The McClane Apocalypse Book 4 (68 page)

They walk back to the house
together for dinner, and Sam loops her arm through hers. Paige just
smiles. Twenty yards from the house, she can hear the calamity of
dinner coming together inside of the kitchen as everyone gathers.
The smells of something fantastic cooking is permeating into the
back yard as the children race ahead of them. It feels good to
have
a true
friend in Sam, a group of people to call her new family, and a
safe place
to finally
live
.

Chapter Thirty

Cory

He’s been moving, hunting,
foraging and traveling for almost seven months, and it’s almost the
end of August. The heat is still sweltering. He’s hunted wild game,
some of which he’s never come up against before, like a feral pig.
He’s also been killing for that same amount of time. He’s hunted
men, some beasts of which he has never come up against before.
Didn’t matter. He’d selectively
hunted
and killed those societal
fiends
, as
well.

Fall is once again on
the
horizon,
and the weather has improved considerably. It seemed as if it
had rained for the last thirty days straight. He’d taken shelter in
numerous different places. He and his crew of motley animals have
been to Pittsburgh, where he’d stopped at the Three Rivers Stadium,
the home of his dad’s favorite football team, the Pittsburgh
Steelers. They used to be the shit. They’d
won
eleven Super Bowls before the
apocalypse changed everything and people started eating
pig skin
instead
of making footballs out of it. He’d let Jet graze on the
once-coveted
turf
on the field and had snagged two footballs from the locker room to
take back to the kids at the farm someday. He’d even found some
medical supplies in the sports medicine center off of the
training
room
. They’d
stayed
in the stadium a few days where Cory was able to
root out and get rid of some perverts. A small cluster of creeps
had holed up in a restaurant in the downtown district. He’d taken
them out
easily
enough and returned the two teenage girls that they’d
kept
captive
to
their parents. He’d
sat
at the top edge of the abandoned football stadium
and sniped a truck full of jackasses who were trying to run down a
family in a Volvo
station-wagon
on its last leg. It had
almost been too easy. They probably had no idea where the shots
were even coming from. The Angel of Death had rained down judgment
and thunder upon them. Then he’d smoked his last cigarette and
watched the roaring three rivers, which had overtaken the banks
years before, flow and speed along, filled with debris and
non-native materials like lumber, parts of cars, a water wheel,
chunks of cement, and even a turbine motor. He hadn’t seen any dead
bodies, but he’d still boiled the water from that river for an
extra long period of time that night before he’d drunk it. Then
he’d zig-zagged northwest.

Cleveland had proven
fruitless, to say the least. He’d
stayed
about a week there and had fished
out of Lake Erie on a small rowboat that he’d found in the middle
of the street in the downtown arts district and had commandeered.
He’d
toured
an old barge and had marveled at the sheer size of it and the
strange fact that it was still anchored near the Science Center.
He’d
stayed
two nights in the State Theater, had even led his horse right
through the front double doors. They were greeted by two does and a
buck in the entranceway where snacks were sold. They’d
sprinted
away
further into the theater, and he hadn’t seen them again. Cory had
led his stallion up the grand, red-carpeted staircase to a massive,
marble-floored foyer where guests would have mingled before the
show. Then he and the horse had gone right onto the main stage
where they’d
camped
out. Jet hardly spooks at anything anymore. He’s
about as dead-broke trained as one horse could be. He doesn’t have
much a choice.

A dirty and yellowing
poster for The Phantom of the Opera had been plastered proudly in
the lobby and out
front
near the ticket booth. Apparently that was the
last Broadway play on tour that had been running
at
the State
Theater. It was a lavish, ornamental building with carvings and
plaster molding from a century before. The lack of maintenance on
her was showing, though. Mold was growing on the curtains for the
stage area and on the plush, velvet seating in the audience. Dirt
and dust balls bigger than the ones in the horse barn at the farm
clung to every corner. He’d even found some outdated candy bars,
some packages of peanuts and a case of blue Gatorade. He’d consumed
all of it without a second thought to the expiration dates.
He’d
raided
the bar, but someone had beat him to it. All he’d found was
some fruity drink mixes for chic cocktails. He’d passed on
those.

As he traveled from one big
city to the next, Cory could see that the smaller towns and rural
neighborhoods had fared so much better than the large metropolises.
Not many signs of life had been found in Cleveland, Columbus or
Pittsburgh. They had been ghost towns. The
less
populated boroughs were
starting to ban together to keep the trouble out of their
neighborhoods, though. He’d
seen
many dead bodies, dead from what
looked like starvation or illness, in the homes in the big cities.
In Cleveland, he’d gone into three different high rise condominiums
that had once overlooked the lake or the skyline of the city only
to discover more dead bodies. He’d found a few useful supplies but
absolutely no food. He’d
resorted
to hunting. Once he’d traveled
out of the city limits into the more rural communities, he’d found
small bands of people forming or maintaining their tiny networks.
It was one of the few encouraging things he’s seen since leaving
the farm. Most of what he’s seen has left him with a bad taste in
his mouth. A lot of what he’s seen has turned him into a murderous
madman. His thirst for blood lust is somewhat settling down, but
he’s not done yet. He feels like he’s contributed a lot to help the
help
less
in the
country.

And today he’s stopping in
Ravenna, Ohio. There’s an old Army ammunition post supposedly
there. He’s about to find out. It closed years ago according to the
information he’d found in a book about Ohio. He passed the sign for
Ravenna Arsenal a ways back. According to the map, this place
should be
huge
. He’s not really thinking he’ll find anything useful but is
mostly looking to spend a few days undisturbed before moving on. No
armed guards work at the checkpoint. He passes a helicopter on his
left, displayed on a small hill and surrounded by decorative brick.
Poison ivy vines curl and twine from the ground and have almost
encompassed it. They even wrap around the rotors and twist and wind
around inside of the cabin of the Cobra gunship, nearly engulfing
it. The Huey near it is being overtaken with moss and foliage, as
well.

Cory hops down from his stallion and
walks beside him just in case anyone is around. Better to not be an
open target sitting high on a horse. The area is silent as a
mausoleum as the sun beats down upon them. Damn Dog follows
cautiously behind him. She’s turned out to be an all right dog, but
he would still rather she’d go away. Luckily she’s quiet and stays
alert when he’s not.

He scans the area, taking
note of the chain-link fencing surrounding the
complex
that has been caved in
by multiple cars, a
pick-up
truck
and one
school bus. Had civilians tried to take over or invade this base?
Had they just been that desperate for aid? Why would they have come
to
a closed munitions
storage facility? It was not an active duty base
to begin with. They wouldn’t have had supplies, would they? Derek
had heard from some Army friends who had passed through and stopped
at the farm a few years ago that some military bases like Fort Knox
were being run by the men who’d been stationed here. He’s not sure
why anyone would’ve wanted this abandoned place, though. Of course,
it would’ve been one hell of a good fighting position. It’s about
as secure as any fortress could be. Maybe they left the city to
seek a place of security for their families. He’ll probably never
know, nor does he care. He’s only sacking out here for a few days
until he moves on again, so he’s glad that nobody is occupying the
place.

Long, thin grasses grow up
through the cracks of the blacktopped lane. To his left is a wide
open field where over a dozen deer graze idly in between three
tanks. With the absence of humans roaming around shooting them, the
deer and most other wildlife has multiplied with great ease. In
July, he’d spotted a mountain lion in Pennsylvania. He’s not sure
if those were native of that area before the apocalypse, but he
doubts it. He’s seen black bear and three grizzlies, more deer than
he can count and even a small cluster of buffalo or
bison;
he’s not
sure which they were. He can only assume that they were
domesticated livestock that had either been released into the wild
or had broken free of their fencing if left abandoned. It’s like
living in America circa the 1700’s.

On his right
is
row after row
of cement bunkers built half into the ground. There are literally
hundreds of them. Apparently the Army had a shit ton of ammunitions
to store at one time. His stomach growls loudly, causing Damn Dog
to mewl
softly
before he gives her a look to let her know to zip it. He’s
wondering if there’s anything left in the armory or any food
supplies left in the kitchens. Highly doubtful, but it’s worth a
shot.

Jet startles and prances in place with
agitation. Cory tightens his grip on the horse’s bridle. The
stallion has spotted something even before Cory. He urges the horse
closer to a tall stone wall which seems to have encased some sort
of courtyard on the other side. His dog’s hackles rise. It’s still
early afternoon. The sun is high, but the air carries the tinge of
ozone as if a storm is brewing yet again. The leaves on the maples
and oaks occasionally flip over as winds dance through the tree
line to his left.

Cory removes his binoculars from his
pocket and scans more carefully. He’d vetted this place from quite
a distance away on a nearby hilltop. He hadn’t seen anything, no
signs of life, but he could be wrong. With the bunkers and
buildings, he could have easily missed movement. He’s been wrong
before. It had cost him the most important person in his life.
There are dozens of buildings on this base, all of which could
contain someone or many, many people.

He’d come through Aurora,
Ohio, a few days ago where he’d snagged some
high-quality
duds from an
outlet shopping center there. Now he wears Ralph Lauren
blue-jeans
, Nike
gym shoes and some other designer label t-shirt. He could give a
shit about fashion labels, but at least the items were all clean-
after he’d
shaken
four years of dust out of them. He’d taken three
other pairs of jeans, a pair of
khakis
and a half dozen
tees
. He’d burned
his old clothing that was filled with holes and more mileage than
he could count. Then he’d
shot
a small buck and butchered him. He
and his dog had eaten well that night and the next. He’d found
flour mix for hot pretzels in the small cafeteria at the outlet
mall. That hadn’t gone well. He’d eaten one of those mess
concoctions this morning, but it had tasted like shit. It wasn’t
like anything that the women on the farm create. He knows almost
nothing about cooking, other than skinning, cleaning and cooking
meat on an open fire. After he’d come through that small burg, he’d
just hung low in the wooded area around the arsenal watching for
movement. He hadn’t seen any, until now.

Nothing happens for a few
minutes, but then he spots two small children running from one
building to another. The building they disappear into looks big
enough to store planes or helicopters or tanks, tanks like the one
that sits motionless on the lawn to his right. A moment later a
woman comes out of the first building and begins hanging clothing
on a long line stretched from one telephone pole to another. A
second
woman
and then another join her with more wet clothing. They talk
animatedly, even laugh a few times. They seem peaceful and friendly
enough, but they could be here against their wills. He can’t allow
that.

Cory decides that a flanking maneuver
will be better for further observation. He crosses the road. He
needs to find a place to conceal Jet so that the big stallion
doesn’t give them both away. He moves quietly, sticking to the
grassy areas in preference to the blacktop which would cause the
horse’s hooves to clip-clop loudly. He finds the perfect spot
behind a tall building, perhaps a barracks of some kind, and ties
the horse to a pole there. He takes a second to pat his thick neck
reassuringly before leaving.