The Swamp (3 page)

             
He stared at the ceiling, feeling sorry for himself and trying to get some more sleep. After what felt like several hours, he decided to just get up and find something to do. He stood at the windows of the tower, looking out at the starry sky. He had to give the swamp some points for its amazing night time displays. He had never seen stars like this, on a clear night the sky was a fabric of light. Completely different from the dots he got in the city.

             
He worked his way down the stairs, and looked around the compound. One thing that hadn’t changed from his former life was the number of half-finished projects he always managed to leave in various states of completeness. The poor light prevented most of his options, so he opted for a good book by candle light until he saw the sun crest the horizon and set fire to the sky, he put away his book and enjoyed the sunrise for a little while.

The rest of the morning was spent tinkering with the small
Duromax generator. If he could get that running, and it wasn’t too loud, the house could be cooled, the showers could be warm and easy hot meals would not be an idle dream. The books he had borrowed from the library made absolutely no sense. He had never had the mechanical knack required to do anything except make little problems much bigger and today was proving to be no exception. The only way this surprised him was the length of time it took him to get so frustrated that he ended up slinging a tool across the yard. The pliers made a satisfying clang as the bounced off the tree stand leaning against the towers leg. The noise was the exclamation point to a long string of profanity that had been served up in fits and starts for the last half hour of frustrated attempts to understand ‘The idiots guide to small engine repair.’

             
As with most days, the afternoon was spent trying to stay cool. The house had a small covered area that was a tolerable place to be, shady and cool. It was here that he spent his afternoons reading, todays choice was about small engine repair, with the aim being to get a generator running. It’s amazing how hope adapts itself. There was a time when Sam hoped for a better job, a nicer car, a bigger house, but now his wet dreams were ceiling fans and air conditioners. Florida was not a place to be outside in the summer, the highs were around 100, and at night it got down to 75, with humidity firmly stuck at 90% at least.

                            “Maybe its time for a little fresh meat,” Sam thought “a little hunting could be just the thing.”

             
There was still plenty of daylight left to find a good spot to put up the stand. In the old days, he and Mark would set up about three miles from here in a dry oak hammock over a series of little trails and watch the deer and hogs run all day while they waited for the legal deer to cross close enough to take a shot at. Legal wasn’t an issue anymore of course, any game warden that showed up was just as likely to try to take a bite out of him as write a ticket.

             
The afternoon seemed to breeze by as he set up the tree stand, trimmed a few branches and scouted around for fresh sign of animals. The change was a good thing, for the first time in weeks he felt excited about doing something.

             
He got back to the tower and laid out everything he would need. He pondered what weapon to use, and eventually settled on his bow. It would be quiet, and he had always preferred bow hunting anyway.

             
The process had left him with a few more hours of day light, so after again fiddling with the generator for a few hours and getting absolutely nowhere, he realized it was getting dark. He hadn’t done his night time security check from the tower, and there wasn’t enough time to climb up before full dark.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed as he cursed his carelessness, once again startled by his own voice.

             
He moved quickly through his mental checklist; gate chained closed, vehicles securely locked, and nothing left out where rain or animals could get at it. All that was left was to climb the steep metal staircase to the small room at the top of the tower where he spent his nights. The tower room was much cooler, and due to the hundred or so loud metal stairs, a lot less likely to have two legged things sneak up on you. The other great luxury of the tower was its single electric outlet fed by batteries connected to the solar panels. It would run the small hand sized fan he had found on a desk in the library, as well as charge his flashlight and handheld two way radio. The radio was tuned to the frequency the family had always used while hunting. There was a light set into the ceiling, but he had never used it after dark, no telling what he would attract. He laid out his clothes and went to bed. Five in the morning comes awful early.

             
Sleep came quickly as the cicada’s serenade continued in the dark playing a subtle background to the smooth tones of Frank Sinatra.

.

Chapter 3

The wind up alarm clock brought him
out of a pleasant dream, of Christmas morning at his mom’s house, the sound and smell bacon frying, pancakes, and the soft sounds of someone puttering around in the kitchen. This room was the opposite, Smelling or hot humid air, mold and the frantic sound of cheap bells. Sam flicked the switch on the alarm, and crossed the room to eat today’s steak and eggs, which turned out to be a can of peaches. He was fine with that tonight would be something roasted over a fire.

             
An hour later, Sam was ten foot off the ground listening to the bugs sing their assorted tunes and watching the sky lighten in the east.

             
He didn’t want a deer today, that was way too much meat, and he hadn’t sunk low enough to eat raccoons or possums yet, both of which made an appearance in the first hour. He was holding out for a small hog, maybe even one small enough to roast whole.

             
There is something very comforting about living in a place that is completely unchanged after the end of the world. Back in the old days, when the dead stayed dead, Sam and his brother had spent a lot of time out here. They enjoyed it because it was one of the few places you could spend all day and not see a single person, in his months out here; he had yet to see a single person. The closest house with electricity was half a day’s walk.  And really, that was why they had decided to make this home if something bad ever happened. He and his brother had sat out here in the shade enjoying hunting lunches and discussing survival situations on many occasions. They had idly made plans for lots of things, wars, terrorist attacks and economic collapses, but they had never expected zombies.

             
The birds flittered through the trees, the mosquitoes swarmed and the squirrels chased each other around the trees. Nothing moved on the ground as the sun made its slow trail across the sky and baking the landscape. The thermometer would be reading around 100 right now and the trees failed to provide any shade. The compound bow in his hand grew hot and sweat streamed down his face.

             
“That’s it, I can’t take anymore, you win nature!” he finally yelled and stood to climb down. His sudden motion was answered by crashing brush as a dozen hogs he hadn’t seen yet ran in all directions. He stood there frozen and listened; they didn’t go far before stopping.

             
Hunger does strange things, heat does even worse. Without thinking, he slid down the ladder and nocked an arrow and began to stalk the animals through the 6 foot dog fennels. He knew it was dangerous to hunt hogs on foot with a bow and arrow, but he had his pistol with him and the desire for fresh meat overrode his caution. Hogs make plenty of noise as they root around, so it was easy to keep track of them as he followed them further into the swamp. Less than 200 yards later, he had the shot he wanted on a reddish brown fifty pounder.               His arrow went straight and he was rewarded with a squeal and crashing of brush. He held his position listing to the animal thrash for several minutes before it stopped. He waited several more minutes before he went looking for the pig.

             
The hog had gone down less than ten yards from where he shot it. He approached with care, and finally satisfied of its death, knelt over his prize to examine it. The shot had been clean, thankfully, and had not spoiled any of the meat. Now all that was left was to field dress it and drag it back to the truck.

             
The dressing was quick, if not messy; he tied a rope around the hog’s snout to begin the long drag. As soon as he leaned his weight into the rope, the woods exploded with noise. A huge black shaped rushed from the brush, hitting him in the legs. A mind numbing pain shot thru his legs as six inches of tusk ripped thru his thigh. The hog was angry, and huge. Nothing is quite as fierce as a hog that is protecting its self or its drove. Its black eye showed nothing but malice as it spun around and charged again, this time biting hard into Sam's left forearm and ripping the flesh almost to the bone. Sam pounded the boar in the head with his right fist and felt like he was punching a concrete block, but the boar let go and backed off, squealing in rage. Sam drew his pistol and fired just as the boar came again, but to late. He had been dropped to his knees by the boar’s initial attack, and this time the massive weight of the animal hit him full in the chest, throwing him to the earth and slamming his head into the ground. Sam says stars and far off, he heard the bellow of wrath that he knew meant the hog was coming again. He decided it was a good time to black out.

Chapter 4

He was distantly aware that something hurt, but he couldn’t quite be sure what, or more precisely, what didn’t. His head throbbed and when he tried to open his eyes he saw bright flashes of light. It took him what felt like an eternity to realize he was laying on the ground outside somewhere and that he was hurt bad. He had a vague recollection of hunting and something big being after him. The memory of this made him try to sit up and he was immediately sorry. His head throbbed, he felt weak, sore, and very thirsty. Less than ten feet away, the huge boar lay dead, finally succumbed to his shot. He tried to reach for his canteen, but his arm was stiff and wouldn’t respond right. When he looked at it, the nausea flooded back in, his arm was a mess of torn flesh, and caked with blood and swamp mud. His right leg had a 5 inch gash that stood open more than 2 inches, and he was lying in a sticky puddle of what must have been blood he passed out again.

             
When next he came to, it was full dark. He knew he had to move, to get home or he would die here.  He used the sleeve from his shirt to bandage the leg, and was thankful that the arm wasn’t bleeding anymore, though the flesh was already oozing the purulent fluid that showed infection. He managed to pull himself up, but instantly went down again when he tried to put weight on the injured leg. He would have to crawl, the road was a mere three hundred yards away, and the truck a hundred yards beyond that down the road. But with one good leg and one arm, that might as well be miles. He painfully rolled to his stomach, and began to push himself along. A few feet away he found his dropped pistol and put it in his holster. He had no idea where his bow had ended up, but he knew he couldn’t carry it anyway. He found that if he could grab something, a rock, root or plant he could make decent time by pulling himself along with his uninjured arm as he pushed with the good leg. He made it almost 100 yards in the first hour, and about 20 more before he passed out again. His dreams were about giant pigs eating him whole as he lay roasted in a pan with an apple in his mouth.

              When he came to this time, it was daylight and the heat was already intense. He managed to get his canteen off his belt, only to find it empty, cracked when he landed on it as the pig attacked. He found himself laughing, and then shivering despite the heat, whether from fear of death, losing his mind, fever or all three he couldn’t be sure. There was water in the truck, but he had to get there. He pressed on, inch by inch, foot by foot. This time making it almost to the road before he rested his head and gave into the exhaustion. He dreamt of the last time he had seen his family. It was at the airport just a few days before all this happened. They had had greatly overpriced sandwiches in the terminal while they waited for the plane to board and his son had told him one horrible joke after another, 13 year olds not being known for their sense of humors. The dream ended when the intercom had announced their flight. In the real event, this had been followed by hugs and goodbyes. In the dream however, his family turned to him and howled.