Joel Adrian
A SHATTERED FUTURE
Prologue
Mona ducked into one of the abandoned, destroyed buildings to her right. The roar of the bandit’s truck behind her kept her charging forward as fast as she could, despite being out of breath. The crack of gunfire rang out through the air, and the stray shots kicked up pieces of destroyed hardwood floor next to her feet.
She darted through what used to be a living room, a smashed television and overturned couch strewed about. She leaped over the couch and dove through an already-broken window, landing on a wrapping deck outside.
Her pursuers caught sight of her, and they parked the vehicle. More bullets smashed through the frail wall next to her, narrowly dodging her form. Doors shut behind her, and she knew she had to move. The four of them on foot with assault rifles meant she’d be no match with her measly revolver, half of the rounds already spent.
Running to the back of the deck and leaping off it, she hooked her hands into the chain-link fence and scaled it, vaulting her body over the top in one fluid motion. A rifle shot snapped the pole atop the fence a second after she’d been there.
Mona pushed on, exhausted, but she couldn’t stop. Not if she wanted to live, not if she wanted to fix this. She was climbing a hill now, chugging along as fast as her 49-year old body could carry her.
“There she is!” she heard one of the bandits call.
A mess of bullets hit the hill just as she reached the top. She rolled over the top of it and caught her balance, starting the jog down. Her military training had conditioned her, taught her how to persevere mentally when the body wouldn’t. But it was failing her now.
The ruins of what was once a playground lay strewn out in front of her. The poles of the swing set were unearthed, twisting and contorting this way and that. The slide had been smashed in two by a car that was slung from the road, now laying in burnt remnants 40 feet from the mess.
She turned back while slowing to a jog. The bandits, all wearing football or hockey masks, ascended the hill. It took them only a second to spot her and raise their weapons. She sprinted to the left, as fast as her aging legs would carry her, and ducked behind a large oak tree that was still standing.
The bullets chipped away at the oak but didn’t penetrate it. She wiped the sweat from her head onto her sleeve and pulled her revolver from its holster. She was two, maybe three blocks from her base. But the exhaustion had her in its clutches. She groaned and forced herself upright, pulling the hammer back on the gun.
She started again at a jog, keeping level with the tree to afford her as much cover as possible. Her knees were creaking with pain, but she fought through it. The semi-automatic blast of gunshots whizzing by urged her to zigzag towards a waist-high cement wall on the other side of the park.
Running as quickly as she could, she dove past the wall just as a rain of bullet chased her, all burying themselves deep into the cement. She popped her head and arm out, and took aim swiftly. She fired, hitting one of the bandits in the stomach. He collapsed with a groan, one of the others stopping to check on him.
The two others were hot on her trail. She crouch-walked as fast as she could, using the destroyed cars and debris as cover. As Mona turned to run down Aven Street, a shot clipped her in her right arm.
She cried out and turned, smashing into a burned building. The door, barely hanging on, collapsed with her. Raising her arm, she saw blood dripping off the side, but the bullet had just grazed her. Thank God, she thought. Turning, she rose to her feet and charged one of the doors in the back.
The burnt ruins of what looked like a jewelry store surrounded her. She vaulted over one of the burnt, smashed out cases, stray diamonds still lingering inside. As she pushed past the door leading to the back, she heard one of the raiders call to his friends. Damn it, they don’t stop.
The back was charred worse than the front. The walls were entirely black, and the floor was burnt to a crisp beneath her. She pushed forward, kicking open the door to the back alley, letting in the gray-brown light.
Mona jogged down the alley, fighting for every breath she took. She rounded a corner and started towards her base. She knew soon she’d have to lead the bandits away. The last thing she wanted was to lead them right to where her crew was.
The alley in front of her was strewn with half-burnt trash bags and two rotting corpses. She brought a hand up to shield her nose from the foul stench. The rustle of footsteps behind her alerted her that the bandits were right on her ass.
She stopped next to the pile of burnt garbage. There were at least 20 bags stacked together. She quickly dove into them, burying herself in what remained of the charred bags and garbage. Sticking a hand free and making sure her entire body was covered.
The stench was so foul Mona thought that for the first time in 30 years she might be sick. Clearing her mind, she tried to focus on the patter of footsteps approaching. She whispered a prayer that she hadn’t left any part of her body exposed and that the bandits were just as stupid as they looked and would saunter right by.
The footsteps slowed next to the trash. She could hear the muffled argument between the three remaining bandits. Two of them started back to the jewelry store, the other took off in the direction Mona had been running.
She held her breath and tried to not take in more of the refuse scent than she needed to. She stayed put for the next 15 minutes. When the bandits never returned, she deemed it safe and slowly eased herself out of the trash grave.
Sucking in deep breaths of fresh air, Mona looked around. The sky still had its sickly, brown-grey clouds swirling above. The same ones that haunted the air ever since the bombs dropped.
She stumbled free of the trash, stepping over one of the corpses. The spot she’d been concealed in now held a small pool of blood. Getting her bearings, Mona turned and started back towards her base, pistol out and eyes alert.
Mona reached her base without running into the raiders, though she did a thorough sweep up and down each bordering road to make sure they were gone. She didn’t want them to be a problem for Thompson and Lily.
The building couldn’t have been more ideal. It was the second floor of an old pizza shop. The first floor was destroyed and filled with debris, but supportive enough to keep the second floor above it from caving in. They always entered through the fire escape and knocked three times on the window to alert whoever was home that it was them.
Lily answered, pulling the creaky window to the side and letting Mona into the bathroom.
“Hey,” Lily said. “Damn, you get hit?”
Mona dropped down onto the ground and held her right arm over the sink. “Just a knick. Some gauze and I’ll be good.”
Lily turned, her long brown ponytail swinging behind her. She grabbed a medical kit from the top shelf in the otherwise-unused bathroom and pulled a roll of gauze out. Mona eased her sleeve up. The bullet wound wasn’t deep or long enough to require stitches. Lily rolled the gauze over it in a few layers, fastened it to itself, and smiled.
“All set,” she said.
Mona didn’t know how Lily stayed so optimistic, especially after the bombs fell. She always got on more with Thompson. Thompson had been a Corporal in the Army, and the two had served together on base.
Placing a hand on Mona’s shoulder, Lily led her into the tiny kitchen on the second floor. Without much to cook, the area had mostly been converted into storage. Pistol rounds and shotgun slugs decorated the counters and the table. A double-barreled shotgun sat on a rack for pots and pans.
“Since we’ve been eating canned beans every night, tonight I thought we’d try something different. I cut up the rabbit Tom caught, and I had a can of peas and corn. Thought I’d try my hand at a stew.”