Bright sunlight bathed the streets as the pair quietly made their way towards the edge of the city. Everywhere they looked they saw signs of calamity. Buildings with smashed windows, burned out cars, torn up pavement, it all seemed reminiscent of a budget apocalypse movie.
Their boots crunched on crumbled pavement as a gentle breeze played with their hair, grown long and shaggy since the loss of basic services like barbers left them with no means to get a decent haircut.
Sweat beaded on his brow as the younger man set the pace, and it was a quick pace. He didn’t like being out in the open during the day, especially with the continuing crackle of gunfire echoing off the buildings. His head swivelled back and forth, eyes darting from shadow to window to shadow, looking for any movement that might betray a hidden threat.
Just ahead the street opened out into a plaza, a sort of town square, with a small park, playground and trees. No laughter or squeals of delight wafted on the breeze to his ears, and no bright coloured jackets hugging little bodies greeted his searching gaze. This place was as desolate as the streets they had been traversing for the last hour.
A rough cough from some way behind him stopped the young man from stepping out into the open. He turned and looked back to see his father stumbling along, favouring one leg as he so often did. The young man cursed quietly and berated himself for pushing on so hard.
Despite the grey in his hair, and in the scrappy beard that he now sported, he was still fit and strong and capable of keeping up his present pace all day. The older of the pair had seen his best days some decades ago, and the pace for him, was punishing. He put his head down and pushed on, trying to ignore the pain stabbing at him from his knees, and the tightening of his chest with each breath. Sweat poured down his face and dripped annoyingly off the end of his nose. His ragged breathing blew the drops of in a salty spray like some malfunctioning fountain.
The younger man took in the sight of his father, bent over under the weight of his pack, toiling in the heat of the day as best he could, and felt a deep sadness. His father didn’t deserve this. No-one did. (well almost no-one) None of this crisis was his in the making. But like so many others, he was forced to stir from his comfortable retirement and join the struggle to survive.
As the old man huffed his way up to the end of the street, the son checked again to make sure the square was deserted. Seeing nothing untoward, he walked across to the park and stood looking around while his father crossed behind him.
The father shuffled up to a park bench, scared and splintered by generations of skateboarders, and flopped down onto it. He struggled with the straps of his pack and with a grunt, pushed it onto the seat beside him.
He sat with his head hanging down for a few moments, trying to get his breath back, his chest heaving like a giant bellows. The son stood and watched, his own heart pounding in fear that his father would have another heart attack. With no ambulance to call, and no medical help available, such an event would be fatal. And the son couldn’t bear to ponder on that thought.
“I need a drink” said his father, his voice scratchy and hoarse.
“Me too” replied his son, realising that his throat was also dry. “Let’s check in the toilets here and see if the water is still flowing.”
Grunting as he stood, the old man followed the son, leaving the pack on the bench where it lay. No-one was going to steal it. Anyone left alive knew that something like a pack out in the open like that was a trap. A sniper would be waiting somewhere, all too ready to send hot lead out to anyone stupid enough to try and lift the pack.
Inside the toilets it was dark and cool. The small windows let in just enough light to see, but little else. The son tried the taps, hoping that something would come out. They gurgled a bit, but nothing in the way of liquid came out. He tried other taps while his father leaned against the wall and watched.
“Nope, dad. No water here. Sorry” said the son.
“What about in the cistern?” asked the father. “Did you look in there?”
“Good idea!” exclaimed the son. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re just a young whipper snapper still wet behind the ears, that’s why. “Your old man has learned a thing or two in his time boyo.”
The son left him to his tirade. This was old and overused rhetoric and he was used to it. Squeezing into a cubicle, he forced the top of the cistern off and checked to see if there was any water inside. It was still full. The water looked clear, despite obvious signs of tarnish on the ballcock.
Now all they need was something to drink out of. He struggled back out into the corridor to gain enough room to take his pack off and fetch out a mug to dip into the water. As he removed the pack he spied a large hole in the wall. Someone had obviously pulled out the window in an effort to get inside, taking a section of the wall with it.
Just outside, glistening in the sunlight, was a puddle of water. He stood staring at it lost in thought. Even as his father shuffled up beside him and peered out the hole, he stood as if transfixed, his mind struggling to reach some lost connection. He knew this puddle meant something, something important, but he just couldn’t connect the dots.
He felt his father shudder next to him, and turned to look on the old man’s face. It had a white cast to it, as if he had seen a ghost.
“I’m not drinking that” he said firmly. “That’ll kill us, I’m sure of it.”
“I’m with you on that one dad” agreed the son quietly. “Fortunately we won’t have to. The cistern in there is full. The water looks ok. Do you want to go first?”
The old man nodded and took the proffered mug and stepped into the cubicle. He drank nosily, filling his belly with as much water as he could hold. He wiped a wrinkled had across his mouth as he passed the mug to his son. While the younger man also drank his fill, the father went outside and wrestled with the pack until it gave up and nestled onto his back.
Bu the time his son emerged from the building, his face dripping water, he was ready to carry on. Hopefully at a somewhat slower pace this time.
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
Check out my stories here on Steemit
Running Deer
Running Deer - part 1
Running Deer - How legends are born
Charlie Rabbit
Meet Charlie Rabbit
Charlie tides up
Charlie Rabbit and Margery Mouse
Little Peppers Adventures
Runaway Rabbit and the hungry fox
Maybe and the land of purple rainbows – A Little Peppers adventure
How Pappa Pepper and Monster Truck the Pepper got their wild hogs - a Little Peppers Adeventure
Dark Angel Regiment of the Space Marines - Mission Files
First Squad Sniper Elite - Zaresith mission
Other stories
Also don't forget to check out my Dad's blog
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!
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