A New World: Untold Stories (6 page)

Bill continued backing away from the snarling man. Blood from cuts on the man’s head streamed down his pale face but he acted as if he wasn’t injured. The bleeding man looked from Bill, to Dave by the front door, and back to Bill as if measuring which one of them to attack. Rounding the chair, Bill looked to Dave, pleading for help. Dave gazed at Bill, meeting his eyes momentarily, then at the intruder. He then fled out of the door, leaving Bill alone with the blood-covered man.

A memory surfaced. Dave had done something very similar back when Bill had been in the tenth grade and his brother in the ninth. Cornered after school by several high school bullies, Dave had fled, leaving Bill to deal with the beating. Bill had limped home sometime after, bleeding and bruised. His anger at his brother for leaving him had quickly faded and he had understood his brother wanting to flee. Bill wanted to do the same but the boys would have caught and beat them both. So, Bill stayed behind. However, this wasn’t the tenth grade and there was only one attacker.

Letting go of the memory and with a rising sickness and fear, Bill grabbed for the small, wooden end table. The man, seeing Dave flee into the darkness, rounded on Bill. With a jump that not many could perform, he leapt over the chairs, arms outstretched toward Bill. Startled by the method of the attack, Bill threw the table at the leaping intruder. Although the man slapped it away while still in mid-air, it gave Bill an opportunity to slide to the side, evading the attack.

The pale man landed where Bill had been standing, seeming surprised by him not being there. Backing up a step and reaching behind, Bill felt the cool metal of a fireplace implement. Not knowing which one it was, but obviously needing some weapon against the crazed man, Bill wrapped his hand around it.

With only a few feet separating them, the man charged as Bill was bringing the tool around, hoping it wasn’t the whisk broom.
He and the attacking man would probably die laughing if it was.

That would just be my fucking luck
, he had thought, barely able to get the instrument in front of him due to the speed of the attack.

He felt his arms jar as the invader crashed into whatever he had brought around just in time. Bill stumbled backward from the collision, the force of which caused him to lose his grip on the tool. The man faltered, his momentum caused him to slam into Bill. Falling backward, Bill felt the heavy weight of the intruder fall with him. He hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of him.

The man screamed in his ear and began clawing at him. Bill felt fingernails rake across his cheek and did his best to keep the attacker at bay. He was pinned under the attacker and couldn’t do much to defend himself. The pale face was inches from him. Blood flowed from the cuts on the man’s face and his lips were pulled back, revealing a bloody set of teeth. Frothy red liquid poured out of the man’s mouth, with bubbles of the same coming from his nostrils.

“Daaaave!” Bill shouted.

The man’s shrieking turned to a gurgle. A large amount of blood and mucus poured from the man’s mouth, covering Bill’s face. The attacker’s weight became heavy, falling fully upon him. Wiping the blood from his eyes, Bill saw that the man’s head had fallen to the side, staring at him with glazed eyes.

Recovering, with panting breath and a pounding heart, Bill shoved the interloper to the side. Wiping his face and seeing blood streaked across his arm, he rose. Gazing down at the man, he saw where a fire poker had entered the man’s abdomen, driving through his back from the force of the collision.

Coming out of his tunnel vision, Bill heard shrieks continue from outside through the open doorway and shattered window. Thinking that several people were drugged up to the point of attacking others, his thoughts immediately went to Dave, who had vanished into a night apparently filled with drug-crazed people.

Stumbling to the front door, Bill saw several groups of people running under the street lights. Some were shrieking while others appeared to be screaming in fear. About to call out for Dave, Bill noticed his red pickup missing from the driveway. In his fight, he’d missed that Dave had apparently taken his keys, started up his truck…and left.

“Dammit Dave!” Bill muttered, angry that Dave had once again left him in the lurch, and then had taken his ride.

Seeing the streets filled with running groups of people, some in twos and threes, others more numerous, he knew that wasn’t his way out. And it was obvious that being in town wasn’t the place to be. He needed to get back to his home and regroup. He’d look for Dave come morning when this had blown over and order restored.

We’re going have a discussion about sticking together and being there for one another when I find him. And he’d better not have wrecked my truck
, Bill thought, closing the door.

He went into his brother’s bedroom to grab the shotgun stored there. Collecting a few shells, he felt hesitant about going out into the night armed. However, giving what he had just been through, he’d be foolish to be without protection. Amidst the shouting, the distant sounds of pounding and breaking glass carried on the night air, dispelled any thoughts he had about staying and waiting for Dave.

Leaving through the rear door, Bill made his way through back yards, staying away from the screams that filled the night. Most had seemed to be coming from the center of town. His journey back to his place, playing the scene at Dave’s through his mind and hearing the continued chaos, seemed surreal. It was as if he had been watching himself walk through the darkened yards.

Arriving back at his place, he packed some of his belongings and hunkered down. The next day, he saddled one of his horses and rode back to town. The streets were filled with bodies. Their blood had dried in the arid air but left behind splotches and streaks. Stopping at Dave’s, there wasn’t any sight of his brother or his truck.

Downtown was a mess. Most of the windows from the shops were broken with bodies lying in the streets and along the sidewalks. Staring through the light of the day into the gloom of the stores, he could make out more bodies within. It was as if the town had just died. Keeping his shotgun at the ready, he expected more of the drug-crazed people to emerge. There wasn’t anything except a soft breeze blowing through the deserted avenues, ruffling the clothing of the dead.

The dead weren’t just dead though; they had been torn apart. He had ridden in expecting some law and order to have been restored. There was nothing but the remnants of the night. Riding back to Dave’s, he left a note telling him that he was at the hunting cabin and went back to his place. He didn’t know what had happened, but he packed more gear and rode into the hills. Over time, he came to understand exactly what transpired that night, several months ago. He never did find Dave, or his truck.

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Somewhere high overhead, hidden within the intertwining boughs, a squirrel calls its high-pitched staccato warning, drawing Bill out of the memory and back to his present predicament. Blinking out of the memory, he gazes upward at the branches gently swaying from the breeze. If it wasn’t for the intense throbbing in his leg, the bed of pine needles at his back and warm day would make for a great place to nap.

Gritting his teeth and knowing what is to come, he grabs his leg and rolls over, the pain causing sweat to immediately break out on his brow again. He bites down hard in order not to scream. There are infected still in the valleys below and he doesn’t want to attract their attention. That would be all he needs in his present condition. Reaching in front, he forces his weight onto his elbows and pulls his body forward. He grimaces at the effort and the piercing pain.

I’ve made it through everything so far. This isn’t going to defeat me. I’ll make it as far as I have to.

Earlier in the day, he thought he heard the sound of an aircraft in the distance but didn’t see anything, so he had put that out of his mind.

No use tricking yourself into believing something that isn’t there. Chasing down a false hope could be treacherous.

The headaches he had experienced from time to time since his fight with the infected one bothered him, but they were nothing compared to his present agony.

Just a few more pulls.

After seeming hours, he reaches out and his fingers wrap around one of the shoulder straps of his pack. He pulls it to him. Likewise, he is able to grab his lever-action 30-30.

Made it you bitch. Thought you were going to get me, huh?

He rarely uses the rifle to hunt, preferring to stick with his bow. The sound of the report would carry and he doesn’t want to attract any of the infected. However, he keeps it with him because, well, it would be stupid not to. His bow and quiver are nowhere to be seen, having been more securely attached to the saddle. When his horse finally wanders in, he’ll have it back.

Bringing his gear with him, he pulls himself to the nearest tree and, with sharp, sheering agony racing up his leg, he rolls into a sitting position with his back against the scratchy, rough bark. Panting from the exertion and pain, Bill takes a moment to recover.

Several thicker sticks are nearby and, with the help from his rifle, he pulls them toward him. Removing his knife and thankful that didn’t come free and impale him, he strips the bark and nubs from one side of several branches.

With effort, he pulls his pant leg up. Even through the swelling, the break is readily apparent. The area surrounding it is red and bruised. One positive point is that his leg length appears to be the same, denoting that only the tibia is broken. The broken ends of the bone haven’t cut through the skin or he’d have a lot of other problems down the road. However, the ends are adjacent each other so he’ll have to realign them. Dreading what he’ll have to do next, he removes a large length of 550 cord from his pack.

Painfully, he crawls to a nearby trunk and wraps the cord around it, bringing both ends back to his original place. If he doesn’t put the broken ends back to where they need to be, there’s a chance that the leg may never heal correctly and he’ll be crippled.

Bill ties one of the cord ends around his ankle and scoots a few inches away from his sitting position. He then places the pruned branches, with other lengths of cord ready to wrap around them, next to his leg. The lengths of branches are thick but purposely not long. These will be to hold the bones in place. He’ll tie longer splints afterward to secure his knee and ankle.

He readies the branches, looping the cord under them; ready to tie off quickly. With one end of the cord tied around his ankle, he pulls the other end taut around the tree behind him, securing it with a knot. With a stick between his teeth, he steels himself.

It needs to be done. The pain will only be momentary and fade. Come on, Bill, you can do this.

Biting down on the stick, Bill pushes himself backward, the rope at his ankle pulling tight. Red pain envelopes him, making him dizzy. The bones don’t move. Afraid of the pain, he’s hesitant to truly pull. He has one chance at this as the procedure he’s doing will cause intense swelling. If he can’t align the bones now, the swelling will prevent a further attempt. He’d have to re-break the bones later and go through the same thing. If he could.

Pulling himself harder backward, he feels the bones slide free. Nausea twists at his stomach and the pain threatens to send him into unconsciousness. Keeping the pressure, he pulls the branches to his leg and tightly ties the cords off, but loose enough to allow for circulation. He’ll have to monitor the swelling and loosen or tighten the cords as needed. If he doesn’t pressure the bones out of place, they should heal correctly.

Still gripping the stick between his teeth, Bill eases off on the pressure against the cord. The pain intensifies, and then eases. The nausea remains but his breakfast ceases trying to spill itself onto the forest floor. Spitting the branch out, he wipes a sleeve across his forehead, clearing the beads of sweat that had formed. With the pain easing, he begins to bind the longer splints.

Finished with splinting, he hopes that the splint will hold well enough to get him back to his cabin. He finds branches that will serve as a set of crude crutches. Bill then stows his gear in his pack and throws it over his shoulder. Rolling away from his splinted leg, he rises to his other knee. Using the tree, he forces himself into a standing position. He won’t be able to put any weight on the leg, but at least he’s upright.

Making sure to keep his weight off his leg lest he tear through any more tissue, he gathers his bearings and cautiously limps slowly toward his cabin, making sure to limit further damage. There is no way he’ll be able to survive in the long run if he doesn’t have all of his capabilities. He knows from his previous visits to town that the infected ones still occupy it, so there’s no help to be had there. There will be other problems to deal with once he reaches his cabin but, for now, getting there is his only focus.

He pauses as he crests a ridgeline, where a thin screen of trees barely holds onto a rocky and dirt-covered surface. Hobbling into a clearing at the top of the hill, a panoramic view unfolds and he can almost see to the town of Sturgis itself. Movement far away catches his eye. Leaning against one of the few standing trees, he pulls a pair of binoculars from his pack.

Gazing through the magnified view, he is startled to see a military vehicle making its way along a road cut into a ridge a little over a mile away. A deep ravine is between him and the moving vehicle. Reaching into one of the quick access pockets of his pack, he feels the sting of something cutting one of his fingers. Pulling his hand out quickly, he sucks on a small amount of blood oozing from a cut. Looking closer at what sliced into him, he finds shards of glass from his signal mirror.