The Canyon: A Short Story (Voices of the Apocalypse Series Book 1) Read Free

thumps triple time in my ears. The whole scene is surreal, but right in line with the last six months.
    After a few minutes, the door opens and a large man––who I assume is Joe Darkly––invites us to enter. We struggle down a narrow stairwell, with our suitcases and the gas can bumping against the railing. At the bottom is a cellar that’s lit up by a few lanterns. Lillian’s eyes widen as she takes in the rows of firearms. Trepidation shadows over her face.
    “It’s okay, honey. It’s for our protection,” I assure her.  
    While she studies a rack of shotguns, I start looking for something more portable. I pick up a Colt Defender, a small semi-automatic 9mm. Joe nods with approval and shows me another gun, saying it’ll be good to have two options. The second gun is a Ruger revolver, which he assures me will be a good backup. I open our suitcases and set out the items we’re willing to barter, along with the gallon of gas. Joe throws in two heavy-duty backpacks, saying the suitcases are useless. He helps us transfer over only the essential items. He sets Lillian’s Bible off to the side, but she tucks it into her coat pocket. I’m not going to argue with her about bringing her faith. Lord knows we’re going to need it out there in the wilderness.
    Joe secures our backpacks and shows us how to quickly access our guns if we run into trouble. He offers me a hand-drawn map with directions to the Temescal Canyon campsite.  
    “Avoid Sunset and PCH. Barricades are up.” He points to the map. “Park the car at the top of this street and walk to the address. Cut through the backyard and go through the bushes. You’ll find the entrance to the woods. The campsite is located a few miles up the trail. Whistle three times when you get to the top of the slope. Someone will meet you and take you to the campsite.”
    We shake hands with Joe and leave the surplus store lighter and much more equipped to handle the trek.
    At the house, we get in a few more hours of sleep before we head out on what I’m now calling our extended camping trip. Before we leave, I shove a stack of journals into Lillian’s backpack. I hold my daughter’s face, looking deep into her tired eyes. “No matter what happens out there, promise me that you’ll write down everything–from the initial phases of the Repatterning, all the way through until you’re an old lady and your fingers are riddled with arthritis. I want you to record every detail so future generations will know what happened. So they will know what to look out for. Your journals might end up being the only records to account for what happened. Do you understand?”
    Lillian looks up at me and smiles with confidence. “I promise to write down every single thing.”
    We drive through the empty neighborhood in silence, whispering goodbye to our old life. I follow the map and park at the top of the street near the address written down. Once the sun goes down it’s dark enough to start our journey toward Temescal Canyon. We locate the house on the map and cut through the backyard toward the bushes. Lillian and I push our way through to the other side and find the trail. Rags starts peeing on everything, leaving behind her scent.
    “It’s a few miles to the first checkpoint,” I say. “You okay?”
    “I’m fine.” Lillian pats my backpack and we head up the slope.
    As we trudge up the hill, with only my tiny flashlight illuminating the dirt path, I’m overcome with a strength I can’t call my own. Something far greater is providing the courage to propel up the mountain. Maybe it’s a combination of faith and my motherly instinct to keep my only remaining child alive. Lillian follows closely behind, and I’m so proud of her determination. I’m filled with an overwhelming assurance that she’ll be able to handle whatever lies ahead. My daughter is a survivor. I can rest in peace, knowing I gave her this gift.  

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    After the grueling three-mile hike, we reach the