The Nation 08: The Nation, #8

By Dell Sweet

The acrid bite of smoke filled Billy's lungs, a familiar sting now, but no less unwelcome. He coughed, the sound swallowed by the immense roar of the city's demise. Around him, Los Angeles lay in smoldering ruins, a once-vibrant metropolis now reduced to a grotesque tableau of ash and twisted metal. The air hung heavy, thick with the stench of burning rubber, decaying flesh, and something else… something ancient and primal, the smell of death settling into the very fabric of the city.

Beside him, Beth stood rigid, her face etched with a grief that mirrored his own. Her normally bright eyes were dull with exhaustion and despair, reflecting the charred landscape before them. The police precinct, a once-imposing symbol of order and authority, burned relentlessly, its skeletal frame a stark testament to the utter collapse of societal structures. Flames licked at the sky, painting the twilight in shades of orange and black, a macabre sunset for a dying city.

"Look at it," Beth whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames and the distant groans of the dying. Her gaze drifted across the ravaged streets, taking in the devastation. "Everything… gone."

Billy nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He had seen death before, felt the cold hand of violence in the weeks since the initial outbreak. But this… this was different. This was the death of a city, the erasure of a lifetime of memories, the annihilation of everything he had ever known. The sheer scale of the destruction was overwhelming, a crushing weight on his soul. He could almost hear the echoes of sirens, the distant wail of emergency vehicles, a phantom orchestra playing a mournful symphony for the fallen.

They stood in silence for a long moment, the only sound the crackling inferno and the wind whistling through shattered buildings. Then, Billy pointed to a figure moving in the distance, a lone scavenger picking through the debris. He was small, barely visible amidst the towering structures, a tiny speck against the backdrop of devastation. But he represented something else—survival. A flicker of hope, however small, against the overwhelming darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writerz
• Release date: Jun 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370134281

Dell Sweet

Dell Sweet was born in New York. He wrote his first fiction at age seventeen. He drove taxi and worked as a carpenter for most of his life. He was honorably discharged from the U.S. Navy in 1975. He has written more than twenty books and several dozen short stories.

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The Nation – 08

By Dell Sweet

All rights foreign and domestic reserved in their entirety.

Cover Art © Copyright 2022 Dell Sweet

Some text copyright 1984, 2000, 2004, 2005, 2022 Dell Sweet

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

This novel is Copyright © 2022 Dell Sweet. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author's permission.

Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.

Prologue

L.A. Billy and Beth: March 11th Billy was up on the roof. Beth, Jamie, Winston and Scotty were standing at the edge of the building as he was, looking out over the city. Things were crazy, and they seemed to be getting worse as the days rolled by. The police precinct was still burning. It had started sometime during the night two days before, and since there was no one to put the fire out, it had been raging for hours now. A few minutes ago, the roof of the building next door to the precinct burst into flames. Maybe the fire had started inside, or the extreme heat from the burning police precinct had caused it to burst into flame, spontaneous combustion, but it was a strange thing to watch. It appeared as though it had simply burst into flames all on its own. The animated conversation about whether it had been spontaneous combustion or a fire source from inside the other building that had simply burned through, had kept up for a few moments, and then they had all lapsed back into silence. Beth spoke now. Where would we go? she asked. I think southeast, Scotty threw in. Why not north or northeast, Jamie asked. Makes no difference, I suppose, but this winter it might. That's why I think southeast. Billy said. Beth nodded. What's the radio say? It's bad everywhere. Different people, different days, all talking about the dead. Some talk about the living too, gangs, shit like that, but the big deal is the dead. Every major city... Boston, Hartford, Manhattan, San Fran, Providence, Scranton, Miami... there are more. Every day you hear more places, and that's bad. But then there are the ones that you don't hear from anymore, and that's even worse, Billy said. So how is southeast better? Beth asked. Might not be better, as far as the dead are concerned: It might not be, but it will be warmer. I mean, no problem now, but winter isn't really over up north, and it will come again, and we had better be somewhere with our supplies settled in for it, Billy answered. Beth nodded. All of us? A few others, Winston said. Emma, down street. She has a baby. Don and Ginny across the street. They got a few friends too. Babies... I don't know about babies, Billy said. Adults, okay. Children are bad enough, but babies? How do we take care of them? Billy, should we leave them here to die? Scotty asked. Fuck, Scotty. I didn't say that. Do we invite them along to get killed? I mean we're leaving the safety... Talking about leaving the safety of this building and going on the road. Beth raised her hand. Scotty misspoke, or you mistook what he said. Can we agree on that? Scotty turned away and then turned back and nodded. Billy nodded too. Tomorrow... Tomorrow we scout it out. We need trucks... not a car. Something that can get us over the bad spots. And we'll have to see how far we have to go before we can hope to drive. We sure as hell can't drive here. She shrugged. Tomorrow, Billy agreed. Yeah, Scotty added. Beth turned and looked back over the city, watching the building next to the precinct burn. Billy and Beth gather a small group and plan to leave the destruction of Los Angeles. Just getting out of the city will prove to be a battle and they will lose some of their party along the way...

Chapter 1: Ashes of the City

The acrid bite of smoke filled Billy’s lungs, a familiar sting now, but no less unwelcome. He coughed, the sound swallowed by the immense roar of the city’s demise. Around him, Los Angeles lay in smoldering ruins, a once-vibrant metropolis now reduced to a grotesque tableau of ash and twisted metal. The air hung heavy, thick with the stench of burning rubber, decaying flesh, and something else… something ancient and primal, the smell of death settling into the very fabric of the city.

Beside him, Beth stood rigid, her face etched with a grief that mirrored his own. Her normally bright eyes were dull with exhaustion and despair, reflecting the charred landscape before them. The police precinct, a once-imposing symbol of order and authority, burned relentlessly, its skeletal frame a stark testament to the utter collapse of societal structures. Flames licked at the sky, painting the twilight in shades of orange and black, a macabre sunset for a dying city.

Look at it, Beth whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames and the distant groans of the dying. Her gaze drifted across the ravaged streets, taking in the devastation. Everything… gone.

Billy nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He had seen death before, felt the cold hand of violence in the weeks since the initial outbreak. But this… this was different. This was the death of a city, the erasure of a lifetime of memories, the annihilation of everything he had ever known. The sheer scale of the destruction was overwhelming, a crushing weight on his soul. He could almost hear the echoes of sirens, the distant wail of emergency vehicles, a phantom orchestra playing a mournful symphony for the fallen.

They stood in silence for a long moment, the only sound the crackling inferno and the wind whistling through shattered buildings. Then, Billy pointed to a figure moving in the distance, a lone scavenger picking through the debris. He was small, barely visible amidst the towering structures, a tiny speck against the backdrop of devastation. But he represented something else—survival. A flicker of hope, however small, against the overwhelming darkness.

They started to walk, their boots crunching on broken glass and ash. The air grew hotter as they approached the heart of the inferno, the heat radiating from the still-burning buildings like a malevolent presence. The ground trembled beneath their feet, the earth itself seemingly groaning under the weight of destruction. The silence was punctuated only by the occasional collapse of a weakened wall or the distant cries of the desperate, a chorus of pain and fear echoing through the deserted streets.

They passed by a toppled bus, its windows shattered, its interior blackened and charred. Scrawled on the side of the bus, barely visible through the soot, were words: They're everywhere. The message was stark, a grim reminder of the relentless threat that stalked the city’s ruins.

The closer they got to the precinct, the more intense the heat became. They could feel the radiation of the blaze on their faces, the air thick with smoke and the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh. They could hear screams, muffled and distant, yet undeniably real. The sounds of scavenging became more frequent, the echoes of desperate people searching for anything of value in the ruins.

As they reached the edge of the precinct’s perimeter, they saw it. The scale of the destruction was even greater up close. Buildings surrounding the precinct were gutted, their interiors reduced to piles of rubble. Cars were overturned, some still smoldering. The air was thick with the smell of decay, a stench that clung to everything. A twisted mass of metal and burning debris was all that remained of the once-imposing structure, its internal walls now collapsed in a heap of charcoal and ash.

Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the sounds of fire and destruction. It was a woman’s voice, filled with terror and agony. Billy and Beth exchanged a look, recognizing the primal fear that resonated in the cry. They weren't alone. Others were struggling to survive in the ashes of the city, and their plight was just as desperate, if not more so, than their own.

They moved cautiously, their senses heightened, every rustle of debris, every snap of a twig sending a jolt of adrenaline through their bodies. They were acutely aware of their vulnerability, exposed in this ravaged landscape, hunted by both the living and the dead. The constant threat hung heavy in the air, a palpable pressure that weighed down their hearts and stole the breath from their lungs. Their survival instincts were on high alert, their minds constantly scanning the ruined city for signs of danger.

Their journey through the ruined streets led them past a scene of unimaginable horror – a group of emaciated scavengers fighting over a meager pile of canned goods, their eyes wild with hunger and desperation. The brutality of the struggle, the ferocity of their actions, revealed the stark reality of survival in this new world. There was no longer any room for compassion; only a desperate fight for existence.

The desperation of those around them only reinforced their own determination. They had to get out. They had to escape this inferno, this monument to a civilization's collapse. The journey southeast, a risky gamble towards warmer climates and a theoretical sanctuary, was not a choice, but a necessity. The burning police precinct, a testament to the loss of order and authority, served as a grim reminder of their shared vulnerability. It was a symbol of the chaos that engulfed them, yet it fueled their desire to survive. Their determination was now more than just a personal quest; it was a fight for hope in a world consumed by despair. They were moving towards a future that seemed uncertain, but survival itself had become the greatest treasure. Their trek from the smoldering ruins of Los Angeles was just the beginning of a long, dangerous journey, a voyage into the unknown where the line between life and death was constantly blurred. They had to push forward. They had to live.

The crumbling brick wall offered little in the way of shelter, but it was better than nothing. A section of the building had collapsed, creating a precarious alcove that shielded them from the worst of the wind. Jamie, a wiry young man with eyes that held the haunted look of someone who'd seen too much, huddled deeper into the shadows. His hands, calloused and scarred, gripped a rusty pipe – his only weapon, a pathetically inadequate defense against the horrors of their world.

Winston, a former engineer judging by the faded blueprints tucked into his worn leather jacket, meticulously checked the structural integrity of their makeshift refuge. His movements were precise, methodical, the actions of a man used to order and precision in a world devoid of both. The collapse of the building was a microcosm of their shattered world. He muttered to himself, assessing the risks, his words lost in the howl of the wind.

Scotty, the youngest of the three, sat apart, staring blankly at the flickering flames of a small fire they’d managed to build. He was barely more than a boy, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes hollow with a weariness that belied his age. He clutched a ragged teddy bear, its fur matted and torn, a silent testament to a childhood brutally stolen. The bear was the only tangible link to a life that no longer existed. His silence was the loudest of all.

The tension in the makeshift shelter was thick, heavy as the smoke that still clung to the air. It wasn't just the physical discomfort of cold and hunger, though those were certainly pressing concerns; it was a deeper, more pervasive unease, a sense of impending doom that clung to them like a shroud. The uncertainty gnawed at them, fueling the unspoken anxieties that hung between them like a venomous spiderweb.

It was the gangs, Jamie said finally, his voice raspy. He broke the silence with a conviction that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifted the rusty pipe, the metal clinking softly against the broken concrete. They’re always looking for something to loot, something to burn. They started it all.

Winston frowned, his gaze fixed on the precarious support beam overhead. Perhaps. But the scale of this fire... it’s too large for just a gang. I've seen them operate, their methods are usually more targeted, not this widespread destruction. He gestured towards the horizon, where the fires still raged, painting the night sky in a horrifying spectacle of destruction. This feels… different.

Scotty, still staring into the flames, whispered, Maybe it wasn’t the gangs at all. His voice was barely a breath, a ghost of a sound in the wind. Maybe it’s… something else. His words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken fear that chilled them to the bone.

The suggestion hung between them, a chilling possibility that neither Winston nor Jamie could easily dismiss. In this new reality, where the dead walked and the living were barely clinging to survival, the line between the mundane and the extraordinary had blurred. The mundane terrors of the gangs were nothing compared to the unimaginable horrors lurking in the shadows. There were whispers of something far more sinister, something that lurked beyond the fires, beyond the reach of understanding.

A bitter wind whipped through their makeshift shelter, carrying with it the smell of smoke and death, and the sounds of the city dying. The groans of the collapsing buildings echoed in the distance, a mournful symphony of the world's end. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than the noise, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the nervous shuffling of their worn clothing. They were trapped, together, in a fragile bubble of survival, surrounded by a world that had turned violently against them.

Their conversation meandered from the immediate threat of the fire to the broader terrors of their new reality. They spoke of their past lives, of their losses, and of the desperate hope that still flickered within their hearts. They were strangers bound together by circumstances, united by a shared experience of loss and the chilling reality of their survival.

Jamie, it turned out, had been a mechanic before the world ended. He spoke of his shop, now undoubtedly reduced to ashes, and the pride he'd taken in his work. His words were laced with anger and regret, the bitterness fueled by the loss of his livelihood, and the fear of a future where his skills held little value.

Winston, the engineer, detailed the meticulous work he’d done designing sustainable systems, systems he'd always been proud of; systems that now seemed foolish and impractical in the face of this overwhelming catastrophe. He talked about his wife, lost during the initial outbreak, his voice choking with grief that even time hadn't dulled. His sadness was a palpable thing in the cold air.

Scotty, the youngest, offered little of his past, preferring the protective shield of silence. His silence spoke volumes about the trauma he had endured. His ragged teddy bear was the only hint of a life that no longer existed, a life he had been torn away from, forced to confront a reality far beyond his understanding.

They debated their options, their voices hushed and urgent. The approaching winter was a looming threat, and the scarcity of resources was a constant reminder of their vulnerability. The journey southeast, a desperate gamble for warmer climates, felt both necessary and impossible. The enormity of the task weighed heavily on them, each step a perilous venture into the unknown.

The discussion was punctuated by the sounds of the city – the distant screams, the sounds of scavenging, the eerie silence that followed. These sounds became the soundtrack to their desperation, fueling their anxieties and intensifying their determination to escape the ashes of Los Angeles.

The fire began to die down, the flames dwindling to embers. The darkness pressed in around them, amplifying the sounds of the wind and the distant groans of the collapsing buildings. The cold seeped into their bones, and their hunger gnawed at their bellies. The world outside their flimsy shelter was a vast, hostile wilderness, teeming with dangers they could barely comprehend. Their hopes for survival seemed to wane with the dying embers.

Their future remained uncertain; a perilous journey lay ahead. But within that uncertainty, in the heart of the city’s devastation, a flicker of hope remained. They were united in their fear, their grief, and their determination to survive. This fragile group had created a bond, forged in the crucible of apocalypse, and this bond would be tested to its limits as they embarked on their desperate escape from the dying city. The road ahead promised challenges, loss, and perhaps even death. But for now, huddled in the ruins of what once was, they found solace in their shared vulnerability, a testament to human resilience in a world consumed by chaos and despair. The journey southeast was more than just an escape; it was a testament to their shared will to live. And as the night deepened, they clung to that hope, a fragile flame in the overwhelming darkness.

The silence after the fire’s final crackle was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic rasp of Winston’s breath as he meticulously examined the crumbling brickwork. The radio, a battered, hand-cranked model salvaged from a wrecked car, sat silent beside him. He’d tried several frequencies, each attempt yielding only a cacophony of static and the occasional, fleeting snatch of distorted speech – a desperate plea, a frantic warning, a scream swallowed by the noise. Hope, that fragile flame they’d clung to, seemed to flicker and dim with each unsuccessful attempt to find a clear signal.

Jamie, his face etched with lines of worry deeper than any etched by the passage of time, shuffled closer. Anything? he asked, his voice barely a whisper above the moaning wind.

Winston shook his head slowly. Nothing but static. It’s like… the airwaves themselves are broken.

Scotty, the boy, remained huddled in his corner, clutching his tattered teddy bear. His silence was a heavy blanket, smothering the already suffocating atmosphere. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of the gravity of their situation.

Then, a faint crackle. A voice, weak and distorted, cut through the static. Winston cranked the handle frantically, his movements jerky and desperate. The sound sharpened slightly, morphing into words, chilling words that spoke of death and destruction on a scale far greater than they could have ever imagined.

The voice, a man's voice, strained and ragged, spoke in fragmented sentences, as if the speaker were gasping for breath. This… this is K-K-KCLA… reporting… widespread… collapse… Los Angeles… gone… San Francisco… fallen… Chicago… silence… Denver… death…

The static returned, briefly obscuring the broadcast, then the voice resurfaced, more desperate than before. Multiple reports… unidentified… they're… everywhere… cities… burning… no… no hope…

The transmission cut out abruptly, swallowed by a sea of hissing static. Silence descended once more, but it was a different kind of silence now, a heavier silence burdened by the weight of the broadcast's grim tidings. The fragile hope they’d held onto a moment before fractured and crumbled like the city around them.

Winston, his face pale, slowly turned the handle of the radio, seeking a different channel, hoping for confirmation, for denial, for anything other than the horrifying picture painted by that brief broadcast. But all he found was static, a maddening, relentless drone that mirrored the despair growing in their hearts.

Everywhere, Jamie murmured, his voice devoid of hope. It’s not just Los Angeles. It’s the whole country…

The words hung heavy in the air, unspoken fears now given terrifying confirmation. Their isolated struggle suddenly felt infinitely larger, a tiny drop in a vast ocean of suffering. The fires raging around them became symbols of a far wider catastrophe, a global conflagration of unimaginable scale.

Scotty, for the first time, spoke. His voice was barely audible, a small, frail sound against the overwhelming desolation. They said… unidentified…

The simple statement hung in the air, an ominous whisper amplified by the horrifying silence that followed. Unidentified implied something beyond the gangs, beyond the ordinary horrors of their world. It suggested something… else. Something beyond their understanding, something that stretched the boundaries of their fear.

The wind howled, a mournful lament echoing the despair filling the ruined alcove. The flickering fire cast dancing shadows on their faces, transforming their expressions into masks of fear and uncertainty. The simple act of survival, which only moments before had seemed their greatest challenge, now seemed a desperate and almost hopeless pursuit in the face of a global apocalypse.

They huddled closer, the shared fear binding them tighter, a fragile alliance in a world turned upside down. The radio, once a source of faint hope, had become a harbinger of doom, an amplifier of their deepest fears. The comforting illusion of their isolated struggle was shattered, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of a global catastrophe that made their personal fight for survival seem insignificant and almost futile.

Winston began to systematically analyze the radio broadcast, dissecting the fragments of information gleaned from the garbled transmissions. He tried to extract some meaning from the chaotic jumble of sounds, hoping to find some shred of clarity amidst the despair. He meticulously marked down the locations mentioned, attempting to piece together a map of the devastation, to identify any potential patterns in the destruction. The engineer's mind, trained to order and logic, tried to impose structure on the chaos, but the task seemed impossible.

Jamie, the mechanic, focused on the practical implications of the broadcast. The scarcity of resources, already a major concern, became a far more terrifying problem in the context of a global collapse. The journey southeast, previously a risky gamble, now felt like a desperate long shot against impossible odds. His mechanical skills, once a source of pride, seemed pitifully inadequate against the overwhelming scale of the destruction.

Scotty, the boy, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the dying embers of the fire. His silence, however, spoke volumes. The brief, chilling mention of unidentified entities had touched a deeper fear within him, a primal fear that resonated with the unspoken anxieties already gnawing at them. The teddy bear, his last link to a life he no longer remembered, seemed less a comforting object and more a poignant symbol of all that was lost.

Hours passed. The night deepened, the darkness pressing in, heavy and oppressive, a palpable representation of their despair. The radio, now silent again, lay discarded, its function exhausted, its message delivered. The wind continued its mournful wail, a constant reminder of their vulnerability.

The fire had dwindled to ashes, leaving only a cold, desolate emptiness in its wake. The air was thick with the lingering smell of smoke and the pervasive odor of death. The city groaned around them, a symphony of destruction, its sounds a constant reminder of their precarious situation.

They were trapped. Trapped not only in the ruins of a crumbling city, but also in the overwhelming despair of a dying world. Their initial anxieties about their own survival were now dwarfed by the horror of the larger picture. The fires were not just a localized problem; they were a global phenomenon. The gangs were not just a local threat, but insignificant players in a larger catastrophe. The journey south, once a desperate hope for survival, now seemed an almost impossible odyssey in a world that was rapidly unravelling. Their initial plan, so carefully conceived and debated only hours before, felt hopelessly naive in the face of this newly revealed reality.

But even in the face of such overwhelming despair, a glimmer of resilience remained. A fragile spark of determination to survive, fueled not by optimism, but by a fierce, stubborn refusal to succumb to the crushing weight of despair. They were broken, yes, but not defeated. The journey southeast, though impossibly difficult, remained their only option. They had to keep going. They had to find a way. They had to survive. For themselves. For each other. For the faint hope that even in the ashes of a dying world, life might somehow, against all odds, find a way to endure. The whispers on the radio, though filled with despair, inadvertently served to strengthen their resolve, to solidify their shared purpose, to fuel the fire of their determination to survive another day in this ravaged world.

The decision hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating like the smoke that still clung to the ruined city. Days bled into nights, each sunrise painting the ravaged landscape in hues of grey and ash, mirroring the despair that settled upon the small group huddled in their makeshift shelter amidst the debris. The flickering light of a salvaged oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows on their faces, transforming them into gaunt, spectral figures haunted by the weight of their shared predicament.

The radio, that harbinger of doom, sat silent, a grim monument to the shattered hopes of a nation. Its chilling pronouncements had stripped away the illusion of their isolated struggle, replacing it with the stark reality of a world collapsing around them. The journey southeast, once a tentative plan born of necessity, had now hardened into a desperate gamble, a last-ditch effort to escape the encroaching winter and the creeping tendrils of death.

Jamie, his hands calloused and scarred from years of working on engines, nervously fiddled with a rusty wrench. The mechanic’s pragmatic mind wrestled with the logistics of the journey – the scarcity of fuel, the impassable roads, the lurking dangers that lay hidden in the shadows. He'd painstakingly salvaged parts, piecing together a rudimentary map from tattered road signs and salvaged maps, but the uncertainties remained daunting. Every crackle of the wind, every creak of the collapsing buildings around them, whispered of potential dangers.

"We