David Robbins - Green Bay Run

The wolves would feast on his corpse soon.

He reached the top of a low hill and glanced over his right shoulder at the pack of seven dark forms flitting through the forest. A shudder rippled along his spine at the thought of their glistening teeth crunching into his body. He gazed up at the afternoon sun, sweat caking his skin, then hastened down the hill.

How much farther?

After coming so very, very far, after traveling hundreds of miles and having survived encounters with scavengers, mutations, and wild beasts, the idea that he might die brought tears of frustration to the corners of his brown eyes.

Not now!

Not when he might be close to his goal!

His weariness caused him to stumble over a limb lying on the ground in his path. He maintained his balance with an effort and forged ahead, his hands gripping his Winchester tightly, his knuckles white.

One bullet.

All he had left was one lousy bullet!

If worse came to worst, if he continued to weaken and the wolves made their move, he could always use the last bullet on himself. At least he wouldn’t be eaten alive. The horror of dying alone, lost somewhere in the wilderness of northwestern Minnesota, weighed heavily on his heart. The fact that he had failed his loved ones, that a terrible fate would befall them—if it hadn’t already—contributed to his melancholy.

If only he could find the Home!

He surveyed the dense woods ringing him on all sides and frowned.

Three weeks ago when he had departed Green Bay on his prized mare, locating the Home had seemed feasible. Now, he felt as if he were looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. How could he hope to contact the Family without the exact location of their compound? He’d known the odds were against him when he started on his mercy mission, but he’d always entertained the optimistic belief that he would succeed despite the odds.

He had to succeed.

If he didn’t, his wife and daughter were doomed.

A throaty growl sounded to his rear.

Startled, he spun and spotted a large gray wolf less than 15 feet away, standing there and regarding him intently.

“Beat it!” he shouted, thinking the sound of his voice might drive the animal off. “Go eat a rabbit!”

The wolf simply stood there, its black nose twitching, seemingly unaffected by the blistering August heat despite its heavy grizzled gray coat and long, bushy tail.

“Leave me alone!” he bellowed. He took a step toward the wolf and swung his rifle by the barrel. “Go!”

With an air of calm indifference, the wolf turned and padded softly into the undergrowth. In seconds the vegetation closed around its streamlined form.

But where were the others?

Were they preparing to attack?

He turned and resumed his trek to the northwest, ignoring the hunger pains in his stomach. When was the last time he’d eaten? Two days ago?

Three? He shook his head, deciding his appetite didn’t matter. He couldn’t afford to stop to eat with the wolves on his trail. Even if the wolves quit their tireless, stealthy shadowing, he was reluctant to use his sole remaining bullet on game.

Now what had he been thinking about before the wolf inter-rupted him?

Oh, yes.

The Home.

His brow knit as he tried to remember every fact he had ever been told about the Home and the Family. A survivalist guy had constructed the 30-acre retreat before World War Three. Since the damn war had transpired 106 years ago, the Home’s continued existence testified to the tenacity of its occupants, descendants of the survivalist and those he had selected to join him at the compound prior to the launching of the missiles.

Think.

What else did he know?

The Home, so the story went, was located in an isolated area not all that far from the Canadian border, on the outskirts of the former Lake Bronson State Park. According to the map he’d lost when his horse was killed, the Home must be north of State Highway 11 and east of U.S.

Highway 59. He’d crossed over State Highway 11 an hour and a half ago, so if his calculations were correct, and if the whole tale about the Home wasn’t a blatant Technic lie, then he must be close.

What if the story was a lie? he asked himself.

If so, he’d come all this way for nothing.

He shook his head, his lips compressing in a thin line, and resolved to quit being so negative. Sure, the story had sounded farfetched when he’d first heard a version of it from that drunken sot at the tavern he frequented on the outskirts of Green Bay. But then others had related similar accounts, and despite his better judgment he’d gradually accepted the reports as accurate.

Imagine!

Someone had actually beaten the Technics at their own ruthless game!

The various accounts all agreed on certain basic points. As always, the treacherous Technics had been up to no good. They’d learned about the existence of the Home and had deviously endeavored to extract an important secret from the Family. The exact nature of the secret was a mystery, but in light of the Technics’ well-known interest in expanding the area under their control, it must have been important to their war preparations. The Family, somehow, had thwarted the Technics. Not only that, a Warrior from the Home had slain the Technic leader and thrown Technic City into turmoil. Once called Chicago, the metropolis was now enclosed within an electri-fied fence and the people were forced to abide by the autocratic dictates of their technocratic masters.

Thank God he didn’t live in Technic City!

He would rather live on his small farm, rather have to contend with the uncertainties of rural life, than reside in a city where the people were subservient to technology, where machines mattered more than the persons running them. On the farm, at least, he enjoyed genuine freedom.

A raspy snarl came from the right.

Leveling the Winchester, he turned and saw two wolves watching him.

They were growing bolder and bolder as the minutes passed. How long before they tried to bring him down? He realized they were probably as hungry as he was, other-wise they wouldn’t be stalking him. Wolves seldom went after humans unless empty bellies prompted them to disregard their customary caution where homo sapiens were concerned.

A yelp sounded to the left.

He looked, and the skin on his back tingled when he saw two more wolves near a thicket. Incipient panic welled within him, but he swallowed hard, wheeled, and hastened to the northwest. Maybe the wolves would leave him alone for a while longer. Maybe they would wait for nightfall.

Maybe he could hold them off if he climbed a tree.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

A narrow stream materialized several dozen yards ahead, a ribbon of water flowing from north to south.

He increased his pace, licking his dry lips, eager to taste the cool liquid.

If only he hadn’t lost his canteen and all of his provisions when that band of scavengers shot his mare out from under him a week ago! Since then, he’d subsisted on whatever he could shoot for food, and he had been lucky enough to find a spring or a creek every other day or so to quench his thirst. Right at the moment his throat was parched.

A lone wolf appeared on the far side of the stream.

He halted and raised the Winchester to his right shoulder. If the wolves thought they were going to keep him from the water, they had another thing coming. He’d use his last bullet, if necessary, to slake his thirst.

The wolf, a huge beast sporting a white streak down its tail, walked to the water and began lapping greedily, its eyes on the man.

So the heat was getting to them, as well. He grinned and waited until the wolf finished and retreated into the brush, then he hurried to the water and dropped on his hands and knees. His craving made him careless. Without considering his safety, he set the rifle on the grass to his left and plunged his hands into the stream.