Born of Silicon-Book 5 Chapter 5

Born of Silicon-Book 5 Chapter 5

Not to skip over too much, but things were pretty boring, all things considered. Our neighbors came over occasionally, and we had food to trade. I let father take care of all of that, I hardly knew anyone, and things got heated when he refused to give out water. I’d stay in the other room, hand on my pistol and Rusty at my side, just thinking about that coyote.
It never came to blows thankfully, but it was close a few times. If dad wasn’t as big as he was, it probably would have.
A year passed, and we were surviving, but I’m not sure I’d ever call it living. Not much to do, and dad was never the most sociable. At least we had solar panels and could keep the lights and a freezer on. Being stuck in there with nothing to do wasn’t easy on him either, that man was made to work. We spent a lot of days just watching the world go by. Trees died, grass wilted, and rain got ever rarer.
Speaking of, the rains were bad. We’re almost lucky we don’t get them anymore. With the ground unable to absorb most water? All it meant was that the ground shifted from under you. You’d step outside and sink down to mid-shin. Even a while after the storm ended, until the ground properly dried, it was still dangerous to go out.
Both of our birthdays passed, although we only celebrated mine. It was just a couple days past his that it happened. Pretty close to sundown a group rolled up. Not our neighbors, we hadn’t seen them in over a month. Kid me didn’t want to think about what that meant, just like he didn’t want to ask about his mother.
“I don’t like this.” Father grabbed his rifle and peeked out of a small crack in the window. “You got your gun?”
“I do.”
“Good.” We had bugout bags already prepared. He grabbed mine off the couch and tossed it to me. “Go to the kitchen and wait.”
I just nodded and ran to the back. Rusty sat beside me. It was rare to hear him whine, and the two of us did our best to comfort each other.
I don’t remember exactly what happened, whether that’s because it was just too faint to hear everything, or if I’ve blocked out the memory, I’m not sure. There is one thing that’s been forever burned into my memory.
“Vincent! Run! You go live, you hear me?” Followed by flying bullets. They tore through the walls, every defense we’d ever set up meant nothing. Splinters and shrapnel peppered every surface.
I opened the door, and Rusty led the way. He sprinted towards what remained of the forest near our house, with me hot on his heels.
We both reached the dead shrubs and crouched down, looking back at the house. Not long after, a few men came out the back, men I’d never seen before.
I drew my pistol, only for Rusty to grab onto my sleeve and pull me back. Without a doubt he saved my life. Even today, fighting on my terms with people I trust and all the gear I could want, I’d struggle to assault that house. We made a fortress, and now it was theirs.
The two of us ran. There was nothing else to do, no other option.
Needless to say, that was the last time I ever saw him. His name was Charlie Patterson, born February 8th, 1979. At least I know what day he died, unlike mom. June 11th, 2023.
That whole run was a blur. We just kept going, found what remained of the road and went. We found an abandoned house, no car outside, nobody inside. A window was already broken. I climbed inside, opened the door for Rusty, and collapsed on one of the beds.
Father’s lessons somehow bubbled to the surface. Focus on here and now. I pulled the blankets over me. They were threadbare, rough. I let my tears run down my face, a small streak of coolness. I clutched at myself, feeling the pressure, the texture of my shirt. Rusty licked my face, his breath was awful.
I stabilized. Or at least, I prevented myself from seeing the end of that spiral. Really, at some point, that’s all you can hope for.
It took a long time for exhaustion to take me. Heck, maybe it never did. All I know is that at some point, light was coming through the window and Rusty was whining. He needed food, and to go out.
I forced myself out of bed and threw the door open. He wasn’t gone for long, did his business only a few feet away and came back as soon as he could.
We didn’t have much food. The bugout bag had a week’s worth. I’m just glad we had the foresight to throw some dogfood in there. I walked into the kitchen, needing a plate for him. The place had been ransacked. Cabinet doors half broken in a rage, plates thrown against the floor, desperately searching for another morsel. An ant couldn’t find a bite to eat in that place.
I grabbed an unbroken plate from the floor, opened his food, and placed it out for him. I forced myself to eat as well, just some canned something or other. I forced down as much as I could, and the two of us started walking.
I had a dumb idea to find my way back to Dallas and find my mother. I didn’t know which direction to walk, and I knew deep down if she was alive, she would have found her way to father’s in the past year.
We checked out houses as we passed them. We needed food and water. Felt weird the first few times I broke into a house, but you’d be surprised just how quick you get used to that sort of thing.
We went for a few days, sticking to the backroads, passing old farm after farm. Few of them bothered to try planting that year, and even the occasional plants that dared to try and grow were nothing more than brown, limp husks.
Every day was more stressful than the last. We burned through food quickly. We got lucky though. Every house was ransacked, but a lot of the time whoever went through the houses were desperate, not thorough. We sometimes found old forgotten food in basements and barns. And by we I mostly mean Rusty, his nose saved us more times than I can count.
Rusty was pacing in front of a door to a closet. I pulled it open, and he stepped inside. It was just clothes, nothing more. I trusted him though. The boxes were already open, looked through. I looked through them too. The pockets were turned out, but I checked them regardless. Maybe I could find a stick of gum or something, anything to fight off the hunger. Rusty was convinced something was in here, but I found nothing. And still he stayed, trying to signal something.
There was a small square in the ceiling, a loose tile. I dragged a chair over, pushed it open, and looked up. The smell was the first thing that hit me. Putrified flesh seeping into the plywood floor of an attic. I couldn’t let myself vomit, I couldn’t waste the water.
I held my breath and looked. A man sat at the far end, a rifle sitting across his corpse, fingerbone still through the trigger guard. He was surrounded by food, but alone. There’s a big difference between being alive and surviving, I learned that.
I did what had to be done. I grabbed a garbage bag, put as many layers between me and him as possible, and did my best to bury him. I moved what food and water wasn’t rancid downstairs, and we stayed there for a while.
I learned my lesson. We kept the lights off, made sure the place looked like it was abandoned. Not many people were on those roads, just the occasional car driving past, headed God knows where.
The biggest problem was actually the broken windows. We had dust storms in those days. Nothing like the sandstorms these days, they didn’t strip flesh from bone. They hit every day or two, but only lasted a few hours. It did coat your lungs though, alongside every other surface it could find. Felt like it stole the oxygen right out of your chest. I couldn’t block off the windows without risking someone coming to check if anyone was in the house. We started sleeping in the bath, with towels shoved under the door and into the vents.
The food didn’t last forever. Water started to get low after a month. I put what remained in my backpack, and we set off again.
That became our life for a while. Just a desperate attempt to find food, occasionally finding a well we could pull a mouthful of water out of. We got caught in storms a couple times in the early days, I’d be surprised if I don’t have dust still lodged in my lungs. We survived though, although barely most of the time.
I lost a lot of weight. Burning thousands of calories a day walking and searching, and only rarely finding enough to replace them. But it was either that or die.
We came across bones occasionally, always picked bare. Human, animal, I didn’t care. Sometimes they were unbroken though, the marrow helped keep Rusty going. If nothing else, he was keeping on weight.
It wasn’t long before we ran out of food.
“Sorry buddy.” I leaned down and pet my whining dog. “Next house, for sure.”
And we kept going. And you know what? We found dog food, a bag buried beneath useless tools in a garage. The bag had been ripped open, and mice had called it home at some point. Bones and droppings and piss soaked into the food.
It kept us going though. For just a few more days.
It was another empty house, just like any other, an old black car sitting outside. We let ourselves in, and headed straight for the kitchen. The place was stocked. More food than I’d seen since leaving my father’s house.
Rusty’s hair stood on end, and he growled at the entrance. I drew my weapon and aimed where he pointed.
A girl came around the corner, blonde hair and an oversized rifle in her hands. She looked only a year or two older than me. A predatory grin on her face, she was looking forward to whatever came next.
“The hell do you think you’re doing in my kitchen?”

.
!
Book 5 Chapter 5