The Survivor Chronicles: Book 1, The Upheaval (23 page)

Secretly, he realized, he’d been hoping and waiting to find someplace safe, some kind of refuge to rest, regroup and formulate a plan. A part of him had been certain if they just got away from the ocean, if they just made it to John’s parents, if they just survived to find the place where everyone was taking shelter they would be safe. He realized now that he was completely wrong.

Sure, maybe they’d find John’s parents, and maybe there was a big shelter somewhere, but they would never be safe. He would never again know the peace that he had at seven this morning when he’d pushed the button on the beat up time clock to start the day. He could clearly recall the loud clank the thing made; the quips that had been traded that it may be the only thing in the shop older than Carl. He’d taken the jests with good humor, but secretly he’d kept silent about the fact that the clock was actually five years younger than him.

He would miss that clock; he would miss the mornings of peaceful oblivion.

It took all he had to turn away from the piled remains and focus on the field again. He’d been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t realized he’d stopped the truck. No one else seemed to realize it either as they starred mutely at the scene before them. Carl pressed on the gas again and crept across the field, there was still enough distance between them and the fire that he didn’t have to take the unnecessary risks of speeding.

The field was relatively intact, but when they broke over top of a small hill, he saw that the house was not. It had crumpled in on itself like a house of cards beneath a heavy breath. The chimney remained standing a tall, lonely, reminder of the lives that had once existed within the red farmhouse. He saw no sign of life as they moved past, and half expected to see a pair of feet sticking out from beneath the rubble.

Seeming to be running along the same track of thought the girl whispered, “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“No, we’re not,” John agreed.

John jumped out at the next gate, unraveled the chain and thrust it open. He held it open, his eyes dark and distant as he surveyed the changed landscape. “Look at the map and see if you can find where we are,” Carl told him when he climbed back in.

John’s hand rested on the dash as he stared out the smeared windshield. “Do you think it matters anymore?” “I do.”

“Why?” “Because something has to.”

John remained motionless before he nodded and dug out the crumpled map. The girl helped him hold it against the dashboard as they searched for street signs. The girl was shaking her head as they passed Maple road. Her dark hair fell about her dirt streaked features as she pointed at something on the map.

“I think we have it,” she announced proudly. “As long as we’re in Bridgewater.”

“Is it possible we’re not?” Carl inquired.

“Yeah,” John answered. “There’s a Maple Road in Bridgewater, along with a Maple Avenue in Halifax and Raynham.”

“I thought every town had an Elm Street, who knew it was Maple?” Carl muttered.

John chuckled but the girl looked confused. “Nightmare on Elm Street? Freddy Krueger?” John explained.

She continued to stare blankly at him. “Before your time,” Carl informed her, feeling even older.

The girl shrugged. “Okay, well, that was Josey Ave. so it looks like we’re in Bridgewater.”

John’s shoulders slumped in relief. “She reads a map better than you,” Carl informed him.

“I’m okay with that,” John replied flippantly as he placed his finger against the map and began to trace the lines.

“Where are you trying to go?” she inquired.

“The prison or the university,” John informed her.

“Why?”

“My parents work there.”

She nodded. “Prison first then. It’s closest.”

She leaned away from John, her eyes darted nervously toward the side mirror. The blaze wasn't as close as it had been, but it was there, rising over the horizon in sparking bits of flame, and towering plumes of smoke. The lingering scent of smoke still clung to the girl.

“How far were you from the fire?” Carl inquired.

She shrugged. “Not far.”

“Where are your parents? Were you at home?”

She shook her head; her gaze became distant as tears shimmered in her eyes. “No, I was at summer camp. At first, all the counselors were telling us that we couldn’t leave, but then the fire came and everyone took off in different directions. I was with some friends, but we were separated when the fire spread. I just want to go home.”

The longing in her voice tugged at his heart, even John was eyeing her with sympathy now. “We’ll get you there,” Carl assured her, hoping that he could keep his promise.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He turned away from the single tear that slid down her cheek, leaving a clean streak through her dirt-smeared face. “We’re going to make the next right,” John instructed. “The prison’s only another mile or so away.”

Relief filled Carl, at least they would find someone, accomplish something today. It was also a prison; there would be people of authority there, perhaps even people that had a clue as to what was going on. He just hoped none of the inmates had escaped during the chaos. Having to deal with a bunch of convicts would be the perfect cherry topper to this craptastic sundae of a day.

“Another right,” John said.

They drove onto a back road he never would have noticed if John hadn’t instructed him where to go. “This should be it.”

John folded the map up and leaned eagerly forward as he braced his hands on the dashboard. The truck bounced over the bumpy road, large fences topped with barbwire started to come into view. On his left was another building, one that seemed to have been built in the eighteen hundreds and didn’t appear to be any sort of prison building. Carl found himself leaning eagerly forward too, his breath held as they rounded a turn and part of a wall came into view.

And beyond that there was nothing. Carl had never heard a sound like the one that came out of John as he stopped the truck. It was disbelieving, wounded, broken in a way that Carl had never heard broken before. Trapped, frightened animals didn’t make a sound like the one that John issued.

John plunged out of the truck, stumbling, tripping, and nearly falling over as he raced toward the gaping hole in the earth.

“Oh,” the girl breathed as she slid silently from the truck. “Is this really it?”

Carl pointed wordlessly toward the sign that remained by the sweeping fence that now encased nothing. Correctional Facility was printed with large black letters upon the tilted sign. John stopped ten feet away from the ravine; he fell to his knees, his mouth gaping as tears slid down his cheeks.

Carl left the truck as the girl crept closer to John; she hesitated before resting her hand on his shoulder. Carl stepped beside him, unable to believe the spectacle before him, unable to take it all in. He’d never been there, but he’d seen pictures of the Grand Canyon, and though this did not have the same colors and panoramic beauty, it seemed just as vast and consuming. It stretched for as far as he could see, devastating the landscape for miles upon miles.

It was dark, so dark. Blackness rolled throughout, steam or smoke wafted from inside the pit. If flames had been shooting from it, it would have been exactly like the many pictures of Hell he had seen over the years. For a disconcerting second he was almost convinced that it was Hell. The heat almost forced him away, but he remained where he was as he rested his hand on John’s other shoulder. John’s thin frame shook beneath his touch.

Carl gazed into the hole, and though he couldn’t see the bottom through the steam, he did see broken bits of brick, wood, fencing, trees, asphalt, and cars that had made up the prison compound. He saw no people; he heard no cries for help. It was hot enough up here, he imagined within the chasm it was a blistering inferno.

Feet away from them, more land crumpled into the hole. Carl took a step back, worried about the stability of the ground they stood upon. “John, we have to go,” he said softly. John remained on the ground, seemingly shocked into immobility as he wept. “There’s nothing here. We have to go John.”

The girl knelt beside him. “I’m sorry for your loss, but we must leave. If we stay here we could die too.”

John didn’t seem to hear her. Carl hated to do it but he grabbed hold of John’s arm, threw it around his shoulder, and pulled his friend to his feet. John didn’t protest as Carl led him back to the truck and the girl scooted silently into the middle. Carl helped John into the truck and slammed the door. He ran around to the other side, growing increasingly apprehensive that the ground would give way at any moment.

John was crying silently as Carl shifted the truck into reverse and drove quickly away from the complex. “We have to find a way around that thing. Can you find something on the map?” The girl nodded mutely. He realized that referring to her as the girl probably wasn’t the best way to continue, not anymore. He had a feeling they would be spending a lot of time together from here on out. “We haven’t been properly introduced yet, I’m Carl, and that’s John.”

She took hold of his extended hand, her grip surprisingly firm for someone so young as she shook it briefly. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Rochelle.”

CHAPTER 17

Al

Somewhere in Mass.

When Al was seven years old, he’d contracted influenza with his older brother and sister. He could still vividly recall how sick he'd been, the memory of it hadn’t faded over the years as his other bouts of sickness had. He clearly remembered the fever that had burned through him, the chills that had wracked his slender frame. He’d been certain he was going to die as he’d wasted away in bed, his sheets soaked with sweat, his entire body aching and sore.

His mother had labored over them with cold compresses and ice baths, when they were required. She’d gone numerous days without sleep as she’d fought to save her children. It was the first time he’d ever seen his father, typically aloof and unrelenting, actually scared. As the youngest child, the baby, it had been assumed that he probably wouldn't survive. He’d been determined to prove them wrong, but when his brother Phillip had succumbed to the illness, Al had felt his chances dwindling before him. Phillip had always been so strong, an athlete, Al’s hero. Al’s grief over the loss was the only thing that had punctured his sick haze.

His mother had cried endlessly, but she had forged on, determined to save her remaining two children. And then Nancy was lost. Al had become certain he was next, that he would never survive, that it was only a matter of time before he was taken too. But somehow, through the perseverance and prayers of his parents, the baby, the one they had been certain was going to die, had miraculously survived.

It had been lonely afterward without Phillip’s constant chatter and Nancy’s incessant baking. He’d often wondered why he’d been spared and they’d been taken. They’d been stronger than he was, he was certain they had been better people. Phillip would have accomplished much in life, and Nancy’s love and good-hearted nature would have made a difference to many people. On the lonely nights that had followed, when Nancy was no longer around to tell him bedtime stories, he’d often wished that he hadn’t been spared. His mother, weighted by her heartache, was never the same, though she handled it with the silent grace and dignity that she had handled every other hardship she’d endured over the years.

He’d been so broken then. So frightened of the world and the cruelty it possessed. His childhood and his innocence had been torn from him along with his siblings. Though it had taken him years to come to terms with it, he realized he had survived for a reason, and he’d vowed to carry on Nancy’s goodness and Phillip’s energy. Years ago he had established a charity, in their names, that raised money for childhood illnesses.