Jon sighed. His body would hurt for days, and all he wanted to do was lie down in his own bed. Now, that bed was a quarter of a mile away and he had a dead bike he had to walk back. But Jon wasn’t one to sulk over things he couldn’t control. So, he disengaged the kickstand and started his walk home, holding the bike by the handlebars and pushing it along.
When he made it to the foot of the driveway, Jon stared up the hill leading to his home. The quarter-mile walk had drained his stamina, and pushing the bike up the hill daunted him. With the pain in his ribs, back, and legs, just walking up the slope would be difficult.
He laid the bike down on its side in the grass and removed his weapons and gear, putting them on his back. Then he gathered some leafy branches which had fallen from the surrounding trees and did his best to hide the bike. It looked like shit when he was done, but he knew it wouldn’t be down long. He just had to get up to the cabin and find that damn ignition coil.
Jon trudged up the hill, thankful for the gravel path after all the rain that had fallen. It made the hike up simpler than it would have been on concrete or in the mud.
At the top of the driveway, he turned left and stopped in front of the porch. He dropped his gear at the bottom of the steps then headed around the side of the cabin to his shed. He pulled out his keys and unlocked it, opening the door.
He’d built the shed after the world had gone to shit. He’d made it large enough to hold his motorcycle and also store anything else he needed it to, including spare parts he found while scavenging out in the wild.
“Please have a coil in here.”
Jon grabbed the flashlight off of the wall and clicked it on, focusing on the area in the shed where he kept spare parts. It hurt to kneel down, so he ended up dropping to one knee as he shuffled through the box. He dug to the bottom and cursed under his breath.
No ignition coil.
Pushing himself up to his feet, Jon turned off the flashlight and returned it to its holder on the wall. Then he shut the shed, locking it behind him, and walked back around to the front of the cabin.
Leaving his gear sitting at the bottom of the stairs, Jon pulled himself up onto the porch. He unlocked the front door and headed inside.
Jon made his way into the bedroom and opened up his storage chest. Near the top was a bottle of aspirin. Before, he would have kept such a thing inside a kitchen cabinet. But pain relievers had become like gold in this new world, too valuable not to leave locked up near his bedside.
He sat down on the bed and popped two of the pills into his mouth. Without water, he swallowed them. As the pills slid down his dry throat, Jon looked into the chest again and saw the picture of him, Carrie, and Spencer sitting inside the open cigar box. He reached in and took hold of it, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the photograph. Jon smiled.
“You always knew I was stubborn,” he said to the Carrie in the photo. “I’m sure you’re not surprised I had my accident. Hell, I’m sure you were looking over me. Not ready for me to come see you yet, are you?” Jon laughed. “Who’s stubborn now?”
He set the photo back in the box and started to lie back on the bed before stopping himself.
You need the rest. Lay down.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, especially with his bike lying at the bottom of the hill. Jon had put too much work into the bike, fixing it up and taking care of it, for someone to steal it. People didn’t come down his country road often, but it wasn’t worth the risk.
Jon looked at the photo again, lying in the still open cigar box.
“Maybe I am too stubborn for my own good.”
11
Jon limped out onto the front porch and walked down the stairs to where he’d left his gear. With his injuries and having to travel without his bike, he couldn’t afford the risk of only carrying a bat or a hatchet with him on this trip. He picked up his gear and dragged it back inside before heading back to his bedroom and opening the chest.
Inside, he had a shotgun, a rifle, and a .22 pistol. When the world had gone to shit, guns and ammunition had become two of the most sacred and sought-after possessions. These were the only guns he owned, but he felt confident they sufficed in the rural and densely populated Tennessee countryside.
Wanting to travel light, Jon grabbed the handgun. Assuring himself it was loaded, he inserted it into the holster on his waist. On the other hip, he already had his knife, and he would also take his bat with him for good measure.
Geared up, Jon headed outside.
Stepping down the porch stairs, he looked into the sky. He estimated he had around three hours of daylight left—plenty to get where he was going and make it back.
A mile from the cabin was what was essentially a scrapyard. The family who’d lived there in the old world had hoarded a bunch of vehicles, the land behind their house being a metal graveyard. Jon had visited there a few times. It had been where he’d gotten most of his spare parts in the shed. The last time he’d gone
