The Survivors (Book 1): Summer (9 page)

I drew a deep breath to steady myself, and knelt to gather up as many peaches as I could fit into my bags.
  There were so many on the ground I didn’t need to pick any more from the tree itself.  So many that finding ones not yet eaten by the birds and bugs was no trouble at all.  It was unlikely that I would be able to eat them before they went bad, but there was no point letting them go to waste, right?

I was in the process of lugging the heavy bags back to my Hilux when I was distracted by something even more tempting than a fresh peach.
 Who knew that was even possible?  I stopped for a moment to rest my aching biceps when I caught a whiff of a scent on the breeze.   It was a familiar scent, a wonderful scent; a scent that took me back to childhood all over again.

The scent of strawberry bushes.

It was kind of a miracle that my nose was still so sensitive after all these years of abuse, but apparently it was.  I could smell them, quite clearly from however far away, even over the overwhelming scent of the flowers.  So many lovely strawberries, and so close.

I passed the Hilux en route to the patch, and deposited my bags of precious fruit on the front passenger seat.
 Then I scampered off in search of strawberries, as excited as a child.  Every so often, I paused to sniff the cool breeze, following my nose to what turned out to be a very pretty little vegetable garden tucked away behind the house.

It was full of weeds and half of the plants had gone to seed, but I didn't care.
 I smelled strawberries and I must have them.  Careless in my footing, I scampered through the overgrowth until I found the strawberry patch.

That would be a moment that I would come to regret, very, very soon.
 Busy as I was stuffing my face with sweet, overripe strawberries, I paid no attention to where I put my feet.  I didn't notice the old board hidden amongst the bushes until it was too late.

More importantly, I didn't notice the nail.

At first, I didn't feel the wound; just was a strange sensation, like a prick, followed by a weird, invasive cold.  I tried to step backwards to see what had bitten me, but my right foot wouldn't move.  It was trapped, impaled through the arch on a six inch housing nail that was hidden amongst the weeds.

A flash of panic struck me right about the same time the pain did; I threw back my head and screamed.
 Even in agony, I possessed enough presence of mind not to give in to the urge to fall on my backside to try to take the pressure off the wound.  God knew what else was hidden in the undergrowth, and it would be very hard for me to get back up again with my foot trapped the way it was.

Trapped on a nail.
 A dirty, filthy nail.  A sharp and probably rusty nail,
I thought with gritted teeth.  I fought the urge to scream again as I shifted my weight carefully into a better position to lever my foot free.  There was no one I could call, no one to come and help me.  I was alone.  I had to do this myself.

The nail ground against the bones in my foot as I jerked it free.
 I couldn’t hold back the scream any longer.  The pain was overwhelming.  I half-limped, half-crawled out of the vegetable garden and got as far as the garden path before I collapsed, panting, in too much agony to go any further.  I sat heavily on the paving stones and dragged myself further into the clear so that I could see my foot.

Or see through my foot,
I thought.

Okay, I was being dramatic.
 I couldn't see
through
my foot.  The tension of my muscles held the wound closed, but... man, it really, really hurt.  Through tear-filled eyes, I struggled to focus on the wound as I wrestled to get my boot off.  The pain was so intense I bit my lip to try and keep myself from screaming myself hoarse.

My boots had done me well for a number of years, but the soles were worn thin from all the walking I'd done; they
had offered little protection against the sharp spike.  It had gone straight through the sole, through my foot, and penetrated the top of the boot as well.

There’s not as much blood as I expected,
I considered absently as I wrestled with the bootlaces.  
Why isn’t it bleeding more?  And when did it get so hard to undo a double-bow?

My fingers were trembling, slick with sweat and what little blood there was.
 It took twice as long as it should to get the laces undone and it felt like an eternity.  I could feel the hot surge of my pulse in the wound, though the blood only oozed sluggishly.

"
Oh, Christ!"  I gasped as I finally pulled off my boot, and then stripped off the sock to lay the wound bare.  It didn't look so bad, but the pain was nearly unbearable.  Any number of terrible images flashed through my head.

Infection.
 Blood poisoning.  Tetanus.

Oh God, when was my last tetanus shot?
 Before the plague,
I thought.  Panic rose in my chest. 
Oh my God.  Oh my God.  What do I do?

I didn't really know.
 I’d learned a little about first aid over the years, which was a necessity for surviving on your own, but I’d never been seriously injured before.

"
Stop the blood flow," I hissed between clenched teeth, giving orders to my shaking hands.  With one, I bundled up the sock and pressed it against the entry wound, while my other hand fumbled with one of the pockets of my cargo pants in search of the small emergency kit I carried out of habit.  Awkwardly, using one hand and my teeth, I got the kit open and peered at the contents.

There was antiseptic, which I was quick to pour on the wound, but beyond that I felt lost.
 I had nothing to prevent a worse infection.  People died from blood poisoning, from tetanus, from any number of ailments.

I had to find antibiotics.

I owned nothing more powerful than an over-the-counter dose of painkillers, and I knew there was nothing better to be found in this little township.  I needed a pharmacy – or better yet a hospital.  Although there would be no one there to help me, at least I could find the medication and administer it myself.

I hated needles, but I hated dying more.
 I refused to die.  It was not my time and I was not ready.

I would have to go.
 Leave my little safe haven and go someplace else.  I’d seen some hospitals in my travels to the south, but they were many, many miles away.  Te Awamutu was picked clean, and I couldn’t go further south without running the risk of encountering the very men I’d fled north to escape.  So my only option was to go further north, to the city of Hamilton.  There were bound to be survivors there, too, but what choice did I have?

I wasn't just afraid.
 I was fucking terrified.

I thought that I’d known pain and what it felt like to be totally helpless, but none of my past experiences compared to what I felt as I dragged myself to my feet and hobbled back to my Hilux, nearly crippled with agony.

Tears ran freely down my cheeks, but at least the bleeding was stemmed for now.
 It was a pretty knock-up job, to be frank, but it functioned adequately.  I used my sock for gauze and bound it up tight with the one pathetic bandage in my first aid kit.  It wasn’t enough, but I had to keep going.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of those badass soldiers that can stitch up their own wounds and be fit for battle ten minutes later.
 I was just an ordinary human being stuck in extraordinary circumstances, and right now all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry until the pain went away.

It felt like a kilometre, though it was really only a couple of hundred metres.
 It felt like it took an hour, though it was really only about ten minutes.  Eventually, though, I made it back to my truck.  Leaning heavily against the Hilux's flank, I fumbled open the driver's door with a hand that trembled uncontrollably, and suddenly I was glad that I'd left the vehicle unlocked.

Keys in the ignition, too.
 Good thing no one was about or I'd really be in a pickle.

Even in my damaged state, I took a second to check the rear of the cab, to make sure no one was hiding back there waiting to take me by surprise.
 I was in no position to do anything about them if there was, but paranoia was a hard habit to break.

Getting into the car proved easier said than done, even with two good hands and one good foot.
 Everything I did seemed to knock the injury around and send white-hot stabs of pain all the way up my leg.  I swore inelegantly every single time, then apologised to my mother's memory right after.

Under the circumstances, I
was sure that Mum would have understood, but that wasn’t the point.  I apologised for my sake, not hers.  Trying to keep my mother’s memory alive helped to keep me grounded and civilized.  Sort of.  

I braced myself on the handhold on the roof and literally hauled myself the last few centimetres into the cab.
 Shoving my butt as far back in the seat as was possible, I grabbed a hold of the fabric of my cargo pants for leverage.  My leg didn’t seem to want to bend right now, so I hauled it in with my hands.

Then I realised suddenly that there was another problem.
 It was my right foot that was injured.  My driving foot.

"
Aw, Christ." I gritted my teeth, trying the pedals with my bad foot.  Nope, not going to happen.  I could barely move it, not until the swelling went down anyway.  I was going to have to learn to drive with my left foot.   

"
Just what I need," I groaned to myself.  "Bleeding, in pain, and a menace on the roads.  I better put a seatbelt on."

Would that even make a difference
?  

I thought about it for a second, then buckled the belt anyway.
 Safety first.  Didn’t want to go getting myself killed, after all; I was fairly certain the other survivors would do it for me if I gave them half a chance.  Still, I had no other choice but to expose myself, or suffer a terrible death by infection.

Thinking about that sent a cold shudder down my spine, so I focused on figuring out how to drive with the
wrong foot.  It was hard, like learning to drive all over again, but better that than thinking about what happened the last few times I'd encountered other survivors.  I knew from experience just how bad desperate people could be.

At least I
’d learned as a result that I never wanted to be like them.  Ever.

***

By some miracle, I made it back to Ohaupo without hitting a tree or rolling into a ditch.  There, I met with a dilemma.  Did I return to my haven and get my things before I left, knowing that if I took them there was a chance I would have them all stolen by the survivors in Hamilton and be left with nothing?  Or did I go on without them, and risk being stuck in a situation where I needed them but would have to make do without?

One thing was for sure – I needed my GPS, and I needed my gun.
 That meant figuring out how to tackle stairs on one good foot.

I managed to make it out of the truck and into the store without falling on my face, which I considered a small victory in and of itself.
 The store was another story; I was forced to shuffle awkwardly amidst the plastic shards in a valiant attempt to avoid injuring myself any further.

Of course, like a diligent survivor I
had covered my tracks each time I came through here, so now there was no clear path for me to follow.  I ended up with a collection of nasty scratches by the time I made it to the office, but none significant enough to worry me any more than the bloody great hole I already had.  I didn’t have the strength to close the door behind me, but that didn’t seem to matter.  Everything was as I’d left it.  There was no one about but me.

And Tigger, apparently.
 She appeared behind me as I was crawling up the stairs on hands and knees, watching me with a curiously-tilted head.  I could practically hear her thoughts.  What on earth is that silly human doing?  Oh, she’s bleeding?  Goodness gracious, I better go beg for food, post- haste.  You know, in case she forgets that I’m a stomach with legs.

Sure enough, as soon as I made it to the top and struggled to my feet, she came bounding up after me and almost tripped me over.

"You know, you’re supposed to be a wild cat.  You’re not meant to be this friendly," I told her dryly, to which she replied with a heart-felt mew.  I guessed she was born and bred in the area so she’d never learned the wild cat lessons to fear big, scary humans.  I was a big, scary human that administered food, which made me perfectly okay in her book.

Even in my injured state, the need to nurture rose in me.
 I dragged myself into the kitchen to fill the kitten’s food dish, giving her the last of a tin I opened that morning just for her.  I’d been feeding the kitten regularly over the last week and she’d gradually become tamer, but she was still playing hard to get and wouldn’t let me touch her again.

Now I felt like that was a good thing; I didn’t know if I was going to survive this trip, so I didn’t want her to be too dependent on me.
 My reasoning for feeding her to begin with was that she was too young to be hunting on her own, but she was bigger now and I felt a little more confident she would be fine without me.

Truth was, she’d probably have been fine without me from the beginning, but a part of me wanted something,
anything, to care about in this dead world.  No, not wanted.  Needed.  Even without physical contact, little Tigger helped to alleviate the loneliness.  My eyes blurred, and I brushed the tears away impatiently.  No time for that now.

"
I’ll be back if I survive, I promise," I told the little kitten, who ignored me with great vigour.  She was far too busy to notice me; her face was crammed into her food dish as she gobbled down her dinner.  I left her to it and I hobbled out of the kitchen to the bedroom, looking for my pack.  There was a better first aid kit in there, and I needed to clean that wound before I went anywhere.

Needless to say, that was a painful experience.
 By the time I was done, Tigger had fled from the sound of my gasps and cries.  Personally, I was just amazed that I managed to stay conscious.  It was a close call at times, when the pain got so bad that that I started to see stars and got light-headed, but somehow I made it.

Hell, if that’s how much it hurt to clean the wound and wrap it in proper gauze and a bandage, I didn’t know how all those fictional soldiers were supposed to have been able to do their own stitches.

I probably did need stitches, come to think of it, but I’d pass out for sure if I tried to do it myself.  I didn’t have time for that.  The wound bled sluggishly, but the tension of the muscles in my foot staunched the worst of it.

"
God, this hurts like a giant flying inflatable bejebus,"  I groaned and closed my eyes for a second.  "Drugs.  I need drugs.  I think I have some in here somewhere."  

I dug into my pack, and down in the bottom I found a box of painkillers so old that the brand name had faded away
over time.  As I popped back a couple and washed the bitter tablets down with water, I hoped that they’d still have the desired effect.  They were just the cheap non-prescription kind, that I had found in a ransacked store years ago, back when the brand was still visible.

"
I really hope this stuff doesn’t go off – or go toxic,"  I muttered to myself.  "Well, I guess I’m about to find out."  

I didn’t have any time to waste on thinking about it, so I put the thought aside and focused on what I needed to do.

My boot was gone.  I had left it back at the farmstead, and there was no time to go back and fetch it.  Luckily, a few days earlier I’d found a pair of athletic shoes in my size.  With my injury, they would probably do a better job, anyway; they were old and worn by time, but the soles were soft and thick and they’d help me keep moving for a while.

I stripped off my other boot and tossed it aside, since it was useless without its mate.
 The only thing worse than wet boots was mismatched boots.  I was having enough trouble walking without my balance being off due to uneven weight distribution from ill-matched shoes.

Scooting along the bed on my behind with my bad foot awkwardly elevated, I stuck my nose over the edge to search for my new
shoes and a clean pair of socks; the old set were kind of a mess now.  I found both fairly swiftly, by throwing aside mounds of miscellaneous scavengings until I got my hands on them.  

The wound hurt terribly as I carefully pulled on the new footwear, a hot, rhythmic throb in time with my pulse, but once there was pressure on it I was surprised to find that the pain diminished a bit.

Maybe I’ve done the bandages up too tight
, I pondered with a brief flash of morbid amusement.  
Ah, well.  Not complaining unless my toes drop off.

Mission accomplished, I flopped backwards onto my bed and allowed myself a couple of minutes to rest and recover.
 I closed my eyes and drew long, deep breaths, trying to visualise the pain flowing away.  Whether it was the meditation or the medication, the pain did seem to lessen a little.

In all honesty, it was probably just the fact that I wasn’t trying to hobble around that eased the pain.

What’s the incubation period for tetanus, anyway?  

I tried to think back to high school health class, but I couldn’t remember.
 I did remember that time when Katie cut herself at camp, though.  They rushed her off for a series of injections straight away.

How much time do I have?

That thought stirred me out of a doze.  It was getting dark.  Could I stand to wait until morning?  Normally, I refused to go anywhere after sunset – it just wasn’t safe.  Unfortunately, right now my choices were kind of limited.

"
Just go now.  Get it over with," I told myself, and eased my aching body back up into a sitting position.  There was plenty of food in the car, and if I locked this place up nice and tight it would be fine without me.  I estimated that Hamilton was about an hour away by car, less if I drove like a maniac, so in theory I could be back before dawn.  I would sleep when I got home.

Filled with sudden determination, I grabbed my backpack and began sorting out the items I would take with
me.  The first aid kit, of course, in case I needed to change my bandages.  My GPS, since I’d never been to Hamilton before.  A couple of emergency pairs of socks and underwear – you know, just in case.  My sewing kit, for the same reason.  My taser.

And last but not least, the box containing the one thing I hated looking at most in the world, and the one I couldn’t discard.
 The thing that brought back so many terrible memories.

The last gift from my grandmother.

The very thing that had taken her life, at my hand.

I opened the box and looked at it, checking that the 9mm Smith & Wesson handgun was still in its place.
 It was, nestled alongside a couple of boxes of spare bullets that I had collected over the years.

With a shaking hand, I removed the gun from its place, and checked over all the moving parts, making sure nothing was rusted or stuck.
 It seemed to be fine.  Trying hard not to think about how it felt when I put the barrel against my beloved grandmother’s head and pulled the trigger, I slipped it back into its box and closed the lid.

I’d only fired it a few times since then.
 Each time, it’d been at another survivor rather than at the walking dead.  Well, no.  That was a lie.  I did try to shoot one of the infected once, but all that did was cripple the poor thing.

They no longer felt pain, and the only part of the brain left that was vulnerable was their brain stem, which was a small target and difficult to reach.
 The taser worked better on infected, and since it was rechargeable it just made more sense.  The gun was a weapon of last resort.