Afterwrath: Part One - Station

AFTERWRATH: Part One – Station

  By Coty Schwabe, Copyright 2014

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  This is a work of fiction. Any relations to persons living or dead, establishments or locales is purely coincidental. The events portrayed are also fictitious. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. If you’ve finished the story, consider leaving a review on your favorite retailer’s website.

  To all my first reviewers. Your words helped others believe in me. I will never forget it. And to Stephen King, that told me that, given enough time and practice, a competent writer could become good. Thanks for the advice, SK. Still reaching, still striving. Lastly, to Jesus, who has walked with me into every Hell I’ve ever faced.

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  PART ONE: STATION

  1

  Burk walked along the deserted, broken highway, with a single-barrel shotgun slung over his shoulder, and a revolver holstered on his right hip. A cracked, portable radio was embedded into his back pocket, opposite his nearly torn leather wallet. Clipped to his belt was an eight inch, partially serrated hunting knife. The man’s t-shirt he snagged from that last broken-down Cadillac was snug, and his never-ending sweat glands had glued it to his torso.

  Or at least, he assumed the body had belonged to a man. When he’d reached the car, all that remained was a skeleton leaning against the steering wheel. Burk had seen quite a few skeletons over the last year.

  Sand and grit persisted in its attempts to invade his eyes, and he was grateful for the dead man’s aviator shades. While the sand was kept at bay by the glasses, sweat did succeed in making it into his eyes, stinging them countless times. It was something Burk had accepted, but never fully grown used to.

  Overhead, the sun beat down with merciless, scorching heat, and the wind whipped dust devils to the sides of the highway out in the vistas between cacti and desert brush.

  His beard had grown in since the previous Tuesday, when he’d shaved it with that rusty razor, and if weren’t for Old Don’s ten gallon he’d acquired, his hair – now shoulder-blade length, great for keeping the sun off his neck – would be blowing right in his face. The caramel color of his skin made him look almost Native American, and had peeled so many times, he’d fully molted. Twice.

  As he walked, he continued to chew on the chunk of cacti he’d hewn a mile back, the sweetness making him all the thirstier. His feet ached all over, and Rick’s boots were a size too big. Of course, a rugged pair of shoes too big was better than none at all, and that was something Burk had grown used to: making the best with what was at hand. He was a survivor, he could himself that much credit.

  Not much more.

  Ahead of him, the cracked asphalt dipped low, and in the midst of it, Burk could see the reflection of the mountains in the distance. He crested the small rise of the street, then descended into the dip. The reflection vanished as he neared it. Small shimmers and waves came and went as he climbed up the other side of the dip, and when he’d cleared it minutes later, the road flattened out again. The sun heated the road like a stovetop, boiling under his feet. The heat radiated up through the rubber of his boots, and baked them, drying them out a little more each step.

  When he crested the top of the hill, it was then that he saw the object in the distance. It was still a good mile out, so he could not truly make it out; only a medium sized blur with two smaller, sparkling dots next to it.

  Another mirage, he thought to himself, but a small glimmer of hope rose in his chest.

  Hope was the only thing he had left.

  2

  The sun continued to bake as the afternoon wore on.

  Every step was more strenuous than the last. If it weren’t for his lack of shade and tools, he would have given up for the day. He hated walking in the sun, regardless of the season. It wasn’t like he’d had much of a choice with Darren and the rest of those survivors: it was either die at their hands, or die to the elements. Most situations were that way now.

  Burk continued on, and as the minutes passed, the dot grew in size, filling in with color. He removed his shades, and hung them from his collar. The red dot became a square, and eventually became a building with a black, shingled roof. The sparkling dots were actually gas pumps. A large propane tank stood lengthwise behind the building, though the damn thing was probably dry as a bone. There were no cars around the building, not even busted or rusted ones, and again his hope returned; stronger this time. A vacant building would make a decent shelter for the day. Or a couple.

  Ahead in the distance, the sun was hovering above the mountains, and night would soon be upon him.

  3

  In twenty minutes time, he’d come within a block of the gas station. Taking no chances, he caressed the shotgun in both hands, and pumped it ready. The wind was blowing east with him, and he stopped walking.

  Using the wind to carry out his voice, he shouted. “Anyone… inside?” Dehydration made shouting tough, and he spoke with as few words as possible. “Come out slow,” he rasped. “Hands raised. No trouble.”

  A minute went by with no noise, and no response. Burk took a few more steps, and remade his proclamation, voice cracking, to the same result. He made his way to the building in slow deliberate steps, watching every angle of the building – the front door, the backside, the pumps – for movement. None came.

  Above the building was a faded plastic sign that read DESERT DOG GAS, with a brown coyote wearing shades eating a piece of cactus. Under that, Gas Up Now - Next Gas Station 100 Miles in Flagstone. Burk grimaced and turned back to the door.

  Out front, an ice storage had been left wide open, and swarms of flies protected its innards. Burk didn’t want to guess its contents, and kept his bile down. Since the Day of Wrath, many of the people he’d crossed had gone feral, crapping wherever they pleased, and discarding trash just about anywhere. Save for the surviving city of Wolf Springs, it was quite apparent that common decency had been lost. Even they had tried to kill him because of one simple mistake.

  The pumps stood to his far right, spread only twenty feet apart, and Burk noticed a separate outhouse a few yards off. He considered using it briefly, his stomach felt like it was about to burst, but deigned not to run the risk of ambush.

  The front door was a typical full-length glass door, with a single metal bar running horizontal across it. He approached it with nerves on edge, all senses alert. He looked this way, then that, then peered inside with one hand over his eyes.

  The inside of the gas station was swallowed in darkness, a fact that did not surprise him. No running electricity. The only light in the room came from the west facing window, which yielded very little.

  Instead of going straight in, he walked past the door to the far side of the building to add to his security. He found nothing there but a badly dismantled wolf carcass. More flies had taken up residence in the poor dog’s remains, and an ungodly stench permeated the air surrounding it. Blood had matted the parts of fur that still clung to the less meaty parts of the body. The blood, while dark, was far from the brownish-black crust of days old. It was actually too light; less than a day.<
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  Someone or something had been here recently. His heart sank into his gut.

  4

  Burk pushed the door open slowly, shotgun trained. A bell jingled overhead. He made a deft visual sweep from one side to the other. A counter to the far back left, where the window was. Beyond that, a doorway leading to a storage area. To his immediate left, a counter with a busted, vacant donut case, a microwave and three coffee makers. Two empty and silent refrigeration units ran along the wall to the right. Before him, bare rows of shelves created narrow aisles. No food or drink in sight, only trash, composed mostly of wrappers and old magazines. A fresh, smoky smell filled the small establishment.

  Burk stepped in all the way, letting the door close on its own. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He went down the aisle, keeping the shotgun forward. His boots crunched on crumbs, as well as the open bags and empty containers that littered the floor.

  When he’d made it to the counter, he noticed the source of the smoke. A candle had been snuffed only minutes prior, with a puddle of wax holding it to the counter. His hair stood on end; little needles pricked his skin. His pulse pounded in his ears. Outside, desert winds whipped the sides of the building.

  Burk was about to step back from