Chris Pourteau - Tails of the Apocalypse

And he could not help but think that today might be his last. Just as he’d thought every day.

They crossed crumbling terraces and followed overgrown streets down into the bowl of the old places. At noon, near an old intersection where large buildings had all burned down, he heard the bark in the silence. It came from an overgrown hill they were passing beneath. The man’s hand went to the worn stock of his shotgun as Dog tensed. The bark had been so harsh and sharp and sudden, it was as though it had come from nearby. And even now in the silence, its echo seemed to resonate down the long lanes of destruction.

A moment later it was answered. Not far off. A few streets over maybe.

And then another.

And another.

“C’mon, let’s move, buddy,” said the man, breaking into a trot.

The slope of the land was now leading downhill into a large section of smashed and broken houses. Their splintered roofs and jagged beams thrust upward like shadows against the dying afternoon. Behind them, a ragged chorus of harsh barking sharply broke the still air.

The man urged Dog on, his own breath coming in heaving puffs as his old boots knocked against the crumbling pavement of the sidewalk they ran along.

“In there,” he shouted, pointing toward the catastrophic wreckage that seemed the worst they’d seen in this place. As though all the houses had been crushed instead of burned or blown away. Dog followed a rabbit trail into the mess, and the man, just before getting to his knees to crawl in, turned and saw them coming.

Dogs. Big, mean, lean, wide-jawed dogs that raced forward, straining at big leather leashes held by rangy men painted in mud stripes beneath the Mohawks on their shaven heads. They waved jagged clubs and came on, ululating in sudden glee.

The man knew he’d been seen.

He turned and scrambled into the labyrinth, following Dog through ancient spider webs and past jagged split lumber and jutting metal.

The rabbit trail went on and on and the man wasn’t convinced it was a warren so much as a series of narrow spaces between the extensive rubble.

What if we find a bobcat in here, he thought, and remembered the one that had stared him down once from the top of a road alongside some train tracks he’d been following. The thing had radiated menace and, yes, evil.

But what was there left to do but follow Dog? And so he did and when he got lost, there would be Dog, snouting his way back through the dark and leading him on further into the maze.

The sounds of the men and dogs faded, and when they came out of the chaos of debris, it was full moonlight and early night. They sat in an ancient drainage ditch, drinking the last of their water. On the hillsides all around, lone torches bumped up and down, and at times packs of wild dogs began to bay.

They followed the old drainage ditch down into the dead swamp that was calcified mud and piles of dust and debris. The man led them along, looking for the landmarks he’d spotted from the hills. The landmarks that lay next to the building he’d been searching for, for what seemed all his life.

The count of all his days.

He stumbled on an exposed root and face planted into the dust. He was exhausted. He got to his knees and knew it was a just a matter of time before the Dogeaters found them.

A matter of time.

Dog was back, licking his face. Reminding him to step away from the edge. To step back from the gorge.

Because that’s where you were, weren’t you? he asked himself. At the gorge again.

He stood, his mind swimming, wondering if he’d banged his head in the stumble. He checked the shotgun and reminded himself that the three shells could not be counted on. Dog paced back and forth, whining slightly.

The man stared up and about. Nothing in the night was familiar, and the moon had already crossed over into the other part of the sky. Soon it would be blackest night, and what would they be able to find then? His mind was suddenly terror-struck.

Stop, he told himself.

But nothing looked familiar and how long had he lain in the dust?

How long?

Dog whined again and started off through the thin, dead, swamp trees.

Follow him, the man told himself. Your friend knows where to go for safety.

He stumbled after Dog, occasionally stopping for a few ragged breaths, trying to make as little noise as possible, cringing when some dead stick snapped in the darkness. He followed Dog through the night along the remains of a sandy-bottomed stream, and then up out of the stream and across a carpet of dead, ash-gray leaves.

The man reached out without thinking and grabbed the rusty iron railing that ran alongside the dusty stone steps leading up and out of the swamp.

It was the touch of night-cold iron that made him realize he was holding onto it. Holding onto something that could lead him out of the dead swamp. He clung to it for a moment and knew… knew there wasn’t much left in him.

He reached up to wipe cold sweat from his forehead and found the dried blood.

Oh … he thought.

Dog whined from the top of the stairs.

Slowly, the man began to haul himself up their steep length, pushing away thoughts of sleep and the edge of the gorge that was big enough to take him.

I can’t leave my friend here now , he thought and smiled up at Dog who beat the air wildly with his tail.

This is all my fault.

At the top of the stairs, the man saw a small empty parking lot ringed by an ancient mesh fence, and beyond lay the building he’d been looking for.

He went to one knee. Dog came up and licked his face.

“Of course,” said the man. “You’ve been searching all these years with me. You were looking too. All that time.”

In the distance, another pack of dogs began to bay and howl, like savage coyotes whooped and called in the night. The man knew the Mohawk’d Dogeaters had them by the thick straps of their large leather leashes, following the scent that would bring them straight here.

Dog bounded off across the parking lot and up the steps of the building.

The man stood and followed, knowing this would be the last search. Knowing what he would find. He climbed the wide steps, knowing that beyond the double doors of this place he’d find nothing. Again.

Nothing but….

Crumbling shelves.

Ashes in a fire pit.

Bones.

And nothing.

The double door was bricked over with cinderblocks. The man looked about. So were all the windows that usually ringed such places.

It wasn’t a large building, and they walked its circumference, finding each and every entrance sealed.

In the distance the Dogeaters were closing. Now they were down along the bottom of the dead swamp, casting about for his trail, baying and shouting bloody murder.

Dog began to growl and whine all at once.

“I know…” said the man, and couldn’t think of what he knew except that they were surrounded and out of options.

He looked up at the roof and thought, That’s all we have left .

Dropping to the ground and removing the pack, he fished for an old orange electrical cord he’d found long ago. For a moment he began to swoon as the blackness tried to consume his vision. Tried to consume him. The howling of the Dogeaters became distant and hollow all at once.

And then he was back.

Quickly he made a harness for Dog and tied the other end around his ruck.

“Stay,” he told Dog as he shouldered his pack once more. “Stay.”

He pulled himself up onto a low concrete wall and then reached out for the side of the building. He breathed deep and began to find handholds that would take him up toward the lip, knowing there would be a moment when he would need strength to pull himself off the ground and onto the roof.