The on-going crackle of gunfire echoed off the buildings, punctuated by sharp explosions as the battle continued to rage in the city. It set the son’s nerves on edge as he tried not to walk too fast and leave his father behind. The sounds were getting closer, and that was bad. It meant the battle was moving faster than they were. Sooner or later it would overtake them and they would be done for.
Neither man was armed with more than a small knife. Both had spent most of their lives living in a safe country where firearms were not needed to protect yourself. The father had trained on all manner of weapons during his time in the airforce, but that was nearly sixty years ago. And as for the son, despite being a good shot with a rifle, he had never picked up the love of guns that so many others had.
He had grown up watching McGyver on T.V. and had developed quite strong ideas about firearms, including the truism that when you pick up a firearm, you put down your brain. If it came to a gunfight, he had no doubt of the outcome, so his goal was to avoid a confrontation with armed bands of men at all costs.
He glanced back nervously over his shoulder to check how far his father had fallen behind. He was dismayed to see the old man leaning on an overturned taxi and panting hard. The sweat was once again rolling down his face, and he looked grey.
The younger man cursed softly, and said to the surrounding air, “We need wheels.”
On the street they we travelling there were many abandoned vehicles, some with smashed windows, some overturned and others just burned out wrecks. In amongst all this mess there had to be a working vehicle that they could use.
With a renewed sense of purpose, and a small amount of desperation, he began searching the wrecks for a treasure – something that would start. Dust swirled up into his face as he yanked on car doors and peered through cracked glass to see if he could find something that might carry them out of the city.
Behind him the old man coughed up lungfuls of phlegm and spat them out onto the tarmac. This was turning out to be a hard day for him. He watched as his son stopped and looked back. He knew he was holding the boy back, his old body was just not up to the task at hand. They had talked about leaving him behind several times, but always the son had insisted that they stood a better chance together. So he had hoisted his pack and struggled on, sweating and puffing and cursing his knees.
He looked up the road again and it seemed they were no longer trying to win a race – his son had stopped and was searching the many wrecks that clogged the street, looking for something. That was fine with him. A good chance to rest a bit before the next big push.
He pushed off the taxi that had seen its last fare, and shuffled along at a milder pace until he had nearly caught up to his son, who was zigzagging like a ball in a pinball machine back and forth across the road.
The son was having no luck finding a vehicle in working condition. The sound of gunfire was growing ever louder and clearer, increasing his sense of panic. They would have to find a vehicle soon, or seek out a place to hide and hope they weren’t discovered.
A dark blue shape caught his eye for a moment and he hesitated. Could that be what he was seeking? Too fearful to hope, he quickly crossed the street and dodged around a smouldering wreck that might once have been a mini-van. Behind it in the shadow of the wall that marked the edge of some corporate headquarters, was a pickup truck.
It didn’t look brand new, but then again it didn’t look that old either. The tires were still inflated and the windows intact. The fenders bore dents and scrapes, but nothing that looked terminal. His heart began to beat faster as he called out softly to his father. “Dad, come and check this out. I think we might have some transport.”
This was welcome news to the old man, and he put on a burst of speed to catch up to his son. He arrived, panting and sweating just as his son opened the driver’s door. He cursed and immediately jumped back as a long dappled shape launched itself at him.
The snake landed on the ground and coiled itself into a defensive bundle, tail rattling. Its black tongue flickered in and out and the father could have sworn her heard it threaten to kick his son’s arse if he came any closer.
“What do you think dad?” asked the son, dancing back away from the snake. “Hungry enough for a feed of snake?”
The father looked at the snake and frowned. “It is poisonous?” he asked. “It’s got a rattle so it must be a rattlesnake. Those buggers will kill you, so you’d better leave it alone.”
“It’s not a rattlesnake dad, the head’s all wrong” replied the son taking off his pack and laying carefully on the ground. This snake was dinner, that’s what type of snake it was.
“Oh right,” said the old man. “It’s got a copper coloured head. So it’s a copperhead! Get back! They are even more dangerous than rattlesnakes!” he stepped forward to try and push his son away from the snake, to safety, only too aware that without his son to help him, his own survival was in great jeopardy.
“No” said the son growing in confidence as he eyed the snake. For its part the snake remained motionless, studying the younger man in front of him, hoping he would go away and let him get back to lying in the sun and dreaming of girl snakes. He held up a hand to stall his father from making any more moves that might frighten the snake away.
“This is a fox snake. I’m sure of it.” He sidled forward a little. “And that means it’s not a venomous snake.” He crept even closer, tucked into a crouch, hands open, ready to spring. “Which means this snake…” He slipped a half step closer. “Is dinner!” He finished as he lunged for the snake.
It struck like lightning, blurring through space, its fangs bared and ready to sink into flesh. The son was ready however, and with a flick of his wrist turned his palm so the snake only grazed his skin. The other hand snapped out and caught the snake just behind its head, griping it tightly.
The snake wriggled and squirmed, lashing its coils up the son’s arm and squeezing, trying to lever itself free. But this battle was only ever going to end one way once the son had a grip on the snake. His belly was empty and he knew his father’s was too. The snake would fix that problem nicely, once they got somewhere safe where they could eat it.
Digging out his knife, the father stepped in and quickly ended the snake’s struggles. The son threw the dead snake onto the bonnet of the pickup and then turned his attention to the interior of the vehicle.
There were no keys in the ignition and the driver’s seat was stained through hard use, with a small tear in it. The floor was littered in seeds and old dried mud. A couple of cigarette butts completed the picture.
The son turned his head and spoke over his shoulder “Do you know how to hotwire this?”
The father just shrugged. “Never had a need for stealing cars.”
“Yeah but you did steal military aircraft” retorted the son.
The old man grinned. “I was younger then. Besides,” he continued. “Why not use the keys?”
Frowning, the son backed out of the vehicle and stood up. “What f-ing keys!”
Reaching into the cabin of the truck, the father flipped the sun visor down, and a set of keys jangled their way into his hand.
His grin widened and he wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “For a smart computer geek, sometimes you’re not very smart at all.”
“Smart enough to get you some dinner though” responded the son as he took the keys from his father’s outstretched hand. He slipped in behind the wheel, inserted the key into the ingestion and held his breath.
Would it start?
The starter motor cranked over like a wounded hippo flopping on a river bank. The engine spat back at it, and both disengaged, staring balefully at each other. The son clenched his jaw and tried again.
The starter motor flopped more theatrically and despite its better intentions the engine fired. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust as the son revved and then let the engine idle. The whole truck shook like a fun house at the fair, but at least it looked like it would get them moving.
“Grab the snake dad and let’s boggie!” shouted the son as he leapt out and retrieved his pack. In less time than the commercial break extoling the virtues of this brand of pickup truck, the two men were in the vehicle and boggying.
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
Charlie Rabbit and Margery Mouse make music
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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