End Days - A Tale of Survival

[Light Ice]

“I can’t believe I keep letting you talk me into this.” James Hacker’s boyish face was contorted with hesitation and worry.

Owen wasn’t surprised. James was young. Twenty one, maybe. Not older. He wore his blond, blond hair in a short high-fade. He was a Specialist but didn’t act it. The rank seemed to sit new on him. Unfamiliar. He moved with a distinct jitter that seemed to suit his lanky frame too well. There was nothing of James’ manner that suggested he was capable of surviving on his own. Owen didn’t spend much time thinking of it. Instead, as the kid handed him boxes, he worked to stow them in the back of the Havoc.

“When this all gets put straight they’re going to court marshal us both.” He said. “If they put it straight.”

To that, Owen said nothing. Nothing was going to be put straight. The radio, net, and TV had been flooded with reports before it’d struck them. Mobilization had started early that morning. 36 hours ago. Owen had made his choice early. It hadn’t been much later when the first local reports hit. The entire world seemed as though it’d turned upside down. Beyond the Havoc, and James’ grunts and complaints, a sea of abandoned clothes racks sat atop short-pile store carpet. The pluck and warble of country music was still playing. Jason Aldean’s drawl hung heavy in the air along with the odd, foreign feel of the empty store.

Racks lay abandoned. Clothes on them. He could see kayaks along the far wall, empty registers. The camping goods section. A few of the rifles and handguns had been taken before they’d arrived but there’d been a few worth scavenging. Outside, thudding in the distance, he heard explosions. Artillery. There were no screams and hadn’t been for awhile. It’d been too quick. Whatever the battle looked like it was one sided. The entire area had been overrun within an hour. The rest had been madness. All that was left of the world that he’d worked to come home to was the empty store, abandoned racks of clothes and goods.

It had been their scant hope to find survivors from the start. Hours ago. They’d found nobody. Not a single soul. It was as though the entire population of Watertown had up and left the world in a great and ironically fitting hurry. Owen continued to watch the gaping hole where the glass doors to the store had been. The Havoc had punched clean through without any impact, hardly, at all. The noise, he had been certain, would have brought some. It hadn’t. No survivors. None of them, either.

“That’s it.” James said.

“Check in back.” He answered.

“Alright.”

The boy didn’t argue much and aside from concerns over being arrested – James had seldom complained. He’d first met the kid when they were overseas. He’d always been the one up to his elbows in grease with a tool in hand. The kid had worked hard to keep the machines running. He’d chatted incessantly, pleasantly, when Owen and the other Operators spent time in camp. He’d started reading the books Owen had suggested and then talking to him about them. He’d been sweet. It hadn’t been long before he’d noticed that James was something of a wiz when it came to machinery. Owen turned briefly to watch James test the swinging door leading into the back of the store. He was smart. Patient. When the boy finally began to move further inside he did it only when he had confidence in moving at all. The rifle slung to his shoulder came up smoothly, steadily. And then, with the door swinging after him, he was gone.

Looking out, considering the mess they’d made, Owen surveyed the ruins of the store. He imagined the people standing in line, or trying things on. He imagined them bullshitting with employees about ammunition or vacuum packed food. And then, when the televisions that hung near the registers broadcasted the emergency and it came to the door, he imagined the panic. A few of the display cases had shattered. The registers had been robbed. He could imagine people stealing things they thought they could need and rushing to escape, or get home, or to schools to check on kids.

From what he’d heard on the Havoc’s radio it’d passed through the area like a wave. He imagined that for now most of –them- had moved onwards, south or west towards Syracuse and Rochester. Their numbers up. Thousands, it’d been, and they’d overwhelmed the tiny town so quickly there’d been hardly any resistance at all. The troops at Fort Drum hadn’t known what was coming. Most had probably fallen in the first ten minutes. The rest – he didn’t know. They hadn’t been there to witness it. They’d stolen the Havoc and the trailer, taken their own gear, and left.

To his right, about twenty feet away, he saw Wyatt’s sleek form moving amidst the hunting department’s pet section. He watched the dog pace the isle loaded with trainer’s toys. Those things hadn’t shown any interest in the dog at all. They’d hardly paid him attention. Still, he couldn’t have abandoned him. Wouldn’t have. James hadn’t even asked and Owen was glad of it.

“There’s more.” Said James from behind him. “A lot more.”

“Load the .223 and .308 into the Havoc and put the rest in one of the safes. Take the keys. We’ll come back for it.”

The dog ended the conversation between the pair by drawing up to Owen’s side and sitting. In his mouth, a splash of color in his otherwise dark muzzle revealed a rope toy he’d taken from the dog aisle. Owen didn’t even think about it as his hand reached down and spread strong fingers through the short fur at the top of Wyatt’s head. The animal’s one good eye looked on to where James had been.


--------------------------------------------------------------

The entire stop had taken almost an hour and daylight was almost gone. In the glow of the store’s fluorescent lights everything looked eerily normal except for the crumbled ruin of the front. When they’d seen the Gander Mountain he’d surprised James when he didn’t slow or stop at the front of the building. The weight of the Havoc has plowed through the large glass entry hallway as though it hadn’t been there, tearing down the frames of steel that had held the large doors. Safety glass had exploded everywhere in a shower of small particles. He’d driven right to the firearms counter while James had looked out through the Havoc’s viewports to see if there had been any of them. There hadn’t been.

Now, as James tossed Owen one of the keys to the safe he’d used, he felt himself nodding almost absently.

“We sleeping in the Beast again?” asked James.

Owen nodded.

“Where are you going to park it?”

When it had happened, when it’d started in Watertown, they’d been on base. It wasn’t an option to return. Still, there wasn’t much by the way of population density. They’d find a place. He wasn’t worried. A few things came to mind earlier that morning. One thing was certain – he didn’t want to continue to park in the same place. As long as they kept moving they’d be safe.

“Trailer park.” Owen answered. “What else was back there?”

“We took all the guns, like you said. They had a few bows and a couple crossbows, took those, too. All the arrows. There were a bunch of different types – I don’t know the difference. I didn’t take the time to count the boxes but they’re pretty much cleaned out of ammunition, too. Shouldn’t we leave some out for anyone who comes by?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t we go back to Fort Drum and hit the armory?”

Owen looked up to the boy, his blue eyes and boyish features. He had a cleft chin. James had the look of a kid that could have grown up the quarterback of his school’s varsity team.

“I mean,” he said again. “They’re all gone now, right?”

“Maybe.” Owen agreed. “But anyone who came here looking for weapons wouldn’t have been well-equipped or had reason to arrest us.”

“And they probably would want our help, anyway.” Said the kid.

Owen found himself regarding James intently. It was easy to read his expression. The worry and concern and fear all present in James’ face and in how he moved. Still, the kid had kept working. Owen didn’t regret inviting him along. It’d been too much with one person and in the end the kid had made the choice to let him take the Havoc. He’d been prepared for that part to go so much worse than it did.

“We need to get sleep.” Owen countered, shouldering his rifle.

“What are we looting tomorrow? Best Buy?”

“No. Grocery store.”

“You’ve the worst sense of humor, boss.” James muttered as he got into the back of the Havoc, pausing briefly to look down at Owen. “What about survivors?”

“One thing at a time,” Owen said.

-------------------------------------------------------


The trailers all looked abandoned. A few had lights on and bled their yellow glow into the darkness of the narrow street but their doors were swung open. It all told the same story. A blue double-wide to their left sat open with the front door knocked off the hinges. He couldn’t see far into the trailer but didn’t need to. A mess of suburban debris lay on the carpet opposite the door.

“Do you think anyone got out?”

James looked for survivors with a relentless and desperate intensity. Owen had felt it, all along, and hard it now in the almost pleading inquiry that left him. There wasn’t an answer he cared to give him. It was enough to hear that desperation and know that somewhere inside the younger man he already knew.

They were pretty far in when he went up onto a lawn and turned around. The Havoc’s engine cut out, abandoning that low diesel rumble and he leaned back briefly in his seat to consider Wyatt in the passenger seat beside him. The dog’s tongue hung forward out of his long black muzzle, one good eye finding him in turn.

“Good enough.” He said to Wyatt.

“I’ve never seen a German Shepherd that looks like that.” Said James from one of the twelve seats in back.

“He’s not a Shepherd.”

The back of the Havoc was meant for troops, not cargo, and it was mostly clear. He’d only wanted the ammunition inside so that it could be used, or kept safe. The trailer itself was holding cargo of a different sort. It was mostly taken up by the generator and tools, James’ idea. A good one, too. James stood hunched inside, one hand on the armored roof of the cabin, the other at the headrest of the nearest seat.

“What is he?” he asked.

“Belgian Malinois.”

Owen found Wyatt’s jawline in his hand, felt the dog lean into the touch. He considered its face. The Rangers in the Korangal Valley had called him Two-Face. It wasn’t hard to get it. One half of Wyatt’s face was handsome, dark and smooth fur. That black mask had once been the entirety of his face. The other half, though, was now a ruin. A large bare spot stretched from his muzzle up to his right ear, which was intact. The hairless skin was a mass of ruinous scar-tissue. The dog’s right eye was milky-white and sightless.

He loved the dog so fiercely that it ached.

“He looks like a bad ass.” James was smiling some. There was a boyish sincerity in the way he spoke.

“Yeah.” Owen said.

The dog let his tongue hang out again. It rolled out of his mouth, a pink animal, and hung sidelong to its right. The length of that muscle was suddenly framed in the silvered-titanium of its teeth.

“I bet some of these trailers have propane.” The kid said, leaning once again to look out the periscope and consider the circle of trailers that flanked the cul de sac. In a moment, then, he was reaching for his rifle and headed towards the rear hatch of the Havoc.

“People! There are people coming. And some of –them- on their six!” James shouted and then jumped outside.

“Wyatt.” He said and got out of the driver’s seat, picking up the rifle at his side. The dog didn’t hesitate.

James stood at the back of the Havoc near the open hatch, curling an arm to gesture the people on. They were tired. Owen could see that at his first glance. Three of them. At least one was a woman. They moved well but they were tired and the others weren’t. And wouldn’t be. He looked back, past the nose of the Havoc, and saw the yards were empty.

The kid was a good soldier, a great mechanic, but he wasn’t much with the M4. More than the average, sure. He was a Ranger. Still, Owen knew why he wasn’t shooting and admired the kid’s restraint. They were about a hundred and fifty meters off and closing. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. The lead runner, the female, flinched. One of the ones behind her collapsed, head snapping back amidst a plume of blood and bits of pale white skull and pink brain matter. He hardly heard the rifle’s powerful crack anymore.

He fired again. Missed. He hadn’t had time to adjust his scope and was compensating on the fly. The next one dropped another one of –them-. It was heavier. Running hard. Untiring. He couldn’t put a kill shot on a third, the survivors were in the way, but he tagged it in the shoulder and watched as the force of the shot took it clean off its feet. Two more shots and two more of –them- fell before he felt comfortable they had enough room.

“Get them in and close that door. We’re leaving.”

He didn’t hear James’ answer.

(This thread is closed.)

 

[GentleValkyrie]

She tried to remember to breathe. The running would happen, but she had to breathe. Her long legs were holding her in good stead, but she couldn't tell how many of the footfalls behind her belonged to friends. She couldn't help the others now, she could run and breathe, and try not to run out of hope.

It was crazy how fast hope could run out, considering how much of it she had not so long ago. The practice was on its way to finishing a second year of actually making a profit. She had clients around the county who greeted her like a local. It was a lot of accomplishment for a young woman on her own.

And then it all came unraveled, faster than the mind could really contemplate.

The reports had come in while she was out on Matt's farm. He had laughed at them, and invited her to dinner while they figured out what was going on. By the time the reports were serious, and seriously disturbing, heading into town wasn't an option she felt comfortable with. Matt's farm was sprawling, state of the art, boarding and training for thoroughbreds. He had been one of her first clients, and a good reason why her small veterinary practice had survived at all. He'd recommended her to all of the owners and his trainer vouched for her skills. It was a fine place to spend a day, do check ups a little early on all the horses and wait for more news.

A few horse owners, the trainers and hands, a couple contractors working on the house, Matt's daughter, Matt kept them all there, not wanting to send them out into the unknown... or the things they knew about. They stayed at the farm, like foam washing up on the beach as chaos turned more of the world into darkness. It had been almost fun at first, a bit like a giant house party, sleeping on all of the sofas and some camp cots when the guest rooms filled up. Fun, except for when the hands decided someone should keep watch. And except for the tension around everyone's eyes. The training schedule lasted a day.

Two days later, she admitted to herself that her practice, and the town it was attached to, was gone. The third day the people who had found some safety there had to abandon the farm.

Hope was so fragile.

She knew at least one of the others was still with her as she ran, along with them, she could hear breathing, hard but controlled, not like them. There were more of them not too far away. She hadn't identified the thing in front of her when the rifle shot rang out, startling her, close enough to feel and make her terrified she would lose her footing. She heard the impact and felt the impact of a body dropping behind her. That had been close. Very close. She saw the men and the...tank? Was that a tank? in front of her and sped up, with a goal more precise than "find somewhere to hide" she felt a whisper of hope again.

One of the men was shooting, the other gesturing them on. Lily didn't stop until the younger of the two grabbed her arm and hauled her into the back of the vehicle. She slumped onto the floor breathing hard as he pulled Matt and Rachel in after her. Two more. Two others from the escape from the farm. That was it. Her mind reeled as she curled around her knees, shaking.

Soldiers. The army. Maybe hope wasn't dead. But where were the rest of them? This thing had seats for more than two... more than five. She heard Matt introduce them, pointing her out as "Dr. Lily Connor" which made her wave helplessly at him. "Please, its just Lily. We might want to leave. You don't want to go south. This was just a few of them that peeled off the main group, but there's a lot of them back south."

She coughed, catching her breath, "Thank you... I didn't think... I didn't think anyone had anything under control anymore."

 

[Light Ice]

Three. There were only three. Still, ten minutes ago, there had been none. No survivors. No people camped out on roofs or locked in vehicles or boarded up in houses. Three. He kept them clear, he and his rifle, working with the length of steel and polycarbonate as it bucked soundly into the pocket of his broad shoulder and barked that jolting, lethal voice. It was not startling to shoot at –them-. His heart knew the price you paid for each round. The rifle knew he could pay it. This was the quiet, grim arrangement to which all soldiers were familiar.

It was a dangerous little game, though. Unarmed, they were lethal. He felt the prickle of fear as it ran through him. Any man that pretended he’d lost his was either lying or crazy. The rifle barked and he waited, waited until those few seconds stretched long and he felt his tongue dart out to wet dry lips with every anticipation of getting back inside the safety of the Havoc. It wasn’t until he heard the familiar thud of the rear hatch sealing closed that he let himself move back towards the driver’s seat.

“Get in, boy.” He breathed to Wyatt. He didn’t have to look down to know the dog’s ears were back and its lips curled in a silent snarl. Wyatt moved, though, obeying flawlessly an order it had heard many times. The Belgian’s lean, powerful body leapt effortlessly into the driver’s seat and then cut down in the alley between it and the passenger. Soon, seated there, it gave its back to those in the Havoc’s rear compartment and settled in to anxiously watch for Owen’s safe arrival.

But they were fast out there. Damned fast. Before he could slide into the seat and close the door he had to take the lead one down. It was a woman. Had been a woman. She’d a ponytail of faux blonde that swung wildly as she moved. A fitted, Victoria Secret Pink T-Shirt and PJ Pants on. The pants were black, covered in dust and dirt. She was barefoot. Her full lips curled back in a wild, insane snarl that made her look less like a woman and more like some kind of beast. The red O of her mouth was lined in cream-colored froth with a bit of red highlight. Wild. Mad.

He didn’t blow her head off. He turned it into a canoe. The round cored out the entire top of her head and detonated the back of her skull until bits of bone, blood, and brain matter left in a thick mist.

Seconds. But it’d felt longer. They were still introducing one another when he drew into the seat and slammed his door closed – nearly sixty pounds of armored steel securing in place. Outside, muffled from the armored flank of the Havoc, he heard bodies strike it in an effort to break in. Owen was quick to safety his rifle, secure it in the stand beside his seat, and reach back with his right hand even as his left turned the key and kicked the armored vehicle to life.

“Easy.” He said to the dog. It leaned into Owen’s fingers to let him blindly pet him.

Then, he hit the gas, and they began to rumble off as the Havoc gained speed.


-------------------------------------------


James had all but come out of his boots when the three had gotten in safely. They all piled back into the Havoc while he pulled the door closed in his wake. His breath heavy with excitement, his rifle still had the safety on and he stowed it beside the seat he’d taken. This was some small miracle. Some great gift. A purposeful one. A calling. A challenge.

They were speaking – he missed the names. Distracted. Wild. Triumphant. Cross hadn’t shown a single real interest in survivors since they’d started out. It was something to have them here. The feeling of accomplishment was real inside of him and it grew steadily.

“James, James Hacker. I’m a Specialist.” He was smiling big. Nodding to the man who gave his introductions. “Driver’s name is Owen Cross. He doesn’t talk much. Sure can, shoot, though.”

The smile that found him was nervous but easy. He settled into his seat further and exhaled a breath.

“I wish there was more of us. I think we’re the only ones left. Wish we had better news.” His smile was gone as he spoke, eyes tracking over the newcomers. “At least nearby.”

 

[GentleValkyrie]

Something inside she didn't realize had been tense relaxed when the door finally closed. The thud, heavy and solid, the weight between her and the too dangerous world gave her space to breathe. She jumped and heard Rachel yelp in surprise when the vehicle shivered under impacts. From them. They were out there, closer than she had imagined.

Matt shook James' hand and let him show how to get strapped into one of the seats in the big vehicle. He was so excited, she smiled for a moment despite herself. Her smile faded with his. They were dressed like soldiers, armed like them... but they had left the military behind, or it had dissolved, if what he implied was true. The government wouldn't be coming to the rescue.

She heard Matt put on his 'taking control of the situation' voice and start in on the kid, asking where he was from and where they were going. Calm, reasonable, demanding. You could almost ignore how his hands were shaking as he ran them through his perfectly tousled hair. He was a good trainer, a good businessman, partially because he was a control freak. The world being upside down like this had to be eating at him, so he was trying to regain equilibrium with James.

Matt's 19 year old daughter sat where she was told and stared into the middle distance. Lily tucked a strand of long red hair back behind her ear, closer to the braid it had escaped from. "Matt... let James find some water and a jacket for Rachel, would you? We don't need to have a master plan right now. We just need to get somewhere safe." She welded her blue eyes up to his brown ones, "Seriously, just sit down for a bit."

"Lily, you heard him, there isn't anywhere safe." But he sat down. She flashed a tired smile back to James as he produced a bottle of water from somewhere and offered it to the wide eyed teenager. A man paying attention to his daughter would keep Matt's attention for a bit and Rachel would get taken care of, allowing Lily to let her own exhaustion wash over her.

She shivered as adrenaline faded, crouched down by the front and found herself facing the black muzzle and bright eye of the Malinois. "And what's your name, buddy?" she murmured, holding her fingers out to him to sniff. She watched the big dog relax and she started running her fingers behind his ears.

 

[Light Ice]

The triumph of their arrival was almost immediately undone by the man’s questions. James was quiet. He wished he could have been stern but he was too young and when he reached down inside of himself there wasn’t any authority or power to cling to. Instead, as he’d done for most of his young but fruitful life, he went quiet and let himself hunt his way through the man’s barrage of questions. Had it only been James he’d have taken control. James recognized that. It didn’t matter that James had a rifle in his hand and was an Army Ranger. Power between men, between people, was rarely determined by anything other than the ethereal will of whatever it was that handed out things like strength of character and will.

Still, that wasn’t what brought the fear.

And the fear came. Surely, suddenly, and absolutely. It wasn’t the blind panic he’d felt when they’d first been attacked by –them-. It was a deeper, slower, more menacing version of that fear and once he felt it take root inside his belly there didn’t see any way to shake it loose. For all the blustering, all the billowing, Matt was one of the survivors. The five of them, whether the others felt it or not, were now a part of something good in the wake of so much bad. Matt wouldn’t really harm James.

But if he didn’t get himself under control, Matt was going to get himself into the two-hundred pounds of trouble that was currently sitting in the driver’s seat. Owen, for all his measured manner, was not going to tolerate that. Not for a second. In his head, clear as the movies he’d seen in iMax as a kid, he could see Owen walking calmly from the driver’s seat and beating the brakes off of Matt infront of his (wife?) and kid. No, not wife. There was no ring on her finger, he saw, when he looked absently to her small hand.

And saw it reaching for the dog.

<i>No, FUCK SHIT NO!</i>

But Wyatt simply turned his head some, hiding the ruinous scars that consumed the entirety of the right side of his face in a gesture so eerily self-aware that James felt his mouth drop open.

<i>Nobody pet the dog. Nobody. No woman. No man. ‘Cept Spooky Magoo. </i> he heard himself in his head.

The dog, a powerful and noble thing, took all of the woman’s attentions as though he was no more than a simple house pet. The sight of it was so shocking that he nearly missed the way she defused Matt. He caught it, just as she began scratching at the dog’s ears in earnest, and suddenly felt a wave of warm gratitude and relief wash over him.

He was kneeling infront of Rachel when he finally found the words that he wanted to use. She was very pretty. He noticed when he looked up and saw the fear draining from her face and the color returning to it. From his place there, with Matt seated near, James spoke sidelong to him.

“I’m glad we found you guys.” He said and felt comfort in the fact his words were steady and even.

And, looking past them all to the driver’s seat where Owen sat, he couldn’t help but remember back before they’d gotten here. He didn’t take any interest in the conversations and James wasn’t surprised. What surprised him was the dog, and that surprise returned to him, as he swept a hand out to consider the woman at length.

“Careful with Wyatt. He’s not a petting type of dog.”

But still, the dog seemed to tolerate her. There lay a softness in the Malinois’ one good eye that he had otherwise not recognized. A glint had once lay fashioned there, steel-cold and dangerous, to help provoke the legend of the animal amongst the men that’d met him. James was one of few that had seen Wyatt before he’d lost the pound of flesh on his face and the use of that eye.

------------------------------------------------------------------


Owen drove on until the trailer park was well beyond, and on still until he’d some small comfort that none of –them- were about. The Havoc, while armored, was not a tank. It was heavy. Capable. But, for it all, he’d no intention of sacrificing survability for the sake of arrogance. He was frightened. That was the truth of it. The fear crept up inside of him like a cold blade and lingered there as the night stretched on and he turned several slow circles at the end of the access road he’d driven down. Slow circles. Waiting, even after several minutes had passed, for a hint that they would be set upon again.

Fatigue clung to him heavy. It was an old friend. There was no ignoring it and to make an attempt was foolish. Feelings, whether they be fear or fatigue, were not something a wise man would ignore. Instead, he accepted it. Drank it up. Listened to the loving way it caressed the corded ropes of muscle that clung to his body and ached when he parked the Havoc and killed the lights. Darkness spread across the narrow windshield and he moved slowly, steadily, into the cab of the carrier with the rest of them. His arrival provoked Wyatt to get up, almost reluctantly from the woman, and find a place at his side as he took a seat.

James seemed to catch on more quickly than he could have hoped and did the same, beside the girl he’d been tending.

For a moment, just a moment, he felt victory. The days had been a grim parade of macabre scenes. A part of him, so desperate to be home, felt shattered into a million pieces. He’d not been ready for more of it. More of the war. More of the hurt. More of the fear. James, from his boyish smile to the optimism with which he moved, was a triumph. The boy had a life infront of him and, whether –they- were stopped or not, it was a promising one.

“Everyone alright?” He heard himself ask. The measure of his voice was weighted in a low, unintrusive bass.

And he couldn’t help but look to see if they were. All of them. The man sat, anxiously there on the edge of his seat, and stared at him. Questions were coming. Owen felt them. For now, though, he turned his eye to the younger girl. Shock, maybe. But she was alright. Settling. Adrenaline slowly abandoning her and leaving her with the dark certainty of the instant. She was a cute kid. Scared. He wondered, briefly, how many times he’d held his fear so close to his face in the last few days.

The woman was stunning and he almost didn’t see it. A quick glance. The way her hair was falling. It was everything he had not to look back to her again, to let his eyes track across the softly-shaped features of her face or the stark strength in her otherwise feminine eyes. Owen felt his body respond, exhausted or not, and all at once the eighteen months downrange felt every bit as long as they sounded. Eighteen months.

He tore his eyes away, to Wyatt, and reached with a strong hand until the long, battered stretch of his fingers ran across the crest of the animal’s head. Affection blossomed so starkly for the animal that for a moment the quickening of his pulse seemed a memory. He shook out his own dark hair, chopped short but left to have grown a bit shaggy. His facial hair was more than three days worth of coarse, dark stubble. The Unit had always been lax on grooming standards. It was a perk to which the Rangers, or many others within the services, ever knew.