It was starting to get dark. As the sun set on another boring day in someone's version of paradise, Emil Soares tilted his head back toward the sky and breathed a deeply unsatisfied sigh. One year ago, things would have been different. Emil pictured himself in another place, with his girlfriend, surrounded by family, laughing in some trendy bar that popped up in newly revitalized Milwaukee and completely unspoiled by the pitfalls of the world. Instead, he was standing among the melting piles of dirty snow, in a backyard that wasn't his own, with an ax in one hand and a loaded revolver on his hip because nothing was safe anymore; nothing was sacred.
A small pile of logs lay at his feet, waiting to be picked up, taken inside and thrown onto the fire that was surely turning to ember while he procrastinated. The winter months had been harsh, too few of too many things, and Emil was beginning to wonder if surviving was really worth it anymore. He looked down at the wood pile, unevenly split, sloppy and haphazard and he couldn't help it, but another sigh escaped him. He was tired, bored, beaten down by both loneliness and guilt. In one hand, the ax felt heavy and tempting…
Not tempting enough, however. Dashing from a corner of the fenced in yard, a happy bark quieted his thoughts and Emil watched as a fluffy, happy, but fiercely loyal guard dog, attempted to goad him into a game of fetch. "Gimmie that!" he laughed, watching as the dog trotted away with one of the scraps. Monster Truck, or Truckie, as Emil called him, was an Alaskan Malamute. He remembered adopting him with Lauren, the girl he still thought about, and her son, Alexander. They were no longer living, not really, not after the virus.
What little joy Emil may have gotten out of a quick game with Truckie was short lived, and he quickly gathered up the firewood and ushered the dog back inside. The house that wasn't his, located just a short drive or a long walk away from downtown Chicago, was modest in size. It was just a single story, two bedrooms, one small bathroom, a basement that had been stocked with a good supply of non-perishables. That was the good thing about middle class moms—they bought in bulk. "You hungry?" Emil asked Truckie, who had jumped up onto one of the squishy chairs near the fireplace. With the newly added logs, the fire crackled back to life, and Emil squatted down to warm his hands. "Huh?" he asked again, "you want some dinner or not?" If it was crazy to carry on full conversations with a dog, then Emil had lost his mind about six months ago.
The gas stove no longer worked, but the cast-iron pots and pans held up well to the flames roaring in the hearth. Soon enough, dinner was made out of some semi-questionable cans and after, Emil left his dishes on the coffee table as he reclined on the sofa. It was dark outside by then and after a long day of mostly nothing, his eyes began to slip closed. All of the doors and windows in the house were secured, locked with more than provided deadbolts, and after months of being settled, he no longer worried so much about the things that went bump in the night.
It may have been a few hours or a few minutes, but the sound of Truckie barking at one of the windows caused Emil to stir. He sat up quickly from the soft cushions of the couch as the barking continued, groggy but doing his damnedest to fully wake. "Truckie," he hissed, grabbing a shotgun that had been leaned against the wall, "shh. Stop it! Calm down!" Cautiously, he took a look out of the large window, hoping to keep himself hidden. Normally, the dead and infected clustered in the city where there were still scraps of food and Emil hadn't crossed paths with any in months. He squinted into the darkness, able to make out two figures. One was tiny, child-sized, maybe Alexander's age and it tugged at something in his heart. The other was slight, thin, definitely a woman.
Again, Truckie barked. His paws were up on the windowsill, his large tail wagging. They likely weren't a threat, Emil thought, but he'd been fooled before. There was a part of him that wanted to turn away, pretend he hadn't seen anything and just go back to sleep, but the thought of abandoning more people out there, in the early spring cold, was wrong.
"Goddamnit," he swore under his breath, shotgun still in hand as he undid the locks on the door and leaned out onto the porch. "Hey!" he called to the two, sure that he looked as intimidating as any hoard of zombies. "What are you doing out there?" Emil waved them over, inside, and from behind his leg, Truckie came bolting out of the house. He bound over to the little boy, too playful for his own good. If they had weapons, the girl was likely to protect her boy and if someone killed his dog, Emil knew that would be the end for him.
Against his better judgment, he ran out into the street. "Hey, hey! He's alright! He's friendly!" Emil promised, gun pointed down at the ground as he grabbed Truckie by the scruff and pulled him back from the child. Up close, he could make out the girl's face. She was pretty, but too young to be on her own. "Sorry about him."
The air felt heavier than it used to, now gray and full of dust. [BCOLOR=transparent]The lack of people and their celerity, the lifelessness of everything, made all the world look static and unmoving. Luciana Kailas had grown up in a packed city, along with her brother Finn. People had filled every corner, the sound of traffic coloring the air at every turn. Luce had never known before that it was possible to miss the sound of the busy road, but it would be a sweet reprieve to the silence. It had felt like it was her and Finn versus the world back then...but the virus had truly made it so. Luce didn't risk being seen by people in the city. They were either looters or members of errant gangs...or they were infected, not really people anymore. It was a loneliness like she'd never known in the first few months, but now they'd settled into a new normal. And Luce didn't need anyone but Finn.[/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Though, she might've lost hope long ago if this wasteland was all that was left. She might've boarded herself and Finn up in an abandoned apartment and waited out death there. Or sped it up. [/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]But there was something more. [/BCOLOR]
[BCOLOR=transparent]Luciana had heard of a place, just whispers of it, back when the world as they knew it had just started to crumble. It was a safe haven, the beginning vestiges of a new civilization forming out of the rubble of the old one. She had clung to that knowledge, piecing together the little bits of information she got here and there. If such an oasis existed, it would be on the West Coast...in Southern California, or what was left of it. If it didn't exist, then she and Finn had lost nothing by trying. But if it did? [/BCOLOR]It would be a new life for the both of them. Perhaps a life better than the one they'd had before. It had been just the two of them for a very long time, even before the end of things, and all Luce wanted to do was provide for her little brother. He was all that she had left in the world. At the end of the day, her hope was the strongest strength she had. Without it, everything would feel empty. And Finn was her hope. The only reason she could keep going.
And so they walked, and they walked, and they walked some more. They spent days cutting through fields, farms, cities, and suburbs. They spent all day following an old broken highway, before finding some form of shelter at nightfall. Being out after dark was something that was unwise by all accounts. But somehow, it had happened to them today. Luce didn't like for her and Finn to set up their nightly camps in the city. There were too many Infected still clumped there, and often gang activity as well. She would feel like they were sitting ducks, just waiting to be found. So, she'd guided them through it, but by the time they'd reached the suburbian stretches of the city...darkness had already fallen.
The pair of them walked together, moving mostly through the shadows. Houses lined the streets, but it was just a matter of picking one. An unoccupied one. Luce held tightly to Finn's hand, adjusting her backpack as gravel crunched beneath her boots. She wore a leather jacket, scuffed with travel, over a gray hooded sweatshirt with jeans. Finn wore a black sweatshirt beneath a waterproof coat that they'd found in the city. Both of them carried backpacks, everything they owned within them. Luce had her hood pulled over her head, eyes darting all over the place in the dark, nervousness blooming in her stomach.
The muffled sound of a dog barking caused her to freeze in her tracks. Luce turned, hood slipping back to reveal eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. The door to the house they were walking past swung open, and Luce could barely make out a man--maybe in his early to mid thirties--looking over at them. Her lips parted as she saw the shotgun in his hand, and as a dog burst through the doors and barreled towards them. The man called out to them, voice distinctly gruff. She pulled Finn close to her body as a dog, large and fluffy, bounded up to them. Luce's heart pounded in her chest. Was this going to be it for them?
But then the man ran up to them pulling the dog back, apologizing after assuring them that the dog was friendly. Finn made a little noise of surprise, lifting his chin to look up at Luce. She didn't look down, knowing that the second she did, he would ask if he could pet the dog. Luce breathed out a sigh of relief before looking up at the man, her expression both worried and relieved.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice soft as she held Finn close to her. Was the man dangerous? Was he going to hurt them? So far, Luce had done a good job of keeping them out of the line of sight of strangers. But usually, they weren't out after dark. To put it simply, Luciana was afraid...but she fought hard to try and keep the fear out of her face, for Finn's sake. "We're just passing through on our way to the coast, my brother and I. Looking for shelter for the night. Please don't hurt us, we don't have anything of value."
The cold wind in the air only served to intensify the situation. Emil stood carefully, watching the fear in the woman's eyes as Truckie pawed at the ground, still excited by the new faces. Briefly, he wondered if the little boy reminded the dog of Alexander, if he too missed their old life and was just as desperate to find anything even halfway familiar. It was hard not to notice the striking similarities, though and once again, Emil felt a tug in his chest. Before the virus and all of the chaos that it brought to the world, he'd lived for a child that wasn't his own. He'd lived for the boy's mother and he was happy. Maybe it was depression, he often thought, or maybe he was just really fucking lonely.
"No, hey," Emil said, shaking his head. With both hands full of a dog and a weapon, there was no way to physically assure her of the lack of a threat, "I'm not going to hurt you." He backed up a step or two, putting some space between them and allowing her and the child to run if that's what they wanted to do. Beside him, Truckie tried to pull again, but Emil kept a firm hold. "Did you say you were going to the coast?" he asked, surprised, and then a little annoyed, "the west coast?"
Although there weren't many people that came through the suburbs anymore, Emil had heard every ridiculous story there was about the new civilization somewhere in California. The rumors started early during the first outbreak—a stronghold that was able to resist the virus, and then a place that was working to keep out the hoards of zombies, and finally, a fresh start. No amount of speculation or good feelings had ever convinced Emil that it was a real thing, and he had watched person after person, friend after friend, take their chances on the road to walk to the long, dangerous journey to the sea. It was impossible to say if they ever made it, but Emil was willing to bet his last can of Spaghetti-O's that their bones were bleaching in the sun somewhere in the heartland.
"Look," he said, not about to try and dissuade a stranger from their own agenda, "it's cold out here. All of these other houses are empty and shitty. I have a fire, and food. Why don't you come inside for the night and you can be on your way in the morning?" He didn't know her, but that didn't matter. Emil couldn't bear to think about some kind, and his—sister, mother, whatever—sleeping outside and freezing to death just because of some stubborn will. "There's a spare bedroom too. You can get some sleep." God knew they probably needed it.
Much to Luciana's relief, the man said he wouldn't hurt them. He still had a shotgun in one hand, and the scruff of an excited and huge dog in the other, but he didn't stand in an offensive manner. Luce's body was still tense, and she held Finn close to her body. He backed away, putting some steps between them, and Luce breathed out a sigh of relief. He seemed non-hostile enough, but you never really could tell. Her muscles relaxed. If he'd wanted to hurt them, then he had plenty of opportunity to do so already. Unless he was a sadistic psychopath that wanted to lure them in. But despite that, Luce still had some faith in people. It would have been easy to overpower her and little Finnley, but he hadn't. Perhaps she was too trusting...but she hadn't lost her belief that there were still good people out there. Without that, what else did they have to hope for? She believed in goodness just as much as she believed in the safe haven. Which was a whole fucking lot.
As soon as she thought it, the man asked about which coast they were traveling to as his dog tried to pull forward again. Finn made an impatient noise, reaching for the dog, but Luce held him back. The man probably didn't want them bothering him and his pet. It had just been so long since Finn had gotten any semblance of a childhood, and the feeling tugged at her. A dog could've instilled some feeling of normalcy for them. Maybe she should've tried harder to loot a pet store for a puppy for him. But then, how would they have fed it? Luce didn't know how to hunt. She only knew how to forage. And usually she foraged just enough for her and Finn. A dog would've been impossible for someone like her to keep healthy, and she felt a pang of guilt as she wished she knew how to provide better for her brother. He deserved to be a kid, but it was a luxury they couldn't afford with just the two of them.
Before Luciana could answer about the coast, the question that the man had asked with some mixed emotions in his voice, the man was speaking again. Luce's eyes widened as she realized what he was offering them. It seemed too good to be true. A warm fire, food, and an actual bed to sleep in? As if on cue, her stomach growled and a blush darkened her face. It had been over a day since she and Finn had eaten, their last meager meal being composed of their last can of tuna spread over crumbling grain crackers with a shared fruit cup for dessert. It wasn't much, but it was all they had. From what he said, it sounded like he was one of the settlers. Someone who just picked a place and rode out the remainder of their lives that way. Luce wouldn't have been able to do that alone. She gazed up at him with wide eyes, contemplating. Should she trust him? Surely if he was going to hurt them, she would've done so already. Though she didn't admit it to herself, she was a bit too naive for her own good. But so far, she'd kept the pair of them alive.
"I don't know..." Luce began, uncertain. "We wouldn't want to impose."
"Luce, please."Finn spoke for the first time, and her eyes dropped down to her brother. He was looking up at her with an expression that broke her heart. He looked so hopeful. It sparkled in his face and his pleading eyes. He was tired of being exhausted, cold, hungry, and even sore from sleeping huddled together on the ground. Her brow furrowed as she studied him, keeping his gaze for a moment before looking up. She took a breath, and spoke again.
"Only if you're sure it's not too much trouble." Finn's face broke out into a grin.
Oh lord, please don't let this man be America's last serial killer.
The uncertainty was clear on her face, and Emil couldn't help but feel guilty. Before he had picked somewhere to settle, he was on the road too, and the constant threat of danger wore on a person like no other. He didn't blame the apprehension in her voice, either. He opened his mouth to speak, ready to leave his offer on the table and return inside, but the kid spoke up instead. The boy sounded so desperate, eager to find some kind of normalcy, even for the night and rather suddenly, Emil wasn't so set on letting the chips fall where they may. Had he been a different man, had more solitary experiences, it might have been easier to turn his back.
"You're not imposing," Emil insisted, ready to add that he would have offered shelter to anyone, but that simply wasn't true. He had been burned by empathy before and had the scars to prove it, but the two in front of him were different. Once again, Truckie tried to pull away, his fluffy tail wagging as he pawed at the ground. It had been such a long time since he'd seen Alexander; Emil's reasons for letting them stay weren't rooted in simple kindness. That was something to ignore, though, he reasoned, and they were only staying for the night.
When the girl finally relented, Emil smiled and pointed back toward the house, "there's just me on this block. There used to be another guy a few streets that way," he gestured toward the west, "but he went into the city back in the winter and I haven't seen him since." That hadn't stopped Emil from raiding the man's stash, but the nature of the new world wasn't something that he wanted to discuss. Instead, he lead the way inside, "I'm Emil, by the way, and this," he grinned, finally letting go of the dog, "is Monster Truck. I call him Truckie." Finally free, the large dog trotted alongside the boy, playfully nosing at his hand.
After allowing everyone room to get back inside, Emil replaced the locks on the door and set the shotgun back down by the window. The revolver remained attached to his hip, however, as he returned to the fire to add another shoddily split log, and give them embers a poke. "Are you hungry?" he asked, hoping the two would just make themselves comfortable, "or thirsty? I have a lot of water left."
The place felt messy and Emil was suddenly a bit ashamed of his post-apocalyptic bachelor pad. He gathered the stray dishes and moved them out of the way for later washing.
It was starting to get dark. As the sun set on another boring day in someone's version of paradise, Emil Soares tilted his head back toward the sky and breathed a deeply unsatisfied sigh. One year ago, things would have been different. Emil pictured himself in another place, with his girlfriend, surrounded by family, laughing in some trendy bar that popped up in newly revitalized Milwaukee and completely unspoiled by the pitfalls of the world. Instead, he was standing among the melting piles of dirty snow, in a backyard that wasn't his own, with an ax in one hand and a loaded revolver on his hip because nothing was safe anymore; nothing was sacred.
