Rise of Anarchy

Set in the not too distant future, in a world struck dumb by a horrible biochemical weapon out of control. Those that remain must fight to survive.

Under the cover of an overgrown hedge she watched the house; she had been for almost an hour. It was the first house she had come across for miles that didn’t look like it was taken. Then again, it was hard to tell, anyone could be hiding behind the hideously outdated floral patterned curtains, for all she knew they were watching her too, with their own pair of high-resolution binoculars.

The house was small, a country cottage with a sweet little red door, rich green ivy crept up the walls, smothering half the door, a small if not slightly overgrown garden and a brown picket fence surrounded the building. Amazingly there were no broken windows, she was hoping that the thicket of trees hid it well enough from the main road that no one had seen the place, she had come from the opposite direction and it was only pure luck that she had found it in the first place.

She put the binoculars back in her rucksack, they dropped heavily to the bottom and not for the first time the bag’s emptiness worried her: she needed supplies.

It was a fifty-fifty chance, either there was or there wasn’t someone in that house. Either there was or there wasn’t a lot of food in those cupboards, just waiting for her to eat it. Either she would or she wouldn’t encounter someone with an inhospitable temperament and a twenty bore shotgun.

Fifty-fifty, she snorted and wiped the rain from her forehead, with the weather against her she wondered which of the fifties fate was leaning towards.

But she needed food, she’d eaten her last energy bar that morning, had her last tin of peaches the night before. Her water was running low, but that was easily fixed, she’d already put her water bottles out in the rain, supported by tufts of grass, and she had her sterilising drops. Water only staved off hunger for so long.

Finally she made up her mind. She took off her barber coat, shivered as the cold rain ran down her neck, and unstrapped her paraffin cooker, tarpaulin and sleeping bag from her rucksack, tucking them in the green coat she hid them in a gap in the hedge. She had to travel light, just in case there was someone inside.

In and out, that was the plan.

She ran across the fields, the empty bag bumping against her back as she fought her way through the thick grass, the rain trickled down the sides of her boots, soaking her once dry feet. She briefly wondered what type of crop might have grown there, carrots? She missed carrots. And peas, and broccoli, amazingly. The world was a messed up place when you began to miss broccoli.

She hit the fence and crouched behind it, heart thumping - only half because of the two hundred metre run. No twitching curtains, no visible movement. Who knew, maybe this was her lucky day? Her left thigh throbbed at the thought: last time she had been as optimistic she’d walked right into a bullet. She was smarter now. Hopefully.

Picking up a handful of the slick gravel at her feet she muttered a small prayer and tossed the chips. They clattered against one of the top floor windows, the noise from where she hid was muffled by the pitter-patter of rain but anyone inside would have gotten a rude awakening. She waited another five minutes. Nothing.

Time to go. She vaulted the fence and was at the nearest window in less than five long strides. Peering in she could make out the atypical living room setting, a settee, a paisley armchair, dust covered book shelves and lamp table. Light from a window on the opposite side of the house revealed a small circular dining table and chairs, cupboards, sink, fridge.

Bingo. Even from outside it looked to her like nothing had been touched for months. Prying at the window frame proved futile so she smashed it with an elbow, it took two strikes before she could make a proper hole, wincing all the while at the noise the glass made when it clattered to an uncarpeted floor. Covering her hand with her sleeve she slipped her forearm in and unlatched it.

Inside the house was even neater than she’d thought, cushions neatly arranged, magazines stacked at perfect right angles on the coffee table. No rioting here then. Oh to live in the country. Above the fireplace she picked up one of the gold framed photographs, an elderly couple smiled up at her. She didn’t want to think about where they were. She put it back quickly and went to the kitchen, all the normal appliances stood dutifully on the counter tops: microwave, toaster, kettle. All useless now. There was no time for nostalgia, only scavenging.

The first two cupboards revealed crockery and glasses, another tins of soups, beans and fruits. These days, not knowing the next time she would come across such a gold mine, she couldn’t afford to be fussy with her food: everything went in the rucksack �" even the mushroom soup.

Suddenly she froze, was that a creak? A footstep? Or was that her paranoia playing tricks on her? Silently she laid the rucksack on the table and crept to another door, this one led into a narrow hallway, the stairs were immediately in front of her. Slowly she peered over the banisters and up, she waited, heart in mouth, for any sign of life, any movement to go with the noise she had heard, or thought she’d heard. Nothing. Behind her a thorny branch of a rose bush scratched at the window, bobbing up and down with every raindrop.

She was just being paranoid.

Opening another cupboard she found all the goodies, teabags - from standard builder to peppermint �" coffee, cocoa powder, and biscuits. She broke into the custard creams then and there �" stale but better than nothing. They all joined the tins in the bag; she could already taste the coffee.

The smell of the fridge made her gag and she resisted the urge to shut it: the chance of finding something that hadn’t grown legs was slim, but she didn’t want to miss out on anything. The smell appeared to be coming from some milk, or maybe the half eaten carcass of what might have been a chicken.

“Ah, score!” She whispered and pulled out a bar of chocolate, save for a few squares it was pretty much whole. Dripping with rain, cold and tired, she had never been happier. Shutting the fridge she was about to break a square off when something slammed into her back, she hit the fridge hard and slipped to her knees, momentarily blinded by the shock.

“Thief!” it was a terrifying shout, and she regained enough of her senses to dive to the side, just as a foot collided with the fridge, where she had been kneeling only moments before. Steel capped boots, XL. She scrabbled backwards, looking up at the attacker. A man, in a grey overall suit stained with white paint, dust and something brown, it might have been mud. It might have been coffee. She was thinking blood. His thinning hair had grown as wild as the grass outside and he’d lost most his teeth, she doubted, by the yellow and brown stains, that his remaining ones would last much longer.

He continued yelling, “Thief! Thief!” his voice gradually growing more and more hysterical, stomping his big boots as she scrambled away on her butt. Too quickly she found her back pressed to cupboards. He reached onto the counter and yanked, pulling out the toaster, he wasted no time in throwing it down at her, and she wasted no time in lunging away. As she slid across the tiles the toaster crashed to the ground in several pieces, the knob flew past her face as she slipped and tripped to her feet, she yanked two of the dining chairs out to the ground behind her as she fell into the hallway.

The crazed farmer yelled after her. If she could make it to the window she’d be safe, clear, screw the food! She’d much rather leave than stay to have an electrical appliance rammed in her head. Bursting into the living room she realised, as a huge figure emerged in front of her, that she’d made the mistake in thinking he would follow her down the hall.

Smart ugly brute.

An iron grip took hold of her arm and she cried out as she was flung around, and then let go. The settee barely budged as she crashed into and over it, where she landed in shock and pain between cream cushions and a very solid coffee table. The man appeared again, looming over her, he began to crouch down, desperately she flung a magazine at him, all the while trying to make her way to the open window, directly behind her. She twisted and kicked when the hands came back, grabbing at her legs, a lucky kick to his chest gave her an extra few seconds to roll over and crawl to the window, the hands were back, digging in painfully at her hips, she clawed at the wooden floorboards �" her fingertips just brushed against the skirting boards she was so close - a small, sane part of her mind registered the importance of the sharp stinging pain in the meat of the palm of her right hand.

Her fingers closed around her only hope just as she was yanked back, the grunting, smelly man forcibly turned her over, and just as his pockmarked face loomed into view she stabbed him in the neck with a piece of glass. Once, twice, until his hands had let her go and he was twitching on the floor. Her hands were soaked, and slipped on the wood as she pushed herself away from the body.

Now, at least, she knew for sure the house was safe.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Hi there, just a message from me, the author, I'm sorry if this isn't a brilliant introduction, I haven't done much writing in a very long time, so this is sort of like my first only not. But I love critique, comments, opinions, anything you think I can change to improve. There's not much here so far but I think it'll get better, and so will my writing, just give me some time!

Thanks,

Becca

Reviews

[A.A.Serra]

I think this is a great introduction. You gave enough away to make the reader realize that obviously something had gone horribly wrong and that people are fighting for their lives. If you intend on continuing this story then I think there should be more back story on how the biochemical weapon came to be and how it destroyed the land.

The way it was written was clear and straight-forward as well so good job:D