Cost of Survival

Cost of Survival

  Book #1 of the Worth of Souls series

  Cost of Survival

  World War III took my family - would the destruction claim my heart?

  Mom's bleeding in my arms. She could die any moment, but not before she's made me promise three things:

  Pray.

  Don't trust anyone.

  Stay alive.

  I promise, but I don't know if I can keep them. Not surviving World War III doesn't scare me, it's surviving it that does.

  And without the excitement of seeing Bodey every day, did I even want to try?

  Captiva Publishing

  www.brpaulson.com

  Chapter 1

  Huge earthquakes didn’t happen in the northwest. The ground shook anyway and I grabbed the sink to avoid falling over.

  My image wavered in the mirror and I focused on my white knuckles as I braced myself for stability.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, fear shooting through me. My breathing hitched. Warned that hysteria comes on quickly, I lifted my gaze and pierced my image with a glare. “Get your crap together, Kelly. This isn’t a surprise.” I narrowed my eyes for good measure, in case I wasn’t taking myself seriously.

  Slowing my breathing, I ignored my racing pulse. Nothing I could do about that.

  Great, every fear my mother ever warned me about was coming to fruition. There’d be no living with her now. My fingers slipped over the cool ceramic as the shaking slowed, but didn’t stop.

  From outside the small high-up windows, screams of other people started low and sporadic but increased in frequency and volume.

  Protected by thick tiled walls in the girls’ bathroom, I turned off the water and wiped my damp hands down the front of my green shirt, leaving dark wet prints on the cotton.

  Class had been in session when I’d taken the hall pass to get some air, leaving the rest of the bathroom empty. With all the muffled noise outside the room, I didn’t remember a time I felt so alone.

  And I didn’t want to leave.

  Another rumble sent the building into a spasm. A large crack spread across the ceiling, sprinkling dust into my pseudo-safe space. I sneezed, rubbing at the gritty particles powdering my skin.

  Yanking open the door, I stopped and gasped. I should’ve stayed in the bathroom.

  Kids ran, screaming and crying, toward the front doors or rather where the front doors used to be. The whole wall had disappeared.

  Where the double-glass doors had manned the entrance of my high school, a large gaping hole let the late spring sunlight in mixed with dust and smoke. Twisted metal and mauled concrete gaped with angry jagged edges. The scent of burning wood and singed skin drifted on the rounded smoke clouds.

  Breathe, Kelly, just breathe. But I didn’t want to. Breathing hurt. The smoke and ash in the air had a taste and scent I instinctively did not want in my body. I lifted my t-shirt collar and held the cotton over my nose.

  No matter what, I couldn’t force my other hand to let go of the door frame. My fingers tightened and I stared. My eyes watered under the onslaught of smoke. The breeze outside might as well be nonexistent. The smoke and dust refused to clear.

  Come on. I blinked, scanning the interior of the school hallway.

  Bodey. Where was Bodey? He was supposed to be at the school for a track meeting. He had graduated the year and came in to help out with coaching and to train for track at the college. Had he made it to the gym? Or anywhere?

  A girl dashed into my line of sight. Cyndi. Someone I recognized – focus on her.

  I reluctantly released the frame and waved my hand at a girl I usually ate at the same table with. We weren’t friends – exactly – but in the immediate chaos, even lunch acquaintances were better than nothing.

  “Cyndi! Over here!” Not that being with me was safer by any means, but at least I wouldn’t be alone and, with a shaky movement to her hands, she probably could use someone to stand with for a minute too.

  Wild-eyed, she paused in her jagged scrambling through people toward the missing front door and her gaze fell on me. Recognition smoothed her jitters and she bee-lined for my spot, ducking and swerving around other screaming students.

  As she approached, her screams died down, replaced by some kind of a whimpering moan. She looked left and right, behind her, back at me, like I was an anchor to help her get to one spot for security.

  Finally a part in the smoke revealed a glimpse of the blue sky dotted with black items. A shrill whistle announced another explosion across the street in the new subdivision. I ducked.

  The ground moved, but not as distinctly as when I was in the restroom. A hole in the cloud got bigger, framing clear sky filled with big and small black shapes moving over the land.

  I squinted. With eyes watering, I couldn’t trust my vision – or any of my senses. Everything was off. Just like Mom had said this would play out.

  She’d warned me. Continually. No matter how well she and her friends had prepared, nothing stopped the events from happening.

  Not the pandemic and the eradication of more than two-thirds of the world’s population – we were learning about the ‘end of conservative man’ in Senior History. Did two years in the past count as history?

  My mom’s co-op couldn’t prevent any of the loss. The number of the group went from over fifty to nineteen. For all their preparations and praying, more than half disappeared because of the disease.

  Even Mom’s preparations didn’t keep us from losing my dad and brother. To the same horrible disease. Or the rest of our family on the east coast. Everyone was gone. So many bodies, towns gave up trying to have official burials. Most of the dead went into mass graves or were burned.

  I can’t imagine what the less developed countries went through.

  The bigger, more developed countries didn’t even get hit as bad as those other worlds.

  Another black torpedo-shaped body fell closer to a building on the other side of the street. The explosion rocked the ground.

  Cyndi squeaked and the students around us ducked into a spastic type of bear crawl with their hands on the ground and butts at half-crouch.

  I’m not sure what annoyed me more, the fact I hadn’t dodged anything or that I hadn’t started running home, like Mom had drummed into me with my training.

  Why was I so afraid to call the black things what they were?

  Bombs.

  Bombs. Say it out loud, Kelly. “Bombs.” Did my effort count in a whisper?

  “I can’t believe they’re bombing us!” Of course Cyndi could say the word. She ran before I did, too.

  She reached for my arm, panting and desperate. “Kelly, I need to get to the elementary school. Bobby’s over there and he’s probably so scared.” Her younger brother had the entire third grade wrapped around his finger. With his charm, he could run the world one day.

  Nothing made more sense than searching for your loved ones, but with bombs detonating left and right, the last thing I needed involved watching a partial-friend blow to pieces. I motioned toward the teachers and students whizzing past us with no real direction. “Wait a minute and then head over. I’m sure he’s fi—”

  A bomb caught my attention. The direction and speed as it fell from the sky sent a chill along my hair line.

  I grabbed Cyndi and shoved her into the bathroom, against the wall. “Get down!” My scream sliced through the air and she dropped to the ground, copying my movement of arms over my head and face tucked to my knees.

  Closer than the house explosions, that one thundered underground until queasiness roiled in my stomach. Solid, consuming fear finally found me. I don’t know where it went hiding, but holy cow, vomit wanted to be found, too.

  I didn’t want to see what had happened.

&nbs
p; Cyndi raised her head. “What was that?” Her screech ended on a sob.

  I could look. I didn’t want to, but I made myself. Knowledge is power, or so Mom always said.

  Glancing out the door and through the hole where the entrance had been, I tried shutting out the horror before me. I gathered as many details as I could to help Cyndi in some way.

  The door didn’t close easily. I turned back to the girl who desperately needed a friend. How did I soften my words without crying? “The elementary school.”

  Her eyes widened. She jumped to pull open the door. Stepping out into the hallway, she stared at the black, smoking and burning mess that had – moments before – housed her little brother and hundreds of other children.

  Shock froze her mouth open. She didn’t even acknowledge the other witnesses jostling around her, trying to find their own chaos controller.

  Cyndi didn’t respond. She didn’t make a sound. I’m not even sure she breathed.

  As if on autopilot, Cyndi stepped forward until she ran into the pile of rubble marking the school explosion site. She didn’t let anything get in her way. Bending down on all fours, she climbed over the debris in a straight line toward the elementary.

  To my horror, I didn’t stop her.

  Why would I? What would I do? Tell her not to go? Tell her she would be safer in the high school? Psh. I couldn’t guarantee anything for her – for anyone. Nothing about World War III was predictable. Most importantly, though, I could understand nothing would keep me away from my brother, if he’d been in that school.

  I scanned the scene being slowly revealed by the departing smoke. How far would I be able to see once the debris had completely cleared?

  Four blocks from the elementary school, my home should be easy to get to. Had the houses between the schools and my backyard been wiped out by bombs? Fire?

  The real question I didn’t want to ask – didn’t want the answer to – had my house been hit?

  I swallowed, searching further. Could Bodey be out there?

  Screams sound-tracked the drifting papers burning as they fell. Running boys and girls and the dazed teachers hanging onto the jagged edges of the building as they stumbled out to the grounds completed the scene.

  My mom wouldn’t scream. She prayed too hard to feel real fear. No, she would do the best with what she had.

  True fear curdled in my stomach. If my house had been hit by a bomb, then Mom would be gone. As much as I fought with her, she was all I had left. I wasn’t ready to lose her.

  Every night my mom taught me about the arrival of World War III and its inevitability, what to expect, what not to accept, and how to stay safe.

  According to Mom we would all lose the final war which was the only outcome no one could control. The information was right there, smack in the center of Revelations. She would quote more scriptures and I would try to retreat into my happy place where mothers didn’t lecture their daughters on morality and religion.

  A burning sting in my forearm brought my attention back to the chaos around me. Chunks of burning wood marked my flesh. I brushed them off, jerking my arms closer to my body.

  Even the teachers ran with no real plan. Mr. Denning stood in the corner, feet from the entrance hole and muttered, walking two steps forward and stopping when he rammed his head into the wall.

  I didn’t have time to find Bodey. I had to find Mom.

  My plan needed to be fast. Mom would expect me home as soon as possible. If she… I shook my head. Nope. One of the tactics Mom drilled into me was never think defeatist thoughts. If you give into the negativity, you’re already defeated.

  What did I need? Was there anything at the school I had to take with me? Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to retrieve my backpack. My locker had disappeared in the mess destroyed by the front door. As a senior I had premium real estate by the entrance and that particular seniority right had cost me.

  The few blocks would pass quickly. I just needed to get going. I shut out the fear sending tingles to my toes that she wouldn’t be there when I got home or even that I might not make it home.

  I had to get home. There were no other options.

  Darting into the mass exodus of teachers and students, I stumbled over the rocks and broken glass before finding my footing in the deceptively green grass.

  Nothing could get in my way.

  A younger boy – maybe a freshman? – grabbed at my arm. His fingers had a charred-hot-dog-on-a-stick look with the flesh plump and oozing with blackened tips. “Help me,” he sobbed, blood seeping slowly from his nose and ears.

  I reached for him, desperate to hold him up, give him some form of relief. Grabbing his forearms above where the material had melted to his skin, I tried holding him up. I tried.

  His face froze and the focused pain in his eyes faded. Right there in my arms. He died. And I didn’t… I gasped. I couldn’t hold onto his sudden weight on my hands and he fell to the ground, drooping over rebar protruding from the mangled concrete beside us.

  Backing up, I covered my mouth. Someone bumped me from behind.

  I blew air out of my lungs. Calm down, Kelly. You can do this. Get it together.

  A teacher blew a whistle and heads turned. They’d been forcing dumb drills on us for the past few months now. Rumors the “war to end all wars” was right around the corner spread like gossip in a high school.

  Everyone became survival experts.

  Via the drill, a teacher would whistle and all the students would surround the leader. Everyone was supposed to wait patiently for help or seek shelter together.

  Always together. Like they – whoever they were – didn’t trust any one person out by themselves.

  Maybe Mom had learned how to telepathically transfer her conspiracy theories into my mind. I swear, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  Fear that Bodey had arrived in town filled me but I focused on the task at hand.

  Big groups were a bad idea. More people made bigger targets. Glancing at the body of the boy one last time, I broke into a loose jog and forced myself not to sprint. I had to hold the same calm pace so I could see all my options ahead of me.

  People who panicked died.

  Another Mother-ism.

  Yet I would listen, because for once? Mother just might be right.