The Nameless Survivor (Valkyrie)
Page 23
The store was all but completely looted and ransacked, the floor lay littered with empty containers and bags. Walls of coolers and freezers remained dark and empty, and a strong musty scent filled the air. There was not much left to rummage through, not even one pack of smokes was left behind the counter. Unfortunately, it seemed, that we had arrived six years too late. However, with luck, we did recover an old can of Uncle Dean's Tomato Soup as well as a large canned ham. Also, in the storage room, we surprisingly found a case of bottled water and one bottle of Fat Bastard Wine. It wasn't the Dorito's I had wished for, but it was still better than nothing.
We carried the feast out into the parking lot and sat in the sun for a nice warm autumn picnic. The tomato soup, although no longer a vibrant red but rather a brown aged sludge, tasted just as good as when my mother would make me grilled-cheese sandwiches and soup as a kid. But only a few sips for me, Mia finished the remained slop which she eagerly quaffed.
An aged and musky odor escaped from the canned ham as soon as my knife punctured the lid. Never the less, I continued to fumble with the can until the lid was successfully pried open revealing a chunk of grayish-green meat. Rotten or not, it was required nutrition, and we wasted no time digging into the gelatinous pork byproduct. We choked down a couple of handfuls of the putrid, processed meat, all the while attempting to enjoy it. I even tried to close my eyes and imagine I was eating gourmet cheese, like Blu Stilton or even Limburger. However the true taste was not something that could be easily imagined and would prove to be unforgettable.
Mia soon focused on the water, sucking down one bottle after the other, showing no interest in the wine which was still amazingly sweet. I had half expected that it would have turned to vinegar by now. As we finished our beverages we sat quietly together, listening to the river and the birds as I gently rubbed Mia’s perfectly round stomach. We were once again content, our bellies were full, and just like after a big old Thanksgiving dinner we were both dead tired.
So we decided to hold up in one of the old hotels for the night. It was shocking to see Sugarloaf Inn had been hardly touched since the end of man. Aside from a ransacked lobby the rooms themselves looked as if the beds had just been made. A thick layer of dust was all that told of how much time had passed. Even the mini-bar was still stocked, which I greedily packed up all the little bottles of vodka, gin and other assorted liquors.
Like a herd of cattle charging up over the horizon a subtle tremble began to build within my stomach. Then the wave of tremors became a painful quake and I dashed to the bathroom. I had little time to drop my pants and sat squat onto the dust-laden toilet before lunch plowed through my bowels. The bone-dry porcelain-void was filled instantaneously, and the air permeated with a feculent stench. To my relief, a full roll of toilet paper still hung from its spool, but unfortunately it was impossible to flush all that filth away. The smell lingered heavily upon the entire hotel-room, so in an embarrassing silence we packed back up and found a new room to bed down in for the night.
Mia and her pup rested at the hotel as I utilized what was left of the day to explore this forsaken town. Determination and desperation guided my priorities to find an alternate means of transportation, as strong as she is, I am unsure how much more Mia or the baby can handle. At first I discovered two promising bicycles, however upon closer inspection, deflated tires were overshadowed by rust-seized chains. And the automobiles which lay in decay throughout the streets are either devoid of fuel or too far gone to crank over.
As the sun drew closer to the horizon, my determination faded, and my feet slowly carried me back to the hotel in defeat. But then, something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, a handicap school-bus. Parked within a narrow alleyway between two large apartment buildings. I had seen it previously one my way through, yet dismissed it as just another hunk of junk and moved on. Although now it appeared as a gleaming beacon of hope, these old buses were well built and commonly survived the tests of time, but I did not get carried away with false optimism. If anything, this rusty heap of metal may hold something of value, even if only a book or two to help pass the time.
Slowly I pulled myself up into the bus which appeared all but barren, only a foreboding corpse guarded the rear, possibly the former driver. I assumed by the dry and crusty remains that he took refuge within the yellow steal-cage during the initial panic of The Outbreak. Trapped to die in what would become his own personal coffin. Surprisingly though, his body has withstood the elements. Its flesh still remained but now dry like leather, dryer, naturally mummified.
His shriveled eyes were sealed shut and his mouth hung agape in frozen despair, parched for eternity. He was a shielded victim of a world gone mad, and his tomb nothing but a dusty antiquity. Another dead end, just a disheartening sign of the times. And with respect, I threw him a subtle salute and turned to exit his sanctuary. But another gleaming beacon caught my eyes, the cloudy gauges upon the dash, and a half tank of fuel.
“What the hell.” I said out loud.
The springs beneath the driver’s seat creaked loudly with age as I plopped myself down upon it. It was doubtful that she would start, not after all these years of neglect, but at least I could say that I tried. It took a couple powerful and swift kicks with my boot to break the steering column free and reveal a tangle of wires. My young adventures of hooliganism taught me well for this task, and with these old vehicles it was all too simple. Within moments I had found the starter wires and pulled them from their junctions. Praying there would be enough juice in the old battery, I took a deep breath and touched the two ends together.
There was a low groan from the engine as what power was left struggled to ignite the rusted pistons. Frantically I pumped the gas, the groans and grinding increased rapidly as years of corrosion broke free and the engine churned to lubricate itself once again. Then, a loud crack blasted out from the rear, and a cloud of black smoke rose up from the grate in the front. Violently the old bitch roared back to life, like the phoenix rising from its ashes. Our chariot, an armored vehicle to take us through hostile territory. Thankfully it appeared that my luck still lingered within me.
“Fuck Yeah!”
But my excitement vanished with a crusty presence of a hand up my shoulder. Whipping around, my heart began to pound as I found the once petrified corpse standing behind me. His mouth still agape and its jaw just barely attached by dry, jerky-like flesh. His eyes were now open, revealing nothing but sunken and grotesquely shriveled up prunes, black as the night. With hardly the strength to move, its dehydrated muscles prevented it from attacking with the ferocity I was accustomed to, slow as death. So I shoved it back and reached for my revolver, but it was not there, I had left it in the hotel room with Mia. My beloved luck tends to shine for mere moments before it cowers away.
The mummified corpse reached out again for me, desperate for sustenance to ease its feeble form. A master of conservancy, unlike any other life form on this planet. Years of starvation, silently and patiently waiting, for an unsuspecting victim to come along. He was the trap-door spider of this disease, just another evolutionary leap for the true dominate species. And the link to man’s extinction.
Swiftly I leaped from the bus and grabbed an old rusted shovel that lay against the wall of the adjacent apartment. The Necrotic slowly stumbled out from his den, a dry and dusty hiss escaped its throat as it again reached his frail arms out for me. Hard and fast I swung the rusted spade up against this walking-blights skull like a sledge hammer. An explosion of dried skin and bone billowed up above its head as he tumbled to the ground with a hard thud. Without hesitate I swung the shovel high up over my head then landing a few more blows atop of his.
“Mother Fucker!”
Breathing heavily I focused on easing my adrenaline induced anger, and stared down upon the body that lay lifeless before me. A viscous black goo oozed slowly out of his skull and pooled upon the dirt-covered ground. As my heart settled, I stumbled back onto the bus and cranked the door
shut behind me. The engine continued to idle hard, sputtering and backfiring as it worked to stay running off of the old diesel fuel within its belly. Quietly I sat in the driver’s seat, taking a moment reflect on yet another close call before moving on.
Before long I was on my way back to my beloved, ignoring the complaints of an old rickety bus as it shook and jolted violently in detest of its rude awakening. Mia was already awaiting me on the street as I pulled up to the hotel. The racket of this bus had drawn her outside, concerned over what had sounded like gunfire. But, she met me with a large beautiful smile stretched across her face as she slowly rubbed her large firm stomach. And without effort, I began to smile as well.
“Hopefully she will start again in the morning” I muttered as I disconnected the power and shut off the engine. I did not hesitate to jump out of the bus and rush over to my love, gently lifting her up into my arms to give her a big kiss. However her ever growing belly makes this more difficult every day. As I held her close, a faint, yet distinct sound approached us. A low buzzing that slowly grew into a loud rumble. It was something I had not heard since before The Fall, something I would have never expected to hear again. It was the sound of relief, the sound of a dawning new era, and end to all this death.
“That's a plane!” I exclaimed as I set Mia down and backed myself into the street. I held my hand up high to block the glare from my eyes, and at first I couldn't see a thing. But then - there it was - a large military aircraft, its long wings stretched out like a soaring eagle as it glided over the town. An aerial display of mankind’s achievements and will power, a message for the plague, we are here to stay.
Desperately I threw my arms into the air, frantically waving them in an attempt to signal the pilot, knowing all too well that it was far out of sight, but I waived anyway. And without acknowledgment the aircraft moved on, out of town, with no hope of rescue. The luster of my excitement diminished, and then was as faint as those thunderous props. The plane was gone as fast as it had come, and once again we were alone, or so we thought.
Multiple explosions rocked the streets as poofs of smoke billowed throughout the air just above the streets. Instantly I charged into the hotel, dragging Mia inside with me and to the dusty lobby floor. The bombardment continued as we covered our ears, and my mind began raced as more blasts echoed throughout the town. Windows shattered and the ground shook in what appeared to be a military sanctioned cleansing.
Within minutes the incursion subsided, and slowly I stood and crept back outside to investigate the damage. To my surprise there were no flames, no destruction or any obvious sign of an attack. The streets were as calm and empty as we had left them, not even the sound of the plane could be heard.
“What was that?” Mia asked.
The answer to her question soon drifted down upon us, thousands of leaflets, quickly collected upon the streets like oversized confetti. Curiously I reached out and snatched one as it slowly drifted down like a lost feather from a soaring bird. Just a narrow strip of crudely made paper, a recently manufactured product, the signature of a new yet primitive industry. It was a message, a communiqué for us and anyone else who continued to live.
Global Federation of Survivors
There is still hope,
The Infected are Starving, they are dying.
Keep to the main roads, travel only by day,
Seek the closest GFS Refugee Camp.
Do not give up hope, do not fall prey.
SURVIVE.
This was the sign of hope that Mia and I were looking for, and with it our spirits were high. We withdrew back into the hotel for the night, a smile comfortably resting across both our faces. It will be a long night, our minds raced with excitement, and sleep was an impossibility. Instead we sit close to each other and talked, for the first time, about our foreseeable future. Assumptions, aspirations, and simple predictions carry us through the twilight as we ponder all the wonderful things to come. A great man once said, ‘Tragedy is a necessity in order to reunite a feuding family.’ Befitting this tragedy that has fallen upon society, but just might allow us to overcome our own hate and corruption, and reunite once again as the strongest of the species.
13th day, 6th Blood Moon;
The abrupt end to our past had left me all but incomplete, although over the last few years I would have never admitted to it. Then came Mia, and I concluded that she was the missing piece, an end to my eternal solitary. However, it wasn’t until an epistle fell from the sky that I realized the depth of my social pining. I yearn for Barbeques, Sports Games, Holiday Parties, and even Menial Work. Trivial activities of the Old World that once felt condemning and torturous to me, are now encouraged and welcomed.
The sun had yet to peak over the horizon when we set off this morning, the stars still sparkled brightly in the sky, and the haunting hoots of a lone owl was a fitting sendoff. Six GFS Refugee Camps were listed on the backside of those leaflets, staggered up and down the east-coast, along with one in Newfoundland. The closest, Fort Rockland, nestled on the coast just south-east of us. Rockland was a small town settled along the outer edge of a quaint harbor, cut off from the open-sea by a mile-long granite break-water. At one time, long ago, it was a major port for New England's fishing industries, and now it seems to be a haven for survivors.
We were at least a hundred miles away from this sanctuary, maybe more, and I feared that our bus would not make the trip. But I held my chin high and navigated carefully down a deteriorated road, dodging debris and puttering through a maze of abandoned cars before we exited Kingfield and onto more rural and barren byways. Mia and Nova rested in the cracked pleather seats, staring out the dusty windows and watching the ever changing scenery. The mountains were slowly fading behind us as the country-side opened up into severely neglected farmland.
Although the radio was still functioning, I was surprised there were no Emergency Broadcasts, no message from the GFS, or any other transmissions. The airwaves were just as empty and lonely as the roads we traveled, silent and dead except for a numbing static. I even scanned the CB Radio, calling out only multiple channels hoping for someone, anyone to respond.
“Hello, is anyone out there?” Nothing but static.
“Can anyone hear me?” I tried again.
“Luke, I am your father!” Lightening the mood with a cheap imitation.
Giving up, I refocused on the road, pushing the bus to its limit and hoping to put as many miles behind us as I could. My mind faded into a calm and silent trance, only visions of a desolate path repeatedly passing beneath us like an unstoppable treadmill. The landscaped slid by us without notice, not even the sound of our rumbling chariot could disrupt my center. I was in the zone, on a mission, and nothing was going to stop us… Nothing.
We couldn’t have traveled more than an hour when a thunderous and startling thunk resonated from the engine. A most unnerving discord, in extremely hostile territory no less. Soon followed by a thick cloud of black smoke, billowing up from underneath the hood before she slowly sputtered to her death. My confidence was once again crippled by misfortune, and in disgust, I slammed my head hard upon the steering-wheel.
“You bitch!”
Quietly Mia kept in her seat, she knew not to provoke an angry bear, and my temper had reached its tipping point. My knuckles were painted white as I gripped the steering-wheel tightly, hoping, praying that this was just a dream. Deep breathes, slow and systematic, taming the wild beast before it was unleashed insight of my beloved. I was losing my cool, and we were in the worst of places for me to fall prey to foolishness.
The radio still crackled with a ghostly static, and silently I focused on the neutral hiss, using it to take back control. At first I dismissed the muddled echo behind that constant buzz, maybe I assumed it to be natural feedback, or simply did not care to take notice. I don’t really recall my thoughts at the time. But soon thereafter and without warning, something snapped-on in my head, and in an instant the world rushed back into focus.
Billie Holliday’s voice rung true in my ears, Strange Fruit struck like a knife of depression and despair through the heart. My grandmother adored her music, and every evening her music played upon an old record-player on my grandparents back porch. Those words of anger, an outcry against racial persecution, from a time when hate ruled the country. But, now seemed justly fitting for the persecution we face from today's plague. This world – a world that we once looked upon as a trivial means to life, is now nothing more than a strange and bitter crop.
“Who is that singing?” Mia asked as she finally walked towards me and lay herself against my back.
“Billie Holiday.” I answered as I placed my hand upon hers.
“Are we walking now?” she asked.
“Yes Mia, we are.” I responded.
Ditching our crippled chariot, we found ourselves hiking once again, ignoring the screams of agony resonating from our muscles. As we stumbled along I searched intently for radio towers, for anything that could have been used to broadcast those depressing lyrics. Although I had no clue as to what or who we may find, we had little choice but to expose ourselves in the hopes of finding another means safely across this vast and unforgiving landscape.