Car Trouble

“NUTS!!” Bill shouted. The engine had sputtered out again. Trying to find the correct parts for a rusty 1972 Oldsmobile Ninety Eight was damn near impossible before The Blast, and now three years later, it would take an act of God. Only 6 working spark plugs, a so-so fuel pump, and a carburetor that loves to stick gave him headaches on a daily basis. Most of the cars that people were able to get running after The Blast were already considered classics, or in most cases, clunkers. And the majority of them were commandeered, or stolen within the first six months afterwards.

Bill was now stranded on the middle of State Highway 71, about halfway between Outpost Itasca and the fortified town of Park Rapids. “Not good” he thought to himself. There had been a rash of incidents between Bemidji and Park Rapids in the last week. People had gone missing. Civilians, Rangers, rescue crews sent out when the civies or Rangers didn’t report in on time. 22 people in all were now missing in just 3 weeks. There had been reports of fires burning out near what was left of one of the old vacation resorts, and one Ranger had reported in that he heard screams just before dusk when he was running late on a run to Outpost Itasca. After that, rumors spread quickly throughout the Forts and Outposts that the soulless ones had returned. There was no proof of this however. The soulless ones would have placed the their victims upon pikes, stomachs split open, entrails dangling, placed closer and closer to the encampments, outposts, and forts they planned on raiding. They were sadistic, but they knew also that seeing those horrors would cause many to flee, and leave their targets lightly defended, if not abandoned completely. Nothing of the sort had happened. Yet.

As Bill popped the hood, he heard rustling coming from the woods to the east. He slowly pulled his SKS around, raised it, and took aim at where the noise was coming from. Beads of sweat started to appear on his forehead. The tree tops swayed, but down on the road, barely any breeze blew at all. The tall grass and brush at the edge of the woods suddenly started churning. Bill started to apply pressure to the trigger, ready for whatever came out of the woods. Sweat started to drip in Bill’s eyes. He remained steadfast, never wavering. Suddenly, and without pause, two young children came bursting through the woods, at a full run. They were mouthing something, but no sounds came from their lips. They were running straight for Bill, fear in their eyes. Just then, a shot rang out from behind Bill. His forehead exploded as the 5.56 round tore through it, leaving Bill to collapse into a heap on the side of the road.

The Children bolted past Bill, and ran into the arms of the shooter, a dirty, disheveled, wild eyed teen named by his birth parents as Justin. Justin grabbed the two children, and hugged them. Patting them both on the heads, he motioned for them to get into the car, and he swiftly got to work on getting it started. Within 10 minutes, the Olds was sputtering again, and with Justin behind the wheel, turned northward back towards the direction Bill had come from, with Bill’s lifeless body in the trunk.