DRYP: Revelation by Scheuring R. A

Author:Scheuring, R. A. [Scheuring, R. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Post-Apocalyptic | Pandemic
Amazon: B09HNY5DMV
Goodreads: 59232850
Published: 2021-10-01T07:00:00+00:00

Harr guessed it was close to eight o’clock when he tied up the Arabian. Long morning shadows stretched from a cluster of cottonwoods along the river’s bank. The air smelled fresh, not yet hot.

He was about a mile from the campsite, at a long, gentle bend in the river. To the north stretched the dried remnants of a tomato field. To the west, the tortuous path of the San Joaquin.

He put his hand to the horse’s head and whispered, “Be ready, girl,” and then, with shotgun in hand, walked quickly along the farm side of the levee. When he reached the campsite, he climbed the levee bank, stretched himself out on the road on top, and pulled out his binoculars.

Kayla was already up. He could see her awkwardly hauling a five-gallon orange Igloo from the river’s edge.

The boy, Davey, was up, too. He sat with his back against the picnic table, whittling with his bone-handled knife, his left heel resting on the previous night’s emptied whiskey bottle. Behind him, the beginnings of a rudimentary breakfast had been laid out: a can of Folgers and a steel percolator, a camp stove and a carton of Quaker Oats.

No sign of Pap. Harr glassed the dusty red hoop tent closest to the water. Behind it, another tent, smaller than the first, stood with its zip flap hanging open. Inside, he could just make out the mussed-up outline of a single sleeping bag.

She must have slept in the two-person tent, Harr thought and then immediately suppressed the flare of disgust and rage that followed. He needed to keep cool, to focus on that which he’d come back to do.

The minivan’s back hatch was open, but the rest of the doors were closed. Harr tried to look through the windows but couldn’t see into the interior. The dappled reflection of twisted oaks and morning sunlight obscured his view.

Plan A or plan B? he wondered. He glassed the picnic table again. Nothing but cooking supplies and a kid with a sharp stick and a hunting knife.

A second later, he was in motion, soft-footing it down the levee, his right hand wrapped around his shotgun’s grip, his breath coming in quiet surges.

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