Survivalist Forum banner

After the Fall- Fiction by 1984now

160K views 331 replies 95 participants last post by  jonnyrockets  
#1 · (Edited)
After The Fall

BY CASEY GOLDING

1​

Ward sat patiently in the cold morning air. His back to the ridge, he lifted his binoculars once more to scan the desolate valley. Feral cats and dogs could sometimes be found here, scratching out rodents from the burnt out farmhouse and blighted orchard of sad, barren apple trees.

Still nothing. The morning was wearing on; hunger gripped his insides, but he held off from eating the last of the hard bread he brought along for this hunt. Everything had to be rationed, everything had to last if he wanted to live to see the spring.

It was September now, or so he thought. Though it felt like November. The summer was short and provided very little. This would be the second winter since The Fall, and likely the last winter he would remain this far north. When spring arrived he would be forced to move on, he knew it and it gnawed at him. The land would kill him if he didn't.

A glimpse of movement pulled Ward back from his absent stare. Along the ridge bottom; a thicket of alders provided concealment to anything moving through the valley. A dark shape moved through there, slowly but deliberately toward the farm; three hundred yards out. He held his breath, careful not to exhale on the binoculars and fog the lenses as he raised them.

The morning sun glowed through the ashen sky, it's rays just reaching the edge of the thicket exposed from the shade of the ridge line. There they moved, in and out of sight between the dense tangled branches.

From what he could tell it was a woman and a boy. She wore a grey insulated vest over layers of weather beaten clothes. Her hair was dark, and contrasted against her pale face. A wool hat and ski goggles topped her head. A bundled tarp served as her backpack with bottles and tools tethered to it. She pushed through the maze of brush, a rifle ready in her hands, the boy followed in his camoflauged jacket and backpack. He carried something as a weapon as well, though it was hard to make out.

Travellers were few and far between lately and Ward learned that even these most unlikely survivors should not be underestimated. They could be bandits preying on peoples sympathies or worse, a scout party to a larger roving gang, flushing out others that would prey on them.

He watched as they came to the point of the thicket closet to the farmhouse. It would be a hundred yards for them to cross the open ground and reach the broken ruin. They sat and looked about the area wearily, the woman using a loose rifle scope in her hands to survey the yard.

She looked back over the ridge towards him, shading her eyes with her hand against the morning sun. Backlit and sheltered by a blind of logs and sticks that he'd used for hunting this spot over the past years, Ward was sure of his disguise. She turned away, back toward the house. In a moment she was up and moving towards it, rifle in hand, her pack left behind at the thicket edge with the boy. He was hiding, crouched in the brambles, but from Wards elevation, the camoflauged jacket offered little protection.

The house was only partly standing. A brick chimeny and wall on the east side, sagging burnt timbers forming crude walls on the other sides, the roof collapsed to nothing more than a lean to. The floor was partly intact and the cellar was stone. Ward knew what the rotten structure held. It was a grave.
 
#4 · (Edited)
I don't know if this is necessary, but since this is a family oriented forum, I want to warn readers that this will be a pretty grim story and not appropriate for kids. If you continue to read just know this going forward. I'm not interested in writing schlock horror fiction but I don't want to water it down either. That said, I hope you enjoy it.
 
#6 · (Edited)
2​

Ted and Marilyn owned the apple orchard. It wasn't much but between the apple harvest and some work at the lumber mill they kept it going. Marilyn grew up on the farm, their family bought the old homestead back in the seventies. When her father grew sick he left it to her and Ted, who were recently married.

Ward bought the land neighboring Ted and Marilyns farm for use as a hunting camp a decade ago. The valley was a prime spot for deer, and the orchard ensured they would always be around. After The Fall, the farm became a desination for survivors from Gilford. Food and supplies were stretched thin for the already poorly prepared couple. Desperation led to fights and some of the refugees were chased out at gunpoint. This started a month long series of attacks and intimidations on the farm. Eventually the outsiders turned bandit and took to the road leaving Ted, Marilyn and the others with their shaken nerves and empty shelves.

Walking the ridge for deer last October, Ward seen smoke rising from the farm and ran to investigate. Seeing Ted's truck missing he feared the worst.

The ruins were smoldering when he broke through the charred doorway and found their bodies in the cellar. A pile of blackened corpses, twisted and contorted in a heap. Ted and Marilyn and everyone else he knew in the world were gone.

3​

The woman was out of sight now. Gone into the rubble, she would be out soon, empty handed he was sure. The house was long ago pundered of anything of value. A dull thud and a flurry of noise from the house and the boy started up, readying what Ward could see now was a bow. When the woman reappeared she had her rifle slung over her shoulder and what looked like a large bird by the neck. It was a owl. Probably a small Barred Owl by the look of it. She held a stout piece of firewood in the other hand, undoubtedly the weapon used to dispatch the bird.

The boy couldn't contain his excitement, he ran up from the cover of the thicket and took a close look at the meal. She handed it to him before leading him away from the house, then they collected their packs and continued on. The woman gestured up toward the ridge left of Wards position. They were heading South and likely would try hunting the dead forest along the ridge that bordered his land. He would have to stalk them incase they happened upon his camp.

Leaving the blind to follow the travellers, Ward carried his rifle at the ready, careful to watch behind him and down the ridge incase of others following in their party. His gut was telling him that these were lone survivors making their way to a warmer climate but he learned to play it safe.

As the duo cut through the thicket and along the ridgeside, Ward kept low and still, unsure if they would turn back his way or continue along their path. They paused as the boy took a bearing from his compass. The two of them readied their weapons, a .22 rifle with iron sights for her and a light recurve bow for him. They walked slowly through the skeletal trees, pausing occasionally and looking for signs of game. Ward worried that if they were experienced trackers, they would probably come across the trail to his cabin. He kept low and slow and followed them along the ridgetop.
 
#10 · (Edited)
4​

The day wore on and the travellers never spotted any game, that is, there wasn't anything to spot. The ridge and surrounding woods had been picked clean of all but field mice and songbirds, and even those were in short supply. The law of diminishing returns didn't seem to apply to this place, if it was alive and could be eaten, it already had been. Wild dogs and men with guns saw to that.

Having passed the trail to his camp, Ward decided to sit and eat. It was a long and stressful hike following the strangers. He took shelter behind a rocky crag and opened his pack. At the rate they were moving he could easily catch up to their trail after a short break.

The hard bread wasn't much to taste but some bitter cranberries he'd foraged along the ridge helped. They grew sporadically around the area but like everything were fewer than the year before. He'd canned as many as he could find weeks ago for the coming winter and was glad to come across a patch he'd missed then.

Hidden by the rocky outcrop, Ward glassed the ridge below and the valley behind him. The sun was far to the west and would be down in a few hours, it shone across the valley plain and caught the edge of something trailing them along the thicket. It was a coyote.

Creeping, he gathered up his rifle. Then, inching back to the outcrops edge, he steadied his gun against it. Ward knew that the shot would reveal himself to the others but there was no question, without the meat he would never survive.

The coyote paced along the fields edge, nose to the wind. It was closing within a couple hundred yards of him now. He had to act before the coyote spotted him and the chance was lost. Ward kept the 9x scope on his .223 break action rifle steady on the coyotes head, It wasn't his biggest rifle but it was the one he was most confident to take longer shots with, and so he found himself with it during most hunting opportunities. Zeroed in at a hundred and fifty yards and sure of the flat shooting soft point bullet, Ward let out a chirp; as of an injured rodent. The Coyote paused and perked his ears, all senses directed up the ridge. The gunshot crack echoed down the valley, breaking the still evening air. The animal dropped where it stood, limp and lifeless, hot blood pooling on the cold earth.

Now to wait and listen. The strangers would run, hide or come to investigate. Ward broke the rifles action open and thumbed in a fresh round. He crept along the side of the rocks up the ridge and watched and waited for them. They couldn't be far away and he couldn't chance recovering the dog meat until sundown. It wasn't ideal, but that was something he had grown used to.

The sky burned purple grey in the west as the sun dimmed to an eerie glow. It was cold. Ward had crushed two of his rechargable hand warmer packets and tucked them into his belly pockets in his coat. They were just starting to cool when he felt it was dark enough to move on.

Having taken good care to memorize the spot of the dead coyote, he worked his way down the ridge and through the thicket; pausing occasionally to listen for followers. It was a mixed blessing that there were so few predators around any more, at least this kill was undisturbed when he found it. Ward flicked on his red lens flashlight and unsheathed his belt knife and got to work.
 
#12 · (Edited)
5​
The disaster was two-fold. A cluster of meteors impacted the earth; spread across Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China. They exploded in the atmosphere. The resulting chain of half million megaton blasts igniting the sky spread wildfires across the globe. Vaporized space rock ionized the air on impact, overloading electonic circuits and knocking out power grids. The Fall would be felt around the world.

Within hours the sky over the Eastern Seaboard was tinted with ash. Power stations were overloaded and failed, unable to keep up with the demand produced by the electomagnetic blackout through the western United States. To preserve what remained of the grid, all power was diverted to essential services. Martial law was declared. By September there was anarchy.

That was thirteen months ago.

6​
Following the creek through the dark forest on the opposite side of the ridge, Ward was almost back at camp with the dressed coyote when he heard the gunshot. He quickened his pace; the noise echoed over the woods and he wasn't sure of its origin. Drawing the .22 pistol from its improvised leather holster, he skirted around the half buried bus that was his cabin. No signs of disturbance, he unlocked the padlocked steel door and went in.

Ward opened his weapons box and grabbed his SKS rifle. He tucked two extra stripper clips in his jacket breast pocket, grabbed his night pack and headed out.

“What the hell are you doing” he thought to himself, quickly making his way south along an old and familiar deer trail. His red flashlight provided a minimum of lumenance and he used it guide his feet to the quietest possible footfalls. “The first woman you see in six months and look at you” he grumbled to himself, a spruce branch scratching him across the face, “Damn idiot.. going off half cocked.. this is a good way to get killed”

He stopped at a crag of granite boulders that ascended the ridge. It was the ideal spot to climb to high ground. Chambering a round into his rifle, he checked the safety and started up the rocks. The uppermost part of the crag overlooked a small lean to shelter and fire pit along the ridgetop. A camp set up by Ward before The Fall; it had attracted hunters and refugees travelling along the ridge in the past and by the glow of embers he could see it had once again.

There were 3 of them. One standing, facing down the ridge trail with an AK rifle. Another, sitting on a rock by the fire, the boy was with him; his head buried in his arms. The man scraped out the remnants of a tin of beans with a hunting knife, its steel reflecting the crackling blaze. The third was under the lean to with the woman, partly sheltered with a tarp strung up over the little wooden hut. It was all too obvious what was happening here. Gruff, cruel voices drowned out the wimpering cries. The knife man cracked a bundle of sticks and tossed it on the fire pit, It blazed up, revealing their callous, gaunt faces.

Ward spied the scene from fifty yards away, prone, next to the largest of the megalithic rocks at the top of the embankment. He brought his rifle up to his cheek, the cold weapon found its place and pointed naturally to the knife mans head. He thumbed off the safety catch.


With the shot, the firelit camp exploded into violent action. Wards target slumped in a heap, blood spraying as he rolled past the stunned boy; into the fire. The watchman fumbling for the bolt of his AK as Ward put a bullet though his chest, he fell back sputtering, the weapon firing wild into the night sky. Repositioning quickly to face the shelter, it tore open. The last man breaking for the cover of darkness. He stumbled over his loose pants and was scrambling to his feet when Ward shot him through the back.

The boy ran into the tent crying. His mother, battered and curled up on a wool blanket grabbed him and pulled him close. They were trembling as Ward made his way around to the fallen bodies, checking to see that his work was done.

Unsure of what to say, Ward unloaded and slung his weapon over his shoulder. Having checked the others for food and ammunition, he knelt near the frightened pair. He patted through the knife mans burnt coat. He found a flashlight and snuff tin and put them in his pockets.

“Get your things and come with me” He offered in as soft a manner as he could muster.

At that moment in the flickering light; blood and tears washing across her face, he saw that the boy wasn't a boy at all.
 
#14 ·
7​

Willow slept across her mothers lap. The glowing embers from the woodstove and the 8 watt amber bulbs strung around the walls gave the home a quiet, sacred feeling. They rested on an old bed mattress. One of the many used as insulation for the walls and floor of the old schoolbus. Rose was shrouded in one of Wards wool blankets, a white one with colored stripes. He took a kettle of Pineapple Weed tea off the stove and poured some into some old Rubberware mugs. She wrapped both hands around the hot plastic cup and breathed in the steamy aroma. He hoped its sedative effects would help calm Roses nerves and let her rest. They sat there in silence, sipping their tea, quietly gauging one another. Rose glaced about casually, assessing her rescuers shelter and provisions.

The bus was well stocked. The benches were removed and school lockers labelled with clipboards lined the north wall. Trunks, coolers and ammunition crates marked with white grease pen were piled toward the front of the bus. Over these, oil and gas lanterns of all color and variety hung from a steel rod, fastened with carabiners. The bus's folding door was reinforced with steel plates and locked with trailer hitch pins at the top and bottom. The floor was wood, over which the rear section of the bus was built up with the old mattresses. Toward the back of the bus, nearest to Rose was the antique wood stove, a stack of dried, split wood seasoning in a metal frame next to it. Wool blankets were piled about and tin shelves made of old toolboxes were screwed to the metal walls. These contained all manner of clutter; flashlights of all shapes and sizes, matches, cups and plates, little owl salt and pepper shakers, an old film camera and a variety of ragged paperbacks, among other things. A blanket made from a mosaic of animal skins covered a good portion of the wood floor. Halfway down the corridor was a wood box with cables leading to and from it, presumably containing the bus's power supply, it was large enough for a bank of car batteries.

Rose looked back to Ward, he smiled to her reassuringly. They were going to be alright.
 
#15 ·
8​

Ward was gone when she awoke. Light filtered in through the south facing windows that hadn't yet been covered with insulation foam and duct taped plastic sheeting. The smell of something bitter was in the air. Something she hadn't smelled since the spring. It was coffee.

Ward put the small percolator on the stove to brew before he went out to check his traps. It was always nice to come home to a warm drink at the camp after his morning walk about. He followed the overgrown ATV trail that led to Gilford for about a mile, ducking and climbing the big fallen trees that barricaded the path. Then, cutting through the east woods he came to the Mill River; a knee deep meandering stream that was good for trout fishing before The Fall.

Following the river was always risky. Rivers and lakes were notorious for attracting nomads and bandits, but it had been a while since he saw anyone along Mill River. Most people made the exodus south before the last summer. Things were just getting too scarce for people to survive.

Still, caution always had to be exercised.

Ward had traps set along the bank and through the brambles alongside it. Mostly these were snares but he fashioned some stone deadfalls as well. In the summer these provided him with a few raccoons and squirrels, but lately it was more of the same. The traps were empty. Some had to be repaired. He took some of the twisted wire hoops to place closer to his camp on the way back. It had been like this for the past few weeks, there just wasn't anything left to catch.

The dim sun was just climbing over the treetops when he got back to the bus. He thought this morning was particularly grey. A sign of things to come he supposed.
 
#17 ·
9​

Ward was furious. He paced back and forth in the cramped space. The empty candy bag crinkled loudly in his grip while he fumed.
“Do you have any idea what you've done? Of course you don't, otherwise you wouldn't have been so selfish! What the hell's wrong with you anyway?!”
Willow sat on an ammunition box, head down. She was behind the fold down breakfast table. Detritus of their mornings breakfast was scattered across it. Rose held her hands up to him, pleading.
“It was just one meal, and you have so much, we didn't think..”
He cut her off.
“Had! Had so much! That breakfast of yours cost me a weeks food! I must be insane! This was a big mistake! God Dammit!”
She backed up to her daughter, putting her hands on Willows shoulders.
“We`re Sorry! Really we are! Please, Ward.. please”
He paused, looking at them, tears welling in their eyes and took a deep breath.
“There`s gonna be some rules”
 
#18 · (Edited)
10​

Ward took them around the camp. A twelve gauge shotgun over his shoulder and an axe in hand. Rose carried her .22 rifle casually. “We have to stay vigilant” He spoke with some authority. “If we get lazy, we`re dead.” Willow stuck close, glacing around like a frightened animal. There was a lot to take in that they couldn`t see on their night arrival.

The bus was quite a sight. It was a schoolbus at one point but retained very little of it`s former self. It was painted in mottled flat paint, olive and grey, the back portion of it reinforced with logs tethered together; stacked to just below the windows as additional protection from the elements. The black stove pipe rose up through a plate that replaced the rear window, next to it a ladder to the roof. The top and walls of the bus were reinforced with steel box tubing. A corrugated metal skirt a foot high surrounded the roof. This was waterproofed with plastic sheeting and filled with earth. A garden ,explained Ward. There were turnips and carrots, earlier in the year there were tomatoes but they had since died off. Creeping vines dangled from the sides. Besides the food, the rooftop also provided insulation and protection from being seen from the ridge.There didn`t seem much chance of that though; mature spruce and aspen trees surrounded the camp.

The front half of the bus was skirted in plywood. “There's storage underneath” Ward explained. On the south facing side, next to the door was a corrugated metal veranda, half full of seasoned firewood. Cordwood was also piled between aspen trunks just on the perimeter of the yard.

They walked around to the north side. A brook ran through the woods here. “She hasn't run dry in the ten years I've had this camp” He gestured to the creek. Roses' attention focused on the bike frame waterwheel suspended in the water. It was geared up to run an alternator, carefully protected from the elements under a plastic hood. PVC piping ran from here to under the bus, extension cords running through it and to the battery box. “ We have to boil it of course for drinking” His voice catching her attention away from the contraption. “There's a lobster pot over there on that frame. That's for water.”

There were a variety of plastic barrels and metal tubs around the back of the bus. Ward directed Roses attention. “In case we're ever friendly enough that you feel you can take a bath, that galvanized basin works like a charm. It takes some time to heat so it's best to get the water going while you busy yourself with other work. There's a perforated bucket strung up over it too if you're feeling really crazy.”

Continuing on, Rose spotted Wards four wheeler chained to a tall evergreen; a grey tarp littered with needles and fir cones covered it. Knobby black tires showed beneath the cover. "That old thing doesn't get a lot of use. No sense announcing yourself to the world. Same goes for my chainsaw, I have it if I need it; it's just not something you want to use everyday." Ward spoke as he ushered them on.

Back around the front of the bus, Ward directed their attention to the outhouse, just inside the wood line. “There's a bucket of ash in there, pour some on if you take a crap. The roof is fiberglass, it's bright enough during the day.” Willow blushed. “It will be a welcome change from going in the woods” Rose piped up. “Go on dear” She directed her daughter toward the humble structure. “Mawwmmm.” Willow droned as she slid away toward it.

“So that's about it.” Ward scratched his neck, looking over the camp. “Any questions?”
She threw him a coy smile. “That bath sounds good, whadda ya say?”
“Sure thing. I'll fetch you some soap and a blanket” He handed her the axe. “ You're gonna want to cut a pretty good heap of kindling, we replace what we use around here.”

With that he went inside, leaving her at the wood pile.
 
#22 · (Edited)
11​

Rose finished pouring the last of the hot water into the metal trough. It was mixed with the frigid creek water and brought the temperature up to a moderate warmth. Steam poured off of it into the cool afternoon air. She hung the empty oxidized saucepan on the frame that supported the tub and began taking off her clothes.

Naked, exposed to the world, she inspected her body before stepping into the water. Her skin was always fair but had taken on a pallor over the last year. Dark tattoos of age old sweat and dirt were clearly visible in the midday sun, mottling her complexion. She inspected her feet, checking that the sores had healed from their month long trek to Gilford. Her nails were long and needed cutting, one of them was cracked, she hadn't noticed that before. Moving her small, pointy breasts aside she could count her ribs, her sternum too was developing a visible depression. She craned around to check her back and rear. Rose always joked that she had her mothers bum in the past, her wide hips now showing through her taught skin. Her behind was shrunken, her skinny legs gapped apart. She thought she looked like a giraffe. The idea first making her blurt a laugh of disbelief then quickly turned to sadness. She stepped into the warm water.

Scrubbing her hair with the soap and a bristle brush, black grimy dirt streamed over her like eels bleeding away into the shallow bath. Her daughter poured the old pot over her head. Rinsing the filth away. Invigorated by the cold, she acted feverishly to clean herself. The water felt like ice pouring over her. Stepping out briskly and shivering, Willow wrapped a dry blanket around her. She tossed her dirty clothes into the blackish water and they ran inside.

Ward had the fire stoked up. A stew of canned ham, carrots and potatoes simmered on the stove. “There's some long underwear and a sweater there for you, Rose” he gestured then turned his attention back to stirring the soup. “We'll eat good tonite. There will be a lot of work to do tomorrow”
 
#24 ·
Thanks for reading, 10-22Plinker. I guess I could have described the scene a little more in depth. I summed it up with the line "She was behind the fold down breakfast table. Detritus of their mornings breakfast was scattered across it." I used the candy bag to symbolize something lost that could not be replenished.. no more twizzlers after the SHTF. Thanks
 
#25 ·
Loving the Story! One of the reasons I signed up was to Thank You for it! But it seems I might not be allowed to 'thank' until I have more posts! Looking forward to where you take this! Love the description of the Stream, the old Bicycle and PVC pipe running back to the Bus - Also the previous mention of the Battery Box!

Inclusion of the SKS is great! as well as the .223!