After the Apocalypse

Chapter 1

After the Apocalypse | Chapter 1 |   © Copyright 2014 Antonna Seton

The truck ran over something and jolted his bad arm. Tom didn't manage to stifle the cry from his throat this time.

“We're getting closer,” someone reassured him.

He blinked and shifted his bleary focus to the woman sitting beside him. Sarah. That's right. But his brain was foggy on how he got on the truck, and where they were going.

“Closer to where?” he croaked.

Sarah threw an uncertain glance to someone on her left, and Tom followed her gaze to see his banged-up best friend looking down at him, his face grim.

“Sandy Plains,” Bill answered. “We're headin' home, buddy.”

“Home,” he whispered.

For a long time, “home” wasn't how he'd describe Sandy Plains. For a long time, Sandy Plains was the last place on Earth he wanted to be ... yet the place where everything important to him was. Despite what happened to him in Afghanistan, he had a simpler relationship with that godforsaken place. You kill or be killed. There were too many rules in Sandy Plains.

Six months ago, he returned after being dishonorably discharged from the military. He was hanging out in The Blue Lady, his old haunt, well on his way to play his role as the town fuck-up when bombs started raining from the sky.

Or at least that’s what he thought they were. But not like any bombs he had seen. They look as if they rained from the sky from above. They left a trail of blue lightning behind them and when they hit the ground, it flattened entire towns in seconds. Buildings were reduced to ashes and people into vapour. Who released them? China? North Korea? Aliens? Nobody knew.

All they knew from scattered radio reports was that whoever or whatever had attacked them targeted the big cities. New York City, Chicago, Denver were gone. Sandy Plains, ten hours’ drive north of Portland and just shy of the border of Canada was largely ignored.

Something kicked in inside him when the lights when out and the food ran out. He began rallying the townspeople like they were soldiers from his unit.

We’ve got to get food. We’ve got to build shelters and get weapons ready.

They reacted to him like they would -- they ignored him.

What would the town drunk and regular occupant of the sheriff’s jail cell know anything about protecting the town during an apocalypse?

Apparently, a lot. Then a group of escaped prisoners from Oregon State Penitentiary paid the town a visit. Their leader, a tattooed serial killer with a necklace of hacked-off ears, was determined to make Sandy Plains his own little twisted kingdom.

Then, they really listened then. They got their hands bloody and beat them back. Mostly killed them all since they weren't very keen leaving town before leaving a trail of bodies behind.

Still, Tom couldn't figure out how he went from being the town's ultimate useless punk to saviour. The kind of guy where everyone looked to when they needed someone to be in charge of important missions for the well-being of the entire town.

And as he tried to ride out the pain by counting the stars in the now wonderfully starlit sky – so beautiful, yet a reminder of the thousands of lights that have been extinguished in American cities – he wondered why he did it. It would have been so much easier to just remain the punk he used to be. All he had to do was drink his life away and irritate his did-everything-right brother and his dad, the town hero.

Someone shook his shoulder gently.

“Hey, no sleeping there,” Bill said gruffly.

He came awake with a start and saw the night sky again. It was cold. Was it colder now compared to the long hours he struggled to walk back home with Bill half-carrying him?

Memories of the gunfight they had with the bandits – and how they had to abandon the truck when it caught fire – raced back. The fact that they evaded the bandits – mostly made up of desperate men and women dressed in rags and armed with department-store issued rifles – was a stroke of pure luck.

That, or the bandits felt that the things that fell from the truck were far more important than chasing a couple of people. It's lucky that the bandits were not interested in selling them as slaves ... he heard stories during one of their rare travels out of Sandy Plains, that the slave trade was now alive and well. The thought of being ensnared by a slave trader ... he felt a sudden chill crawl up his body. He shuddered.

“You cold?” Bill asked, his voice tight. Without waiting for an answer, he took off his jacket.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sarah snapped.

“What do you think I'm doing?” he snapped back, equally irritated.

“For one, you're hurt, and the last thing you need is pneumonia on top of that!”

“I just got a couple of cuts and bruises. Tom needs it more than I do!” he said, his voice rising.

This time, it was Sarah's turn to sound exasperated. She sighed and started to unzip her jacket.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bill said, his irritation was now mixed with confusion.

“Take a good look. I'm taking off my jacket. Put yours back on,” she ordered as she succeeded in taking off her jacket and then covered him with it.

Tom gave her a wan smile. “Did anyone tell the both of you that you sound like an old married couple?” he said. He hated how his voice shook like an old man’s, but Sarah and Bill didn't seem to notice.

“God forbid,” Sarah said in mock horror. But the edges of her mouth were curling up.

Bill gave him a strained smile. Usually he would be making some kind of lame joke by now – the lack of it told Tom that something was wrong. And he had a feeling that it had something to do with him.

Another bump on the road, this time much rougher. He choked back a cry and gripped the jacket with his good hand. His ribs ... his ribs were on fire. He coughed, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

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 © Copyright 2014 Antonna Seton

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