Chris Pourteau - Tails of the Apocalypse

I looked for her on the way. At least I tried to, but the drones were getting too thick in that sector. So I headed to the only place I figured she might go. The refusenik camp. I hoped to find her waiting there for me.

I didn’t even know if the camp would be there. The untagged move around a lot, rarely staying in the same place more than a few nights in a row. There is no real leadership among the refuseniks. No one decides to move the camp. It’s just a feeling that comes over the place and soon one after another of the refuseniks, salvagers, and rebels pack up their meager belongings and shuffle off to the next hide.

But it was there. The camp was. Right where I’d left it. Down in a small valley not far from the cliffs, where rainwater had cut a hide, fifty feet deep and a hundred yards long into the raised limestone floor.

Small fires cast shadows on the valley walls and a sentry, who had no fire, recognizes me as I shuffle down into the hide from the darkness.

The strangers are happy to get the boxes, but I find no joy in delivering them. My eyes scan the camp for Kristy, but I know if she were here, she’d have found me already.

The man who seems to be the leader of the rebel strangers, a man they call Pook, tells me he’s pleased and thankful to get the boxes. I tell him they’d cost me a lot—too much—so I hope he makes good use of them.

“We will,” he says. “I guarantee it.”

I don’t know why I do it, but just then I reach into my pocket and clutch the small okcillium ball. At least I think it’s okcillium. What do I know about okcillium that isn’t rumor or hearsay? I roll it around my palm in my pocket as I stare at Pook, trying to read him.

Friend or foe?

Friend, I think.

Pook is inviting me into the strangers’ small camp for a cup of coffee, but I feel like I hear his voice afar off. Part of my brain is turned off, nonfunctioning, and another part is thinking about Kristy. Only the tiniest bit of my attention hears the word “coffee.”

Coffee? Who has coffee up on the Shelf?

That’s when a blur of motion catches my eye, brown and gold fur catching light from the small fire.

Kristy!

She bounces off me and goes immediately to sniff out Pook and his team.

Satisfied. Friends.

She bounds back into my arms and we both fall to the ground, me laughing hysterically, her licking my face.

Lying on the ground, I see Pook smile. He doesn’t know the story, but he knows it. Know what I mean?

A man and his dog. It’s an old story.

I struggle to my feet, with Kristy trying to wrestle me back to the ground. I reach into my pocket again, grabbing the okcillium ball. I toss it to Pook. He sees it move through the light of the fire and catches it deftly before drawing it up to his face. His eyes narrow and he smiles again.

“Where did you get this?” he asks.

“I’ll tell you for that cup of coffee,” I say.

“Deal. And we have some canned meat for your dog if she likes it.”

“She does. She does.” I pause. “Cheese sandwiches?”

Pook smiles. “We can fix something like that I’m sure.”

“Then maybe this relationship’ll work out,” I say.

My first time up on the Shelf! That’s right. Although the Pennsylvania stories—including my original stories that have been gathered into The Pennsylvania Omnibus , the short stories I’ve written in the Pennsylvania world, and the dozens of fanfic stories (some of which were published in the Tales from Pennsylvania anthology)—have had fun exploring the world of New Pennsylvania, I personally have never written any stories set in the derelict cities built on the limestone Shelf that cuts across the primary occupied continent of New PA. A few of the short stories, including Bob Crosley’s fantastic short story Shelf Life , were set in the cities on the Shelf, and it’s from Bob’s story that I drew life and inspiration for “Kristy’s Song.”

I mention this because it highlights a fantastic reality that’s been brought about by the new paradigm that is indie publishing. “Kristy’s Song” is substantially fanfic written by me based on fanfic from another author set in my own original, created world of Pennsylvania ! It’ll be fun to see if any other authors (or Bob himself!) decide to expand on the world of New Detroit, upping the game even farther!

Also, I should mention that Kristy—the brilliant, brave, and indomitable mutt from my story—is based on my real childhood dog named Kristy, whom I loved and still miss terribly. I hope you’ve enjoyed my little story, and if you liked it, make sure to pick up all of the other Pennsylvania tales while you wait for Oklahoma , the next Amish/Sci-fi novel set in the Pennsylvania universe. And hey, the universe is expanding. In October of 2015, I sold a film/TV option for Pennsylvania to Jorgensen Pictures. JP is currently developing the universe for production into a feature film or television series. So, stay tuned!

And if you’d like to keep up with me, please visit my website at http://www.michaelbunker.com/and sign up for my newsletter. I’m always giving away free books and writing blogs about things like how to roll the perfect cigar.

He wasn’t old, the dog. Not too old to run. Not so old that he felt the need to wander into the woods and simply lie down until death took him. Not so old that he didn’t miss the boy terribly. He was still young enough to enjoy life and love the boy’s sharing it with him.

But now he was on his own. Alone.

He’d lost the boy. After the Storm of Teeth, when his pack had been forced from its home. Then came the time of fear and scavenging. And searching for the boy.

That’s how he thought of him—the boy. Not like the Man, who sometimes forgot him outside when it was too cold. Not like the Woman, who was kind more often than not and sometimes slipped scraps from the table into his bowl.

Not like the Baby. Once when she pulled his tail, he’d nipped at her, and the Man had whipped him. Pulling his tail had hurt, and he’d barely scratched the Baby with his teeth. Less than fearsome, more than playful, to teach her a lesson that hurt begat hurt. But the Man had given the same lesson to him.

The whipping had scared him more than hurt him then, but now he was glad for it. Without it, he might never have learned to think before he acted. And lately, that lesson had served him well.

All the other members of the pack outranked him. Even the Baby. He was and always had been the runt. Except for the boy. The boy had always just been the boy . After the Baby joined their pack, the boy had also become a runt, like him. Last in line to eat, behind the Baby. Sometimes forgotten entirely and left to fend for himself. But those times were the dog’s favorite, when the boy would seek him out for companionship. They explored runthood together.

The boy would come and find him, and they would happily flee the squalls of the Baby to run a squirrel up a tree or a rabbit into the brush. Unlike the Man or the Woman or the Baby, the boy had never treated him as anything other than equal. Never made him do anything he didn’t want to do. Never beat him. Never shouted at him. Never asserted senior runt rank in any way.

And so he loved the boy as a playmate, a second self, a twin runt. They shared everything. Sometimes it was a ball the boy threw. Sometimes he grabbed one of the boy’s furs because it smelled so much like him, and the boy would pull on it and try to take it back. That was a fun game. And play-fighting. The boy would offer his hand, knowing his second self would never do him harm. He’d gnaw the boy’s fingers and the boy would make disgusted sounds and wipe his hand, and he’d chase the hand under the fur the boy used to dry it. Sometimes he’d catch the hand, and their game would start all over again.