Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (18 page)

“Tie them to the bikes?”

“With what?”

“I don't know,” he growled. “The fishing line.”

Gemma looked pointedly at the trailer.

“What do you suggest then? We're better off being warm and dry than comfortable.”

“You might be,” Gemma said, unrolling the sleeping mat she was holding.

“What are you doing?”

“We might have been reduced to a third world country,” Gemma pulled the sleeping mat over the trailer, “but I still want the small comforts in life.”

Christopher stared at her stupidly.

“Hurry up, before the rain soaks through.” Gemma lifted the mat shielding the trailer from the rain. “Your mat's drier than mine since it took you so long to get off it.”

Christopher dove underneath, and resumed cursing and tugging and pulling at the trailer contents.

Gemma couldn't believe how sore she was. Even her arms ached as she held the mat up, the rain streaming down her face. She tipped her head back and opened her mouth.

“You nearly done?” Gemma asked as the mat moved up and down with Christopher's movements, pulling at her tender muscles.

“Almost,” Christopher grunted.

“Wait,” Gemma said as Christopher started to stand. “Don't move.”

The rain was building up in a dip in the centre of the mat. It was waterproof.

“Don't move? Do you have any idea how much this is hurting my back?”

“Probably about as much as it's hurting my arms,” Gemma said. “Just – just try and balance the mat. And do not move. I'll be right back. Wait, stretch out your arms.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Just do it,” Gemma said as Christopher's back bumped the mat.

Water spilled over the edge, and down the gap at the back of Christopher's pants.

“Damn it.”

“I did tell you not to move.” Gemma repositioned the mat.

“You don't think I'm wet enough?”

“Just stay there.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking initiative.”

Ten minutes later they were on their way, the water bottles in their drink holders brimming with cool, fresh rainwater.

“Just so you know – since it was my idea – I'm sleeping on the mat,” Gemma said, keeping her tone light as she tried to tease a response out of Christopher.

“I do believe
your
mat is miles away, soaking up the rain,” Christopher retorted.

Christopher's dark hair was plastered to his face, making him look like a little boy as he swiped the rain out of his eyes.

Gemma resorted to blinking fast and furiously, squeezing the water out.

It was going to be a long day. The air was muggy, so at least they weren't going to catch a chill, but she doubted being damp for so long could be good for them.

When the rain eased off Gemma started thinking about the cookies in Christopher's bag, and made a game of trying to guess how many were left to distract herself.

“Seven.” Gemma hoped she was wrong. Between the two of them that wouldn't come close to satisfying the hole in her belly.

“Wrong again.”

“Can you at least tell me if it's higher or lower?”

Christopher shook his head.

“Just give me a damn cookie. I'm hungry.”

“Not until you guess how many there are.”

Gemma wished she hadn't started the stupid game now – he'd turned it around on her.

“I've already said every number between one and twenty. There can't be more than twenty.”

“You haven't said
every
number,” he threw back, looking a bit too pleased with himself.

“Fine. Ten-and-a-half? Eleven-and-a-half?” Gemma looked at him. “Twelve and three-quarters?”

“Nope.”

“Fourteen and a-gazillion-and-one crumbs?”

“Close enough,” Christopher said.

22

After eating – two cookies for Gemma and half an orange each – Christopher made a genuine effort to give Gemma some privacy when she took her shirt off to wring out the water.

He failed miserably.

It wasn't his fault he could see her reflection in the car window he was facing.

Before he could avert his eyes, Gemma's back arched and her bottom jutted out invitingly as she lifted her arms.

Christopher's fingers curled as he imagined linking his hands around her slim waist, and running them over the soft, creamy skin of her stomach.

Gemma scooped up her hair, pulling it to one side. She squeezed out the water, giving him a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the curve of her breast as she twisted her torso.

He sucked in a breath, and looked up at the dreary sky. It was bad enough that he'd been staring at her long, slim legs whenever she wasn't looking.

When Gemma was done he walked back, peeling his shirt over his head – to find Gemma's tired eyes roaming down his chest, stopping to linger on his abs.

He doubted she even knew she was doing it. Not if the dull, weary look on her face was anything to go by.

As she stood there looking all cold and wet and miserable, a guarded expression came over her face, and he resisted the urge to go to her; to pull her into his arms and take away the exhaustion and fear and worry creasing her lovely features.

Because no matter what he did – he couldn't take it away. He couldn't fix this.

And so they continued. The road stretched endlessly before them. Mile after mile of the same monotonous landscape, blanketed by the thick gray clouds pressing down on them.

One hour became two. Two became three.

The rain stopped and started, and stopped and started, coming in bursts and dribbles.

The low boom of distant thunder rumbled slowly toward them. A streak of light flashed along the horizon.

They were headed straight into a storm.

Between the rain and the distance from the city, the roads were mostly clear of people. Those who'd been stranded had long since moved on.

Occasionally they saw a face staring out at them from a vehicle that had stalled. But what was surprising was the amount of cars that passed them by. So far Christopher had counted eleven. And not one of them had stopped.

He wondered if they had come from the city. And if any of them were going their way.

As car number twelve sliced through the rain, Christopher and Gemma automatically veered to the side of the road.

Christopher made a half-hearted attempt to get the driver's attention. But like the others before it, the car continued on, its tires sloshing past them.

The car seemed to hesitate. The brake lights flickered on.

Beside him, Gemma straightened.

The car kept going, and Gemma's shoulders dropped.

Then the brake lights came on again and the car stopped.

Gemma's eyes popped open and she leapt off the bike.

“Just wait.” Christopher held up a hand in warning. He hadn't really expected the car to stop, or thought about what would happen if it did.

“For what?” Gemma said, striding toward the car.

“You could at least wait for me, then,” Christopher said. The woman was impossible. For all they knew it could be an axe-murderer. Or worse – someone looking for easy prey of the female variety.

This thought speeded up both his heart and his step.

The car was an immaculate baby-blue Plymouth that either belonged to a collector or had been illegally acquired from one.

The driver's door swung open – a small gap of a few inches – and Christopher grabbed Gemma's arm.

Why had the car stopped? Why was it just sitting there like that?

Gemma tried to pull away. Christopher tightened his grip.

“You're hurting me.” Gemma struggled against his fierce hold.

“That's no way to treat a lady,” a deep voice boomed. A voice used to commanding.

A well-dressed man of about fifty stepped out of the car. He had closely cropped silver hair, and his demeanor screamed of old money and power.

A collector, then.

“Yeah, Christopher,” Gemma said. “This is
no
way to treat a lady.”

Christopher refrained from rolling his eyes as he released her arm.

Rubbing at the stubble growing in on his chin, Christopher studied the man. Tall and well built, he was in good shape. He had a broad, commanding face lined with experience.

The man spoke first. “Where you headed?”

“Home. Just past Carlisle,” Gemma said.

“Sorry love, I can only take you as far as the intersection. You'd be better off sticking to your bikes.”

Gemma's shoulders slumped noticeably, weariness written in every curve of her body.

“I'm running low on gas,” the man said apologetically.

Gemma snorted. “There's gas everywhere.” She waved her arms to indicate the long stretch of road littered with cars.

“Gemma!” Christopher was horrified. Give her another minute and she would be on her knees begging.

“Well there is,” Gemma said. “And I am so over that bike.”

“There might be gas everywhere,” the man said. “But I have no way to get it out. Not sure if I've even got enough to get my family home.”

Christopher turned to the car. Four heads that hadn't been there a moment ago peered out the back window – three kids and a woman – the woman trying to push their heads down without success.

The shape of another person was visible in the passenger seat.

“Your grandkids?” Christopher asked as a girl with pigtails waved.

The man nodded as he returned the wave.

“Looks to me like you don't have enough room anyway,” Gemma said. “Why did you really stop?”

The man shrugged. “I'm not sure. Just seemed wrong not to. Figured we could squeeze you in if you were going our way. Done it before – it's why we're so low on gas.”

Christopher nodded, sensing a kindred soul. It wasn't so easy just passing by those in trouble.

“Appreciate the offer,” Christopher said. “But it looks to me like you need to focus on getting your own family home. Might not be a good idea stopping along the way – there's some that might try to take your car with force.”

“They've tried,” the man sneered. His strong, ropy hand casually pushed his shirt aside to reveal the Smith and Wesson revolver at his waist. “Had a few spots of trouble,” he shook his head disdainfully, “young fellows with their guns – most of them don't even know how to hold the damned things properly. Be a miracle if they don't shoot themselves in the foot.”

“Well, I wish you luck.” Christopher extended his arm, surprised at the sturdy grip of the man. He raised an eyebrow, recognizing something in the man's manner. “Marine?”

“Major General. Retired a while back,” he agreed with a curt nod of his head. “But like they say. Once a marine–”

“Always a marine,” Christopher finished.

“Father?”

“Brother. He was deployed to Kuwait last I heard.”

The Major General's face turned serious. “Might be good men and women like your brother who come to our aid.” He turned back to the car.

“Wait,” Gemma roared.

Christopher sighed. Maybe she really was going to start begging.

“Does your radio work?” Gemma asked.

The man shook his head sadly. “Works – but there's nothing but static.”

“Still?” Gemma's brow furrowed, slashing a deep line between her eyes. “When did you last try it?”

“Never turned it off. Just got it on low. You know – just in case...” His shoulders heaved heavily.

“Not even in the city? Or near any big towns? Did you try the AM channels?”

The retired Major General shook his head to all of Gemma's questions, his back straight and stiff. His brow mirrored her worry.

“What is it?” Christopher asked Gemma.

“There should be something regular by now. An emergency broadcast loop at least. If there's nothing but static–”

“What?” Christopher pushed.

Gemma turned wide eyes on him. “It means the whole country has been affected.”

“Best to assume the worst until we know any different,” the retired Major General said as he eased himself into the car, his face grave. “Godspeed.”

Following in the wake of those who'd passed by earlier in their cars, Christopher and Gemma rode through the small towns scattered along the highway.

At the town they approached forty-eight hours after the pulse they were greeted by four men in bright yellow raincoats. That things had fallen apart so quickly was disconcerting.

The men escorted them through the main street as though they were common thieves, and they were forced to walk their bikes.

The men stared grimly ahead through the light drizzle of rain, two in front of them, and two behind, their heavy boots marching in time.

People stared out the windows; scared faces, suspicious faces, faces filled with sorrow and compassion.

A woman with blonde hair rested her forehead on a sliding glass door, one hand flat on its surface next to her face. A small child tugged at the woman's floral-print dress, trying to get her attention.

The raw look of pity on the woman's face hit Christopher hard in the gut. He didn't think he had ever been an object of pity before.

He turned to face the road, staring resolutely ahead. He no longer wanted to see their faces or the kaleidoscopes of emotion.

“Wait,” a woman shouted.

When Christopher turned he saw the blonde woman hurrying toward them, bunching her dress up in one hand to keep it off the ground. She was carrying a green roll in her other hand.

“Get back inside, Mary,” the man behind Christopher shouted.

“Have you no shame, Darryl? It's raining and these poor people are getting wet.”

“I'm getting wet too,” Darryl scowled, coming to a stop.

The other men forced Gemma and Christopher to move on.

“Yeah," Mary poked Darryl in the chest with the roll, "but at least you’ve got a slicker to keep you dry. What have they got?”

Mary pushed past Darryl, her dress trailing on the wet ground. She shoved the roll at Gemma. “Take it. It's only garbage bags, but you can tear holes in them for your head and arms. Ought to keep you a bit drier.”

“Thank you,” Gemma said, her voice breaking.

“Move along,” Darryl snapped at Christopher and Gemma.

When they reached the edge of town the men stopped, and stood in a row, watching them suspiciously as they put on their makeshift raincoats. They shared a banana and a can of lemonade before getting back on the bikes.

The water was almost gone and they'd finished the juice that morning.

The human body needed around eight cups of water a day, and that was just with normal every-day activity.

Cycling – even at the moderate pace they were keeping – increased this drastically in the form of sweat.

As much as six-hundred milliliters an hour.

They hadn't even come close to drinking that much between them in the last few hours.

Christopher worried they were already dehydrated – he'd noticed Gemma had been riding with her face pointed to the sky, her mouth open to catch the rain. He'd been doing it himself.

His mouth felt decidedly dry.

It seemed so wrong with all the rain drizzling lightly down on them, but they had no way of collecting it. The trees were growing further and further apart, and they'd already wasted too much time trying to catch the larger drops from the heavy, rain laden branches in the narrow necks of their bottles.

If only it had been raining harder; they might have been able to scoop water from puddles. But the dry earth was soaking it up far too quickly.

How long would it be until they found a river or a stream? They hadn't made anywhere near as good time as he'd hoped. With the rain slowing them down it was going to take longer.

“Can we have some more lemonade?” Gemma asked as the rain started to come down harder.

The rain was noisy on their makeshift raincoats, streaming small rivers along the folds and creases.

Gemma flicked her hair out of her face, dark clumps of it sticking stubbornly to her forehead.

“We should leave it as long as we can,” Christopher said. Soon there would be nothing left.

The dark clouds rushing toward them worried him. The storm was getting closer.

“How about a Coke then?”

Christopher gritted his teeth. He knew she was goading him, bored by the monotony of the long road stretching ahead of them. She'd been niggling at him for the last hour, trying to get a rise out of him.

Overhead the clouds grew ever closer until the boom of the thunder crackling in the sky resonated through him. The lightning strikes came thick and fast as the clouds threatened to unleash their burden.