STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 2 Round 2 - the Kiwi's story
Weaving along the road, trying to not hit the many vehicles that blocked his way, the son tried to balance caution with speed. The pickup met his expectations in terms of driving performance, in that it drove like three wheeled truck with a bad case of carbouritis. Its turning circle was measured in acres and pressing the brake pedal did little to slow the vehicle down.
He swung on the wheel, wishing for power steering, and heard his father swear as they bounced through a pothole.
“Where did you get your licence? In a Weetbix packet?” his father demanded.
“What licence?” replied the son grinning at him. “This is my first time behind the wheel.”
“Ha!” laughed his father, who had spent many long and tortuous hours teaching his son how to navigate around an empty car park at the back of the local pub. “Your first time behind the wheel was much better than this.”
They both swore as the truck hit something solid and bounced high in the air. It crashed back down, rolling from side to side, throwing the men inside about like ping pong balls in a malfunctioning washing machine. The steering wheel jerked hard to the right, nearly ripping it out of the son’s hands. He slammed his foot on the brake as he wrestled to keep the truck from crashing.
It coughed and spluttered before the engine cut out completely. The pickup truck coasted to a stop in its own time, oblivious to the frantic stomping on the brake pedal by the son.
The two men climbed out and surveyed the damage. The right front tyre was shredded and the oil slick slowly spreading from beneath the front of the vehicle was not a good sign.
“So much for boggying” sighed the old man. He reached back inside the cab, resigned to walking all the way to wherever they were going, and dragged the heavy pack out. He struggled with the straps until it was mounted slightly skewed on his back, as usual. He didn’t wait for his son to retrieve his own pack. He just put his head down and started walking.
It didn’t take long for the younger man to catch up, and he walked alongside his father, not wanting to push the pace. His own knees were hurting now. He must have banged them at some point, and he limped along, swaying in time with his father, as if they were a geriatric dance duo.
They passed some more vehicles that looked promising. A black van with blacked out windows looked like an option. It seemed to be sitting awkwardly though, something about it was ‘off’.
“See the back tire?” said the father quietly. “All the air has gotten lazy and gone to the top.”
“Huh” grunted the younger man, dismissing the vehicle. Surely they could do better than this.
The next opportunity was another truck, all beat up with a rag for a petrol cap. The door handles were missing and the passenger side window was a sheet of plastic
“If we need to go off-road, this would be a good option” suggested the son, not keen on another truck, but being pragmatic.
“We’d be driving a Molotov cocktail” retorted the old man. “Bugger that.”
A red station wagon also looked promising. “Nah. Too obvious” said the father. “It will stand out like dog’s bollocks.”
Suddenly gunfire erupted down a side street causing both men to instinctively cringe and duck. It was close, very close. The crack and whizz of supersonic lead as it tore holes in innocent buildings sent the first tingle of fear coursing through their veins. Unarmed and on foot, they were a soft target for drug crazed tomcat, let along an armed band of desperate thugs.
They started to hear shouting and screaming as hot rounds were exchanged in deadly anger. Sparks flew off the wrecked cars as some of the rounds found their way into the street where the pair were. They crouched lower struggling to balance with the heavy packs on their backs.
The son looked one way, then the next. What to do? They couldn’t run fast enough to get away. Even on his own, without his lumbering father to slow him down, the son knew that he’d never be able to put enough ground between himself and the gunfight before it overwhelmed him. They had to choose a vehicle. But which one?
An explosion tore through a building on the corner of their street and the side street. Shrapnel and debris came sailing over the remains of the fence, clattering and clanging as tortured steel met ruptured pavement.
“Molotov or dog’s bollocks?” shouted the son at his father as more debris filtered down from above. Much of it was still burning and he slapped at hot cinders as they nestled in his shoulders.
The old man wasted little time in deciding. “Dog’s bollocks!” he shouted. “And this time I’m driving!” With that he heaved himself to his feet and ran hunched over as fast has he could for the red station wagon, praying that it was unlocked.
He slammed up against the driver’s door, his heart pounding, his breath ragged. A quick glance inside told him two things. One, the keys were in the ignition. Two, the owner was still in the driver’s seat.
The blank stare of the corpse caused his heart to lurch. She had been young, this woman. She was probably some high powered executive with an important job and a busy life. She probably had kids and a husband that wondered what had happened to her. Was she ever coming home? Was she ok? Why had she abandoned them? She had been someone once.
That was all gone now. Now she was just another dead person slowly returning to the soil.
A thump behind him startled the old man and he jumped back into the present. His son fumbled with the handle on the back door, finally flinging it open. He hit the buckles on his pack straps with fingers that seemed to have a mind of their own, and were determined to do anything other than what they were told.
In frustration, he tore the pack off and threw it into the back seat. He spun to check his father as another fusillade of shots raked across the walls on the far side of the street. Seeing him standing with the pack still on, the son cursed.
“Come on dad, get the pack off!” He reached up and started fumbling with the buckles. His father battered the frantic hands away and then proceeded to undo the straps, his own hands shaking as he did so. He sighed as the weight came off and his son threw the pack into the back seat beside his own and slammed the door shut.
The father was still standing by the closed driver’s door, unsure of himself, hesitating.
“What??” said the son, exasperated.
“We need to get her out first” said his father point to the unfortunate driver.
“Oh sh…” cursed the younger man. He swallowed hard. This was not in his job description, and the idea of having to pull a dead woman out of the car before they could take it made him pause.
The Molotov cocktail was looking a lot more appealing right now.
More gunfire erupted and he looked up to see a group of people walking backwards into street. All had automatic rifles and were spraying rounds back down the side-street as fast as they could. Their gun barrels spat plumes of fire and white smoke clouded the mean’s heads. Pieces of the wall beside them shattered as incoming rounds ricocheted off and sent debris flying.
Even as the son turned and grabbed the driver’s door handle, one of the men fell in a spray of blood, his weapon blasting a line of wasted rounds into the air.
The Molotov cocktail was no longer an option, neither was gentleness or respect for the dead.
The son reached in and grabbed the dead woman’s clothing and yanked as hard as he could, pulling her small frame out through the door and dumping her into the street. He felt sick and started retching. His breath just wouldn’t come and he thought he might faint. His fingers could still feel her weight, as if he was still holding her. Tears began to well in his eyes as he choked back a sob.
The sound of the engine firing and dropping into a smooth idle brought his head up.
“You coming or what?” asked his father from the driver’s seat.
Gulping air, the son nodded and ran around to the passenger side.
More explosions erupted from the side street, the blast blowing dust and debris that completely obscured the men firing back the other way. Whether they survived or not, neither of the pair ever learned.
With the care of a man who has been driving for over sixty years, the old man put the vehicle in gear and pulled away, making sure to indicate and look both ways before turning, leaving the scene of the carnage behind.
The memories however would not be left on that dusty, wrecked street. The pair would carry the memories with them always, and relive this day over and over in the quiet hours when they were too tired to move, and sleep had not yet sent them into peaceful oblivion.
Stories in this series
STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 1 Round 1 - the Kiwi's story
STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 1 Round 2 - the Kiwi's story
STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 2 Round 1 - the Kiwi's story
STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 2 Round 2 - the Kiwi's story
STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 3 Round 1 - the Kiwi's story
STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 3 Round 2 - the Kiwi's story
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Who else can tell you stories about impersonating an officer, stealing a military aircraft to go on a booze run, or steal military aircraft and go on an unsanctioned bombing run - and that's all before he turned 18!
Check out @len.george and find out what other madness he got up to!
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