The Drowned: Deluge Book 1: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story)

by Kevin Partner

  “What are you gonna do? You ain’t gonna leave them out there, are you?”

  Buzz groaned. He was a grade-one control freak and he could feel his mind beginning to race. He would have to get a grip quickly. This locomotive had to be kept in its tracks. He could generally cope if he allowed his mind to focus along a narrow path: if not, he was likely to be more loco than locomotive.

  “I want you to go and lock up the barns, then follow me to the fence.”

  Hank cocked his head to one side. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to talk to them. Look, I let you in, didn’t I?”

  “How many d’you think this place can take?”

  Buzz shook his head. “It’s not so much how many, but for how long. The more mouths we have to feed, the sooner our supplies run out. And that’s without the trouble people can cause. But, for now, I’m going to talk.”

  He left Hank there and jogged down to where the ATVs were parked. Yes, people were trouble. They were chaotic elements he couldn’t account for. He’d planned for this to be where he, Joel and Jodi would settle for the long term—and maybe that friend of Joel’s, what was his name? Reid. Yes, that was him. The poor man’s Sean Bean. It would be hard to turn him away if he’d kept Jodi safe. Then he’d let Hank and Max in, but Hank had turned out to be useful and easy to get along with, and he considered Max to be relatively harmless.

  By the time he was halfway along the concrete road, he could see them at the fence peering through the reinforced chain-link. For a moment—a fraction of a second—he couldn’t help wondering if this might be the perfect opportunity to check whether the electrified circuit was working properly.

  He strained to see them, blinking in the humid air. He could see what looked to be the figures of women and children. No adult men as far as he could tell. Well, that was something.

  Buzz parked the ATV behind the guard post and climbed up to the second level where, only two days before, he’d aimed his weapon at Hank and Max. He felt his stomach tighten as he watched the figures below huddling together and tried to see how many remained hidden in the fog.

  “Who are you?” he called.

  A child screamed when she noticed the rifle barrel poking through the gap in the chain-link fence above their heads. Walking back from where she’d been peering through the gate, a taller figure put her arms around the shoulders of the child and looked up at where he crouched. “Please, there’s no need for weapons.”

  “That’s for me to decide. You’re outside my gates. Now, who are you?”

  She shielded her eyes with her hand as she sought him in the shadows above. “My name is Anna Frey. I’m a teacher, and this is my class.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re looking for shelter. We’ve been wandering around this …well …this island, I suppose. We found some houses up there”—she gestured to the lip of the valley—“but most of them were empty, and those that weren’t …well, they weren’t friendly.”

  He groaned as he recognized the steel trap closing around him. “How many of you?”

  “Twelve. Me and my teaching assistant and ten third graders. We were on a school trip.”

  His mind performed a swift mental calculation. He had enough stores to last four adults for five years. If each child consumed the equivalent of half an adult, then, if he let them in, he reckoned his five years had become eighteen months. Jeez, it was like letting the rats back onto the ship and giving them the keys to the storeroom.

  The noise of the second ATV arriving distracted him and he turned to see Hank coming to a clumsy halt. The teacher turned to the newcomer as he approached, perhaps believing he might be more sympathetic. Buzz couldn’t hear what she said, but Hank’s reply was clear enough.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but the fella up there’s the boss around here. It’s up to him. Though I don’t know why he’s up there when it’s just a bunch of schoolkids and their teacher at the gate.”

  Buzz flushed, realizing that the old man was right, and quickly made his way down the ladder until he stood face to face with the teacher. She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with chestnut hair tied in a bunch behind her head. Dark brown eyes regarded him from within a round face with a Mediterranean hue that had just a hint of the oriental about it.

  “My name’s Ed,” he said, “though most people call me Buzz.”

  “And this is your place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you going to let us in?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded and unlocked the gate before swinging it open.

  She walked inside and put out her hand. “You really can put down your weapon now, Buzz,” she said, as the pair of girls following her sniggered.

  “Are you Buzz Lightyear?” one said.

  “Where’s Woody?”

  Buzz ground his teeth as they filed past him. He’d opened Pandora’s box, and there was no way of closing it again.

  He sent Hank on ahead to prepare Max for visitors as best he could, and to go into the storeroom and liberate some oats and milk, as Anna—Miss Frey—said they hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.

  Buzz locked the gate again as the last person entered. “This is my assistant,” Anna said.

  “Jo Rosenberg,” the newcomer said, holding out her hand. She was a little older than Anna, with blue eyes and a less even complexion. Tiny creases in the skin around her eyes and the edges of her mouth suggested that she had a sunny disposition, though there was little enough evidence of that for now. But he instantly liked her. She looked like she ought to be a gym teacher, and there was something faintly masculine about her face, especially around the jaw. But he liked her, so he smiled and was rewarded with a momentary break in the clouds.

  They let the children run ahead as they walked back toward the compound, and Buzz explained the setup. He could sense the relief from both women when he told them he had a stockpile of food, and animals to provide more. But he knew that, sooner or later, someone was going to ask the obvious question—why did he prepare this place? And did he know the deluge was going to happen? He was having enough trouble coming to terms with the disaster himself, without having to admit his part in it to others.

  For now, however, their main concern was food, so he led them into the living room and sat the children on the floor under Jo’s supervision while he went into the kitchen and pulled out every pan he had. And he watched as enough oats for a week were poured out to feed them.

  Buzz spent the rest of the day helping Hank, Anna and Jo rearrange a farmhouse built to accommodate half a dozen into one with room for fifteen. The main bedroom had been reserved for Joel: after all, it had been his money that had bought and refurbished the place. Now, however, it would house eight girls and Anna. She and two girls would take the king-size bed while five others slept on makeshift mattresses on the wooden floor.

  Buzz gave up his bedroom to the four boys in the group, who would be supervised by Jo, and he’d moved his belongings up into the monitoring room in what had been the attic.

  Max and Hank shared the small spare bedroom, but Buzz insisted on keeping Jodi’s room free. The automated alert had gone out, so if she was alive to receive it, she’d know where to come. He’d taken such pains to send it—including the specialized software installed on the smartphone she’d thought was just another indulgent present from her favorite uncle. He wouldn’t abandon hope that she was alive and would come to him.

  He couldn’t, because if he accepted that she was dead, then there really would be nothing to live for.

  Chapter 11

  Over the Hills and Far Away

  Bobby dug a grave for the old woman as the sun rose above her house. He did it with sadness, anxiety and hatred in his heart.

  Sadness for the death of Pam Dunbar. He’d known her for barely twenty-four hours before he’d woken up beside her dead body. But she’d cared for him even as she lost her own battle.

  He felt anger towa
rd those who’d abandoned her. He knew that might be unfair, but he wasn’t in the mood for extenuating circumstances.

  And anxiety because he had stayed with her when he might have gone on. And Maria was waiting.

  It would have taken the whole day to dig a six-foot-deep trench in the stony soil, and he couldn’t spare the time, so he took it down three feet or so, dragged out the old woman’s body with as much dignity as he could manage, filled the hole in and then piled rocks on top to make a cairn. Then he took the Bible from her bedside table and read out loud:

  Yea, though I walk

  through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I will fear no evil:

  for thou art with me;

  thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

  He could probably have found a more appropriate verse for a funeral, but somehow this seemed to fit. He gazed up the mountainside and decided it was time for him to continue his journey, whether it led to the valley of the shadow of death or not.

  Maria was waiting.

  He didn’t feel ashamed for looting the house of anything he might be able to use. The chances of anyone coming back were remote enough, and if they’d abandoned Pam to die alone, then they didn’t deserve to find everything as it was.

  He took a pack from the bedroom he’d woken up in, as it was larger than his own, then went down the steps into the cool basement and opened up the medicine cabinet. He took an extra bottle of antibiotics and added an antiseptic cream and some painkillers. He shook his head, wondering how long Pam’s family had intended to survive out here; they sure had enough drugs to fix an army.

  Beneath the steel medicine cabinet, he found a box containing a TrailShot portable water filter, a collapsible bottle and a pack of sterilizing tablets for backup. He packed a space blanket and then turned his attention to the shelves of supplies. Most were in large cans, but he found some energy bars and ration packs, so he slipped those into his bag alongside a couple of flameless ration heater packs. He didn’t expect to take more than a day or two to find help, but it paid to be prepared.

  Once his pack was full, he unlocked the armory, the door creaking as it swung open, and he took a Remington 870 off its bracket. He didn’t have much experience with weapons, so he figured a shotgun would be the safest—for him—while still packing a punch. On a shelf underneath, he found a Buck hunting knife that looked fresh out of the factory. He ran the sheath through his belt and dropped the knife in place.

  Back in the house, he went into each closet until he’d managed to find a complete set of clothes that were more suited to walking what had, until a couple of days ago, been mountains. In a quilted checkered shirt, dark gray jeans and boots he looked every inch a tanned frontiersman.

  Before he put on his new boots, he peeled off his socks and examined the wound as best he could. He wasn’t as flexible as he had been, but he washed it with clean water, using a spare shirt he’d found. Yeah, it had been nasty, but the antibiotics were working and the wound itself wasn’t leaking crud anymore. It sure could do with some stitches, but he wasn’t prepared to operate on himself, even with the topical anesthetic he’d found in the medicine cabinet. Once it was clean and dry, he cut out a big square of gauze and secured it in place with tape before putting fresh socks on. He stood up tentatively and sighed. That was better. Not as good as new, but definitely on the mend.

  The last thing he did was to close up and lock both basement doors. He hid the bunch of keys beneath the little platform where he’d found the cylinders and made certain there was no sign he’d done so. He didn’t expect to ever come back here, but such a valuable cache of supplies needed protecting.

  An hour after laying Pam to rest, he was walking up the slope he’d fallen down two days before, better equipped than when he’d arrived, but at the cost of a long delay. He imagined Maria still standing on the shore of the island, looking for him.

  So, he picked up the pace and climbed clumsily to the top, striking the path he’d been on when he’d first spotted the house, and passing it on his right side. He took one last look at the place, with its little cairn of stones, wished Pam goodbye and strode on.

  He’d never been much of a rough country walker. Bobby Rodriguez liked his creature comforts and the advantages of modern technology. Out here, he had neither. But the road became firmer and better made as he went. It had been cut into the landscape, so on one side an embankment rose crowned with dry, thorny bushes obscuring the view in that direction. Fewer bushes lined the other side and he could see that the land fell away before rising again into a gentle, scrub-covered peak of greens and browns. He could hear nothing but the regular crunch of his boots on the compacted soil of the path and the buzzing of the occasional insect. High above him, he spotted condors circling from time to time and, as he passed, small birds began chirruping out of the dense bushes. But he was alone in this landscape, and he felt like an ant crawling along, uncertain whether the track he was on would lead where he wanted to go, or to nowhere at all. Santa Clarita was to the east of Fillmore, but he could only tell roughly which direction that was by tracking the sun in the sky, and he could only go where the landscape would let him.

  He trudged on for two hours until the effort of walking and dealing with Pam finally caught up with him. His legs, back, shoulders and arms ached and his feet could carry him no farther. He checked his foot and found bloodstains on his socks. So, the wound had opened up already. But he had no choice; Maria was waiting for him.

  Bobby rested for an hour or so. He warmed up a ration pack of chicken curry, then removed his boot and examined the wound. It was leaking blood, but it was the risk of infection that bothered him. He poured as much water as he could spare over it, wiped it clean, then covered it with antiseptic gel, wincing as it bit. He’d packed a spare pair of socks, so he laid the old sock on the sole of the boot to cushion his foot a little, then carefully laced it up again.

  He hauled himself upright, grunting as he put weight on his foot. There really was little point in struggling along much farther today, but he decided to follow his shadow a little longer until he could find somewhere to hole up. Besides, the road was climbing toward a fold in the land and he hoped he could get a wider view ahead from up there.

  Finally, he arrived at the top, and he gasped as he looked down into the flooded world below. He was standing on the crest of a deep valley that cut across his path, north to south, as far as the eye could make out. The land sloped away from beneath his feet to the newly formed banks of a lake. Specks floated on its surface; human remains indistinguishable from the wreckage of civilization. He sat on a boulder and surveyed the scene. While he’d been hiking painfully across the hills, he’d been able to ignore the profound change that had come over the world. Here, sitting and looking down at the drowned valley, he was confronted by the truth. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  His destination was on the other side of the valley, and he had no way of getting over it. So, his choices resolved into either following the side of the valley north or south until it ended, and he could cross. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. For now, he had to rest. So, he made his way carefully down the slope toward the cover of a line of pines that ran parallel to the water.

  And then he saw it. There, beyond the trees; a cabin. It stood a little down the slope on a strip of open land between the pines and the water. The tops of more trees emerged from the slowly rippling surface on the other side of the cabin, and Bobby could see that, before the deluge, it would have been hidden from view from below. From his position, it had been sheer luck that he’d seen it at all. If he’d been twenty yards up the slope, he’d have passed it by. But it looked like the perfect place to hide for the night.

  Remembering his almost-fatal first encounter with Pam, he unhooked the shotgun from over his shoulder, fastened his pack on his back and crept from tree to tree, checking and rechecking that there was no movement below, no sign of a weapon pointing his way. It took twenty min
utes to reach the final pine, and he took a long look at the place, searching for any indication that it was inhabited.

  It was a log cabin; the sort of thing people rented to experience life in the great outdoors in total safety and complete comfort. Solar panels lined the roof—some for heating water, the others to provide power—and dormer windows looked out in each direction. It would be a good defensive setup, providing a clear line of sight whichever way an intruder approached. But perhaps he was overthinking this. It was probably just a tourist cabin with built-in scenic views.

  Just to be safe, however, he waited for a few moments more, checking the windows, both in the gables and on the ground story, for any movement. Nothing. He’d thought, for a moment, that he’d seen something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked up, it was gone, and he put it down to floaters in his vision. Gripping the shotgun to his chest, he scampered across the gap, wincing at the pain in his foot, and the crisp crunching of his boots in the pine litter.

  He came to a halt beside one of the ground-floor windows, pressing his back to the rustic outside wall, eyes flitting left to right, scanning for any threat. Nothing. It was silent save for the gentle whisper of the wind in the pine trees, and the occasional splash of waves on the new shore.

  Taking in a huge breath, he ran around the front of the building, keeping as low as possible, until he reached the front door. He wasn’t surprised to find it locked. Perhaps it was a summer cabin, sealed up the previous winter and awaiting the return of its owners in a couple of months. If so, he’d hit the jackpot. But there was no point in trying to break the door down—he had no tools other than the shotgun and knife, and even though he hadn’t seen another living soul, he didn’t want to risk a gunshot attracting unwelcome attention.

  The weakest part of the house was probably the windows in the attic, but how would he get up there? He searched around the cabin and found nothing to help, and so he walked down to the shoreline. Directly in front of him, the tops of regularly planted pine trees poked out of the water, while the ranks farther away disappeared beneath. Waves broke around them, leaving the water between the drowned forest and the bank calm. Above the trees, he could see the green slopes of the valley’s other side—the side he needed to be on—and to left and right, the land ran straight until it was lost in a gathering sea mist.