Random Survival | Book 1 | Random Survival Read online

  Random Survival

  Ray Wenck

  This novel is dedicated to survivors everywhere.

  Prologue

  They would come for him soon. It was just a matter of time. They would come. And if they found him they would kill him. He didn’t doubt that for an instant. He could only hope that he would have enough warning to hide before they discovered his existence.

  KCHUK. “Unh.” Thunk. KCHUK. “Unh.” Thunk. The sound repeated endlessly. His back ached from the constant strain. How many times had he sunk the shovel into the hard mixed earth of dirt and clay? How many times had he placed the sheet-wrapped bodies into the shallow graves? KCHUK. The sound droned on as he tried to lose himself in thought. If he kept his already dulled mind occupied, he wouldn’t concentrate on just how exhausted he was. He sunk the blade. “Unh.” The sound escaped his lips as he struggled to lift yet another shovelful and toss it aside. Thunk. The heavy, moist clod struck the pile and scattered down the slopes on all sides.

  “Almost there,” he said to no one; no one alive. Another one laid to rest. Truly, how many had it been? How many days straight? He would have to figure it out when he was all done – if he ever did get done. The task seemed endless, but had to be done. The alternative was unthinkable.

  Mark lifted two more shovelfuls, his eyes burning from the sweat running down his face. Wiping his eyes, he forced his muscles to an erect position and leaned on the shovel. He squinted into the sun enjoying its heat, then glanced back at the hole he'd dug. Judging his work sufficient, he stuck the shovel into the ground. His shirtless body glistened with sweat; his once snug jeans now sagged from his tightened and smaller stomach. Not what they called washer board, but at his age, and in this short time, it was close.

  Grabbing the sheet by the feet, Mark pulled the expired shell of one of his neighbors, into the pit. The body dropped the four feet with a solid thud. Leaning on the shovel, he once again said a silent prayer. With sudden guilt Mark realized, he did not know his neighbor’s name. He’d said “Hi” to him three or four times a week in passing, for over five years, but never knew his name. It made the unpleasantness of burial even more so. He sighed and finished his prayer with an apology to God. If there truly were a God, which lately he had his doubts, He would know the name.

  Plucking the shovel from its berth, Mark set about filling the hole. When it was done, he patted the mound down, then stomped on the pile. It was important to pack the dirt down as tight as possible. He didn’t want any animals digging up the bodies. He stood back and looked at the four graves, all in a row. Two dug two days ago, the mother and the little boy. The little girl was planted yesterday and now the father. He had watched them die knowing there was nothing he could do for them. An entire family lost in three short, painful days. He was beyond sadness. All emotion had faded at least a week ago. He could bring no more feelings to the surface. Whatever emotion he'd possessed lay buried in the graves he had dug for his wife and youngest boy. He couldn’t afford to feel. And yet, unbidden, the memory returned.

  As the last shovelful of dirt hit the grave, Mark dropped to his knees, devastated. What could I have done differently? How could I have saved them?

  One week earlier, people all over the country – he wasn’t sure if it was the world – had begun getting sick. The symptoms were flu-like: fever, then cramping, and then chills. Within two days, the bodies had piled up. Hospitals and medical facilities were overwhelmed. In the first few days, there was still media coverage showing the crisis. News helicopters captured video of out-of-control mobs. What made it worse was not knowing what the illness was. The government didn’t even seem to know what the population faced. Their only words were to remain calm and they were working on whatever it was.

  They hadn’t worked fast enough. Not for Sandra. Not for Ben.

  He’d tried to get to the hospital with Sandra and Ben moaning in the car. But no matter which route he took, he couldn't get through. Crowds and police barricades blocked the roads. After an hour of slamming the steering wheel, honking the horn, and swearing at anyone in the way, Sandra touched his arm.

  “Just take us home, Mark. It’s where we belong.” She must have known then that the end was close.

  Mark could only comfort them as their life ebbed from their bodies. Unable to ease Ben’s pain, Mark crushed two sleeping pills into a glass of water. Even in sleep, his son’s face contorted in pain.

  Sandra went first. Mark held her until the end and thought his heart would explode as he felt her exhale her last breath. Ben never woke and followed his mother hours later. He had been so strong, had fought so hard. Whatever the devastating illness was, it had taken them in less than three days, but their suffering made it seem like an eternity.

  Mark didn’t bother calling the authorities. They had too much death and chaos to deal with for them to even care. In the end, he went out behind their beautiful suburban home and dug two graves. Becca and Bobby, his other two children, were both away at college. All his efforts to contact them had failed.

  What is left to hope for?

  He rubbed his hands together to clear off the dirt and strode toward the house. When he returned, he carried a pistol. Mark dropped the gun between the two graves and picked up the shovel. He pushed his foot down on the blade. With the hole half dug, a warm and comforting breeze caressed him, as though someone had touched his cheek. In an instant his actions ceased and a soothing calm enveloped him. The breeze transferred its warmth through his body as though he had taken a drink of warm tea. A scent, carried on the wind, sparked a memory. A picture of Sandra danced before his eyes.

  Whether imagined or not, Mark released the shovel. This time his tears flowed without pain, just sadness. Had it been real or just an illusion?

  He chose to believe it was Sandra because that thought brought comfort when he needed something to give him hope.

  There must be a reason I’m still here.

  One

  Mark hiked toward the small city. In the distance, a glow lit the night sky. It gave Mark hope. If there was light, someone had to have turned it on. His pace quickened, as did his heart rate. As he drew nearer the main downtown street, he heard a crack, crack, crack.

  Mark stopped.

  Fireworks?

  For an instant he was excited. Someone had to have set them off. Then he realized the light was orange and danced in an unsteady way. The glow didn’t come from electric lights. The city was on fire. He moved on with caution.

  As he drew closer, he heard another crack. This time he recognized the sound. Gun shots. Still, it meant someone was alive. A few steps more and the strong scent of the fire was upon him. Mark stopped. Was it worth exploring further? He heard a woman scream.

  Someone else was alive. But perhaps not for long.

  The scream came from somewhere to his left. Whoever that someone was, was in danger. Perhaps hurt. Thinking of Sandra and spurred by the fact he was unable to save her, Mark ran in that direction in hopes of helping whoever was out there.

  When she screamed again Mark stopped and listened, hunting for a more exact direction. He rounded a corner, slowed to a walk. Two blocks away, the glow of the fire played across the buildings on the far side of Main Street. There were no people, just bodies in various stages of decomposition.

  Staying to the shadows, Mark edged forward. At the first corner he stopped and looked down the street in both directions. It was dark so he wasn’t sure if anyone moved or not. He jogged across the street and closed in on Main. At the next corner, Mark pressed himself to the building and peered around it. The entire middle of the block was in flames. Bodies lay all over the street. Fleeting shadows an
d forms moved in and out of the buildings, carrying armloads of worthless items, big-screen TVs, dolls, speakers, and DVDs, as if there were an actual need for any of it.

  “Let go, bitch!” The shout drew Mark’s attention across the street. A man stood over a prone woman, trying to wrestle a two-liter pop bottle from her hands. As he watched, the man stomped on the woman’s chest. She shrieked, but refused to relinquish her prize.

  Rage flared through Mark. Without thinking, he sprinted toward the man. Just as the man managed to wrench the bottle free, Mark hit him. He drove the man off the woman and slammed him into a brick wall. Mark fired his fist into the man’s face. Days of pain, anger, and frustration rushed to the surface, unleashing a flurry of crushing punches until the man slid down the wall in a heap, his face a bloody mess.

  Mark stared at his fist, appalled. Was he capable of such violence now? Then he looked for the woman. She scrambled on her knees to retrieve her precious pop bottle, the bottle that had almost cost her life. Once she had it in hand she crouched defensively, pointing a small paring knife at Mark.

  “You stay back. It’s mine. I’ll kill you if you try to take it.”

  Mark was so astonished he was unable to speak. The woman fled with the pop like she was carrying a baby.

  What had happened to humanity in the short week since the plague had descended?

  They are willing to kill for a bottle of pop?

  He walked to the corner and watched what was left of humankind. There had to be fifty people out there. There was still hope. As he stepped from the shadows into the street, a building crumbled and collapsed, raining fire and debris onto the street.

  A woman carrying a case of water ran past. Mark was about to call to her when from down the street a man yelled, “Hey!”

  “Oh, shit,” said the woman and ran faster.

  As the first shot was fired Mark jumped, his heart pounding hard against his chest. He ducked, turned, and ran after the woman. Another shot followed.

  “Bring that back here!” The man shot at her again.

  Mark pulled up next to the woman. With the water pressed against her chest, the woman ran on. She bumped into Mark as she turned the corner, but tripped on the curb. She went down, skidding on her knees, the water sliding on the sidewalk.

  Mark reached down to help her up. She hesitated, but took his hand. He hauled her up and started to run, but she dragged her feet.

  “No!” she screamed and wrenched her hand free. “The water!” She ran back to retrieve the plastic wrapped case.

  “But—” Mark was dumbfounded. When someone shoots at you, you run. Was the water worth dying for?

  The woman stooped to pick up the case. Some of the bottles had come free and were loose on the street. Mark ran back to help, picking up two bottles. The woman stood as the shooter rounded the corner.

  Mark threw one of the bottles, striking the man in the chest. They wouldn’t get much more time. He grabbed the woman’s hand and took off with her in tow. Two more shots sounded. The heat of one round passed near his cheek.

  Another shot came just as Mark skirted another corner. The woman tripped again. Mark raced on, dragging her.

  “Come on, get up, or he’ll catch us.”

  The woman didn’t reply. Mark reached down to lift her and felt wetness on her back. He looked into her eyes and she blinked once. Then she exhaled a long breath and her head lolled backwards.

  The whole world has gone crazy!

  Mark gave her one last saddened look and ran into the darkness. He ran until his lungs felt they would explode. By the time he stopped, he was nearly home. He gasped for air, looking over his shoulder for pursuit. The shooter must have been more interested in the water than in him.

  He walked on, his thoughts coming like a flood, battering his brain.

  What’s happened to people? Don’t they understand that we are all we have left?

  They were so willing to kill each other over water instead of working together to salvage and share what they could. It was more than he could take.

  He turned his face upward. “How could You let this happen? What were You thinking? I will never believe in You again.”

  Mark stopped outside his house until his breathing returned to normal, if anything in this mad world could be considered normal. He stared at his house. It could never be home again, but he had nowhere else to go. Besides, Sandra and Ben were here. He’d had no contact with Becca and Bobby since this plague had fallen upon them. If they survived, this is where they’d come. This would still be home to them.

  Mark dragged his weary body up the steps and entered the house. The steps to the second floor seemed to go on forever. Without undressing, he flopped on the bed. The pillow still held Sandra’s scent. He pushed her memory from his thoughts for a moment.

  If he was to survive, it would take some planning. He would to have to toughen up and think things through. Those animals he’d seen in the city tonight would come looking for food when theirs ran out. Mark was determined to get it first. He would need it to survive. There had to be others like him alive somewhere. If he found them, he wanted enough food and water to share. Maybe there was still hope. Yes, it would take some serious planning or that wild horde would kill him and take it.

  His thoughts returned to Sandra. Mark hugged her pillow to his face and inhaled.

  Two

  Since his walk into town, Mark hadn’t seen anyone living except his neighbor, Summer. It seemed strange that everyone in the subdivision had died except for two people who lived next door to each other. If there was a connection there, Mark wasn’t smart enough to find it. Mark had buried Summer’s husband in their backyard the day before Sandra had died. Since then he’d tried several times to convince Summer to move in with him, for safety reasons only. But Summer could no longer be reasoned with. The loss of her husband and the chaos into which the world had descended had affected Summer’s mind. She had become unresponsive and spent most of her time in her own little world. Mark made a mental note to check on her tomorrow.

  Mark’s gaze moved from the grave in Summer’s yard to the two in his own. How many times had he placed sheet-wrapped bodies into shallow graves? The children were the hardest because they made him think about Becca and Bobby. Mark had become the self-appointed gravedigger, priest, and mourner of his neighborhood.

  There was no one else left to do it.

  Darkness fell fast, matching the darkness in Mark’s heart. After finishing the graves, he'd packed the van and headed home. He didn't like being out in the dark. He turned into his driveway, parked, and got out. Every day Mark went out, scavenging the neighborhood and stripping it of anything useful. He pulled up the garage door, slid back in the van, and drove inside. There he closed and locked the overhead door.

  Mark moved the day’s finds from the van into the house. Finished, he grabbed the rifle, checked the side-door lock, and went inside for the night. He walked through the laundry room to an interior door, which he locked, then continued down the basement stairs. To the average eye, it looked like a full basement lined with shelves, but it was actually larger.

  Mark pulled a set of shelves forward. He tugged on the section of paneled wall behind it, revealing a twenty-four by twenty-foot area. Against the far wall was a fold-up bed. Next to it was a small nightstand with a lamp and a book. Along the wall to the left sat a dorm-size refrigerator powered by an inverter and charged by a generator, which was housed and vented in a separate space.

  Mounted to each wall was a rifle rack, each full of shotguns and different caliber rifles, including an old Marine sniper rifle he had discovered along with two full boxes of 7.62mm bullets. In his days in the Marines, he had trained on the same model. Through the wall to the right, another secret door fitted into the paneling. It went into what used to be his work and tool room. You could no longer reach the room from the main basement because he had blocked it off and paneled over the doorway.

  The small four by ten foot room was
now where he stored his collection of food, water, and medical supplies. Next to the door was a stack of twelve car batteries. They supplied the power for his lights and the security cameras placed around the house, inside and out.

  Mark took a five-gallon can of gas recovered from his day’s hunt and left it next to the generator. There were barely two gallons in it. It wasn’t worth taking out to the storage tank he had buried in the backyard. Today he’d found twenty-four cans of food, two partial cases of bottled water, three cases of assorted pop, and a bag of potatoes. He placed the new items in their appropriate spots in the storage room.

  All in all, not a good day on the collection front. He had spent too much time digging graves. It needed to be done, but he would have to make more time tomorrow for collecting.

  The one interesting item he had found was an AK-47 with three full magazines. What had Malcolm, one of his neighbors, been doing to need a gun like that? He added the AK to the other guns.

  In a short four-foot exterior sidewall, he had cut a door. He was digging out a cave underneath the deck at the rear of the house for further storage and to vent the generator. A crude vent created by a plastic pipe aired the fumes. When complete, it would serve as a place for propane burners and kerosene heaters without worrying about the exhaust vapors. It could also be used as an escape hatch when completed, in case he was trapped inside by intruders. The excavation was about two-thirds done with the treated lumber from his son’s old backyard play set carefully bracing the ceiling. He needed more wood to finish the job. The floor was lined with large square patio blocks, but was still eight to ten short of covering the space.

  Tired, Mark pulled a beer from the refrigerator and walked toward the large desk that sat in front of the escape route he was building. Deprived of human interaction, these projects were how Mark kept himself from going crazy. Mark entered the small cave, placed his beer on the dirt floor, and picked up the shovel he’d left there the night before. Remembering the security system, Mark walked back to his living quarters and hooked wires to the battery terminals, activating the alarm.