Read Online A Town Called America by Andrew Alexander - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew Alexander
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come across would be less than kind.
After walking for a short time, he could heard a baby crying and every now and then a scream. The street was, of course, without power, and the stench of what could be rotting human or animal flesh filledthe air. He figured this neighborhood probably wasn’t much different than it was before the global collapse.
After walking for six or seven blocks with his shotgun drawn, Rick was beginning to feel weak when he realized that his medication—whatever it was—was wearing off. As he walked to the side of the two-lane road, attempting to keep a low profile, in the distance he saw the underpass he had driven through on his way to Brick Creek so long ago. He now knew exactly where he was. He was in a town slightly larger than Brick Creek that was just off the interstate. It was on the east side of Brick Creek; its name was Dale Port. It was a town that the more prosperous and influential areas once would have considered the other side of the tracks.
The good news was that Brick Creek was only a couple of hours up the road by foot. The bad news was that Rick was feeling every bit of the pain from his wounds. The pain was slowly creeping up on him, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.
Three blocks later Rick found a small trailer off the main road that looked decent enough for him to use for the night—nothing fancy, but it was shelter, and most likely it had a bed. Maybe not clean but a bed nonetheless.
The trailer sat alone on the corner of two adjoining streets. There were three junked cars in front as well as a pile of black trash bags Rick thought had to have been there for years. The wet grass that surrounded the trailer was nearly knee-high, which made it difficult for him to see what was on the ground. The last thing he wanted was to step into a bear trap or stumble across a snake.
Through the grass he made his way toward the steps of the trailer then reached out to open the door. By then his entire body was freezing cold, and he was quickly losing his strength. As Rick opened the door to the trailer, before he could do anything to react, someone hit him across the forehead with the butt of a weapon. Again he was knocked out; only this time he was far from the shelter of his RV fortress or the makeshift hospital.
A few moments later, he opened his eyes, trying to shake off the pain. He was still near the steps of the trailer, but now he was on hisback, as three armed kids, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, stood looking over him.
“Is he dead?” the shortest of the three asked.
The oldest was only slighter taller than the other two, but all three looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days. They were all skinny, with torn clothing, and wore looks of desperation. The oldest was wearing an old army jacket that was two sizes too big for him, and other than a 9mm Berretta that was pointing at Rick, he couldn’t see any other weapons on the boy. One of the other two kids had a 9mm as well. The last one, who was the smallest of the bunch, had what looked to be a Glock .45, but with Rick’s head and body in so much pain, he couldn’t be sure.
“Damn it, kid,” he said. “You hit me. What were you thinking?”
“Thinking? We’re thinking that you’re trespassing, and you’re about to get shot. That’s what we’re thinking,” the oldest said.
Rick stood up and pushed through the pain that now surged throughout his body. “I’m gonna kick your little asses if you don’t stop pointing those guns at me. Where are your parents?”
“Don’t tell him shit, Brian,” the oldest one said.
“Now you listen, you little—”
Rick’s ears were now ringing, as the smallest kid fired at him, missing his head by just a few inches.
“Damn, you actually shot at me!”
“No shit. You’re a genius,” the smallest one said, giving Rick his best attempt at a tough-guy look.
“Hey, you need to watch your mouth, son. Here’s the deal. I don’t
After walking for a short time, he could heard a baby crying and every now and then a scream. The street was, of course, without power, and the stench of what could be rotting human or animal flesh filledthe air. He figured this neighborhood probably wasn’t much different than it was before the global collapse.
After walking for six or seven blocks with his shotgun drawn, Rick was beginning to feel weak when he realized that his medication—whatever it was—was wearing off. As he walked to the side of the two-lane road, attempting to keep a low profile, in the distance he saw the underpass he had driven through on his way to Brick Creek so long ago. He now knew exactly where he was. He was in a town slightly larger than Brick Creek that was just off the interstate. It was on the east side of Brick Creek; its name was Dale Port. It was a town that the more prosperous and influential areas once would have considered the other side of the tracks.
The good news was that Brick Creek was only a couple of hours up the road by foot. The bad news was that Rick was feeling every bit of the pain from his wounds. The pain was slowly creeping up on him, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.
Three blocks later Rick found a small trailer off the main road that looked decent enough for him to use for the night—nothing fancy, but it was shelter, and most likely it had a bed. Maybe not clean but a bed nonetheless.
The trailer sat alone on the corner of two adjoining streets. There were three junked cars in front as well as a pile of black trash bags Rick thought had to have been there for years. The wet grass that surrounded the trailer was nearly knee-high, which made it difficult for him to see what was on the ground. The last thing he wanted was to step into a bear trap or stumble across a snake.
Through the grass he made his way toward the steps of the trailer then reached out to open the door. By then his entire body was freezing cold, and he was quickly losing his strength. As Rick opened the door to the trailer, before he could do anything to react, someone hit him across the forehead with the butt of a weapon. Again he was knocked out; only this time he was far from the shelter of his RV fortress or the makeshift hospital.
A few moments later, he opened his eyes, trying to shake off the pain. He was still near the steps of the trailer, but now he was on hisback, as three armed kids, no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, stood looking over him.
“Is he dead?” the shortest of the three asked.
The oldest was only slighter taller than the other two, but all three looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days. They were all skinny, with torn clothing, and wore looks of desperation. The oldest was wearing an old army jacket that was two sizes too big for him, and other than a 9mm Berretta that was pointing at Rick, he couldn’t see any other weapons on the boy. One of the other two kids had a 9mm as well. The last one, who was the smallest of the bunch, had what looked to be a Glock .45, but with Rick’s head and body in so much pain, he couldn’t be sure.
“Damn it, kid,” he said. “You hit me. What were you thinking?”
“Thinking? We’re thinking that you’re trespassing, and you’re about to get shot. That’s what we’re thinking,” the oldest said.
Rick stood up and pushed through the pain that now surged throughout his body. “I’m gonna kick your little asses if you don’t stop pointing those guns at me. Where are your parents?”
“Don’t tell him shit, Brian,” the oldest one said.
“Now you listen, you little—”
Rick’s ears were now ringing, as the smallest kid fired at him, missing his head by just a few inches.
“Damn, you actually shot at me!”
“No shit. You’re a genius,” the smallest one said, giving Rick his best attempt at a tough-guy look.
“Hey, you need to watch your mouth, son. Here’s the deal. I don’t
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