Read Ping - From the Apocalypse Online

Authors: Susan Lowry

Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Science Fiction, #Dystopian, #Psychics

Ping - From the Apocalypse (7 page)

BOOK: Ping - From the Apocalypse
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Chapter
Thirteen

Trouble at
Customs

(March 2
0th, Year One, PA)

 

Though it did appear to be working just fine, Kate decided not to use her GPS; she guessed the satellites would continue to do their job without humans for a while, but she had no idea if they would still be accurate. She nearly reached for her phone to google the answer.

Anyway, she knew how to read a map
. Before driving onward, she studied the possibilities. Best to travel from one small town to another along the country roads where the chaos should be minimal. Unfortunately there were problematic areas that couldn’t be avoided, her major concern being the US border.

She
highlighted her new route with a yellow marker, folded the map and put it in the pocket on her door. Then she pulled into gear and managed to make it to the end of the ramp, turning left onto a major road.

Her tank could use toping up
, though she could have made it all the way to the Peace Bridge with what was in the trunk. Fortunately the gas pump at the next station worked just fine. That gave her a bit of relief. But for the sake of her sanity she checked several more along the way forgiving herself for being obsessive about it.

By
avoiding the cities, keeping west of Hamilton and then St. Catharine’s, she finally made it to the border, which was when her real problems began. By pure luck she did get through an inspection booth to the Peace Bridge. But the congestion over the river was the worse she’d seen yet.

If she wanted to avoid getting stranded in another snowstorm there would be no time to be driving all over the place. T
he same problem would likely be encountered at all the crossings anyway. Fort Erie to Buffalo was her shortest route.

She began to
weave her way onto the bridge having to drive up on the sidewalk in places. If she had to walk across with Snowy, risking his health in the cold and abandoning her possessions, it might be a long walk before she found a functional vehicle. They would be out in the open, possibly vulnerable to who knows what — it was one of her worst fears.

There were so many trucks
, and it became tight in several places but she managed to just squeeze between them, grateful she was in a relatively small car. Ahead of her however, was not looking good — and to top it off it was beginning to snow — just a few flurries so far, but still, it could always get worse.

N
o way was she turning around. There had to be a way through this somehow. She got out of her car and walked along the sidewalk, checking ahead. It wasn’t that far to the other side. If the cars were just spread out a little more she’d be able to get by. They needed rearranging.

T
hat god-damned massive truck was the problem. There was quite a lot of space a few cars ahead of it, but in the left-hand lane it was fender to fender for dozens of vehicles along. The truck was her only option.

She
walked back to it, opened the cab door and stepped up, to find the driver, poor soul, leaning to his right a little; he just needed a bit of a shove with her boot and he keeled all the way over out of her way.

She suddenly wondered if there was any gas left in the sucker.
Of course it had probably been idling long after the driver passed away. The engine would have conked out either from lack of fuel, or perhaps it had stalled before that. She checked the ignition. It had definitely been left on.

She
shifted the key, immediately feeling the vibrating engine — but it might be running on fumes alone; she needed to hustle in case it conked out. The trucker’s feet were still on the floor in front by the gas pedal. She lifted them and shoved him completely off the seat with her boot again peering down at the upholstery with a grimace.

This wasn’t going well.
There was a green garbage bag in the trunk of her car. She ran and got it, spread it out over the trucker’s seat, and sat down. Shit, if the truck stalled, it might not restart. She jumped down from the cab. Running up to the furthest vehicle, a small Mazda sports car, she opened the door and put it in drive. It rolled easily forward. She pushed it until it bumped into an old pickup about fifteen feet ahead.

Now she ran back to the Cadillac. It
moved easily as well and soon there was space for the truck. Climbing into the cab she sat down on the plastic covered upholstery and shifted into first gear. It lurched forward and began to roll. Just before it smashed into the car a few feet ahead, she braked.

She jumped back down and ran back to her car. “I did it Snowy — let’s get the hell out of Siberia.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
he Grove of Palm Trees

(April
17th, Year One, PA)

 

Lying in the sand on the new beach towel with her eyes closed, Kate could almost imagine she was back at home, though the roar of the ocean was powerful in comparison to Lake Huron waters. It also did not seem right without the call of gulls — the only three in sight circled above her curiously, rarely making a sound.

They seemed to be begging
. She guessed her colourful presence, with all the assorted beach paraphernalia had rekindled their memories. She threw a handful of stale crackers in the air. They swooped down, snatched them in their beaks and hopped to safety a few yards away.

She
sighed and then checked the thermometer which lay on top of the picnic basket beside her. The temperature had risen to eighty-one degrees, slightly above average for April she’d read somewhere in a travel brochure. The hot rays were so soothing on her skin. Lying back down, she glanced sideways from beneath her sunglasses. The gulls, having ventured closer, were whining for more and she obliged them with the rest of the contents of the box.

After they’d finished eating t
hey watched as she squirted suntan lotion over her stomach, rubbed it in and then did her arms and legs. With her head resting comfortably on a scrunched-up towel, she thought she felt as wonderful as Sam McGee in his crematorium; she would never complain about the heat again.

S
he’d found a beach-house that didn’t stink of death. It was open and breezy and the surf’s soothing roll hushed her to sleep. By day she took to the nurturing minerals and salts of the ocean to sooth her skin. The hastening waves broke into whitecaps further out and rushed in to shore. It was a playground for healing.

H
er sunglasses slipped from the bridge of her nose as she reached for her water. She peered at the marks on her skin still showing up despite her slight tan — even below the line of her bikini. Placing a straw hat over her shortly cropped hair she figured that to the gulls she was a welcome splash of life on an inexplicably deserted beach.

Scanning
the sweeping horizon for whatever might materialize, she replaced the lid on her water bottle, then rummaged through her woven beach-bag for a long-sleeved cover-up and a smaller towel to protect her legs. The vitamin D was doing her good but the last thing she needed was to burn.

The
surf had been more forceful that morning than the last few days and with the likelihood of an under-tow she’d only gone in up to her knees. As the waves had receded, the sand was dragged from under her sturdily planted feet. Sometimes a surge would knock her into the froth along with the whipped-up ocean remnants, then try to suck her back out to sea.

But now, as
she was about to tug the cover-up over her head, she noticed a lot of scratchy grit in the seams of her bathing suit. She slipped off her top, pulled the bottoms down over her feet, and shook both pieces vigorously.

Then
, on an impulse, she ran down to the water’s edge. For a good thirty feet or so she raced along, circled around, and sprinted all the way back to her towel. After a moment of catching her breath, she stood up again and dashed right into the water, where, catching the crest of a wave, she body-surfed to shore.

The undercurrent was
still making her nervous though. And the water was quite cold. After a few minutes she stood in the warm breeze allowing it to blow the dribbles from her skin and hair and gradually she strolled back toward her things. Spreading out on her stomach she inhaled the salty vapours caught in her towel. The continual whoosh in the background and the breezy, fluttering heat on her skin made her sleepy.

Yet as her awareness lifted from a lovely, dreamless nap she began to wonder.
Was she losing her mind?

She felt
far too happy for one. Secondly, the ongoing conversations with the boy seemed too good to be true and she worried continually that he was plain wishful thinking. He had insisted she come to this exact spot, a place in which she had craved to be, for so long. And yet, she knew he had phoned from Texas.

And then
, there was the third reason she thought she just might have gone mad.

Ping.

Since the day she settled at the beach, someone else had begun to connect with her. The clarity was not nearly there yet, not like it was with the boy. But it was becoming easier to make sense of the weak and unfocused messages every day. Ping seemed female, she was almost certain of it. And she couldn’t wait for their next enchanting rendezvous.

S
he wondered if this was the beginning of a trend. Maybe others would join in soon, as well. She wanted an entire collection of them. They were her
raison d’être
and she was becoming a hoarder of telepathic friends.

She giggled into her towel.
Neither the boy nor Ping were available at the moment. It wasn’t always easy to get them when she wanted.

Or, on a darker note, perhaps
this was how her psychological stress had affected her… what could she expect after such trauma?

She worried about the boy
terribly though, and would have gone to him immediately, if possible — but unfortunately her skills were nowhere near developed enough to find him. Acquiring such an accuracy would take practice over a long period of time. The boy insisted she was not ready yet; travelling aimlessly to find him would be the wrong thing to do. She was better off to stay in a place that made her happy, where her strength would return — then her skills would naturally get better.

He claimed to be okay
; his physical health had definitely improved, but, of course he needed her — he was only seven. The skill to locate him could not be attained soon enough, she thought. Now that Ping had shown up, there was more opportunity for practice.

Ping
seemed fairly resilient, older — maybe around Kate’s age; Kate wasn’t nearly as concerned about
her
wellbeing. They were both focusing on helping each other improve their communication, and Kate couldn’t wait to connect with her again. She sighed contentedly; it felt good being naked by the water.

S
uddenly, the notion that someone was watching her popped into her head. The apocalypse had galvanized her imagination, not in a good way — it had started her panic attacks which apparently could arise — even on the beach.

T
he stupid idea was like a splinter in her mind. It would have been easy to remove if only she could get at it, but of course, the more she tried to tease it out, the deeper it slipped inside, and it was ruining a perfectly good day.

Wendy’s
gun was in her bag on top of her bed. Dumb place to leave it.

S
he had no business assuming there were no survivors other than her. Why would there be? She was new in town, and although there hadn’t been any obvious signs of life on her excursions for supplies — that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Wendy had told her not to have a false sense of security. What was she thinking?

She tried to relax
. But her imagination was now getting out of control. What if it wasn’t human eyes watching her? She tensed into the towel beneath her. If any larger animals had survived they would be hungry. They could be hiding in the shadows of that grove of palm trees. Or worse, walking out of the ocean.

Her brain was a
traitor!

Why was she doing this? Just when things were
starting to get better. She forced herself to think of something else, anything.

Ping —
named after the imaginary friend she'd had as a child, who had filled the void when she’d so needed it. She wanted Ping right now more than anything. But as always, an unsettled state of mind made it nearly impossible to concentrate on something so elusive.

She
felt actual love for the boy. He was somewhere in Texas to be certain, because she'd traced his area code there. Their communications had gotten stronger as she’d moved south; they already understood each other amazingly well. It was just a matter of time before they would be together.

But s
he was also glad her journey westward to find him was on delay. This place had given her Ping, who gave her comfort and promise — in many ways even more so than the boy did. Maybe Ping would be able to find her; they both hoped it was possible. But if she moved from St. Augustine that would make it challenging.

Kate
was apprehensive about the boy living all alone without adult support, other than what she could provide from their strange connections. Yet she trusted he could persevere a little longer; his resilience was evident.

H
er anxiety over being watched now felt intolerable and she plucked up her bikini, self-consciously dressed, and strode back to the beach house with her packed-up basket hung over her arm.

O
nce in the security of her new home, she felt safer and strolled into the kitchen to check on Snowy who peered at her briefly, and then continued with his snooze. She took a bag of chips with her out to the shaded, swinging bench that looked out over the water in the sand just in front of the large veranda. Her diary was there with a pen and beginning to update it, she felt much calmer.

After a while she felt sleepy
. She left her diary on the bench and went inside again, glancing at her reflection in a mirror as she crossed the entrance way, and pausing a moment. She had put on a little more weight and with the added colour to her skin she did not appear so gaunt.

“Snowy,” she called
on her way over to him, “would you like to have a fly around?”

Snowy grumbled something in a low tone.

“What’s wrong?” she fussed.

H
is feathers were puffed up as if he was ill — or possibly frightened.

“It
’s just me,” she soothed.

She peered
through the kitchen window behind the cottage, strolled back to the foyer where she peeked through the curtains, and then locked the door. She checked the sitting room, and then the bedrooms.


I think we’re both getting paranoid in our old age,” she said, opening the cage door.

Flopping
down she opened her book, lay back against the solid arm of the couch with a pillow beneath her head and her long legs pulled up on the cushions, bent and crossed at the knee. She swung her foot while munching potato chips, finally able to concentrate on reading.

Eventually, Snowy
flew onto the coffee table. He peered up at her with his head lowered and cocked sideways and she glanced back at him.

“You look discombobulated,
” she chuckled. She realized that she was speaking to herself and the bird more incessantly as time went on, and truly wished he would say something; cockatiels were supposed to talk.

He began to
clean between his claws.


When are you going to say something? Say Snowy! Snowy, Snowy, Snowy!”

He
waddled around the coffee table, stepping through his white-and-lime-marbled droppings, scattering shreds of paper which he tore from the shopping list she’d prepared for her trip into town tomorrow. But she was too sleepy to care.

That’s when Ping hopped into her head
.

Th
ey immediately began their struggle to communicate the more complex details. Ping was eager to find Kate, but learning to describe her location was a true test of Kate’s strength of will. Street names, towns and cities — how to express such things? She was doing something right though; Ping was beginning to get the feeling of hot sand and the taste of the ocean.

I
t was like painting a picture, Kate thought — with a good dose of innate talent and plenty of practice she could render a specific landscape as accurately as a photograph — but it would be challenging to find the location, unless the spectator had already been there or recognized it by some other means.

But
Kate and Ping were mere beginners, groping to discover the dynamics of something amazing — something, up until a very short while ago, they hadn’t even been aware they possessed. It was far too early in their learning to expect such photographic perfection. Still, what they were accomplishing was remarkable.

Kate
would have continued to believe that Ping and the boy were true miracles had it not been for what happened soon after her nap.

 

BOOK: Ping - From the Apocalypse
6.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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