Free Survival by T.W. Piperbrook Page A

their limbs reaching into the heavens. There were no houses in sight. Unlike the streets he’d just been on, this one was clean and undisturbed. Not a car in sight. He remembered the scenery from a day earlier. At the time, he’d been grateful for a reprieve from the destruction.
    Now he knew better.
    His mind flashed back to the moment he’d noticed the black truck looming behind him. He’d known the vehicle wasn’t a good sign. He just hadn’t known how bad a sign it was.
    The men inside had ridden up alongside him, heads hanging out the windows. He’d tried to accelerate, but his pickup had been old; theirs had been faster. Before he knew it, they’d struck him like a battering ram. Noah had instinctively turned to the right, edging into the breakdown lane, driving dangerously close to the forest.
    The men had persisted, screaming at him, shouting things he couldn’t hear. Between the adrenaline and the focus needed to stay on the road, he’d barely had time to look at them, let alone hatch a plan. Instead, he had clung to the steering wheel and done his best not to lose control.
    It wasn’t until the F150 raced in front of him and applied the brakes that he’d lost all hope.
    Despite his best efforts, Noah had skidded off the pavement and into the trees. He’d been reaching for his gun when the driver’s side window had shattered. Hands had pulled him from the vehicle; fists had pummeled his face.
    The pain had been immediate and intense. Before he knew it, Noah had been on the ground, wincing as boots kicked his ribcage. The men had continued to shout. This time he’d caught bits and pieces of the conversation.
    “Get him in the face!”
    “This is our town! Do you hear me?”
    “Stay the fuck down!”
    It wasn’t until Noah had lain still that the beating had subsided. He’d waited several seconds, then uncovered his head and tried to crawl. To his surprise, the men had let him, laughing as he inched his way across the road and into the nearby forest.
    It was sheer luck that he’d escaped.
    Noah shuddered at the memory.
    He glanced in the rearview mirror now, expecting to see the running lights and grill of the F150 behind him, but the road was clear.
    The asphalt hummed beneath the tires. He shifted in his seat, anxious to get his mission over with. He only hoped that it wouldn’t be in vain, that there’d be something for him to find. The alternative would be far more risky. Without safe food, the three of them would have to subsist on whatever they could find, trusting in his theory that they were immune.
    It was a risk Noah would rather not take.
    The road curved. He took the turn with one hand, the other clutching the rifle on his lap. He could see his pickup in the distance now—a spectral shape on the horizon. The sight of it made him pale.
    He slowed the car as he approached. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped. Noah surveyed the forest around the vehicle, as if the trees themselves would come alive and grab him, but the limbs were still. The day was windless and calm. For a second, Noah imagined he was the last man on earth, that the vehicle on the road was nothing more than an artifact.
    Although he’d been in the pickup only yesterday, the vehicle seemed foreign and strange. Seeing nothing in the area, he let his foot off the gas and rolled closer.
    The quiet prevailed.
    He pulled along the driver’s side door of the pickup and put the car in park. After one last look around the area, he opened the door. He did his best to remain silent, exiting the vehicle with rifle in hand.
    The pickup was in worse shape than he’d imagined. The hood had been dented and battered; the tires were flattened to the pavement. The driver’s door was open a crack, revealing an interior that had been shredded. The men hadn’t left anything to chance.
    If Noah had circled back, he would’ve been out of luck.
    He sighed as he opened the door. With the truck in this condition, the prospect of finding