Read Online A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) by Laurence Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurence Moore
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board had been nailed across the top half of the door, covering where a window had once been. He inspected the ground and saw no trap or wire or anything set to signal he was about to enter. The buildings creaked in the wind and the door matched the sound as he eased it open. Darkness and the stench of a rotting body caused him to grimace and recoil.
“Stone was eight when my father found him. Seven or eight. Wandering around out here. He had a knife and tried to stab my father. He was skinny, hungry and frightened. He was covered in bruises. My father tried to talk to him, calm him down, but Stone was wild. So my father left him where he was and kept walking. My mother and sister were there and they tried to reason with him but my father said the child could not be helped. As they went on, Stone began to follow them, from a distance.”
The room had been a kitchen with tables and chairs and a pantry cupboard, the shelves stripped bare and thick with dust. There was a rusted sink with two rusted taps and dirty and broken crockery. A body was slumped in the corner and the smell was unbearable. Stone covered his mouth and nose with his left arm, hand still clutching the torch. He stepped into the next room, edging past pieces of worn and dusty furniture. The room was gloomy. He swept the torch beam around the floor and walls. There was nothing here of any use. A single door led into another room. Revolver gripped in his right fist, he pulled open the door.
“That night my family made camp. A small fire. Cooked food. Hot tea. My father carried a rifle and he heard footsteps approach. He called out but no one replied. And then Stone came out of the darkness, grubby face, skin and bone. He looked at my family and sat a distance away from them. My mother took him some food and he snatched it from her and ate. It was like this for a few weeks. He would follow behind them and then my mother would feed him at night. Eventually, he sat at the fire with them but my father said he never spoke a word.”
The room beyond was a hallway with large black patches of damp on the walls and ceiling. The stench was vile. To his left, Stone saw the front door, heavily barred. There were more two doors here, both open, a bedroom to his left, a bathroom to his right. He stepped into the bedroom and saw another body, stretched out on the bed, rotting. He fanned the torch around the room and saw dozens of framed photographs hanging on the wall. He frowned at them. He had seen photographs before but not this many. They were relics from the Before. He set down his revolver, lifted one from the wall and shone his torch at it; a group of people, a family, a man, a woman, an older woman, small children.
“They found him clothes. His bruises began to fade. My father taught him to fight, to shoot, and to survive. It was years before he spoke. My sister was dying from sickness. I never knew her. No, no, I wasn’t born yet. Stone had become a man. He was a son to my father. They looked different and they had a different voice and different words but they were family. My father began to piece together what had happened to Stone. He learned he had been born in the wasteland. His family had been part of a small community. Then men came on horses. They burned, killed, it must have been terrible. My father said Stone watched his family die. He managed to escape. Fled into the hills with some other children but they never had enough to survive and in the end they fought each other for the food. Stone was the only one to walk away. My mother died having me. I was Stone’s age when my father passed. The sickness.”
Stone smashed the glass frame with the torch and shook free the photograph. His lips curled into a smile as he rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket. He backed out of the room and spun the torch beam along the hallway and into the bathroom. The house had been looted months ago and there was nothing here except dead memories. He crept back
“Stone was eight when my father found him. Seven or eight. Wandering around out here. He had a knife and tried to stab my father. He was skinny, hungry and frightened. He was covered in bruises. My father tried to talk to him, calm him down, but Stone was wild. So my father left him where he was and kept walking. My mother and sister were there and they tried to reason with him but my father said the child could not be helped. As they went on, Stone began to follow them, from a distance.”
The room had been a kitchen with tables and chairs and a pantry cupboard, the shelves stripped bare and thick with dust. There was a rusted sink with two rusted taps and dirty and broken crockery. A body was slumped in the corner and the smell was unbearable. Stone covered his mouth and nose with his left arm, hand still clutching the torch. He stepped into the next room, edging past pieces of worn and dusty furniture. The room was gloomy. He swept the torch beam around the floor and walls. There was nothing here of any use. A single door led into another room. Revolver gripped in his right fist, he pulled open the door.
“That night my family made camp. A small fire. Cooked food. Hot tea. My father carried a rifle and he heard footsteps approach. He called out but no one replied. And then Stone came out of the darkness, grubby face, skin and bone. He looked at my family and sat a distance away from them. My mother took him some food and he snatched it from her and ate. It was like this for a few weeks. He would follow behind them and then my mother would feed him at night. Eventually, he sat at the fire with them but my father said he never spoke a word.”
The room beyond was a hallway with large black patches of damp on the walls and ceiling. The stench was vile. To his left, Stone saw the front door, heavily barred. There were more two doors here, both open, a bedroom to his left, a bathroom to his right. He stepped into the bedroom and saw another body, stretched out on the bed, rotting. He fanned the torch around the room and saw dozens of framed photographs hanging on the wall. He frowned at them. He had seen photographs before but not this many. They were relics from the Before. He set down his revolver, lifted one from the wall and shone his torch at it; a group of people, a family, a man, a woman, an older woman, small children.
“They found him clothes. His bruises began to fade. My father taught him to fight, to shoot, and to survive. It was years before he spoke. My sister was dying from sickness. I never knew her. No, no, I wasn’t born yet. Stone had become a man. He was a son to my father. They looked different and they had a different voice and different words but they were family. My father began to piece together what had happened to Stone. He learned he had been born in the wasteland. His family had been part of a small community. Then men came on horses. They burned, killed, it must have been terrible. My father said Stone watched his family die. He managed to escape. Fled into the hills with some other children but they never had enough to survive and in the end they fought each other for the food. Stone was the only one to walk away. My mother died having me. I was Stone’s age when my father passed. The sickness.”
Stone smashed the glass frame with the torch and shook free the photograph. His lips curled into a smile as he rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket. He backed out of the room and spun the torch beam along the hallway and into the bathroom. The house had been looted months ago and there was nothing here except dead memories. He crept back
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