Conrad Scott

By Sean Patrick Sayers

Sean Patrick Sayers peels away the veneer of society in this chilling account of a world in crisis and without order as the reader meets characters adeptly forged from years of hardship and a never ending winter.

Follow Conrad Scott as he emerges from a tragic accident to discover that the modern age has ended and the survivors have succumbed to savage acts of brutality. Conrad must survive the winter to search for his daughter while overcoming the worst of humanity. But, it is through the hardships that Conrad comes to build trusting friendships and shines as a warrior, protector, friend, and hero. Ultimately, Conrad and his motley collection of allies rise above the barbarism to build loving bonds and see the power of a city-state established.

Even unpolished, Conrad Scott is a page-turning story of tragedy, triumph and paints a spectacularly vivid world of desperate survival. You will find Conrad Scott to be eerily powerful. After reading the book, you may want to start hoarding food and ammunition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483517872

Book preview

1

There was a voice lost in the darkest of voids. It was warm, soft, and soothing. It reminded Conrad of his father during the final autumn of life. The voice pleaded, calling to Conrad in hushed tones. Conrad, it’s time to wake up! Wake up. Breathe. Open your eyes. The voice continued from a distant horizon. Wake up! The voice sounded desperate, choking back tears. Don’t let her go alone, Conrad. Please wake up.

Conrad finally came into consciousness with a sudden sharp alertness to the pain that throbbed and streaked through his hand. There was pulsing warmth that trickled down his face and neck. He inhaled deeply and winced from the shock of his lungs pressing against broken ribs. There was more pain that burned inside of him like the sear from a welder’s torch. First from his side, but then the pain drew across Conrad’s body and was seemingly everywhere and in many different degrees of torture. He grunted and winced as he shifted in the passenger seat of a wrecked car. It was the last sound that would display his agony.

Conrad. There was a pause and then a quiet sob. Are you awake, Conrad? a delicate female voice asked from the cold damp darkness. I’m hurt, she said not knowing if her husband was there. She needed to hear his comforting voice.

Me too, he replied, surprised at how hard it was to form words. His eyes became acutely focused and were pulled towards the sky. The Northern Lights danced across the dark horizon in waves that shimmered in red and green, accented by a celestial tapestry that never burned so bright.

The two sat silently and watched through the stillness of the night, odd forms of clouds that shifted as they drifted through the valley. The couple did not speak until the cool radiance of the cosmic elegance was obscured and all that could be seen was the pale moon setting over distant hills that loomed in terrifying shapes.

What are we going to do? she asked in a fearful voice. Shouldn’t they be here? Somebody should have driven past us by now. She trembled in the dark.

Conrad looked over at her, but it was too dark to see his wife. He could only make out the outline of her elegant physique trapped in a seat tilted strangely forward. She was crushed against the steering wheel, slumped over and arms outstretched through the remains of the smashed windshield.

A steady rain, laced with fear, loneliness and mortality, began tapping against the wreckage. Hope seemed to slip away.

Clair, Conrad called, and then hesitated. I want you to think carefully about what hurts the most. He exhaled deeply.

Clair could hear him strain and labor to regain his breath. She was quiet for a while, and wondered what he could see.

It’s important that we do this, Conrad said speaking softly.

I’m just cold. I really can’t move though, Clair said casually, but knowing something was seriously wrong.

Conrad thought about her words, how they were quick and short. That’s good, he said, trying to be comforting. You’re pinned. He paused to think of his next words. But that’s actually good. Don’t try to move because the paramedics wouldn’t want us to do that.

She sniffled. You’re right, Conrad. You always know what’s best for me. You always take care of me.

He reached across the wreckage, his hand finding its way through the metal and glass shards to her delicate neck.

She sighed feeling his warmth against her.

Conrad? She coughed violently sending a shudder through her husband. Did we hit a deer? Is that why we crashed?

He thought back. I’m not sure. I think that I was asleep. He realized that she was asking about the deer for another reason. There was a pungent smell that mingled with the leaking gasoline and antifreeze. Conrad flashed back through childhood memories of killing and gutting a deer with his father; his first hunting trip. The smell was something that most hunters would instantly recognize and are never able to forget. Conrad gently moved his hand away from her neck and slid it under his own shirt, and searched for a mortal wound. He wanted to find a pile of organs hanging from his stomach or resting in his lap. He wanted it to be his injury. Tears flooded his face, stinging the wide gash that exposed a cheekbone.

Clair’s voice, soft and musical, broke the silence. What? she asked, knowing Conrad would never tell her. Why are you crying? With every word, it was harder to breathe. She was just so tired.

Sleep was coming soon.

They sat together in a silence only broken by the occasional heavy raindrop. His hand was again on her.

Conrad prayed quietly and promised many things. He prayed until she said, I love you and released her final breath of life. Then he screamed, wept, and cursed God out loud.

The large demonic form of a vulture awakened him as it pranced across the car roof. It finally leaped with its great black wings spread onto the crumpled hood, making an immense thump. The scavenger’s figure and featherless head, was blurred by trauma. Its malevolent black eyes slowly came into focus, and then the beast faded with nausea.

Conrad’s face throbbed. He lay slumped over Clair’s body, arms slung around her crushed shoulders, praying that somehow this was a nightmare. He passed in and out of consciousness, contorting against the withering agony that erupted from the deepest regions of his soul.

The black eyed vulture, ancient and wise, fled to a nearby branch as Conrad called out in a maddening cry. The bird perched on a twisted pine branch above the wreck with many others. They sat in a neat row and eagerly but patiently waited for what was understood to be inevitable.

Conrad drifted with the pain into hazy thoughts of family vacations, the stress of Thanksgiving dinners, and Clair. He struggled to maintain his bearing as his mind worked to deepen the void within his being. Conrad opened his good eye and saw his wife. Cold, pale blue, and still, surrounding her was the lingering scent of death. He looked at her eyes, suddenly transformed from an emerald green to a shameful pale grey. Conrad marveled that even in such a horrible death, that she was still elegant and beautiful. He turned his head down and was overcome by grief.

The vultures sat above them, waiting.

Conrad! the voice called.

He was lost in a grey twilight where there was no pain or sadness. He was wandering in a forest of murky shadows and surrounded by faceless figures of disappearing vapor.

Conrad, it called again. The voice was coming from everywhere.

Dad? he yelled.

His good eye opened suddenly and without Conrad’s will, he was back to the wreck. The light was different. He wondered if it was the same day or the next. His throat was dry and sore, stuffed with a swollen tongue that made it impossible to swallow.

The vulture now sat alone, a silent sentinel perched above patiently waiting.

For Conrad, it was time to choose.

2

It would have been so easy just to stay with Clair. He could feel a presence with him. Its power made Conrad cold but put him at ease and gave him a tranquil peace.

The black eyed vulture could sense something was happening. The foul beast turned its gaze down toward the wreck and saw Conrad looking back with a menacing scowl. The bird understood what this meant and became instantly enraged, releasing a disgusted cry and flapped its wings violently. In the vulture’s lifetime, it came to understand the decisions that animals make in the face of death. Nearly always, things choose to surrender to the forces that cause pain and harm. They simply accept it as fate. There is a feeling of helplessness and indignation as if some social law should have prevented their destruction. The vulture did not need to wait any longer. The creature understood that there would be no gory meal from the wreckage it over saw. The bird leapt from the branch and squawked noisily as it soared into the distance.

Conrad sighed and slowly unwrapped his arms from Clair’s body. It was painful, but he sat upright and for the first time saw the reality of his situation. The car was firmly implanted in the wide trunk of an ancient pine tree. The road behind them was nearly obscured by a dense tangle of limbs and briars. He could not tell where they had veered off the road and realized that cars could have easily passed them without even knowing they were there. The death tree, as he thought of it, stood tall at the edge of a grassy field where a small cottage was barely visible on a distant hill.

Conrad had so much to do now. He was already thinking about the reports to file, arrangements, phone calls, and such. He wasn’t being indifferent, but was using the aftermath as a tool to stay strong. He had will now and had to use it to pry himself out of the seatbelt that saved his life but imprisoned him in the wreckage. He again used the power to will himself through the windshield, the glass teeth, and shards of sheet metal that were twisted into hungry meat hooks.

He sat resting against a deflated tire, exhausted and bleeding from new cuts and lacerations, unconsciously picking glass from his scalp. Conrad sat in the silence, accepting the serenity of the place as blood seeped through his tattered clothes.

Tall green grasses moved in waves across the field, dancing in the soft fragrant breeze under great clouds that moved swiftly across the afternoon sky. As dusk approached, a setting sun stretched long shadows across the woods and transformed the landscape.

He said goodbye to Clair and set off across the field. Just as the first stars climbed into the sky, he stood at the boundary of cut grass that was the edge of the cottage’s property. The house was small and solid stone, accented by dark green ivy that climbed from the foundation to the base of large windows. There were no lights on in the house and Conrad tried to call out.

Hello, he called again, sounding more animal than human.

An unrecognizable whimper responded.

Conrad called again into the growing darkness. His throat felt like a giant and sadistic wasp had made a nest behind his larynx.

Soft and sad, the whimper came again.

Is anyone home? I was in an accident and need to use the phone. Conrad tried to yell.

A low yelp broke through the chorus of crickets and frogs that droned and chirped excitedly to the rising yellow moon.

Conrad stood on the threshold of the yard, deciding, reasoning and justifying his trespass.

The yelp came again. The sound of the dog’s desperation made the decision for him. Around the back of the house, a black labrador retriever lay tied to the base of a large tree.

Hey pup. The moon was still hanging low but Conrad could see the dog and the sheen of her coat against the damp earth. It made him feel good to see such a beautiful creature.

Hey pup! he called again.

The dog lifted its head slightly, turning to look at Conrad.

Even in the moonlight he could see her eyes were weary.

The dog exhaled hard and returned its head to the ground.

Conrad moved slowly closer to her. The animal rested on its stomach. Her large head filled the gap between great paws. She did not move as he knelt next to her. Conrad ran his hand in long strokes down her sleek black body, head to tail. He could tell she was weak and possibly near death. A quick tug at her skin showed the signs of dehydration. He put his own hand to his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose planning what to do next.

It was then that he noticed that his watch, a gift from Clair, was smashed. The face was nothing but tiny shards of glass. His pinky and ring fingers were crushed into a blue-black pulp that had the likeness of cucumbers. They were rotting. Conrad sat with his back resting against the tree. Conrad’s eyes met the dog’s again and for the second time in this very long week, he felt a profound sadness. He began to pet her, thinking of his fingers and the eye that was blind.

A couple of days ago you were probably running through that field having a blast. I guess I was too in a way. Look at us now. He felt his crushed fingers and tried to pull off the wedding band. Like its owner and his new companion, it had been pushed and bent beyond the limits and was now stuck. Tears began to stream down his face as his mind helplessly drifted in flashes towards his wife and her perfect smile.

Conrad rested under the tree, drifting in and out of sleep.

The dog began to dream and whine. Her legs twitched and kicked waking Conrad.

The moon had passed its zenith, and he guessed that it was well past midnight.

The dog was awake when Conrad stood, but lay limp, hardly breathing; dew formed on her thick fur. She listened to Conrad knock on the cottage’s door. He stood patiently, hunched from the pain and loss that flowed through him. Finally, he reached for the door knob and twisted. The heavy door drifted open, creaking on its hinges as it completed a slow arc. Surprised that it was unlocked, Conrad called out.

Hello! he called stepping into the house, feeling for a light switch. I need help! Hello?

The power was off in the house and it was difficult to see. The moon cast a brilliant cosmic blue swath of light through the large windows. It was just enough to allow him to navigate. Conrad moved into the small kitchen and found the sink. He turned the tap and waited for a long minute. There was nothing. His body swung instinctively toward the refrigerator and opened the door. The smell of foul milk and rotted food overwhelmed him and caused a succession of painful dry heaves. He braced himself against the counter until the shockwaves were gone. Conrad held his breath, opened the refrigerator again, and desperately searched for anything that would save his life. Inside, he found a jug of cranberry juice. It was still sealed when he ripped the top off and drank hard and filled his shrunken stomach to capacity with a few swigs. His belly bulged and he doubled over as a torrent of vomit exploded out of him.

Stupid, he thought. You know better!

Another powerful wave of queasiness attacked him as he bent over the sink. The juice stung his throat and nostrils as he heaved, spraying the counter with warm vomit. Conrad dropped to his knees, holding onto the faucet. The juice tasted sweeter and tarter than he remembered. In the darkness and solitude of the house, he again rallied his strength and stood. He staggered through the kitchen, rummaging for a cup.

Through the kitchen window, he saw the dog lying in the half-light of the moon. The animal was on its side, ribs rising slowly but rhythmically up and down. Conrad poured a few ounces of the precious juice into the cup and drank slowly, even though his body screamed for it all. He counted to 200 between sips, and prevented his stomach from going into shock again. The moon was setting when the jug was finally empty. He just wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep, but he looked out the window at the dog, lying half dead in the breaking dawn. He had to do something for her.

The refrigerator was a lost cause, a waterless well in the center of a great desert. They still needed water. Conrad ventured farther into the house, down a short dark and narrow hallway where he staggered past a bathroom and into a bedroom. He thought about looking for clean clothes, but decided that rifling through another person’s belongings was too much to defend even in his dire situation. He stepped inside the bathroom, using the soft rosy light that emanated through the frosted window to find his way. The faucet did not work. He thought for a moment, turned toward the toilet, and paused. Conrad lifted the heavy top that covered the water tank and set it gently on the sink. From the top of the toilet, he filled the juice jug with clean drinkable water. It was a final and ultimate alternative.

Outside, Conrad sat on the ground next to the dog and lifted her face into his lap. She was awake, but staring into the distance. Her eyes were getting cloudy as the early sunlight broke open across the hills in the distance. He spoke in soft tones to her as she judged him through a weariness that she had never experienced before. She lay passively as Conrad first put water on her tongue with a damp washcloth.

The cloudiness in her eyes disappeared and she could smell the nearby water. Her tail began to sweep back and forth in the dirt.

He continued for hours, using the cloth to squeeze water into her mouth.

Noon found Conrad and the dog asleep in the shadow of the tree. Occasionally he came back from the grey twilight lands of his dreams but just as swiftly drifted away into deep sleep. He slept hard for most of the day, woke when the sun was warm, and made him believe that it was close to 3 o’clock.

The dog watched Conrad as he slept, still judging and assessing. She could see that he was injured and that one of his eyes was swollen shut or missing altogether. His clothes were torn and wreaked of death; and his face, neck, and arms were streaked with dry blood. The animal had met many people in her short life and had come to