Dark Days: The Long Road Home, a post apocalyptic novel (13 page)

Christopher's jaw tightened as he fought the anger that hit him. But it rose in him with the force of all the years of pent-up frustrations and broken promises and lies. There was no containing it.

16

Gemma backed away, stunned by the force of Christopher's reaction.

His dark eyes were full of unconstrained fury, his jaw so tight it bulged as he pumped his fists at his sides, trying to gain control. But she'd pushed him too far.

He let out a primal growl of rage and anger, slamming his foot into the trunk of the tree beside them.

She'd only seen him this angry once before, and it scared her.

She shouldn't have pushed him – their emotions were already running high.

Christopher stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders heaving as he continued to seethe. And then without even a backward glance, he fiddled about near the bikes, then started for the highway, the trailer bumping along behind him.

Gemma scooped up the bag of cookies, realizing he hadn't even eaten.

When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut? She really had been a certifiable grump.

She wasn't normally so short-tempered.

Gemma jammed the cookies in her bag and pulled it on, seething a little herself as he got further away. But when she saw the drink he'd placed in her drink-holder despite his anger, she felt her throat close up and sharp tears stung the bridge of her nose.

Damn him – it wasn't like she was the one in the wrong here. He was the one shirking his responsibilities. CJ needed a father, now more than ever.

Christopher was already well ahead of her when she approached the highway – taking her own damn sweet time. She was still so mad at him.

A small boy with straw-colored hair turned, startled when he heard her coming up the grassy verge behind him. His large, weary eyes stared at the bike as she swung her leg over and gently lowered herself, wincing slightly as she came down, her bones and muscles still tender from the earlier pressure of the seat.

In no hurry to catch up with his foul mood, Gemma rode at a leisurely pace, her eyes boring into Christopher's back as he approached a bend that curved around the hill on the left. And still he didn't look back, his dark head disappearing from sight.

The lanes were scattered with cars, and though there wasn't a lot of foot traffic, there was still enough for it to be a nuisance, the click of the wheels too soft for most to hear.

The people streaming ever forward were lost in their own thoughts, their faces turning without really seeing her as she passed.

When she reached the bend she was glad to see Christopher wasn't far ahead. She slowed, planning on staying a good few lengths behind him until he cooled down.

The faint smell of smoke still lingered in the air, but with the lay of the land she had no idea where it was coming from.

In the distance the highway dipped and curved through the hills. Hills that would soon become mountains, something she was definitely not looking forward to tackling on a bike.

A particularly large cluster of mismatched people who'd joined together blocked the road ahead, and Gemma cleared her throat loudly to let them know she was coming.

None of them paid her the slightest bit of attention.

They walked in silence, the only sound their footsteps and the soft, dragging hum of the floral wheeled suitcases the burly-looking men on the right were pulling.

Gemma slowed down, clearing her throat again.

“Um – excuse me,” she said when they didn't react.

A few of them turned at the sound of her voice, the burly-looking men becoming teenagers with surly faces that stopped where they were, still blocking the way.

Christopher looked over his shoulder, slowing when he saw the situation, his body stiff and rigid.

“I just want to get past,” Gemma said quickly. With the mood Christopher was in she did not want him coming to her aid.

“Sorry, love.” An elderly man stepped aside. With that, the others also moved, and she noticed that some of them had similar features. The mismatched group was a family.

“Thanks.” Gemma forced a smile as she eased her way through the small gap.

The man who'd apologized walked alongside her for a few beats, obviously eager for conversation.

“Terrible thing, this,” he said.

“Yes,” Gemma said noncommittally, not wanting to get dragged into a conversation that would slow her down. But when she saw the deep lines of worry creasing his face, she softened. “Do you have far to go?”

“Not far, love,” he puffed. “Headed for my son's farm. He and his wife live on the river on the other side of Peak Mountain.”

“Harold!” A woman with blue-gray hair and a pinched face scolded.

“Don't be so paranoid, Marge,” Harold said. “We'll know the world's truly come to an end when we can't even make a bit of polite conversation.”

Harold winked at Gemma as he spoke, and the woman – probably his wife – turned her head away, pursing her lips.

“Nice meeting you, Harold.” Gemma smiled as she rode ahead, glad she'd stopped. Though a simple thing, the old man's manner had lightened her mood. He was right – it wasn't all doom and gloom. Not unless they made it that way.

In better spirits, she paced a few lengths behind Christopher. She didn't realize she was humming along to a catchy new tune she'd heard on the radio recently until people started moving out of her way.

They did it automatically, veering to the side as they heard her coming, their movements barely faltering. Just like she'd done so many times when a cyclist came up behind her. One of those unspoken rules that was as much habit as anything else.

It wasn't long after that she reached the trailer-gang, the horn honking along ahead of them.

Gemma moved to the side, but realized they wouldn't be able to hear her with all the noise they were making.

She often hummed along to the radio on the way to work, breaking into song. She was also guilty of singing at the top of her lungs in the shower, or when she was gardening, confident no one could hear her on the small farm.

But it was with a wobbly, uncertain voice that she sung now, hoping to clear a path so she could get through – singing wasn't anything she'd ever done publicly.

To her great relief, the group parted, and she was tickled pink when a few of the younger ones picked up the tune, some of them running beside her with happy smiling faces, glad for something to break the monotony of the long, dreary road.

Their voices faded away behind her and she kept singing, her voice softer now there was no one directly ahead of her. It kept her focused, the wheels of her tires eating up the smooth flat surface of the road.

In the distance the mountains rose into the clear blue sky, marred by the thick churning cloud of smoke coming in from the east. But for now the road ahead was long and flat, speckled with people and stalled vehicles.

The breeze caressed her hair, her face, her skin, keeping her cool as it brushed over the light sheen of sweat she'd worked up. Her back was damp where the bag was.

She was still wearing her jeans but had long since stripped down to the slim-fitted green t-shirt she'd been wearing under her sweater. She was starting to wonder if that was wise as the heat beat down on her exposed arms.

Remembering Christopher's warning, Gemma reached for her drink. The last thing she needed was nausea and cramps on top of the sore muscles she knew she'd have tomorrow.

An hour later she was struggling, her thighs burning with the effort to keep up with Christopher's pace as the road grew steeper. The mountains were getting closer, but the gap between her and Christopher seemed to be getting further and further apart. There was a good hundred yards or so separating them now.

How long was the man going to hold onto his anger?

Well – she could be just as stubborn as him.

She reached over her shoulder for the zipper so she could pull out the cookies. Now she knew why he was going on about carbs and muscle burn. Maybe she'd be a bit nicer next time he tried to give her advice.

She was also out of drink.

The bicycle swerved erratically as she fumbled with the zip, Christopher choosing that moment to turn and check on her.

She hoped he'd slow down when he realized the distance between them had grown, like he'd done the last few times. But instead, to her great delight, he pulled over and stopped.

As he leaned over the trailer, she found a sudden reserve of energy, and pushed on until she reached him, narrowly avoiding a man and a woman struggling with grocery carts as she wobbled up the slope.

They eyed her suspiciously as she passed, the woman attempting to hide her nearly empty water bottle.

With no idea what sort of mood Christopher was in, and still feeling vaguely annoyed, Gemma stopped about five yards away. She set her bike down, and sat where she was, leaping back up again when the heat of the road burned through her jeans.

A small smile appeared on Christopher's lips.

Gemma was so glad he didn't seem to be in a mood anymore that she managed to keep her mouth shut.

She moved warily to the patch of shade he'd found under a skinny, straggly tree and sat down, the empty water bottle in her hand.

Christopher took the bottle, but she noticed he didn't quite meet her eye when he looked at her.

Frowning, she pulled the cookies out, offering him one first since he hadn't eaten yet, even though he was the one who'd been harping on about fueling your muscles.

“Hey, no fair. Where's mine?” Gemma stared incredulously at the bulge in his pocket, and the familiar red and white logo showing where his pocket puckered.

“Maybe littering really does pay,” Christopher said lightly, then he magically produced a can of Coke from somewhere beside him.

“That was just mean – you did that on purpose,” Gemma said lightly, trying to gage his mood.

Christopher shrugged, neither denying or confirming it as he rammed an entire cookie into his mouth.

After that they rode side by side when they could, an uneasy silence between them, neither of them seeming to know what to say. It seemed to Gemma that just about every word that came out of her mouth irked him in some way.

But Gemma didn't care if he truly hated her by the time they reached home – and she had a feeling he would by the time she was done. Especially if his earlier reaction was anything to go by.

She'd been thinking about her promise to Caroline on the long, boring stretch of road. She could almost hear her friend's voice in her head, calling her a coward. Caroline would never have backed down from a challenge so easily.

Gemma,
Caroline would have scolded.
You're running away again.

Just like she'd accused Christopher of doing.

Running from the past – and running from the future she'd once envisioned with Christopher.

She hated it when Caroline was right.

17

They stopped for lunch about two hours later.

“Can you make mine plain water? With salt,” Gemma quickly added at the look on Christopher's face.

“The juice will give us extra energy. Besides – the juice won't be good much longer.”

Gemma hadn't even thought of that.

She took a quick mental inventory of what was left, and realized that at this rate, they came up well and truly short. If only they hadn't been so stubborn about taking Anne's food, she thought idly. She immediately felt guilty when she remembered the sandwiches Anne made them, gone before the sun even came up.

How long would the supplies in Anne's cupboards last? In a few days – with luck – Gemma would be home, more fortunate than most with a healthy supply of fresh eggs, her small vegetable garden and the potato patch. In another month or so, she'd have more pumpkins than she could possibly eat, the patch having taken over a far greater area of land than she'd originally intended.

She couldn't believe she'd been going to chop it back when it started to get out of control. Daphne – an avid gardener herself – had been so horrified Gemma didn't dare touch it.

And then there were the fruit trees lining the drive. And the enormous almond tree at the front of the property. Although she couldn't stand the things personally, they were at least high in protein.

But it was the strawberry patch that was her joy.

Daphne was just as proud of the strawberry patch as Gemma, often popping out to check on it. Daphne's grandfather had been a strawberry farmer, and it was with wistful eyes that Daphne had surprised Gemma with seedlings she'd raised herself. She'd shown Gemma and Caroline how to plant them directly into bags of potting mix in the small greenhouse.

At the end of the season Daphne had proudly presented Gemma with dozens of jars of strawberry jam she'd bottled herself. Gemma suspected this was the motivating force behind Daphne's careful guidance, and Caroline confirmed it. The jam had been made using Daphne's great-great-grandmother's recipe.

At the end of the season they'd cut the strawberry plants back and transplanted them into the ground. Gemma still remembered how horrified she'd been when Daphne came out to visit at the end of winter, telling her to mow straight over the top of her precious crop so they were ready for the coming season.

And – if she could bring herself to do it – there was good hunting in the reserve bordering her property. Bear Mountain, named not after its more common namesake, but Fred Bear – the first pioneer to settle their area.

“Shouldn't we ration ourselves a bit more?” Gemma asked as Christopher carefully counted the cookies, and handed a small pile to her.

“Put them in your pocket,” he said. “Eat half a cookie every twenty minutes.”

Gemma wanted to eat the lot then and there, but she did what he said, trusting he knew what he was doing. Five cookies; even eating half at a time meant they'd only last a few hours.

“We'll cover more miles today while we're still reasonably fresh. We can cut back later,” Christopher said, absently rubbing at his shoulder. “Tomorrow – you'll be sore as hell. It will be worse the day after.”

Gemma was already sore, and there was a dull ache in her bones from the bike seat.

Unable to bear the pressure in her bladder any longer, Gemma studied the area, looking for a discreet spot to go. She stood up, unable to stop the shame that filled her at the idea, even though there wasn't any other alternative. “Um – I'll be back in a minute.”

“Why are you walking like that?”

“The seat. It hurts.”

“Why didn't you say something? Saddle soreness will only get worse.”

 
Gemma ducked behind a bush. What would be the point of saying anything? It wasn't like she could do anything about the seat.

When she returned Christopher was fiddling around with her bike.

“Come here,” he said when he saw her.

Christopher adjusted the seat of the bike several times, making her ride a few yards with each adjustment. When he was done, she wished she'd said something earlier.

The sound of an engine in the distance had them both reaching for their binoculars.

A baby-blue sedan wove slowly between the lanes.

People stopped and stared as it approached. Some tried to flag it down, the more reckless becoming increasingly daring as the car moved steadily forward without stopping. Playing chicken, they waited until the last possible moment before leaping out of the way.

Gemma's heart was in her throat. Someone was going to get hurt.

People reached for the vehicle, their hands brushing along the sides as it passed.

A startled cry escaped Gemma's lips as a woman stepped in front of the car, holding her child up in appeal.

The car slowed, seemed to hesitate, then veered onto the grass, passing around them.

The woman just stood there, watching the car, still holding her daughter out in front of her.

“I wonder if the radio's working?” Gemma mused as it reached them, tempted to step in front of the car herself.

“That would explain why there's so many people on the road,” Christopher said darkly.

Gemma stared at him; it took her a moment to process what he'd said.

Yesterday, when the others assumed the static meant all the stations were off-air, and that the whole country had been affected, Gemma explained that the magnetic energy in the air could affect the signals for some time.

The interference should be long gone by now.

“I didn't think the road would be this busy yet,” Christopher said. “I thought this sort of – of migration – wouldn't happen until there was nothing left. That people would still be expecting someone to come to their rescue.”

“There's actually not that many people, really,” Gemma said. “Not when you think about how big the city and the surrounding suburbs are.”

Christopher's look was incredulous. “Not many people? These are only the ones that left at the crack of dawn. Maybe even earlier. Before the rest of the city was even awake.”

“That's why you were anxious to get out of the city so quickly?”

Christopher nodded. “I figured if I felt such a strong urge to go back home, there would be plenty of others thinking the same way. Then there's all the people who would have been stranded. Airports for example, or like the people on that bus. Not to mention all the people who commute to work.”

They watched the sedan silently as it passed, the elderly woman in the passenger's seat staring resolutely forward, tears trailing down her cheeks. A woman with a kind face, someone's grandmother. Her husband beside her.

How hard had it been to drive past so many people in need when in another time, on any other day, they might have stopped to offer assistance?
The next hour was hard going, the highway slowly getting steeper and steeper as they came to higher country. And they hadn't even reached the mountains proper yet.

Off to the right was Peak Mountain, and beyond it was the source of the smoke. A thick, gloomy, broiling cloud that hung heavily over the area.

As the signs ticked off the distance to the Peak Mountain exit, a man rode past them on a bicycle, heading toward the city. This wasn't all that unusual a sight, there had been others doing the same. Motorists who'd been stranded coming home.

But as they got closer to the exit it became a more regular occurrence.

“What do you think is going on?” Gemma asked, her muscles protesting as she struggled up the incline.

A young family walking toward the city heard her, and a man with a scruffy beard answered. “They're not letting anyone else in.”

Gemma and Christopher slowed.

“Letting them in where?” Christopher asked.

“Peak Mountain. They said they can't take anyone else. They're just letting everyone fill up their water bottles and making them move on.”

Gemma and Christopher rode on in silence, worrying for all the people heading toward the well known reservoir that fed the north parts of the city. How many of them had used the last of their water just to make the journey? Where would they go?

Gemma reached for her drink as they approached a weary looking group.

A mother pushed a stroller, moving slowly. A small boy – maybe four or five – was stumbling beside her on weary legs, wearing long black pants and a deep purple button-up shirt. Behind them lagged a girl of about six, crying softly, wearing a pretty navy blue dress.

A thin, frail woman shuffled resolutely ahead, leaning heavily on a wheeled walking frame with a basket attached to the front. The sturdy-looking man at her side was doing his best to support her, but it was obvious she couldn't go much further.

The boy looked up as they passed, the juice bottle that he was carrying almost empty. He lifted it to his lips, but before he could drink any, his mother took it off him without saying a word. She screwed the cap on and placed it on top of the stroller.

A look passed between Gemma and Christopher. It was still a good distance to the Peak Mountain exit. All of it uphill.

“We have to tell them,” Gemma said softly.

Christopher slowed down, and Gemma stopped beside him, glad for the chance to stretch her legs as she eased herself off the bike.

The young boy was staring thirstily at the drink in her hand, and feeling guilty, Gemma quickly put it in the drink holder.

Surely they had more – maybe in the bottom of the stroller. She was surprised to see they weren't carrying any luggage. Not so much as a plastic grocery bag.

“Are you headed for Peak Mountain?” Christopher asked.

The woman pushing the stroller looked at him, a tentative smile crossing her lips as she nodded her head.

“I heard they aren't taking any more people,” Gemma said softly.

“I know,” the woman said tearfully. “But we don't know where else to go. And we've already been walking for hours.”

“Our van broked,” the boy said, coming over to stare up at Gemma.

“Did it?” Gemma said. That explained why they had nothing with them. “Is that the only drink you have for all of you?” She pointed at the juice. The boy was about the same age as CJ.

“Yep,” the girl said, her tears stopping at the distraction. “We had to sleep in the car.”

“Is that right?” Gemma asked the freckle-faced girl.

The girl nodded her head matter-of-factly, her dark pony tail swinging. Her cute little button nose creased as she squinted up at Gemma, revealing a missing front tooth. “The whole city got nuked.”

“Is it true?” asked the older man. He had a thick swatch of white-gray hair, and looked to be in his late fifties.

The old woman swayed on her feet, and the man steadied her.

“Jimmy – see if that car's locked.” The man pointed at a shiny blue late-model car. “Nanny needs to rest for a bit.”

Jimmy ran over and tugged at the handle. “It's locked,” he shouted.

The little girl rose to the challenge, spotting something the boy hadn't. “The window is open, you dummy,” she said, reaching in.

“Come on, Mom,” the man said, lifting the frail woman as though she weighed nothing. He balanced her precariously on top of the walker, her bony bottom sinking into the wire basket.

“You should just leave me,” the woman said, her voice a soft crackle. “My Davey's waiting for me.” She looked up at the sky, her milky blue eyes glazing over.

“We just buried my father,” the man explained.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Gemma said automatically, not liking herself very much when it crossed her mind that the children would have a better chance of survival without the old woman slowing them down.

While they were talking, Christopher dug around in the trailer, being careful not to expose the contents. She didn't blame him. The family hadn't eaten since the day before, and if the children crowding him saw their meager supply of food, it would be hard not to give it to them with those big hungry eyes staring at him.

What they had wouldn't even go close to filling the hole in their hungry bellies, but if they were careful, they could stretch it enough to get them home.

Hell – what they had any one of them could eat in one sitting.

Gemma hated that it had come to this. That she was even thinking this way. But what else could they do? She had CJ to worry about.

She needed to get home as soon as possible. Seeing the frail old woman only emphasized this.

Would Daphne know where to look when they ran out of water? And there was still the worry they were stuck in Carlisle. That they were all alone, with only the dead car to sleep in.

Gemma looked down when she realized the little girl was talking to her. “What's that, sweetie?”

“Are we all gonna die?” the girl asked, and Gemma wished she had kept her mouth shut.