Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (11 page)

“Where?”

“My back.” He tried rubbing the cramp out. It intensified. “Damn it.” This was all he needed.

Then suddenly Gemma was behind him, her sure, sturdy fingers probing his back.

“Here?” she asked when he flinched.

Christopher nodded as she pushed his shirt out of the way. Grunted again as her fingers hit the worst of it, then a moment later he felt the pressure easing.

Testing it, he tried to straighten.

“Sorry.” Gemma quickly pulled away.

“Don't stop,” Christopher said. “Please.” It came out as a plea.

He brought his legs up, resting his head on his knees as Gemma's hands worked their magic. The knots tightened, dissolved, and still she continued to knead his weary muscles, slowly working her way up his back.

The soft silkiness of her hair brushed unexpectedly across his skin, and Christopher gasped. It had been a long time since he'd shared this sort of intimacy with anyone.

Gemma hesitated for a moment before continuing.

“Your shoulders are tense. Relax them,” she demanded.

Christopher wasn't about to admit he was tense because of her close proximity.

With guilty pleasure he enjoyed her touch for a few more minutes, then straightened his back. “That feels better now. Thanks.”

Gemma lowered his shirt, her hands brushing against his bare skin. The light scrape of her fingernails forced him back over his legs again to hide what her simple touch had done to him.

As soon as they finished eating Christopher looked at his watch.

“Time to go?” Gemma asked wearily.

“Time to go.”

It was hard to get started again, but after a while they found their rhythm, and before long the smog cleared enough to mount their bikes.

“I can't believe I actually argued with you about riding this thing,” Gemma moaned an hour later. “My legs are already burning.”

“It means your muscles have run out of fuel,” Christopher said absently, his eyes darting ahead of them for any dangers that might be lurking.

“You don't say,” Gemma snapped, immediately apologizing. “I'm sorry – I'm just really
really
tired and it has been a
really
long day.”

“You need to eat again. It will help.”

“I'm not hungry,” Gemma said.

“It's not about hunger,” Christopher scowled. “You need carbohydrates.”

They both did; he was struggling, his body powering down. It had been since the adrenaline rush he'd experienced in the elevator shaft.

“I'd rather have a Coke,” Gemma said.

“It will just make you feel worse in the long run.”

The woman was infuriating at times, and he didn't have the physical or emotional energy to deal with it; she hadn't even been close when she said it had been a really long day.

He could feel his frustration levels rising with every word she spoke. As a rule he was even-tempered. It took a lot to make him lose his patience, though it had always seemed to be a special ability of hers.

“I couldn't feel any worse than I already do,” Gemma said.

“Have a sandwich,” he snapped impatiently. “It will give you some energy.”

In the end neither of them got their sandwich.

A very loud, very low boom cracked the air, its sonic echo exploding in his ears.

A sound that could only be a gunshot.

13

“Go,” Christopher roared.

Gemma was already moving, her legs pedaling furiously.

Adrenaline surged through her, giving her the energy she'd wanted only moments ago.

The gunshot had come from behind them. It sounded close – way too close.

Her heart slammed against her chest so hard it felt like it was going to escape.

Blood roared through her ears and her vision narrowed, blurring at the edges.

She had never been so terrified in her life.

How far away had it been? Had it been aimed at them?

Christopher? Where was Christopher?

Gemma turned.

Christopher was right behind her. His eyes were wide, shining in the moonlight.

The trailer was bouncing along the sidewalk, trapping him to the path.

She was slowing him down – he had to keep his distance or he'd ram up her rear end.

Gemma thumped off the curb. Then he was riding on the sidewalk beside her, his powerful muscles pumping hard.

She swerved around a yellow car. The broken glass in the street. A body.

Gemma looked back. There was a body in the street.

Why was there a body in the street?

It didn't matter. She just had to ride. As far and as fast as she could.

“Gemma?”

Faster – faster – they had to get away.

“Gemma.”

She looked across. Christopher was gone.

“Christopher,” Gemma screamed.

“Gemma.”

It was coming from behind her.

Gemma turned. Saw that he'd slowed, was still slowing.

She didn't even realize he'd left the sidewalk. That he was on the road.

She felt her heart thudding against her chest, no longer trying to escape. Her breath was coming hard and fast.

“Watch out,” Christopher shouted.

Gemma turned and saw the car speeding toward her – realized the car wasn't moving – that she was racing toward it. She swerved sharply, the handlebars wobbling dangerously as her heart skipped a beat, the adrenalin slowing, her mind still racing.

She squeezed the handbrake, her feet coming to the ground and skimming across the asphalt as she turned, until she came to a halt next to Christopher.

“You missed the freeway.” Christopher jerked his head to the left, before casting a worried look in the direction the gunshot had come from.

“The freeway?” Gemma said stupidly as she stared at the ramp – the freeway was still miles away, wasn't it? Christopher had told her so himself.

“Can I have that Coke now?” Gemma asked.

Christopher chuckled as he flicked down the kickstand and got off the bike. She watched hopefully, licking her dry lips as he checked the trailer was secure after their furious ride through the streets.

She hardly remembered it, she'd been moving so fast.

A few years ago one of the gym teachers told her it wasn't unusual to have amnesia of some sort after an adrenaline rush. It had been after she'd broken up a fight between two of her students over a girl.

She'd assumed they were lying when they claimed they couldn't remember who threw the first punch. It was a natural assumption; the boys had been best friends for as long as she'd known them.

Now she knew different; she'd experienced it for herself.

She'd only had an adrenaline rush once before, but it had been a completely different situation. It had been over almost as soon as it started, and the details were burned into her brain. If only she'd been lucky enough to experience amnesia then – maybe she'd sleep better at night.

“Was that a body?” Gemma asked, still not quite believing what she'd seen.

Christopher nodded as he dug into the trailer, his brows pulling together as he felt around inside.

“Was it – did the gunshot...”

“No. He was already dead.”

Christopher pulled out a can of lemonade, shoved it back in, and continued searching.

Gemma was still gasping for breath. Her throat was dry after their mad dash, and her legs were shaking.

Christopher held up a can of Coke, and a sigh escaped her lips as she reached for it, but he pulled back, motioning toward the exit.

“Motivation,” he said, his voice short. “You can have it when we get off the exit.”

“Compromise,” Gemma shot back. “What if we share one?”

Christopher was looking at the Coke as longingly as she was.

Christopher nodded, and popped the can, handing it to her.

It took everything in her not to down the whole thing, the sweet, slightly warm liquid spilling down her throat.

“Slow down, you'll get gas,” Christopher said, his voice light.

“Too late.” Gemma rubbed her chest with one hand as she passed the Coke to him.

Christopher bent his head back, his Adam's apple moving as he swallowed. The silvery sheen of the moon cast a soft light on the strong angles of his jaw. He was still the sort of good-looking that turned heads, and though his face had matured, Gemma still saw the boy she'd fallen in love with.

“What?” Christopher said.

“Nothing – it's just – I think you've got a gray hair.”

“I do not.” Christopher swatted her hand away as he glared at her. “Do I?” he worried.

“Yep.” Gemma got off the bike so she could push it up the steep ramp. “Loads of them.”

“Now I know you're lying,” Christopher said as he crumpled the can, glancing around for somewhere to put it.

“It's the end of the world and you're worrying about littering?” Gemma called back. Her mood was buoyed by the sugar and the fact they'd reached the freeway that only a short while ago had seemed an impossible distance.

The smooth asphalt made for easy riding if she ignored the ache of her muscles. They wove from lane to lane in the moonlight, dodging stalled vehicles. The pulse had hit early enough in the day that there was plenty of room.

Below them the suburban sprawl was thinning, and in the distance the headlights of a car flickered amongst the buildings.

It reached the freeway about ten minutes later, the occupants of the car – a middle aged man and woman – warily watching Christopher and Gemma watching them.

Christopher and Gemma moved to the side, putting a midnight-blue Honda between them and the old sedan. The woman turned away when she met Gemma's eye, staring grimly ahead, her hands tight on the steering wheel. The man in the passenger seat had a shotgun pointed toward the roof unthreateningly, though that did little to reassure her.

The man nodded at them as they passed. In the back – squashed amongst the supplies – was a teenage girl with a pale face that turned to follow them.

The lights of the car swerved from side to side as it avoided the vehicles on the freeway, and soon it was gone from sight.

They were nearing the end of the freeway when Gemma saw flashlights breaking through the night ahead of them.

“What do you think?” she asked Christopher.

“Let's get a bit closer.”

They moved slowly ahead, stopping when they heard the low rumble of voices and restrained laughter.

*
 
*
 
*

Christopher didn't care how old-fashioned or sexist it seemed – he instinctively wanted to protect Gemma. It took a great deal of restraint on his part not to demand that she stay with the bikes while he checked to see if it was safe.

Instead – knowing this would only lead to another argument – he tried
suggesting
she watch the bikes.

Gemma gave him a withering look, and he had to settle for staying a few feet ahead of her once he'd caught up.

Using the cover of the vehicles on the road, they crept closer, crouching behind a silver hybrid when they were about a hundred yards away.

A group of men were emptying the contents of a small-goods truck into a light colored work van that had seen better days.

Far from the thugs he'd been expecting, these men were well spoken, their conversations revolving around their families.

They were dressed in dark clothing, one of them standing guard at the door of the truck, a rifle slung awkwardly over his shoulder.

“James – see what sort of radio the truck has,” a voice said.

Despite their middle-class appearance, and polite conversation, the fear in their postures and the wary way they glanced about told Christopher these were desperate men. And the way the guard was handling the gun made him nervous.

It would probably be better to get off the freeway rather than risk passing them – they weren't all that far from the northern highway now anyway.

He motioned to Gemma as he backed away, his voice low. “We should get off the freeway.”

“Why? You heard them, they're harmless,” Gemma hissed back. “Besides, the one guarding the truck looks like he's never even held a gun before.”

“That's what I'm worried about,” Christopher said darkly. “He might shoot first and ask questions never.”

The man's obvious inexperience made him more of a threat than the thugs he'd been expecting.

They had to backtrack half a mile, then they were coasting down what was technically an entrance, swerving to avoid the six car pile-up at the bottom.

Christopher stopped to pull the map and flashlight out of his backpack, using a sign to block the light as much as possible.

He hadn't mentioned it to Gemma, but on their frenzied dash through the streets he'd noticed there were still plenty of people about despite the hour.

Most scurried back into the shadows as soon as they heard them, especially the ones on their own. But as they flew past a side street, he'd glanced down it automatically for traffic that didn't exist, and had seen a group of people just standing there, watching them.

Christopher folded the map and turned the flashlight off – they'd been so close to the highway. The unexpected detour meant it would be another twenty minutes before they reached it.

The closer they got, the more the country seemed to beckon as the gap between the houses and land grew further apart. By the time they reached the highway, the houses intermingled with small farms.

Their destination reached, Christopher started watching out for a place to stop. With the electricity out his credit card was useless, and he suspected the small amount of cash he carried was worth less than the paper it was printed on.

The vehicles they passed were a tempting place to take shelter for a few hours, but that would mean leaving the trailer exposed to anyone who happened past.

Christopher looked up as they passed a passenger bus. Heads of various shapes, sizes and colors lolled against the window, some sleeping, but just as many staring blankly out the window.

On the grass verge beside the bus were the shadowy humps of people sleeping, making Christopher realize just how many had been stranded.

A child's muffled cry was the only sound that broke the silence, until they heard footsteps hurrying their way.

“Wait. Have you heard any news?”

Wary, Christopher slowed, looking back to see the dark shape form into the bus driver.

The man looked harmless enough as he waddled quickly toward them, his soft pudgy belly swinging from side to side, his face and arms pasty in the moonlight.

As much as Christopher wanted to ignore him and keep going, he found this hard to do. He turned the bike, and stopped, glad when Gemma stayed where she was.

The driver sensed his hesitation, stopping a few yards away.

“We've been stranded here since yesterday afternoon,” the man told them. “Someone said – they said we've been nuked. That the power is out and everything's stopped working.”

“The power is out,” Christopher agreed cautiously.

“Who told you we'd been – been nuked?” Gemma asked.

“I flagged down a car. Had to stand right in front of it to get it to stop,” the driver said breathlessly. “All the other cars just ignored me. Some of them even had guns. This guy – he was – what did he call himself? That's it – a survivalist. Said this had been a long time coming. That the government knew all about it. Said the whole country was affected.”

“Was his radio working?” Gemma asked hopefully, and Christopher found himself holding his breath as he waited for the man's answer.

“How would I know if his radio was working?” the man said, exasperated. “What I want to know is when they'll send someone to help us. I've got a busload of angry passengers who are going to be a whole lot angrier in the morning.”

“I wouldn't count on help arriving anytime soon,” Gemma said bluntly.

“What are you talking about? They can't just leave us stranded like this.”

“Take a look around you,” Christopher said. “Most vehicles aren't working. There's no electricity in sight.”

“But they should have everything up and running again soon, right?” the driver said, looking suddenly weary. “It only took a few hours last time the power went out back home.”