Smith Read online

  Contents

  Smith

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Back Matter

  Smith

  Wade Adrian

  Copyright © 2017 Wade Adrian

  Cover design © 2017 Wade Adrian

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means - except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews - without written permission from its publisher.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2017 Wade Adrian

  All rights reserved.

  1

  The fever broke in the night. He sat up with a groan, covered in cooling sweat. Blankets fell onto the mattress beside him, lying on the floor of an old shed. The room was dim, a little lantern was trying but the batteries were dying. The bulb flickered, but it held on.

  For a moment or two, when he was probably far enough gone that people had lost hope, he had forgotten all that had happened. That the world really had ended with a whimper. It’s own fever hadn’t broken, but had broken everything else.

  He reached for the blankets and winced, his hand moving to his left shoulder. It was still bandaged. Heavily. Dried blood was showing through in long lines.

  There had been a first aid kit, a vague memory, but it wasn’t on the floor anymore. Just as well, he didn’t know enough to dress the wound properly.

  He tried to recall exactly what had happened that night, but all he could recall was darkness… and a pair of big green eyes. He didn’t known how he had gotten away, but he had lucked out stumbling into the hunter’s camp. All he had seen was light. He hadn’t know if it was a camp or he was really dying.

  Darkness outside the high window had nearly made its way into the small room. He picked up the lantern and smacked it a few times. The bulb lit up a bit brighter.

  Nothing else in the room had changed. It was still just this side of empty aside from a styrofoam cooler, a couple cardboard boxes that wouldn’t survive moving more than a few feet, and a duffel bag that was practically empty. That was his stuff. The hunters had carried him here after they had found him. Easier to transport his things in a bag. They had talked a lot, but he could barely remember a word of it. He’d gotten the gist of bits of it. Stories of home. Of the past. Assurances that he was going to pull through. It had been like that for days. At least, as best he could recall anyway. Probably through the worst of it.

  Yet he couldn’t recall seeing anyone for some time. A day had come and gone without anyone around. Maybe two. Granted, he hadn’t exactly been at his best. One of them had said his fever was dangerously high, but with all the pills that followed time had lost most of its meaning.

  The dying lantern was a bad sign. They were picky about light after sunset.

  His feet worked well enough, though he ended up winded just getting to the other side of the shed. The cooler had food and medicine. Supposedly air tight. The moldy loaf of bread said otherwise… and didn’t speak well of recent activity either.

  He sighed as he sat down, his back to the rough wooden wall. It wasn’t exactly comfortable against his skin, but the mattress looked really far away at the moment. He tore into a few sealed packets of crackers and a can of cold soup. He expected it would all taste amazing, the best he’d ever had… but it was bland. He didn’t want to eat it, but he knew better and choked it down. He emptied three bottles of water as well. He’d probably lost as much from sweating today alone.

  Rationing was probably smart… but right now he was trying to keep living.

  His eyes caught a note by the door, hanging beside a stopwatch. “Rest easy. Someone will be by in less than twelve hours.”

  The watch read 99:99:99. And it was blinking.

  Days at least since anyone was here. Damn. He glanced at the cooler. Another day or two of water and food. He could wait. Not ready to travel yet anyway. He pulled the watch down and started it again, just to make sure it wasn’t broken. It seemed to count properly.

  Oh well.

  His eyes fell on the bandages. He pulled at them gingerly, just trying to move them enough to see…

  The wounds had scabbed over. All the blood was dried. It still looked like a mess, though. Not knowing what else to do, he covered it back up and dug around in the cooler for the pill bottles. Pain killers and antibiotics. Probably not the worst idea in the world.

  He limped back over to the mattress with a bottle of water, took what the bottles said to, and climbed back under the blankets. He didn’t want to offend his gracious hosts.

  If they came back.

  It seemed a bit unlikely at this point… but he wanted them to. It had been months since he’d met a decent person on the road. He wanted to thank them, at least.

  He knocked over a few empty water bottles when he set the lantern down. Well, an outside observer might have said he dropped it, but it seemed fine. He must have downed a few bottles when his brain was boiling.

  It wouldn’t last at this rate, and he might need to move soon whether he was healed or not.

  A problem for tomorrow.

  The stop watch said he had slept for another seven hours when the sun finally got his attention. He groaned a bit as he sat up.

  The lantern had gone out. A check of the supplies left around the room didn’t turn up any batteries, so plans of waiting another day probably went out the window.

  He dug through the duffel bag. It had some rather significant holes in it, a few of which were already patched. The hunters that had found him had taken off his bloody shirt, which he couldn’t find. Probably reduced to rags anyway. But more important things had made it into the bag. He found his smaller shoulder bag, though it was empty as ever. His belt was rolled up beside his holstered revolver and his large knife. He’d been a tad concerned those would have gone missing… the gun might only be there because it was empty. If they didn’t have any rounds for it either, what was the point in taking it? Extra weight.

  One of the boxes provided a shirt and a threadbare hoodie. He borrowed them, sure his hosts would have insisted. They were stand up people… in his mind. He couldn’t recall many concrete details about them. A shame.

  He packed what food there was, mostly packets of crackers and bottled water, into his bag and set it down. Leaving today might be wise… or foolish. No one had come back, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

  He sighed. The world he lived in was no place for indecision. It got people killed.

  The bag weighed a ton as he slung it onto his shoulder, but wearing the gun and knife were a nice familiar sort of weight. He’d feel naked without them.

  He left the duffel bag and the rest of the supplies. He didn’t have any use for a hunting blind, deer food, or bright orange vests. Better to not be seen. Besides, it was their stuff. He was already imposing by taking all the food and water he could carry and raiding their cl
oset. Didn’t seem right to ransack the place.

  There was a pen in one of the boxes, so he unpinned the note from the wall, flipped it over, and scribbled up one of his own. “Food won’t last, need to get moving. Thanks for your help.” He stared at it for a moment. It seemed… adequate, if impersonal. He was no poet, it would have to do.

  As he piled up the things he didn’t plan to take as neatly as he could, he noticed a name tag on the duffel bag. “H. Smith.” Heh, no help at all finding the guy. Name was common as mud.

  The door had a few locks, all of which he could open from this side. The wood creaked and stuck a bit as he worked it open.

  It was still morning, judging by the sun. The world outside held little more than trees and distant clouds. A clearing just outside the shed had a circle of stones filled with long cold ashes, a few logs around it for seating, and a cooking spit that had been knocked over. A few large wooden boxes lined the front of the shed, but each was locked up tight. He didn’t know what they’d keep in there as opposed to inside, but he didn’t know much about hunting.

  None of it looked like anyone had been by in a good while.

  A chill breeze moved the leaves about overhead, and hit him square in the face. He shivered. If winter was on its way, the hoodie wasn’t going to be sufficient. He ducked back inside and grabbed a few light blankets from mattress and draped them over his shoulders. Layers were important.

  A glint of light caught his eye, a little shaving mirror he hadn’t noticed lying near the back of the shed. He picked it up.

  He looked gaunt, at least compared to what he remembered. No weight loss program like running for your life and eating only what you could find.

  The beard was the odd thing. He’d tried to keep it under control in the past, but wandering around in the woods didn’t leave a lot of time or tools for such things. It had grown in pretty good while he was slumming on death’s doorstep, too.

  It looked strange on him… but he didn’t entertain many thoughts of getting rid of it. It was only getting colder.

  He shut the door behind him as he stepped outside again. The blankets would have to do. He had no idea where he was anymore, this shed could be pretty close to where they had found him, but it wasn’t like he had much of a plan back then either. He’d been heading west, following the road.

  A sigh escaped him. He didn’t have any better ideas. There was a dirt path leading away from the shed, so he would follow than until he found a bigger road, then he would follow that until it lead… somewhere. People lived along roads. The woods had gotten thicker as he walked, making it hard to see anything more than a few hundred feet from the road. He might have wandered past several places already. No real way to know, so he would stick to the plan, such as it was.

  The woods were patchy, leaving large stretches of land clear, but trees were never out of sight as the road weaved in and out. The dirt path had lead to a dirt road, which had lead to a gravel road. He was hoping for pavement eventually. All this backwoods stuff felt… less than civilized.

  He had no means of making a fire when it got dark. There had been no lighters or matches at the shed. Not so much as a flint rock. The hunters probably had some, but things like that were in short supply these days.

  Instead, he found safe places to lock himself up at night. Old buildings, under bridges, inside the occasional rusted out car. Anything that kept him safe on at least three sides. When none of those were available, the old standby worked… climbing the biggest tree he could find and tying himself to the trunk. He’d never actually woken up because he fell, but an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of not dying.

  It was two weeks of that before he saw another soul.

  His hand fell to the gun at his hip as the shape appeared in the distance. A bright yellow coat and hat, clearly not trying to hide. He kept up his pace, not wanting to flinch first. Kind of a high stakes game of chicken. His gun was empty, so if it really came down to it he needed to be close enough to use his knife.

  It might not come to that, but he wasn’t naive enough to hope anymore.

  The man drew closer, of course. He wasn’t about to run, but he could hear the fool giggling before he could even make out his face. What he could see of it behind a bushy beard and under the silly rubber rain hat that matched his coat.

  The crazy yellow man made a beeline for him.

  “Close enough.” He pulled the little gun from his hip, pointing it straight at the giggling loon.

  The yellow man stopped, his smile fading. “Hmm.”

  “You keep walking, I do the same. Otherwise only one of us will, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be you.”

  Yellow tilted his head a bit. “Maybe that’s what I want.” A chuckle escaped his cracked lips.

  “Then by all means, continue.” He pulled back the hammer.

  Yellow frowned, held up his hands, and backed up a few steps.

  The revolver stayed in hand as he walked by Yellow, giving the loon a wide berth. “I see you following, I shoot you.”

  “Not very friendly.”

  “No? Maybe try not to laugh so much next time.”

  “I wasn’t laughing.”

  “Of course not.” He waved the gun. “Go on. Get.”

  Yellow put his hands down and continued on down the road. He watched him go until he could barely make him out in the distance.

  He was careful about leaving tracks for the next few days. He didn’t get much sleep. He was careful with his water, but food was scarce. He found a few things he knew he could stomach, mushrooms, berries, but he left anything questionable behind and tried to keep some of the crackers in reserve.

  The wounds itched. He tried to ignore it. It had closed well enough, and maybe some day it would just be another scar, but he would be careful today.

  Another two weeks passed without seeing anything more than the occasional deer and several noisy birds. His food was gone, and he was right back where he had been before his little stay in the hunting lodge.

  He sighed, sitting high up in a tree as the sun gave up on the day. He tied himself off to the branch, unsure of what else to try. He was in the middle of nowhere, following a little stream of fresh water. The woods provided things to eat, but nothing he would have called food a decade ago. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

  Maybe falling was for the best.

  He leaned forward on another branch as the last light in the sky faded. At least there was still some beauty out there, even if it preceded the dark that had tried so many times to kill him.

  He lifted his chin a bit, his eyes squinting, trying to focus.

  There was a light in the distance.

  2

  He tried not to move as a large spider crawled over his hand. He couldn’t lose his grip, the ground was too far down and he was too close to the walls. Someone would see if he started flailing about.

  Trees still weren’t the most comfortable places but he had found a renewed vigor as he traveled. Besides, they provided a vantage point and some visual cover… if one was willing to give up a quick escape. Fortunately, few people tended to look up.

  He’d been watching the walls for days now. Waiting. This wasn’t his first perch, but it was good one. The place below didn’t seem all that imposing. Some fenced in acreage, chain link, plywood to block the view. There was razor wire along the top. Standard stuff these days.

  Might as well be Fort Knox to him. The only way in was the gate. Even if he managed to sneak in, someone new would certainly stand out and he didn’t have the strength to spend his days hiding and stealing food in there. It was too small. There were too many eyes. Someone would notice.

  The spider moved on, his eyes following it for a moment. It had better places to be. With any luck, so did he.

  More than a few hunting and scrounging teams had gone out in the last week or so. None of them had the look of the people that had found him and nursed him back to health. Not surprising given
how far he had traveled. The people below had walked right by him, not looking for trouble this close to their walls. Things were supposed to be safe here. All the eyes were what kept places like this alive since everything else had gone to hell.

  Though the land beyond was overgrown to the point he had almost walked by this place, there were no trees taller than a few feet within twenty yards of the fence on the outside, and another ten on the inside. The tree he sat in was just beyond the outside line. Plenty tall enough for him to see buildings and some movement inside, and thick enough to hold his weight. The growth of this tree meant other trees had likely been closer, just removed. A few lonely stumps supported that, though most had been removed. Nothing left but shallow pits in the dirt.

  Smart to clear it out. Someone had some sense.

  Maybe that would help… or it might make things worse.

  His stomach growled.

  He reached into the bag at his side, even though he knew full well it was empty. Maybe he had missed a few crumbs. His hand scraped along the bottom of the leather bag. Less than sanitary for food, but such concerns had fallen by the wayside. Turning the bag upside down didn’t provide anything more.

  He let out a sigh.

  Nothing but bark and bugs for two days now. He wouldn’t last much longer out here. People just weren’t built for this sort of thing anymore. They’d all been comfortable just a few years ago. Fat, lazy… content. Thousands of years of farming had worked survival instincts out of most people, and he was one of them. Their forefathers might have killed bears with their hands and eaten things that were still kicking, but it wasn’t as simply done as said.

  Hell with it. He could sit and wait all day, but this was the best chance he had seen in months. Good enough for him to stay and watch for days rather than moving on. If they were keen on killing him, well… time and hunger were getting around to it anyway.

  He climbed down slowly, watching his footing. The loose blankets draped over his shoulders caught a time or two. He tugged at them and kept moving. The hoodie and blanket ensemble ended up being reasonable warmth. Almost as if people wore cloaks in the past for a reason.