《Living After The Cataclysm》


 Chapter 1 : The Wolfhound Threat

    "What''s the matter with you?" The sound came from behind the closed door.


    Curtis pushed open a sash that was decaying, white-painted, and flaking.


    The old hinges creaked repulsively, followed by a coordinated clatter of weapons.


    "They''re ours", he cautioned, without even considering the possibility that someone had fired before he realized what was going on.


    The machine gun muzzles did not fall instantly, but rested on his chest for a dozen seconds as he entered the door and stood in front of his men''s clear eyes, what kind of aural hallucinations can occur?


    Colin, who had been imprisoned for gross misconduct and had formed his own group on the second day, testified he had heard screams for help and had not simply waded into the swamp. He did not stumble, disobeying the command to follow the track, but purposefully plunged into the mire, barely escaping.


    It was a good thing an obnoxious creature didn''t attack the guys at the time. Otherwise, things could have turned out much worse.


    "You''d never terrify me like that, Commander," said the burly lad, who stood nearly six feet tall and had light, almost colorless eyes, dark hair, a broken nose, and a crooked scar on his neck.


    Curtis could barely reach his chin from the top of his head.


    "Andre, I''m double-checking your readiness," He remarked tiredly, nodding at the unconscious man reclining against the wall.


    He didn''t look his best. He was pale, almost corpse-like, drained, and wore a scarlet bandage on his leg.


    "How was he doing?"


    "He''ll bleed out if we don''t get out soon", Eric chimed in.


    "My guess is three hours."


    "Not enough," Andre remarked sarcastically.


    "You''re not a big fan of Damian. Isn''t he a good-hearted person? He will outlive both of us. If we''re lucky maybe four."


    Eric did not go along with his friend''s plan. It was more than serious in his opinion.


    "Then we have a corpse that is easier to dispose of than to burn or bury."


    Curtis nodded, not agreeing but taking a not about such a matter.


    "Burn it?" Andre grumbled, "it''s pointless attracting werewolves."


    "It''s a lot more difficult than expected," Eric hushed.


    "Wolfhounds", Curtis corrected. "They''re called wolfhounds, not werewolves."


    "And, of course, Colin in the swamp was called by a squirrel, as Jasper would say...?" grinned Andre.


    "No, I don''t believe so."


    "The ghost of Virtuous Priest," Curtis chimed in, drawing smiles if not laughs.


    The storekeeper stated that the ghost lived in a warehouse and liked to move things about or even steal what he wanted. A nursery rhyme persuaded him, ''Play, but... your thing must give it to me.'' And, according to him, the object was bound to turn up.


    Some people also tried this method, including Curtis. He wanted to see what that ghost looked like. However, he failed, even though no one imitated what the storekeeper did.


    "Squirrel is white fever," Eric said again, "it affects individuals who drink liquor incessantly, and Jon is a teetotaller."


    "Our recluse requested us multiple times to accompany him to the swamp, where he sat on the bank for an hour. You couldn''t discern a snag from the side, according to Lucas. He was either thinking or calling out in his head."This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    "And Lucas and Elena were almost eaten by a beast."


    "Not at all!" Andre gave a snort. "Our Elena, and something nefarious? I do not think so. I''m sure she''s the one who rescued Lucas by putting a tail on the trash."


    "She certainly is", Eric agreed with a nod.


    Curtis moved silently to the window and cautiously looked out into the street. It was not the first time he had heard all these tales, stories and assumptions about the swamp.


    He himself had thought to delve more thoroughly into the devilry going on there, and indeed that had taken place, as the evil creatures had suddenly begun to get clever and startling in their coherence.


    Like now, for example.


    Three wolfhounds sat down on the cracked asphalt below and hypnotized the windows.


    They were covered in dark grey hair; their heads werewolf-like, their bodies monkey-like. Allen, his guardian, showed Curtis pictures of animals on the ground before the cataclysm, and the wolfhounds looked a lot like gorillas.


    Seven-toed paws end in curved, sharp claws. There are fangs about ten centimeters long in its mouth, blue-green rather than white as one would expect, and what infestation is beneath them.


    Damian was lightly pinched in the leg, and he passed out almost immediately and was now bleeding, shivering and suffering from fever.


    The wolfhounds'' only weakness is their brains, or rather their lack of brains. They never ambushed or set traps, and there were no hunting tactics or strategies to speak of. If a wolfhound spotted prey or an enemy, he went straight ahead.


    I was not hard-pressed to take down one, but there wasn''t enough gunfire for all of them when there were a dozen or more.


    Nevertheless, that was before.


    Now, Curtis could not get rid of the feeling that they were being attacked in an organized manner and chased here according to all the rules of ground operations.


    So now, they sit and wait for people to come out or prepare to storm in.


    How did they even get into the perimeter? Did they make a dig? Or did a collapsed tree damage the wall? But where? When?


    After all, they patrol every six hours, missing only midday, at which time you shouldn''t go out, even if you''re wrapped in a hazmat suit. Curtis looked wistfully up at the sky and turned away.


    "Out of sight of about fifteen of them," Eric reported, walking over to him and leaning against the shabby wall with his back.


    Curtis nodded. He had recently been checking the door leading from the stairwell to the ground floor hall and could clearly hear claws creaking on the old wood.


    The wood was harder than a stone after the cataclysm, and even the wolfhounds could not fight it, that is, not with their claws.


    "Won''t they break through?" As if reading his mind, Eric asked.


    Curtis shrugged his shoulders. "Unlikely."


    "How long?" Andre muttered from his corner. "Don''t whisper in there. It makes me feel uncomfortable."


    Curtis shrugged again. "I''d give it three or four hours," he said, after thinking a little.


    "So, as old as Damian," Andre said with a frown. "And my words may well prove prophetic, as to who will outlive whom."


    "There are three of us," Eric remarked.


    "Four!" Andre said with a threat in his voice.


    "The combatants are three," Curtis corrected. "The creatures are eighteen muzzles, or even more. We cannot fight back head-on, we cannot escape. Unless we meet them in the narrow passage on the stairs when they break through and kill as many as we can, but they will sweep us away anyway."


    "And eaten," Eric said without enthusiasm in his voice.


    "They''ll tear you to pieces first and do that while we still alive" Andre waved his hand.


    He looked at the wounded man and said thoughtfully.


    "I never thought I''d say this, but I envy Damian; at least he won''t understand a damn thing.¡±


    "Put aside the decadent mood," Curtis told him, stepping away from the window and making a sign to Eric not to stand too close.


    "Going for a breakthrough is even more foolish than waiting for the creatures here."


    "On the rooftops to the neighboring houses?" Andre suggested.


    "There''s no proper equipment," Curtis shook his head."


    Even if we do, we won''t leave Dami to the last man. How could you suggest such a thing? I''m going to carry him in my arms."


    "And we''re going to lose another mobile firing unit?" Eric shook her head and gritted her teeth.


    "But while I was checking the stairs, I found a wonderful way down to the cellar," Curtis said.


    Andre raised his head and squinted. "And that''s the way out, Commander," he said thoughtfully.


    "Where to? The other world?" Eric asked.


    He, too, stepped away from the window, stepped on a rotten board, and it sagged down with a nasty creak-stone.


    Curtis, grasping the fighter''s shoulder, yanked him to the side.


    "We''re more likely to go to the other world from here," Andre said.


    "And through the stomachs of wolfhounds, from which, as you know, there are also two ways out. Commander, if there''s even a chance, it should be taken."


    "You can barricade yourself in it and starve to death because werewolves won''t go away," Andre chuckled, "but, you know, I like that idea a lot better than becoming a munchkin. If we starve to death, we could eat Damian.


    "Fuck you," the wounded man suddenly responded. He struggled to open his eyes and mumbled. "I''ll help in any way I can."


    At that moment, a muffled growl was heard from the outside.

 Chapter 2 : Anything to Survive

    The old folks claimed that this was the menacing intonation of the engine of a Harley, the iron mustang and friend of every free man. But Curtis never went into detail for him, the sound was associated only with one, very specific bloodthirsty creature.


    "The window!" he shouted and drew his gun from behind his belt. He would have to walk to the vending machine and there was no time for that.


    Curtis preferred to scout lightly, trusting the caution, silence and quickness of his own feet more than the combat effectiveness of a machine gun. But the pistol in his hand was far from simple: it was from some shaggy year, but had been reworked in terms of more killing power.


    He put the creatures down easily and didn''t need more than that. The next moment the frame, loosely covered with a sheet of tin, rattled under the weight of the wolfhound, its claws ripping through the metal like old paper, and an ugly bald head covered in sparse gray fur slid into the room.


    Its hair was growing in wisps, Its skin wrinkled and hung in folds on cheeks and neck. There was also a greenish mould with inflamed red patches around the edges.


    The creature was old and already beginning to rot alive. It had only a few months left, but it was in no hurry to retire.Perhaps it was the experience of its long life that enabled it to climb the wall. At least its peers had not followed its example, and wolfhounds were never known for their keen sense of curiosity or imitation.


    If they saw potential prey, they would run towards it. If they noticed that the tribesmen were already corralling or munching, they would join in.


    Curtis put a bullet in the creature''s shoulder, it shrieked and leapt forward into the room.


    Andre''s belated automatic rifle shot wasted the innocent sheet and frame, making so much noise that the head seemed like a bell or an empty pot that had been hit with a cudgel.


    But the firing could not be stopped.


    In the absolute silence that followed, Curtis saw the creature twitch and retreat, dripping disgusting brown liquid from its bullet-riddled chest, stumble onto the window sill and topple down.


    He didn''t hear a muffled "slam", but he felt a vibration go through the whole building, shook his head, and the sounds suddenly returned.


    The loudest of these was first a shriek, then a growl, and then a numerous ''chow-chow'' coming from below.


    "I''m going to puke," Andre spat under his feet. "And how it stinks! Shit."


    "I can''t stand the smell of your stinking garbage!" Eric grimaced and then turned to Tim, "Should we go next door?"


    "Not maybe, but for sure," he sighed.


    He looked at the window, wide open and now open to the winds, bad weather and all the other unpleasant natural phenomena and creatures of this planet. They are tortured by human reason, greed, stupidity and shamelessness.


    A grey, gloomy sky took up most of the window opening. It seemed like an abyss to Curtis that he didn''t even have to stare into in order for her to start looking back.


    The skinny bare branches of the trees could be seen below. They reached up and sideways, wiggling their multi-fingered limbs and seemed to be just waiting to stab someone. ''I''m not a fan of clean radiation air.''


    Andre nodded and sticking his finger under the rubber band of his gas mask, scratched his chin.


    "Relax, Commander, I won''t," he said as Curtis jerked involuntarily in his direction.


    On other occasions, something has come over the fighters and they have taken off their gas masks and breathed in the contaminated air with their chests.


    Of course, it didn''t end well: without dying on the spot, people started behaving even more inadequately, spending more time on the surface, disregarding safety rules, and then radiation sickness caught up with them and mowed them down very quickly, turning them into walking ruins. -


    "God takes care of you," said Eric, and nodded at Damian, who was unconscious again.


    "You on the right, me on the left, less words, more action."


    He got up and walked over to the wounded man:


    "Cover it up, commander."


    They chose a new home, not next door, but at the end of the corridor, just down the stairs. Both running and defence seemed a little easier here, and the window was nailed shut.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "What do you think was in here before?" Curtis asked, taking a seat on the floor next to Andre.


    He shrugged, poked his finger at the branching crack running along the wall, and spoke without much thought to the question:


    "Either a clinic or a school. Anything that could be useful was taken out a long time ago, why?"


    There was a lone desk in the corner, with enough dust accumulated on it. From nothing to do, Eric strolled over to him and drew a crooked face on the tabletop.


    "And write it down: we were here," Andre advised.


    "They''ll eat us up, and then one of our own will come and find out where the four brave fighters have gone."


    "The building is old, from 19th century or so,"


    Curtis remarked, looking at the once light-painted walls, the dirty linoleum with a parquet pattern, the ceiling that had had daylight bulbs ripped out of it.


    "Well, that''s a bit too much," Andre grinned.


    "Allen said these are the ones that have survived best. Those of the late twentieth or early twenty-first century were built as if to get away from the customer. Some new buildings are already sold or in the hand of customer. Again, they were giving money to officials and generally churning out dough."


    It seemed the old building or house were dedicated for long time utilization. The materials were more solid and sturdier that could withstand even the effect of the cataclysm.


    Andre grinned. "You know, it''s bad enough to say that, but I''m even glad the cataclysm happened. So many scumbags got rid of all at once."


    "Do you remember Remy Brun serving in the warehouse? The bastard was stealing, stealing, and trying to paw the convoy when they came to get him. Your uncle kicked him the hell out. What if everything had been quiet?"


    "This Remy would sit in an office, grow a potbelly, have a special car with a private driver, steal wagons, eat cisterns of alcohol, and pour it on as if he was concerned about the public good."


    "You''d think you''d have any idea about those times," laughed Eric.


    "My mother told me," Andre blurted out and then stopped. "I''m sorry, commander."


    Curtis waved him off. He had been friends with all his fighters since childhood and was not always their commander. He remember when he was ten years old, he was very acutely affected by the lack of a normal family. Uncle, as guardian, was busy most of the time and Curtis found himself left to his own devices.


    Since then Andre had considered it inappropriate to mention his parents in Curtis''s presence. The years gone by did not matter to him anymore.


    The closed army camp was in a forest near Belford, near The Capital, and the bunker was located there.


    However, it was not only military personnel who found shelter there, but also people from Belford who decided to spend a sunny day under the canopy of trees. They were much luckier than the capital''s residents. The Capital was bombed deliberately, and what''s near it was just a matter of time before it arrives.


    That was why radiation was easier to deal with here. The forests were full of creepy things, but not so much that you had to sit underground and shake with fear.


    The bunker was mainly inhabited by families, as they went out of town with their children and spouses. they stayed underground, plus those who, like Allen, lived in a closed settlement. Now, It housed not only humans, but also the lesser brethren.


    There was nothing left of the pedigree nowadays, genetic perversions in the form of something small and incapable died out on their own. The rest mixed up to become mongrels, but hardy, prolific and healthy, and above all very clever.


    Even a wolfhound could not take a man easily, let alone smaller creatures or feral dogs, which the settlers called jackals. There was panic, of course, but Allen somehow managed to persuade people to calm down.


    The generators were working properly, there were more than enough supplies, and there were no water shortages.


    And some agronomist got the amateur gardeners together and set up the greenhouses: a lot of different seeds were found in the warehouses. We''re getting on with our lives.


    Among the officers'' wives were nurses, cooks and teachers.


    The latter were especially numerous, so it did not take long for the children to rejoice at the cancellation of classes. The teaching process was resumed quickly, without allowing civilization collapse and regression to the Stone Age to occur.


    And there were also qualified doctors, engineers, rocket scientists, biologists and physicists. Some elderly people said it was even better than before the cataclysm.


    Grandfather Percival, however, bemoaned the philosophy of liberalism, which had died with the old world, but Allen called him a liberal a couple of times and that was the end of his discontent.


    Curtis was still young at the time and did not know what liberalism was, but he knew immediately that it was something unpleasant and cowardly, capable only of shaking the air with empty words and showing discontent on any occasion; it immediately subsided when someone strong and confident in its rightness stood up against it.


    After a few years, Grandfather Percival decided to call himself The Father and tried to preach. Either someone really got into his speeches or they just took pity on the old man, but a sect of twenty gathered together.


    Allen had to nip this initiative in the bud too. Illegal meetings of a bunch of citizens inflamed by excessive religiosity had to be cancelled.


    At the time, the uncle saw in grandfather''s speeches a danger to the normal life of the village, and he was probably right, too many people suddenly remembered that power should be elected.


    Unlike most of his friends, who had mother and father or even grandparents, Curtis only knew Allen, who was in charge and therefore was not home very often either.


    He asked his nephew twice or even four times more than even the strictest of parents. At the age of nine, Curtis had a real nervous breakdown because of all this. Then Allen relaxed the pressure, but was neither more affectionate nor more attentive.


    Now, after fifteen years, Curtis was still at times still experiencing his loneliness, but he was not about to throw a tantrum or cry out loud to anyone who would listen.

 Chapter 3 : The Mysterious Basement

    "Here you are." Eric handed Curtis the flask and looked anxiously at Damian.


    "We will," Curtis sighed. "We went out on patrol two hours ago; we should have been back by twenty minutes. Now they will wait for decency and go looking for it. All we have to do is wait."


    The men nodded in unison, though everyone was probably thinking,


    "They''ll find us, how could they? Without communication. In the bunker we found all sorts of stuff, and then, after the disaster, we got all sorts of stuff from the orphaned houses."


    Their teacher, Faron Corbin, was not just a regular scientist, he also remembered a lot of things that no longer counted in peacetime. How to make a simple walkie-talkie, for example.


    "All you need is a transistor this and a transistor that," he said.


    "A few resistors, eleven of them and another six, a lot of capacitors. As well as the antenna, microphone, loudspeaker, on/off switch, DC power supply, two boards of textolite, connecting wires and wires of half and one-tenth of a millimeter diameter."


    Then he took a pencil and drew a simple diagram from memory. At this point there were thirty-one operational radios in the village and a dozen more waiting for minor repairs. They worked up to a mile and a half, but that was all that was needed.


    Each group that went out on patrol was equipped with communications, but only their radio was carried by Damian, who used it to keep tabs on the Wolfhound.


    "All right." Curtis gave the flask back to Eric.


    "I''m going to rummage around in the basement. If I''m right and we are in a school from the fifties or sixties, the building is probably equipped with a shelter. Even if everything that is not bolted to the floor has long since been taken out of it, and then the bolted ones have been unscrewed and carried away, the walls have not gone anywhere."


    "And the shelter could be connected to the catacombs, of which there aren''t too few in the Belford district," Eric said.


    "Come on, just don''t get caught up in the story."


    In spite of his seemingly approving words, there was no enthusiasm in his voice.


    "What if it''s a polyclinic? Andre asked. "Are we just going to sit here?"


    "So we''re out of luck," Curtis replied. "We''ll wait for our people or come up with something else."


    "I''ll go with you," Andre said and got up slowly, as if through sheer force.


    "Stay here," Curtis stopped him. There was no objection.


    ***


    The sound of footsteps echoed off the walls. At first Curtis was still lurking, but for five minutes now he had given up on caution. A dark corridor, illuminated only by the beam of a lantern - very clean, not even the ubiquitous dust underfoot - flanked him from left and right at a distance of a meter or more.


    There were no branches and no niches were envisaged. The tiling on the walls hinted that this was no ordinary basement room with old, unrepaired pipes, but he did not yet dare to guess who might be here and what kind of work was being done.


    Maybe they did not get into a school or a clinic at all, but into one of the army buildings, located not on the territory of a military unit, but among residential buildings. Or was this even the local morgue?


    No one in the village had ever mentioned this building or the structure at all. The ruins that remained on the surface were considered unpromising. All useful things must have been taken out of them in the early years after the disaster.


    The ceiling could easily be touched simply by reaching out. Covered in white enamel, it reflected the light well. Every eight paces, round shades dangled from it. Almost all of them still have light bulbs, another indication that none of the settlers came here.


    There was no turn around which a potential enemy could lurk, but a heavy metal door grayed in the distorted light of the lantern. Before opening it, Curtis stood still and listened carefully.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    The old building had a life of its own, the floor creaked somewhere, the wind blew through the long-deprived window openings and howled through the corridors. Water was dripping somewhere. The door separating the ground floor hallway from the stairwell was still being scratched insistently at by the creatures.


    He stood for at least ten minutes before reaching for the massive handle. It turned out to be unlocked.


    Curtis entered a small room about four by four feet, equipped with the latest pre-war technology. There were tables around the perimeter, with blind monitors staring into the strange face on computers that had long since been turned off. The place was also surprisingly clean, as if the cleaner had just come in yesterday.


    In addition, the room seemed habitable, even though it had been standing like that for decades. There was no sign of the desiccated mummies of those who had once worked here, no skeletons - either people had left the workplace and never returned, or they had been carried away by those who were still enjoying the benefits of a bygone civilization.


    In the center was another desk with a control panel on which several sensors were still flashing. Allen is indeed right: they used to make very high quality things, since they lasted so long.


    His feet carried Curtis forward on their own. If there had been a wolfhound or something worse lurking in the corner, it would have been a headache, but then the place would have been ruined and certainly not preserved in such excellent condition.


    He reached for the tuning knob, his fingertips pricking with impatience.


    If he succeeds in contacting his own people, help will come very soon, and not only the three of them, but also the hapless Damian, will survive.


    Curtis had never seen such a device and did not know how to operate it.


    But thanks to some settler knowledge and the ''village high school'' - the name given by the survivors to a few spontaneously formed classes. He had some idea of what to do. After all, all electrical appliances are alike, made for people, so all you have to do is think hard and you''ll figure it out.


    After switching on a few toggle switches, more sensors and green lights came on. Curtis rolled the dial, put on his headphones and immediately turned the sound down, the hissing was too much for his ears.


    The moment he started to set the frequency on which the township radios were operating, there was a vibration across the floor.


    It only took a moment to rip his headphones off and turn around, but Curtis was still almost too late.


    A clawed paw swept a millimeter from his throat. If Curtis had not deviated automatically, he would have choked on his own blood by now.


    It took another moment to draw his gun.


    Two shots went off into the dark corridor behind the creature''s back, He think someone howled there. The wolfhound recoiled, startled by the loud noises, and Curtis snatched a long knife from behind his shin.


    He wasn''t very good with his left hand, but he didn''t dare move it to his right, letting go of the gun, so he threw it as best he could and stabbed the creature in the eye in surprise.


    The wolfhound howled and tried to reach the killer with his claws, but collapsed forward instead, snagging the remote control and the setting knobs.


    Curtis''s chest felt cold and his stomach twisted. He was not at all frightened when the wolfhound attacked, fighting with an excitement and even an impatient enthusiasm for the fight. He was now covered in cold sweat at the thought that the creature could have damaged the valuable equipment.


    There was a gurgling sound in the headphones, and through the hiss came a series of hisses, and Curtis clung to them immediately, like a drowning man in a bog - a log that miraculously fell into his lap.


    "Where the hell have you been? Martin, have you lost your mind?"


    It was a deep, muffled voice, quite different from the soft bass of Allen or the tenor of Greg or Juan usually heard on the radio. And who Martin was, Tim had not the slightest idea, unless he was thinking of the children''s fairy tale.


    "Shh..." came the reply, and a melodious baritone with clearly mocking intonations muttered.


    "Roche Alarie, have some conscience and don''t pollute the airwaves. You are not even shouting like a victim, but so that we can be heard from law officer. If you want to deal with the security people there, go ahead. But there is no need to abuse my name."


    Curtis stood still, completely unaware of who he was hearing or where they were. A single thought pounded in my head with hammers of blood pounding in my temples.


    ''Not alone''


    After the cataclysm, the survivors did not seek out their fellow compatriots, absolutely certain that other cities would be destroyed and The Capital would be turned into a radiological burial ground.


    However cynical that may sound, they had no time for others. They had to get on with their lives, not to slip back into the primitive communal system, at least to preserve the applied sciences and not to forget the history of their own civilization.


    Allen pinned special hopes on the latter, believing that people who remember the horrors of fascism would never divide their kind by blood purity, and those who studied the deeds of the Inquisition would be wary of diving headlong into religious fanaticism.


    However, from what they had heard, the villagers were mistaken: there were survivors just like them, with far more advanced technology, somewhere very close by, since the connection reached as far as the forest village near Belford. Maybe if they were looking for.


    "Where are you?" A slightly embarrassed, husky bass sounded.


    There was silence in the headphones, but not around them.


    Curtis was startled by the sound of gunshots and the stomping of boots in the corridor.