Dan and the Bottle Ch. 22

The three scouts grinned at each other... young Jimmy was definitely his father's son; he'd handled the situation exactly as his dad would have done.

Sam Martin looked on as his first class took their first shots at the target range, nodding in approval. Most of them were hitting on or near the bull's eye; those who weren't were still getting on the paper, close enough to be considered kill shots. One young woman, Jill Carter, showed particular promise... at first he thought she was missing the target, until he realized that all of her shots were going through the same hole, nearly dead center in the small black circle. "Nice job, Carter... I'm thinking you should go on to advanced sniper training."

"Thank you, Sir!"

By the end of the four hour class, they'd changed the targets in the twenty shooting lanes three times, and every one of the forty people there had run through three full thirty round magazines.

Sam spent a bit of time critiquing each person's performance, pointing out mistakes and giving words of praise and encouragement where they were warranted. Six other people had joined Jill Carter in qualifying for a sniper class, and four more were borderline. Seth Jones was one of the qualifiers, which didn't really surprise Sam very much... he'd gone on a deer hunt with the younger man two weeks ago, and had been highly impressed at the skills the younger man showed.

He'd pulled a tuft of fur from a thorn, looked it over closely, sniffed it, and declared that they were on the trail of a fair sized buck. Hoof prints around a puddle in the trail told him that there were at least six deer in the herd, and they weren't far ahead. They were headed towards a small pond he knew about... he pointed off to the right, and led Sam down an alternate path, to come out near the pond, but on the opposite side.

With hand signals, he directed Sam to take one of the smaller bucks, while he would shoot one of the larger does of the seven full grown deer and four fawns in the herd. While Sam went for a shot in the chest, Seth went for the head shot, wanting a quick, humane kill that ruined as little meat as possible.

Later, as they carried the field dressed carcasses to the truck, Sam asked why he hadn't shot for the biggest buck, Seth shrugged and replied.

"We ain't huntin' for trophies... we're going for food for the table. Between us, we done got well over a hundred and fifty pounds of venison, and we left that big bastard to sire more fawns. By this time next year, that big buck will have gotten all four of those does pregnant. I'm just looking out for the health of the herd itself. Two less deer in the herd means more forage for the rest, and a healthier herd come winter."

Sam had nodded, remembering something he'd been taught in school... while there had been plenty of so-called 'environmentalists' around, a few hundred years ago, it was actually the hunters who did the most good for the animals in their areas, culling the wild herds down to a level that left none starving because of overpopulation.

On the way back, Seth stopped to check his trapline, finding three rabbits and a squirrel.

He quickly re-baited the traps with dried corn and covered them back up with grass and leaves, leaving them reset for the next day.

Mark Powell and his team were at another storage facility, cutting locks and digging for goods to stock the store with... so far, today, they'd found several dozen cases of canning jars, complete with lids, and one room full of home theater equipment. Another had yielded up boxes of books, DVDs and CDs, every variety of music under the sun, while yet another held several dozen small kitchen appliances, everything from coffee makers to crock pots and dehydrators to waffle irons.

One room, in particular, caught his attention... it must have been alternative storage for a small grocery store. It was packed, floor to ceiling, with thousands of rolls of paper towels and toilet paper... and being in a controlled environment, much of it hadn't rotted.

Another held hundreds of pairs of old blue jeans, many of which were still completely wearable.

There was even a locker full of old car parts, for Fords and Chevys. Over the course of three days, they managed to fill five big trucks for the run back to Georgia.

Gene Schoen had taken over the day-to-day operations of the maintenance and remodel teams; Frank Bergen finally retired the day after his daughter's wedding.

He was currently going over aerial photographs of several small neighborhoods, blown up to poster size. Consulting a notebook he'd been given by the preliminary scouting teams, and checking the long list of notes attached to the house numbers... the houses on the poster were numbered one to thirty six, and they'd been broken down into three categories: undamaged, light to medium damage and fixable, and not worth bothering with. There were also two folders of smaller photos, a dozen shots of each house showing the best and worst features.

Seven of the houses fit the last group, and since they were pretty well dispersed among the good and light- repair houses, he marked each one for demolition and backfilling..., they could serve as garden plots for the neighboring houses. The worst of the fixable group were added in, another five added to that list, and leaving enough for two dozen families to move in.

Another area, a bit to the northwest, was a bit better. Thirty five houses were in decent shape, with all manner of furnishings and appliances, most of them unusable, left behind by former occupants.

Many of these, it turned out, had left to look for family and friends, mostly in larger cities, and never returned.

In all, they eventually found room enough for well over a hundred families, and a town was reborn. Small town staples, the general store, the bakery, the butcher shop, the hardware store, and the mechanic, were all represented, and there was a mill by the creek, which not only ground their grain; through a series of gears, it ran two large AC generators, providing power for nearly the entire town. A series of windmills took up the slack.

Within a month, the electrical techs were finished, all of the appliances were either repaired or replaced, the furniture had been replaced and families were moving in, planting early gardens and setting up old garages as chicken coops and small barns.

One man took a property out on the edge of town, attached to nearly ten acres of rolling hills and several small ponds, and after catching five turkeys in live catch traps, started a large turkey farm. In two more weeks of trapping, he had eleven more females and four males, and was building a series of rudimentary shelters for them.

Another medium sized shed held a long row of cages, other bounty from his traps. Rabbits, squirrels, several raccoons, and a lone mink, most of which were destined for his own dinner table... although he did do a fair bit of business in turkeys and rabbits. The biggest problem he faced was in keeping the stupid birds out of the garden.

Mike Cooke darted from one bit of cover to another in the small suburb of Boston, which he called home. He was out scavenging, hoping to find something to supplement his meager supply of old canned goods. Hunkering down behind an old, burnt out car, he listened intently. He knew that members of the Family were out in force today; he'd found out after leaving the old cellar that he called home. He hadn't had much luck, so far, but at least he'd managed to avoid Them.

Darting into an old Dollar store, he made his way past the racks of old clothes and school supplies to the area where the food had once been displayed, but all that he found was one old can of beans, hardly worth the trouble it had taken to find it. 'Better than nothing.' he thought as he added it to his sack.

Making his way to the back of the building, he found the door to the storage room and offices, but it was firmly locked. Looking around, he found an old pry bar hanging on one of the wall racks, and made his way back to the door, prying it open on the fifth attempt.

In the back he found little; several boxes of old cereal, which he knew would be no good, and a few cans-more beans, peas, tuna fish, and soup. He knew some would be useless, but there might be a few good ones in the bunch. He loaded them into the old army duffel bag, then made his way back to the front of the store. He was almost clear of the shelves when he heard the voices.

"I'm tellin' ya, I saw someone run in here."

"Well, he ain't here now... must have run out the back."

"Alright, already... let's go."

Mike breathed a sigh of relief as the two exited the old store, peeking out to watch them walk away. He waited a few minutes longer, giving them plenty of time to get some distance from the place, and cautiously moved towards the front of the place. He saw the pair walking away, almost a block away.

He waited until they turned the corner and then ran out and headed in the opposite direction, watching all around for any sign that they weren't alone, promising himself, for what seemed like the thousandth time, that he was going to get away from this city of the dead.

After a little maneuvering, he got back to his cellar, putting a few scraps of scavenged wood into his improvised woodstove and dug around for his can opener and the small saucepan that he cooked his meals in. Wiping it out with an old rag, he opened up one of the cans of soup, taking a strong sniff... it smelled alright, so he dumped the contents into the pan and set it to cook while he unloaded the rest of his gear.

After stacking the cans on his makeshift shelves and laying his throwing knives and pistol within reach, he pulled out an old silver spoon and had his dinner, grateful to be alive another day...

And doubly grateful that he'd managed to give the cannibals the slip.

He'd lived here his entire life, listening to his mother telling him that they were going to get out of this accursed city, right up until the day she left to find food for them and hadn't come back. He'd spent half the day, that next day, searching the ruins for her... until he found her dead body. She had been butchered, most of the meat having been sliced away from her bones.

The cannibals had finally caught up to her.

He'd been just shy of his tenth birthday.

Though he didn't realize it, mostly because he never had kept track of the days, that had been a bit over twelve years ago.

He knew where a bunch of old bicycles were piled up against the back of an old garage; he'd scoped them out several times, and nothing had changed, so he knew nobody was using them or keeping track of them. He'd learned to ride at a very young age, before the cannibals had moved in.

"Tomorrow... early." He promised himself. It was the time of day when the cannibals were the least active.

The next morning, he gathered up his few belongings, stuffed them all into an old backpack he'd found a few months ago, holstered his pistol, and headed out to the old garage where he'd seen the bikes. Choosing what had been known as a 'mountain bike', long ago, he climbed on and did his level best to start pedaling his way south... he knew the main enclave of the cannibal clans was in the northern sections of the city, and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and them before nightfall as he could.

Around noon, he stopped in the outskirts of town, taking cover in an old dollar store again, and opening up the can of tuna fish... but it had a bad smell to it, so he tossed it aside and opted for a can of beans. He didn't like the smell of this one either, but after three spoiled cans, he finally found a can of soup that was ok, and wolfed it down cold.

A quick search of the old store turned up three more small cans, which he added to his backpack before moving on.

The bike's flat, cracked old tires literally fell apart by the time he'd gone another ten miles, but they had gotten him out of the city. He scrounged around in an abandoned house, finally coming up with a small pile of cloth, and wrapped the steel rims in that; while it didn't do a lot for the traction, it did make the ride quieter, and a bit more comfortable. He continued searching the old house, hoping to add a few more cans of food, and almost shouted his joy at finding a small box, half full, of rounds for his stubby little .22 automatic pistol. One of the former residents of the house must have been close to his size; he gladly shucked the grimy clothes he'd been wearing for far too long and redressed himself in jeans, a warm shirt, and a thick sweater, reveling in the warmth of his new clothes.

A further search of the house revealed a small fireplace, with a small stack of firewood sitting next to it. He lit the fire, reveling in the new heat that began to ward off the chill he was feeling. He fished around in the kitchen, coming up with a small sauce pan, and after several tries, found a can of clam chowder that still smelled good, so he quickly warmed it up and ate.

In a small closet off the kitchen, he found several more cans, assorted soups, and he stuffed these into his pack, on top of the spare clothes he'd decided to take, then moved some of the furniture around, obscuring a corner of the living room from sight before curling up and drifting off to sleep for a few hours.

He awoke in the predawn gloom, and at first looked around wildly, disoriented for a few seconds by the unfamiliar surroundings, before his memory kicked in and he calmed down. Looking outside, he realized that it was raining, a slow, steady drizzle, and he decided to wait a while and see if it stopped.

Inspiration struck, and he searched around until he found the bathroom, digging out a small pile of towels, an ancient, and barely usable, bar of soap, and several washcloths; undressing inside the house, he stepped out into the rain and began cleaning up for the first time in months.

By the time the rain had stopped, he was clean, he'd eaten two cans of beans and a can of cat food, and within another hour, he was once again on the road south.

It took him nearly a month, but he finally stopped in South Carolina, locating an old, abandoned farmhouse to stay in for a couple of days.

An extensive search of the place turned up a fairly stocked pantry of old canned goods, most of which weren't much good anymore, a bunch of candles, and something he considered the Holy Grail... an ancient, but still usable, .22 rifle, complete with a cleaning kit, three spare magazines, and two full bricks of hollow point ammunition.

He stayed there for nearly a week, exploring the town it was close to, sometimes seeing people but quickly taking cover, ensuring that they didn't see him.

It was during what would be the last of these explorations that he ran across the old storage facility; although he could just barely read, he managed to puzzle out the words: 'U-Stor-It'. The gate was open, so he walked in, looking curiously at the huge piles of old clothes and dirty mattresses piled up in front of some of the old lockers.

Turning a corner, he nearly ran into four men, who were pulling boxes from one of the units and loading them onto several trucks.

He immediately reached for the pistol at his belt, and the man at the front of the group, seeing this, held up his hands, palms out, at shoulder level, exclaiming "Whoa... easy guy, we don't mean you any harm."

"Who are you people?"

"I'm Mark Powell, and this here's my crew... we're just looking for stuff for my store. If you've got a claim to this stuff, it's yours... nothing here worth gettin' shot over."

"Are... are you cannibals?"

"Cannibals!?! Good lord, no! What on earth would give you that idea?!"

"My momma was killed by them." The young man replied, a sad look on his face.

Mark looked at him quizzically, noting the ill-fitting clothes and the way the kid talked.

"Where'd you come from, son?"

"I was living in Boston, but I ran away from there a while ago."

'Must be a local thing' Mark thought, as he considered how far the kid had come.

"Well, there ain't any cannibals around here, none I ever heard of, anyway. We came up from Georgia... you can come with us, if you'd like."

Turning to one of his men, he caught his attention and said "Get this kid a sandwich... he looks like he hasn't eaten in a week!"

Frank nodded, going to one of the trucks and returning moments later with a wrapped turkey sandwich. Opening the wrapping paper, he held it out to the boy, who looked at it tentatively for a moment before accepting it, sniffing at it cautiously before taking a small bite. His face lit up as he wolfed it down, nearly choking on it but making the whole thing vanish in less than a minute.

Mark grinned, a little surprised at the speed at which their offering had disappeared.

"We're about finished here... if you'd like to come with us, you're welcome to tag along... I can always use another guy for my teams."

Mike thought it over for a few moments... momma was dead, and although he'd gotten used to being alone, there had been many times when he'd desperately wished for someone to talk to... but he didn't know if he could trust these men.

"Can I keep my gun?"

Mark blinked in confusion. "Can you keep... hell, of course you can! I wouldn't ask any man to give up his gun! Just don't shoot any of us with it, ok?"

"Ok... hang on, I've gotta go back, get the rest of my stuff."

"Alright... we'll be here for about another hour, loading up our trucks. We'll wait for you, just don't take too long, huh?"

After the kid got back on his bike and left, Frank lifted an eyebrow and asked "Boss, are you sure that's a good idea? We don't know anything about that boy."

Mark nodded. "I don't know either, but there's something about him... he talks like a ten year old, but looks to be full grown. I wonder how long he's been alone?"

He shook his head, as if to clear his mind... "Besides, we could always use another guy for the teams. If he managed to survive in a place with cannibals running the streets, he might just be a good guy to have around."

Mike was back, twenty minutes later, a rifle slung across his shoulder, his backpack on his back, still riding the old mountain bike, which was in pretty sad shape, by this point.

"Is there room for my bike?" he asked, looking at the trucks doubtfully.

Mark shook his head. "No, but don't worry... I've got a dozen more like that one back at the shop. You can take your pick."

With that, the young man got in the truck, his first time riding in one, and jumped as Mark started the engine. Mark looked sidelong at him, grinning. "First time for you? Don't worry, you'll get used to it in a little while. Here, put your seat belt on. Don't want you slidin' all over the place if things get... messy."

He showed the kid how to put the belt on, and how to adjust it to fit his thin frame, then put the big pick-up in gear, picked up the CB mic, and mashed the button.

"Ok, boys, let's move it out!"

The small convoy of trucks, moving vans, and one large dump truck was soon moving through the streets at a stately thirty miles an hour, which was faster than young Mike had ever traveled.

Weaving their way through the abandoned cars and trucks littering the streets, they made their way to the nearest freeway on-ramp, and were soon plugging along at twice that speed.

At one point, the radio crackled. "Boss, looks like someone's blocked the road ahead."

"Ok, you boys know what to do... which of you have the rocket launchers?"

"Already pulling to the front, boss."

The convoy slowed to ten miles an hour, as a truck with three men standing in the back pulled past them to the front of the pack. Mike watched, fascinated, as the men picked up short tubes, set them on their shoulders, and fired the three rockets into the roadblock up ahead.