by AJ Powers
“You ready?” she asked.
He nodded again.
She took a deep breath and curled the curved needle through his skin and began to close up the wound. Megan had practiced on an orange once when she first decided she wanted to get into the medical field. She remembered her dad’s instructions as he stood over her shoulder and watched her work on her citrus patient. Since then, all of her practice had come from living patients, and she felt she had gotten pretty skillful at it over the years.
To Megan’s surprise, Charlie barely made a sound the entire time. In fact, the worst of it was when she applied the alcohol, though his eyes were streaming the entire time. Megan had never had to have stitches without a numbing agent and couldn’t imagine what Charlie must have been going through. He was even tougher than she realized.
“There,” she said as she leaned back to examine her work. “All done. I think that’ll do the trick.” She grabbed a bandage from the counter and placed it over the cut. “You’re so strong, Charlie. I would have been crying like a baby if I were in your shoes.” Charlie cracked a brief smile as she continue, “Well, if I had to guess, you will have a scar, but the rumor on the street is chicks dig scars anyway, right?”
Charlie chuckled quietly and got up out of the chair. He was a bit woozy from the past hour and sat back down. Megan wasn’t at all surprised by this and helped him to his room to rest but not before giving him a snack and some water.
She left his room and went back to the infirmary to clean up the mess. After she finished, she reached into one of the cabinets and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Clay took a few shots of it whenever he needed more substantial medical attention. She pulled the top off and poured a small amount into a mug. She downed the contents in a quick gulp and cringed at its awful taste. She didn’t know how anyone could drink the stuff straight out of the bottle, but knew that it was like water to more than a few Russians.
Returning the bottle to its hiding place, Megan went back to her day as if nothing had happened. The alcohol helped calm her nerves, but she couldn’t help but think about how different the day would have turned out had Charlie been standing just a half inch to the right. A cut that severe would have been absolutely devastating to his eye. With no hospital to go to and no paramedics to call, Charlie likely wouldn’t have made it through the week having sustained that kind of injury. Fortunately, this time, it wasn’t a substantial injury.
With the kids napping and Charlie still resting, Megan took the opportunity to have a good, hard cry. After 15 minutes of a concert of tears and whimpers, she felt recharged; her shields were back up. She wiped her face and began preparing for dinner.
They say that death wears a black cloak and rides a dark horse—black is the color associated with death. But as Clay pushed on through the torturous elements of the winter storm, he knew that death was, in fact, shrouded in white.
The gale force winds added to the already unbearable challenge. He was quite certain that some of the gusts could rival the winds of a hurricane. At times, he had to crouch down just to keep from falling over. And even then, his balance was shaky at best.
Clay had bundled up as best as he could, but it didn’t take long for the cold to penetrate through his shabby clothing. Each step he took was accompanied by sharp pain that ricocheted throughout his body. It had been four hours since he had last seen a structure of any kind. He had probably passed a few buildings in that time, but visibility was down to less than 20 yards—all he saw was white.
He checked his compass to make sure he was still heading the right way. He was. He was in the right county, but had no idea how far he had traveled since leaving the pharmacy earlier. He was moving much slower than he had the previous day, taking one step for every four.
He felt vulnerable, like a baby bird that had fallen from the nest. He couldn’t tell if he was alone or if he was about to walk right into a Screamer camp. His fear and anxiety grew with each step he took, causing him to become paranoid. Several times in the last hour he was convinced he heard someone talking to him, which caused him to drop to one knee and take aim, searching for a target that wasn’t there. The paranoia was further fueled by the hypothermia which was growing more severe by the minute.
Night came quickly. The whiteout had turned to a blackout, and the intense pain from the cold still terrorized every part of Clay’s body. He turned on his flashlight so he could see the few feet of ground in front of him. Normally, walking outside at night was a death wish, a danger magnified by turning a flashlight on. But if there was any silver lining to not being able to see anyone that might be around him, it was that they also couldn’t see him.
Two more hours went by, and he still had not found a suitable place to camp. He could no longer feel his toes, and his fingers had been numb for hours. He was kicking himself for not stopping at the motel he passed when it first started snowing. He thought he would be able to make it a few extra miles before things got bad, and he did. Unfortunately, he was on a particularly long stretch of asphalt with fields on either side; no shelter in sight.
His flashlight danced carelessly ahead of him, piercing through the thick falling snow to illuminate the knee-deep blanket that had accumulated over the past eight hours. Suddenly, he saw a dark object protruding from the buildup. It was just barely visible but unmistakable. A fire hydrant! As he shined his light around more, he discovered multiple cars. He had found a road!
Clay walked until a large brick wall stood just a few yards in front of him. He could have cried at the sight of such a sanctuary but knew the tears would just freeze to his face, further exacerbating his pain. He found a pair of doors about 10 yards down and tried to go in, but they were not only locked, they were also barricaded on the other side—not the best indication of an abandoned building—but there was no time to search out an alternative shelter.
He followed the brick wall in search of another entrance. There were elevated windows about every 10 feet, but they were boarded up or blocked from the inside. Breaking through the barricade was off the table. If somebody was in there, they would almost certainly hear Clay forcing his way in. Not to mention, Clay barely had the strength to stand, let alone pull himself up through a window, which was almost five feet off the ground.
He eventually reached the end of the building and turned with the wall, following it around back. He maneuvered around some playground equipment before having to climb over a short chain-link fence. He barely made it over the top and then fell face first into two feet of snow. The blast of frozen powder to his face gave him a jolt of energy to press forward. He pushed himself up from the ground and trudged on.
Clay finally came to another set of doors, one of which was popped open just slightly. He cleared away the snow at the bottom of the door and pulled on the handle, but it only opened another foot before it wrenched to a stop. He heard the clanking of a chain bouncing off the door from inside. Clay shined his light in and saw there was also a wall of debris piled behind the doors. He noticed a distinct path in between the various pieces of furniture that had been stacked up. It was obvious that this was the occupant’s point of entry. He took a good look at the door; it was not open very wide, but Clay thought it might be just wide enough to fit through.
He kept telling himself how foolish it was to break into a building as inaccessible as this one was. Somebody went to a lot of effort to keep people out, just as he had done with his home. He also knew that someone going through that much trouble to keep people out would probably not hesitate to blast any intruders who managed to get in. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t take such an imprudent risk, but being mere minutes away from a bitterly cold death, it was worth it.
He took off his pack and sat it on the ground next to the door. He pulled the door open as far as he could, then crouched down and began to maneuver himself between the doors. He had to duck beneath the chain binding the two together, forcing him to stretch his body awkwardly. Clay’s muscles felt as if each one had snapped in
two causing him to produce a noisy groan. Once he got past the door, he reached outside and grabbed his pack before lying on the ground to crawl through the barricade maze. He got about half way through before he had to stop. He was too big. Whoever lives here is tiny, he thought to himself.
Able to eventually wriggle out of his coat and sweatshirt, he squeezed his way through, pushing his pack and coat ahead of him. Then finally, freedom.
He stood back up and sighed deeply, which echoed around the large room. He turned his flashlight off and stumbled around until he found a door. Despite his best efforts, the room seemed to amplify the sound of his footsteps, so he unlaced his boots and carried them in his hand.
Clay thought he would never find his way out of the room, when suddenly his hand felt a series of light switches along the wall. He figured he was close to a door and felt around blindly in the darkness. There wasn’t a single light to be seen, and as such, he was unable to see his own hand in front of his face. Visibility was no better inside than outside, but at least the wind was no longer assaulting him.
Finally, he discovered a doorknob. He walked inside the room and closed the door so slowly that even he didn’t hear a sound. He made sure the door had no windows. He took a gamble and turned on his flashlight for a quick burst to get a sense of the layout of the room. Though it was only on for about two seconds, Clay was able to see a couple of couches and a handful of chairs, a pair of vending machines, and several smaller square tables with some chairs. It was a break room of sorts, reminding him a little bit of home. It was as good a place as any to setup camp for the night.
As comfortable as the couch looked, Clay knew it would be smarter not to sleep in such an exposed position. He pulled the couch out a few feet from the wall and laid his sleeping bag down behind it, putting himself between the back of the couch and the wall. He climbed in and zipped it up. He pulled some hand warmers out of his bag, threw two down by his feet, and put another on the back of his neck. Slowly, his body started to warm up, but not without the excruciating pain that accompanied the defrost.
The accommodations were hardly ideal, but after the day he had endured, sleeping on the cold, hard floor of a break room, behind a rather putrid smelling couch, felt like a five-star resort.
Chapter 18
Daylight streamed in between the boarded up windows. The musty air of the break room filled Clay’s lungs as he yawned and attempted to sit up, but every muscle in his body seemed to be on strike. He lay there staring at the water-stained drop ceiling wondering if he was actually going to reach Uncle Ted’s or not. His mind wandered and eventually became curious about where he was and gave him enough motivation to exit the warmth of the sleeping bag.
He gingerly walked across the break room, around a partition, and into a short hallway which lead to some bathrooms and a supply closet. The men’s bathroom came up empty, as did the supply closet, but the women’s bathroom surprised him. His thorough search efforts paid off. Taped to the bottom of one of the toilet tank lids was a flat bottle of liquor, nearly three quarters of the way full. Clay wasn’t much of a drinker, only the occasional sip here and there, but he knew this bottle could fetch a nice price. Finding alcohol wasn’t exactly rare, but most of the bottles he ran across anymore were homebrews. Homemade liquor wasn’t even on the same planet as pre-eruption booze.
He slid the bottle into one of the pouches of his bag and continued searching the break room. He found a box of maxi-pads in a cabinet just outside the bathroom doors. Only two left. He tossed them into his bag as well. Pads, while not sterile, made excellent bandages in a pinch. In fact, some soldiers actually carried them in their combat packs to help stop bleeding.
Satisfied no stone was unturned, Clay rolled up his sleeping bag and walked out the same door he came in. It was still dark in the hallway since it was an interior corridor, but there were large pockets of light on either end which provided a minimal level of lighting to navigate. The bulletin board and various fliers in the break room led him to believe he was in a school, and the lockers in the hallway confirmed it.
The hallway was silent with the exception of the howling wind and an incessant dripping sound that never seemed to dissipate no matter how far he walked. The whole building felt stale and unoccupied; he started to think no one actually lived there, at least not anymore.
Clay turned on his flashlight, which needed a few dozen cranks on the charging handle, and began to go through the lockers. He found a few random things that would have been useful, and had he been closer to home, he would have taken them. However, with limited space in his pack, he had to restrict his scavenging to more useful and essential items. After about 15 lockers, he found himself debating on what was considered essential when he found The Lonely Past, the sequel to The Remaking, which he had just finished reading a few weeks back. He had no idea there was a follow-up, and couldn’t believe he had found it in some rusty, old school lockers. He deemed the book was, in fact, an essential.
It had been an hour by the time he reached the other end of the corridor. He peeked between the boards covering a window and saw that it was still nearly a white-out. He had an uncomfortable feeling he’d be staying another night. It was frustrating, but the smart thing to do. If yesterday repeated itself, there would be no chance of him pulling through. It was a miracle he had survived; he wasn’t going to push the limits again. Not voluntarily, anyway.
Clay found himself on the second floor going through each classroom with a fine-toothed comb. There wasn’t much to discover; most everything of value had been taken. He did find some dry erase markers that the kids would enjoy and a small bottle of aspirin locked in a teacher’s desk. Office supplies were abundant—rubber bands, paperclips, and thumbtacks and could be useful back home. He bent over to pick up a pair of scissors on the floor when he heard a shriek come from down the hall.
He stuck the scissors into his pocket and ran to the other side of the room. With his back against the wall, he slid closer to the door. He heard hustled footsteps moving through the hall; two men began shouting. He leaned out the door and looked towards where the sounds had come from, but nobody was there.
It was obvious somebody was being chased—a young girl more specifically. Despite Clay’s own desire to flee the scene, he knew he couldn’t just let a helpless child fend off two grown men. He didn’t leave Kelsey, and he wasn’t going to leave now. Clay readied his rifle and began pursuit.
He moved swiftly through the hall and kept his rifle in a quick-fire position. It wasn’t long before he began to close in on the sounds. He picked up the pace when he heard a loud crashing around the corner. As he turned down the next hallway, his rifle up and ready, he saw two men pounding on a locked door, one tall and burly, the other somewhat scrawny. The bigger man had an aluminum baseball bat in his hand, the other, a double barrel shotgun. They both had black bandannas tied around their left leg, just below the knee. Clay had seen those before. He became angry.
Whoever they were after was on the other side of the door. Clay didn’t know if she was still in the room or had escaped elsewhere. He didn’t want to risk collateral damage, so he opted for the pistol that would likely not penetrate the metal door behind his targets. Prioritizing the threat was easy, the man with the shotgun first, bat-man second. Clay took a breath to order them to stand down, but before he could say anything, the man with the shotgun spotted him. His eyes were wide; shock jolted across his face. Without saying a word, the man raised his shotgun, but Clay had already fired the first shot, striking him in the chest. He fired two more times just as the man pulled the trigger on the shotgun. The shot was wide, but so was the spread, and Clay caught a few pellets in the shoulder. At that point, the skinny man dropped to the ground; he gasped for air as life escaped.
The pain in his shoulder had not yet registered in Clay’s brain, and he immediately transitioned to the bigger man. The man started to charge him like a rhinoceros, and Clay pulled the trigger, but there was no boom. The gun h
ad failed to fully eject the previous shell and botched the cycling process. With no time to clear the jam, he reflexively dove to the side, almost avoiding the man’s homerun swing. The bat tip made contact with his shoulder—which he felt immediately—and sent Clay crashing into the floor.
The big man bounced off the wall as if it was the ropes in a wrestling ring and stormed back to Clay. Before the man could do anything else, Clay used every ounce of strength he had to push himself up, and he swung his leg. Clay’s boot, steel tip first, crashed into the side of the man’s knee with such a fury that the popping sound of his kneecap dislodging echoed down the hall.
The brute screamed in agony and rage as he dropped to the floor just a few feet away from Clay. With one arm, the man grabbed Clay’s leg and yanked him closer. He made several solid hits to Clay’s already injured shoulder, followed by a nasty blow to the head. Dazed from the impact, Clay did little to stop the man from getting on top of him to connect several more punches. With the man now sitting on top of the barrel of the M4, Clay reached for the pair of scissors in his pocket. He swung with all his might at the man’s ribs, but they did not pierce the thick coat he was wearing. The pressure from the impact, though, was enough to make Clay’s assailant sit up straight.
The dim hallway flashed brilliantly from the shotgun’s discharge. The man screamed for only a moment and then fell backwards, landing on Clay’s legs. It was difficult to see what had happened, but the sound…the sound was horrifying and one Clay would not soon forget.
Clay looked over to where the blast had originated and saw a small figure holding a shotgun and standing in front of the now open door. He tried to free his legs from the weight of his attacker but to no avail. The girl walked over and stood over him. Clay raised his hands slightly, a gesture of submission, but the girl didn’t move.