Free The Rot (Post Apocalyptic Thriller) by Paul Kane Page A

I found another hiding place till dawn: an out of the way garage I could bed down in, surrounded by cardboard boxes, which I could easily defend or get out of if it was attacked. I’d already decided that, come the morning, I would find a car and get out of there, give myself some time to think.
    I hadn’t slept much during my time in that cellar, napping more than anything – and I doubted I would that night either. If I’m on edge, I always have trouble nodding off and even then I sleep incredibly lightly – which works well if you have one ear out for any potential trouble. But I found myself dozing, through sheer exhaustion I suspect, and my dreams were filled with beautiful countryside similar to the kind I’d flown over in the chopper.
    I was snapped out of that by the cardboard boxes falling over. Someone in the garage with me. Immediately, I swung the rifle round in that direction… letting out the breath I was holding when I saw it was just a cat. A tabby, it jumped down from the boxes it had knocked off, and padded towards me on the floor.
    “Hey there,” I said. “You’re not going to make me use this, are you?”
    It stood and gazed at me, cocking its head. For a moment or two I wasn’t quite sure whether it would go for me or not, but then it started cleaning itself – licking its paws and rubbing its ears with them. Unaffected by everything that had been going on around it the past few days, unaffected by whatever had touched the population.
    Then it was on its way, off to continue its nocturnal activities now that it had woken me up. I waited there until dawn’s early light started to stream in through the small window, only then emerging from my hiding place behind the boxes, my hiding place inside the garage – though not before selecting a few choice items that were on the walls: tools that I could use as hand-to-hand weapons should the need arise – a smaller brother to the axe from back at the facility, a hammer, a small serrated saw that tucked into itself like a pocket knife.
    There was still no activity out on the streets, and I headed – according to my compass – out towards the northern-most end of town. I came across a few cars, and one truck, but couldn’t seem to get any of them started. Probably just as well, because the noise would have attracted too much attention before I could leave the place behind me in my rear-view. Much better, I reasoned, to take one from the edge of town and quickly say my goodbyes. Keep quiet until then, stick to the spaces between buildings which would hide me. Assuming I could find a car that was actually working, of course.
    Eventually I did: a red Ford parked up not far away from the local theatre. Abandoned, like most of them – I wondered if the affected could remember how to drive anymore, or even wanted to – with its keys still in the ignition. It started up first time and purred more contently than the tabby had done back in that garage. I’d make a clean getaway; hadn’t seen any of the crazies in all this time, let alone had to fight any of them. But I was really counting my chickens…
    I didn’t know where they’d been, or where they came from – but suddenly there were dozens of them; the streets choking with them and their noise. It was almost as if they’d decided to let me get this far, give me the hope that I might make it away from town, only to snatch that away from me at the last minute. Out of the buildings all around me they streamed, like someone had rung a dinner bell, or issued a call to arms. Too many to shoot, that was for sure. The only way was to get in the Ford and drive.
    So that’s what I did, getting ahead of them for a little while – only to find more in front of me. I couldn’t really avoid them, had to plough into men, women and children. Wasn’t even sure whether they were all affected or not, and couldn’t stop to find out. I just prayed I was ending their suffering as they bounced over the bonnet,