Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (19 page)

When the first fat raindrops hit, he knew it was time to stop.

Leaving their bicycles in the rain, they checked the vehicles around them to see if they were unlocked.

In the end Christopher smashed a rock through the front window of a maroon family transporter. He pressed the trunk-release mechanism, and between them they managed to heave the trailer into the large space in the rear end, pushing the towels and children's sand toys out of the way as the downpour began.

Christopher pulled open the sliding door, urging Gemma in, then slammed it shut behind her.

He ran through the slashing rain to secure the bikes. The gusting wind whipped and tore at the garbage bag. The plastic caught in the spokes as he grappled with the bikes. He ripped it free and it fluttered away. The rain stabbed at his eyes, blinding him as he secured the bikes to a speed-limit sign.

The last thing they needed was for someone to take them while they slept.

When he returned to the van – the rain streaming down his body and his clothes plastered to his skin – Gemma was gone.

“Gemma?” Christopher frowned into the van as the water puddled at his feet.

There was no sign of her. Where could she have gone?

Hunched over, he trailed water through the van and stared over the back seat.

The trailer was open, the contents spilling over the edges.

The rain was a deafening cacophony; pounding down on the roof, the windows, the road.

Thunder rumbled overhead, adding its own ominous beat to mother nature's gloomy symphony.

The view out the back window was distorted; the rain coming so fast and furious it streamed down in a thick sheet.

Back on the road – the rain driving into him with stinging force – Christopher scanned the area. Where the hell was she?

“Gemma?” Christopher's heart was beating fast in his chest. She couldn't have just disappeared. And there had been no one in sight when they stopped.

He stared suspiciously at the nearby cars – was it possible there had been someone hiding in one of them?

Movement caught his eye. Squinting against the rain he saw her.

His breath exploded from his chest in a rush.

She was struggling with a garbage bag, trying to pull it over the heavy water laden branch of a tree. The green bag was whipping about, refusing to comply. The bag ripped. Gemma let it drop to the ground. The rain pounded it flat.

Christopher's sodden shoes slapped against the road as he ran to help her. He wrapped his arms around the leaves of the tree, drawing them in as Gemma unrolled another bag. Water streamed down his torso as she carefully tugged the bag over the branches.

The bottom of the garbage bag began to bulge and fill.

Christopher carefully eased it off, worried about ripping the fragile plastic.

Gemma held the bag as he shrugged the sopping back-pack from his shoulders, and took out the plastic bottles.

The two of them had their fill, greedily gulping it down as the rain came down ever harder. They topped up the bottles again.

When they were done Christopher eased the bottom of the bag over a smaller area of leaves, and tied it off, securing the bright yellow built-in tie to the branch.

They ran for the van, tearing and pulling at their clothes – modesty gone – their sights on the beach towels.

Before long they were firmly cocooned in the sleeping bags, their clothes wrung out and hanging over the back seat to dry, water drip drip dripping on the floor.

They shared a can of beans between them, eating straight out of the tin as they stared miserably out at the rain.

Knowing that Gemma was practically naked underneath the sleeping bag was doing crazy things to Christopher's head. And his head wasn't the only thing affected.

Christopher sat in the seat on the far side of the sliding door, the sleeping bag sagging at his chest.

Gemma crouched on the floor, facing the narrow ledge behind the front seats, the sleeping bag tucked up under her armpits to hold it in place.

She carefully laid out the gun, the post-it note – the smiley face smudged slightly from the rain, and the photograph of CJ.

Christopher's hands closed into fists around the sleeping bag. He knew she wasn't doing it to deliberately annoy him – not that he would put it past her.

She was laying them out to dry.

Leaning over the photo, Gemma ran her finger along the lines of CJ's face.

Christopher's fist tightened as he imagined running his fingers slowly down her profile; the curve of her forehead slick with damp hair; the arch of her pale nose; the soft, full pout of her lips; the line of her jaw.

He twisted his body so that the photo wasn't staring him in the face, and tipped the seat back as far as it would go.

Pulling the sleeping bag firmly to her chest, Gemma shuffled back to her seat.

The narrow aisle between them was a gulf he dared not cross.

Gemma bent her legs, the sleeping bag rustling as she plonked her feet on the ledge next to the gun.

Christopher rested his head against the side of the seat. Closing his eyes, he studied her through his lashes.

Gemma's head lolled back, exposing her neck. Her eyelids fluttered open and shut, open and shut, as she tried to find sleep.

The garbage bag they had stretched over the broken window rattled and shook, threatening to rip free from the door's grip.

The rain continued to slam down on the roof. Bright flashes of overlapping fluorescence lit the sky. Thunder rattled and boomed.

The storm showed no sign of letting up.

23

Gemma kept startling awake – between the vivid dreams she was having about Christopher, and the thunder exploding overhead – it was impossible to sleep.

“What did I do now?” Christopher asked.

Gemma realized she was glaring at him. But she wasn't about to tell him that her first thought on opening her eyes was burning regret that she'd only been dreaming – at least it had been until she came to her senses.

“Nothing. I'm just annoyed that it's raining. We still have hours of light left.”

“Take advantage while you can. Get some sleep.”

This time she was fully aware that she was glaring at him. “And what do you think I've been trying to do for the last hour?”

Christopher closed his eyes. It was infuriating how quickly he could fall asleep.

With the downpour beating on the roof she wondered if it was raining back home. The strawberries and pumpkins were especially greedy at this time of year.

And what about CJ and Daphne. Did they have enough water?

She was ashamed to admit she had no idea where the town water came from. It had never crossed her mind before. She assumed it came from the river that fed the stream cutting across the back corner of her property.

But how long would it take before the river was contaminated? Full of disease and filth?

She'd taken so much for granted. The steaming hot showers that helped her relax after work. The dishwasher and washing machine. The clothes dryer. They really were going to be transported back to the dark ages – using washboards like their grandmothers before them had. Gemma had never even seen one before, except in pictures. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing people kept handy.

She twisted restlessly in the sleeping bag. Now that she had dried off she was starting to swelter, and the van windows were fogging up. It didn't help that Christopher had unzipped his sleeping bag and was using it as a blanket, his long, naked limbs all skewed out.

She gathered the sleeping bag to her, and shuffled to the back of the van. Her shirt was still damp and the cut-off jeans were saturated.

Pushing them aside she leaned over the back seat, and rifled through the trailer's contents. The sleeping mat mocked her as she searched for the clothes Megan had given her.

Christopher was snoring contentedly. She could have happily slapped him.

Resigned to wearing the teenager's clothing, Gemma pulled out a skimpy yellow halter top with tiny white flowers embroidered on the bodice. She wasn't at all confident the black cotton shorts she found would even come close to covering her backside.

Unfortunately, while the shorts
did
cover her rear end, the thin material of the cotton shirt was not exactly confidence inspiring. And her bra was still drying. The shirt itself barely covered her midriff.

She unzipped the sleeping bag, and stood in the narrow aisle.

Christopher's long, naked legs were stretched out in her space.

Twisting sideways into her seat, she swung her legs over his, and plopped them back on the narrow ledge.

She tucked the sleeping bag firmly around her, and closed her eyes, her restless sleep continuing.

When the storm intensified she woke with a start, surprised to find their naked legs had tangled together, and Christopher's hand had found the flat of her exposed stomach. Her eyes fluttered shut, and this time she fell into a deep slumber.

“I do not snore.” Gemma punched and rolled and squished the slippery sleeping bag into the tiny cover. She tied it off, pleased with her effort. Who would have thought that something that looked so simple could be so complicated?

Christopher's face turned suddenly serious, and Gemma's heart stuttered. “What?”

“Well,” Christopher said, “unless there was an army of hungry warthogs under the van – I say you snore.”

“Very funny.” Gemma threw the lumpy-looking sleeping bag at his head.

Christopher caught it with a grin and slipped it into the trailer.

“Why are you in such a good mood?” Gemma asked.

“Listen,” he said.

“What?” All Gemma could hear was the steady drip of water.

“I thought we'd be stuck in this van for days,” Christopher said.

“One night was more than enough for me.”

Under the dreary gray sky darkening the world, they'd slept well into the morning. The rain had recently stopped, and they planned to make the most of it.

At the rate they were going they would never get home. She just hoped someone was looking out for CJ and Daphne.

She refused to further entertain the notion they hadn't been home. Worrying about what-ifs wasn't helping any. Though maybe if their dear-elected had, they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

As they set off for the day, the clouds looming threateningly, and nothing but a cookie sloshing through the water in her belly, Gemma envisioned the life that stretched ahead of her.

The rain water tank she used for the garden would now be drinking water. She would have to cart water from the stream for the garden.

What about the rest of her community? Would they bathe and wash clothes and dirty dishes in the river as well as drink the water? The idea worried her. If the town rallied together fast enough, maybe they could stop that sort of thing going on. If they used the swimming pool for their cleaning needs, it would keep the river clean.

Of course, they had no idea what people were doing upstream. Maybe the water was already contaminated before it even reached them.

The monotony of the ride was really beginning to wear on her. With nothing but the ache of her tired limbs and her churning thoughts to keep her company, she tried drawing Christopher into conversation. But the further they rode the more she found herself deliberately baiting him. She just couldn't seem to help herself.

He did an admirable job of ignoring her jibes, but if she pushed hard enough she usually got a response of some sort that kept her going. Even anger at his irritation was better than the worry and fear she felt for the future.

And while she was glad she didn't have to do this on her own, she couldn't help but be mad at Christopher. He kept a steady pace, not seeming to be the slightest bit affected by fatigue or the fears tumbling through her mind.

It had been his fault she'd been in the city in the first place, and not safe at home on her farm.

She knew she was being completely irrational, but she didn't care. If he'd kept his damn joystick in his pants, she wouldn't be in this mess.

Guilt slammed her. She wouldn't wish CJ away for anything.

Her first thought when Christopher denied CJ was his son was that the whole trip had been for nothing; she let this fuel her for the next hour as the rain started up again. And she
had
been annoyed at the time, but the truth was, deep down, a selfish part of her had been glad.

She'd fallen completely and helplessly in love with CJ from the very first moment she laid eyes on him. She doubted she could have loved him more if he were her own.

As Caroline deteriorated Gemma spent a lot more time with the boy; dropping him off at ABC Kidz in the morning so Caroline could rest; trips to the park on the weekends; taking him out for dinner or ice-cream after work to give Daphne a break.

He was a bright, inquisitive child with so many endearing qualities. Even before Caroline got sick Gemma had been feeling envious as the tick of her biological clock grew louder and louder.

And it wasn't like she could blame Caroline. But even so, she still felt some anger toward her late friend, anger fed by fear and exhaustion. She still couldn't believe her friend had gone there with Christopher – not when she knew their history.

Gemma knew it was ridiculous to think this way. It wasn't like she owned Christopher, but it had been Caroline that had picked up the pieces when Gemma found him fooling around with some girl in the city.
By mid-morning patches of bright blue sky were emerging, and the heat of the sun streaming through made Gemma miss the rain.

There had even been a few more weary travelers on the road. They stopped to talk with some, hoping to learn more news; they soon wished they hadn't.

As the road signs ticked off the distance to the next large city, Gemma found herself growing anxious. Christopher assured her they wouldn't have to pass through it, but by then Gemma was so tired she didn't even have the energy to turn her head and ask for a Coke.

Her mouth was dry, and the salty water was making it worse. Her lips felt blistered, but she didn't have enough saliva to relieve them.

With the promise of a cookie and a can of lemonade mixed with water, they stopped for a short break. They didn't stop again until they saw a man and a woman stumbling north on the road ahead of them. The woman was dragging a suitcase on wheels, walking awkwardly in heels that had broken off. The man had nothing but the bag on his back and the empty water bottle in his hand.

*
 
*
 
*

Christopher was having trouble believing what he was hearing. He hadn't even considered what this would do to the nuclear power plants. “You actually heard this yourself?”

They were sitting on the metal guard rail in the shade of a white mini-van with a blazing sun painted on the side, the orange logo proclaiming:
Solar Power
–
A Brighter Future!

Gemma looked alarmed, but Melina had a blank look on her face as she drank the water Gemma pushed on her.

Brad ran a hand over the short, stubbly bristles on his head before nodding. He gratefully took the container of water Christopher offered him, his ropy hands shaking slightly as he filled his bottle.

Brad's shoulders were hunched over his body as he continued, his arms resting on his thighs, and the bottle of water dangling between his legs. His eyes were locked to the ground as though this was a story he'd already told a few times too many.

“Yep. Wasn't official or nothing. Just some dude with
a ham radio
– called himself a survivalist. He's been talking to others like him when they can get through.” Brad shook his head. “They've been piecing it together as best they can. But whatever this is – it's not just here. He was talking to a feller in the UK who said he could see this plume of white steam rising above the plant from miles away.”

“What about near us?” Gemma asked.

“We should be right. This guy – Mori – he said there ain't no reactor anywhere close enough.”

“But what about radiation fallout?” Christopher asked.

Brad shrugged. “Mori reckons the further inland we get, the safer we'll be. It depends on the wind and stuff.”

Christopher's thoughts jumped ahead. Once they reached the intersection they would head inland. The ocean was getting further and further away as they traveled, but would it be far enough?

Christopher had no idea about things like that. Or if there was even anything you could do to protect yourself from radiation.

Brad looked up at Christopher, something strange in his eyes. “This Mori guy, before this – I mean – he looks like a crackpot. The sort of person you'd steer clear of, you know? But just meeting him,” he ran a hand through his stubble again, “it's changed the way I look at people.” An odd laugh came from his throat. “Might be the crackpots who survive. They were right all along.”

They sat in silence for some time as they considered the implications. The most obvious was that no one was coming to help them. They really were well and truly on their own.

When Gemma tried to engage Melina in conversation, Brad twisted his head toward Christopher, his voice low.

“I don't know what to do about,” Brad jerked his head at Melina, ”I couldn't just leave her. When the plane went down we waited for hours for help to come. No one could get a signal on their phones but we thought it was 'cause of where we went down. If it weren't for Melina, I reckon I'd be dead. I got no idea how a tiny little thing like her managed to pull me out before the plane caught fire.”

A shudder passed through Brad, the horror of what he'd seen burning in his eyes. “I ain't seen nothing like it. All them bodies everywhere. And Melina – she kept going back – her and some of the others. Pulling people out. They had to hold her back when they realized the plane was gonna blow. She hasn't said a word since.”

Christopher had no answers, and didn't offer any. It was obvious Brad was just thinking out loud and that he was worried about the tiny Filipino woman.

“What's with the bag?” Christopher asked Brad. Melina was still holding the handle, refusing to let go. Her tiny hand was white with the strength of her grip.

Christopher knew it was old-fashioned, but when he saw the woman struggling with the bag, his first reaction had been to deck Brad. It had only been his need to find out if they knew anything that held him back.

“No idea," Brad shrugged, "I tried to take it off her but she wouldn't let go of the bloody thing. Just got a wild look in her eyes.”

An uneasy silence fell between the group. Christopher was anxious to be on his way, and Gemma gave him a pointed look.