ALONG THE ENDLESS RIVER

Mike was barely coming to, his head ringing so hard that his eyes took a full minute to come into focus. His face was pressed into the damp, musty hotel-room carpet and a bitter, chalky taste filled his mouth and tongue where they had made union with the floor. His hands were bound behind his back, his legs taped together from ankle to mid-calf. But, as he came to, he instinctively began twisting himself around in a half-circle along the ground, trying to get an appraisal of his surroundings.

The hotel room was quiet and dimly lit, with light peeking through in muted rays from behind the drawn curtains. The light illuminated dust particles in the air, letting Mike know that it was definitely daylight in the world outside of his cell. But, what time or day, he really had no idea. The beatings had been intense - first punches to the face and head, followed by repeated sessions with a sawed-down baseball bat to his ribs and back. And, every time they switched his location, they had put a bag over his head. It was hard to tell how long he had been here or how long he had been in the possession of his captors. He thrashed again along the ground and, in an instant of horror, came face to face with Paul’s lifeless head.

A rush of memory flooded in and he let out an almost noiseless scream through his battered throat. Suddenly, he remembered everything: the chase, being captured, the basement chamber with its rack of knives and saws. He jerked again to turn his gaze from Paul’s bloodless death mask and he began sobbing silently as the waves of remembering washed over him.

Paul had been defiant against death. He had shown a courage that Mike believed only existed in the chosen few. His courage had been inspiration, and when Paul chose to face certain death for his family, Mike had followed without hesitation. It was as if some latent courage within him had been awaken by the other man’s heroics . And now, all that remained of this hero lay on the floor beside him, in the most God-forsaken place in a God-forsaken wasteland, a testimony to the fact they indeed were left in a world that had been handed over to the Kingdom of Hell.

Mike knew again suddenly that his time was coming. His captors had left all that remained of Paul here as a message. WE WILL BE BACK. YOU WILL TALK OR YOU WILL DIE. He twisted again against his bindings, searching for some sort of give. There was nothing, so he struggled to sit himself upright on the floor, his torso screaming in pain as he rolled and deployed his core muscles to pull himself into a sitting position.

On the floor and facing the drawn curtains of the window, Mike bent himself in half as much as possible. His ribs and abdomen had been hammered by the torture squad, and he had to stop in first attempt as tears of pain streamed down his face, his breath escaping in gasps of pain. His body shuddered with pain as he tried again, drawing his head toward his knees as much as possible, and then lifting his butt off the ground. His body shook convulsively from the strain and agony as he slid his bound hands from behind his back, under his butt, and down to behind his knees. He had always been flexible for his big frame, and he laughed under his pain choked breathing that these evil sons-of –bitches had likely underestimated that fact. And, that fact would be the reason he was going to die on his feet and take as many of them with him as he could.

After a couple of moments of breath mastering and strength mustering, he began working to free his hands from below his knees. He rolled his shoulders forward, bending himself in half and drew back his feet towards the knot that bound his hands. His boot heels stuck as it reached the tight opening, the resistance against his stretching causing eruptions through his body. But, he buried into the effort and in a few seconds, he could feel the backs of his fingers against the bottom of his boots. Almost home. He stayed bent working his fingers in slow, snail-like shuffles, their skin raking against his boot treads, but gaining purchase with every effort. Bending his ankles toward his face, he groaned against the final third and then finally his hands came free with a pop over the top of his boots. Payback time.

He rested his bound hands in his lap for a few seconds as his body recovered from the impossible stretching against bruised muscles and broken ribs. But, there was no time to waste and the adrenaline surged through him again, as he drew the thick tape around his wrist up to his mouth. His broken lips bled and his swollen jaw ached as Mike attacked the thick duct tape, tearing it sticky, fibrous strips. In a couple of minutes his hands were free, and he unwrapped his lower legs, relieved to find that the tight binding wasn’t concealing a broken ankle. Rising on wobbly legs, he gathered his balance and scanned the room and found a soiled bedspread shoved between a mattress and the wall. With his back turned, and avoiding further eye contact, he threw the bedspread onto the floor where Paul’s head lay, fanning it out to be sure to cover it from further sight.

His legs felt surprisingly strong and didn’t ache the way his upper body did. He bent at the knees and shifted his weight from side to side, warming them up for the work that lie soon ahead. Then, voices drifted in form the hallway. Rough, familiar voices, choked by smoke and disease that set off the alarms in his head. They were coming back for him now- either to check on him or to finish their work.

Mike looked around the room and saw the closet door bent open, the end of an electrical cord hanging against it. He slid into the closet and took the clothes-iron from its cradle, wrapping his fingers around the handle, gauging the weight. Not ideal, but it would have to do.

Metal scraped within the door’s lock, and he watched the handle turn. His head throbbed in the silent seconds, his eyes fixed on the doorframe. Here it comes. The door cracked open and an ugly, bearded face pushed into the dimly lit room.

Mike exploded from the closet, lunging forward,, and throwing a haymaker with the clothes-iron’s metal plate as an extension of his fist. It caught the bearded intruder completely by surprise, smashing into his nose and the pan of his face like a wrecking ball. Bones cracked, blood sprayed, and the iron came half way apart at the handle from the impact. The bearded man was thrown back into the hallway like a ragdoll, and Mike’s momentum carried him through the doorway behind him. For the first time, Mike saw the second man, the bald, viper-like demon from the basement. The man who smiled and laughed as he cut on Paul now stood staring at him, stunned at what had erupted from the hotel room. Within seconds, the bald viper went for his sidearm, but Mike was faster, already powered by the absolute height of survival adrenaline.

Instinctively, his hand had slid form the iron’s handle to its cord. And with his second hand he secured the cord grip, then swung the iron like a tethered hammer at the bald man’s head. His aim was low, and rather than catching the bald viper above the neck, the iron slammed into his upper right arm and chest, knocking him back and disabling his attempt to draw his weapon. In an instant Mike was on him like a linebacker, driving his full weight into the man as he re-coiled from the iron’s blow. They smashed into the wall and down to floor, where Mike grabbed the bald head like a basketball and bounced it off the thinly carpeted concrete hallway. The bald man’s body went loose from the concussion and Mike fumbled with his left hand for the man’s weapon. Finding it still halfway in its holster, he drew out the large .44 and steadied his grip with both hands, as he leaned on one knee over the fallen viper. The gun was going to be loud, but he had no choice.

Rising up from his knee, the gun went off like a cannon in the hallway. The bald man’s head was reduced to pulp but Mike didn’t stand around to gloat. He wheeled and fired a second round into the bearded man who still lay in a lump behind him, blowing the smashed lower half of the man’s face and neck apart in a red burst. He steadied his legs and caught his breath, his heart hammering in his bruised and battered chest.

Mike could hear yelling from down the hallway, the shots had been heard and people were coming. It was time to run now, and he quickly made the decision to head in the opposite direction from which the fallen men had come. His footfalls started slow at first, like his boots were sticking in thick mud. But, after few strides he began to move faster, his legs now starting to pump in rhythm as he reached the end of the long hallway and came upon two doors, a stairwell and an outside exit. The voices were louder now, and he could hear them just around the corner of the hall behind him. He tried to listen through the exit door, and hearing the sound of feet on the pavement, he opted for the stairs.

As the stairway door crashing closed behind him, Mike vaulted the two half-flights in a matter of seconds. He hit the brakes at the top landing, and leaned in against the upper hallway door, listening for movement or voices. It was all quiet, so he pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway with the .44 drawn.

The upper hallway was empty, just a stretch of old maroon and green carpet like the one downstairs. But he could hear the commotion below him, and he knew he had to double back toward the front before his pursuers made the same decision. He flew down the hallway and rounded the corner, where another length of hallway of room-doors, divided by a pair of elevators lay ahead. He kept running, looking to the far end, where he could see another corner which must open up to another hallway running parallel to one he had come from. There would likely be a stairway there, and at the bottom, another outside exit.

He turned the second corner and saw the hallway lay ahead as he had envisioned. Except, unlike the empty hallways he had just left, this one was occupied. Room doors were propped open and heads peeked out at him as he ran towards them. Then he saw the first gunman, a man in underwear kneeling out of a doorway on his right, just beyond another room where a woman with long, knatty reddish hair and pale, bare breasts was leaning out screaming at him. Mike stopped, fired, and the wall next to the man exploded in a cloud of plaster and wood. The under-wear man rolled back inside his door and the bare-breasted woman howled as she slammed hers. To his left, others were materializing in his peripheral. First two doorways where half clothed women stared at him in disbelief, people moving behind them in the room, swearing and yelling. Then another door opened down the hall and a man in jeans and a dirty t-shirt emerged with a shotgun leveled waist high. The man was too late with his draw, and Mike pounded two rounds from the .44 into his torso, dropping him the middle of the hallway.

The women screamed and their doors closed, and Mike knew he had to make the end of the hallway now. He moved along the right wall quickly , approaching the room where the under-wear man had appeared then disappeared. Hitting a sprint, he leapt across the open doorway and shots rang out behind him, smashing into the opposite wall. Mike then turned, and on queue, the under-wear man stuck his head and upper body out into the hallway, swearing loudly and looking for the target he missed. Mike fired one time, hitting the swearing man in the center of his bare chest, and then threw open the stairway door before even seeing him hit the ground.

He descended the stairs in quick fashion, using one hand on the railing as he glided over several steps at a time. Reaching the bottom, he knew that this next part was critical. He didn’t know how many rounds he had left, but he would be popping two doors open in a row- one into the hallway, then one into the outside world. If he got lucky, the doors might batter somebody on the other side, so he prepared to hit them with every bit of force he could find.

The first door flew open with a crash and Mike immediately heard the people in the hallway to his left. His plan was that the door would act as a partial shield as he hit the outside door, blocking some the hallway behind him. The plan worked and he slammed into the outside exit door, blowing it open and stepping into the waning light of dusk, the frosty air smacking him across the cheeks. Rolling left, he could hear the crack and smack of shots behind him being fired and hitting his partial shield.

The door had opened right, so after his dive-roll left, he popped up, pressing his back against the wall of the building and immediately scanning the area. The parking lot was fenced high with a barricade of old burned out vehicles, and the lot was filled with motorcycles. He saw a group of men who were moving toward him from the other wing of the building. The metal exit door closed next to him just as the men in the parking lot group opened fire, and Mike ducked down sprinting back across the doorway he had just exited. He could hear bullets thwacking against the door as he turned the corner of the building and entered another lot where the barricade continued. There weren’t any men on foot in this area of the parking lot yet, but on top of the barricade a pair of sentries were looking his way and raising rifles. He slid on the ground behind a motorcycle as the rifle fire rained down on him. He made a decision then. If he was to die, he die like a warrior. So, with a fury in his heart, he raised up from behind the bike and opened fire on the nearest sentry.

Miraculously, his shot hit home and the man fell atop the old barricade truck where he stood. Mike began sprinting toward the old, sheet- metaled school bus-turned-wall where the man had been. Unfortunately, a second miracle was not to be had and the other sentry skipped a rifle bullet off the parking lot and into his left shin. The impact knocked off his feet and he scrambled across the gravelly pavement, finding cover behind a truck that was parked amongst the motorcycles. There was a space of maybe twenty yards between his position and the barricade, and he was confident that he could get over it, even with his shin cracked from the rifle shot.

Everything got quiet within his mind, and he could hear the voices of the men who were closing in on him from across the parking lot, their posse being bolstered by others who, no doubt were coming out form the hotel behind him. The sentry’s rifle crackled again and Mike knew that a standoff was not possible. He would die trying for the barricade.

Before he knew it he was ten yards out, having closed half of the distance with his burst from behind the truck. He knew there must be a dozen men behind him and he heard their voices yelling with excitement as he came into their view. No stopping now. He finished the next ten yards and flung himself into the open door of the school bus, as shots from all directions hit every surface around him.

There, on the rubberized floor of the dark bus, in between the seat rows, he was hit with a memory from a time that seemed impossible. He remembered picking lunch tokens off his own school bus floor, maybe when he was 9 years old. His brother, Nate, had wanted to hold the lunch tokens. But he dropped them and Mike had to get down under the seats to find them. Their bus driver, Mr. Klentro, had gotten so pissed at Mike for being down there while the bus was moving. “Could’ve lost my job!” he had yelled at him. Nate had always been a mess, always losing things and getting hurt, always trying to keep up with everything Mike did. But, that was all an ocean of time ago. Nate was gone, mom was gone, Mr. Klentro was gone, everybody was gone- everybody except Skylar. Skylar was still out there. And that was all that Mike remembered as he rose up and popped the emergency exit window out the bus just as Mr. Klentro had taught him. Then, with his back on the seat, he kicked the sheet metal off of the side that had covered the window, sending a wave of fading sunlight into the bus through an opening big enough to climb through.

Bullets continued to slam into the outside of the bus, and he could hear the men running across the parking lot. He knew that sentry/sniper would be waiting to fire as soon as he made his exit, but he would die trying. And with that, he threw himself headfirst out of the opening and onto the ground below.

The sentry had been waiting, drawn to his plan by the sheet metal he had kicked free. But his aim was off, and the first shot hit the ground next to Mike. He was in another parking lot, for some restaurant and small strip-mall, but he could see a tree line ahead that likely gave way to a neighborhood. He collected himself off the ground as the second shot struck the pavement between his feet. Mike turned to fire the .44, but nothing happened- he was finally out.

His busted shin screaming at him, he began to run in zigzags, across the lot towards the tree line. A shot hit something behind him, once again off its target. Three misses! Another then another- four, five misses! Looking over his shoulder he saw the sentry reaching for something, maybe another weapon, but it was too late, Mike darted into the trees and found himself crossing a little creek that fed into a large drainage pipe. The pipe looked big enough to stand in, and might provide some shelter. But, without a weapon, he had no choice but continue across the creek and into another little wooded area.

Once across the creek and up the slippery bank, Mike was totally out of sight of the sentry or his pursuers. He could hear commotion behind him, but it was a ways back. There was a wafting smell that filtered in through his swollen nose, decay and sewage coming for the pipe. It made him glad about his choice. He heard shouting, shots ringing, and bullets hitting the tree line where he had entered. Then he heard the sound of motorcycles starting up. The wolves would be on him soon- and this thought quickened his pace, as he forgot again about the leg that barked with every step, the broken ribs that assaulted every heavy breath. The cold air didn’t make it easier to breathe and he knew he had to find some shelter quickly.

He moved quickly through fifty yards of trees until he came to a waist high barb wire fence strung between old wooden posts. His hands found space between the barbs, and he vaulted over. His body was aching now that the adrenaline of cheating death wore off. He stepped out the trees and into a back yard, and up ahead he could see an endless neighborhood of single story homes. The key would be to find one that he could get into and hide before the bikers were on him.

He moved quietly from backyard to backyard, winding his way deeper into the neighborhood and avoiding fences. His sock squished, filled with blood within his boot from the bullet that had racked his shin. He was banged up and he needed a place lay low. He peered into windows of the deserted houses, looking for any sign that might welcome him. He tried a couple of locked doors, but didn’t linger, as the daylight around him turned to creeping dark.

After what he thought must have been a quarter mile of sliding through backyards, he hobbled across a darkened street, listening for the sound of motorcycles. He could hear a rumbling, but not close, so he dipped in behind another row of houses, continuing his direction away from the motel. He had to cross another street and the neighborhood continued. They were all small, single level brick houses with mature trees and old, cracked driveways. Keeping bent low as he moved, Mike could smell the cold damp of the concrete, little pebbles and pavement dust crunching under his boots. The closeness of the houses and the tree trunks provided plenty of cover and it wasn’t until his third street crossing that he felt fear creep back into his heart. The motorcycles were getting closer now, and he shot behind a small, red brick cottage as he saw the flicker of headlights only a darkened street over.

The house was like most others on the street, with an ancient oak that shaded the front yard and caused the grass to grow up in sporadic patches. He had to pass through the carport, past an old Saab to get into the small fenced backyard. From the street, the house had looked square, but it actually had an L-shape to it where the owners had built off of the back left side. This elbow provided cover from that direction and a little shed along the back fence provided more. Mike stepped onto the little patio that was nestled in the elbow of the L, and pressed his body into the corner.

The bikes were coming down his street now, he could tell by the intensity of the engine noise, and soon flickers of headlights bouncing off windows and through the shadows began to fill the backyard. He tried the door handle, but it was locked tight. The back door was old, with little plate glass windows in a four-square pattern. If he had to, he could break the one nearest the handle and reach in to unlock the door. In fact, he was suddenly a little surprised that the panes were still intact. But, as the engines rumbled dangerously closer, he knew that the sound of breaking glass would give away his hideout. So he squatted down, his leg still shrieking in pain, and huddled as close into the corner as he could fit.

The search party didn’t stop, they simply rolled by slowly, so close that Mike could hear human voices in talking tones as they did. In the daylight, they might be able to find the trail of blood drops that he had no doubt left behind, but with night upon them, such tracking would prove far more difficult. After ten minutes of fading engines turned to silence, Mike wrapped his right hand in his shirt and popped through the lower left window-pane, on the upper half of the door. He unwrapped his hand, slid it through the opening and turned the lock to open the door.

Inside, the little old house was dark and musty. The door opened into the kitchen, with a little hallway to the left that opened into the addition that formed the L. Mike immediately looked for a pantry and found one. It was actually half stocked with dusty canned goods and boxes of crackers, some cleaning supplies on the floor. Mike grabbed a broom and dustpan and went back to the patio to clean up the glass. He moved quickly outside, sweeping it clean from the concrete, to make sure things weren’t suspicious. Back inside, he dumped the contents of the dustpan into a corner of the hallway that ran between bedrooms on the houses front wall.

He searched the hallway closet for tools, but none were to be found. So, he headed toward the addition, which turned out to be a half office, half workshop of some kind. Stepping into the room, the workshop became apparent- whoever had lived here had been a hobbyist. Little model trains covered a work table, and on a folding table against the back wall, another elaborate model sat with bridges, tree covered hillsides, a tunnel ,and a little Bavarian village. The moon had been peeking through shifting clouds, and when it came through the little window high on the room’s back wall, it illuminated the village in a warm, but haunted way.

After a little foraging through the half-dark room, he came upon a small, steel toolbox tucked away on top of a stool under the work-table. Inside he found a hammer and nails, which he took toward the back door. His plan was to make the rear of the house look boarded up, because one punched out window on the door would look suspicious if a search party came around. He was expecting the bikers to go door to door through the neighborhood in the morning, so he had to make the house look like every other boarded up, fortified dwelling in the ghost town. The single broken pane was just too rare.

So using the hammer, he first knocked out the other lower window and then halfway broke the upper panes of glass. He purposefully knocked the glass into the kitchen where he could sweep it up easily. Then after looking around back in the workshop, he came upon a large flat piece of plywood that part of the village model was resting on. He felt a twinge of guilt pulling it out from under the model, as the tracks became unbalanced and little models trees tipped over. But, it was a perfect size for what he needed. Keeping his brisk pace, he carried the plank to the kitchen, nailing it firmly into the wood of the door, behind the broken windows. Now, the back door would look fare less rare, less unique amongst the ruined neighborhood.

His project complete, the glass swept up from the kitchen floor, Mike moved through the house, checking locks and making sure the curtains were drawn at least three quarters, trying to maximize privacy without being obvious. The house itself didn’t bear the stench of decay or corpses that he had experienced in other buildings of the new world. Instead, it smelled musty and damp, with a weak scent of pine-sol wafting up from the hallway floor. Mike stepped into the small bedroom at the end of the hall and sat down on the edge of the mattress, which still had a large cover on top of it. Most blankets you found were covered in piss or blood, but this one was just musty like the rest of the house, clean and thick. It was a blessing on a night as cold as this one.

The bedroom had one small window that ran high up on the front wall, typical of the brick bungalow homes in the neighborhood. The closet against the inside wall of the room would be the perfect spot to barricade in and avoid any chance of being seen from outside. But, he realized that it was unlikely he would see any visitors tonight, so there wouldn’t be any need to hide for hours.

Leaning back on the bed a little, the punishment his body had endured began to manifest. His head was thumping, his swollen face hurt, snot ran from his broken nose, his ribs and back felt battered. His hands were frozen from the escape and cold journey through the neighborhood, but nothing was hurting like his leg. It always amazed him, that in the heat of the moment, the human body would just power through obstacles and pain, but once things settled down, the littlest operations could be cripplingly painful. He thought about this as he untied his boots and swung his left leg up onto the bed.

Rolling up the leg of his jeans, he could see the damage. There was a nasty little hole blown in the front of his leg, right along the shin. Obviously, the bullet had hopped up and smacked his leg, likely a fragment, but enough to hurt. The key would be to dig out whatever was in there and get patched up. The bleeding was less of an issue, it was the bone-pain that radiated from the crack in his shin.

Mike stood barefoot and made his way back down the hall. He checked the bathroom and found next to nothing in terms of supplies. But, in the next bedroom he found a small, wooden basket with a knitted fabric top. Inside he found a full blown sewing and knitting assortment of thread, yarn, needles, and clips, and a wave of relief washed over him. Things were looking up now inside this little house, he needed only to find a way to clean out his leg.

He went back into the kitchen and looked through the pantry again. There was Mr.Clean and Clorox, but he wasn’t putting any of that on his leg unless he had no other choice. Again, he scanned the canned goods and his stomach rumbled as he spied the labels for Campbell’s Soup and Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Food would come later, and it would be good when it came. Then, he spied his possible salvation- a dingy old bottle of vinegar against the back wall on the floor of the pantry. Vinegar was one of the oldest infection fighters on earth, and the plastic jug held more than enough to clean his leg thoroughly while he closed it up.

His issue now would be light to work with, as the moonlight in the quiet house was suitable for moving around, but likely not enough for working with needle and thread. He located a book of matches in a kitchen drawer stuffed with pens, writing tablets, and envelopes. Next, he made another trip to the workshop where he uncovered an old, pine-scented candle within a shoebox tucked away on the shelves.

With his vinegar, sewing kit, a paring knife, candle and matches, he set up shop in the hall bathroom, where he could sit on the toilet and prop his damaged leg up on the sink. Mike found an old washcloth in the sink drawer, rolled it tight, and placed it in his mouth to bite down on. Then, with tears and snot streaming down his face, Mike performed the most painful self-surgery of his recently brutal life.

Mike woke on the floor of the closet to the sound of hard rain pounding the windows. It was morning, and his mended leg ached from the stitch and repair job of the night before. The vinegar stink from his fingers filled his plugged nostrils, as he rubbed his puckered eyes and felt around on his beaten face. Those bastards had really worked him over. During surgery the night before, he had spent a lot of time looking in the bathroom mirror. Studying his bruised, swollen face had made him seethe with anger. They were going to pay. For what they had done to him, to Nate, and for what they had done to Paul. He would finish the war, and he would take as many of them down to hell as he could.

Then, his angry thoughts gave way to relief, as he realized that the driving, cold rain outside was likely washing away any tracks he might have made in his escape. He was going to be safe for now, have the precious time he needed to heal. This house would be his safe harbor.

With that thought he lifted himself off the closet floor and limped down the little hallway into the kitchen. His stomach was growling with hunger, the pangs working their way through twisted knots in his belly- no doubt a result of his body’s traumatized disposition. Just being hungry actually hurt.

Looking through the pantry, he checked the Dinty Moore stew dating on the top of one of the cans and was surprised that it was well within shelf life. Staring at the red and white label, he thought again about Nate. Nate had always loved stuff like Dinty Moore and Hormel chili- any of the cheap, canned stuff their mom could afford to keep in stock growing up. Not Mike, for him the food in the Marines had been a nice break from a lifetime of soggy canned goods and peanut butter sandwiches.

He gripped the big can, pulled the pop top and went to work on the Dinty Moore. He basically drank the stew , chugging it down in big gulps. It was salty and thick, and as soon as he finished his thirst ratcheted up to near-choking levels. He decided that the rain from last night would have pooled on the back porch, but he wasn’t going outside to collect it without something to protect himself. He remembered the workshop in the back of the house. He had found a hammer there, perhaps there would be something else in there he could use.

The workshop looked different with daylight creeping into the little house. Mike could see all manner of tools now under the train table/work- bench along with extra boards and a couple of large cardboard boxes. He also discovered a small desk in the back corner of the room, its chair tucked in politely and stacks of papers sitting patiently on its top, waiting to be filed. There was also a pegboard along one section of the wall, where extra train parts, tracks, and small tools hung on hooks, a full size backpack hanging furthest against the wall..

Mike went down onto his knees, then sat on the floor to investigate under the work table. First he reached for the stool , and the toolbox that rested on it which had yielded the hammer and nails the night before. He pulled them out into the idle of the room and examined the toolbox more carefully. There were pliers, screwdrivers, clamps, a small socket wrench, tape measure, retracting razor, and a collection of screws and nails. It was a nice cache of useful items, and Mike closed the top and slid it behind him on the floor.

Next he moved a few boards aside and pulled at the first of the two large movers’ boxes that sat pushed back against the wall. The box had some weight to it, so he adjusted himself on the floor and grabbed it with both hands. He shimmied it along the floor until he could get his hands wrapped around the back, and then he pulled it all the way out into the middle of the room. As he opened the top flaps, his heart jumped in his chest. Pedialyte- lots of it. Four shrink-wrapped cases, each one with eight 1 liter bottles. No wonder the box was so damn heavy. In addition to the Pedialyte, there were a dozen large, hermetically sealed bags dehydrated fruit-apricots, raisins, bananas. Mike felt a smile breaking out across his swollen face, the muscles aching from the grin and bringing tears to his eyes.

He slid the other loose boards out of the way and went for the second box pressed against the wall. As he gripped it, he felt he weight and had a suspicion about its contents. He tugged it free from under the table and opened it in the middle of the room. There were two 36 packs of bottled water stacked on top of each other. Below them on the box’s bottom, two-shrink wrapped cases of Dinty Moore- just like the 24 oz cans he had found in the pantry. It was almost surreal to look at the two boxes, knowing what they meant. Whoever had lived here had been getting ready, maybe anticipating the worst as things had begun to go badly. Now, their minor preparations would be the difference between life and death.

Mike sat on the floor, surrounded by his bounty and sobbed quietly. These boxes would keep him alive as he hid in the house, they would sustain him while he was laying low, too injured to fend for himself outside. The food, the Pedialyte, the water could keep him for easily a month or more, and that would be plenty of time to heal and get mobile again. It was a blessing, a gift from God that he accepted with a wounded heart. What had he done to deserve this? Why had he been spared and why was he being awarded this miracle? And where were these people who had kept this little fort in the wilderness intact?

After a moment of silent thought on the floor, Mike opened a bottle of water and drank it down hastily. He opened a second, and took another deep drink before breaking to breathe. Moving forward he would ration himself on the water and Pedialyte, but those first bottles had quenched a thirst that was days in the making. His throat now satiated and his hope renewed, Mike turned his eyes to the desk in the corner of the room. The painful smile crept back across his face as he wondered what treasures might await him in its drawers.

It had been four days since he had found the cache of ammunition in the desk, and Mike inventoried it for the thirtieth time as he stacked the boxes on the bedroom floor in front of his sleeping closet. There were four different ammo types, all in different amounts. Eight boxes of .222 rifle rounds, 20 per box. Ten little boxes of 12-guage 00 buck, five shells per box. Six boxes of .357 Magnum 150GR , 20 rounds per box. And, 3 larger boxes of .38 Special rounds, packed 50 per box. In all, it was enough firepower to make him feel very safe- if only he could find something to shoot it with.

Mike had searched the closets in the house, torn apart the workshop, flipped over the beds, even tapped on floorboards. The searching was a little exhausting for him, as he still felt weak from his ordeal. Though the healing process had begun and his swelling was going down, his body still ached from fatigue after minimal exertion.

One pleasant surprise had been the discovery of a reading collection in the master bedroom. He had found books under the bed, in drawers, and in the closet. So, with soft light filtering through the drawn shades, he had found a peace in reading for hours throughout the afternoons.

The first book he had taken to was a historical account of the Comanche Indians, chronicling their rise to power in the American Southwest and their eventual clash with white settlers obsessed with manifest destiny. Mike found himself enamored with the idea of a warrior tribe, masters of horseback warfare. There, in the quiet house, it was easy to envision the noise and commotion of a buffalo hunt, of dozens of mounted Comanches moving as one as they bore down on herds numbering in the thousands. He also re-discovered classics , ones that he had properly ignored in high school. He simultaneously began to consume The Count of Monte Cristo and Moby Dick , and his appreciation of both books made him feel silly for spending his days in English class dozed off or day-dreaming.

On the morning of the fifth day after discovering the ammunition, he was limping through the kitchen when he took a false step around the corner that connected the kitchen to the small house’s main hallway. He reached up with his left hand to brace himself, and in doing so, bumped a large, flat, decorative wicker basket that was hanging high up on the kitchen’s corner wall. The basket shifted to the right, still held firm by its hanger or nail, but as it did a dark, square corner appeared in the space it had been hiding. Mike looked at it curiously, then fully balanced, he reached up and yanked the basket from its fixed position on the wall.

Hidden there, behind the old, dusty wicker basket, was a square hole in the upper wall that ran the length of the kitchen, behind the cabinets. The hole was maybe 14" square by the look of it, and Mike felt a sudden rush of excitement at his discovery. Someone had wanted something to stay hidden here, and the sturdy pinning of that basket had kept it concealed, and it had just blended in enough with the country kitchen to never strike him as out of place.

He reached his hand inside the hole and immediately his fingers found the edge of a stiff poly tarp. His fingers ran further down the folds in the tarp until they found purchase on something rigid underneath. He leaned into the wall to give his arm more length inside the hole, and soon he found his hand running down the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel wrapped inside the tarp. He moved his hand to the right inside the hole and found another surface, another wrapping, this one canvas and also holding something heavy and steel that felt immediately familiar. He pressed his face to the wall and reached in as far as his arm could go, trying to wrap his hand under and around the bundles inside the wall. He fought back the urge to cry out in joy and celebration. It felt almost out of his body as he stood there, cheek against the wall, laughing to himself to tears as he cradled his treasure in his arm in the unseen abyss behind the wall.

An hour later he had the bounty of the hole in the wall laid out on the mattress in the small bedroom. It was hard to contain the excitement he felt as he reviewed this newly discovered arsenal. Two pump-action shotguns and a .222 rifle with a scope, all Remingtons and two revolvers- a .38 and and a .357 Magnum, both Smith and Wesson. The guns had been cared for and appeared to all be in clean and working order. There were shoulder straps for the rifles and a nice holster for the big .357. He immediately imagined which ones he could carry, how he would transport them whenever he left the house. For the first time in many days, Mike began to envision a world outside his fortress. And, he began to contemplate the satisfaction of revenge.

That evening, Mike continued his current reading, “Guns, Germs, and Steel.” It felt more like a textbook to him than anything else, but the title had caught his eye from the stash of books and now he was knee-deep in the explanation of history being driven by scientific factors, chief among them food production and exposure to germs. Germs. No shit Sherlock. The whole world was testament to that theory. It occurred to him that there may not ever be another book written like the one he was reading, no more sweeping accounts of human history. History was changed forever. History was history.

As the last light faded through the window, Mike finished his reading and prepared to rest for the night. First, he lowered himself and knocked out three sets of 30 pushups. After that , he wedged his feet under the bed and did three sets of crunches, pain shooting up his leg and he tensed his muscles in the exercise. The pain was less and less each day, and he remembered an old saying from his first drill instructor. “Pain is weakness leaving your body”.

Then, he rationed himself the last 8th of the can of Dinty Moore and few chips of dried banana, washing it down with Pedialyte and couple swigs of water. He was eating in small amounts, six times a day. It kept him full, stretched the food out, and helped him digest. This final meal before bed was one he relished, as he lied down with quiet stomach, welcoming the darkness. Most comforting of all this night, though, was that beside him on the floor was the loaded .357. It was the security blanket he had been missing, and he felt himself drift off quicker than normal into a deep and somber sleep.

Moving Day came faster than he anticipated it would. More days and nights had passed since he discovered the arsenal, and his body had healed as he cleaned his leg dutifully and administered nutrition, exercise, and rest. One morning he simply woke feeling strong again, and as he peered out into the world beyond the house, he could tell that temperatures were lifting a little and the frost that signaled a piercing cold had vanished. He just decided then, without more than a nod of agreement with himself that the time had come to move on.

His next move was much more a point of indecision, than the decision to move on itself. He knew that Skylar, and Jake, Mallory, Elizabeth and the others were likely headed to Batesville. It had been the fallback plan, in the event that something went terribly wrong. Jake was a good kid, who could be absolutely trusted to do the right thing for his family. With the time that had passed, Mike thought it was most likely that they were already in Batesville, had likely linked back up with the group there. In his heart, Mike felt that they were all safe. The Batesville group were good people, they had been through much, but there was a backbone in the group that would not let them waiver from doing what was right, what was courageous. Lara knew the way back for sure, and the road had been clear. Only when they ventured South to be certain had they run into the bikers that day on the highway. He bet that Jake would know enough of the back-roads to get them North far enough to get back on the highway safely, and then Lara would lead from there. Yes, it was most likely that they were safely back in the fold in Batesville, where there was plenty of warmth, food, and safety.

While his first commitment was to Skylar and to Paul’s family, Mike had a gnawing feeling inside. A feeling that he knew would be difficult to quiet. His warrior’s heart yearned for revenge. It would not be the prudent thing- from a responsibility or safety standpoint- to exact a measure of this vengeance on the bikers. However, once he had made his decision to leave, and once he had settled on the idea that his people were – it was all he could think about.

In his mind, the path back to highway, then North and onto Batesville was clear already. He felt familiar with the roads, and knew that once outside, his survival instincts would keep him quiet and out of sight. The most logical options for transportation would be the vehicles in the neighborhood. There was likely one in a driveway or carport that had enough gas and could be started. But, he found himself settling on another plan for hitching a ride. And, it was one that he began to visualize and walk through in his mind throughout the day. H went over and over his plan, cementing his confidence in it as he worked to gather his equipment and fill the backpack with items from the workshop..

He loaded in a bottle of Pedialyte, and two water bottles, along with a big pack of the dried fruit. He took the screwdriver and pliers, the razor, and the small hardback copy of Moby Dick. Then he packed the .38 revolver and as much ammo as he could fit. He had decided to holster the .357, and take one of the shotguns and the scoped rifle, each slung across a shoulder. In the event that he needed to move fast, he would ditch the shotgun. He had found an old zip up hooded sweatshirt in one of the closets, and he slid it on as an extra layer under his jacket. He also laced up his boots early, as the days in the house had been mainly without shoes. He anticipated some pain from his leg form the pressure of the boots, but was pleasantly surprised that it hurt less than expected. Then, packed, laced up, and ready to move, Mike waited in the front room for the night to fully blanket the earth in darkness.

Out on the streets of the neighborhood, it took him several minutes to get his bearings. It had been awhile since his mad dash through the yards and intersections that led him to his fortress, but Mike remembered certain markers that called back towards the way he had come in. He had always been blessed with a great natural sense of direction, and here in the darkened jungle of little houses and mailboxes, it began leading him toward the place where he knew he would find his transportation.

The plan was simple. The biker’s hotel citadel was surrounded with working vehicles. Lots of motorcycles to be sure, and there was a fleet of cars and trucks as well. He needed to make his move quickly, get in one and get himself to the highway. If there was going to be shooting, then things were going to get complicated. The ideal scenario would be to play the role of a car thief and not that of a cowboy. But, he realized that depended on good fortune and a multitude of factors that he could not control.

He paused next to a retaining wall in a driveway, crouching down to stay below it and quickly patting himself down. It was a habit to just make sure all of his gear was in the right place. He gave himself a quick pat down, agreeing with himself silently that everything was indeed where it should be. Then, he began silently slithering in between houses again, dipping in behind disabled cars and overgrown hedges wherever he could, crossing his way back and forth from one street to the next, closer and closer to the fortress. Darkness was his ally, so he moved in a deliberate, stealthy manner but as quickly as possible.

At the edge of the neighborhood, he could see the tall parking lot light-poles that signaled his destination. They rose up above the trees of the wooded area that separated the neighborhood from the commercial area where the hotel was situated. The tops of the poles were just visible, all of them still dark from long ago running out of power. He knew that the smaller lights directly around the hotel would be lit at this hour, running from the same generator system that powered the hotel. As he prepared to enter the wooded area from the back yard of one of the last row of houses, he began to tense up his body, his steps would have to be careful and light. Leaves and sticks made noise, and there was no telling if the bikers had sentries posted in the woods, lurking in the shadows and waiting for some wandering stranger.

He was moving slowly and steadily through the wooded area, taking time to step silently over fallen logs or any bramble that he encountered. He was nearing the end of the woods, and the tree line was in view , when a strange icy cold tingle ran up his spine. Then he saw the sentry. The man was crouched beside a pile of old wood pallets that had been heaped just on the edge of the grass from the woods. Foolishly the man was smoking a cigarette, and the cheery red tip lit up his face just enough for Mike to make out a scraggly beard. From his current position, he could slip around the guard and continue, but silence would be absolutely critical. So, Mike dropped into a crouch that resembled a walking crawl, and he crept low and quietly around the perimeter of the trees, circling to get behind the posted guard.

Once he had rounded the man’s field of view, Mike saw the tire of the motorcycle that the sentry had loosely covered by setting two old, wooden pallets against it upright. A smile crept over Mike’s face as he knew his ticket out of this evil and forsaken place had now appeared. But, the price of the ticket would be wrought with danger. He was sure that firing a weapon this close to their citadel would produce a response that he would likely not escape a second time. Instead, he would have to handle this guard up close and personal which meant trusting his healing body to be strong enough to overpower his opponent. His legs felt strong as he crouched there in the darkness, and he decided this was likely the best opportunity to break out that he would see. Mike unloaded his backpack silently, the rifle and the shotgun and tried to figure how much time he had left before morning light.

Mike slipped the screwdriver out of the bag and checked its weight in his hand. It would be messy but there was likely no other way. Then, he began his low and soft approach from the edge of the woods, staying directly behind the man who continued peering out from behind his stack of pallets. When Mike was within 15 feet of his target, he made the decision to accelerate and use surprise. There was more gravel then grass under his feet now, so being quiet would be much more difficult to control. The man was on one knee, his cigarette finished, and Mike watched him cup both hands to his mouth, blowing on them and rubbing them together to keep warm. This was the moment, and now within 12 feet of the man, Mike charged and spear-tackled him from behind.

The man hit ground hard, totally surprised by the blow from the tackle. Luckily for Mike, the man was smaller than he was and his own legs had given him enough strength to land a forceful blow with his body. Mike slipped his left arm around the man’s moth and throat, both deadlocking and muffling him at the same time. Then, with his right hand, Mike drove the screwdriver home hard into the man’s chest. There was a pop as it entered his opponent, and Mike felt hot air, then warm liquid blow out against his left arm that covered the man’s mouth. The man’s arms flailed at Mike, trying to grab him, but the position he had taken in attacking from behind gave the man little to hold onto. Mike let go of the screwdriver, and left it sticking in the man’s chest, buried to the handle. With his right arm, he swatted away the man’s hands and then doubled up his chokehold. After a minute of struggled and muted screams, the man stooped moving. It was over.

Quickly and quietly, Mike dragged the body inside the tree-line and positioned it as out of sight as he could. Then he returned to the motorcycle and rolled it silently out of its hiding spot. He pushed the bike quickly and quietly along the line of the woods, stopping to grab his rifle and backpack- the shotgun would unfortunately have to stay behind. Then, he continued pushing the bike through the darkness until he reached a small strip of grass that connected the bigger parking lot to the rear of the next strip mall. He rolled the bike across into the next parking lot, and then behind the buildings he pushed harder and faster, worrying less about the noise of tires and boots on gravel and concrete.

Behind one set of loading docks and dumpsters, then into another strip mall parking lot that was adjacent, Mike kept pushing the bike further and further away from the hotel fortress. He could see now in the waning darkness that the arms of his jacket were soaked in blood but it would matter little. Soon enough, he would be fully in his escape and at that point, discretion or disguise would mean little. For now he needed the jacket for the ride that lie ahead, warmth would be more important than his appearance should he run into anyone along the way.

After another quarter mile of rolling through the back-lots of a gas station and restaurants, Mike turned the bike toward the main road. He was behind an old, shuttered diner when he pushed the bike up to the corner of the building’s back wall. He crept around the corner of the building to survey the street. He looked in every direction in a thorough manner, searching for any sign of movement, for any hidden adversary that might ambush him from a hidden place. When he was satisfied that there was no one within sight, Mike started the motorcycle low and easy. He saw that tank looked over 3/4 full, which meant he would have plenty of fuel for his exodus. As quiet as possible, he rode the bike onto the street, keeping it pinned on the most extreme left side of the road. For a mile he rolled like this, slow and quiet until he felt the total was clearly behind him. Then, holding his breath nervously, he opened up the throttle and headed for the highway.

An hour later, Mike was headed North on the interstate, slipping in between disabled vehicles as he encountered them. Maneuvering through these parking lots that he came across on the highway was much easier with the motorcycle. The bike was giving him everything he could have asked for, and for the first time in a long time, Mike felt the twinge of hope rising up from his gut. He knew that dangers lie ahead on the open road. Broken, dangerous people were everywhere and the nightmares they could unleash were beyond anything he could have imagined before the world fell apart. He would have to find gas to continue his trek, but he knew that this would simply be a matter of patience and resource management. But, that feeling of hope was rising and making him believe that perhaps a better path for him was just ahead.

Mike’s thoughts turned to Paul as they drove. In their final days, Paul had shared things with Mike that surprised and shocked him. He had told him about his failures as a husband, about his battles with his own personal demons, and even a terrible secret that Mike had sworn to keep. In spite of all of this, Mike had seen great courage in Paul and a refusal to be broken that had made him stronger. They had pledged to each other that if either survived it would be their worn duty to look after the other’s family as their own. For Mike, that meant he was now obligated to seek out Elizabeth, Mallory, and Jake and do all he could to be sure they were safe. And, most importantly he had to find Skylar. He felt tears in his eyes as he thought of his brother Nate, cut down on the highway before Mike could ever say goodbye.. He thought of his niece and the life that lay ahead for her. Trying to grow up in the wreckage of a world brought low by the wrath of nature or God, or both. Somewhere, deep inside Mike knew that she was alive. He knew that if he could get to her, it would be his life’s mission now to see she was protected and safe, and to raise her to the very best of his abilities. Somehow he knew that Paul’s family was out there too, and his gut told them that they were all still together, no longer at the cabin but now somewhere else. For that reason, he kept his path heading North towards the last place that they had all discussed- Batesville.

There was no reason for him to have hope in these darkest days, but there it was. Rising up through him now, like a warming glow emanating from deep inside his body. With every mile that passed, he thought about the reunion that lie ahead and the days to come that might be filled with promise and peace. He dreamed about the sunshine that would soon return as the season changed, and of gazing out across a field of green with blue sky and the sounds of birds in the air. Before him lay an ocean of time , filled with memories yet to be made and the potential for happiness again. There could be no looking back now. No more of mind given to the darkness and death that had plagued these recent times. All that had happened before must be let go and set adrift along the endless river of the past, to be somehow forgotten forever.