Decimated: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Taken World Book 3)

by Flint Maxwell

  Her hair was tousled and her eyes were heavy with sleep. Despite that, she was grinning, and Logan hadn’t seen her grinning like that in a long time.

  “Grease hit the jackpot,” she replied.

  Logan looked over at Grease. He stood behind the bar, his back toward Logan. Glasses clinked as he brought them over to the counter. Then he turned around again and brought down a dusty bottle of whiskey, setting it next to the cups.

  “I’d ask who’s drinking,” Grease said, “but everyone is.” His eyes fell on May. “Wait—you even old enough to drink?”

  May’s smile disappeared. “What? Dude, I’m twenty-two.”

  “I was joking,” Grease said, twisting the cap off the bottle.

  “She turned twenty-two last month,” Tyler added.

  “All the more reason to celebrate!” Grease said.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Jane asked May.

  May shrugged. “I—well, it’s not a big deal. I guess I didn’t think birthdays mattered anymore.”

  “Of course they do,” Logan said. He reached around a stool and grabbed a glass. Some dust had settled in the bottom of it, so he blew it out. “Birthdays are especially important now. Let’s celebrate!”

  “Woo!” Grease whooped. He began pouring the whiskey, and soon, six glasses were filled with amber liquid.

  Logan sniffed at his and he felt his nostrils burn. It was a good feeling.

  Grease said, “To May’s belated birthday!”

  The others joined in.

  May said, “To my birthday!” And the glasses came together in a toast. They downed the first drink.

  May made a bitter face and started coughing. Tyler clapped her on the back a few times, smiling.

  “Ah, I needed that,” Brad whispered. “I really did.”

  “Oh man,” Jane said. She stifled her own bout of coughing. “That was rough.”

  “An acquired taste for sure,” Logan said, but to him it tasted like nectar from the gods.

  Grease poured the second drink. Nearly half the bottle was gone already, but a fire burned in Logan’s belly, a good one.

  “I’ll pass this time,” May said.

  “Oh, no you won’t,” Grease said. “One more. One more toast.”

  They all knew what the subject of the toast would be. Logan bowed his head.

  “Brad, you wanna do the honors?” Grease screwed the lid back on the whiskey.

  Brad nodded. His glass held high, he said, “To one of the best people I ever had the pleasure of knowing. She was in my life for only a short time, but the impact she made will be everlasting. To Regina.”

  Logan added, “And Devin.”

  “And all we lost at Ironlock,” Jane said.

  “And all we lost before then,” May said.

  “Aye,” Grease said.

  Their glasses came together and they downed their drinks. After this, all was quiet. The quiet was something Logan didn’t think he’d ever get used to. Even in Stone Park, you heard a constant drone of cars going down the street, planes flying overhead, birds in the morning, people talking as they walked down the sidewalk, dogs barking.

  Grease was pouring more drinks and no one was saying no or shaking their heads. Not even May or Jane; both of them must’ve ‘acquired’ the taste pretty fast.

  “No more,” Logan said. Already, despite his size, he could feel the buzz in his head. The whiskey was strong.

  “Aw, c’mon,” Grease said. “We need this.”

  “Can’t be drunk out there,” Logan replied.

  “We won’t get drunk.”

  “Ah,” Jane said, “famous last words before waking up in a pool of your own vomit.”

  “Better out than in.” Grease shrugged.

  “I’m with Grease on this one,” Tyler said. “We could use the distraction. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but getting drunk sounds like the best thing in the world right now.”

  “It’s up there with more rest, definitely,” May added. “My feet feel like they’re gonna fall off.”

  Logan looked at Brad. Brad just shrugged.

  “Fine,” Logan said. He allowed Grease to pour him another drink. “But I’m not cleaning up anyone’s puke.” He arched an eyebrow at Jane.

  “Oh my God, that was one time.” Jane threw her hands up in an imitation of Grease’s ‘I’m innocent’ gesture.

  “I guess you’re partially right, since it was only one night,” Logan said. “But you spewed about four times…”

  “Sue me.”

  The others had since come closer to the bar, sitting on the stools. Even Brad.

  That’s good, Logan thought, real good.

  Grease sipped at his whiskey. “I gotta hear about this one.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if you do,” Logan said. “Or should.”

  “Ah, what the hell. Go for it,” Jane said.

  Tyler’s eyes slightly glazed over. Logan himself felt like he was floating. And May was tittering.

  “So we’re at my buddy Mike’s house,” Logan began, “and Jane thought it would be a good idea to get into a drinking contest with him. She gets competitive like that, as some of you probably know.”

  “Damn right,” Grease said. “She almost cut my throat when I beat her and a couple of others at Monopoly.”

  Jane rolled her eyes, said, “You cheated.”

  Logan had heard all about that particular game of Monopoly, and Jane vowed never to let Grease be in charge of the money again.

  “So she gets into this drinking contest. Shot after shot. I didn’t think she’d get very far—no offense, sweetie—since no one had ever beat Mike in a drinking contest. At least, that’s what he said. It was one of the few boasts of his I believed. The dude could drink a liquor store dry and still be lucid enough to put together a model airplane.” Logan was sitting now, too. He didn’t remember when he sat down. Another drunk telling a story to a bunch of other drunks, he thought with a smile. “Jane’s holding her own, though. Next thing I know, they’ve gone through a bottle of vodka, and Mike is opening another one, and I’m telling Jane to stop. The booze is hitting her hard. She’s slurring her words, being pretty open about where she thinks Mike should stick the bottle…”

  Grease threw his head back and roared laughter. “She wasn’t even drunk when she told me I should’ve folded the Monopoly board and shoved it straight up where the sun don’t shine.”

  Jane batted her eyelashes. “Oh, I was only joking…”

  The others laughed.

  Logan continued with the story. “At the time, Jane was a vegan. I mean, I’m not knocking that because vomit is vomit, and it’s gross regardless, but Jane had just eaten a boatload of rice and fried veggies before we went over to Mike’s house. The second bottle of vodka is slowly draining, and I’m telling them to stop before she winds up in the hospital getting her stomach pumped, and now they’re both slurring their words, and then…”

  “What? Don’t leave us in suspense, asshole,” Grease said, leaning forward, elbows on the bar.

  “Yeah!” Tyler said.

  “Well, Jane puts her head down and says she’s gonna take a quick nap. Mike pumps a fist in the air and declares himself the winner. Jane raises her head and says, ‘Know what I think about that?’ and straight-up projectile vomits all over Mike’s table. A good amount got on him, too.”

  Jane’s face burned with color. She was shaking her head as the others laughed.

  “Yeah, sounds funny,” Logan said, “but you weren’t the ones who had to pick a million grains of rice out of the carpet and off the table.”

  He laughed with them.

  For a while, as they drank, they forgot about the world and all the bad things. For a while, at least.

  15

  Strangers

  They had emptied the whiskey bottle. Good times were had. No one vomited because there was nothing in their systems to vomit. The body held on to any and all sustenance, whiskey included. Then they passed out in various pla
ces in the restaurant, all except for Logan, who was able to hold his liquor with the best of them, as he’d always been able to.

  The day wound down. The little light peeking through the clouds vanished, and the heavy darkness took hold of the world once again. Inside of the restaurant, which was bare of food, the temperature dropped considerably. As Logan sat at the bar, looking at Jane huddled under a rough blanket in one of the booths, her teeth chattering, he realized it was time to do something about that. The alcohol no longer warmed his insides either.

  He got up and took off his jacket and draped it over Jane. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. Her breath smelled strongly of whiskey. She didn’t even stir at his touch.

  Across the way, on the opposite wall, was a fireplace shrouded in darkness. Logan went to it and looked inside. A burned log sat on a bed of ashes. He took it out and pitched it toward the corner of the room.

  Then he began breaking down chairs and tables—an easy task for him. He may have lost weight, but he hadn’t lost much muscle; in fact, since so much of his life now revolved around manual labor instead of ripping tickets and serving popcorn and soft drinks, he felt like he had actually gotten stronger.

  Once enough kindling had been broken down and placed in the fireplace atop the ashes, he squirted a small amount of lighter fluid onto it, and lit the pieces of wood. The initial burst of flame nearly made him shield his eyes from the brightness, but the warmth felt good.

  He had thought maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to get a fire going, with there being road bandits and still-living monsters outside, but the blinds were drawn on the windows, and they had barricaded the front door. The smoke from the chimney would hardly be visible against the backdrop of the dark sky, and of course Logan would stay on his toes.

  He walked over to Jane and picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and set her in front of the fireplace. The flames burned low, still offering good heat. Jane blinked and looked around once he set her down.

  “Shh, honey,” he said, “go back to sleep.”

  She smiled and closed her eyes.

  He then got May and brought her over, too. The young woman was completely knocked out, snoring loudly, but also shivering. Tyler came over, albeit reluctantly, swaying on his feet. Logan kept a hand on his back to steady him. Brad stayed where he was when Logan woke him up, saying he wasn’t too cold. “Besides, I don’t wanna take anyone else’s heat from them,” he said with a wink.

  Last, Logan went to Grease, who was curled up against the bar, cradling the empty bottle of whiskey to his chest like a child holding a stuffed animal. Logan bent to shake him awake.

  Grease opened his eyes, a grin on his face. “You’re gonna have to carry me, big guy. No way I’m getting across that floor without blowing chunks.”

  So Logan carried him. Grease couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.

  Lying there, the survivors’ shivering gradually stopped. Logan sat in a chair not far from the flames. He continued breaking down tables and feeding the fire. The warmth was nice, but what felt better than that was the fact that his family was resting and warm. That, he thought, was priceless.

  He sat back in the chair and watched the flames ripple and burn. It was peaceful, almost like meditation.

  A few hours later, a rumbling shook the restaurant. Empty glasses clinked together, some falling and shattering on the floor. This noise woke the others up.

  “What’s happening?” Jane asked.

  Logan stood and went to the window. His first thought was that one of the mammoths found them, and he cursed himself for starting the fire. They would’ve smelled the smoke. Or maybe seen it. Who knew? The anatomy of the monsters was a mystery.

  Logan picked up the rifle—still empty—and peeled back the blinds.

  No mammoths. No monsters at all.

  Brad was already at his side with his gun. Jane came, too. She pulled the pistol from Logan’s waistband.

  Logan said, “Wait,” and held up a hand.

  “What is it?” May whispered.

  “People,” Brad answered.

  “Bandits?” Tyler asked.

  “I don’t know…” Logan replied. “It’s not Worm. At least I don’t think so. I count four people in the vehicle.”

  The vehicle was a big Jeep, the kind you’d expect to see in the Middle East somewhere, covered with US soldiers, except it was aged, well-aged. Logan couldn’t peg what decade. Bright yellow lights shone in through the front display window. The idling engine rumbled the glass panes.

  “I’ll start looking for a way out,” Tyler said. “Bound to have a backdoor or a loading dock.”

  “Fuck that,” Grease said. “I say we fight. We’re from Ironlock. It ain’t there anymore, but that doesn’t mean we roll over.”

  “We play it by ear,” Logan said.

  “Yeah, I’ve had enough fighting to last me a lifetime,” Jane added.

  “Well, of course you’d agree with your husband,” Grease said, throwing up his hands—not in his famous ‘I’m innocent’ gesture, either.

  “Also, I’m kinda battling a killer hangover here,” Jane said. “It’s not a husband-wife thing. I’m just really not feeling it.”

  “Fair point.” Grease sat down.

  “They’re getting out,” Logan said. “Driver is.”

  “Gun?” Tyler asked.

  “Yep,” Brad said.

  The man stepped down from the military vehicle. He wore heavy boots that went all the way up to the middle of his shin, though nothing on him was camouflaged; he didn’t seem like a soldier, in his dirty jeans and his buttoned-up chambray shirt. Over the shirt he wore a heavy jacket, not quite a winter coat. It was well-worn, too, like the guy had had it long before the apocalypse began. Or maybe he’d just been on the road for a long time. Logan could relate to that. This man was quite short, hardly over five and a half feet, and the hair on his head was thinning. ‘Napoleonic’ was how Logan would’ve described him. It was something about the man’s posture, the air of confidence he possessed in the weathered lines on his face.

  Around the front came another man. He was younger and gaunt. This man resembled the shorter Napoleon in both stature and swagger. They each had machine guns of some type that Logan would’ve never been able to name had they been held against his temple. They weren’t holding them, but they were on their person, hanging off of their shoulders by a strap.

  Brad and Logan exchanged a glance from their respective spots, crouched beneath the display windows on either side of the barricaded front door. Logan shook his head and held up his free hand. Jane stayed in the back, near the dancing shadows cast by the low flames. She gripped the rifle at her side with white knuckles, ready to raise it and pull the trigger at a moment’s notice. The others—Tyler, May, and Grease—watched the door from the bar. None of them seemed to be breathing, and it was so quiet inside of the restaurant that Logan thought he could hear the swelling of their collective heartbeats.

  Bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum—

  The shorter and older of the two men approached the building, coming up the winding walkway, maneuvering around the tilted newspaper vending machine, the soles of his boots crunching on the broken glass from the machine’s window. The sound was quite loud.

  Logan bit at his lips, waiting to see what these strangers would do. A million scenarios went through his head, and all of them ended with some sort of violence. That was just the way the world was now—a sentiment he was using more and more often. What was left of the human race had seemed to regress…in Logan’s experience. First, there was the madness that ensued after the Ravaging happened, the killing, the looting, the rape; then there was Cleveland and the men and women who’d worshipped the monsters like they were some Gods; then the nukes and the road bandits, the Worms, the Joe Millards.

  Things were bad and getting worse each day.

  The feeling in the pit of his stomach was not a pleasant one. Not now. He figured they
were sitting ducks inside this place. They could run, but if the strangers meant harm, Logan knew Napoleon’s men would surround the restaurant. There would be no escape. Again, he found himself wishing for Devin and Regina Johnson. They may not have known what to do, but any advice they could’ve offered would’ve been priceless. But they were gone. Murdered by the world.

  The short man in the lead stopped at the door. His hand flashed up, like he was going for the rifle slung over his shoulder. Logan found himself tightening his grip on his pistol, the textured metal of the grip biting into his flesh almost painfully. It was a distant pain, however. He was wondering if he could trick another set of enemies with his lack of ammunition, intimidate them to go somewhere else.

  Then the man’s hand passed the rifle and instead turned into a fist. He knocked on the restaurant’s door lightly three times.

  Logan didn’t let his guard down; neither did Jane or Brad. The others widened their eyes. Tyler and May looked at Logan. He returned their gaze. He held up his free hand, again meaning for them to wait, for them not to make a sound.

  “I know you’re in there,” the man said. “I smell your fire as well as see your smoke.” His voice, though, wasn’t threatening.

  The other man, the one who looked like he was related to this shorter Napoleonic fellow, whispered something Logan and the others couldn’t hear.

  The man nodded and said, “We mean no harm.”

  Logan stood up straight. He went to the door. Brad and Jane didn’t move. At the door, Logan positioned his body against the brick wall just next to it, lest the strangers began shooting through the barricade.

  “Who are you?” Logan asked. His voice was very deep; it carried far through the wall so as to be heard clearly over the rumbling.

  “My name’s Irving Mosley. This here’s my nephew Blake. We come from the Falls.”

  “The Falls? You mean Cuyahoga Falls?”

  “Yup,” Irving Mosley replied. “The people there in our settlement just call it ‘the Falls’ now. Not very creative, I know, but hey, who am I to judge?”

  “Why are you here?” Logan said. “We don’t want any trouble.”