They Will Run You Down

This book may not be recreated or copied and is the intellectual property of Megan Larocque. Most pictures have been edited by me for the purpose of this story but the originals were found via the internet and belong to their respective owners.

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Chapter One

As sunset loomed, Harley crouched near the roof's ledge just above the threshold of the derelict house and brought her thumb and index fingers to her mouth, whistling loudly enough to draw out any Screamers that might have been roaming inside. After waiting and listening intently, long enough to appease Harley's sensibilities, she scaled swiftly down from the roof and warily entered the long abandoned dwelling that was to be her shelter for the night.

She needed to find safe refuge because come nightfall, the Screamers would tare through the streets like locusts, hunting anything that moved and breathed. They were only slightly more docile and fewer in number during the hot Australian summer days but once the landscape cooled, all bets were off. Their bodies ran a permanent fever of which the added heat from the sun must have been unbearable for them so on the hottest days the witless creatures, most of them anyway, had just enough sense left in them to seek out dark, cool places like basements and underground car parks.

Harley moved quietly from room to room ensuring that the house was free of unwanted guests before rummaging through the kitchen for something to eat. Unfortunately yet unsurprisingly the house had already been ransacked. It was beginning to get more and more difficult to find food in the rotting city of Perth.

All too soon, Harley was alerted to the clanging sound of the back door's knob being jostled not five feet from where she stood. She made a beeline from the kitchen into the living room where she found a cramped closet and crawled inside, closing the door behind her. She listened attentively as slow, deliberate foot steps crept through the house. From the space under the door she could see a shadow approaching so she moved deeper into the closet, using the jackets for cover. Unbeknownst to her there hid a small, pull-along vacuum cleaner just behind her feet. Harley tripped over it, crashed into the back wall and fell to her ass with a thud. Of course she dropped the folding knife she'd had for protection while she was at it. There was a painful moment of silence as Harley felt around desperately for her knife. Unsuccessful, she thought it poetic that after everything she had survived, a fucking vacuum cleaner, of all things, would be her unfortunate undoing.

The closet door was wrenched open suddenly and Harley found herself feverishly hitting and pulling at a hand that had reached in and grabbed her by the strap of her backpack. She was dragged out of the closet and looked up to see the inside of a barrel.

"Are you alone?" a breathy, low pitched voice interrogated.

Harley's focus shifted upward to the face of the man who held a gun to her head. He had dark hair and a short scraggly beard which crawled down his neck. His eyes were dark, nearly black and wide with surprise and caution, the same as Harley's. It had been many months since she had seen another survivor and it was because of this that seeing a person, a real person, suddenly felt surreal to Harley like an alien encounter. He scanned the living room and up the stairwell fastidiously before repeating, "Are you alone?"

"I'm with a group of men. They'll be back soon," she lied.

The man glanced toward the family room, "Back from where?"

"Supply run," answered Harley easily.

"There aren't supplies anywhere near here," tested the man.

"Try telling them that"