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  Copyright © 2019 by Richard Dusk. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be (except for use in reviews) reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 01 The Dayspring

  Chapter 02 An Unlikely Friend

  Chapter 03 Too Good To Be True

  Chapter 04 A Second To Void

  Chapter 05 Catharsis Gone

  Chapter 06 A Nickel In My Head

  Chapter 07 "Jillian."

  Chapter 08 Headless By A Hair

  Chapter 09 Point Of Entry

  Chapter 10 Hope Elevated

  Chapter 11 Good Night

  Chapter 12 The Lie

  Chapter 13 The Clock Is Ticking

  Chapter 14 Wheels In Motion

  Chapter 15 One Percent

  Chapter 16 Battle Cry

  Chapter 17 Midnight Assault

  Chapter 18 Crazy For A Good Reason

  Chapter 19 Ashes Of The Enemy

  Chapter 20 Replication

  Chapter 21 A Minute To Remember

  Chapter 22 White Ice

  Chapter 23 Punishable Deeds

  Chapter 24 The Burden Of Choice

  Chapter 25 These Things Happen

  Chapter 26 The Greater Good

  Chapter 27 The Truth

  Chapter 01 The Dayspring

  I've been a year out here, forced to run away like a hunted animal. Yes, I've been counting days again, I know, but it helps as always, so don't judge me for doing that, okay? This year carved its marks into me. Why do you keep asking? It's not your business. I'm writing this for myself. Don't pretend you forgot all the suffering I had to go through. You were there all the time. You've seen it all through my own eyes. We both know the despair and harm all too well, more than anyone I've ever met.

  Since we've sheltered here, the pain in the chest got worse. It stabs whenever I stretch my back. The last storm lasted for too long, and dust with sand swirling out there are taking the tool. I feel how the grains scrape tissues in my lungs. It's like having an ocean inside of me. Do you get it? Sand and water create the ocean. Or should I rather say sand and blood? Hah, I know, I know. It's a lousy joke.

  Water, rains, and rivers are gone, so what am I laughing at? Those few downpours come and go like they didn't happen at all. If I ever find a river again, I've got to catch a fish. I don't know how, but I'll work something out. Did you peek outside today? I did. It's a chilly morning, but the sun has finally shown. How long has it been? A month? Two? Or we could track down a deer. We wanted to hunt and kill one a few months ago, do you remember? There might be a herd grazing somewhere in the woods.

  Imagine all the ways I could use it. Skin, meat, bones, and all the insides from muzzle to tail. Yes, I know my arm's cut! Go and fight a half-dead stranger in a dust storm yourself. Once he pulls out a knife to kill and rob you, you will be grateful for an injured forearm instead of an open artery in a thigh! You would kill him the same way as I did, so don't lecture me about humanity when it no longer exists. Why didn't I use my gun? What question is that? You know why I keep the last bullet. It's for me and no one else. No one. There will be nobody worth it anymore. I had another one before. For Sophie. But it is no use to her now. But this one's still mine, and I'm not going to waste it to ease dying of some bleeder.

  You've got to remember what I said in the beginning - give it a year and then make a choice. Look at the first page and tell me what you see. An exact amount of lines matching the days of a year. I made the last one today, so I guess the day has come. I'm almost there and still quite alive.

  Garrett finished writing with his blunt pencil. Sitting on a barstool in a bistro, he read over another one of many talks in his dirty jotter. He put it down and took a spoon from an empty can he finished minutes ago.

  "Rice soup. What else could be in there?" he frowned after he pulled the lid of another one. Soup's starchy and watery taste was barely enjoyable, and the tasteless, chewy chicken meat inside didn't make it any better.

  During six days spent in the bistro, he ate the same every day, though it was hard to swallow. Garrett came here exhausted on the first night of a weeklong dust storm. Unable to see, stumbling and leaning against the walls, he strived to open any door of any building still standing on the street, until he found unbarred doors of this suburban bistro. A small one - twenty people would have a problem to fit in. Black counter coated with the dust gleamed where Garrett wiped it with a sleeve. Four barstools of dark violet shade stood aligned and mounted by their silver legs to the cracked, dirty, hardwood floor, but the fifth one lay torn out on the ground. Fire-scorched plank walls crumbled bit by bit even with the weakest quakes, and ash piled up on the floor below.

  While he was eating the soup, he glanced at the reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall behind the counter. A slouched man looked back at Garrett from beneath the dirty, knife-cut, dark brown hair with many gray ones. The weather-beaten face carried a weight of the world in wrinkles around blue-brown eyes, but there remained a trace of vibrant life inside of them.

  Seeing himself sitting on the other side, he wanted to punch the mirror till it tears away from the wall and smashes against the ground. However, his fingers still weren't entirely healed after six months. He took out a bundle of maps from inside the coat and spread one on the counter, leaving rest lying aside. It was torn and wore signs of many folds and dirt that wind blew into Garrett's pockets. He looked closely and marked the place where he probably is. A pencil-drawn line showed the long journey he has already passed.

  Looking outside through the door at the remains of early morning town, he saw the sky cut in halves. A pewter-colored, perfectly calm flat layer of clouds reminding strokes made by the hand of a master painter passed at once into a glowing, golden-rose mist of swirled dust falling to the ground. This short splendid moment quickly faded away as the rising sun disappeared behind the clouds high in the sky. Garrett coughed moist air out of his aching lungs towards the door and watched it condense. Cracked roads with uprooted bare trees, cars wrecked or shattered to pieces, remains of human bodies, and ruins of buildings outside gave him the same sight as all towns across the land. This was the fourth one he stayed in for a longer time than a single night. Garrett examined the barricaded street full of rusty armored trucks to find out where is this bistro located, but anything like that ceased to exist a long ago.

  "If I am somewhere around here," he pensively drew a line from the last marked X to the city he was pointing with finger on, "it must be about," he measured the length between his thumb and forefinger on the map scale and guessed the distance, "eight miles east, road twenty-four and then to the north down the road number… Eight," he traveled with eyes across the map and tapped with the spoon on the chin.

  Garrett didn't know this map very well. He found it two days ago in a pile of old junk, but it was the one he missed the most to take a proper final course. The plan he had remained the same since the beginning, but the small fragments changed all the time. And now, when he's only a few miles away from the destination, he wanted to be sure that everything goes smooth.

  "Damn, just trees? No shelter? I thought there would be something," he explored the green line of the forest.

  Every time before he made any advance, he searched for shelter in the reasonable vicini
ty. Any storm could be strong enough to be his last one. He painfully stretched and took the map in his hands to find a building on the road ahead. A tiny white square within reach from his final X was hiding in a map folding. He moved the map closer to the nose.

  "Abberv- Par- G-s," he distinguished some letters. "Hope it's still standing, whatever it is," he licked the spoon for the fourth time and laid it down.

  The world gave him just one minute to peacefully sit. Out of nowhere, darkness flashed around him as if he switched off the light for a second in a deep rock cave while buzzing noise delved into his brain. His hands held the map, he felt it but didn't see it. He looked over the counter where he had seen rusty coffee maker and cracked mirror before but now saw only himself a few inches in front of his own face. Stretching out his hand, he wanted to catch the intangible image. Garrett turned around to benches where he slept past nights, but a door with a red bold writing STORAGE appeared there. He reached to open it and almost fell as he grabbed air, rebalancing himself in the last second. Squeezing his eyes shut, he groped after counter behind him and turned back. He pressed elbows against the wood and held his head in hands. Sitting there, counting seconds one by one, he heard a cawing of birds flying somewhere near.

  With every breath Garrett took, the flock was closer. Cawing turned quickly into a loud shriek, reminding the fight of numerous birds over prey. A single thud hit the roof. Then came the second. Third. And then it happened. Four dozens of birds hurtled down, hitting ground and hip-roof of the building, one by one. They squeaked and rolled down to the dust. Thuds brought back the memory of distinct hammer hits and scratching, which Garrett needed to hear only once to remember for eternity. Sitting there, unable to do anything, he strived to concentrate his mind on the miles ahead but couldn't. His only option was to sit blind and listen.

  Garrett opened eyes into silence and saw the map and the counter again. The spoon lay on his right, empty cans on the left, and the coffee maker in front of him. He turned back and saw his backpack between benches.

  "Another one," he scratched his forehead.

  After the year of living in this world, he didn't care much. Many events happened for the first time lately. Even though they were new to him, he isolated all he could from his attention to making the survival bearable. Garrett briskly jumped off the barstool and nearly tripped on the lying one. It was wrenched off the ground since the night he walked inside.

  The first time when he shut the door of this place to keep the dust outside, staggering, he almost fell inside. He untied bandanna protecting his mouth and nose and switched on a pocket lighter. He threw his wooden pole on the ground and pulled out a pistol for any possible stranger hiding in the dark. It took him only a few seconds to explore the cramped interior with light feebly filling the room. His hand bled a few minutes ago, and he only prayed that the tightened bandage will keep it that way. As he passed behind the counter and rummaged in racks, turning empty bottles bottom top and throwing garbage on the floor, he noticed the shut storage door. At the edge with the strength and delighted by the image of food inside, his body took control over reason. Garrett grabbed the knob and turned. Locked. He turned again but got the same result. Quick thoughts ran through his mind about viable ways of opening it. He attempted to break in with his own weight but nearly broke his shoulder. The confined space at the door didn't let him move more than two steps back to gain sufficient momentum. The lighter was useless, and Garrett put it carefully on the counter. He walked with the rumbling stomach to the middle of the bistro, looking for anything to ram the door with. Stools were the only proper thing that fell into his sight. He stood over one and pulled it with all the strength of his healthy arm.

  "This won't work," he heard his backbones crack and threw the bag on the ground.

  He sat down, put legs around the stool's iron leg, and pressed against the counter's base. He grabbed and pulled it. The pressure made the vein on his forehead stood out. The sound of splitting wood poured strength into his weakening muscles and made him pull harder a bit more. The rotten wooden planks couldn't resist anymore. He ripped it off the ground, tipping over. Spitting dust and splinters, he stood up and grabbed the new tool to help him get through. On the brink of his strength, he walked back to the door while the forearm started to bleed again. It soaked through the sleeve, but pain and dizziness coming from exhaustion pushed this away from his care. Holding the barstool by the iron leg towards the door, he raised it and struck the knob, breaking it off. Repeated strikes ripped the lock away, and the door swung open. He immediately threw the barstool over the counter and rushed inside.

  With the first breath his stomach violently cramped, and he fell on all fours while fluids sputtered out of his mouth. A terrible stench inside the room was outrageous. Bent forward in the dark, he wiped off the drool and covered his nose with a sleeve. Painfully breathing his lungs empty, he moved back to get the lighter. Standing, holding the stomach to suppress cramps, he exhaled every last bit of reek. Smelling the stench coming from the storage and enclosing him, he took the folded bandana and covered his nose to avoid throwing up. Cautiously coming back, holding lighter high, he explored the room by sight, hearing subtle buzzing inside.

  The dirty room with iron-barred windows was boarded up with wooden planks and old yellowed newspaper clippings taped to them. People with terrified faces on photos ran away from the bridge falling down on them. The headlines were eye-catching, Four Horsemen Has Arrived! or Nostradamus Was Right! The printed date stated precisely one year ago - 2038. Garrett shook his head, tore the papers off, and explored the storage from left to right. Heavy metal shelves fallen like dominos, died out fire ring, piles of rubbish and broken three-legged wooden chair were no use to him. Rightmost, his sight glimpsed at something dark and big.

  Squinting, he tried to distinguish the object and moved closer. The source of the smell overwhelming his senses came from the hanged man in the corner. Garrett winced and looked at him from head to toe. They were dressed almost the same. Light brown coat, few layers of sweaters, gray holey pants, and black leather gloves. Garrett had a black cap on his head, and his worn-out leather boots weren't missing. He looked at him just once, and his stomach cramped again, forcing him to search the room for at least a sign of unspoiled food rather than smelling a decaying body. Crawling through all the garbage scattered around, he found nothing. He strewed everything across the place to spot even if only one can, but no sign like that appeared. The world spun with him, and he fell to the ground. Lying and smelling the stench, he barely held the lighter. His vision blurred, and he waited to faint forever when he noticed a reflection below the iron shelves - a little gleam coming from beneath the planks of the wooden floor. He crawled on all fours and wrenched the loose plank.

  Shiny, spotless, unlabelled cans undoubtedly filled with food. Somebody hid a pack away from the eyes of thieves. Garrett quickly grabbed a few, and staggering got out of the storage. He slammed the door and walked to the counter, pushing the smell out of his lungs again. Three cans shone in a weak light like a treasure. He opened the first one and dipped a dirty forefinger in. Only when he swallowed the last bits, he realized that he ate strangely-tasting chicken and overdone rice.

  "Finally something," he began gulping and chewing bits inside.

  While the storm raged outside, his mind wondered who that man was. Owner? Robber? Or merely a man whose spirit couldn't bear the weight of this world? He wanted to enter that room again and explore things he could take - food, clothes, water, or anything he may need.

  Tomorrow, thought Garrett.

  His body gave him a painful sign through the bleeding arm about the treatment needed. He took a medkit from the bag and poured a bit of alcohol over the slash. It burnt and required stitches, but fortunately, none of the tendons were cut. It was better for him to do this painful procedure rather than walking outside with a fresh wound, risking an infection. While he was sewing the skin and eating the rice soup at the same time, he thought
about his fingers he treated half a year ago.

  "I should have been a doctor," he examined the quality of fresh stitches.

  It didn't bleed anymore, and he packed everything back into the kit. He took another can with soup and unrolled the sleeping bag on the cold, squeaking, ash-covered floor between two benches. His pole lay on the ground, right where he dropped it. He picked and thrust it through handles to jam the door. With the lighter in hand, he lay down and put the bag under his head.

  "Sometimes, a man has to suffer to appreciate the comfort he has," he punched the restless pillow for his exhausted body. He shut the lighter and opened the can. Looking at the ceiling, he listened to the storm and thought about the tasty luck that struck him this day.

  Chapter 02 An Unlikely Friend

  Garrett spent the whole second day of the week searching through the storage. Not because of the room size but because of the sickening stench inside. He had to take a break every ten minutes and walk to the counter to take a few deep breaths. Rooting through piles of magazines with faces of celebrities, empty soda bottles, moving cardboard boxes full of books, cracked chinaware, frames with photos of the old postman with his family, and broken electronics, he found another box with cans hidden in the wooden floor. Almost half of them were moldy, pierced by a broken knife flung aside. He tore off magazine pages and wiped every good one. Two dozen unspoiled cans placed on the counter in a single row. The last time he had this much food, he found with his daughter an overturned truck crashed at a river bed spreading through the forest of a national park.

  Packing the rest that left him after six days, he was preparing to leave the bistro and go on. He pulled the sleeping bag from between the benches, shook the ash and dust down, rolled it up, and strapped to the bottom of his backpack. Ready for the journey, he looked around, searching for his wooden pole.

  "Where is it?" he walked up and down. "Right," he noticed it thrust in door handles to block the wind and any unwanted visitor from smooth opening. He pulled the pole out, opened the door, and felt the cold air hit his face.