Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (9 page)

“Mike's a whiz with old cars,” Megan said. “He'll sort something when he gets back. He used to work in his uncle's garage.”

Christopher started to protest, but stopped when he realized what she said had some merit. There were loads of auto wreckers around, filled with decrepit old cars that belonged to his grandfather's day. Restoring old cars had been somewhat of an obsession of his grandfather's. Many a time he'd dragged Christopher off to the wreckers in Carlisle when he was a boy, looking for some part or another.

“You won't be able to get any gas.” Donavon blasted that idea out of the picture.

“There's gas everywhere,” Megan snorted. “We can just siphon it out.”

“In that case...” Christopher's mind jumped ahead. He’d been planning on going back to his apartment while Gemma waited at Anne’s. His neighbor Clinton had an impressive range of bicycles. But now he wouldn’t have to. And there was nothing there he couldn’t live without. It would save them a lot of time.

“Could you watch Becky?” Megan turned to Robert, who was still standing in the apartment doorway.

“It would be my pleasure,” Robert said.

“I'll just grab the key.” Megan ran back to the apartment, her hair flopping against her back.

Christopher heard her banging around through the open doorway. When she returned she was carrying a colorful backpack and a heavy-duty yellow flashlight.

“We bought the trailer when Mike got mugged on the subway coming home from work.” Megan's chatter filled the silence as they made their way down the stairs. “That way he can take the car if he's doing a late run, and I can still get Becky to day care on the days I work.”

“When was Mike meant to get back?” Gemma asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Megan said, her voice breaking as she pushed open the stairwell door.

The lockers lined the wall on one side of a large basement area that smelled strongly of mildew. On the other side was a row of narrow storage rooms. Both the lockers and storage rooms were made of wire and looked more like animal cages.

They passed tall, thin lockers. And wide, fat ones stacked higgledy piggledy on top of each other.

The contents were visible through the cages. Toys and bicycles. Mattresses and tables and couches. Boxes piled on top of boxes. An old claw bathtub that had an enormous black and tan stuffed monkey propped up in it, a long wooden scrubbing brush attached to its hand. Its shiny black eyes and cheesy grin seemed to follow them, eerie and unnerving in the fragmented beam of the flashlight.

Christopher's eyes lit up when he saw the trailer through the locker. It was navy-blue, with a strong steel frame supporting it. The two back wheels were large and sturdy – about twenty inch bicycle tires at a guess – strong enough to handle the miles ahead of them. Designed to double-up as a stroller, it had a wide stroller handlebar at the back.

Megan wheeled the trailer out. “We got the double carriage,” she told them, a wistful look on her face. “Mike and me – we've been trying to ... I mean – we wanted Becky to have a brother or sister.”

And now the poor kid didn't even know where her child's father was, or if she'd ever see him again.

Christopher sighed, feeling for the young mother. Mike could be anywhere up to a thousand miles away, depending on his run.

Megan showed them how to detach and reattach the smaller quick-release wheel at the front, and how to hook the trailer to the bicycle coupling.

The carriage pod was made with a durable, waterproof canvas. It arced down at the front, giving it a streamlined appearance.

There was a blue mesh air vent at the front, with a roll-down weather cover.

In no time at all the drinks were loaded – the water bottle secured with the safety harness to stop it from rolling – and Megan was stuffing the colorful backpack into the trailer.

“There's some clothes in there for you,” she told Gemma. “They should fit – we're about the same size. There's also a couple of Mike's t-shirts.” Megan turned to Christopher. “His shorts won't fit you though. Mike's scrawny. He doesn't have your – erm ... muscles.” Megan flushed. “There’s also a new pack of underwear I bought for Mike.”

Gemma pulled Megan into her arms, holding her tight, the two of them rocking from side to side. Then Anne was pushing Gemma aside so she could hug the girl. Donavon placed a comforting hand on Anne's shoulder, patting Megan on the back below Anne's arms.

“Oh look – you've gone and made me cry.” Anne dabbed at her eyes as she pulled away.

Christopher gave Megan an awkward side-hug as they left the locker room, one hand on the trailer, the other on Megan's shoulder so she was nestled into his side. Megan stretched up on her tippy-toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. For saving me and Becky.”

Christopher pulled her closer, kissing the top of her forehead before letting go.

It took them well over an hour to reach Anne's place, what they saw giving them both hope and fear for the future.

There were more cars moving through the streets than Christopher expected, especially as they passed through the shopping district. He even spotted a first generation gunmetal-gray Ford Thunderbird that would have made his grandfather weep.

Donavon and Gemma wheeled the bikes, and Christopher pushed the trailer, pleased with how smoothly it moved across the pavement.

In what had once been a thriving corner store, an elderly man searched the floor with a flashlight, his shoes crunching on broken glass as he stepped over shelving that had been knocked to the floor. The plastic bag he carried was empty.

The liquor store beside it reeked of alcohol. A group of noisy youths well below the legal drinking age searched hopefully for anything that might have been missed, whooping and hollering as they slid across the slippery floor.

Nothing had been spared. Not the seven-elevens or the drugstores. Not even the veterinarians or the small health clinic on the quiet, tree-lined street they cut through.

A tired looking middle-aged man with a dark, closely cropped beard pushed a grocery cart toward them. He was wearing an expensive suit much like Christopher's. He looked down at his cart, unable to meet their eyes. “Got a family to feed,” he muttered, voice heavy with shame.

At the sound of an approaching engine the man slipped into an alley, disappearing from sight.

It was the outlying suburbs that gave them hope. Neighbors congregated around fires in large steel drums and makeshift fires on front lawns and pavements, and even in the middle of the now defunct roads. The smell of barbecued meat was strong.

“We've got plenty.” A short, stocky man held out a large tray. It was overflowing with steaks and sausages and corn cobs of the sort that usually came frozen.

“Thanks, but we can't stop.” Christopher shook his head regretfully. The steaks were tempting, but he didn't want to waste any more time. And it would be rude to eat and run.

Children ran amongst stalled cars, playing hide and seek and tag. Squealing with delight at the impromptu gathering, they remained blissfully unaware of the hard days ahead of them.

“Hey Mister.” Christopher felt a tug at his shirt. He turned to see a blonde girl of about eleven holding out a paper plate loaded with steak and corn. “Dad said to take this with you. And to wish you luck.”

Christopher looked back. The man that had stopped them nodded his head, gesturing with his arm that they should take the offering.

“Might be a while before you eat like that again.” The man met Christopher's eye, everything that the future might hold passing between them without any need for further words. Then the man was turning away, offering the tray to someone else.

“Thank you,” Christopher said to the girl as he took the plate.

She grinned up at him, her smile disarming. “That's okay, Mister,” she shouted as she ran off to join her friends.

Anne took the plate so the rest of them could eat while juggling the bikes and trailer.

They slowed as they approached a silver car at the end of the block. A man sat cross-legged on the roof, hunched over a battery-operated radio. The hiss and wine of static and interference filled the air as he ran through the channels over and over again.

The four of them exchanged glances.

Christopher let go of the trailer. When it started to roll Gemma rammed her steak in her mouth and grabbed the handle. She caught Christopher's eye, encouraging him forward.

Anne's mouth was open in a small and hopeful O.

Christopher and Donavon approached the man, but before they could ask their questions, a gruff looking man holding a beer banged on the side of the car.

“Give it a rest, Mick,” the man said. “You've been at it for hours and ain't had any luck yet. Save the batteries 'til morning.”

“And our ears,” someone shouted from the sidewalk.

Question answered, they moved on as the man continued to scan the channels.

With warm food in their stomachs and the promise that the world had not yet fallen, they finally arrived at Anne's to the joyful yapping of her two small terriers, Mork and Mindy.

11

Gemma's eyes bored into Christopher as she silently begged him to take the rifle Anne was offering him.

Christopher looked at Gemma uncertainly. She nodded her head, already the proud new owner of a police-issued handgun.

“My Troy was one of the city's finest.” Anne's eyes had misted over when she urged them to take the handgun for protection. “He was killed a few months before he was due to retire.”

Christopher had shaken his head. “I've seen how much damage those things can do.”

Anne had been surprised when Gemma eagerly took the gun when Christopher refused.

“Her father taught her to shoot,” Christopher told Anne, his inability to take the gun obviously bothering him.

“Good,” was all that Anne said as she handed Gemma a box of ammunition.

Gemma's father taught her to shoot when he realized he was never going to get the son he wanted. Gemma knew he'd been disappointed when she refused to go hunting with him in traditional Rockwell family fashion, but he never showed it. The two of them had spent many an afternoon shooting targets from the old wooden fence posts on their property whenever her mother went to town.

“What about you?” Christopher stared dubiously at the rifle. “You might need it.”

“Please,” Anne snorted, motioning to her husband's gun cabinet. “You don't think these will be enough for me? Besides, I keep a small handgun in my purse.”

This time it was Gemma's turn to be surprised as she tried to imagine the very prim and proper Anne carrying a gun.

“Close your mouth, Christopher,” Anne admonished. “Troy worried about me being on my own when he did the graveyard shift.”

With a heavy sigh Christopher took the rifle, holding it tentatively out in front of him.

“It's not loaded,” Anne said haughtily. “You're not going to shoot anyone.”

“Nothing wrong with having a bit of respect.” Christopher raised his eyebrow pointedly, before adding, “Not when it comes to guns.”

“All right, Donavon. Your turn.” Anne gestured to the cabinet.

Donavon pulled out a shotgun with an intricate design carved on the gunstock. “Now this – this is a fine piece of work.”

“That was Troy's favorite,” Anne said, shaking her head when Donavon started to put it back. “No – take it. It won't do Troy any good where he is.”

“I'll get it if I need it,” Donavon said firmly as he closed and locked the gun cabinet.

“Donavon – you live a good hour away. And that's by car,” Anne said.

Christopher looked from Donavon to Anne, confusion on his face. “How would you know where Donavon lives?” Christopher's eyebrows drew together. “Oh!–”

“You mind your business,” Anne said stiffly, letting out a little gasp of surprise when Donavon grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her toward him.

“You didn't really think I'd leave you on your own, did you?” Donavon's voice was soft, his affection for her clear.

“I was hoping you wouldn't,” Anne admitted. “I would have just worried about you. Now get out of my way so I can get these two organized.”

Gemma chuckled at the look on Christopher's face – she didn't think she'd ever seen him speechless before. He was completely clueless, but it had been obvious from the moment Donavon volunteered to see Anne home that something was going on between them.

Anne took the kerosene lamp off the gun cabinet, carrying it to the other side of the basement.

“Take anything you need.” Anne pulled open the door to the small room under the stairs, pushing a can of paint out of the way to make room for the lamp.

Anne held up a hand. “And no protests. I've been meaning to box everything up for a while now. Just never quite had the heart to.”

The room was the size of a small bathroom, and Gemma quickly took inventory.

The shelves on the left were stacked with the sorts of things you'd find in any garage. Cans of paint and solvents, paintbrushes, electrical tools. Glass jars with screws and nails and other odds and ends. The opposite shelf was loaded with boxes that had thick black writing scrawled across them, identifying the contents.

But the shelves under the stairs had both her and Christopher staring at each other with open mouthed amazement.

Anne looked pleased by their reaction, winking at Gemma as she stepped out of their way. “I could have sworn I told you to close your mouth, Christopher.”

“I haven't been camping since I was a boy.” Christopher's eyes lit up as he pulled out a pie iron. “My grandfather used to take me. Said it built character.”

“Your grandfather must have been cut from the same cloth as my Troy. He used to say the same thing. Him and a few of the others often took troubled teens out back of Craggy mountain.”

Christopher nodded. “My grandfather took me that way a few times. Great spot for fishing.” His face screwed up as he held up a small bottle. “I can still remember the taste of these things.”

“What are they?” Gemma asked.

“Iodine tablets – they purify water.”

“I'm afraid most of that stuff will be out of date now,” Anne said, and Christopher put them back regretfully.

The shelves were designed for maximum space. The lower ones had deep recesses that took advantage of the uneven space under the stairs. The bottom shelf was over a meter deep, and had tents, sleeping bags, and sleeping mats wedged into it.

The shelf above it wasn't as deep. It was loaded with camping utensils and metal cups, bowls and dishes. Skillets. Gas cookers and boxes of gas canisters, and various other camping paraphernalia.

On the top shelf was half a dozen lanterns, a large plastic tub full of flashlights, a box of compasses and binoculars, and several bottles of kerosene.

Gemma wisely left Christopher to it; the only thing she knew about camping was that you needed a tent, a sleeping bag, and that you should never
ever
forget the insect repellant.

Instead, she went back to Anne's garage. They were going to have to repack the trailer to fit the camping gear.

Obviously the most important thing was going to be keeping hydrated. She had no idea how much they'd need, and thought Christopher was being optimistic when he said it would only take three days.

It had been a long time since she'd ridden a bicycle and that would slow them down.

Gemma looked over their supplies. A bottle of fresh orange juice that was almost full.
 
A lemonade bottle that Anne pulled out of recycling and filled with water.

Two small bottles of water they'd keep in the drink holders, refilling them as they went. Ten cans of lemonade and six cans of Coke – the extra calories would be a great pick me up when they were exhausted; not exactly ideal, but Gemma wasn't complaining – she loved her Coke.

Then there was the container of salt Christopher asked for. Four bananas. Two oranges. A packet of cookies Anne kept handy for visitors, and the loaf of bread Christopher grudgingly agreed to take when Anne pointed out she still had the perishables in the fridge.

Gemma took the brightly colored backpack out of the trailer, frowning at its weight.

Wrapped in a white t-shirt was a can of peas, and two cans of baked beans. Lying flat on the bottom of the bag was a carton of long-life milk with
a yellow post-it note stuck to it
.

It was hard for Gemma to accept things from others; as a teenager she'd had to be independent, get by on her own – and she also had the fierce streak of pride she inherited from her father to contend with. Now – with the uncertain future ahead of them – Gemma felt as though every item she took from others was a day stolen from their life to extend her own.

It had been difficult enough taking what Anne thrust on them.

What the young mother had done very nearly brought her undone. But it was the innocence of the smiley face Megan had drawn on the post-it note that made her throat swell tightly closed.

How long could Megan possibly last in the city when food ran out, how long could she keep that sweet little girl of hers alive?

A tear leaked from the corner of Gemma's eye as she stared up at the garage roof, and did something she hadn't done since high school.

Are you there, Daddy? I still miss you. If only you were here now – you'd know what to do.

It had never crossed Gemma's mind when she refused to go hunting with her father that it was a skill she might one day depend on not only for her survival, but for the survival of the child she'd been entrusted with.

*
 
*
 
*

Christopher looked over the growing pile of supplies on Anne's garage floor. He'd kept the camping gear to a bare minimum, but even so, it was obvious he was going to have rethink what they could take.

Just the drinks alone came to around twenty pounds.

Gemma was a few feet away, staring down at the post-it note on the carton of long-life milk she was holding.

“Do you think they'll make it?” she asked.

“We have to believe that they will,” Christopher said fiercely.

Gemma nodded, her eyes a deep green in the soft light of the camping lantern. It was hard to define the look on her pretty elfin face. Her brows were creased slightly, and her skin was pale. There was a vague faraway look in her eyes that scared him a little, but he convinced himself that it was normal under the circumstances.

He turned back to the trailer. He had no idea how much weight it could hold, or how much one child weighed let alone two. But Gemma would know.

“Gemma? How much does–” Christopher broke off. So far he'd managed to avoid talking about the boy who brought Gemma to the city.

“Huh?” Gemma glanced up.

“I – uh ... how much do you weigh?” He immediately regretted his words. He was such an idiot – he couldn't have been any more intrusive if he'd actually tried.

“How much do I weigh?” Gemma said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Christopher!” Anne admonished as she walked into the garage carrying two pillows. “One does not ask a woman how much she weighs.”

Christopher flushed. But it was too late to back out now. He looked Gemma up and down. A few inches shy of six foot, she was tall and willowy. “You'd weigh about the same as two children.”

“I guess,” Gemma said doubtfully.

Christopher ran a hand through his hair. “I'm just trying to figure how much we can carry in this thing without breaking it.”

“You know, yesterday I would have just googled it,” Gemma said wistfully.

A slow smile broke across Christopher's face. “Yesterday I would have just got in the car.”

“You could always read the label on the back of the trailer,” Anne said.

“There's a label?” Christopher said.

“Must be a safety feature.” Anne leaned over the trailer. “One hundred pounds. Good – you should be able to fit these pillows then.”

“You don't take pillows camping,” Christopher said incredulously.

“I always did,” Anne said. “I'm a grouch if I don't get a good sleep.”

“So am I.” Gemma hugged one of the pillows defiantly against her chest.

“Fine. But only if it fits in the trailer,” Christopher growled. He'd never heard anything so ridiculous; pillows when you were camping.

“Move out of the way,” Anne said. “I always did Troy's packing.”

Christopher grudgingly stepped aside. He knew Anne was just trying to help, but he needed something to occupy his mind. “Let me sort the essentials first,” he said.

Anne ignored him, turning to Gemma. “There's a scale in the bathroom.”

Gemma went to fetch the scale, and Christopher started making two piles, wondering what things were like back home.

It was funny the way he kept calling it home. It hadn't been home in over a decade. He never thought he'd return – not to live – but now he couldn't imagine ever coming back to the city.

He could feel time slipping by. He wanted to be away from the populated areas before daybreak, even if it meant walking the bikes in the dark. Tomorrow the streets would most likely be crowded. Scared mothers and fathers scavenging what was left from the stores. People raiding the homes of those who were away. People fleeing the city like him and Gemma.

His gut told him that by the end of tomorrow, chaos would ensue.

He'd seen the dark side that lurked in desperate parents fighting for custody – ordinary people turned vicious and ugly when it came to their rights to their children. Teachers, doctors, and nurses. Waitresses and plumbers and psychologists. Few had been immune.

What measures would they go to when it came to keeping their children alive?

He tried not to speculate on the cause of the pulse, but he couldn't help it. Especially when Gemma said that according to the experts – who admitted to knowing very little themselves – there were three different levels of pulses. Because of this some thought it unlikely a solar storm would affect vehicles.

She also said they should have had plenty of warning if it was solar – and in the same breath told him about a solar storm that knocked out the Hydro-Quebec power grid in North America, leaving over six million people without power.