After... Chapter 1: Alone Read online

broken car. The only shelter for now, the sun has started to cross the finish line for the day.

  She hops into the back seat, pulls a thermal blanket out of her pack. She lays back, covering herself, head opposite the front broken window. She sneezes from the dust and mold that breaks loose. She settles, her eye lids begin to get heavy, vision fades in and out, as she stares at the broken window, until the final darkness of sleep.

  She awakens with a startle. The sun has left the new day's starting line, racing for the finish line, shining directly on her face. She shuffles out of the back seat, dragging her blanket and bag. Her stomach growls, running her hand across her belly she can feel the rumblings. Rummaging through her belongings rewards her with nothing, not even a candy bar. She re-arms herself, sword in hand, ready. She heads back into the woods, hunched down while walking while walking slow. She shifts a set of lenses in front of her goggles, improving her sight ahead of her. She shifts her head from left to right, right to left, in a sweeping movement as she carefully moves forward. She suddenly stops, standing straight up, looking forward.

  Nailed on a tree in front of her, a faded and torn picture of a tropical island beach. Written in red marker at the top: PARADISE. On the bottom of the page: 2. The Wanderer pulls a book out of her backpack. Upon opening the book, several loose pages fall to the ground. They are various pictures of a tropical theme with 'PARADISE' written on them with numbers. The hand writing matches. The numbers on the pages are all in double digits. As she gathers up her pages, she looks around, nothing but endless woods, behind her lays the road about 200 feet away. She starts to head deeper into the woods.

  The sounds of a river and the smell of fresh natural water peaks the Wanderer's attention. She breaks through thick bushes, a small sandy landing before a slow flowing stream. She pulls out a water bottle and starts to fill it. Looking around, scanning the area, she spots another figure approaching the stream, 200 yards down stream. She watches intently, unsure if it's a Mutie or a Norm. The stranger stops at the stream, places a canteen into the water... it's a Norm. The Wanderer flips a lens across her goggles to get a closer look. Not only a Norm, but another female. Clothes are cleaner, well kept. Equipment kept up, not very worn out. She seems clean, fed, untired. The Stranger takes a long swig from the canteen, places it back into the stream, as the Wanderer watches, deciding what to do. The Stranger pulls out a pair of black binoculars and starts to scan her surroundings. The Wanderer decides to pull back, deeper into the bush, hoping to hide. She slowly moves back, deeper into the bush, then back through the clearing. A sickening wet growl emanates from behind her, the putrid smell of rot surrounds her.

  She throws her elbow back, pure instinct, into the stomach of a Mutie. Pulling her short sword out, turns to her target and slices across it's belly. It falls to it's knees, howling as it tries to hold it's guts in. The stench of rotting, diseased innards fills the air, almost over powering her. She kicks it high in the chest, it falls backward. She slices the monsters throat, almost clean off. It's then that she notices three more around her. It only takes a fraction of a second before instinct kicks back in. Jab, punch, stab, slice, a fury of calculated fury of action leaves the remainder of the mutants into lumps of oozing trash. She wrinkles her nose in disgust, wipes herself clean as best as she can with a t-shirt and throws it on top of them.

  Upon returning to her place at the stream, she notices the Norm has left. The Wanderer crosses the stream, scanning left and right for any sign or clue as to where she may have gone. To one side she notices broken branches leading to a fresh trail. She walks slowly, carefully, looking for more clues to assure her that she's on the path of the Stranger. Every time she thinks she has lost the trail, something catches her eye. A broken branch, pushed back leaves, a foot print or two, all assuring the Wanderer that she's on the path of the Stranger. This goes on, and on, and on. Her stomach growls from hunger, weakness from the effort, drained as her body feeds upon her own muscles.

  She stops and leans against a tree. To her amazement, a nice sized squirrel with a small arrow through it, lays a few feet from her, just off the path. Arrow means a Norm shot it. A Mutie would just tear it apart. Still has some warmth to it, killed minutes ago, not hours or days. The Stranger must have shot it down from a tree and lost where it fell, maybe. Either way, something to eat finally. She settles off the path, makes a small fire, and cooks her first meal in days.

  The Wanderer removes her gas mask, The scent of fresh slow roasted meat makes her stomach growl like never before. She removes the small meal from the flames and without letting it cool, tries to devour it, burning herself in the process. This only slows her down a little as hunger takes over her common sense. After a few minutes, only small bones are left. With animal fat still shinning on her chin, she replaces the gas mask snuggly onto her face. She packs up, determined to re establish the Stranger's path.

  After several stops and restarts, she comes to a clearing. The familiar stench of long rotted flesh with signs of an obvious struggle everywhere. Two Muties lay on the ground, hacked up. She places her hand on one, not too warm, but not too cold either, a recent kill. She spots bushes pushed aside, where the Stranger must have exited the scene. She walks through, more hints of a trail, she follows it back to the road.

  Scanning the scene, to her left, the car about a half mile down, still smoking. To her right, a piece of paper nailed on a tree just across the road. The Wanderer runs over excited, and she's rewarded, to her relief. The familiar picture of a tropical paradise, this time with a 2 at the bottom, as well as an arrow pointing down the road. She was heading in the right direction at lest. She pulls the notice off the nail to place into her book, but after a few seconds of thought, impales it back on the nail, for someone else to find. She shifts the pack on her back into a more comfortable position and heads into the direction of the arrow, with new found positivity in her step.

  She walks. Yards upon yards, mile after mile, all the while the sun racing towards the horizon once again. The small meal now means nothing as her body returns to hunger, to the process of eating itself to maintain. Her step lose their once found pep, betraying her ever increasing weakness. She bends down from exhaustion, breathing deeply. When she finally straightens herself, something catches her eye. The corner of a building through the thick, overgrown trees, a town. This gives the Wanderer reason to push forward, to ignore the pains of overwhelming hunger. A town means possible shelter, food that was manufactured to last for years on end, or maybe Paradise itself!

  Her steps quicken towards the town. The small corner of the building becomes bigger. Other pieces of buildings begin to appear as she gets closer. She finally arrives at the out-skirts of town. The usual 'Welcome To' sign destroyed beyond recognition, but thats not important. Suitable shelter, food stuffs, useful items, that's more important then the name.

  Most of the buildings are beyond ram-sacked. Windows long blown out, support beams barely holding the buildings up. Others, half fallen in, blackened fire damage and rot. Anything worth while will be already taken or damaged and unworkable, long exposed to the elements. This is not 'Paradise', far from it. It's the typical rot and decay of a by gone era. But still, there could be something. Towns always yield something, parts, things that were once thought useless, temporary shelter.

  A familiar image catches her eyes. She flips a lens down to see further. Another picture of the tropics. Paradise again, calling out to her. This time with the number one at the bottom. Closer, but where? Finally so near. What will it be like? People to talk too, real food to eat, no Muties! Yes, soon, so close.

  Just beyond the telephone pole from which the notice hangs, a house more intact then the rest of the town. Windows unbroken, dirty and unkept on the outside, but promising. Maybe some canned goods, some tools, maybe a person. Maybe the Stranger from earlier. A building this intact must be used by someone, even part time.

  The Wanderer walks up to the house cautiously, slowly, checking all around by
sweeping her head side to side. She heads toward the side, back to the wall, creeping to the back yard. As she peeks around the back corner, a garden. Weathered away, dry husks of plants, vines wrapped around stacks without even one tomato. Nothing of value here, except that it was vibrant up until recently, good sign.

  At the back door, locked, another good sign. She drags out the tool she used on the car lock. The inside, dark except a few rays of light shinning through the drapes. A lot less dust then expected, Just enough for there to be a slight musk scent. Another good sign, someone lives here or uses it frequently for shelter. Slowly she moves forward, ever third or fourth step creeks from the hard wood floors. She slows down, careful, quiet. Several of the cupboards in the kitchen are open, already emptied or looted. But some are still closed, full of possibilities. Slowly she opens each one up, revealing either nothing or damaged cans that are not worth the contamination risk. She slams the last cupboard in frustration. She stops cold, realizing what she did, she stops and listens. Movement from below, basement maybe. Maybe someone is here. Someone with answers, someone who