Read Online Beyond the Barriers by Timothy W. Long - Free Book Online
Authors: Timothy W. Long
Tags: Zombies, apocalypse, Living Dead, End of the world, walking dead, seattle, tim long, permuted press, romero, dead rising, dawn of the dead, battle for seattle, among the living
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“Name’s Erik. I’m a friend of Ray’s. If someone is there, please say something.” Then I waited a full thirty seconds before cracking open the door. I crouched down and waited for shots to echo over my head, or for a very angry person very much within his ‘right to bear arms’ to blow my fool head off.
No one moved in the room, and after a few seconds where I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest, I moved into it. Shadows coated the place, like relics of the past. I could smell dust and the sure signs of disuse. I clicked on the flashlight and shone it around the cabin’s main room. Unlike in the bad horror movies I liked to watch, there was no masked killer waiting to slice me to pieces with a machete. In fact, everywhere I looked, everything was covered in dust. Some of it sat so thick that I could draw shapes in it.
It was much as I remembered, but like most places you visit and have fond memories of, it was a lot smaller. There were white sheets over most of the furniture, so I left it alone and went into the kitchen. I found a pantry stuffed with canned goods, like jam and vegetables. I wondered when they were made. I had plenty of time tomorrow to do an investigation. First I would have to start the generator, make sure the cranky thing still worked.
I propped the front door open, then I went to the car and started hauling things inside. I set most of them by the door, because the events of the day were crashing down on me, as if from a great height.
I loaded the shotgun with fresh shells, pulled my new camo jacket out of a brown paper bag—the very same field jacket I had grabbed from Walmart that morning. I dragged a white sheet off the couch, curled up with the shotgun on the floor near my feet, and slept until dawn.
* * *
Very early in the morning, I woke to a sound I had not heard in a long time. Birds. It seemed like hundreds of them were hanging outside the cabin, and all with the express purpose of bringing me back to the land of the living.
The land of the living. What an odd thing to think about.
I rose and looked around the tiny cabin to find it was just as I remembered. A woven rug lay before the fireplace. It was old but very colorful, and done up in a Native American style that gave the place a distinct western flavor. There was a small, hand-carved wooden table next to the kitchen. Four or five thick chunks of maple had been glued together, figures like bears and salmon were etched in, and then the thing was covered in a thick layer of lacquer.
A pair of chairs was under the massive table. They were gaudy, having been constructed of thick tree branches. The main area was pretty small, about ten by fifteen, and the old couch barely fit in it. A rocking chair sat opposite, and a small glass table with magazines from the seventies lay between them. I eyed an old copy of Time magazine that had Star Wars on the cover. It was an interesting contrast to the Spartan cabin. I leafed through it, careful of the old paper, but it had held up quite well. I wondered if he found them stuffed in an old box.
There was a tiny room not much bigger than the small bed it housed. Allison and I had to get very close in order to sleep in it together, which had been just fine with me at the time. I remembered waking to her smiling face one morning and wondering if a man could be much happier in this life.
I stretched and wished I had a cup of coffee. Too many years in the city made that my first priority. I wandered into the kitchen, which had a bright patch of light shining through the window over the sink, and took another look in the pantry. There was a simple curtain covering the opening, so I slid it aside and considered the contents.
Jars stood in neat rows. There was jam, vegetables, and fruit. On a lower shelf, I found barley, dried noodles, and beans in larger jars. I pulled one down and checked the date on the top to find the food was almost two years old. I had my
“Name’s Erik. I’m a friend of Ray’s. If someone is there, please say something.” Then I waited a full thirty seconds before cracking open the door. I crouched down and waited for shots to echo over my head, or for a very angry person very much within his ‘right to bear arms’ to blow my fool head off.
No one moved in the room, and after a few seconds where I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest, I moved into it. Shadows coated the place, like relics of the past. I could smell dust and the sure signs of disuse. I clicked on the flashlight and shone it around the cabin’s main room. Unlike in the bad horror movies I liked to watch, there was no masked killer waiting to slice me to pieces with a machete. In fact, everywhere I looked, everything was covered in dust. Some of it sat so thick that I could draw shapes in it.
It was much as I remembered, but like most places you visit and have fond memories of, it was a lot smaller. There were white sheets over most of the furniture, so I left it alone and went into the kitchen. I found a pantry stuffed with canned goods, like jam and vegetables. I wondered when they were made. I had plenty of time tomorrow to do an investigation. First I would have to start the generator, make sure the cranky thing still worked.
I propped the front door open, then I went to the car and started hauling things inside. I set most of them by the door, because the events of the day were crashing down on me, as if from a great height.
I loaded the shotgun with fresh shells, pulled my new camo jacket out of a brown paper bag—the very same field jacket I had grabbed from Walmart that morning. I dragged a white sheet off the couch, curled up with the shotgun on the floor near my feet, and slept until dawn.
* * *
Very early in the morning, I woke to a sound I had not heard in a long time. Birds. It seemed like hundreds of them were hanging outside the cabin, and all with the express purpose of bringing me back to the land of the living.
The land of the living. What an odd thing to think about.
I rose and looked around the tiny cabin to find it was just as I remembered. A woven rug lay before the fireplace. It was old but very colorful, and done up in a Native American style that gave the place a distinct western flavor. There was a small, hand-carved wooden table next to the kitchen. Four or five thick chunks of maple had been glued together, figures like bears and salmon were etched in, and then the thing was covered in a thick layer of lacquer.
A pair of chairs was under the massive table. They were gaudy, having been constructed of thick tree branches. The main area was pretty small, about ten by fifteen, and the old couch barely fit in it. A rocking chair sat opposite, and a small glass table with magazines from the seventies lay between them. I eyed an old copy of Time magazine that had Star Wars on the cover. It was an interesting contrast to the Spartan cabin. I leafed through it, careful of the old paper, but it had held up quite well. I wondered if he found them stuffed in an old box.
There was a tiny room not much bigger than the small bed it housed. Allison and I had to get very close in order to sleep in it together, which had been just fine with me at the time. I remembered waking to her smiling face one morning and wondering if a man could be much happier in this life.
I stretched and wished I had a cup of coffee. Too many years in the city made that my first priority. I wandered into the kitchen, which had a bright patch of light shining through the window over the sink, and took another look in the pantry. There was a simple curtain covering the opening, so I slid it aside and considered the contents.
Jars stood in neat rows. There was jam, vegetables, and fruit. On a lower shelf, I found barley, dried noodles, and beans in larger jars. I pulled one down and checked the date on the top to find the food was almost two years old. I had my
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