STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 7 Round 1 - the Kiwi's story

The sound of automatic gunfire ripped the vision of beauty from the young man’s arms and thrust him from the soft morning light of a French boudoir into the misty, cold morning of the Arkansas countryside. Jolted from his dreams, his body pumped full of fear and adrenaline, the young man, who was not quite so young upon walking, lurched upright, bashing his head on a low branch.

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He fell back again, both hands clasped to his head, cursing under his breath. Beside him his father rolled slowly over and sat up. The old mad rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and coughed.

“What did you say?” he asked blearily.

The son never got the chance to reply. The gunfire sounded again, and it was close. Both men froze, wanting this to be the dream, and their dreams to be reality (especially the son). But the world doesn’t work like that.

Another burst of fire saw leaves and twigs falling as bullets snicked through the canopy. That was all the prompting the men needed to grab their gear and run.

At least the intent was to run. On cold legs that had cramped up overnight, the best they could do was a fast hobble. Their packs flopped from side to side as they did their best to keep in good cover. But it was proving difficult.

More bullets followed them, shattering small branches and raining down leaves in their wake. They panted and sweated and hobbled, taking the easiest route, which was leading downhill. They had no other obvious direction to travel, and speed took precedence over route finding.

The son looked back and found his father for once, right behind him. Either the old man was getting fitter, or he was getting slower. The son considered that the latter was more likely, and that was troubling. He called out encouragement to his father, having to raise his voice over a rushing sound that he only now recognised as being external. It was not his blood pounding in his ears after all.

Once he stopped for a moment to gauge the trail ahead, he knew what the sound was. Years of working as a white water raft guide, and playing in big water gave him enough experience to know that they were heading for a fast flowing river.

That was good and bad. It might let them get away from whoever was throwing a shed load of hot lead at them, or at least in their direction. But it might also prevent them from crossing and leave them bottled up, like lambs in a slaughterhouse, with no way out.

The old man slipped on a wet root and felt a sharp pain in his knee. This was not how he liked to start his morning! He cursed, and then ducked as a whistling projectile tickled his ear hairs. “Ok”, he said to himself, “slipping on a wet root is not the worst start to the day. Being dead would probably rank higher.”

He stumbled on, trying not to concentrate on how close the bullet had come to giving him a new sun roof. Up ahead he saw his son step out from the tress into the early morning sunshine and stop. In a few moments the elder of the pair joined him and they stood looking at the obstacle in their path.

The roar of the river as it surged over the rocky riverbed was deafening. The white topped waves and danced left and right, sending spray filtering up through the gorge. The crack and cackle of rocks being tumbled downstream by the force of the water added to the cacophony assailing their ears. Small rainbows dipped into the few pools, promising pots of gold to anyone who believed in leprechauns.
But pots of gold were of no use to men on the run with a gang of trigger happy men behind them. The gunfire ceased for a few moments, giving the men a precious few seconds to weight up their options.

“Do a Butch and Sundance?” asked the father, peering over the edge of the cliff.

“The water is not deep enough for that. Besides, downstream it will get worse. We’d get monstered pretty quickly” shouted the son to make himself heard over the rushing water.

“How do you know?” the father shouted back. The son never replied. He just looked at his father and raised his eyebrows slightly, just like his father was want to do on occasion when explaining the bleeding obvious.

“Well jumping it won’t work” grumbled the old man looking upriver for another way across. He spied a fallen tree that looked like it spanned the canyon. It would be wet and slippery, and quite possibly unstable, but at least it was an option. He pointed into the mist and called out “We could try that log and see where it goes.”

The son squinted into the mist, seeing the log his father had found.

“Good spotting dad!” he shouted. “We might just…” The rest of his sentence was lost as gunfire erupted incredibly close, causing both men to duck in fear. Without any further conversation, they ran as fast as they could across the slippery rocks at the top of the canyon.

It seemed to take forever to reach the log. Incoming rounds whistled past their heads, and they could see them impact on the far side of the canyon.

“You go first dad” shouted the son, gently pushing his father toward the start of the crossing. The old man didn’t hesitate. Now was not the time to indulge in a fear of heights. He stepped out onto the log, holding his arms out for balance. His boots gripped the rough bark despite its wetness, and he inched carefully out over the turbulent water.

Just a half step behind, the son rested a light hand on his father’s pack, ready to steady him if he should lose his balance. More shots rang out and he ducked without thinking. Suddenly his arms were whirling and his foot slipped. He tried to find his balance, but the weight of the pack threw him off.

Desperately he shuffled back a step, preparing to launch himself towards the bank. Visions of himself falling into the water and being dragged down by the weight on his back, unable to surface for air, played behind his eyeballs. His heart pounded almost loud enough to drown out the river and icy tingles of fear stabbed his body all over.

A short and quite humorous dance later, he was back in control, and able to continue with the crossing. He looked up to find his father had made good progress while he was practicing his dance moves. The old man was just over half way across the river and looking like he was going to make it all the way, without any need of help.

“Ok” said the son to himself. “All I need to do is make it across too, and we can get the hell out of here.” He gritted his teeth, leaned forward, and started his own journey out over the river, where another mis-step would almost certainly mean a cold and soggy death.

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STEEM-POCALYPSE SURVIVAL GAME CONTEST - Day 7 Round 1 - the Kiwi's story

Stories in this series

Check out my stories here on Steemit

Running Deer

Charlie Rabbit

Little Peppers Adventures

Dark Angel Regiment of the Space Marines - Mission Files

Other stories

Also don't forget to check out my Dad's blog