3

Gabriel lifted his canteen to his lips and sighed; it was empty. He needed water; they had been walking for the better part of the day. He and his men were tired, and the sun was starting to go down. They needed to find shelter for the night, but they had never been to this part of the Dead Forest before. “We’re lost,” his son Dillon said, handing him his own canteen. “Monroe got us lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Monroe snarled, looking at the compass in his hand. “North is that way,” he said, pointing ahead of them. He looked unsure as he tapped the device in his hand. “Or is it that way?”

“You’re not sure?” Oliver snapped.

“The damn arrow keeps spinning. The magnetic field in these mountains is screwing up my equipment,” Monroe defended himself. “It’s not my fault.”

Gabriel took a big drink and handed the canteen back to his son. Dillon was only nineteen but a man for many years. Since he was fifteen, he had been wandering the wasteland with his father. They were soldiers of fortune, all of them. Most mercenaries travelled alone, but Gabriel had compiled a group of some of the best men he had ever met. They worked jobs together and watched one another’s backs. They were friends, almost like family. Gabriel was not the oldest, but he was the one everyone looked to for leadership. He wasn’t sure why. They just did, so he led them, and for the last ten years, it had been profitable.

He had been a young man when Dillon was born, not older than his son was now, just trying to make his way. When his wife died four years ago, Dillon had signed up. He looked very much like his mother, with dark black hair and dark eyes. He didn’t shave often; his face was covered in soft fuzz. He was a tall boy, still coming into his body. He was strong but thin; he hadn’t quite filled out just yet.

“It’s getting dark,” Oliver pointed out like they hadn’t noticed the sun dipping behind the mountain. The predators would be coming out soon, and he would rather not deal with them. Oliver was a young man in his twenties, not much older than Dillon. He, unlike his son, had filled out. He was a big burly sort of fellow with a cocky attitude. He had a thing for whores, and with his blond hair and dark eyes, they had a thing for him too.

“Tanner, run ahead and take point,” Gabriel ordered as he started walking once more.

“Yes, Sir,” Tanner said and broke into a jog. Tanner was in his late twenties with ginger hair and a pasty complexion, even with his tan.

“I don’t know; this thing is useless in these hills,” Monroe said, returning his compass to his pocket. Monroe was about Gabriel’s age, both men in their late thirties, which for living in the wasteland made them old men. The life expectancy for most men was sometime in their late forties, dying from starvation, murdered, or eaten. Only the tough survived. It was a wild world; it truly was survival of the fittest. That was why they travelled together. They had a better chance of staying alive with five other guys watching their back.

Monroe was a short but wiry little guy with dark thinning hair and hazel eyes. He wasn’t attractive by any means with his shabby beard and poor grooming habits, but he could fight like a demon and shoot the wings off a fly at a hundred paces.

Then there was Cyrus, a six-foot-six three hundred pound mountain of muscle. He grew up in the sticks and was a little out there. He spent his youth torturing little animals and pushing around people he came into contact with. He wasn’t a nice guy, but he was handy and loyal. Not a bad guy to have around if you could stand him. He kept his head and his jaw shaved. His eyes were dark and a little intimidating to strangers. He was thirty-five and had only lasted this long because he had no problem pulling the trigger.

“Let’s go, boys. Let’s get the lead out before something finds us,” Gabriel said as they moved forward. They had only been walking for a few minutes when Tanner called out for them. They broke into a run to catch up, and when they did, a smile graced Gabriel’s face. Tanner had found an ancient bombed-out auto-wrecking yard. It was still standing and looked fortified. It would be a great place to hold up for the night. “Good work Tanner. Let’s approach cautiously. There may be someone inside.”

“What if they don’t want visitors?” Oliver asked.

“Then, shoot them.”

They rushed down the hill in two by two formations. Reaching the gate, Monroe tried it. It wasn’t locked, so they went inside. They quickly cleared the yard.

“Gabriel?” Cyrus called from the side of the building. They joined him and found three graves, one of which looked fresh. Someone had been here and recently too.

“Let’s clear the building,” he ordered, and they headed for the garage door, but it wouldn’t budge. Reaching the only other entrance, the men covered Dillon as he tried the door. It slid open without resistance. Dillon lifted his machinegun up and keeping low. He took point.

Gabriel followed with the men behind him. There were four other rooms; each man cleared one, including the garage. The place was empty, but there was defiantly someone living here. The place was furnished, stocked with supplies and personal effects.

The place was nice. It was clean, which was unusual. It looked as if it had been repaired and even converted into a home and not the commercial outlet it once was. For one, someone hand installed a stove which both gave off heat and cooked. There were three beds when most places didn’t have one. There were even two couches, which was amazing because only the filthy rich could afford such luxury. The garage was converted into a storage room with many homemade shelves stacked with supplies and some other interesting things.

There were three tables, two in the storage room and one in the main room. The two in the storage room were work tables. One was bloodstained, likely a butchering table. The other had weapons laid out over it. Whoever lived here was armed to the teeth. The last table in the main room was clean and empty, with four chairs around it. It was a dining table. All the furniture was very old and ruined in some way, but still useable. Everything was either old or homemade. Someone had put a lot of work into this place.

“Woo-wee,” Monroe grinned as he came out of one of the rooms, “we’ll sleep well tonight; we got three beds and two couches to crash on. I got dibs on a bed.”

“There are five places to sleep and six of us,” Cyrus pointed out.

“Dillon and I will share a bed,” Gabriel offered. He had no problem sleeping next to his son.

“I’ll take the last bed,” Cyrus said, giving the other two a nasty glare in case they wanted to debate the matter.

“The couch is just fine with me,” said Oliver. It was better than the ground.

“Hey, look, I found food and water,” Tanner piped up. He had been going through the shelves. “There’s enough for all of us.”

That was great because they were all hungry and thirsty. This was a great place to hold up for the night, as good as an inn. They sat down to eat. It was great. Food and laughter in a safe, secure place. It was starting to get chilly, so Dillon decided to start a fire in the potbelly stove, but there wasn’t enough wood stacked beside it.

“I think I saw a stack of cut wood outside,” Dillon said as he headed for the door. “Be back in a jiffy.”