Chapter Text
Log - Day 745- October 15th
Weather - Mild - Breeze - No clouds
High/Low Temp - 68/47
Max Wind Speed - 13
Sunrise - 7:16 am
Sunset - Based on current averages, probably around 6:29 pm
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Word of the day - trench·ant
/ˈtren(t)SH(ə)nt/
adjective
• 1.
vigorous or incisive in expression or style.
"she heard angry voices, not loud, yet certainly trenchant"
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Quote of the day -
"Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers."
- Robert Green Ingersoll
Note about quote -
I don't know who the fuck Robert Green Ingersoll is but he can take his hope and his honey and shove them up his ass.
Thought Jot -
Woke up okay today. Didn't need alarm, just the sun. Slept on porch last night bc air was good. Stars were out, very clear. Moon was near Mars.
Smelled smoke right about dawn. Coming from the North. Will go out and check boundary line after I eat breakfast. Bring supplies to reinforce traps.
Planning on breaking my fast with oatmeal and brown sugar - will go light on sugar. Trying to go easier on the sweets bc of my tooth. It's been bothering me here the last couple days. Will keep you posted on that and anything I happen to find when I do my rounds.
If I find anything, that is. Wouldn't that be a fucking lark?
--
Craig Tucker had hated the world even before it went to shit.
That was the Gospel truth, and he'd have no problem telling folks that if the conversation drifted in that direction - not that he got many visitors nowadays.
He wasn't complaining, of course. First off, there was no one to complain to (except for his log but that wasn't really for bitching so much as record keeping), and even if there were, he'd never been a man that relished small talk. Or visitors. He liked his solitude, and now he was getting that in spades, mainly because the universe or God or whoever the fuck was in charge had decided enough was enough. The End Times were nigh and humanity was in the shitter. When the sickness came it spread out like wildfire, cutting down people like they were trees, like they were nothing.
They suspected that the spores that caused the malady got into everyday products that everybody used (flour, sugar, and the like); this was exacerbated by the fact that the spores found their way into brands that were shipped far and wide; nationally, globally. These items filled the grocery stores and were sent on their merry way to the homes of the populace; soon the outbreak came, and when it did it covered the land, the world, the way a hand covers a mouth to keep in a scream.
Those that were exposed were subject to a radically cruel metamorphosis; the spores getting in their brains and eating away their humanity in slow bites, relishing the slurp and squelch of gray matter and blood, of bone and tissue and organ. The sickness fed the way a vampire likely would, or a spider; the victim aware of being slowly consumed but unable to do a goddamn thing to stop it.
It ravaged the mind and all it contained, and when the vessel was empty so went the soul. What was left was a creature to be pitied; a mindless, gasping husk that was once able to love and think and reason; to fuck and eat and dance and live in the richness of the Earth's bounty -
When the sickness was through with it it knew none of that as it wandered a decimated countryside, a world on the outs, and while Craig Tucker thought that was a real crying shame, an undeniable sack of shit thrown in your face, he couldn't say he hadn't warned people of what was coming. Sure, he hadn't known that the End would happen quite like this, but he knew it was on its way, that mankind's number was finally up, and it was best to Be Prepared; to hunker down and find a place to hide with supplies out the ass.
He'd tried to tell people, he really had. His parents, his sister. A few acquaintances. Had they listened? No. Did they pay for it?
Christ Almighty, yes. Yes, they had, and then some.
--
He checked the surveillance screens before he left out because he'd be a fool not to, and if Craig knew anything about the strange, new world he lived in it was that fools didn't last very long in it. As well they shouldn't.
The screens, clicking and shifting black and white, were clear. All that could be seen was what was supposed to be there; trees and brush and bushes and dirt and sky and fence. Nature was sitting pretty taking back what it was owed now that man wasn't driving the bus, and rather than work too much against it Craig worked with it; let Mother Nature steal in and take her due, her share of the pot. He knew that if he showed Her the respect she deserved then she would reward him with all the fruits of the earth, and she mostly had.
He had a thermos of hot coffee to drink and his guns strapped to his back, his hips. He was like the Last Gunslinger on his way to find the Tower as he stepped out of the house and into the early morning sun. On his person were all the tools one would need for such an excursion: matches, ammo, rope, knife. Craig tried to pack as light as he could, always wore clothes that were durable but non-restrictive: shitkickers with steel toes, thick woolen socks; cargo pants and long-sleeved shirt; hat to block the sun glare and a bandana to sop sweat. He didn't care what he looked like, he only cared about what was functional.
The one thing he was on the fence about was his beard. It had grown a little longer than he would've liked. He'd tried to keep it under wraps at first, but now it was wild. In the mirror he saw a man that looked years older than twenty and six, who looked sun-scorched and wary with his cool gray eyes and smooth black hair. With the beard Craig was concerned he looked like he'd given up, that he'd settled almost too comfortably into his isolation, but that wasn't true. He was still fighting. He would always fight.
Maybe tonight, he thought as he turned off the electric fence and stuck a key into the heavy padlock keeping the door shut tight. I'll trim it up tonight. Keep a closer eye on it going forward.
He locked up before moving away from the fence, looked at the sun to check its position. He'd give himself fifteen minutes and not a second more. Would check the lines and traps and the lay of the land and then get his ass back where it belonged; back in his basement bunker with his arsenal shining all around him. Being in that subterranean room was like being embraced by some indulgent God that gloried in blood. It was thirsty and the weapons on the walls would keep it fed; it would take but it would also give; so far, it had given Craig a sense of safety, of peace, such as it was.
He did a clean sweep of the north side of the perimeter, checking traps and snares. They were all clean. He moved quick and sure like a whitetail deer, knowing the terrain like the back of his hand, every dip and crevice. He knew the rocks and trees and brush, looked on them with indulgence akin to a father overlooking his child. He had to know the land if he was going to use it as a means of protection.
Craig followed the scent of smoke as it languished on a breeze made fresh from frosts and dropping temperatures. It was scant now but his sharp nose could scent like a bloodhounds after years of training and focus. It smelled like hickory, and breathing it in brought about a peculiar nostalgia that didn't sit right with him. It made him think too hard, too deep; it made his mind want to revisit places and people and times that were long dead and gone. It made him remember too much of what it was like to not always be alone, back when he was still too human for his own good.
He followed the smoke until it brought him to the creek, slow, icy waters moving over slick rocks. He knelt and scooped the good, clear water into his hands. He washed them and his dusty, sweat-licked face. He glanced at his reflection and touched his beard and thought about what he'd have for lunch after finishing his sweep and his morning chores. He was thinking of canned chili with saltine crackers, licking his lips before he took a swig of the hot, strong coffee. He began to whistle when he moved away from the creek, feeling good because the smoke was moving fast and far away from his pocket of the earth, and this day would be just like any other in a long stream of recollection.
It was on the last leg of his journey that his serenity began to shift, making him whistle slower. There was a feeling in the air, an aroma that wasn't smoke but it wasn't entirely natural either. At least not to Craig.
It was not indigenous to his world as he knew it, being sweeter. A sort of perfume if he had to guess.
Craig knew better than to use anything with too strong a scent. Leaving a scent could attract the wrong sorts, could scare away game. It was unnecessary and too likely to make trouble. When he bathed he used odorless soap. When he washed his clothes the detergent he'd stockpiled was also odorless. Craig smelled of sweat and earth and wood. That was about it and he was fine with that.
But this, this was different. He didn't much care for different.
His steps became slower then, more careful, as he came upon the last of his traps; a hole he'd dug and then covered with a flimsy screen and layers of scrub. He figured anything stupid enough to wander into that had it coming; either an animal with no sense or one of the Infected. One he could eat (depending) and the other he could put out of its misery. It was a win-win for him.
The guns from his hip holsters were up and cocked as soon as he saw that the trap had indeed been disturbed. He cut his whistle short, staring at the hole in the ground like it was the only thing of importance in the entire world. He watched and he waited, getting his bearings, deciding on his next move -
"Don't stop," a voice called from down in the hole. It stopped Craig in his tracks -
He hadn't heard another person's voice in over two years. Unless it was on a record (he'd never abided CDs and YouTube and all that jazz. It was vinyl or nothing), of course. Nothing on a recording could ever match the real article, though.
Craig licked his lips and waited. Wanting to make sure he'd heard right or if his fool mind was playing tricks on him.
"Hello?" The voice called again, and this time Craig could hear the fear in it. It quavered, sounded reasonably young and gentle. Male. "Are you still out there? I just meant I wanted you to keep whistling if you didn't mind. I haven't heard music in so long, and...." a pause followed, then, "Look, I swear I'm not Infected, and as a sign of good faith, I think I know the song, so let me try."
The person proceeded to whistle and Craig listened. He listened and tried to stay objective, but it was frightening how quickly the impulse came to join in, to let his voice, any part of himself, mix with that of another human being's -
But he did. He started out low, barely pushing the breath from his mouth, but after awhile he got louder. Soon he was whistling the tune with this stranger he had captured, and it was the most exhilarating thing he could remember doing in a long, long time.
"Oh, thank God, you're still there," the guy gushed when the song had ended. He laughed and it was a nervous, little thing. "I mean, thank God if you're, you know, not going to hurt me. Or kill me. I know either of those are a real possibility in this situation, but if you could find it in your heart -"
"You armed?" Craig cut him off, his voice a little gravelly from lack of use. A pregnant pause followed the question and this only kicked up Craig's ire and hackles.
"Um, no? No, I'm not armed," they finally replied.
"Why'd you take so long to answer?" Craig took a step closer, then another.
"Honestly? I considered lying though I'm not really sure why I would. It isn't like you couldn't figure out pretty quickly -" they cut off when Craig appeared in his sights, pressed against the far side of the hole with his (empty) hands up. The glare of the sun was in his eyes, making him blink. He laughed again, and Craig could hear the growing hysteria in it. "Whoa, uh, you're really packing, huh? That makes sense, can't be too careful -"
"Where's the rest of your party?" Craig asked sharply, eyes scanning the treeline for any movement, any hint of shadow. He tested the air again but he could only smell that strange perfume and that ghostly smoke.
"Party? No, no." The young man swallowed and a flash of sorrow moved across his sun-dazzled face. "I don't have a party. Not anymore."
"How many?"
"What?"
Craig took a deep breath, told himself to be patient. "How many were there?"
"Ten. Four I actually knew. The rest were just stragglers that joined, um, along the way." After a moment the boy added, "I'm Kyle, by the way. I'm just trying to get to New Jersey. That's all."
"Don't need to know your name," Craig replied, filing every little detail away for later. He slowly lowered his guns, taking a moment to study what he'd trapped.
The young man was older than his voice would make it seem. Probably late teens to early twenties. He was sunburned but Craig could tell he was naturally pale, just by the way his skin had reddened up; the smatterings of freckles on the tops of his cheeks pronounced. He was thin and delicate of stature, his neck and wrists slim, but most prominent was his hair, a riot of red-gold curls that rivaled the glory of fire.
Craig licked his lips again. The red of the boy's hair made him feel similar to the way the hickory smoke had; yearning for things he shouldn't want, couldn't really even name. It made him think of the Autumn leaves turning and the way the sun sometimes set looking like a smoldering salmon's egg on the horizon. It also made him think of bloodshed and all it entailed, the wonder and fury of death and life and survival.
It also made him aware of desires and compulsions that he'd all but laid to rest, coming hot and pulsing to the surface and making Craig's hands clench on his guns.
Focus, he thought. Control. He could be Infected. This could be a trap. Watch your ass.
"I'm going to throw down a rope," Craig said, holstering one of his guns, the other he kept cocked as he unhooked the rope from his belt. He looked the boy straight in the eye before throwing it down the hole. "Put your hands behind your neck. Keep 'em there until I say you can move. Savvy?"
The boy nodded slowly, the sun catching in his eyes and Craig saw they were as green as clovers in the garden. The ones the does and fawns were so crazy about come springtime. That fleeting desire came and went as Craig shoved it down, chided himself for letting his solitude make him weak.
"I need to hear you say you understand," Craig said, his tone making the boy flinch. "Now."
"I-I understand," the boy said softly, obediently placing his hands on the back of his neck. He peered up and waited. "Is that good?"
"Don't talk unless I ask you a question." With that, Craig tossed down the rope, wrapping it a couple times around his hand and forearm. "Now very slowly come forward and take the rope. If I get even an inkling that you're going for your pockets or whatever, I'll put a bullet between your eyes. You dig?"
"Yeah, I dig," Kyle murmured, complying to the letter. He gingerly approached the rope with his hands on his neck, taking it like it was going to bite him. Craig watched, every movement and gesture cataloged in his brain to be dissected, now and later. The sun made the boy's crimson hair shine and burn in a way that made his stomach sort of ache.
"Good, now I'm gonna pull you up, but if you try any funny business -"
"You'll shoot me dead," the boy said like he was tired. "Yeah, I think I got it."
Craig yanked the rope, just to get the boy's full attention. "Don't be a wise ass. If you want to backtalk you can stay down there and I'll let the animals get to you, or the Infected. I don't have to do one damn thing for you, so keep that in mind."
"I'm sorry." Kyle flashed him a sudden smile and the ache in Craig's gut became stronger. "I get that you can't be too careful. I don't blame you for it one bit."
"Quiet," Craig barked, beginning to haul him up, which wasn't hard considering the kid was probably about one-twenty soaking wet, and that was being generous. Soon the interloper was on solid ground and Craig could get a closer look at him; his dirty clothes (jeans and faded t-shirt, red sneakers on his feet) and face, arms splotched with dust. A veil of fatigue clung to him like a second skin, but all throughout that aroma lingered, that perfume, and Craig discovered it was similar to apples and blossoms; stronger, though, and arresting.
The boy was still holding the rope when Craig's paranoia got the better of him. He was standing far back so as not to be exposed should Kyle be Infected or try to attack (bite), because he knew damn well the kid could be lying about not being Infected, was probably lying because why the Hell wouldn't he? If Craig were in his shoes he'd probably lie his ass off, too. He quickly snatched at his bandana and covered his nose and mouth, tying it tight. He pointed behind the boy.
"Town is in that direction. It'll give you an idea of which direction you need to take to get to Jersey; there's still shops around with maps I'm pretty sure. Folding maps if you can read one. Get moving."
Kyle glanced in the direction Craig pointed, eyes wide as silver dollars, his face radiating fear and weariness. "If it's not too much trouble, I haven't eaten in almost four days -"
"That's a bitch," Craig replied, already knowing exactly where this was going. "What's that got to do with the price of tea in China, though?"
Kyle winced, still toying with the rope. "It's just, um," his pink mouth trembled. "I'm just so hungry, you know? And alone. I've never been this alone, so if you could spare a sandwich, Hell, I'd even settle for a cracker, just anything." He looked at Craig and all of his heart, his hopes, were in his eyes; open and vulnerable enough for Craig to practically feel. "Please. I won't try anything and I'll... try to pay you back in any way I can. I don't know what I could do -"
"Why should I feed you?" Craig demanded. "If I give you a handout I run the risk of you running your mouth to every drifter and bum within walking distance; you'll let them in on the fool with the soft spot for begging animals. They'll come around to try and bump me off and then pick my bones clean. Why should I open myself up to that possibility, huh?"
Kyle didn't respond right away, could only stare at Craig with those big, sad doe eyes. "I won't, I swear. If you do me a solid I won't breathe a word to anyone, mister. I'll go to my grave knowing there's still a little good left in the world... that's not to say I'll think you're bad if you tell me no. I'm not trying to guilt trip you but I'm not nearly as eloquent when I'm starving -"
"Put your hands behind your back," Craig interjected, his nerves jumping from the boy's incessant rambling. But in it, though, seemed to be a thread of sincerity, at least Craig thought there was. If he turned out to be wrong and the kid tried something funny, he'd just blow his head off and consider it a good lesson well learned about trusting anyone.
"What?" Kyle's eyes widened. His eyes went to the gun in Craig's hand, probably envisioned being told to get on his knees next to the hole so it could become his grave. "Look, I'm really sorry if I offended you -"
"Do you want to eat or not?" Craig asked, holstering the other gun. Kyle watched, eyes going back to Craig's when the gun was safely tucked away. He nodded, the color slowly draining from his face. It made his freckles stand out all the more. Slowly, he turned, crossing his slender wrists at the small of his back, and waited.
Craig approached carefully, waiting for a sudden move, a moment of recklessness from the boy but it didn't come. It was only when he was closer that he saw how truly small Kyle was, shoulders so slight and standing several inches shorter, probably half a foot. He was trembling when Craig took a hold of him, trembled harder when he felt the way Craig shuddered at the feeling of skin under his fingertips that wasn't his own.
"I won't try anything," Kyle repeated, whispering, head bowed. His vertebrae were delicate bumps under his skin, skin that was milky pale beneath his shirt. He didn't fight as Craig deftly bound his wrists, snug and tight against the curve of Kyle's back. "I promise."
"I know you won't, not like this," Craig muttered, pulling out one of the guns again as he turned the boy towards the direction of home. "But I haven't gotten this far by leaving things to chance, and like you said, I can never be too careful."