A Town Called America (8 page)

He found himself standing in a small kitchen of what appeared to be a small house. Bloodstained bandages were in the sink and a variety of doctor’s tools lying about, none of which looked pleasant. The counter was disgusting, and throughout the kitchen, he saw used needles, syringes, and a multitude of medical supplies he didn’t recognize.

Surprisingly, other than being extremely sore and quite hungry, Rick didn’t feel that bad. He was sure that whatever drugs the unknown Good Samaritan had given him hadn’t worn off yet.

“Hello. Anyone there?” There was no answer, only the faint sound of what he thought could be a small generator far off in the distance.

As Rick walked through the small house, it occurred to him that this was no different from any other house he’d seen in recent years. It was just another dump that scavengers had cleaned out. The only difference was that someone had turned the place into a makeshift medical center.
How odd
, he thought.

Outside he found himself in a neighborhood he didn’t recognize. Bags of trash were scattered as far as he could see. Rick stood next to a worn, broken wooden fence in knee-high grass and weeds that consumed the small backyard of the redbrick house. He knew he wasn’t in Brick Creek but had no idea where he might be.

The sun was beginning to set, which was fine because the darkness would allow him to travel with less chance of running into anyone. However, at the same time, it would make it more difficult for him to get his bearings. Judging from the shabby surroundings, he was sure that anyone he might come across would be less than kind.

After walking for a short time, he could heard a baby crying and every now and then a scream. The street was, of course, without power, and the stench of what could be rotting human or animal flesh filled
the air. He figured this neighborhood probably wasn’t much different than it was before the global collapse.

After walking for six or seven blocks with his shotgun drawn, Rick was beginning to feel weak when he realized that his medication—whatever it was—was wearing off. As he walked to the side of the two-lane road, attempting to keep a low profile, in the distance he saw the underpass he had driven through on his way to Brick Creek so long ago. He now knew exactly where he was. He was in a town slightly larger than Brick Creek that was just off the interstate. It was on the east side of Brick Creek; its name was Dale Port. It was a town that the more prosperous and influential areas once would have considered the other side of the tracks.

The good news was that Brick Creek was only a couple of hours up the road by foot. The bad news was that Rick was feeling every bit of the pain from his wounds. The pain was slowly creeping up on him, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.

Three blocks later Rick found a small trailer off the main road that looked decent enough for him to use for the night—nothing fancy, but it was shelter, and most likely it had a bed. Maybe not clean but a bed nonetheless.

The trailer sat alone on the corner of two adjoining streets. There were three junked cars in front as well as a pile of black trash bags Rick thought had to have been there for years. The wet grass that surrounded the trailer was nearly knee-high, which made it difficult for him to see what was on the ground. The last thing he wanted was to step into a bear trap or stumble across a snake.

Through the grass he made his way toward the steps of the trailer then reached out to open the door. By then his entire body was freezing cold, and he was quickly losing his strength. As Rick opened the door to the trailer, before he could do anything to react, someone hit him across the forehead with the butt of a weapon. Again he was knocked out; only this time he was far from the shelter of his RV fortress or the makeshift hospital.

A few moments later, he opened his eyes, trying to shake off the pain. He was still near the steps of the trailer, but now he was on his
back, as three armed kids, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, stood looking over him.

“Is he dead?” the shortest of the three asked.

The oldest was only slighter taller than the other two, but all three looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days. They were all skinny, with torn clothing, and wore looks of desperation. The oldest was wearing an old army jacket that was two sizes too big for him, and other than a 9mm Berretta that was pointing at Rick, he couldn’t see any other weapons on the boy. One of the other two kids had a 9mm as well. The last one, who was the smallest of the bunch, had what looked to be a Glock .45, but with Rick’s head and body in so much pain, he couldn’t be sure.

“Damn it, kid,” he said. “You hit me. What were you thinking?”

“Thinking? We’re thinking that you’re trespassing, and you’re about to get shot. That’s what we’re thinking,” the oldest said.

Rick stood up and pushed through the pain that now surged throughout his body. “I’m gonna kick your little asses if you don’t stop pointing those guns at me. Where are your parents?”

“Don’t tell him shit, Brian,” the oldest one said.

“Now you listen, you little—”

Rick’s ears were now ringing, as the smallest kid fired at him, missing his head by just a few inches.

“Damn, you actually shot at me!”

“No shit. You’re a genius,” the smallest one said, giving Rick his best attempt at a tough-guy look.

“Hey, you need to watch your mouth, son. Here’s the deal. I don’t care where your parents are or if they’re alive or dead. Hey, you…” Rick said, pointing his finger at the smallest one. “You’re gonna die first. Then I think I’ll kill your little dog Toto too.”

“Who the hell is Toto?” the oldest one said, looking confused.

At that point Rick realized the situation was only going to go one way—he wasn’t going to talk his way out. The youngest of the three had walked over to Rick and without expression pointed his pistol at Rick’s head.

That was all it took for Rick to know he had no choice.

As fast as he could, he reached out and grabbed the barrel of the pistol that was pointed at his head, and with as much force as he could muster, he twisted and pulled the gun away, almost pulling the smallest kid off his feet.

With his right arm, Rick reared back his closed fist and punched the kid, who probably weighed no more than 130 pounds, straight in the face. Instantly his face exploded with blood. Rick hit him so hard that he landed nearly three feet away on his back.

With catlike reflexes Rick drew his own revolver, which had an inscription on the handgrip that read,
WHO
’
S THE KING
,
BABY
?

He shot the oldest of the three kids straight in the chest, and before the last one standing could react, he was lying on his back as well after Rick shot him twice.

Shaking his head in disgust, Rick stumbled over to the boy he had punched in the face. He reached down, pulled him off the ground, and held him by the throat. “Look at me, you little shit. Next time a grown-up tells you to do something, you’re gonna do it, right?”

Barely conscious and with a broken nose and fractured jaw, the kid muttered, “Yes, sir.”

Rick took a few moments to sit on the porch steps before he picked up all three handguns. After tossing them into his bag, he headed into the trailer for the night. He was tired, and kids or no kids, he was going to sleep.

THIRTEEN

O
n the corner of Elm and Wood Park Avenue, Rick sat on a curb next to a bent metal post that no longer held its aluminum stop sign and was half buried in dirt and mud. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, attempting regain his strength, which was fading quickly. The dilapidated homes in what once had been a prominent, desirable neighborhood now sat silently dying, as paint peeled from the walls and the ceilings bowed and buckled from the waterlogged wood.

It had taken only a few weeks from the first signs of a government meltdown for looters to strip the entire neighborhood clean of its granite countertops and copper pipes. As in other neighborhoods, everything of value was gone, leaving only broken windows, which exposed the interiors of the homes to wind and rain.

Within a few years, the foundations cracked, making way for trees, weeds, and vegetation to grow inside the structures. Roofs collapsed, and walls eventually gave way. Only a decade after the beginning of the global collapse, almost every building appeared as though they’d been that way for hundreds of years. The entire neighborhood was a mere shadow of what it had been. Only gloom and depression remained when Rick opened his eyes.

Four blocks from the corner where Rick was sitting, Chris had slept, woken, and drunk, only to repeat the cycle until she had no more liquor to consume. Her mind was clouded, thus ensuring she didn’t have to cope with reality. She was, indeed, in another place—just as she had intended to be.

Sick to her stomach from booze and the lack of food, she was unable to maintain her balance. She had just woken from sleeping for what felt like days. With no release for her pain and unwilling to take her own life, Chris lay on the floor, curled up in a ball, not even bothering to try to make it to the bed. With her clothes stained with her own blood and vomit, she was at the lowest point in her life.

Outside, the clouds began to part, and after days of heavy rain, the sun slowly broke free. Instantly the warm yellow and gold rays illuminated the bedroom, engulfing Chris in what she thought of as a second chance in life. For the first time in a very long time, she actually felt as if someone were with her. Perhaps she wasn’t alone, and maybe today her loneliness would float away for good.

She looked up and smiled. She was weeping, but this time the tears weren’t from hunger, drunkenness, or depression—they were tears of joy. Like a child being born, Chris felt life begin to renew her spirit. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she took a deep breath and stood up, using the wall for balance.

“You stayed?” a familiar voice said.

At once she knew why she felt the way she did. It was because she wasn’t alone. Rick, her friend and companion, had come back to her, and he was standing in the doorway. He stood in his bloodstained clothes, barely able to hold himself up without the aid of his shotgun.

Chris didn’t move or speak. She stood for a time before walking over to Rick and stopping directly in front of him. Then she reared back and slapped him in the face as hard as she could. Rick’s cheek was red with her handprint, but he didn’t move. Chris fell into his arms, and they held each other tightly.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” she whimpered.

Without words they walked to the bed, where Chris helped Rick take off his shirt. After kissing him for a few moments, she stopped upon seeing his wounds. She stepped back and looked at him.

“It’s not as bad as it—” Rick started.

Abruptly Chris moved toward him and kissed him once more before he could finish speaking. Thinking of his wounds, she slowly lowered her body over his on the bed where he lay. Feeling his warm skin on her face, she kissed his chest, which made her want him more. Rick lay on the bed, his hands full of her hair. He felt how careful she was being. He ran his right hand down Chris’s lower back, feeling the weight she had lost since the day he had met her. He then ran his hand over each vertebra with intention.

Rick used the little strength he had left to pull Chris on top of him in order to look her in the eyes as she straddled his body. He held her gaze as she quivered under the touch of his fingers running up her sides, stopping only to gently caress her breasts. His hands slowly moved down to her open jeans as she looked into his eyes with trust. She tried to control her heavy breathing as her heart raced in her chest. With no more hesitation, she pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor to reveal her naked upper body. Then, for a moment, she held her breasts for him to see. Rick slid the jeans off her. As they felt each other’s soft, warm bodies moving in unison to meet each other, they made love.

FOURTEEN

B
efore setting off to travel the highway, Chris had aided Rick until he fully healed. While Rick rested, Chris searched home after home, pushing far past the upper-class neighborhood they were in and into surrounding towns. She had looked not only for supplies but also for a certain individual.

She knew that when Brick Creek was attacked, Amber undoubtedly had taken all the food and supplies from the store with her, if she indeed had survived. If Amber were still alive, would she have anything left after more than a year? First, Chris thought, Amber was too much of a bitch to die, and second, she’d never share anything with others.

Chris told Rick she was going to find Amber and bring back supplies. Although he didn’t initially agree that she should go alone, he soon gave in to her argument knowing that he wasn’t strong enough to do it himself and that they needed food.

Chris then described Amber in detail to him, explaining that she was their only option. She did leave out a few of her own personal feelings about Amber, not wanting Rick to think she was going because of a vendetta, which of course was exactly the case.