.

  “I need you to take it back across the river.” Kepler leaned in, pressing his hands against the open windowsill. “The Market Street Bridge is closed to all traffic. Local cops are checking identification. You don’t need that hassle.”

  The other man, Kepler’s bodyguard and former cellmate, stepped forward and whispered something in his ear. The cellmate was holding a G28 semiautomatic gas-operated rifle across his prison-built chest.

  Reggie recognized the weapon from his days as a pawn shop manager. He’d become a quasi-expert on weapons, guitars, and Rolex watches.

  “Berger here says to head south to Mocanaqua and take the crossing there,” Kepler suggested. “There’s nobody there yet. So that’s your best route. Got it so far?”

  “I got it,” said Reggie. “Though I just came across the—”

  “Cross at Mocanaqua,” Kepler insisted.

  “Okay.” Reggie raised his hands from the wheel, surrendering the discussion.

  “Then head to Ricketts Glen State Park,” Kepler said. “There’ll be a friend waiting for your delivery. You’ll offload. He’ll give you the requisite payment. All is good. You come back and meet me here in ten hours.”

  “Okay.”

  “Not ten hours and fifteen minutes.” Kepler pointed his finger at Reggie. “Ten hours exactly.”

  Reggie nodded and asked, “Where’s the load?”

  “Berger’s gonna help you load it.” Kepler rapped his hands on the door sill. “Get out.”

  Kepler backed away from the truck, and Reggie climbed out to help Berger the cellmate. They crossed the parking lot to a small Chevy SUV. Berger, still handling the Heckler & Koch rifle, popped open the tailgate with one hand. Then he placed the weapon in the back of the SUV.

  “That’s a pretty nice rifle.” Reggie approached Berger at the back of the Chevy. “A little heavy compared to the MR762, but I like the green and brown finish. Very slick.”

  Berger turned his thick neck to look at Reggie. He said nothing and reached into the back of the SUV to pull out a box labeled Suboxone.

  “Grab a box.” Kepler was standing behind Reggie. “Take it to your truck.”

  “What is that stuff?” Reggie asked. “Suboxone?” He grabbed two boxes, felt the pills rattling around in their individual bottles, and turned to walk back to his truck.

  “It’s like methadone,” said Kepler, “for smack addicts.”

  Reggie hauled the boxes to his truck and went back for more. In addition to the Suboxone, there were cases of pseudoephedrine and Dexedrine. He’d be driving a mobile pharmacy.

  “Hit the road,” Kepler ordered as Reggie slammed shut the rear tailgate on the truck. He and Berger pulled a large canvas tarp across the boxes and secured it with short bungee cords. “Don’t stop. Don’t talk to anybody. You good on fuel?”

  Reggie hopped in the cab and cranked the ignition. “Yeah. I’ve got a half tank. That should be plenty.”

  “Your contact should hand you one hundred and twenty large,” explained Kepler. “When you get back, I’ll give you a cut and then load you up again.”

  “More drugs?” asked Reggie.

  Kepler licked his upper lip and sniffed. He glared at Reggie for a moment before answering. “Probably food. By tomorrow, it’ll be worth more than crack to a whore.”

  “Got it.” Reggie pulled on his seatbelt and pulled out of the parking lot. He had a long night ahead of him. And lucky for him, his delivery took him right by Nanticoke and his side lady, Lana.

  CHAPTER 36

  EVENT +91:15 Hours

  Nanticoke, Pennsylvania

  Vincent Gore couldn’t sit still. It was just after midnight and he was having second thoughts. He adjusted the nine millimeter in his waistband. His stomach groaned.

  “Dude,” said Dunk, “you need to chill. We got this.”

  “Seriously, Vince,” added Bruno. “This is not going to be a problem. I mean, the worst thing that happens is the alarm goes off and we bolt. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “It is the end of the world,” countered Vincent. “That’s exactly the deal here. This rich dude could be in a bunker mentality, you know?” He rapped his knuckles against the side of his head. “We could be walking into a hornet’s nest.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” said Dunk. “They’ll be asleep. You said it. This is perfect timing.”

  “You’re not being a puss about it, are you?” asked Gooz. He was sitting in a La-Z-Boy recliner, his eyes closed as he listened to the debate. “We looked at the place. We checked it out. We’re all good. Why are you getting all freaked?”

  “Do we need to do this?” Vince asked himself as much as the group. “Do we need to put ourselves at risk?”

  “Yes!” they replied in unison. Gooz opened his eyes and leaned forward, rocking the La-Z-Boy as he did.

  “We are out of food, Vince,” he argued. “And if we wait another couple of days, we won’t have the energy to do anything about it.”

  “I’m starving, dude,” added Dunk. “I got, like, I don’t know, two cans of green beans left. Something like that. We need this.”

  “I’ve had a headache for the last six hours,” said Bruno. “I’m thirsty. I’m hungry. If we don’t do this now, we’re screwed.”

  “What about a grocery store?” Vince was racking his mildly dehydrated brain for an alternative.

  “What grocery store?” chided Gooz. “We’ve been through this. Hit
ting that place is the best thing we can do. We grab what we can carry. It’ll last us until the lights come back on.”

  “What if the lights don’t come back on?” Vince played devil’s advocate.

  “Then we worry about that when we run out of our new stash,” argued Gooz. “We can grab enough to last us for at least a week or two.”

  “You said these were big freezers, right?” asked Bruno. He was sitting on the hearth of an empty fireplace. “There should be plenty of food.”

  “Yeah.” Vincent couldn’t shake the bad feeling that had washed over him. He couldn’t explain it, but his gut was more than empty. It was prescient. But he shook it off as nerves. “There should be plenty for all of us.”

  “So tell us again how this is going to go down.” Dunk was sitting on a barstool in front of the counter of Bruno’s galley kitchen. He swiveled in the chair, the ball bearings complaining under his weight.

  “All right.” Vincent sighed. “Here’s the plan…” He then laid out the mission as he and Gooz had conceived it.

  They’d take two vehicles. Vincent would drive himself to the front of the property and work his magic there.

  The rest of the team would approach from the north, off of Route 118. They’d have to walk about a half mile to the back of the property, navigating the brush and trees populating State Game Lands Number 206. It was an expansive preserve with a small creek called Shingle Run running north and south close to Camp Driggers.

  Dunk, Bruno, and Gooz would use the creek as their guide if they got disoriented. Bruno and Gooz would carry walkie-talkies and would communicate with Vincent when needed. They’d each have trash bags and pillow cases to carry the merchandise.

  “The only potential hitch is the noise from the generator,” explained Vincent. “When I crank it on and off, it could wake up the owners. If that happens, if there’s any sign we’re busted, you gotta run.”

  “Isn’t the fence electrified?” asked Dunk, his attention half given to the flex of his triceps. He ran his hand along the bulge stretched along his arm.