Walking in the Rain (Book 1): Surviving the Fall Read online

  “Think we should look?” Amy asked a touch apprehensive. She was still having trouble getting comfortable with salvaging versus looting, at least how I defined the terms. “Looting” meant taking from someone either still in residence or likely to return. So, I had no problem with people shooting looters.

  Salvage, on the other hand, is the repurposing of abandoned or lost items for your own use. If someone was still residing in that house or if I found any sign that indicated the people who lived there might be coming back, we would pass it up. Unless we were starving, and then all bets are off. I kept this caveat to myself, not wanting to alarm Amy, but it is a hard, cruel world we live in these days.

  However, a quick solo reconnaissance of the house and surrounding out buildings showed the property to be abandoned. I found no bodies or sign of struggle, just broken dishes and paper trash scattered everywhere. The kitchen in particular looked to have been attacked with a baseball bat or something similar since all of the glassware looked shattered and most of the metal cooking pots appeared caved in with dents. Someone, or several someone’s, must have found the cupboard to be empty and taken offense.

  “Looks clear,” I told Amy once I found her hiding spot in the barn. She was getting better at picking good, unexpected places to conceal herself. This time she used a pair of empty fifty five gallon drums to cover her in front while laying a tattered old horse blanket over the top. I could tell from the dust on the concrete floor that this time she had not moved the drums, a move that gave her position away before when we played this game.

  “See anything good?” She asked, dusting her hands off on a shop towel she found in the barn.

  “That towel for starters,” I said then continued. “The homeowners had at least one daughter still living at home. Her room is at the top of the stairs on the left, so you might want to look there first. I didn’t check anything yet, just made sure we don’t have any surprises. You know how I hate those.”

  “Yep. Your parents must have hated trying to buy presents for you.”

  Fortunately for us, the fire failed to catch more than the curtains and carpet on fire in places so other than a little smoke damage and busted out windows, much of the house looked intact. From water stains I saw in the smoke trails leading up the walls, I wondered if the looters had tried to set the house on fire in the rain.

  While Amy was occupied upstairs, I headed back to the kitchen to nose around a little more while also keeping my ears cocked for any sounds not coming from upstairs. With Amy along for the time being, I wanted to add to our meal prep items and in short order I located a frying pan, a stainless steel stock pot and a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like a pair of duck decoys. The pepper shaker was only half full but the salt shaker looked completely full, so I used some tape to cover the tops of both. Pepper is nice to have but salt is a necessity.

  After I found the kitchen’s junk drawer I felt like doing a little happy dance. The looters, so fixated on food, overlooked a treasure trove of Bic lighters, LED flashlights, and a number of rolls of wire. The wire stumped me until I saw all the screws and realized they were for hanging pictures. I was thinking more along the lines of additional rabbit snares. Maybe a garrote, if I could find the right gauge wire. I’d read how to fashion a garrote in one of my father’s survival books but never tried to make one.

  After a half hour of adding to my already bulging pack, I heard unfamiliar steps coming down the stairs and spun hard, my hand on my pistol, to find Amy transformed. Gone were the filthy jersey, baggy sweat pants and the grime darkened CASE tractor cap I had loaned her. These ragged items were replaced with snug fitting jeans and a flowery pick tank top that hinted at more cleavage than I knew she had. Even the nearly new tan hiking boots she now wore looked to be in good shape. She was so happy these boots fit, even though they were a half size larger than she normally wore.

  Somewhere, she had also managed to clean up and then I could make out the faint floral scent. Baby wipes, I thought. For the first time I really got a chance to see Amy with a clean face and with her shoulder length blonde hair brushed out, she looked good. And cute. Okay, she was more than cute. Looking like she did, Amy was a full on teenaged boy’s fantasy girl. We would need to talk about that fact. Carefully. Just not right now.

  Now, I didn’t know a lot about girls before the lights went out, and the last six days spent with Amy had done little to expand my knowledge base. However, from tidbits Amy let slip I managed to figure out that her uncle was a last chance refuge for her, after her parents had somehow managed to get themselves dead. The thing is, I think what almost happened with those three dirt bags I killed might have happened before, with her uncle renting her out. So, from what little psychology I knew, Amy was probably suffering from poor self esteem on top of the PTSD, survivor’s guilt and whatever other crazy we all carried around with us.

  So, I wouldn’t judge Amy and I sure as hell didn’t blame her for getting sold off by her monster of an uncle. I figured her ego could use a little stroking at this point, and I was willing to provide that praise.

  “Wow, Amy, you look great. Glad to see some of the clothes made it through the fire okay.”

  Amy rewarded me with a big, toothy grin that looked real for once, and I had to match it with a smile of my own in response.

  “Oh, yeah. There’s some things clearly missing from the closet but still I have some clothes to choose from. And they even fit me.”

  “You have a chance to check the other closets yet? I’m starting to run low on clothes myself.”

  Amy gave a shy little giggle before replying.

  “Sorry, this guy was short and chunky. 30 inch length with a 44 inch waist on most of the pants I saw.”

  I sighed theatrically at the news but I figured as much from the few remaining family pictures I saw around the house. At nearly three inches over six feet, I was tall for sixteen and I used to be big through the shoulders and arms from farm labor and working out. Since the lights went out, I’d leaned down so much my body carried little excess. Just about all muscle and bone these days. Under one hundred sixty pounds if that mechanical bathroom scale I’d tried the other day was close to accurate. I feared I might be even lighter than that, the way my ribs showed. I was concerned, but would not let Amy know for the time being.

  “Well, did they at least leave any socks? What about shirts and underwear?”

  I ended up taking three shirts, all of the remaining athletic socks remaining in the drawer, and two almost new pairs of black boxer briefs. Despite everything, I still felt a little weird wearing some stranger’s underwear, but reasoned that it beat continuing to go commando. I wanted to ask Amy if she felt the same way, but then came to my senses at the last minute and kept my mouth shut.

  Selecting one of the denim work shirts, I headed into the master bathroom to change and decided to nose around for supplies while I was in there. The medicine cabinet had been cleaned out but in the small towel closet I found a stash of hotel soaps, shampoo bottles and even a compact sewing kit. These looked like souvenirs as they all bore the logos of high end hotels. Under this treasure trove I also discovered two boxes of maxipads and I felt my face redden as I scooped them out as well. I figured Amy would appreciate them at some point, if I could muster up the courage to give them to her.

  “What do you think happened to them?”

  I turned and gave Amy a fake frown of disapproval as she entered unannounced.

  “Uh, excuse me miss, I’m dressing here.”

  “No, you are not,” Amy replied with a little giggle, “you are salvaging. And you have all your clothes on.”

  “Yeah but I might have been naked.”

  “Nah, I knew you weren’t. I peeked.”

  I felt my face flush a bit. This was getting into unfamiliar, uncomfortable, territory again.

  “Well, anyway, I have some stuff here to go in the take pile. Soap and shampoo and…” I paused, and Amy quickly filled in the silence.

>   “Oh, did you get those pads for me? Thank you.” Then she waited a beat before continuing. “I want to put them in my pack but I’m not sure there would be room. Will you be a gentleman and carry them for me?”

  Amy’s voice was so sappy sweet that I immediately smelled a rat.

  “Bullshit. You set me up to find those, didn’t you? You knew I would search the closet like I always do.”

  Amy grinned again, answering my question before she spoke a word.

  “Yeah, guilty. I just wanted to see what you would do. A test, and you passed. Hooray.” Amy smiled again and then a shadow seemed to pass over her thoughts. I could tell she had grown serious again.

  “What do you think happened here? Did this family make it out alive? I know you can tell, Luke.”

  I nodded. “Looks like they did. Of course, no bodies so that is a good sign. Also, I suspect they had transportation that still ran. My guess would be an old diesel truck based on the tools and parts I saw in the garage. They left, bugged out, and some time later a group of looters showed up and pulled the arson after stealing the obvious stuff.”

  “I hope they made it somewhere safe with their kids. From the pictures, this family looked really nice.”

  I noted her use of the past tense. They might have been really nice before, and the family might still live, but these days just about nobody could afford to be “really nice” lest it cost them their life. I didn’t want to debate the topic with Amy though, especially since I figured if a family went to the expense and time to frame and hang family pictures, they darn well better look nice and homey. Who wants to see Pops sitting with his muddy rubber boots propped up on the coffee table or a snapshot of Mom chugging the cooking sherry? Not me.

  Thinking about these missing folks got me thinking about my own family. My parents, freaks that they are, really seem to like each other. Always holding hands and kissing like a pair of newlyweds. I made a point of always thinking of my parents in the present tense, rather than in the past, because in my mind they are still alive. That is all I’ve got to hang on to right now. They are alive and waiting for me to show up.

  After we finished collecting our salvage, I led Amy back around to the barn and we set up camp. The family that had once lived here, the Turners, had kept horses at some point. None remained, but the six horse stalls lining the east side of the barn made for some cozy little rooms.

  “No fire tonight?”Amy asked as she arranged the armload of horse blankets into somewhat comfortable mats. This was the same question she asked every afternoon or evening as we prepared for the night.

  “Sorry, not tonight,” I replied just like I did every evening. A fire at night, or even the smell of smoke, was a beacon to our location. We continued to cook in the morning or at mid day, but still only if we were going to immediately leave the area. Winter would be a different story but we were still in the midst of summer and the nightly drop in temperature was a welcomed relief from the heat.

  I understood Amy’s desire. A campfire was comforting, but I would not take the risk. Instead, I used the fading light to work with Amy on the care and use of our weapons. Having my little friend comfortable with firearms larger than a .22 rifle would go a lot further in insuring my peace of mind.

  My effort teaching Amy about our new weapons was not exactly the blind leading the blind. My father had drummed the basics of firearm safety into my head from an early age and by the time the lights went out, I had gotten to be a decent shot with rifle and shotgun. Okay, more than decent.

  I also knew my way around pistols, and I tried to impart those lessons to Amy. Every day we spent a few minutes drilling on fundamentals using one of the weapons in our little arsenal. Today, I used the Ruger P95 as a teaching tool to familiarize Amy with the way a semiautomatic pistol operates, and fails. Like me, Amy had grown up hunting but she had no experience at all with handguns or larger caliber rifles. Thinking about bagging small game reminded me to go set my wire snares, so I asked Amy to go through the ammo “grab bag” to sort out any 9mm rounds for me while I went out for a few minutes to place my traps. I should have either done this myself days ago or asked Amy for her help sooner. Having another set of willing hands was still something I needed to remember.

  “Any luck?” I asked Amy upon slipping back into the little nest we had built. She held up six rounds in the palm of her hand, the brass just visible in the fading light. Though I’d hoped for more, every little bit helped.

  “Cool. That will help. Thank you.” I accepted the offering and gestured for the girl to join me at a seat closer to the door to catch the sun’s dying rays. I set out the handguns salvaged from the three dead men, and after ensuring all were unloaded, I coached Amy on handling them. One of the revolvers was a nine shot model in 22LR made by a company I’d never heard of, High Standard, which appeared to be in good shape despite its age. The 22 Long Rifle cartridge was not an intimidating caliber, but for a skinny girl like Amy the High Standard worked as a nice starter sidearm. In fact, she had been carrying the long barreled revolver for the last few days in the Western style holster that came with the weapon. Once she grew more comfortable, I would see about either switching her over to the other revolver, a Dan Wesson Model 15 in .357 Magnum, or my own Ruger P95.

  She picked up the Glock 21 and I encouraged her to handle the pistol but I quickly explained that the Glock was shortly going to be my new sidearm.

  “But, the other pistol, that is your gun, right? I mean, that one has gotten you this far, why switch?” Amy asked, not concerned but surely puzzled.

  I nodded, acknowledging the point. “That Ruger is a fine pistol, but I’ve only got thirty six rounds for it, counting what you just gave me, and one magazine. I’ve got a lot more 45ACP, which the Glock uses, and three spare magazines. If it shoots even halfway decent, I will go with the new pistol. I’m not going to throw away the Ruger, Amy. I’ll find room for it in my pack.”

  The lever action rifle was a decent find, a Rossi M92 in .357 Magnum, which meant it used the same caliber as the Dan Wesson revolver. I had a lever action rifle at home, a Marlin 30-30, but this rifle was shorter and lighter as well as featuring only the iron sights it came with. I at least knew the sights were still true; having dared a trio of shots earlier in the week and found the rifle gave us a little bit more range in our defense. Maybe out to one hundred yards, if push came to shove. The shots I took at fifty yards grouped a few inches to left of the makeshift bullseye, a leaky plastic bucket I hung from a tree and dabbed with mud. I would have preferred my Marlin or even the old Mosin Nagant M44 carbine my dad let me plink with, but salvagers take what they can get.

  The shotgun, on the other hand, turned out to be better than expected. The Mossberg 500 indeed boasted an extended tube as well as ghost ring sights and a sidesaddle rig to hold an additional 5 spare shells. I’d used this style of shotgun before and I knew it was absolutely devastating with buckshot out to thirty yards and maybe double that with the right slugs. Amy carried the shotgun for me but I wasn’t sure she was up to the recoil except in an emergency. Of course, everything out here was pretty much an emergency, all the time.

  When I made that observation out load, Amy chuckled a little bit.

  “Well, at least we ain’t stuck walking in the rain. Got a roof over our head tonight and nobody chasing us? That is cause for celebration.”

  I thought about Amy’s words and smiled. She’d said a lot without even realizing it. With that, I opened our mess kits while Amy retrieved our dinner, a plastic sack containing two roasted squirrels left from lunch. Not exactly fancy cuisine, but it was food. I figured a lot of folks were going to bed hungry that night, so I was happy to be eating my dinner.

  Later, after we settled down in our bedrolls, I let Amy snuggle up next to me and lay quiet in the dark, listening. I heard all the common night sounds, like owls hooting and coyotes barking. I heard the wind in the grass, and the rumble of distant thunder. But, I never heard an engine, or any other sign tha
t man still roamed the world. I knew they were out there, my fellow survivors, but that absence of man-made sound still weighed heavily on me. I was a long time getting to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After a quick breakfast of honeyed rice and shredded rabbit meat the next morning, I hauled out our maps and began to plot the next leg of our journey. The rice had been cooked the day before but still tasted fine. I really wish we could start heating our meals onsite but my father’s admonitions about cooking smells stuck with me.

  He’d served two tours in Iraq early on in the war, back before I could even remember him being gone, and he’d talked many times about his men finding the insurgents by following their noses. That didn’t work in the towns, but out in the wadis and rural settings, the smell of cooking could be followed for quite a ways.

  Amy had seen the maps before but this was her first chance to take a closer look at the unfolded pages. Some came from actual gas station maps while others were atlas pages I’d cut out. Everywhere I’d been, dots and annotations could be seen spread about the route. I never offered to explain what the dots and cryptic notes meant and Amy never asked.

  “Wow” she breathed, “that’s a lot of miles. And look, I can’t believe we’re already in Arkansas. I guess I missed the road sign.”

  That was our little joke, since we avoided built up areas and roads wherever possible. I didn’t have to tell Amy that bad things happened when you get people concentrated. The major highways were bad enough, but even small towns needed to be skirted. The big cities, well, I’d told Amy some of my experiences leaving Chicago and trying to work my way around St. Louis. I’d left out most of the worst parts of those stories, but what I had shared made her understand. Going into the big cities meant killing, or being killed.