Dark Land: An Apocalyptic Novel

Dark Land

An Apocalyptic Novel

By William Zeranski

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

1st Edition Published by Smashwords.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, stored in any database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Cover art created by William Zeranski Copyright 2013

Copyright 2013 by William Zeranski All rights reserved

darkland.author@gmail.com

All rights reserved.

Note to the reader:

This is a later version of the original text with only minor editorial corrections.

Chapter 1

There’re still more bodies to bury, my brother Johnny said.

I know. You keep saying that, but you don’t look well. Uncle Ray shook his head. "I can see that, even if you can’t. You’re a little worn-out—hell, a lot worn-out."

Yeah, but I’m going back to help. Johnny’s face was pale, almost waxy.

Like a nervous puppy, my insides quivered. I wanted to do something, say something to change my brother’s mind, but nothing came. I followed them out of the cabin into the early morning darkness.

The cabin, looking squat and lonely under the shadow of tall, dark pines, stood at the foot of a low ridge, which made up the eastern side of the narrow valley. Through the black silhouettes of the pines and leafless maples lining the slope, the thin pink glow of sunrise peered over the top of the ridge, glistening on the remaining patches of winter snow.

Johnny zipped up a faded caramel-colored leather jacket, all the way to his chin, and tugged on a black, woolen stocking cap, covering brown hair, grown shaggy and unkempt.

White curls of mist puffed out of our mouths into the cold air. Uncle Ray and I wore no coats. Unconsciously, I rolled down the sleeves of my plaid shirt and crossed my arms. Still, I shivered, but more from fear. I didn’t want to lose my brother, too. I didn’t want Johnny to go back to the city. But Uncle Ray didn’t want to argue anymore.

Johnny told us that moving bodies and digging the graves would be easier now. There’d be no more individual graves; only mass graves would be dug using big earth moving machines and a few hundred other people working. He said the pay was still good—very good, even though there wasn’t much to buy. He chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy laugh.

With a slow step, Johnny went around to the left of the cabin to the carport. He disappeared into the dark space under the roof, and in a moment, backed out Uncle Ray’s motorcycle. The way my brother threw his leg over the seat, and gripped the handlebars, he seemed older than eighteen. He was three years older than me, and as tall as our uncle, but he looked weary. His shoulders sagged a little.

Uncle Ray said, Remember, you don’t want anybody to—

To steal the bike. Johnny grinned, which only accentuated the dark half-moons under his brown eyes. I know. I’ll be careful where I hide it and I’ll keep it gassed up as best I can.

People were still moving around, not a lot, but small groups and loners roamed around, taking what they could. Johnny even said he had to avoid military patrols, which seemed to be rounding up stragglers.

Yeah. Uncle Ray waved a finger. That bike is the only way you can get back, and you’ve got to get back here sooner, get a good meal and a good washing. So, you don’t start stinking like the bodies you’re burying.

My brother looked away; then back again, his lips pressed tightly together.

I’m sorry, but you know what I mean. Uncle Ray stuffed one hand deep into the front pocket of his khaki workpants as if he didn’t know what to do, and then he placed his other hand on my brother’s shoulder, trying to add something he couldn’t put into words.

For me words failed, too, and I was as tired of arguing as Uncle Ray. I wanted to rattle Johnny somehow, grab him and yell into his face, Stay! Leave the dead alone. And stay! We did that, my brother and I, getting nose to nose. I told him I’d even go back with him, but I couldn’t make him take me. And I knew that from the beginning, so we only exchanged sorrowful looks as if we stood at the bottom of thirteen steps leading to a gallows.

In the hazy pink light, something showed in the squint of Johnny’s eyes—a flash of annoyance, even anger, which faded as he sighed. I know you’re worried, but don’t be. He glanced to the rising sun. I got to get going.

My uncle’s hand slipped from my brother’s shoulder.

Stanley, Johnny called to me, you take care.

Yes, was all I said, because there was nothing else.

He put on simple dark-framed sunglasses, masking his eyes behind black lenses. He turned the key in the ignition and the motorcycle rumbled to life. A gray plume of exhaust tumbled along the ground, a heavy lead odor drifted in the air.

Johnny smiled, his lips thin and pale in the dim morning light. He gave a short wave, almost as an afterthought. The motorcycle slowly accelerated along the narrow, stony driveway. He’d head north for about a half mile and turn right onto a secondary road which ran along the opposite side of the ridge, and then head back to what was left of Philadelphia.

The grumbling roar of the motorcycle rolled back and forth from one side of the small valley to the other, echoing in the morning stillness and faded away.

In the cold quiet, I felt lonely, and a little lost. Uncle Ray, is he going to be okay?

Let’s hope so, he said, still looking up the road.

I nodded, and thought, yeah, if he can keep the motorcycle gassed up, if he can buy some food, if there’s any to find and if, so many ifs. But that wasn’t all that roiled in me like nesting snakes. There was a strange kind of loneliness. I took a big breath and said, I miss Mom and Dad.

Me, too. My uncle frowned and nodded, slowly. Me, too.

Uncle Ray looked so much like Dad, with the long face, and the deep red almost black hair. He had the same big toothy smile when there was something to smile about. But there were times when the resemblance didn’t help, didn’t sooth and only made that loneliness, that longing to see my father so much more painful. Somehow, Uncle Ray made Dad close, yet untouchable.

So, there wasn’t much talk about my parents. I didn’t see the point myself. Such talk just weighted me down, thick and leaden in the center of my chest. Uncle Ray would become distant and look off, or grew angry, but he wasn’t mad at me or Johnny or even at how tough life was. His anger and sorrow turned inward. Often he would say, Let’s not talk about them right now. Not today.

Once I even saw him cry and I didn’t like that at all.

Maybe that was why Johnny insisted on going into the city. He thought about them. He could be looking for them. Just maybe, he was.

After a long, silent moment, Uncle Ray said, Let’s go hunting. What do you think?

I’d like that. Something to take my mind off my parents and my brother. Even in a world gone to pieces, we still had to eat.

***

We went back inside, and out of habit, I flipped the light switch. No light came on. There was no electricity. A flickering red-yellow glow from the fireplace offered the only illumination. I keep forgetting, I murmured and flipped the switch again.

Uncle Ray chuckled, a tired kind of yeah, I know what you mean.

Months ago the first brownout came as a sign of the times. Uncle Ray started the small gasoline generator. He didn’t run it often, trying to save on fuel, but over time it didn’t matter. There was less radio, less TV, less information, until nothing came over the airwaves at all. A full and permanent blackout descended. Late night entertainment was a thing of the past. All of it faded away. After the sunset, we slept. The world became the cabin, the valley and hunting. No one could change that.

I’ll pack up a lunch before we head out, Uncle Ray said, which, of course, meant no fireside eating.

Great, I said. No wood ash in my stew today.

Hey! He scowled; then chuckled. He knew his cooking had gotten better. It had, too. Get your stuff together. He smiled and gave me a gentle smack on the back of the head. He crossed the room and down the hallway next to the fireplace. In the back was a bedroom, which was used for storage.

A faint orange gloom slipped in around the edges of the curtain which covered the window in the rear wall of the living room. During the months that I lived with my uncle, we spent most of our time in that room. We ate and slept there. Two sofas faced each other in front of the fireplace. With my head resting on the arm of the couch, I watched the flames and listened to the low crackle of burning wood, which helped lull me into that warm, swimming place where dreams were. I walked down the street, passed the neighbors and into the house where I used to live. The vivid odor of spaghetti sauce and morning coffee drifted through my sleep.

The big fieldstone fireplace burned continually for heating and cooking. Above the mantel, on two wood pegs, rested the 30-30 my uncle hunted with. On the other side of the room was a kitchenette with an electric range, and a small gas stove, which was used sparingly. The propane had to last as long as possible, so most of our meals were cooked on the fire.

When Uncle Ray first brought Johnny and me to the cabin, he had given us little jobs to do around the property. The place was almost as new to him as it was to us. He’d bought the cabin and a number of acres in the valley the summer before.

It wasn’t some prophetic purchase, he told us. He hadn’t seen anything coming, no bad times, no . . . end of the world. I’d give it all back, if it would change anything . . .

We fixed a few leaks in the roof and filled sandbags. The chores helped pass the time and put Mom and Dad out of my mind. Uncle Ray worked alone, installing some special equipment he’d brought from his apartment. He didn’t say so, but flashes of tension showed on his face, in the lines on his forehead, in the way his lips pressed together. Johnny said he didn’t have time for silly science projects. I tried to joke, saying, Uncle Ray’s a science teacher. He does science stuff. But, the humor didn’t quite work for me either.

That was when my brother left for the first time, and I did those chores alone. I worked hard on the cabin. It was the only place I had to live now.

Hunting provided the big break in the routine and the boredom that rushed in between those little jobs. As Uncle Ray kept saying, We still have to eat.

I got my bow from its spot on the floor by the fireplace. I stood it on one end, wrapped my leg around it, bent it back, and quickly slipped the looped-end of the bow string into notches at the other end. The taut string drew the bow into an arc.

I shivered despite the glow from the fire, which warmed my back. The odor of burnt maple filled the air. This wasn’t like home where the heat curled up from the floor vents. Without a thought you knew the warmth was there, but here the heat and the cold clashed against each other as the winter weather seeped in through every crack and crevice around windows, and even down the chimney when a vicious wind blew.

I grabbed a heavy, forest-green sweater from the arm of the couch and pulled it on. My mom had knitted it. The sweet scent of laundry soap clung to the thick, wooly yarn. I stuffed the matching stocking cap into the side pocket of a green jacket I put on, zipping it up halfway. With my bow in hand, I picked up a quiver of aluminum arrows and slung it over my shoulder.

Uncle Ray returned from the back bedroom. He wore a green and brown camouflage jacket, and carried a gray duffle bag over his left shoulder. The bag bulged a little, looking heavy and full.

When hunting, we always took the duffle bag. In it, Uncle Ray kept a Bowie knife for cleaning the kill. The knife had a long wide blade and wood handle. There were also some plastic bags, a piece of nylon rope and the Geiger counter, which resembled a small plastic shoebox with a handle on it like a steam iron. He always used it on the kills. He’d turn the Counter on with a thumb switch and wave it over the carcass. The device gave off a few ticking sounds, and that was all. I didn’t think the Geiger counter was necessary, but Uncle Ray just wanted to be sure. He said he wasn’t paranoid, but the grin on his face didn’t hide the concern fixed in his eyes.

Uncle Ray reached above the mantle and took down the rifle, and I followed him out.

We secured the cabin using a padlock and the front door. Shutters, cut from large plywood sheets and held in place with an assortment of unmatched metal hinges, covered the windows. The room used for storage also had a window, which was boarded up a few days after we got to the cabin. To keep out prying eyes.

On the roof, a six foot metal pole jutted into the air supporting an X-shape with a spoon at the end of each arm. When the wind blew, the device spun; it didn’t check wind speed or sniff the air for rain, but for radiation. The wind scoop wasn’t spinning, but Uncle Ray studied it for a moment, even though he didn’t have to. A cable ran from the supporting pole and into the cabin to a detector on a table in the living room. The detector would chatter just like the Geiger counter, but it never had. Just the same, my uncle studied and worried.

Chapter 2

The sun, now higher in the sky, made long shadows along the ground. The cold air was still, and the frost glowed on the tall grass and bushes. Sometime before noon, the day would warm up, but a cool breeze would keep blowing. Winter had only started to let go and snow circled the bottoms of most of the trees along the valley.

Tugging on a ball cap with a camouflage pattern of leaves and twigs, Uncle Ray said, I think I got carried away, worrying about that. He pointed to the weather vane.

Yeah, I said, because I knew as he did, the two bombs had been small . . . small as any nuclear bomb can be and still take out a number of city blocks. Most of the radiation went east. And you’re a science teacher. You should know all this. I smiled and punched him on the arm.

True. He grinned, that worried grin, because there was more than radiation to worry about. Radiation could be detected on the wind, but not physical illness, not plague. Let’s go, he said.

We headed westward to the other side of the valley, which was flat, with knee-high, yellow grass, high enough for something to hide. Shrubs and tall, round thickets studded the valley floor along with a few trees. Some were maple and birch, but most were sumacs, skeletal-looking without their small palm tree like leaves.

Uncle Ray adjusted the duffle on his shoulder, and cradled the 30-30 in his arms. He’d given me a couple lessons on how to use the rifle. Need-to-know information he called it. I’d fired a few rounds, but hadn’t much practice. He apologized about that, but there wasn’t an endless supply of ammunition.

I could use the rifle, if I had to. But the bow was my weapon. That was strange because I hated physical education class and it was in school where I first put my hand to a bow, launching arrows at color-coded circles on a nylon target fitted like a sock to a circular straw-filled frame. With school and gym class far behind, in a past which wasn’t going to come back, memories of standing in the field in back of the high school firing arrow after arrow, hitting and missing, and burying arrows in the ground, the rudiments of the skill floated up and actually had a real life purpose, a purpose, that until now, would’ve never crossed my mind.

With Archery class there was no sweating; only patience and precision, but the target didn’t move. I had to hone the skill and I practiced when I didn’t have a chore or couldn’t help Uncle Ray. When he’d handed me the bow, I suspected he just wanted to keep me out of way. But off on my own in those hours, up on the ridge or across the valley, with the cabin hardly out of sight. I practiced. I got good.

We reached the other side of the valley after a slow, easy thirty minute walk. On the western slope evergreens and skinny white birch trees in scattered clumps threw fingers of shadow that ran along the ground like a slash of India ink. We followed a worn path up the ridge, weaving around thickets and downed branches. The previous fall’s dry leaves crunched under every boot step.

From the top of the ridge, I caught sight of the Marcus house on the opposite slope through the wide, green branches of pine trees. The old two-story farmhouse, wrapped in white vinyl siding, sat at the foot of the ridge with a large deck in back, butting against the rising slope. A two car garage was attached to the house by a breezeway. A gray cloud of wood smoke rose from the chimney.

I didn’t know Mr. Marcus well. I’d only been in the house a few times. His wife was dying from leukemia. His daughter Sara spent most of her time taking care of her mother who stayed in the living room, not having the strength to climb the stairs. Mr. Marcus and Uncle Ray had long conversations about what to do next. The Marcus’s were like us, shut behind doors, waiting, planning, and surviving while watching a familiar world drift into the past.

It’s turning into a beautiful day, Uncle Ray said.

The pink-yellow dawn turned into a crisp, blue and cloudless morning sky. Across the valley, the cabin stood in the shadow of the ridge.

Well, my uncle said, I’ll post you here.

Okay.

I’m going to take a walk. And see what I can scare up. You just keep an eye out.

Oh? I said, wanting to do more.

Now, if something comes by, you take a shot at it, he said. I’m not stopping you from doing that.

I nodded and settled onto the ground next to a tall evergreen. Uncle Ray set the duffle bag on the bed of dry brown pine needles and walked out along the slope through the trees, taking his time, being quiet. He moved diagonally downward, back into the valley.

I kept a good eye on him, because life was different now—people were different. Times were dangerous. The day Uncle Ray arrived at my parents’ house outside