Authors: Jeremy Laszlo
I close the door softly as I make my way back to the living room and drop down on the dusty couch and look at the window on the far side of the room. It’s boarded up like someone was trying to fortify this place before everything went to hell. I don’t know how successful they were, but it let enough light through that I could see some of the outside world through the larger cracks. It’s hard not to remember the world as it was. If I close my eyes and listen, I think that I might open them and see everything like it once was. I might see life out there again—real life. But when I open my eyes, I know I’ll see the desolation and vacancy of the earth. There’s nothing out there worth seeing anymore. Everything is dead. Those of us walking are just too stupid or too defiant to realize it yet.
Lindsay comes into the room and slowly drops her pack and quiver against the wall, looking at me with an expression that is hard for me to read. Resting her bow against the wall, she crosses the room and drops down on the couch next to me. She stares at me for a moment and then without a word, she leans over onto me, cuddling with me on the couch and closing her eyes. I don’t know what to make of her anymore. I’m just grateful that she’s not pissed at me or ignoring me. At least right now, while she’s lying against me, I know that she’s here and that I’m not alone. In the end, I feel that both of us only wanted to have a companion to walk the wasteland with. We just made the fragile world too complicated. That was our mistake.
I wake up and the world is bright, making me wonder just how long I was actually asleep. Was it just an hour or two, or am I missing days? Blinking, I look around and realize that Lindsay is nowhere to be seen. I lean forward on the couch and look around for her. Rubbing my face, I blink and look out the window. I feel like I’ve been beat to shit. The nap on the couch was not rewarding at all. In fact, I feel more tired than I did when I sat down on it. My legs ache and my joints are hurting. I’m not sure if that’s from the malnutrition or if it’s from the exertion and terror from being chased in a manhunt. Pulling myself up and standing, I stretch and yawn, wondering where she’s gone off to. I look at the spot by the wall where her pack was. It’s gone.
There’s an argument to be made for the possibility that she’s abandoned me again and that I’m on my own. Maybe Lindsay is finally taking this chance to leave me behind. It was a tender final moment that we shared and I’m grateful that she didn’t stick a knife or arrow in me before leaving. I don’t know where she stands with me anymore, but I think that we’ve just had our final parting in the most benevolent way possible.
I walk through the house one last time, searching for her, hoping that she might be hiding in one of the rooms, taking a moment by herself. I don’t find her. In the kitchen, I see my pack and it’s abundantly clear that I’m on my own now. I stop and look at the door. The bottom lock is locked, but the deadbolt is unlocked. She left. I sigh and pick up my pack, slinging it over my shoulder and feeling the cramps in my stomach becoming restless. I need to find something to eat, soon. There has to be something in this city. Even if those religious nut jobs did loot damn near everything, they had to have overlooked something. If they murdered or ran off everyone else who lived in this city, that means they were busy at one point. If they were busy killing and hunting down others, then perhaps they were too busy doing that to be looting everywhere.
God, I wish I knew where their headquarters were. Wherever they are setting down roots is going to be the epicenter of this madness and that will be the area to avoid. It also gives me a range to avoid looking for food. I’ve never been in Atlanta before, so I don’t have a clue how big or in which way the heart of the city lies, but I need to go south. If I start walking, I need to know that I’m not walking straight into their main encampment.
This is a shit situation and I’m becoming tired of being in shit situations. The whole damn world is getting more and more insane with each passing day. It’s time to start adapting again—especially if I’m on my own. Something the lack of Lindsay has made certain of. I look at the door and frown. It’s time to get moving. There are a lot of houses on this street and they’re as good as a place as any to start looking for something to eat.
The rundown neighborhood offers little. There’s no way into the houses that are sealed up securely. Even with the bars, the neighborhood boarded up for extra security in these harsh and unforgiving times. It’s evident that these citizens of Atlanta were not given the luxury in life of having others or relatives with whom they might retreat and find refuge from the growing storm that loomed on the horizon for them. No, they had built their bunkers, turned on their neighbors and before anything too violent could transpire, these holy madmen showed up and must have cleared them out. I’m beginning to think that everything that has happened in this forlorn place is directly tied to the army of holy killers. It has to be.
I check the neighbors on both sides, but the doors are locked and with the bars and wood on the windows, there’s no way I’m getting into the houses quietly. Crossing the street, I find more of the same situations. I want to find someone, or something. Maybe if I could get ahold of a radio, I might be able to pick up a frequency or someone out there who is still peddling news and verbal diarrhea. They might be able to give me some sort of insight as to what’s happening in this city. I try another house and find it much the same.
Looking up at the sun, I point myself south and start walking west until I find an intersection. I stop at a four way and drop to one knee, slipping my pack off as I hide behind an old car from the sixties that looks just about the same as it probably did before the world went to shit. Thankfully, Lindsay didn’t go through my pack before she left. I wrap my fingers around the binoculars and lift them up, scouting to the west. There’s plenty more houses heading that way and soon they start to grow into two story businesses. To the north, I scout for any sign of hunting parties. When the coast is clear, I turn my gaze south and see no signs of life.
I should be hunting for Lindsay, trying to find her and make sure that she’s safe, but there’s no point to that anymore. She’s made her decision—one I was going to make for her myself yesterday. My road is south, it always has been. I stuff the binoculars back into my pack before continuing down the road. There’s nothing on the wind. There’s no noise here in Atlanta and that makes me a little bit more than uncomfortable.
What happened to the cannibals and the hunters? What happened to the packs of survivors? In Detroit, there had been thousands of different people moving or setting up camp in the city. It was a young emperor’s wet dream. Everything was up for grabs and because of that, there were supposedly factions of armed men taking to the streets everywhere. Of course, this was all balancing upon the belief that the Preacher was telling the truth. That army from the north that is nothing but a distant trouble, they no doubt ended all of those hopeful conquistadors’ dreams of being king of the dying world. Death and war was everywhere. Live by the sword, die by the sword. That was the motto of every city that I entered or came near to. In between those armies were the peaceful and the fearful, dying in droves and fueling the fires of war.
But here, things were oddly different. Here, these religious cultists had taken control of everything. How had they done it? How did they get the numbers to drive out the bandits and killers that believed in taking what was theirs, not finding it? There was a strange story behind this new city and I want to know it. What would it take to get one of those nut jobs alone? I suppose they were wise to that kind of treatment. Why else would they be wandering around in packs like they do? My best bet is to find a radio, if there are any left, and to see if I can’t hear someone talking about them, glean from it what I can.
Most of Atlanta is now flooded. I learn that the hard way. I come to a canal that has been backfilled with sewage or blockage of some kind. Either way, whatever source that the water’s coming from, it has covered the surrounding area in four feet of water. I slog into the enormous pool. For nearly a quarter of a mile, I’m living in a thick, horrendous swamp that smells bad enough to make me want to vomit. When I finally get to the end of the enormous lake that has encompassed this part of the city, I see that farther south there’s even more waiting for me. The sewers have backed up, the water pipes have burst, and everything seems to be running inward. The whole city is turning into a sludge-filled bog.
I hear a splash and I immediately drop down to a crouch. There’s not much cover in the street where I’m standing, but I first need to pinpoint where the sound originated from. I looked down the street and in the windows of every house that I spot. There’s nothing to be seen, but suddenly there are more splashes, farther off. Slowly, I look to the south, making my way toward the sound. Soon there’s a scream followed by another splash, this one’s much louder. Wading into the new water, I see little ripples passing me, fleeing from the source.
More splashing draws my attention and the alleyway ahead of me is suddenly full of movement. Two men are fleeing but only one of them clears the opening in the alleyway. The second immediately drops, thrashing in the water and groaning in agony. I recognize them as the religious zealots and my heart suddenly starts to pound. Taking cover around the corner, I draw my machete and wait for them. Whoever is chasing them, they’re liable to need some help with stopping this last fool. I listen, hearing the heavy, frantic breathing as the sloshing footsteps draw closer and closer. The water is churning out of the alley and I take a deep breath. The moment the man appears, I pounce.
Slamming the butt of my machete onto the side of the man’s face, I drop him with a single blow. Diving on top of the man, I force his head under water and look behind me, making sure that the alleyway isn’t filling up with more of the lunatics. The man’s body is squirming underneath my weight, writhing and struggling against me, but I keep him down. Just about when he’s almost done with this world, I pull him up and throw him against the wall. He’s thin and gaunt, but he’s fed. I don’t know what it is he’s eating, but it’s sustaining him. In a fair fight, he could give me a run for my money.
“Listen here and listen well.” I put my bladed stump against his throat and watch the drowned rat of a man slowly come to. He blinks several times and flinches suddenly when he realizes that there’s a blade at his throat. I make sure that my machete is tickling his stomach, just to keep the gravity of the situation for him in perspective. He looks at me and then his eyes dart up the alley where his friend has stopped thrashing about in the water. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me who you are and what’s going on up there. Ten. Nine.”
“We tracked the bitch,” the man answered in a squirmy voice that makes me uneasy. “We cornered her, but she knew we were on her when we went for her. She killed three of us. Carl and I were supposed to make a run for it while Leif held her down. She’s behind some car and he’s got his crossbow on her.”
“Your man’s got a crossbow?” I raise an eyebrow and my captive doesn’t take kindly to it.
“She’s a murderer,” the man growls through his teeth. “She’s going to pay for her sins. The Prophets will see to it.”
“Yeah, and who are the Prophets?” I ask the man.
“You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure,” the man spits in my face.
“Yeah, but you won’t,” I slip the blade through his soiled, white tunic and into his guts. The man gasps, but I cut off any screams he might have by dragging my bladed stump over his throat. Blood gushes down the man’s throat and I step back from him, sheathing my machete. Hoping to keep him from drawing attention of others, I pull him into the water and watch him sink to barely below the surface. He’ll rise, but hopefully I’ll be long gone by then.
They have Lindsay, and that crossbowman has her pinned down just ahead. I draw my machete again and slowly make my way up the alleyway, making as little noise as possible. My feet are true and my hand is steady. At the end of the alley, I peek around the corner and I take a look at the situation, seeing if it’s nearly as dire as my dead friend made it out to be. There’s two more dead bodies out in the small intersection nearby and I immediately spot Lindsay, or at least her legs. She’s behind a taxi and before I can get a better look, one of the windows explodes and I see her legs curl back, flinching.
“Come out!” a voice shouts from nearby, but I can’t find him. He has to be above me. He’s not on the street level.
Stepping out into the light, I move with my back to the building I’m at. I don’t know where this crossbowman is, but he definitely isn’t going to let me stick around and ask questions if he sees me. It’s some sort of shop that I’m in front of. I don’t bother looking at it, because right now, I need this asshole to shout. The windows at the front of the shop have been shattered and the flooding has filled the entire building. I take that as a good sign and sneak into the building, listening.
“You’re surrounded, bitch!” the man shouts and I catch where he’s at. He’s not in this building. He’s in the next. I step into the building, going deeper past tables and chairs. There are rows of display cases all around the room and I pick up that this is a bakery, or at least it was. Footsteps in the water register in my ears and I know that he’s near. Looking to the west, I spot an enormous opening in the building. The two businesses are connected. I peer through the wide doorway and see that the soggy shop next to my bakery is some sort of bookstore that has been severely damaged by flooding. Moving as quietly as I can through an ankle-deep pool of water that fills both buildings, I make my way toward the voice. “There are others coming this way,” he shouts again. “We’re going to burn you alive for the people you’ve killed.”
“Go to hell,” Lindsay shouts back to the man and gets a crossbow bolt in return. By the sounds of the man reloading his contraption, I know that he’s just on the other side of the doorway, which makes me begin to fear for every little sound that I make. If he turns around, then he’ll no doubt see the ripples of my movements in the water all around him. I keep still and listen as the man finishes reloading.
“Step on out and I’ll make it quick and painless for you,” the man calls.
I creep out from behind the display case and round the corner as quietly as possible, finally catching a glimpse of the crossbowman. He’s got his crossbow trained on the taxi that Lindsay is hiding behind. His eyes are glued to that taxi. There’s this strange little nervous, jittery dance that he’s doing, riling up the water and covering my own movements. He’s breathing heavily—terrified, anxious breaths. I get my machete ready.
“You’re an ignor—” I swing my machete down on the back of the crossbowman’s head, sinking the blade deep into his skull with a loud plunk that ripples through the bones in my arm. The man immediately goes limp and crashes into the watery floor of the bookstore, dropping his crossbow as well.
“Lindsay,” I call out to her, prying my machete free of his head. “Lindsay, is there anyone else nearby?” I look around, trying to spot any signs of movement, but I’m too terrified, too fueled by adrenaline to see or sense anything. There could be an army nearby and I feel like I’m missing all the signs of their presence. “Lindsay, answer me, damn it!”